In the spring the Russian artist gave up his studio, and went down to some baths possessing a local reputation situated on the road to Florence, where he died very suddenly. Much mystery overhangs his last days, and absolutely no knowledge exists as to what became of his vast property. His cicerone robbed him of his gold watch and all his personal effects and disappeared. His remains lie buried in the Protestant burying-ground outside the walls of Rome, near the Porto di Sebastiano. His tomb is near that of Shelley and Keats, and the monument erected to his memory is very simple, his head being sculptured upon it in _alto relievo_, and on the opposite side an artist's palette and brushes. EARL MARBLE. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. The air was still o'er Bethlehem's plain, As if the great Night held its breath, When Life Eternal came to reign Over a world of Death. The pagan at his midnight board Let fall his brimming cup of gold: He felt the presence of his Lord Before His birth was told. The temples trembled to their base, The idols shuddered as in pain: A priesthood in its power of place Knelt to its gods in vain. All Nature felt a thrill divine When burst that meteor on the night, Which, pointing to the Saviour's shrine, Proclaimed the new-born light-- Light to the shepherds! and the star Gilded their silent midnight fold-- Light to the Wise Men from afar, Bearing their gifts of gold-- Light to a realm of Sin and Grief-- Light to a world in all its needs-- The Light of life--a new belief Rising o'er fallen creeds-- Light on a tangled path of thorns, Though leading to a martyr's throne-- Light to guide till Christ returns In glory to His own. There still it shines, while far abroad The Christmas choir sings now, as then, "Glory, glory unto God! Peace and good-will to men!" ROME, Christmas, 1871. T. BUCHANAN READ. THE PARSEES.