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grand scale of the universe, we-the occupiers of this ball, which performs its little round among the suns and the systems that astronomy has unfolded-we may feel the same littleness and the same insecurity. We differ from the leaf only in this circumstance, that it would require the operation of greater elements to destroy us. But these elements exist. The fire which rages within, may lift its devouring energy to the surface of our planet, and transform it into one wide and wasting volcano. The sudden formation of elastic matter in the bowels of the earth-and it lies within the agency of known substances to accomplish this-may explode it into fragments. The exhalation of noxious air from below, may impart a virulence to the air that is around us; it may affect the delicate proportion of its ingredients; and the whole of animated nature may wither and die under the malignity of a tainted atmosphere. A blazing comet may cross this fated planet in its orbit, and realise all the terrors which superstition has conceived of it. We cannot anticipate with precision the consequences of an event, which every astronomer must know to lie within the limits of chance and probability. It may hurry our globe towards the sun-or drag it to the outer regions of the planetary system-or give it a new axis of revolution; and the effect, which I shall simply announce, without explaining it, would be, to change the place of the ocean, and bring another mighty flood upon our islands and continents.

These are changes which may happen in a single instant of time, and against which nothing known in the present system of things provides us with any security. They might not annihilate the earth, but they would unpeople it; and we, who tread its surface with such firm and assured footsteps, are at the mercy of devouring elements, which, if let loose upon us by the hand of the Almighty, would spread solitude, and silence, and death, over the dominions of the world.

Now, it is this littleness, and this insecurity, which make the protection of the Almighty so dear to us; and bring, with such emphasis to every pious bosom, the holy lessons of humility and gratitude. The God who sitteth above, and presides in high authority over all worlds, is mindful of man; and though, at this moment, His energy is felt in the remotest provinces of creation, we may feel the same security in His providence as if we were the objects of His undivided care.

It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious agency. But such is the incomprehensible fact, that the same

Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole universe, gives vegetation to every blade of grass, and motion to every particle of blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest animal; that, though His mind takes into its comprehensive grasp immensity and all its wonders, I am as much known to Him as if I were the single object of His attention; that He marks all my thoughts; that He gives birth to every feeling and every movement within me; and that—with an exercise of power which I can neither describe nor comprehend-the same God, who sits in the highest heaven, and reigns over the glories of the firmament, is at my right hand, to give me every breath which I draw, and every comfort which I enjoy.

XVII.—THE FATE OF BURNS-IMPORTANCE OF SELF-DENIAL.

Thomas Carlyle.

CONTEMPLATING the sad end of Burns-how he sank unaided by any real help, uncheered by any wise sympathy, generous minds have sometimes figured to themselves, with a reproachful sorrow, that much might have been done for him; that, by counsel, true affection, and friendly ministrations, he might have been saved to himself and the world. But it seems dubious whether the richest, wisest, most benevolent individual could have lent Burns any effectual help.

Counsel,-which seldom profits any one,-he did not need. In his understanding, he knew the right from the wrong, as well, perhaps, as any man ever did; but the persuasion, which would have availed him, lies not so much in the head as in the heart, where no argument or expostulation could have assisted much to implant it.

As to money, we do not believe that this was his essential want; or well see that any private man could have bestowed on him an independent fortune, with much prospect of decisive advantage. It is a mortifying truth, that two men, in any rank of society, can hardly be found virtuous enough to give money, and to take it as a necessary gift, without an injury to the moral entireness of one or both. But so stands the fact: Friendship, in the old heroic sense of the term, no longer exists; it is in reality no longer expected, or recognised as a virtue among men. A close observer of manners has pronounced "patronage,"—that is, pecuniary or economic furtherance,-to be "twice cursed;" cursing him that gives, and him that takes! And thus, in regard to outward matters,

it has become the rule (as, in regard to inward, it always was and must be the rule), that no one shall look for effectual help to another; but that each shall rest contented with what help he can afford himself. Such is the principle of modern Honour; naturally enough growing out of the sentiment of Pride, which we inculcate and encourage as the basis of our whole social morality.

We have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could have proved very effectual. We shall readily admit, however, that much was to be done for Burns; that many a poisoned arrow might have been warded from his bosom; many an entanglement in his path cut asunder by the hand of the powerful; light and heat, shed on him from high places, would have made his humble atmosphere more genial; and the softest heart then breathing, might have lived and died with fewer pangs. Still we do not think that the blame of Burns's failure lies chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated him with more, rather than with less kindness than it usually shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but small favour to its teachers: hunger and nakedness, perils and reviling, the prison, the poison-chalice, the Cross, have, in most times and countries, been the marketprice it has offered for wisdom-the welcome with which it has treated those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates, and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days; but the world's martyrology was not completed with these. Roger Bacon, and Galileo, languish in priestly dungeons; Tasso pines in the cell of a mad-house; Camoens dies begging in the streets of Lisbon. So neglected, so "persecuted they the Prophets," not in Judea only, but in all places where men have been. We reckon that every poet of Burns's order is, or should be, a Prophet and Teacher to his age; that he has no right to expect kindness, but rather is bound to do it; that Burns, in particular, experienced fully the usual proportion of goodness; and that the blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the world.

Where then does it lie? We are forced to answer, WITH HIMSELF: it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes, that bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom is a life morally wrecked, but the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement, some want, less of good fortune than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature without implanting in it the strength needful for its action and duration;

least of all does she neglect her master-piece and darling-the poetic soul! Neither can we believe that it is in the power of any external circumstances, utterly to ruin the mind of a man; nay,-if proper wisdom be given him—even so much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The sternest sumtotal of all worldly misfortunes is Death; nothing more can lie in the cup of human woe: yet many men, in all ages, have triumphed over death and led it captive; converting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves-into a seal and immortal consecration for all that their past life had achieved. What has been done may be done again; nay, it is but the degree, and not the kind, of such heroism, that differs in different seasons; for, without some portion of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearlessness-of SELF-DENIAL in all its forms,-no great man, in any scene or time, has ever attained to be good.

XVIII.—THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED.-Wilson.

FOR six years' Sabbaths, I had seen the Elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit;—and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance, during sermon, psalm, and prayer. I met the Pastor, going to pray by his death-bed:-and, with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death.

And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the Pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, cheeks which otherwise were blooming in health and beauty;-and I recognised, in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man, who, we understood, was now lying on his death-bed. "They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he is," said the Minister, looking tenderly on the boy; "but love makes the young heart bold;and there is ONE, who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”

As we slowly approached the cottage through a deep snowdrift, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared; and then their mother showed herself in their stead; expressing, by her raised eyes, and arms folded across her breast, how thankful she was

to see, at last, the Pastor,-beloved in joy, and trusted in

trouble.

A few words sufficed to say who was the stranger:-and the dying man, blessing me by name, held out to me his cold shrivelled hand, in token of recognition. I took my seat at a small distance from the bedside, and left a closer station for those who were more dear. The Pastor sat down near his Elder's head; and by the bed, leaning on it with gentle hands, stood that matron, his daughter-in-law; a figure that would have sainted a higher dwelling, and whose native beauty was now more touching in its grief.

"If the storm do not abate," said the sick man, after a pause, "it will be hard for my friends to carry me over the drifts to the churchyard." This sudden approach to the grave, struck, as with a bar of ice, the heart of the loving boy:-and, with a long, deep sigh, he fell down, his face like ashes, on the bed; while the old man's palsied right hand had just strength enough to lay itself upon his head.

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"God has been gracious to me, a sinner!" said the dying man. During thirty years that I have been an Elder in your church, never have I missed sitting there one Sabbath. When the mother of my children was taken from me,—it was on a Tuesday she died, and on Saturday she was buried-we stood together, when my Alice was let down into the narrow house made for all living. On the Sabbath, I joined in the public worship of God. She commanded me to do so, the night before she went away. I could not join in the psalm that Sabbath, for her voice was not in the throng. Her grave was covered up, and grass and flowers grew there."

The old man then addressed himself to his grandchild :— 'Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy infancy, and me in my old age; but, Jamie, forget not thou thy father, or thy mother; for that, thou knowest and feelest, is the commandment of God."

The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had, gradually, stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man; and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. "Oh! if my husband knew but of this, he would never, never desert his dying father!"—And I now knew, that the Elder was praying, on his death-bed, for a disobedient and wicked

son.

The door was suddenly opened, and a tall, fine-looking man

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