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CHARACTER, HOW TO BE ESTIMATED.

fect standard of duty and moral conduct for each of us: to believe, obey, and imitate. But in estimating the characters of other men, how are we to apply that standard? By the rule of charity, "which suffereth "long, and is kind—is not easily provoked, thinketh no"evil;-beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth "all things, endureth all things."

How can we judge another, whose peculiar temperament, inclinations, habits, temptations, power of resistance, strivings against sin, advantages, disadvantages,. motives, we may partly guess but cannot perfectly know and understand? "To his own master he standeth or "falleth." Therefore, "Judge not that ye be not "judged."

"Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord-its various tone,
Each spring-its various bias.

Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it,

What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted."

That Burns, who keenly resented the presumptuous: reproofs and censures of his fellow-mortals, was no self-deceiver, is plain from his writings, and especially from that most candid concentrated autobiography

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,†
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

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HIS OWN EPITAPH.

Is there a Bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career
Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthy hole,
In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

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He also wrote, "My great constituent elements are 'pride and passion. The first I have endeavoured to 'humanize into integrity and honour; the last makes "me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm "in love, religion, or friendship-either of them or all together, as I happen to be inspired."

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"I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 'the dark postern of time long elapsed.' It was a rueful prospect! What a tissue of "thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! My life re

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SELF-SCRUTINY.

"minded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what "prostrate ruins in others! I kneeled down before the "Father of Mercies and said, 'Father, I have sinned "against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called Thy Son.' I rose, eased and strengthened.”

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Other instances of deep self-humiliation and earnest prayer are recorded of this rarely-constituted, highlygifted man; and that there were many more, known only to himself and to the "Father of Mercies," who can doubt? Hoping and believing this, let us go to the grave with his brother poet Wordsworth, and feel as he felt when sadly pensive, he uttered these wise and beautiful thoughts in noble verse:—

I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for he was gone,
Whose light I hailed when first it shone
And showed my youth,
How verse may build a princely throne,
On humble truth.

Alas! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues, and with it blends,
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw* seen.

Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been.

True friends, though diversely inclined,
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined

Through Nature's skill,

May even by contraries be joined

More closely still.

* Criffel, a mountain in Annandale, near Ellisland, from which Burns could see Skiddaw, in Cumberland.

WORDSWORTH AT HIS GRAVE.

The tear will start, and let it flow,
Thou poor inhabitant below,'
At this dread moment-even so-

Might we together

Have sate and talked where gowans blow
Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy, what a rich repast!

But why go on?

Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.

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Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight,
Think rather of those moments bright,
When to the consciousness of right

His course was true,
When wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.

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Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashings of his pen;
He rules mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime,
Where heroes, sages, bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,

Shall dwell together till old Time

Folds up his wings.

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WORDSWORTH AT HIS GRAVE

Sweet Mercy, to the gates of heaven
This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven,
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of earth's bitter leaven
Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share

With all that live?

The best of what we do and are,

Just God, forgive!

DESCENDANTS OF ROBERT BURNS.

For the following information respecting them, I am indebted to the kindness of Gilbert Burns, Esq., Knockmaroon Lodge, Co. Dublin, youngest son of the poet's brother Gilbert :

The Poet's three sons were all married, James twice. Robert left an only child, Mrs. Everitt, now a widow, who, with her only child Martha, lives at Barn's Terrace, Ayr. William had no child. James left two daughters, Sarah, who married an Irish physician, Dr. Hutchison, now living at Bayswater, London, and her half-sister, Annie Burns. Mrs. Begg died some years ago; her two daughters, Agnes and Isabella, live near Ayr, her son, Robert, has been schoolmaster at Kinross for more than fifty years. The only living male descendant of. the poet is Robert Burns Hutchinson, so that the name is extinct in the direct line. And in Scotland there is not an individual of the name of Burns or Burnes. The few that bear that name are not likely to return to Scotland.

In March, 1859, I received a letter from Colonel James Glencairn Burns, in which, after thanking me for an unpublished letter, in his father's handwriting, on

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