wisdom of Athens, and the idolatry of Athens, at the foot of the Cross-in making Jupiter, Neptune, and all their tribes give place to Jehovah-and Zeno, and Epicurus, and Aristotle, and Plato, and Socrates, succumb to Jesus of Nazareth. He burned to make Olympus bow its awful head, and cast down its coronet of gods, at His feet who dwelt in Zion; and the peans of Bacchus and Apollo were, in his ear, but preludes to the swellingsong of Moses and the Lamb.'

loathing the contamination of idolaters, but glaring with savage fury on the apostate son of Abraham (as he would deem him) who held so much communion with their souls, as to invite them to an union of love and piety, in the name of the detested Nazarene. And if for a moment Paul felt, as one would think man must feel, at being the central object of such a scene and such an assemblage, there would rush upon his mind the majesty of Jehovah; and the words of the glorified Jesus; and the thunders that struck him to the earth on the road to Damascus ; and the sense of former efforts, conflicts, and successes; and the approach of that judgment to come, whose righteousness and universality it was now his duty to announce.-Fox.

NO TRUST IN PRINCES.

Animated by such feelings, we may now regard Paul, in what must have been one of the most interesting moments of even his eventful life, preparing himself on the Hill of Mars to address an auditory of Athenians on behalf of Christianity. He would feel the imposing associations of the spot on which he stood, where justice had been administered in its most awful form, by characters the most venerable, in the darkness of night, under the A droll adventure occurred to the Emperor Alexander canopy of heaven, with the solemnities of religion, and on the eve of one of the imperial reviews. The Emperor with an authority which legal institution and public was fond of walking about alone and unattended, and he opinion had assimilated rather with the decrees of con- often extended his pedestrian excursions to a distance of science and of the gods, than with the ordinary power of two or three leagues from St Petersburgh. On the occahuman tribunals. He would look around on many an im- sion here alluded to he had taken a very long walk, and mortal trophy of architect and sculptor, where genius had finding himself much fatigued, he got into one of the triumphed, but triumphed only in the cause of that ido- public sledges. Drive to the Imperial Palace at St latry to which they were dedicated, and for which they Petersburgh,' said he to the Iswotschilk. I will take existed. And beyond the city, clinging round its temples, you as near it as I can,' replied the man, but the guards like its inhabitants to their enshrined idols, would open will not allow us to approach the gates.' On arriving on his view that lovely country, and the sublime ocean, within a little distance of the palace, the sledge stopped. and the serene heavens bending over them, and bearing We must not go any farther,' said the sledge driver. that testimony to the universal Creator, which man and The Emperor jumped from the sledge, saying, 'Wait man's works withheld. And with all would Grecian there and I will send some one to pay you.'-'No, no,' glory be connected-the brightness of a day that was clos-replied the man, 'that will not do. Your comrades often ing, and of a sun that had already set, where recollections make me the same promise, but they always forget to of grandeur faded into sensations of melancholy. And he keep it. I will give no more credit. If you have not the would gaze on a thronging auditory, the representatives money, leave something with me until you get it.' The to his fancy of all that had been, and of all that was, and Emperor smiled, and, unfastening the clasp of his cloak, think of the intellects with which he had to grapple, and he threw it into the sledge. Here,' said he, 'take this.' of the hearts in whose very core he aimed to plant the On ascending to his apartments he directed his valet de barbed arrows of conviction. There was that multitude, chambre to take fifty roubles to the Iswotschilk who had so acute, so inquisitive, so polished, so athirst for novelty, driven him, and bring back his cloak. When the valet and so impressible by eloquence, yet with whom a barba- reached the spot where the Emperor had left the sledge, rian accent might break the charm of the most persuasive he found about twenty drawn up in a line. Which of tongue-over whom their own oligarchy of orators would you drove the Emperor?' inquired the valet. No one soon re-assert their dominion in spite of the invasion of a answered. Who has got a cloak?' said the valet, purstranger-and with whom sense, feeling, and habit, would suing his inquiry. An officer left his cloak with me,' throw up all their barriers against the eloquence of exclaimed a sledge driver. Give it to me, and here is Christianity. There would be the priest, astonished at your fare.'-' Great St Nicholas' exclaimed the astoan attempt so daring; and as the speaker's design opened nished driver, and seizing his reins he drove rapidly on his mind, anxiously, and with alternate contempt and away, amidst the shouts of the assembled Iswotschilks. rage, measuring the strength of the Samson who thus This happened on the eve of the grand review. After the grasped the pillars of his temple, threatening to whelm troops had defiled, all the commanders of corps formed a him, his altars, and his gods, beneath their ruins. There group round the Emperor. Gentlemen,' said Alexanwould be the Stoic, in the coldness of his pride, looking der, I am much pleased with the fine appearance and sedately down, as on a child playing with children, to see excellent discipline of your troops. But tell your officers what new game was afloat, and what trick or toy was now from me, that they last night made me submit to the produced for wonderment. There the Epicurean, tasting, humiliation of leaving my cloak in pledge for my honesty.' as it were, the preacher's doctrine, to see if it promised Every one stared with astonishment. I assure you,' reaught of merriment; just lending enough of idle atten- sumed the Emperor, the sledge driver who brought me tion not to lose amusement should it offer; and venting home refused to trust me, because he said my comrades the full explosion of his ridicule on the resurrection of often forgot to pay him.'-Vincenza's Recollections of St the dead. There the sophist, won perhaps into some- Petersburgh. thing of an approving and complacent smile, by the dexterity of Paul's introduction; but finding as he proceeded that this was no mere show of art or war of words, and vibrating between the habitual love of entangling, bewildering, and insulting an opponent, and the repulsiveness which there always is to such men in the language of honest and zealous conviction. There the slave, timidly crouching at a distance to catch what stray sounds the winds might waft to him, after they had reached his master's ears, of that doctrine, so strange and blessed, of man's fraternity. There the young and noble Roman, who had come to Athens for education-not to sit like a humble scholar at a master's feet, but with all the pride of Rome upon his brow, to accept what artists, poets, and philosophers could offer as their homage to the lords of earth. And there, perhaps aloof, some scowling Jew, hating and hated,

SIR WALTER SCOTT AND THE IRISH REAPER. As the late Sir Walter Scott was riding one day with a friend, in the neighbourhood of Abbotsford, he came to a field-gate, which an Irish reaper, who happened to be rear, hastened to open for him. Sir Walter was desirous of rewarding this civility by the present of a sixpence, but found that he had not so small a coin in his purse. Here, my good fellow,' said the baronet, 'here is a shilling for you; but mind you owe me sixpence.' -Long life to your honour!' exclaimed Pat, may your honour live till I pay you!'

A NARROW BOUNDARY.

The line which separates regard and love is so fine, that the young heart transgresses the boundary, before it is aware of having even verged upon it.

No. 8.

THE LOVE OF LIFE-ITS USES
AND LIMITS.

THE love of life may be justly reckoned one of the
strongest principles in our constitution. It operates un-
der every variety of circumstances, and with a power and
energy peculiarly its own. It corresponds,' as has been
truly said, 'in the animated world with the great prin-
ciple of gravitation in the material system, or with the
centripetal force by which the planets are retained in
their proper orbits, and resist their opposite tendency to
fly off from the centre. The most wretched, not less
than the most prosperous-those who seem to possess
nothing that can render life desirable, not less than those
who are surrounded by all its pleasures-are bound to
life as by a principle of central attraction, which extends
its influence to the last moments of expiring nature.'

PRICE 11d.

horror with which, instinctively, they recoil at the deed of the assassin, would regard the invasion of life as a crime of comparatively small moment; and thus society would be deprived of one of its most important safeguards. In a similar ratio, and from a like cause, war, even at present a dire evil, would increase-that 'game which,' to employ the words of the gentle Cowper, were their subjects wise, kings would not play at,' would become the universal pastime. We can, in truth, conceive few calamities more dismal than the extinction, could it be effected, of the dread with which death is contemplated by the mind of man. The arrangement is beautiful and wise, that death should be the 'king of terrors.'

The love of life, too, has its religious uses. It furnishes a strong presumption of our immortality. It proclaims the horror with which we recoil from the idea of annihilation. It whispers to us that some part of us is far too good to be consigned to the dust. It is, in fact, the voice of the soul announcing its own grandeur and indestructibleness.

Life is dear to us for a thousand reasons. We cling with intense fondness to the familiar objects around us; they become, in truth, a part of ourselves, and it costs the heart a violent wrench to be torn from them. The fair blue heavens-the royal sun-night, with its twinkling stars-the landscape, with its charms-ocean, sleeping in beauty or lashed by tempest-the scenes of childhood and youth-the faces around our hearth-it is not poetry, reader, it is nature that bids us prize the boon of being:

It is, perhaps, not sufficiently considered how much we owe to this strong constitutional sentiment. The love of life! It is the arm that guards the temple of our being. It is the wall of fire that surrounds our earthly existence. It is the sentinel, ever wakeful, ever at its post, giving notice of the first approach of danger, and summoning all the sister powers to aid and action. But for the strength of this instinct, can we doubt that the number would be anything but small of those who, not influenced by higher and more sacred considerations, would seek a shelter from the calamities of the present scene in the grave of the suicide? Besides, the anxiety we feel for the continued health and protracted existence of those whom Providence has consigned to our care would be extirFor who, to dull forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being ere resign'd, pated; for what we felt of little consequence to ourselves Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, we would cease to wish for in the case of others. The Nor cast one longing, ling ring look behind?' absence of this ardent attachment to life, or even its ex- But the love of life has its limits as well as its uses. istence in a feeble state, would thus tend inevitably to It may be vanquished; it may be expelled the bosom by impair all our kindly and generous sympathies, make higher and more powerful sentiments. The human faaffection a meaningless word, and leave the weak and the mily were defamed when a certain authority declared, helpless of every class without friends and without guar-All that a man hath will he give for his life.' dians. Did we, moreover, cease to prize our being as a boon of peerless price, one great motive to industrious exertion would be destroyed; the sweat of our brows we would regard as too dear a price to pay for our daily bread; many of our noblest enterprises would never be undertaken; and the arts and sciences, the main object of which is to exalt and embellish life, would cease to be cultivated, or at least they would be cultivated with little care. And then what a scene of crime and consequent wretchedness would our world be, if composed chiefly, or rather exclusively, of idlers!

The restraints of law, too, would be stripped of more than half their power. The minds of men, losing the

Your

master,' said the brave Carmathian to those who waited on him, 'is at the head of thirty thousand soldiers: three such men as these are wanting in his host;' while, at the same time, accosting three of his champions, he commanded the first to plunge a dagger into his breast, the second to leap into the Tigris, and the third to cast himself headlong down a precipice. His orders were instantly and without a murmur obeyed. In this and kindred incidents we see the love of life giving way to another, we wont say a more exalted sentiment.

But there are other and far higher displays of this mastery. We see it conquered often by the thirst for knowledge, especially when that is associated with the

thirst for distinction. There is a numerous and in many respects a noble class, who enrich their understandings at the expense, may we not say, the sacrifice of their existence. There are intellectual martyrs, even as Galileo was, when sickening in his dungeon for maintaining that our globe was not the centre of the planetary system. There are men whose devotion to study is maintained at the peril of life. They realize the words applied to Henry Kirke White by a brother poet :

'He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel.' They are sad comments on the wise man's statement'Much study is a weariness of the flesh.' Is it too much to say that these have conquered their love of life, or at any rate got it subordinated to other ends? By no means. We are told of Achilles that he had two alternatives set before him—to die covered with glory won on the plains of Troy, or to pass a long life without renown in the place of his nativity. We can conceive of such an alternative having been submitted, at the commencement of their intellectual career, to some as illustrious for genius as the hero of the Iliad was for feats of arms. We can conceive the question proposed to many whose names are now identified with the most brilliant intellectual achievements of our kind, whether they would go to an early grave, or lose those delights and those honours which scientific research, the labours of art, or the flights of imagination, would be sure to win for them. And we plead that the former alternative would have been preferred. Would Milton have sacrificed, for a paltry addition of twenty years to his tack of life, the superb visions that crowded thickly on his soul while he meditated his great epic, and gave it to the world in the proud consciousness, as he said, that posterity 'would not willingly let it die ?' Would Newton have changed ages with Methuselah, if his nine hundred and ninety-nine years had cost him the glory of the discoverer of gravitation? Would Byron, though sceptical of another world, have 'ripened hoar with time,' and for this have been contented to go down to the dust, leaving no name that 'made an epitaph ?' Would Franklin have sacrificed his fame as the man who 'sketched the constitution of a continent with one hand, while with the other he drew the lightning from the clouds,' for ages of inglorious ease ? The tenacity with which we cling to existence is indeed strong; but we do not hesitate to say, that, in minds of the higher order, the love of knowledge, when especially it is associated with the thirst for renown, is still stronger.

Then the love of life is frequently mastered and displaced by the affections; we allude to the benevolent and patriotic emotions, but more especially to our domestic sympathies. We allow, indeed, that, in cases such as those we are about to mention, there may be a mixture and conflict of motives—a portion of alloy mixed with the pure gold. But what of it? Our admiration of mankind will be limited indeed, if we accord it to none of their actions save those that flow from motives quite unadulterated. This apart then, we find that the love of life often yields to purer and more exalted affections. The gallant seaman braving the lash of the tempest or the scorchings of the fire alone, that he may rescue the tenants of his bark from a grave in the deep-the devoted soldier interposing his own person and receiving the stroke that would have killed his leader-the patriot

facing the dangers of the field that he may protect the honour and independence of his country-the Christian missionary toiling and dying in the sublime cause of the world's evangelization-these, and such as these, attest that the love of life, however strong, may be conquered. So that, while the names of Leonidas, of Wallace, and of Tell, adorn the page of history-while those of Howard and Clarkson live in the memory of mankind-while the 'Martyr of Erromango' is not forgotten, we shall not want proof of this.

Then there are what we have called our domestic sympathies. One page of Roman story tells us of two friends, Damon and Pythias, whose attachment was so heroically strong that either of them could have died for the other: here the love of life was subdued by the ardour of friendship. The case of the citizens of Calais will also suggest itself to the mind of the reader. And, to speak more directly in reference to our domestic sympathies, where is the mother who would not brave death to snatch the infant of her bosom from impending destruction? where the father who would not peril his own life to save that of his son? or the brother who could endure an existence purchased by pusillanimous exemption from a danger which proved fatal to a sister? Exceptions there may be; still, we plead, the rule is on that side most honour

able to our nature.

Attachment to principle, too, will dethrone the love of life. We need not name the thousands who have not ' reckoned their lives dear to them' for the testimony they held-the noble army of martyrs who

'Lived unknown

Till persecution dragg'd them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven.'

They braved the lion, they dared the stake, they quaffed
the boiling lead, rather than prove recreant to the cause
of sacred truth. Their scorn, shall we call it, of life was
noble when, to have preserved it, they must have parted
with what was far dearer to them-a good conscience.

It is beautifully and wisely arranged that our attachment to life should be ardent; but it would be dishonouring to us to suppose that it cannot be surmounted. We have, in these remarks, endeavoured to indicate both the uses of this great law of nature, and also its limits.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

ROBERT NICOLL.

ROBERT NICOLL was born on the 7th of January, 1814, in a farm-house at Little Tullibeltane, in Perthshire. He was the second son in a family of nine children. His father, at the time of his birth, was in comfortable circumstances, and tenant of a small farm in Auchtergaven; his mother was a daughter of the venerable 'Elder John,' so affectionately mentioned by Nicoll in his poems. The ancestors of both had been settled in the same parish for many generations, and were highly esteemed. When Robert was five years of age, his father, in consequence of the bankruptcy of a relative for whom he had become security, became embarrassed in his circumstances, and giving up his whole property to his creditors, engaged himself as a day-labourer on the fields he had so lately farmed, and thus early did Nicoll begin that course of hardships with which he had to contend during the remainder of his life.

When Nicoll had attained his sixth year, he was sent to the parish school, where he continued for several successive winters, being, during the summer season, employed in assisting in farming operations. It was at this early period of his life that his fondness for reading began to show itself. In going to, or returning from school, or when herding upon his own Ordé braes,' he was never without a book. From this early propensity for reading, from the calmness of his temper, and from the mildness of his disposition, he was, by his friends, nicknamed 'the minister.'

of some money; and also endeavoured to improve his circumstances by starting a local periodical-an attempt which utterly failed; soon after which he retired from the business, making it over entirely to his partner. While in Dundee he formed an attachment to an amiable young lady, Miss Alice Souter, who afterwards became his wife; which made it necessary that he should establish himself in some suitable and permanent situation. Miss Souter naturally shared his anxiety, and by her advice he resolved to look for employment once more in Edinburgh, or, failing there, in London. He fixed on the latter as the place where he was most likely to succeed; and early in the next year he wrote to his friends in Edinburgh for such letters of recommendation as they could give him. This scheme, however, seemed to them to be attended with too much risk to be immediately put in execution; and Mr Tait kindly offered him temporary employment till something better should be found. Not long after, through the exertions of that gentleman, he was appointed editor of the Leeds Times; and after making a short visit to his mother and to his It was at this period, while yet no more than thirteen, betrothed, he repaired to Leeds, and entered upon the that he first began to write; he also, at the same time, discharge of his duties. Very soon after he began to conbecame a correspondent of one of the Perth newspapers; duct this newspaper, its circulation increased immensely and continued to scribble and compose till he was six--for some time at the rate of two hundred a-week. teen, when, despairing of ever writing the English lan- About the end of this year he was married to Miss Souter, guage correctly, as he himself says, 'I made a bonfire he having gone to Dundee for that purpose. of my papers, and wrote no more till I was two years older.'

At twelve years of age, Robert was sent to work in the garden of a gentleman who lived in his father's neighbourhood. This circumstance was productive of no change in the habits of our poet. He was now, however, much harder worked than formerly, and had, consequently, less time for reading. He still continued to attend the parish school during the winter months. A reading club having at this time been established in the village, Nicoll became a member, and falling on the books with great avidity, he soon devoured their whole contents.

The next important step in our poet's life was his binding himself an apprentice to a grocer in Perth. On settling there, he bought Cobbett's English Grammar, and soon made himself completely master of it. He shortly after this became acquainted with Mr and Mrs Johnstone, and through them with Mr Tait, the publisher of Tait's Magazine;' all of whom continued, through his short life, to be his friends.

Nicoll's industry at this time was untiring. He rose every morning at four o'clock, and read and composed till seven; he was then engaged in business till nine in the evening; and no sooner were his daily labours over, than he gave himself up to study. He was also a member of a debating society, the necessary preparation for which must have still farther curtailed his leisure time. It was about this period that his first production of any length appeared; it was entitled 'Il Zingaro,' and was published in Johnstone's Magazine.' When this tale was written, Nicoll was but nineteen; and his letters and manuscript compositions show that he had improved, during the previous year, both in his powers of thought and expression.

At the close of his apprenticeship, his health having suffered from too intense application, he went home to breathe the air of his native mountains. He likewise, about this time, made his first visit to Edinburgh; his principal object being to obtain a situation in which he might enjoy facilities for cultivating his literary tastes. In this, however, he was disappointed.

Nicoll returned home much vexed at the unsuccessful result of his visit. But a mind like his could not remain idle; and, shortly after, he went to Dundee, and opened a circulating library, where he soon became acquainted with most of the intelligent young men of the town, who were in the habit of frequenting his shop. He was now quite a literary man-writing articles for the newspapers, making speeches at public meetings, delivering political lectures, writing poems, while, by diligent reading, he greatly added to his stock of knowledge. This year (1835) he published a small volume of poems and lyrics, which was largely subscribed for by his friends in his own rank of life. The work was also well received by his Edinburgh acquaintance, and favourably noticed by the press. Nicoll, however, subsequently regretted the publication, as having been premature, and made a resolution to publish no more for many years. Finding that nothing could be done in his business without capital, he received into partnership a young tradesman, who was possessed

During the whole of 1837, Nicoll continued to attend unremittingly to his duties-condensing news, reporting, and maintaining a wide correspondence. Nor, in the midst of these multifarious employments, was poetry forgotten; he continued to add, at intervals, to the original edition of his lyrics, many poems of great beauty; and a newspaper having been at this time got up in Sheffield, he undertook, from a wish to better his condition, to write leaders for it. This severe labour, there can be no doubt, hastened on his untimely end.

We have little more to tell of Nicoll's brief career. At the conclusion of a general election, when Leeds was contested by Sir W. Molesworth and Sir J. Beckett, Nicoll, who had devoted his whole energies to the interest of the former, was seized with an illness which terminated in a rapid consumption. He removed from Sheffield to Trinity, near Edinburgh, to the house of his friends the Johnstones, which had been kindly placed at his service, where he was assiduously attended by Dr Combe and some other medical gentlemen; but all their efforts to save him were unavailing-the hand of death was upon him. His parents, who had been informed of his condition, left their home on a dark winter evening, and, by walking all night, arrived in time to see their gifted son breathe his last.

Thus lived, and thus, at the early age of twenty-four, died Robert Nicoll, who has, by Ebenezer Elliot, been styled 'Scotland's second Burns.' His was a life upon which it is pleasing to look back-a life in which there is so much to admire and so little to condemn. Few there are among the scanty sons of genius so uncontaminated by the pride of intellect, so diffident of personal merit, as was the subject of our brief memoir.

He was buried in North Leith churchyard. Not a stone marks the spot where rests the dust of Robert Nicoll.

Most of Nicoll's poems are written in his own beautiful Doric, the Lowland Scotch. We, however, like his poems that are written in the English language as much as we do the others. A complete edition of his poems and lyrics, with a beautifully written and touching memoir of his life, was published by Mr Tait in 1842. This volume contains upwards of one hundred and forty pieces of various lengths. Nicoll's descriptions of scenery are very beautiful and true. Soft, sweet, and tender even to sadness, are many of the pieces of this early lost bard of Scotland; and many a faithful and touchingly pictured incident has he left behind, in his poetry, to soften and delight the heart of his reader. Listen to the last low murmurings of the Dying Maiden,' and say if its simple pathos does not, in some parts, partake of the