lity, and entire freedom from pedantry, notwithstanding his vast attainments, he has never been surpassed. So conscientious and unremitting were his labors, that his constitution became impaired and it was found necessary he should return home. He was preparing to do this, when it pleased the God whom he had served to call him home on the 27th April, 1794, at the early age of forty-eight.

The secret of his unprecedented acquirements it is not difficult to arrive at. He possessed a consuming desire for knowledge, energy, perseverance, and method. His inquisitiveness, never offensive, was omnivorous, and by the alchemy of thought, all the knowledge he acquired was transmuted to practical wisdom. Let our readers imitate his example, and ponder well the following just encomium, in connexion with its well-known results: "The faculties of the mind" says his biographer, "by nature vigorous, were improved by constant exercise: and his memory, by habitual practice, had acquired a capacity of retaining whatever had once been impressed upon it. To an unextinguished ardour for universal knowledge he joined a perseverance in the pursuit of it, which subdued all obstacles; his studies began with the dawn, and, during the intermissions of professional duties, were continued throughout the day; reflection and meditation strengthened and confirmed what industry and investigation had accumulated. It was a fixed principle with him, from which he never voluntarily deviated, not to be deterred by any difficulties that were surmountable, from prosecuting to a successful termination what he had once deliberately undertaken.

"But what appears more particularly to have enabled him to employ his talents so much to his own and the public advantage, was the regular allotment of his time to particular occupations, and a scrupulous adherence to the distribution which he had fixed; hence, all his studies were pursued without interruption or confusion: nor can I here omit remarking the candour and complacency with which he gave his attention to all persons, of whatever quality, talents, or education: he justly concluded that curious or important information might be gained, even from the illiterate; and wherever it was to be obtained, he sought and seized it.

"It is scarcely necessary to expatiate on the independence of his integrity, his humanity, probity, or benevolence, which every living creature participated; on the affability of his conversation and manners, or his modest unassuming deportment; nor need I remark that he was totally free from pedantry, as well as from arrogance and self-sufficiency, which sometimes accompany and disgrace the greatest abilities: his presence was the delight of every society, which his conversation exhilarated and improved; and the public have not only to lament the loss of his talents and abilities, but that of his example."

A REMINISCENCE OF A RURAL WALK.

WE are in the habit of taking short pedestrian excursions into the country, to enjoy the pure and invigorating air which we seek in vain in our large cities. On one of these occasions, it had rained all the morning but was now fair, and we had embraced the opportunity of enjoying a short rural walk.

Every thing seemed refreshed by the summer showers. Each blade of grass, laden with waterdrops, glistened in the rays of the sun, and the hawthorn hedge, on either side, emitted a pleasing fragrance. A pleasant train of reflections arose in our minds. Wherever we turned our gaze on every leaf that clothed the surrounding trees, on every blade of grass, on every wild flower that decked the ground, might be discovered traces of Divine wisdom and goodness. Unconsciously we had strolled much further than we had intended, and were about to return, when our attention was arrested by the appearance of a funeral. It had been hidden from view by an abrupt turn of the road, and was now almost close upon us. There was little remarkable about its appearance. There were none of those trappings about the coffin which distinguish the rich from the poor, even in that last resting-place. It was borne by four men in clean though homely attire. Traces of grief were plainly visible on the manly countenances of those sons of toil. Thank God, the tears of affection are not restricted to those, over whose dead wave the insignia of rank. We followed at a distance the solemn procession, as it slowly moved towards the neighbouring church-yard. The burial occupied but a short time. The

company soon dispersed, and we were alone. All was over. An additional grave was visible. And that was all. Solemn thoughts passed through our minds as we gazed on the last resting-place of one of whom we knew nothing, save that it was another added to the numberless multitude who had entered an unseen eternity.

We were absorbed in these reflections, when our thoughts were directed into another channel by loud sobs, which, to our surprise, proceeded from a woman who had entered the churchyard, and was directing her steps towards the newly-made grave. She exhibited all the symptoms of poignant grief, and, with frantic energy exclaimed, as she bent over the fresh turf "He was my ain bairn, my ain bairn, my ain dear Sandy!" We observed that she wore the sad emblem of widowhood, and, unwilling to intrude upon the sacred affections of a mother's heart, we left the spot.

In a short time the rain began again to fall heavily, and we sought shelter in a neat cottage in the neighbouring village. A pleasant looking woman asked us to rest till the shower had passed. On casually relating what we had just witnessed, we obtained from her the following particulars.

Widow Stewart's son, being the only child, was greatly beloved by both parents, and he reciprocated their affection. They had used all their exertions to instil into his mind, a love for the great Redeemer; and they rejoiced to see that their labor had not been in vain. Alexander Stewart left his native village for one of our large mercantile towns, to attain greater proficiency in the trade to which he had been apprenticed. The letters which he sent home, dictated by strong affection for his parents, cheered their anxious hearts, and from natural ability and good conduct his prospects were good.

But he made no mention of the malignant influence which the change of place was working on his constitution. He had been accustomed to nothing but the free and pure air of the country; and was ill-able to withstand the confined atmosphere of the large manufacturing town in which he now resided. He felt that he had lost that buoyancy of spirit and elastic step, which he possessed in his native place, and he looked forward with delight to the prospect of spending a few days under his

father's roof, hoping that he might thereby recruit his drooping health. Before he could accomplish this, however, death had entered the home of his childhood; and he returned to perform the last sad office to his beloved father, and minister comfort to his widowed mother.

W

The anxious parent was not long in observing the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes of her much-loved son. She saw with alarm that disease had begun its work; and used all her influence to induce him to protract his stay till his health should be sufficiently established. Alexander felt his own weakness and inability, and complied. Many happy evenings they spent together, while he did all in his power to cheer his surviving parent. They felt happiest in each other's society, and their joint prayers often arose that they might meet in heaven, an united family, and that the holy affection which was begun on earth might be renewed in that Land of Bliss.

The widow, however, too clearly marked the slow but sure progress of disease. Anxiously did she watch, and fervently did she pray for his recovery. Many a petition was offered up to Him who is a father to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow. But God's ways are not as man's ways, and He willed it otherwise.

In the spring-time of his days, in the bloom of his youth, he died, the solace of his widowed mother's declining years. But he had been early taught to repose in Jesus, and he had gone to that city within whose precincts sorrow never casts a shadow, and where there are pleasures for evermore. We had witnessed the sequel.

THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF EQUALITY.

Pyro.

WE had been visiting the Great Exhibition of Industry, and had seen life in many of its forms and phases. We were vulgar enough to venture there on one of the cheap days, for we cannot exactly understand the luxury of paying five shillings when we can see more for one. And more we certainly do see at this rendezvous of nations on the early days of the week than on either of the two last. To our minds by far the best part of the shew is the unmitigated joy and wonderment of the masses, and

the honest and homely poetry of such minds under the influence of healthy excitement. The true aristocracy, who of this world's good have more than heart can wish, and who daily find that "money answereth all things," cannot be expected to exhibit much interest in such scenes, whilst the would-be gentry of the long-purse school are of all soulless bodies, the last whose companionship we covet.

To-day we have changed the scene, and are looking around us on a very different Exhibition-wider still in its scope, and infinitely more important in its consequences. Life, busy, buzzing life-life in its most sparkling and joyous aspect-life, not in its every day habiliments, but in its butterfly costumeoverflowing with animation and radiant as holiday attire could make it, has been exchanged for Death. The Great Exhibition of Industry has yielded place to the Great Exhibition of Equality.

We are seated in one of our suburban cemeteries. Seen through the arches of the cool corridor in which we are writing, are innumerable graves. The small and great are there, and the servant is free from his master. Urns, columns, ledgertombs, and upright slabs, billowy heaps of turf, the oak, the cypress, the silver. birch, the willow-flowering shrubs, and blossoms of all hues, mark the resting-places of those who were once as busy as any among the countless throng of yesterday. Our thoughts are passing from the Fair to the Funeral-from the Mart of Nations to a much wider meeting-place. Yet the transition is neither violent nor repulsive. It has been too long the custom to connect the idea of death with every thing forbidding. A crowned skeleton is our common type of the king of terrors, and a dark hole in a dank intramural churchyard, the gate-way of his awful palace. He, whose power is resistless, is figured by our poets without muscle or sinew; and a diadem is foolishly assigned to him who has been spoiled, disarmed, and vanquished!

Nor can we allow him the casual regency he seems to claim here. If the tomb speak truly that stands just before us, its tenant "sleeps in Jesus." This day she is with Him in Paradise, to whom she gave herself on earth. The thought would be a sweet one, could we believe the whole of this lovely spot to