stirring within them
struggles and emotions eternally new,--an experience so diversified as
that no two days appear alike to any one, and to no two does any one day
appear the same. There is something so striking in this perpetual
contrast between the external uniformity and internal variety of the
procedure of existence, that it is no wonder that multitudes have formed
a conception of Fate,--of a mighty unchanging power, blind to the
differences of spirits, and deaf to the appeals of human delight and
misery; a huge insensible force, beneath which all that is spiritual is
sooner or later wounded, and is ever liable to be crushed. This
conception of Fate is grand, is natural, and fully warranted to minds
too lofty to be satisfied with the details of human life, but which have
not risen to the far higher conception of a Providence, to whom this
uniformity and variety are but means to a higher end, than they
apparently involve. There is infinite blessing in having reached the
nobler conception; the feeling of helplessness is relieved; the craving
for sympathy from the ruling power is satisfied; there is a hold for
veneration; there is room for hope: there is, above all, the stimulus
and support of an end perceived or anticipated; a purpose which steeps
in sanctity all human experience. Yet even where this blessing is the
most fully felt and recognised, the spirit cannot but be at times
overwhelmed by the vast regularity of aggregate existence,--thrown back
upon its faith for support, when it reflects how all things go on as
they did before it became conscious of existence, and how all would go
on as now, if it were to die to-day. On it rolls,--not only the great
globe itself, but the life which stirs and hums on its surface,
enveloping it like an atmosphere;--on it rolls; and the vastest tumult
that may take place among its inhabitants can no more make itself seen
and heard above the general stir and hum of life, than Chimborazo or the
loftiest Himalaya can lift its peak into space above the atmosphere.
On, on it rolls; and the strong arm of the united race could not turn
from its course one planetary mote of the myriads that swim in space: no
shriek of passion nor shrill song of joy, sent up from a group of
nations on a continent, could attain the ear of the eternal Silence, as
she sits throned among the stars. Death is less dreary than life in
this view--a view which at times, perhaps, presents itself to every
mind