resolved to _leave
it to fate_.' The only difference that I can discover between the
'_Providence_' whom Commander Gambier could not trust, and the '_fate_'
to which he was prepared to submit all his fortunes, is that the former
is spelt with a capital letter and the latter with a small one! But to
the story. 'On the road where I stood was a small bush grog-shop, and
the coaches pulled up here to refresh the ever-thirsty bush traveller.
At this spot the up-country and down-country coaches met, and I
resolved that I would get into whichever came in first, _leaving it to
destiny_ to settle. Looking down the long, straight track over which
the up-country coach must come, I saw a cloud of dust, and well can I
remember the curious sensation I had that I was about to turn my back
upon England for ever! But in the other direction a belt of scrub hid
the view, the road making a sharp turn. And then, almost
simultaneously, I heard a loud crack of a whip, and round this corner,
at full gallop, came the down coach, pulling up at the shanty not three
minutes before the other! I felt like a man reprieved, for my heart
was really set on going home; and I jumped up into the down coach with
a great sense of relief!' And thus Mr. Gambier returned to England,
became a Commander in the British Navy, and one of the most
distinguished ornaments of the service. He sneers at '_Providence_,'
yet trusts to '_fate_,' and leaves everything to '_destiny_'! The
milkmaid's may be an inexplicable confidence; but this is an
inexplicable confusion. Both are being guided by the same Hand--the
Hand that leads the cows home. She sees it and sings. He scouts it
and sneers. That is the only difference.

Carlyle spent the early years of his literary life, until he was nearly
forty, among the mosshags and isolation of Craigenputtock. It was,
Froude says, the dreariest spot in all the British dominions. The
house was gaunt and hungry-looking, standing like an island in a sea of
morass. When he felt the lure of London, and determined to fling
himself into its tumult, he took 'one of the biggest plunges that a man
might take.' But in that hour of crisis he built his faith on one
great golden word. 'All things work together for good to them that
love God,' he wrote to his brother. And, later on, when his mother was
in great distress at the departure of her son, Alick, for America,
Carlyle sent her the same text. 'You have had much to suffer,