had such magnificent common sense that in his last two lines he sums up almost everything that is worth saying on the subject; and yet that fatal lack of will which I have so often lamented made all his theoretical good sense as naught He could give one every essential of morality and conduct—­in theory—­and he was one of the most convincing and wise preachers who ever lived; but that mournful epitaph summarises the results of all his mighty gifts; and I think that it should be learned by all young men, on the chance that some few might possibly be warned and convinced.  Advice is of scanty use to men of keen reason who are capable of composing precepts for themselves; but to the duller sort I certainly think that the flash of a sudden revelation given in concise words is beneficial.  Here is poor Burns’s saying—­

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 through the starting tear
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the kindly glow
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low
And stained his name.

Reader, attend!  Whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole;
Or, darkling, grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit,
Know—­prudent cautious self-control
Is wisdom’s root.

When I ponder that forlorn masterpiece, I cannot help a tendency to despair; for I know, by multifarious experience of men, that the curt lines hint at profundities so vast as to baffle the best powers of comprehension.  As I think of the hundreds of men who are minor copies of Burns, I have a passionate wish to call on the Power that sways us all and pray for pity and guidance.  A most wise—­should I say “wise"?—­and brilliant man had brought himself very low through drink, and was dying solely through the effects of a debauch which had lasted for years with scarcely an interval of pure sanity.  He was beloved by all; he had a most sweet nature; he was so shrewd and witty that it seemed impossible for him to be wrong about anything.  On his deathbed he talked with lovely serenity, and he seemed rather like some thrice-noble disciple of Socrates than like one who had cast away all that the world has worth holding.  He knew every folly that he had committed, and he knew its exact proportions; he was consulted during his last days by young and old, who recognized the well-nigh superhuman character of his wisdom; and yet he had abundantly proved himself to be one of the most unwise men living.  How strange!  How infinitely pathetic!  Few men of clearer vision ever came on this earth; but, with his flashing eyes open, he walked into snare after snare, and the last of the devil’s traps caught him fatally.  Even when he was too weak to stir, he said that, if he could move, he would be sure to take the old path again.  Well may the warning devotees cry, “Have mercy upon us!” Well may they bow themselves and wail for the weakness of man!  Well may they cast themselves humbly on the bosom of the Infinite Pity!  For, of a truth, we are a feeble folk, and, if we depended only on ourselves, it would be well that George Eliot’s ghastly thought of simultaneous universal suicide should be put into practice speedily.