was raging far beneath. About four-fifths of the water which formed the cataract before was of a lovely, clear, deep green hue; and as I earnestly gazed at it, it was beautiful to observe in this semi-transparent fluid the opaque masses of ice which, first appearing on the crest, were easily traced descending leisurely in the fluid, in which, like the white patches in green marble, they were embedded. The remaining fifth part of the magnificent curtain before me was composed of muddy water from Chippewa Creek, which, running into the Niagara River about a mile above, flows, without being permitted to mix with the pure stream, until, falling with it over the precipice, it forms a broad red border to the variegated mass I have described. About a mile above the cataract, the advancing volume of deep water which, imprisoned within the bordages of the Niagara River, is cheerfully emigrating from its native fresh inland seas to the distant salt ocean, receives its first check from some hidden rocks over which it falls about seventy feet in a series of splendid white breakers. The confusion is of course appalling; but as delirium often leaves the human patient, just before his death, so does this water previous to its fall completely recover its tranquil character, and thus for the last hundred yards it approaches its fate with that dignity, serenity, and resignation which attend it to the very edge of the cataract, and which, as I have already stated, faithfully accompany it in its descent. The sight, even for a moment, of this enormous mass of moving water is truly magnificent; but when one reflects that the millions of tons of water per minute which are calmly passing down the glassy cataract, for thousands of years have been falling, and, for aught we know, for thousands of years may continue to flow, by day and by night, over its crest; the mind is illuminated rather than dazzled by the bright glimmering before it of that Almighty Power which, by evaporation, wind, and condensation, is eternally collecting from remote regions of the globe this everlasting supply of water, to be transported to, and deposited in, those immense inland reservoirs, Lakes Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie.

THE AUTHOR OF THE RAILWAY SYSTEM.

of steam-engines, investigated the subject, and, in a very able document,' proved most clearly that Mr Stephenson's project was practically and commercially inexpedient. This report was triumphantly answered by George Stephenson's two pupils, his son Robert and Joseph Locke. Genius and enterprise prevailed. The horse plan was abandoned. The most ingenious mechanics of the day applied themselves to the construction of locomotives, in order to contend for a prize of £500 offered by the directors of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, and in the memorable year of 1830, engines from the workshops of the Stephensons, Braithwaite, and a third, Rothwell, in the sight of assembled thousands, resolved the railway problem.-The Railway System Illustrated.

THE BACHELOR'S DAY.
- (Written for the Instructor.)
The bachelor's morning is weary and sad:
His bread is ill toasted, his butter is bad;
His coffee is cold, and his shoes are not brush'd-
Breakfast thus leaveth him angry and flush'd.

He comforts himself for his sorrows by thinking,
At dinner, at least, he'll have eating and drinking:
'Good ale and beafsteak no misfortune can hinder,'--
But the steak, when brought up, is found burn'd to a cinder.
He tags at the bell-pull, by fury inspired,

To lecture the landlady till he is tired;

But she takes precious care to be out of the way
When she thinks that her lodger has something to say!

He then finds that the temper to which she has driven him
Is not like to be sweeten'd by the beer she has given him,
So he rises in wrath. 'But my tea cannot miss,'
He half-doubtingly says, 'to be better than this.'
The whole afternoon he has nothing to do-
He reads his old newspaper twenty times through;
If the weather were good he might saunter about,
But the rain is so heavy he cannot go out.
Between yawning and nodding, time passes away,
And tea comes at last, after weary delay:
Now surely the fates will relent at his lot,
And allow him the cup that inebriates not.'
Alas, no!-to his sorrow no tea will pour out,'
For a host of tea-leaves have got fix'd in the spout,
And before he can clear out the obdurate stopper,
The tea is as cold as the bread and the butter.
The butter, in spite of his scolding and warning,
Is, if possible, worse than he had in the morning:
She has paid no regard to one word he commanded,-
What mortal's good temper is able to stand it?
Not much, to be sure, at the best he could boast,
And his dinner mischance had extinguish'd the most,
While the little not slain in the previous flutter
Is now drown'd in the tea, and interr'd in the butter.
No longer the course of misfortune we trace:
But we thought we could draw from his pitiful case
A moral as plain as if Æsop had shown it-
Get a snug little house and a wife of your own in't.

LONGEST DAYS.

Fortunately the merchants and manufacturers of Liverpool and Manchester placed the execution of their project under the direction of George Stephenson, a man whose mechanical genius is of that order that it may, without exaggeration, be asserted, that, if Watt had not previously invented the steam-engine, he was capable of achieving it. Born in the humblest rank of life, self-educated, endowed with an industry, energy, and indomitable perseverance, which rendered his manifold and eminently practical abilities fully available to his employers, he early obtained an independent position, and a high reputation in his profession; but he might have lived and died unknown beyond the district of his earlier labours had it not been his welldeserved good fortune to commence and complete a work which, in extent, grandeur, and utility, casts into the shade the proudest monuments of Greece and Rome. Others before him prepared the way; others since have contributed valuable improvements in detail; but to George Stephenson unquestionably belongs the proud title of the Author of the Railway System. Before the Liverpool and Manchester line was completed, George Stephenson, who had discovered that carriages driven by steam were capable of surmounting gradients of considerable altitude by the force of their weight alone, proposed to employ locomotive instead of horse power for the merchandise and passenger traffic. The gauge or width between the rails adopted on this line was four feet eight and a half inches, or what has since been generally designated the narrow gauge, and was the di- Printed and published by JAMES HOGG, 122 Nicolson Street, mension which had been found most suited to the general requirements of the mineral traffic, as well as equal in width to the broadest road vehicle in use in this country. The proposition for the use of steam-power excited the alarm of a great number of the shareholders. At the request of the dissentients, two eminent engineers, the one engaged on public works and the other in the manufacture

At Berlin and London the longest day has sixteeen hours and a half. At Stockholm and Upsal the longest has eighteen and a half hours, and the shortest five and a half. At Hamburg, Dantzic, and Stettin, the longest day has seventeen, and the shortest seven. At St Petersburg and Tobolsk the longest has nineteen, and the shortest five hours. At Torneo, in Finland, the longest day has twenty-one hours and a half, and the shortest two and a half. At Wardorbus, in Norway, the day lasts from the 21st of May to the 22d of July without interruption; and in Spitzbergen the longest day lasts three months and a

half.

Edinburgh; to whom all communications are to be addressed.
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CURRY, jun. & Co., Dublin; R. GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, London;
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Nova Scotia.

No. 114.

EPITAPHS.

'Bas. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living; I am a tomb-maker.'-WEBSTER.

PRICE 1d.

the high places in society, are more costly in material, and more chaste both in their design and in their inscriptions, there is much that mars the solemn impression which they are calculated to produce. The dwellings of THOUGH We do not belong to that class of individuals who the living border too closely on the abodes of the dead. are constitutionally of a pensive and melancholy tempera- These abodes are often tenanted by the ignorant and proment, constantly contemplating the dark sides of all fligate of the land, and frequently are heard proceeding objects, and loving to linger amongst scenes of a sad from them the angry words of strife and contention, the and solemn character, we yet confess that we take much loud and vacant laugh, or the strains of drunken revelry, pleasure in occasionally wandering in churchyards, and which fall harshly upon the ear in such a place. The meditating amongst the tombs. It is pleasant to escape constant upturning of the remains of mortality sickens for a season from the bustle and business of life-to leave the heart of the beholder. We think of the grave as a behind its contests and its controversies, its cares and cal-place of repose, where the wicked cease from troubling, calations-and wander amongst the silent habitations of and the weary are at rest;' as a place where, after the the dead. It is in such a place, surrounded by all the storms and tossings of life, the wearied and worn-out child emblems of mortality, that a man can with peculiar ad- of humanity may lie quietly and undisturbed, wrapped in vantage 'commune with his own heart and be still.' We the sleep of death. How unseemly then, and repulsive have made it a rule, wherever we were, to pay a visit to to our better feelings, to see the sanctity of the grave the churchyards, for the double purpose of seeing the violated by rude and ruthless men, and the remains of state in which they are kept (which may be taken as a the dead dragged from their resting-place into the glare sort of text or criterion of the civilisation and refine- of day! These dry bones seem to shrink from the sunment of the inhabitants) and of reading the epitaphs shine. Let them lie at rest in the grave till dust has on the tombstones. There is a melancholy pleasure in finally mingled with dust. In this matter we might learn visiting such scenes, which we think improves and a lesson from the Turks. In the picturesque beauty and elevates our moral and spiritual being. In a country elegance of their cemeteries, as well as their respect and churchyard, the pleasure greatly predominates over the reverence for the repositories of the dead, they are an melancholy. In the spring or summer, a quiet medita- example to many nations that boast of a higher civilisation amongst the tombs, in such a place, leaves us wiser tion. But if we think it beneath us to learn from the and better than when we entered. The sunny air is Turks, we surely will not refuse to listen and take a lesloaded with the perfume of flowers, and the songs of the son from one of England's most gifted sons, who, though birds amongst the branches of the green trees that are dead, yet speaketh' from his tombstone words which, waving over the tombs are falling on our ears. In such we fondly hope, will find a ready response in many a a place, conscious of life and its manifold blessings, we heartfeel how blessed a thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun. Even in a city churchyard, there is much to be seen that may afford subject both for pleasant and profitable meditation, though there is frequently a greater display of the pride and pomp of life-a too great anxiety and eagerness evinced to keep up those distinctions of rank, and wealth, and place, which, however proper and necessary in life, might be to a certain extent moderated and modified in that place which, of all others, is fitted and formed to remind us that

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal laid

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.'

Though in a city cemetery the monuments, whether erected by sorrowing affection to the memory of private worth, or by a grateful public to testify its appreciation of the talents or wisdom of those who have honourably and usefully discharged the duties incumbent on such as occupy

'Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
To digg the dust enclosed here:

6

Blesst bee the man that spares these stones, And curst bee he that moves my bones.' Though there are in the Old Testament portion of the Scriptures numerous incidental notices of monuments to the dead, there is not, so far as we can recollect, any express passage that bears resemblance to an epitaph. There is in the Talmud, we believe, a statement to the effect that the great stone, called the stone of Abel, 1 Sam. vi. 18, bore the following inscription or epitaph'Here was shed the blood of righteous Abel.' It is highly probable that there would be some inscription on this ancient monumental stone, but, as we have said, there is no direct testimony in Scripture to that effect.

In the works of the Greek and Roman poets and historians are to be found many examples of epitaphs both in prose and verse. Amongst those nations, it was very common to place emblematical figures on the tombs or

monuments of the dead. These consisted either of such tools or instruments as represented the trade or profession of the deceased, or some bird or animal which resembled them in disposition. The custom of inscribing the name of the deceased upon the tomb is of great antiquity. Lycurgus, however, in the laws which he gave the Spartans, prohibited relations from inscribing the names of their deceased friends on their tombs unless the men fell in battle or the women died in some sacred office. The following is an epitaph which the fellow-citizens of Euchidas placed upon his tomb in the temple of Diana. It merely commemorates a great pedestrian feat. Here lies Euchidas, who went to Delphi and returned the same day.' Alexander the Great is said to have been much affected by the following epitaph inscribed on the tomb of Cyrus :—' Oh man! whosoever thou art, and whensoever thou comest (for come I know thou wilt), I am Cyrus, the founder of the Persian empire; envy me not the little earth that covers my body.' The following epitaph on Sylla, believed to be written by himself, is characteristic. It breathes the strong spirit of heathenism'No friend ever did me so much good, or enemy so much harm, but I repaid him with interest.'

imaginary virtues. We forget or forgive all their offences; their hasty words and unkind looks are forgot. Thus it is that in all ages epitaphs have overflowed with praises of the dead. The good and the gifted, the meek and the merciful, the peacemakers and the pure in heart, have not passed from the earth into forgetfulness. Their tombstones and their epitaphs are before us, telling of their virtues and good deeds. While we stand amidst those silent memorials of the dead, and read their epitaphs, containing the record of their worth, we think better of human nature. Making all reasonable allowances, there must be a considerable amount of truth told in these monumental inscriptions. They are written by relatives and friends, who had every opportunity of knowing the temper, and tastes, and dispositions of the departed ones. Husbands have erected tombstones and inscribed epitaphs on them commemorating the worth of their departed wives; and widows have done the same to their departed husbands. Here is an epitaph inscribed by a father over the remains of his son; there is a similar mark of affection by a son to the remains of his father. On one hand may be seen a stone and epitaph sacred to the memory of a deceased brother; standing near may be one erected Leaving the epitaphs inscribed on the tombs of the an- by a brother over the early grave of a beloved sister. cient Greeks and Romans, we shall come down to our own These epitaphs in general speak the sincere sentiments of times and our own country. The language and sentiments the living; they knew well the individuals whose virtues that are used in epitaphs have in all ages been the same; they have recorded; they saw them in the close and enmourning over the departed, affectionately enumerating dearing intercourse of domestic life, when all the lights and extolling their many virtues, moralising over the and shades of their character were displayed plainly and shortness and uncertainty of human existence, and exhort- palpably before them. Amidst the crushing and crowding ing the reader to be also ready' to cross that 'bourne of society a man may contrive to deceive the world. whence no traveller returns.' Though the epitaphs on mask may be worn with such tact that it cannot be dethe tombstones in our churchyards, and on those higher tected; but it drops off whenever he enters the charmed specimens of monumental art to be found adorning the circle of home. It is there that human nature appears walls of our ancient cathedrals, are in general far from in its true colours. It is there that each of us either affording a favourable specimen of the taste or intellect blesses or blights all who come within the circle of our of our country, they are, though often quaintly and some- influence. Home is the true test of character and contimes rudely expressed, remarkable for the poetry and duct; and if those who are the witnesses of a man's propriety of the feelings and sentiments which they actions there-if his relations and friends-those who breathe. They are, indeed, 'sermons in stones,' and often have seen him under the influence of sorrow and sickness, do they make a deeper impression on the heart than what of mirth and melancholy, and all those innumerable and could have been produced by the most impassioned pulpit mysterious agencies which are ever operating on man's oratory. No doubt epitaphs are always eulogistic, per- mental and moral nature; if, when he has passed away haps too much so, and on this account they are often into the silence of the grave, they erect over him a monuspoken of in a derisive spirit by those who sit in the chairment, and inscribe on it an epitaph commemorative of his of the scorner,' and who love to throw an air of ridicule piety and virtue, doubt not that the departed deserves over everything that fills the wise and the good with reve- truly all the praises which his sorrowing friends have berence and awe. These persons, it seems, are exceedingly stowed upon him. hurt and offended at the strain of panegyric which pervades many epitaphs; they deem that there is too little fact and too much fiction; and they are filled with much indignation at those who seem to regard it as an office of friendship to inscribe false praise upon tombstones, and to ascribe virtues to individuals, when dead, which they never gave them credit for when living. To a certain extent, it is no doubt perfectly true, that indiscriminate praise prevails far too much.

For random praise, the work would ne'er be done.
Each mother asks it for her booby son:
Each widow asks it for the best of men;

For him she weeps, for him sho weds again.' Still, however, who would act as strict inquisitors over the dead? Who among us would love to sit down and chronicle on a tombstone all the faults and frailties of the poor inhabitant below ?' They may be forgiven above, they need not be recorded below. The encomiastic strain which pervades many epitaphs is dictated by the amiable and better feelings of our nature, and ought perhaps rather to be encouraged than repressed. The epitaph is the last token and tribute of sorrowing affection. It is often written in the hour of loneliness and bereavement, when the intense heart-crushing burst of agonising grief is past, and the human affections, yearning over the loved and lost, seek some tangible object on which to record their sorrow for the departed. Death beautifies and canonises the dead. It throws a veil over all their imperfections, and leads us to mourn over and magnify their real or

The

Notwithstanding the great number of epitaphs on tombstones, and the abundant collections of them that are to be found in books, there are, comparatively speaking, few that can be pronounced really good. In one sense, they may be good. They may contain a proper estimate of the character, and a perfectly just eulogium on the virtues of the deceased, but something more than this is required to constitute a good epitaph. The sentiments expressed may be extremely proper, and perfectly applicable to the deceased, but the language in which they are clothed may be inelegant and even ungrammatical. In this case the epitaph cannot be good. In truth, it is no easy matter to write a really good epitaph. It is a species of composition which does not so much require talents as tact and taste. The writer must not only know what should with propriety be stated of the departed, but be able to condense his meaning in few words, and have these words neatly arranged. Excellence must be sought rather in the simplicity and chasteness of the sentiments, and in the elegance and ease of the language, than in either the brilliancy or originality of the thoughts embodied in the epitaph. Brilliancy would be altogether out of place upon a tombstone, and there is but little scope for originality. The subject-matter of epitaphs, though of deep and solemn import to all, is so trite and commonplace, and the topics that can be naturally introduced into them are so limited, that it is almost impossible to display any originality in such compositions. The most that can be done is to place an old or obvious thought in a new light,

or array a moral reflection or pious sentiment in graceful and elegant language. The nature and object of an epitaph necessarily render it short. Brevity is a positive beauty. Indeed it is almost impossible that a long epitaph can be good. It is therefore a fault when an epitaph is made to comprise a sort of abridged biography of the deceased, whether in prose or verse. It should not consist merely of a long catalogue of good qualities strung at random together. Neither should it consist of a long and lugubrious homily. An epitaph is simply a monumental inscription commemorative of the dead, and its language should be equally free from pompous verbosity and redundancy of ornament. The sentiments which it conveys should be solemn and impressive, speaking of man's mysterious origin, his frailty and fragility here, and his immortal destiny hereafter: 'I was not-I was-I am not -and will be.' And the language in which these high and elevating thoughts are conveyed should be concise, simple, and clear.

Many of our most celebrated writers have written very beautiful and affecting epitaphs on their departed relatives and friends. Perhaps one of the finest in the English language is that written by Ben Jonson on a young lady:

Underneath this stone doth lie,
As much virtue as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.'

Having mentioned Ben Jonson, we are naturally re-
minded of the epitaph written on him by his friend and
brother poet Herrick. It breathes a sweet friendly spirit,
and is worthy of the author of the Hesperides:

'Here lies Jonson with the rest

Of the poets-but the best.

Reader, would'st thou more have known,
Ask his story, not the stone;

That will speak, what this can't tell,
Of his glory-so farewell.

Wotton's epitaph upon the death of Sir Albert Morton's
wife is remarkably beautiful. A late writer, speaking of
it, says that it is a volume in seventeen words. It has
all the quaint sweetness of the old English authors, and
is a brief and beautiful tribute to conjugal affection:
'He first deceased; she, for a little, tried

To live without him, liked it not, and died.'

In the cathedral at Vienne, in France, which is described by travellers as a venerable Gothic structure of great antiquity, is a joint tomb erected to the memory of two friends. The epitaph on the stone contains a beautifal sentiment, expressed with Spartan brevity. It may be said to comprise a volume in four words. It is the spirit of friendship speaking from the tomb, pleasant in their lives, in their death they were not divided.'

'Mens una. Cinis unus.'

'Que mind. One dust.'

Buckingham, who died in early youth, which is regarded as his masterpiece in this species of composition, is unworthy of the bard of Twickenham. But we must do Pope justice. He composed one good, we had almost said beautiful, epitaph without knowing it. In his Epistle to Mr Jervas,' there are six lines which much more deserve the title of epitaph than any of the compositions which appear in his works under that name. We shall quote the lines. They are, in truth, 'beautiful exceedingly,' and worthy of all commendation:

Call round her tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame, informed with purer fire;
Bid her be all that cheers and softens life-
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more.'
Several celebrated persons have written epitaphs on
themselves. None of them that we have seen are entitled
to much approbation. The following by Mrs Wright, one
of the daughters of Wesley, the founder of the Methodists,
has been sometimes praised. Perhaps some of our read-
ers may admire it:

'Destined, while living, to sustain
An equal share of grief and pain;
All various ills of human race
Within this breast had once a place.
Without complaint, she learn'd to bear
A living death, a long despair;
Till hard oppress'd by adverse fate,
O'ercharged she sunk beneath the weight,
And to this peaceful tomb retired,
So much esteem'd, so long desired;
The painful mortal conflict's o'er;
A broken heart can bleed no more.'

REVIVAL AND PROGRESS OF NATIONAL
LITERATURE IN SCOTLAND.

It is impossible to estimate completely the influence of Burns's genius either upon the national character or upon our strictly national literature. It is certain, however, that no poet ever so powerfully and instantaneously awoke the throbbing heartstrings of a people or revived the decaying cadence of his native tongue. There is a principle of progress ingrafted on universal nature; a busy, restless propelling motive which operates in marked gradations upon physical things, and as certainly though latently transmutates, embellishes, and elevates the powers and requirements of the mind. The heart of Scotland was throbbing with the undeveloped feelings and experiences of ages when Burns seized her wild impassioned lyre. The recollections of five hundred years were still demanding embodiment; for although Barbour, James I., Sir David Lindsay, and Dunbar, had seized upon the bold relievos of our national history and manners for illustration, and although Allan Ramsay had striven to revive the character and strength of the ancient poetic genius of our native land, and Fergusson had succeeded in parWe know of no author who has written so many epi- tially resuscitating the dulcet music of our Doric tongue, taphs as Pope, yet, notwithstanding his genius and highly it was reserved for Burns to give a prominence, impulse, cultivated poetic taste, none of his epitaphs are above and consistency to all, which could only be derived from mediocrity, and not a few of them considerably below it. the most exalted genius, and only could satisfy the wants An air of cold correctness pervades the whole of them. of the most cultivated posterity. The lyric poetry of The language is beautiful, but there is a great want of Scotland before the advent of Burns did not possess the power and pathos. The dead are praised with all the stiff attributes of passion and beauty which it now possesses. set phrases of posthumous adulation. The praise, however, The deep and powerful pulsations of love, and hope, and seems to proceed rather from the head than the heart. devotion which national circumstances had awakened in There is no gush of natural deep-felt grief. You seem the nation's bosom had never been interpreted in words. to be listening to a hired mourner rather than to one who The poetry of the unseen spirit had not a commensurate is indeed sorrowing for the dead. The cause of this, we medium of poetic expression-the tongue was mute save in think, can be easily explained. Most of these epitaphs a few instances, and consequently the sister spirit of muwere, we believe, written by him at the urgent request sic breathed out alone its sweet but unindividualised expresof the friends of the dead; they were tasks imposed upon sions of joy and sorrow. The lyric music of Scotland had him which his good-nature, rather than his inclination, reached its present perfection long antecedent to its lyric prompted him to execute. There is about them abundant poetry having even stripped itself of grossness and inanity. marks to show that they were not the voluntary effusions Even Ramsay's lyrics have been greatly overrated, and of the author. No one can compare them with the rest Fergusson's have no pretensions to Scotticism, but Burns's of Pope's productions without at once perceiving their in-are Scotch to the core-they are born in storm and sunferiority. They did not flow free from the warm fountain shine-they are redolent of mountain flowers, and gemmed of his feelings. Even the epitaph on the young Duke of with pure ethereal dew-they are bright and burning

The father of M'Neil was an officer in the army, where the patronage of the Duke of Argyle, and his position, maintained him in, and gained him admission to, the most fashionable society. His mind became schooled in this sphere to a caste and tone not at all compatible with the position and character of a dependant, for he sold out without intimating his intention to his grace, who was graciously pleased thenceforth to leave him to his own resources. The elder M'Neil had probably been bred to agriculture, and had been drawn away from this peaceful pursuit to the more equivocal calling of a warrior. He took a farm in Rosebank, however; but the habits he had contracted in the garrison town and mess-room totally unfitted him for his laboriously honourable vocation, and their consequences completely ruined him, and threw a large family upon other than their father's resources.

Hector M'Neil's only prospective dependence was upon his cousin, who was active manager of a mercantile house in Bristol; and his father, dreading the effect upon his son of an education more extensive than practically useful, confined the youth to a strictly commercial course of in