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stands on one side the river, and the high land on the other, tell of the convulsions which in some age of the world's life have opened a channel for the mighty river to proceed on its way to the sea. The water at last has its way. The land and the rocks recede, everywhere the current wins; and thus the softest thing in Nature-water-wears down, or heaves up, or in some way displaces the hardest rocks, and marches on to its goal in the ocean. So is it everywhere. The soft and gentle things of earth are the strongest. Woman rules man; the little child rules the parent. The lamb is the emblem of the Prince of the kings of the earth; "a soft answer turneth away wrath." "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth," not by prowess or force of arms, but by the force of gentleness and love. "Of such" as little children is the kingdom of heaven;" and I hope my young readers, while they think of the Highlanders who scaled the heights of Quebec, and the battle on the Plains of Abraham, and how Canada was won for England, will look away from these strong things, and mighty things, to the beautiful river, so grand in some parts of its course, so wide-reaching and so placid in others, and remember it as an emblem in this latter quality of the dispositions which should rule in their hearts, if they hope for any conquests over pride, and passion, and vice. In gentleness is strength, and in purity lies our conquest over the world, the flesh, and the devil. "I shall go to America," said a poor labourer one day to his wife." But thou hast no money," was her reply. No," said he, "but I intend to wade it." She then burst into a flood of tears, not understanding that " wading it" was impossible, for she thought she would lose her husband for ever. There are, however, only two ways of going, either wading or swimming, and as the former is impossible, there is, in fact, only one way. We all swim to America. There is an Atlantic cable, but we cannot ride on it. No bridge of boats, or otherwise, has yet been constructed. Balloons have not yet, for that distance, been tried, and there remains only the swimming process. But no man can, in the ordinary sense, even swim it. If he swim at all, it is done by proxy. A ship can swim, and we can swim in it. The winds can propel us, or, better still, steam can, and thus we all can go for a few sovereigns, and in ten or eleven days, to the continent of the West-to the land Columbus discovered-or to the country which Jaques Cartier first saw; to the land where the sun sets five hours later than it does in England; where the sun sets in such glory as it never does in England; where, at sunset, the whole heavens are one vast sheet of gold; where the stars glitter as they never do in England; and where the clouds career above us in such light and graceful forms as are never seen here. One might think they were the down from angels' wings; and they travel so joyously that there seems but one high holiday in the heavens while summer lasts, and until the storms of winter begin. To the land

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where light is light, and not a compound of light and mist; where the sun blazes in his proud seat as if he meant to illuminate and warm; and where, in its turn, the frost bites till it congeals your very breath, makes a beard for you of icicles; and contests the current of your heart's blood, as if it willed that your heart should beat no longer;-the land where the maize ripens as well as the wheat; the maize that most wonderful of Nature's provisions for the sustentation of man and beast-furnishing a dainty for the epicure, and a meal for the hog (begging pardon for the unpolite, yet not unnatural association of the two);-the land of delicious fruits and rich harvests;—the land, in short, which, if it is not England over again—if it has not England's coal and iron, and moderate climate, and wonderful wealth-is England's child, with England's language, laws, institutions, and religion; and England's sons, industrious, provident, and sober, and promising a future of honour and glory to the mother land, whose foster child she is, and whose impress she bears. If to-day Macaulay's vision of the New Zealander sitting under the ruins of London Bridge, and contemplating a ruined city-now the centre of so much wealth, literature, and active commerce-a ruined St. Paul's, a ruined" Bank," and a ruined seat of government, were realized, England would not have lived in vain. Her heroes would not have fought, her poets sung; her historians, orators, essayists, and consummate statesmen would not have lived and laboured in vain; for the work is done-in the "States," in Canada, in India, in Australia, and other climes. England's language, laws, and literature are spread abroad on the face of the earth, and all nations acknowledge the debt of obligation they owe to that wonderful island which has given to humanity so many brilliant geniuses, so many holy saints, and so many noble and illustrious benefactors of our race in all the periods of its history. Come her end when it may-but may that end be never!-she will perish with a diadem of glory on her brow, and pilgrims will visit her shores to study her ruins for guidance and inspiration in creating the noble and the good everywhere on the face of the whole earth.

But we are diverging, as, in fact, we shall often do in what we write for these columns, for we write for young people, and they are not attracted, or their attention held, by solemn monotony; and we shall be sadly vexed if we make our young readers yawn, and compel them to throw down the JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR with the exclamation, "Mamma, this is a very dull magazine, and I don't want to read it any more." We would rather every reader should say, When will the month be out, and the INSTRUCTOR come again ?"

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On the 18th of June, 1851, the good steam-ship "City of Glasgow "left the dock at Liverpool, bound for Philadelphia. On board this steamer there were in all about two hundred passengers, besides the crew. Among these passengers were the writer, his

wife, and five children. Their berth was a room about six feet square, with accommodation for seven persons to lie down in, and sleep if they could. The sleeping was not guaranteed by the owners, but only the sleeping accommodation. The sleeping at sea depends upon circumstances; among the rest, upon the question how often, and to what extent, you may be sea-sick. All who go to sea are not subject to this disturbance; for instance, if your hair and complexion are light, you will not suffer as much as those whose hair is dark, and whose complexion is sallow. It is a question of the bilious, or non-bilious temperament. To some the suffering is constant and most distressing during the whole voyage. We all suffered a little; some of us all the time, till we reached the mouth of the river Delaware. But we did reach our destination, and that was more than we expected at one time. We saw all the wonders of the deep that can be seen by passengers. We saw porpoises, whales, and a few sharks. We saw the waves "rolling mountains high," which phrase has a touch of exaggeration in it; for we have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have seen some considerable breezes, but we never saw a wave twenty feet high. There may be waves mountains high," but we have not seen them, and we suspect there is more poetry than truth in the designation. Nevertheless, let every one who goes to sea-who goes to cross such a sea as the Atlantic-make his will, settle his affairs, and be sure about his salvation, for whether he will arrive at his destination no man on board can tell. We have a great respect for the sciences, and for the science of Navigation amongst the rest; but from what we have seen in each of the voyages we have taken, there has been a good deal of guesswork about the business, and twice, I am sure, neither the captain nor any of his officers knew where we were exactly, and in these two instances it was by the merest chance that we escaped a serious peril, if not positive destruction.

The "City of Glasgow" had been out twelve days, when about four o'clock on the morning of July 1, a tremendous crash was heard. The vessel shook from stem to stern. Some of the sleepers were nearly pitched out of their berths by the force, whatever it might be, which so fearfully shook the ship. All of us that could, rushed into the cabin to ascertain what was the matter, and we found the trouble to be this-the "screw" was moved by two cogwheels, the teeth of one were iron, those of the other were hard wood. This arrangement was adopted to diminish the noise of the screw's action. At the moment referred to, the half of the teeth in the wooden-wheel were stripped off, and the screw broke loose in some way from its moorings, and of course ceased to act. Attempts were made to repair the damage, and for a day or so the repaired machinery worked; then there was another crash, and the last hope of sailing any more by the aid of our machinery was gone. The sails alone were left us, and every one knows how helpless

those long screw-steamers are when merely under sail and deprived of the force of steam. We were five hundred miles from port when this accident happened; for two days we beat about, going nowhere in particular, and never shall we forget the joy we felt when a Yankee pilot boarded us about three hundred miles from Philadelphia. There was some hope, at least, under his guidance, that we should make the Delaware river and that, once in it, our danger would be over. He was one of the unloveliestlooking men it was possible to see; tall (as most of his nation are), with lank jaws, each cheek stuffed out with a quid of tobacco, stooping shoulders, and the nasal drawl of the Yankee; but he was, like most of his countrymen, silent and business-like. He said little; but he put the ship about, and to our joy brought us where we could see the green fields on each side of the Delaware, and finally to the Quaker city. It was a blazing hot day, the 7th of July, when we arrived at port. Many Americans who had been to see the Great Exhibition in London were on board, and while the perspiration was streaming down our face, and we felt like one in a furnace, one of the American passengers, looking up at the blazing sun and around on the perspiring company on deck, and who seemed to have arrived in the third heaven of enjoyment, exclaimed to a friend near him, "Oh, Jim, is not this natural !"—an expression which might be patriotic, but which, at the same time, was out of harmony with our feelings and with everything.

ST. IVES' PILCHARD FISHERY.

ST. IVES is an ancient town about sixteen miles north-east of the Land's End, in the county of Cornwall. Its name, according to Camden, is from "Iia," an Irishwoman who early preached the Gospel here. It was made a borough in the reign of Charles I. St. Ives was originally a fishing village, and probably a place of export for the metallic ores obtained from the celebrated mines of this part of Cornwall, which, tradition says, were sent to the East in Tyrian barges so early as to be used in the building of Solomon's Temple.

St. Ives is situated on the west of one of the most beautiful bays that indent the British coast-St. Ives' Bay, which is somewhat of a horse-shoe shape, and about four miles across from the island, or St. Ives' Head, on the west, to Godrevey Point on the east.

On the Godrevey Island, on a rock a short distance from the shore, a powerful revolving light warns the mariner by night of a line of rocks which run far out to sea, and which have been often the occasion of shipwreck.

The shores of the bay present a bold and pleasing outline. Here are jutting rocks surrounded by dashing billows, and often enshrouded in vast sheets of the whitest foam, rising as high as a

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