could not even enter the house for some days. Many a kind heart beat during this sad time under a rough exterior-nor has the kindness worn itself out yet. Although a gardener, he also held a large farm, which he cultivated, and which was his principal means of living; so, after his funeral, his neighbours held a meeting to see what could be done for his family. The mother being a most industrious woman, they decided on ploughing her ground for her, which is now done, all to a few acres; so I think the poor woman will get on pretty well. I shall miss the man very much: he was al kind, obliging neighbour; he taught me all I know of gardening, planted my fruit-trees, and pruned them yearly for me. It is a great relief that all the sad bustle is over: I feel quite worn out.

June 7th.—The last entry in this journal was a sad one, but this will prove much worse. Tears are in my eyes as I write the name of dear Captain R. During Mrs. N's troubles he was the foremost to help her: his plough was first on the land, and now he lies in an unhallowed grave! I can hardly bring myself to record his dreadful fate. He was poor N—'s near neighbour, and the very first acquaintance we had here that grew into intimacy. Before he settled here he had been captain of a steamer, but came out first from Europe in command of the emigrant ship in which the Ncame as passengers. He unfortunately, after a time, thought fit to give up the sea, and took a farm here, where he settled with an only son. They soon, however, disagreed so seriously, that the son went to the diggings, and the father lived alone. About three years ago he had a splendid crop, and with the money made by it, he speculated largely; but, unluckily, since then. the seasons proved very unproductive, and he could never recover himself: he was forced to raise a mortgage on his farm, and this year the total loss of his wheat, which was his principal crop, preyed sadly on his mind. He was a very sensitive and nervous as well as a highly honourable man. Ours, and one other family, were the only intimate friends he had, and he usually spent the Sunday with one or the other of us; but, as my husband is so much away from home, I saw nothing of the Captain for nearly a fortnight, and was getting quite anxious about him, as I knew he was dreadfully uneasy about some. bills he had to meet, and for which he found it impossible to provide funds; when, to my utter horror one morning a week since, all the children came crowding to my bedside, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma, Captain R—— has shot himself!” And so it was; my kind, warm-hearted friend had suffered trouble to press on his mind so as to exclude the light of reason, and, in a moment

of desponding madness, took his own life. Ah, these are indeed dark pages in Bush Life: God grant that their number may be few! It was Mrs. N's son who found him: the boy was sent to borrow a pair of harrows very early in the morning, and when he opened the door of the house there lay our poor friend, moaning. The boy, frightened, ran to the farm-servant to ask what was the matter with the Captain. The man went to learn, as he had left him quite well, and immediately discovered that he had shot himself. It seems that he had got up at daybreak, made a large fire, dressed for work, and called his man to prepare the horses; he then laid down the horse-feed, returned to the house, and committed the rash act. It must have been the impulse of a moment, as he does not seem to have meditated it before. And now we have lost two old friends thus sadly. We will miss them for a long time they were certain to come over on wet days, and stay chatting to my husband. How awfully they have been cut off! I am too depressed to write any more just now, so will stop for the present. (To be concluded in our next.)

The mind's great doors are opened wide sometimes,
And grand processions enter silent there,
Mount to the council chambers swept out fair
From all defilements and unholy slimes;
Then on the silence break ecstatic chimes
Which fill the soul with music! Earthly care
Shrinks pale and shrivelled in the ether rare,
But dies not-waiting for less lustrous times.
Alas! too soon returns life's fitful hour

When the soul's grandeur fades, its music rests, And yet the echoes vibrate-and a dower

Of fragrance, lingering incense like, attests The vanished glory, telling of the power

Of those Anointed Lords who were the guests.

more from verbal instruction than from books. A VERBAL INSTRUCTION.-Boys of tender age gain the tone of voice, expression of feature and gesture, man speaks with more sympathy than he writes; and convey meanings which are not to be expressed by words alone.-English Journal of Education.

In our number of October last, we found occasion to say that the theories started by Mr. H. P. Malet in his new pages of natural history, "promise to have important effects upon the opinions current with naturalists." In our February number we called attention to another work on geological subjects† by the same author. Since reading these we have endeavoured to cull from contemporary papers or periodicals, such materials as bear upon the subjects touched on by Mr. Malet._Ön consulting the Advanced Text-book, by Page, we find at p. 116, "Respecting the origin of the pyrogenous rocks, or rather the cause of igneous action, with all its attendant phenomena of volcanoes, earthquakes, and other subterranean movements, geologists are by no means agreed." The two great causes have been supposed to be the chemical and mechanical. With the latter only do we now propose to interest ourselves, and we hope our readers. There are few subjects more engrossing to the whole race of intelligent, educated human beings, than a right understanding of the organization of the world we live upon. Theory on theory has been expounded with all the zeal and partisanship of so exciting a subject; and though the apparent intention of all writers has been to discover and lay down the truth, yet the book before us, which is a compilation from the opinions of the most scientific men upon the subject, tells us that they cannot agree! Page continues his subject by supposing as one of the mechanical causes for the production of igneous rocks, "that the interior of the globe is in a state of high incandescence or molten fluidity," and then, as that which is called the crust cools and contracts, he tells us that the least contraction of the crust "would be sufficient to squirt out molten rock-matter from a hundred pores or craters." Now it seems to us, that to bring about this result there must be two data to go upon, one the molten matter, and the other a contraction of the crust. In the Athenæum, No. 2,155, Mr. David Forbes, F.R.S., tells us, in reply to a question from Mr. Malet, that a basaltic rock (one of the supposed igneous ones) had, after slow cooling from a molten state, reassumed the stony condition," and then possessed the identical specific gravity of the original rock." In other words this rock did not contract, and as basalt has hitherto been considered of undoubted igneous origin, this contracting force is not proved. About the molten matter, at p. 118, Page calls it " an exhaustible source." To be sure of that, we should know its origin, but no one tells us from whence this molten matter comes. We are told that the heat of the earth, at 25 miles

"New pages of Natural History." † “Circle of Light,”

from the surface, is sufficient to fuse a great portion of our rocks, but if this heat were perpetually working outwards it would not act on an exhaustible source, for the earth would be perpetually melting, perpetually ejecting, and perpetually sinking. When any ejection of molten matter takes place, it is a vitrified substance very similar to glass. Mr. Forbes tells Mr. Malet that there are different sorts of lava, one like granite, and one similar to basalt in chemical compositions; and we find from the same paper (Athenæum above quoted), that the lava of Vesuvius "is in chemical constitution allied to a Staffordshire iron-furnace slag." Thus then our furnaces and our volcanoes send forth slag or lava as their light overboiling substances; if the action of volcanoes is similar to that of furnaces, then their heavier fused substances would subside as the metal subsides below the furnace slag; and if the theory of Mr. Malet is correct, page 209, 210, "Circle of Light," "as I do not think volcanic action existed till the water had buried masses of inflammable matter," then there are two great truths involved in his hypothesis. One is, that the lava ejected from volcanoes is nothing more than the slag issuing from the earthy or rocky substances which fall under the influence of the volcanic heat; the other, and a far more interesting one to the struggling mass of humanity upon earth, is that within our volcanic mountains vast amounts of tolerably pure metallic substance would be found. Confessing our inability to understand why lava of many aspects and compositions should be discharged from volcanoes at one time, and why granite, basalt, and other supposed igneous rocks should be discharged at another, we would suggest it as a possibility that the similarity of their compositions is caused by the fusing of these rocks under the influence of volcanic fire, and this will at once account for Mr. D. Forbes' information, (Athenæum, 2,155) that the "acid or trachytic" lava is "strikingly analogous to the old granites in chemical composition;"" and the basic or pyroxenic, nearly if not quite identical with the basalts," thus reversing the theories of our great geologists, and giving the old water formations of the earth as a prey to the fires caused by great accumulations of earth's produce. It will be obvious that this system would avoid touching on that which Page calls "an exhaustible source," for surely we have only got to consider the vast amount of earth's refuse, which is yearly carried by our rivers to the ocean, to comprehend that this source, though fluctuating, and perhaps decreasing as population extends, is, as long as vegetation grows, and rains fall, and rivers wash away, and ocean currents carry, an inexhaustible source of inflammable material.

(To be continued.)

IONA AND STAFFA.

It was a dismal, rainy day when we dropped our anchor near Iona. Wet and weary, I first set foot on the sands of this famous island. The Christian pilgrim, wandering over the plains of ancient Judea, standing for the first time in the streets of the modern Jerusalem, can hardly realize that he is upon the spot which has been rendered memorable by the life and the death of the Son of God. Disappointment may come at first; but as he reflects, amid the sacred places which our Saviour frequented while on earth, imagination more easily cements the present with the past history of our race and the world; and then kindles up, as the thought ateals on, that the hoary hills which stand sround the sacred city have been witnesses of events which not only connect the present with the past, but which link all the present and all the past with the great, unbounded, and neverending future. The traveller, also, who feels sympathy with the advance of Christian learning, truth, and civilization, can hardly fail to have his sensibilities awakened as he visits cities and islands which were frequented by the early followers of the Cross. Iona is a sacred spot. As we approached it, there was some feeling of disappointment. True, in my own experience, were the lines of Wordsworth:

"How sad a welcome! to each voyager

Some ragged child holds up for sale, a store
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore
Where once came monk and nun, with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer."

But busy memory called up the celebrated passage in Dr. Johnson's "Tour to the Hebrides":

"We were now treading that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present-advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me, and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."

This little island, only three miles long by one in breadth—a mere dot in the ocean, looking

out on the rugged rocks of Mull, and buffeted by stormy waves-has yet borne no inconsiderable part in the spread of Christianity in Western Europe. Its history is one of great interest. About the year 372, there was born on the Clyde, not far from Glasgow, a child whose surname was Succat. This was the future St. Patrick. His life was eventful. When a mere youth, he was stolen from his home and carried a slave to Ireland; and was engaged in the humble occupation of a swineherd. Restored afterward to his family, but having, during his captivity, while reflecting on the pious teachings of his mother, become a "freeman whom the truth makes tree"-he resolved to return to Ireland, and preach there the gospel of Christ. In his subsequent career in the Emerald Isle, he was eminently successful; and, living in a rude and superstitious age, truth and fable have sometimes united in the history of his deeds. Whether he destroyed the serpents and all venomous reptiles, and chased out of Ireland the great arch-enemy of man; hurling after him, as he fled toward Scotland, the two great rocks which lie in the Clyde (one, on which rests the castle of Dumbarton, and the other, the vast rock of Ailsie), it is not necessary to inquire. At all events, there must have been some commotion in the air and in the water by their removal; and sufficient, one would think, to frighten even his satanic majesty.

However this may be, a follower of St. Patrick reflected and considered that there was a debt due to Scotland; not because the great traitor had been driven over there, but rather for the reason that it was the birthplace of the great Christian teacher. "Shall he not repay to the country of Succat what Succat had imported to his?" "I will go," said he, "and preach the word of God in Scotland."

This was Columba, a descendant of an Irish monarch. It was nearly two centuries after the time of St. Patrick, that Columba resolved to pay the debt. In the year 565, he and a few followers landed upon the island afterward known as Iona, or the "Island of Columba's cell." Here he proclaimed that the Holy Scriptures were the only rule of faith. Here the schools of the church were established. Here the missionary fire was kindled, and this little spot became literally the "luminary of the Caledonian regions." Here, under various tides of fortune, and with different success, the gospel was preached for more than a thousand years. But her glory has departed. The ruins are there-the walls and tower of the old cathedral, the remains of a nunnery, and a chapel-but the missionary-fire has gone out lang syne. As

we moved about, we could but feel the solemnity of the place; for we were treading on the dust of monarchs, noblemen, and yeomen, as well as on that of the priest and the peasant; for, by its sacred character, it became the burial-place of many of the families of Scotland.

great, cavernous sides, being composed of countless complicated ranges of gigantic columns, beautifully jointed, and of most symmetrical, though somewhat varied forms; the roof itself exhibiting a rich grouping of overhanging pillars, some of snowy whiteness, from the calcareous covering by which they have become

"Merrily, merrily goes the bark

On a breeze from the northward free:
So shoots thro' the morning sky the lark,
Or the swan through the summer sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and Colonsay;
And all the group of islets gray
That guard famed Staffa round:
There all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose
The cormorant had found;

And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weltered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In serried tones, prolonged and high,
That mock the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane;

That Nature's voice might seem to say:
'Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine

Task'd high and hard-but witness mine!'"

About nine miles to the north of Iona, and eight miles from the western coast of Mull, rises the famed isle of Staffs. Of irregular shape, and only three-quarters of a mile in length by half a mile in width, it forms but a mere speck in the vast Atlantic. It is one immense rock; on the top a green pasture spreads out, supported by vast basaltic columns. A few cattle were grazing here, but there is no human habitation upon the island; and, save when startled by the visitor, the cormorant might still find

"Dark and undisturbed repose."

On the southerly side, the rocks rise to the height of nearly one hundred and fifty feet. The pillars extend along in a continuous colonnade, and looking down from the summit on the dashing waves below, the scene is wild and impressive. There are several caves; but that which bears the name of the father of Ossian, the Cave of Fingal, is the crowning wonder of this wonderful island. "A vast archway of nearly seventy feet in height, supporting a massive entablature of thirty feet additional, and receding for about two hundred and thirty feet inward; the entire front, as well as the

seen reflected by the ocean-waters, forms truly a picture of unrivalled grandeur, and one on which it is delightful to dwell, even in remembrance."

Nature was in a wild mood. The lowering clouds were discharging even more than Scotch mist. The sea-birds were whirling round in the air. I had been all the morning dancing over waves which sung more than a lullaby. Wearied in body, and with spirits awed and subdued, I entered under the vast arch-way, and clambered along a projecting ridge of rocks to nearly the extreme end of this noble specimen of Nature's handiwork. There I sat down, and watched the never-ceasing ebb and flow of the ocean, now surging in and rolling onward, beating against the wall of basaltic rock at the extremity of the cave; and then, broken and retreating back only to prepare for a renewed assault. Here Neptune might have swayed his sceptre; old Æolus may have gathered here his winds, and the monks on Iona have turned pale as the north-wind and the west wind issuing forth swept by in wild fury, lashing the sea into foam, and singing the death-song of many a mariner whose course lay across the stormy sound of Mull. As I mused here, the questions arose, Did Ossian live and sing?. Did old Fingal reign? Did the old monarch of the islands sit here in the cave which bears his name, and chant the wild songs of the Hebrides and the mountains of Caledonia? If Reason answered no, Fancy contradicted, and said all was true. So Fancy took the reins and I was sitting on the spot where Fingal sat of yore. Here he sang his songs of war, of peace, and of love, a century before the arrival of Columba on the island of Ïona. Here Ossian, the witness of his father's valour, and the heir of his virtues, drank in inspiration, and gathered some of the most beautiful of his images. Here the old Scottish Homer, himself both hero and bard, may have embodied some of the memories which are sweet, yet mournful. Here came the monks. Here they worshipped at early dawn, bowing the knee as they entered the temple built by an Almighty hand. Here came architects to take the gauge and measurement, so that they might imitate the Creator's works in the cathedrals which they designed to build on the British Islands and the main land of Europe. Who can tell how many a missionary monk from Iona carried the story of this famed temple to distant parts of the earth?

But the day is waning, and we must away. The whistle of the boatswain is heard; we cannot see the fair island of Ilay to-day. At another time we must look over it, and visit