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their reward hereafter; and if there be no hereafter, they can be but with the infidel in his eternal sleep; having had the assistance of an exalted hope through life, without subsequent disappointment."

Including cabin, intermediate, and steerage passengers, there were about one hundred and fifty emigrants on board, including children. We had dancing occasionally during the early part of the voyage, and the Rev. Mr. M'Farlane gave prayers every night in the cabin, while the steerage passengers gave prayers among themselves. We, who were in the cabin, or cuddy, as it is generally called at sea, consisting of nineteen individuals,* fared sumptuously every day; a circumstance highly creditable not only to the New Zealand Company, but to the liberal captain of the ship. In fact, it may be said that we did little else but eat, drink, and sleep, during the whole voyage. We had four meals per day, and at dinner had always five or six dishes of fresh meat, with a carte blanche of claret and other wines, besides a dessert of fruit. supply of fresh provisions necessary for the cabin passengers daily, and the intermediate passengers twice a-week, you may believe was very great. In addition to preserved meats, now so universally used at sea, we had on board sixty sheep, twenty-one pigs, and nine hundred head of poultry. Pigs thrive best at sea, as they make it a rule to be quite at home in every climate, from the equator to the pole; whether

The

* Their names were Dr. and Mrs. Logan; Mr. Mrs. and Miss Strang; Mr. and Mrs. D'Orsey; Mr. and Mrs. Hay; Rev. Mr. M'Farlane; two brothers named Carruth; Dr Graham Tod, and his brother; Mr. Anderson; Mr. Buchanan; Mr. Wallace; Mr. Yule, and the Author. These with our hospitable Captain, and Mr. Bradley, the second mate, a gentlemanly young man, formed our daily circle at the dinner-table.

under the torrid or frigid zone, provided they get plenty to eat, but woe be to those who impose any restraint upon their appetites, as the noise of a hundred pigs is almost equal to that of a clap of thunder.

Talking of pigs, Mr. Dickens, in his late work on America, gives an amusing anecdote of one he met with in the streets of Washington. This pig had only one ear, having parted with the other to vagrant dogs, in the course of his city rambles, though he gets on very well without it. He had lost his tail in the same cause, but notwithstanding these severe losses, he leads a roving, gentlemanly kind of life He leaves his lodgings at an early hour every morning, throws himself upon the town, gets through the day in a manner highly satisfactory to himself; and appears regularly at the door of his own house again at night. He is a free and easy, careless, indifferent kind of pig, having an extensive acquaintance among other pigs of the same character, whom he knows rather by sight than conversation, as he seldom troubles himself to stop and exchange civilities.

During the voyage, we had one marriage, one baptism, one birth, and one death. Those born at sea, whether of English, Scotch, or Irish parents, belong all by law to the parish of Stepney, in London, where their births ought to be registered, otherwise they have no parish to which they can legally apply for relief, should they come to require it; and no place where their names could be found, in the event of any succession opening up to them, a more agreeable event no doubt.

The death that occurred was that of a boy about ten years age, the son of one of the emigrants. A

of

funeral at sea is a very striking event. To consign a body to corruption, without pomp or ceremony, amidst the roaring of the waves, with nothing but the ocean for a grave, and nothing but a sheet for a coffin, is well calculated to excite a deep and solemn emotion. The pageantry that attends the funerals of the great in civilized countries, produces a very different effect. The splendid hearse drawn by six stately horses, richly caparisoned, and the lengthened train of carriages which follow in its rear, has more the appearance of a coronation procession than any thing else; and the gazing, the giddy, and the thoughtless multitude, are infinitely more taken up counting the number of the carriages, than in thinking of the lifeless body that is dragged along, now confined to its narrow house; which, having escaped from the turmoils and the vanities of the world, is about to find repose at last in the silence and in the solitude of the tomb; for

"How still and peaceful is the grave,

When life's vain tumult's past;

Th' appointed house by heaven's decree,
Receives us all at last."

The fear of death, which pervades all mankind, arises from an illusion of the imagination, from changing places as it were with the dead body, and thinking and reasoning with our own living bodies. The same occurs every day in the common transactions of life. When a healthy young beggar, for instance, meets an elderly gentleman reclining in his carriage, he is apt to think how happy he must be riding about in this manner, with the additional advantage of having always plenty to eat. But the inmate of the carriage is perhaps suffering from disease, and having

little or no appetite, is taking an airing in order to procure one; the chief difference betwixt the rich man and the beggar consisting, it is said, in the one being obliged to take exercise for an appetite for his food, and the other food for his appetite. But the sturdy beggar never thinks of this, transferring at once, in his imagination, his own healthy body into this gentleman's diseased frame. Envy is the great bane of human enjoyment, and those who like this sturdy young beggar, are of an envious disposition, are always unhappy, as the happiness of others torments them nearly as much as their own misery.

Some, in like manner, envy those in fashionable life, who are constant attendants at court, mixing daily with kings and queens, princes and princesses, serene highnesses and royal highnesses, honourables and right honourables, and are apt to think how happy they must be moving in such a circle. But they don't consider for a moment what little satisfaction all this imparts to the great, from their being accustomed to it. An eminent author has remarked, that few have such a contempt for courts as courtiers, for while the world thinks that it is something, they know it to be nothing. The justice of this remark is borne out by the aspect of the actors on that elevated platform of human life. I have witnessed hundreds going to court both here and in other countries, and their countenances were so beset with care, with thought, and with melancholy, that had I not observed that they were decked out with rubies and with diamonds; covered with gold and with silver; and clothed in purple and in fine raiment; I would actually have supposed that they had been going to a funeral, instead of a levee. Nothing in

short, is so unsatisfactory to a well regulated mind, as an incessant round of gaiety and frivolity; and few are so unhappy in their solitary moments, as the votaries of an idle and fashionable life, notwithstanding all the splendour of their outward condition.

We sympathise with the dead, in like manner as we picture in our imagination how dreadful their situation must be, shut up in the bowels of the earth; no longer able to see the place where they dwelt when in the body, and to which they were so much attached, nor to visit those friends by whom they were so much beloved. Surely, we are apt to think, we cannot feel too much for those who have suffered so great a calamity. And the sad, the dismal reflection, that all we can do, and that all our love, and all the tears we pour forth, can yield no comfort unto them, tends only to aggravate our sense of their misery. But, most assuredly, the happiness of the dead is affected by none of these circumstances, nor is their profound repose disturbed by the thoughts of them. That solitude and misery which the fancy ascribes to their condition, arises from our consciousness of the change produced upon them by placing ourselves in their situation; transferring, as it were, our own living souls into their lifeless bodies, and then conceiving how dreadful our emotions would be. It is from this very illusion, no doubt, that the prospect of our own dissolution becomes so terrible, and that the very idea of those circumstances, which can undoubtedly give us no pain when dead, is so apt to make us unhappy when alive. Hence arises one of the most important principles of human nature the dread of death, which, while it tends to poison the happiness of the individual, proves, at the same time, a powerful check to the injustice, the rapa

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