Chapter II: Part 2

'This decomposition of the force of the currents produced by the screws, is analogous to that effected by the sails of a ship sailing across the wind; where, the sails being inclined at an angle of 45 degrees to the course of the wind, the ship is impelled onwards in a direction at right angles to that of the wind: the only difference in the two cases being this--namely, that in the sails of the ship, the axis of inclination, represented by the mast, is _vertical_, creating _horizontal_ movement; while, in the wings of the air-ship, the axis of inclination--the pivot on which they turn--is _horizontal_, creating _vertical_ movement. Were there but one pair of screws, acting upon one set of inclined wings, a slight retrograde horizontal movement would be produced in addition to the vertical movement, as the current of blast from the screw would react upon the screw itself with a force greater than that with which it would impinge upon the wings, where a part of the blast will inevitably be wasted. But there being two pairs of screws, acting in opposite directions, they will neutralise each other's horizontal movement, while combining in the production of vertical movement. So, at least, reasons our inventor; but however ingenious this expedient, its efficiency may well be doubted, when we remember the immense amount of resistance, offered by the surface of the balloons, which would have to be overcome.

'To obtain lateral movement, the action of one pair of screws is suspended, leaving the other pair in motion: the ship, according to the calculation of M. Pétin, will immediately describe a curve, and turn.

'Such is the air-ship constructed by M. Pétin; but, unhappily for the demonstration of his views, the French government, either from fear of accident, or from some other motive, has interdicted its ascension; and the vessel which, three months ago, was ready--crew, captain, and machinery--to attempt its advertised flight round the walls of Paris, is still reposing, in inglorious idleness, upon its stocks in the Chantier Marbeuf (Champs Elysées), to the woful disappointment of its enthusiastic inventor, who, however, consoles himself with the hope of coming over to London for the purpose of testing his invention, as soon as the return of fine weather shall render it prudent to make the trial journey. In justice to M. Pétin, we would observe, that the sole point which he hopes to prove with this vessel is, _the possibility of obtaining a fulcrum in the air_, justly considering that if the question of _steering_ were affirmatively settled, the necessary means, pecuniary and other, would soon be forthcoming to enable him to improve upon, or to change the original construction, and to build the mammoth vessels, containing closed apartments, warmed and fitted up with every provision for comfort, in which he hopes to transport several thousands of passengers at a time, and at a speed which it almost takes away one's breath to think of.

'For, urges M. Pétin, if we could once succeed in getting a fulcrum in the air in spite of its elasticity, this very elasticity would then enable us, with suitable motive-power, to move with a degree of rapidity far transcending the possibilities of locomotion in any other element. In fact, it would seem, according to M. Pétin's computations, that we might breakfast in London, lunch in Constantinople, dine in China, dance the evening out in Havannah, and get home to bed at an hour not much later than that at which the votaries of fashion usually betake themselves to their slumbers.

'The reasoning by which our inventor arrives at the seemingly paradoxical conclusion, that the air is destined to be the high-road _par excellence_, and to serve as the medium of transportation for the heaviest loads, is certainly very ingenious; of its conclusiveness, we must leave our readers to judge for themselves.

'Progression from the simple to the composite, says M. Pétin, is the universal law. In the works of nature, the action of this law is everywhere visible; and man, in his works, follows the path thus consecrated by the footsteps of the Creator. Thus we find, he continues, that the point multiplied by itself produces the line; the line, in like manner, produces the plane; and the plane, the cube; an ascending series, which he conceives to have its exact analogy in that furnished by the earth, the water, and the air, considered as _media_ of locomotion. In other words, the point, or primary germ of extension, corresponds, according to the theory of M. Pétin, with the fulcrum, or primary condition of locomotion; the line, first and simplest form of extension, corresponds with locomotion on the surface of the earth, where, owing to topographic inequalities, and other obstacles, locomotion can take place only in its first and simplest mode--namely, in a linear direction; the plane, produced by the movement of the line, and constituting a higher term of superficial development, corresponds with locomotion upon the water, whose unencumbered surface, which can be traversed in every direction, presents a locomotive medium, the facilities of which, compared with those offered by the surface of the earth, increase in the ratio of the difference of extension between the line and the plane.

'The cube, product of the plane multiplied by itself, corresponds with locomotion in the air, where the aëronaut, being surrounded on every side by fulcra furnished by the various strata of the atmosphere, moves at will in every direction; pressing on the higher strata in ascending, on the lower in descending, on the lateral in turning to the right or to the left, and thus commanding a sphere of locomotion whose extent and facilities, compared with those afforded by the water, are as the cube to the plane.

'Aërial navigation being thus, according to his theory, the highest form of locomotion, M. Pétin considers himself as justified in assuming, _a priori_, that this mode of transportation will offer facilities superior to those of every other in point of safety, speed, power, and cheapness; but on condition of its being carried into effect upon a scale commensurate with the vastness of its field and the importance of its results.

'To convince ourselves that such is really the intention of Providence, and that balloons are destined to transport the heaviest loads, we have only, continues M. Pétin, to examine the law which presides over the development of spheric bodies; the surface of a sphere being represented by the square of the radius, while its _contenance_, or containing power, is represented by the cube of the radius. In other words, if we increase the diameter of a sphere three times, although we increase its surface only nine times, we increase its containing power twenty-seven times. Therefore, by constructing balloons on a very large scale, as the extent of surface, and consequent resistance of the air, increases in an immensely smaller proportion than the containing power, we may obtain an almost fabulous amount of ascensional force. For instance: a balloon of one hundred yards in diameter would suffice to raise only ten millions of pounds; but ten such balloons ranged one behind the other, or, better still, a cigar-shaped balloon, which would be equivalent to these ten balloons united in one (an arrangement which, as the law of development is similar for spheric and for cylindric bodies, would greatly diminish the resistance of the air, without occasioning any loss of containing power), would suffice to raise one hundred millions of pounds; and allowing some four or five millions of pounds for the weight of the vessel and its machinery, which, for a ship of this size--supposing it were possible to make its various parts hold together--should be, M. Pétin computes, of twelve hundred horse-power, we should still have at command a surplus ascensional force of upwards of ninety millions of pounds; a force sufficient to sustain a body of fifty thousand men!

'In the construction of these enormous balloons, M. Pétin proposes to substitute, in place of the silken bag hitherto used to contain the gas, a rigid envelope of a cylindro-conical form, composed of a series of metallic tubes, laid one above the other, and supplied with gas--obtainable to any amount and almost instantaneously--from the decomposition of water by a powerful electric battery; and with these resources at command, M. Pétin conceives that balloons might be constructed on a scale even larger than that just given!

'In fact, this assumption of the possibility of obtaining command of an unlimited ascensional force has suggested, to certain enthusiastic partisans of M. Pétin's theory and plans, a long perspective of astounding visions, from which sober-minded Englishmen would, in all probability, turn away with derision. These enthusiasts have evidently adopted the language of Archimedes, and are ready to exclaim: "Give us a _fulcrum_, and," with hydrogen gas as our lever, "we will move the world!"

'For ourselves, we have already stated the facts from which we derive our conviction that the conquest of the air, if achieved, is to be brought about through the agency of new and powerful mechanical combinations, rather than by means of the balloon; and though, as before remarked, the experiments of M. Pétin and others may probably not be without useful results, we dismiss these brilliant phantasmagoria with the charitable reflection, that the extravagance of overweening hopefulness is, at least in an age which has witnessed the advent of steam and electricity, more natural and more pardonable than the scepticism of confirmed despondency; and that "he who shoots at the stars," though missing his aim, will at all events shoot higher than he who aims at the mud beneath his feet.

'Meantime, the science of meteorology--a subject intimately connected with that of aëro-locomotion--though yet in its infancy, already furnishes many indications of great importance, as establishing a very strong presumption in favour of the existence of permanent atmospheric currents, blowing continuously in various directions at different degrees of elevation.

'We know that air, when rarefied by heat, becomes lighter and rises, cold air immediately rushing in to supply its place; and it is evident, therefore, that if two neighbouring regions of the atmosphere are unequally heated, this inequality of temperature will give rise to two currents of air--a warm one, in the upper region of the atmosphere, blowing from the warmer to the colder region; and a cold one, near the surface of the earth, blowing from the colder to the warmer region. It can, therefore, hardly be matter of doubt, that great permanent currents, caused by the unequal heating of the equatorial and polar regions, do exist in the higher strata of the atmosphere--an inference which is supported not only by the occurrence of the trade-winds and the monsoon, but by a variety of other facts and observations.

'Thus, for instance, it is found that in the region of the trade-winds, cinders from the craters of volcanoes, and other objects, are carried through the higher regions of the air in a direction exactly opposite to that in which the trade-wind itself is blowing below; and in this way cinders from the Cosiguina, in Guatemala, frequently fall in the streets of Kingston (Jamaica), lying to the north-east of Guatemala. Similar facts have been observed at the Peak of Teneriffe, in the Straits of Magellan, and elsewhere.

'The importance of this subject with regard to aëro-locomotion can hardly be overrated; for these currents, when clearly ascertained and correctly mapped out, would constitute so many great natural routes, where the aëronaut would be borne onward in the required direction with immense velocity, and without danger of encountering squalls or counter-currents.

'But here, fearful of exhausting the patience of our readers, we bring our somewhat lengthened disquisitions to a close, and take our leave for the present of the tempting, though debatable ground of the CUBIC HIGHWAY.'

A MEMOIR FOR THE MILLION.

On the meeting-line between a moorland and lowland district of Perthshire, stands an old baronial seat, dignified with the name of castle, to which, no doubt, it was entitled long after the date of its erection, in the fifteenth century, although no longer boasting of either the strength or magnificence which such a name implies. Its position, however, is picturesque--standing on the bank of a romantic and finely-wooded Highland glen, and commanding a view on one side of a mountain-range, and on the other of a cultivated country, with its towns and villages in the distance. The mansion is flanked on one side by a court-yard and 'louping-on-stane;' and on the other, by a velvety bowling-green, stretching along to an antique garden of cut yews and hollies overhanging the glen. It boasts, of course, its haunted chamber, and traditional stories of love and murder; but we have not now to do with life or death above stairs, though many a tale might be founded on truths 'stranger than fiction.' Our present purpose is with the neighbourhood of the kitchen. There, too, we find some relics of olden times; a fireplace which would legalise the Scottish invitation, to 'come in to the fire,' inasmuch as within the chimney-arch was the seat of honour and comfort, where a dozen cronies could sit beside the embers, while an ox might roast in front. From that cozy neuk did the old fiddler play in the evening, when the spinning-wheels were put away, and the maids, generally tenants' daughters, had their dance with the stragglers from the stables and cottages. Near the kitchen was a much colder and more dismal place, that went by the name of 'the Pit'--a half-subterranean recess, several steps lower than the kitchen, into which scarcely a ray of light penetrated through the small 'bole' that was drilled in the massive walls for a window. The cheerless aspect of the place seemed to confirm the tradition, that it had sometimes served of yore as a place of involuntary restraint. Its present occupant, however, the son of a day-labourer, found no fault with the accommodation it afforded him. He was a young boy, who cleaned shoes, scoured knives, and received with great deference the commands of Daniel Don, the butler. This boy was called John Dickson. The Pit was his domicile, as well as his work-room, and he made it also a 'study;' for having earned a rushlight by running messages, or doing extra work for his neighbours, he might be found at night, as long as the light would last, poring over a book. In this way he had, unknown to others, while still a mere boy, read through that vast quarry of erudition, Henry's 'Commentary on the Bible.'

Old James, the gardener, was a tolerable scholar, and a well-informed man, and took great pleasure in encouraging young students; so, on discovering John Dickson's taste for books, he lent him an old Latin grammar, recommending him to commit it to memory. This John did with praiseworthy diligence, although, being written in a language he did not understand, he could make but little use of his acquisition. Old James, however, may be forgiven for having set John to study after the orthodox fashion of Ruddiman, for he had never been out of his own glen, and in those days new ideas were long in penetrating to the country districts.

When John Dickson was promoted to assist in waiting at table, an incident occurred, which no doubt had some influence on his dreams, if not on his fortunes. A stranger, in regimentals, was at dinner one day, and being prepossessed by the lad's pleasing manners and expression of face, he turned to him, and clapping him on the shoulder, said: 'I was once in your present station, my boy, and if you are steady, and behave well, you may one day rise to be in mine.' The speaker was Dr Miller, a physician in the army. John, however, had few dreams and little ambition. He was not what is commonly called a genius; but he possessed sterling qualities of head and heart, perseveringly cultivated his natural abilities, and invariably conducted himself with the greatest propriety. It was no wonder, then, that he became a general favourite in the family; and that, when he carried the game-bag for the gentlemen, they purposely made long detours, and met him again at an appointed spot, in order to give him an hour at his book; for John always had a book in his pocket for a spare moment. Once, indeed, this custom occasioned some annoyance to his master, whom he had accompanied to a shooting-hut in the moors, nicknamed 'Grouse Hall,' where the unfortunate laird was detained by an intolerable fit of gout; a circumstance not apt to engender patience and resignation, especially when, from the other side of the cloth partition which divided the single apartment of the hut, he heard bursts of laughter pealing forth in succession--for John Dickson had managed to carry off a copy of Don Quixote to the moors.

When the younger sons of the family were sent to college in Edinburgh, John was chosen to accompany them. Let us now see how he conducted himself in this new and trying field; for trying it is. Country lads, in coming to a large town, meet with many temptations, and by these, hundreds of them fall. They cannot resist petty attractions to amusement and misspending of time. They enjoy themselves while they should work. They take to fun, instead of to labour. Well; to which did our hero attach himself? To regular, hard work, to be sure. He had the good sense to see, that here was his chance of getting on in the world. While other lads were amusing themselves at the theatre, or kicking their heels about the street, or hanging about the auction-rooms in front of the college, John Dickson stuck hard to his books. He also availed himself of other advantages connected with his situation. The tutor of the family in which he was employed was John Barclay, afterwards the celebrated anatomist, whose valuable museum was bequeathed to the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh, on condition that they would build a hall, and form a more extended collection, which has been fulfilled. At this time, Dr Barclay had commenced his private lectures on anatomy, which soon became popular; and John made himself so useful in the arrangement of the classroom, that the doctor was induced to encourage him to attend the lectures, and assist in preparing the demonstrations. Thus Dickson spent many winters, at once attendant and pupil, returning to the country in summer in his old capacity. By degrees, he completed his medical education, obtaining gratis-tickets from the professors--a favour sometimes extended to deserving students, and of which he was well worthy. Dr Barclay once gave a good lesson to those who apply for such gratuitous favours for others. He was asked by a certain bookseller to give a perpetual gratis-ticket for his class to a student then standing in the shop, who could ill afford to pay the four-guinea fee. 'Most certainly,' said the doctor; 'I can never refuse in such a case. By the by, Mr ----, I want a few books; will you look them out for me now?' and the doctor enumerated several standard medical works, which were produced with great alacrity. He then selected four guineas' worth from among them, and handed them over to the astonished student, along with a lecture-ticket, saying: 'Of course, Mr ---- intended giving you the same value in books which I do in this ticket!' The bookseller, although a notoriously parsimonious character, had not a word to say. Dr Barclay took great pride in collecting a library, and invented the following device as a mark for his books: His initials were engraved in the centre of an oval, at the top was the sun, with the motto--'I weary not;' below, was a mountain, with 'I am firm;' and surrounding all, 'Excel if you can.'

These graphic mottos became the guiding-stars of John Dickson's career: he wearied not, nor wavered in whatever pursuit he engaged; and it was to this indomitable industry that he owed his success in life. His perseverance was displayed even in his amusements; he was fond of music, but had not a sufficiently correct ear to play the violin well, yet he would not abandon it, but scraped away year after year, in hopes of ultimate success, although in this instance without attaining his object. In more important pursuits, his industry was amply rewarded; and having taken his degree, we must now call the heretofore denizen of the Pit, Dr Dickson, and record, that the students of the university, on his leaving Edinburgh, presented him with a testimonial, to signify their appreciation of his valuable demonstrations in the class of Practical Anatomy. Some of his preparations may still be seen in the Museum of the College of Surgeons.

An appointment as assistant-surgeon in the navy was now procured for him; medical officers being then in greater request than they are in these piping times of peace. With affectionate regret, and not unmanly tears, he left the home that had sheltered him for so many and such important years of his life, and towards which he ever evinced the warmest attachment. His gratitude was not long in shewing itself practically. In a few years, he returned from abroad; and on landing in Britain, heard that the son of his former benefactor, with whom he had been on the most intimate terms, was desirous of leaving the army, and entering into partnership with some medical man in England, for which a considerable sum of money was necessary. Dr Dickson knew full well that there might be some difficulty in advancing the required amount to the youngest of a family of fourteen; so he addressed a beautiful and touching letter to him--saying, 'that he had already, out of the savings of his pay and prize-money, bought an annuity for his old mother, and had no one else to provide for. To you,' continued he, 'who always shared your jelly-pieces with me, when we were boys, I owe a debt of gratitude, and to your family, one which I can never repay. I trust you will not now refuse to share my earnings, but frankly accept of L.800, to assist you in settling in life.' This noble offer was, from motives as noble, declined, as well as the same sum, which Dickson now pressed upon his friend, as a _loan_; but an affectionate correspondence was kept up between them until Dr Dickson's death, more than thirty years afterwards.

In 1814, Dr Dickson visited Scotland, and was received as a beloved and honoured guest at the table where, long ago, he had waited as a servant, and where had sat the stranger gentleman in regimentals, who clapped him on the shoulder, and spoke to him words of encouragement which perhaps had sunk deeper into his mind than he was conscious of himself. His native politeness had always been remarkable, and now his general information and agreeable manners made his society a true acquisition. After a few months' visit, he left Scotland never to return. Again he went abroad, and finally settled at Tripoli, the African port on the Mediterranean, under the Turkish dominion. Here the sultan's viceroy, the pacha, soon appointed Dr Dickson to be his chief physician--a post which he held for thirty years under various successive pachas, although the rival claimants for vice-regal authority sometimes fought so fiercely, that the English residents were glad to seek shelter in Malta, until it was decided who should reign. Still, Dr Dickson never lost his office, which has now descended to his son; an extraordinary instance of permanent favour under so arbitrary a government. Dr Dickson had married a Scottish lady, and being now settled in every way, his life, so far as we know, affords no farther incidents necessary to record. It was a career, however, of continued usefulness and benevolence, and, surrounded by a promising family, who revered their father, we believe he enjoyed as much happiness as usually falls to the lot of humanity.

One only drawback there was to the favour in which he stood with the pacha: the doctor was obliged, when attending the high ladies of the court, to drink in their presence one-half of every drug he prescribed--a custom it might not be amiss to introduce into England, although not with the view, as in Tripoli, of guarding against poison! Dr Dickson also acted as consul for Portugal, although for many years he received no salary: at last, on paying a flying visit to London, two years before his death, he was recommended to go home by Lisbon to seek redress. He found, however, that amid the clash of political factions, justice was difficult to be found, and so he gave up both the search and the post.

The estimation in which Dr Dickson was held at Tripoli, both by the English residents and native population, cannot be better described than by quoting entire a paragraph from a London newspaper, which inserted a notice of his death in the year 1847: 'Letters from Tripoli, just received, announce the death, on the 27th February, after only four days' illness, of Dr John Dickson, a half-pay surgeon of the British navy, who had been upwards of thirty years a resident at Tripoli, and where, such was the extent of his gratuitous attendance on the indigent, that the mournful event cannot but be looked upon as a great public calamity; and happening as it did, at the very instant the first gun announced the anniversary of the birth of the Prophet, not a few of the Mohammedans regarded the event with a superstitious awe. On the 1st of March, the remains of the lamented deceased were interred in the Protestant cemetery, which is distant about two miles from the town, escorted by a military guard of honour, sent by order of his Excellency the Pacha, and followed not only by every foreign consul, but by all the European residents of every class, and by several thousands of Jews and Mohammedans; and so anxious were many whom he had attended professionally to pay this last tribute of respect to his memory, that they actually rose from their beds of sickness and joined the mournful procession. Whilst it passed along the crowded streets, the shrieks and cries of the natives bewailing his death were audible, issuing from the miserable hovels which he had been wont to enter, to prescribe for suffering humanity.'

After this, it is needless to add anything in the way of exhortation. The little history here given is full of encouragement. It is that of a man who raised himself from humble life, not, it is true, to any dazzling eminence, but to a respectable and respected position in society; and this not by means of rare talent, but simply by industry, perseverance, and general propriety of conduct. The interest of the piece, we believe, would have been much lessened, had we, through false delicacy, withheld the real name of the individual. It is happily not the fashion in our day for self-educated and self-raised men to blush for their origin; and we are quite sure that every word of this narrative will be read both with pride and pleasure by the flourishing and widely-scattered family of Dr John Dickson.

A DAY AT THE BATHS OF LUCCA.

The baths of Lucca, ever since the opening of the continent, have been graced annually by the presence of from four to five hundred English, who shew their good taste in selecting this miniature Switzerland for their residence during the summer months. It is, in truth, a lovely valley, with its thickly-wooded hills, and shady lanes, and murmuring river; while the irregularity of the villages, or clusters of houses where travellers are generally lodged, give variety and interest to the landscape.

The first of these groups of buildings is the Ponte a Serraglio. Here are the principal hotels; the post-office; the English reading-room and club; the Casino; a few small shops dignified by such names as 'Magazine of Novelties,' and 'The Real Bazaar;' and a caffè; where congregate all the idlers of the community.

About a mile further on, attainable by a pretty road, winding at the foot of a mountain bordered by acacia trees, and overhanging the river Serchio, is situated the Villa--another range of tenements, the inhabitants of which arrogate to themselves greater staidness of demeanour than their brethren at the Ponte, thinking, perhaps, that the vicinity of the English chapel--a handsome structure, in the style of an ancient Venetian palace--may vindicate this assumption of decorum. There is but one hotel at the Villa--calm, dignified, and frigid; the remainder of a long rambling street of which the place is composed, consists entirely of lodging-houses, having gardens attached to each, where little children may be seen playing at the doors, and English nurse-maids pursuing their laborious avocations. This preponderance of small children at the Villa, is as much its characteristic distinction, as whatever relates to gaiety, or novelty, or scandal, may be considered the peculiar attribute of the Ponte.

A distinct race inhabit the Bagni alla Villa--a group of houses inaccessible to carriages, rising on a hill behind the palace belonging to the ex-duke of Lucca. A fourth division of dwellings is the Bagni Caldi, the highest point of all, the occupants whereof have to descend as if from an eyrie, to gain any of the other localities. They are a set of whom little seems to be known--quaint and unsocial personages, venturing out at dusk like bats and owls, and looking grimly on all but their immediate neighbours: the gentlemen, mostly gouty, or otherwise disabled; the fairer sex, isolated and ancient, with a marked predilection for close straw-bonnets, large brown parasols, and blue veils.

Thus much for the first outline of the place and its frequenters. We must now take a glance at their pursuits and enjoyments.

The general tenor of a day at the baths is easily described. Till about five in the afternoon but few people venture out, although early in the morning it is said that some, more active than the rest, sally forth on their mountain rambles; but this deponent vouches not for their number or degree, never himself having had ocular demonstration of their movements. During the heat of the day, the greater part remain at home, excepting, indeed, the population of the Ponte, who, exulting in all the advantages their position unites, circulate from the post-office to the caffè, from the caffè to the club, and condole with such of the hapless denizens of the Villa and Bagni Caldi as a thirst for news and devouring ennui have driven to brave a hot summer walk to their more favoured region.

There is always, even at noon, a buzz of animation in the little piazza of the Ponte--always a knot of worthies in loose brown holland coats and straw-hats, talking over every passing occurrence. The banker's office, too, is situated here, and that is a lounge in itself--a sort of private committee-room for the discussing of any fresh piece of gossip, ere it is submitted for dissection to the public at large. The English banker has now become an important feature in all continental circles. The unsophisticated beings who, perchance, imagine his duties simply limited to cashing travellers' bills, and discounting circular-notes, have now an opportunity of learning over how wide a field of action his arduous avocations must be spread. The English banker should be imperturbably good-tempered, active, and obliging; allowing no difficulties to dismay, no ungraciousness to offend him. His clients' happiness, interest, comfort, and amusement are his engrossing thought; and if, after experiencing an infinity of trouble, rudeness, and vexation, his only return should be the half-percentage on a L.50 draft, he is expected to smile, be contented, and with undaunted resolution, pursue the same train of kindness and civility towards the next new-comer. The banker's wife has also her line of tactics to pursue. She must call on all the influential families who bring letters of recommendation to her husband; listen with interest to all the detailed miseries of travelling with young children; and be sympathisingly anxious about little hopeful's eyeteeth. She must be an adept at writing notes, and be possessed of an immense store of local information to supply the incessant inquiries with which she is assailed. She must also give tea-parties and dances, get partners for all the disengaged young ladies, and stand up herself, if necessary, to complete the quadrille. Finally, she must be above feeling any affront or mortification, and learn to consider herself in the light in which she is commonly regarded--a sort of machine pertaining to the bank: just as much a part of the establishment, in fact, as the iron money-chest which stands in the office, and created solely for the advantage and convenience of her travelling country-people.

When the continental banker happens to have no wife, in his own person must be united the attributes I have described; and with a beaming face, and frank shake of the hand, must he advance from his desk to greet every visitor who breaks in upon his hours of business. Let us take a peep, for instance, one July morning, into the bank.

Two or three old _habitués_ are reading the newspapers; before them is a table on which are army and navy lists; notices of the arrivals and departures of the French and Peninsular Steam-Navigation Company's packets from Leghorn; itineraries of the baths; cards of professors of various languages, &c. The banker is writing. Enter a lady; a boy, with turn-down collar and very red ears; a little girl in a nice hat; a Swiss _bonne_; and a baby, with a blue sash and feather.

_Banker._ (_Advancing cordially._) Ah, Mrs Worryemwell, how do you do? (_Pats the boy on the head._) And how are you, my fine fellow? (_Gives the baby an amicable poke in the ribs, whereat it laughs and crows uproariously._) Take a seat on the sofa, will you, Mrs Worryemwell; and now, tell me, when did you leave Florence?

_Mrs Worryemwell._ The day before yesterday. We should have been here sooner, but we missed the train for Lucca, because one of the trunks was left behind at the Pisa station, and I would not move till it was found.

_Banker._ (_Anxiously._) But you recovered it, I trust?

_Mrs W._ Yes; but we are in sad trouble now: a canister of arrow-root must have remained on the Lucca Railway, and baby will get ill without it. We had a good many small packages, and this one was overlooked in the confusion; but--

_Banker._ (_Promptly._) I'll write to the clerk in charge at the station about it at once.

_Mrs W._ Oh! thank you. I was going to ask you to do so. A brown, japanned canister, fastened down with some strong twine.

_Banker._ Very good, very good. How do you like your house at the Villa? I gave orders that the beds should be aired, and charcoal and oil provided before your arrival, just as you directed.

_Mrs W._ Thank you; pretty well; but, as usual with all Italians, the owners are most disobliging. I wanted a cot put in for baby, but they say they have none, and that it was not stipulated for in the agreement. Now, surely (_impressively_), surely a person of your experience would never take a house for a lady and young children without such an indispensable thing as a cot?

_Banker._ You did not mention it in your letter, my good lady, and having four other friends' lodgings to fix that same day, it has, I fear, escaped me. (_Good-humouredly._) But we'll try and arrange matters. I'll come down and talk to the Padrone di Casa--

_Mrs W._ (_Taking a memorandum out of her reticule._) Let me see. Ah, yes! butter, milk, eggs. Could you favour me with the exact prices of all these necessaries? for I am certain the people of the house have cheated in what they have procured for us.

_Banker._ Certainly. One of my clerks shall procure you every information.

_Mrs W._ Ah, yes! and if you will come this afternoon to the Villa, you can also insist on their white-washing my English servant's room. It overlooks the garden, and a scorpion was found on the window this morning. Now, white-washing the walls is the only safeguard; it would really annoy me if he were stung.

_Banker._ I will see about that too. Ahem! I must write at once about the arrow-root, or the post will have left. Can I supply you with any money?

_Mrs W._ You are very kind. I must think--(_putting her hand to her head_)--a few more things I wished to ask. Do you remember them, Freddy dear?

_Boy._ (_Huskily, and blushing._) Club, church, pony.

_Mrs W._ Very right, love. What is the subscription to the club and reading-room?

_Banker._ Three napoleons for the season.

_Mrs W._ Will you enter my name? They give parties there sometimes, I believe. Ah, then the church! how much is that?

_Banker._ Three sittings for you and your two children will not amount to quite so much as the club.

_Mrs W._ Of course not. But even so it is a bad system. The church ought not to be made a medium of traffic--paying for church-seats always gives me a headache. I think, do you know, two sittings will be sufficient; yes, put me down for two. I will take Freddy in the morning, and his sister in the afternoon. That is all, I believe.

_Boy._ (_In an agitated manner, whispers_) Pony!

_Mrs W._ Ah, true, dear! Can you recommend me where to hire a pony for my boy?

_Banker._ To be sure I can. (_Giving a card._) Here are the address and terms of a man who lets them out either by the day or month. Ahem!--would you like the money in gold or dollars?

_Mrs W._ I am much obliged. On one other subject perhaps you could assist me. There really seems no one worth knowing here at present, except a family who always reside at the baths, and often receive, and have written a book, and are quite celebrated. I should like--

_Banker._ (_Hurriedly._) Really, that I fear I cannot manage for you. The arrow-root--

_Mrs W._ (_Rising._) Oh, very well. It is late, I am afraid. I need not trouble you to-day for money, I believe. I brought sufficient from Florence for the present; we will wait till the exchange is more favourable.

_Banker._ (_Heartily._) No matter; you can have it whenever you please. I shall come this afternoon and put all in order for you.

_Mrs W._ Thank you. Good-morning. (_Shakes hands, and exit._)

In this manner, and through similar interruptions, much of the banker's time is taken up, till near three o'clock, which is the general dinner-hour at the baths. Many people are supplied with this renovating meal from the Europa Hotel at the Ponte, which is presided over by one of the most honest, obliging, indefatigable, and enterprising landlords in existence. Not only has he the direction of three hotels at the Ponte, two of them off-shoots from the parent Europa, but he undertakes the herculean task of daily sending forth thirty-six dinners to different families; the whole requiring a combination of artistic resource and fertility of intellect that fully justifies his right to the appellation bestowed on him by the ex-duke--that of 'the Napoleon of inn-keepers.' These repasts are conveyed in large tin boxes, containing warm embers, on which are placed the various dishes of which the dinner is composed; and they are carried to their destinations on the heads of divers active, nimble-footed _marmitons_. As the hour of three approaches, numbers of these emissaries are seen gliding swiftly along the roads; and I never yet encountered one without comparing him to the slave who appeared at the bidding of the Genius of the Lamp, and bore a sumptuous banquet to the presence of Aladin.

After thus recruiting the inward man, the whole population of the baths seem suddenly to kindle into activity; and soon after five every one is astir. Some ride, some drive, some walk. You see every variety of conveyance, from the last London-built carriage, and livery servants, to an unpretending one-horse _timonella_; and in the same manner amongst the equestrians, the most ill-favoured little pony, its rider equipped in a straw-bonnet, with a shawl pinned across the saddle, will unblushingly thrust itself into companionship with a handsome English horse, whose owner is graced by the most unexceptionable habit and other appliances. Even the very donkeys walk along with dignified resolution, as if determined to ruffle it with the best, and not yield an inch of their prerogative. In fact, they evidently know their own value, and remember that not one of the hills around--not the giant tree on the heights of Lugliano, nor the tempting strawberry-gardens on the mountain of Benabbio--could be attained without their help. A few veteran ponies, it is true, now claim equal sureness of foot, but the popular feeling still leans towards the long-eared auxiliaries, who always lead the way on such excursions, displaying an accuracy of judgment which would not discredit their far-famed relations in the frightful passes of the Andes.

Thus the evening wears on; gradually the children and babies disappear from the scene; then follow the invalids, who had ventured out to sun themselves in the genial afternoon; and soon parties of riders are seen returning, their laughter and cheerful voices sounding pleasantly on the ear, leading one to fancy there may be some happy people after all! It is amusing, too, to watch some of those on foot, who stop in their homeward way, and peer wistfully over a range of green palisades, that border the road in the vicinity of the Villa, and through a screen of spreading foliage, catch tempting glimpses of a winding path and veranda-like portico, where there are birds, and flowers, and vases, and which leads the way to a perfect Tusculum within. This dwelling is an object of interest to all the visitors at the baths; and if, like the banker's client, they have been unsuccessful in their overtures to procure access to its circle, they sometimes, nevertheless, hover curiously in the neighbourhood, and are disposed to be indignant at not having an 'open sesame' to its doors.

But as night begins to close, even these dissatisfied pedestrians must hasten their steps, for it is near tea-time, and almost every one at the baths has some one else to spend the evening with him. There is always a vast demolition of cold chickens, and cakes, and preserves, and then a little music, and a little conversation, and an immense deal of gossip. The general complaint is, that the place is rather dull; and, indeed, it must be owned, that formerly there were more facilities for spending a gay season than at present.

Some years ago, when the ex-duke came with his little court, weekly balls were given at his residence, as well as at the Casino. But all these scenes of pleasure have now passed away. The Grand-duke of Tuscany, the present possessor of Lucca, has at this moment weightier cares to occupy his attention than the summer amusements of a watering-place; the Casino, so long the opprobrium of the baths, is now closed--it is to be hoped for ever; and the English Club, or Cercle de Réunion, though at present in every respect flourishing, has had too much experience of the ungracious office of giving evening parties, to be inclined to resume the attempt.

The diversions of Lucca during the last summer were judicially limited to rides and quiet tea-parties, and it may be said, that before eleven o'clock every social réunion breaks up. About ten o'clock, in fact, the shawling processes commence; and servants are seen escorting home their _padroni_, holding lanterns carefully near the ground, to guard against the contingency of their stepping on the toads, which disport themselves in all the lanes at night, and are of the size of respectable tortoises.

Then gradually the lights in every window disappear, fewer and fewer voices are borne upon the breeze, and ere the midnight bell has tolled, all is darkness and repose.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF A SAILOR'S LIFE AT SEA.

One of the visions of youth is, that the life of a sailor is all fun, frolic, and happiness. Can there be anything more delightful, they think, than sailing about on the wide ocean, visiting far-distant regions of the earth, and seeing the strange manners of different countries? Little are they aware of the constant toil to which the poor mariner is exposed--the perils he encounters, the thankless life he is generally doomed to lead. He is, in fact, compelled to endure pretty much the lot of a slave; for, as is well known, government on shipboard is a species of despotism, often a cruel tyranny. Remonstrance in nearly every circumstance is in vain--it is mutiny. No matter how roughly orders are issued; they must be implicitly obeyed. 'D'ye murmur? Hold your tongue, you rascal, or I'll put you in irons!' Such is not a particularly uncommon form of address to the sailor, who so far forgets his position as to even hint a difference of opinion. Possibly, it is quite right, for the sake of discipline, and the safety of all concerned, that severity should be employed. We merely note the circumstance.

In the very best conducted ships, however, there must necessarily be toils and trials of temper. The most tormenting thing in a sailor's profession, is the want of that regular alternation of work through the day, and repose through the night, which is enjoyed by ordinary mortals. This is a matter on which so little is known, that we are induced to expatiate upon it. Dear landsmen! would you like to know how idly and jovially a foremast Jack gets through his twenty-four hours at sea? Listen; and when we have 'said our say,' envy poor Jack his romantic calling, and begrudge him his L.2, 10s. or L.3 per month, as much as you can find in your hearts.

We are in the chief mate's watch (the larboard), and come on deck for the middle watch--that is, at 12 P.M.--having had our spell below of four hours during the first night-watch (8 P.M. to 12 P.M.) It is a cold, dark, squally night, with frequent heavy showers of rain--in fact, what seamen emphatically call 'dirty' weather, and our pea-jackets and sou'-westers are necessary enough. Hardly have we got on deck, ere the mate, who is a bit of a 'driver,' begins to order this brace to be pulled, that yard to be squared, this sheet to be belayed, that sail to be clewed up, and t'other set. The wind howls, the rain beats, the ship staggers, the salt spray flies over us from time to time. During the space of three bells, we have our hands pretty full, and then the mate bawls: 'For'ard there! In with jib; lay out, men!' The vessel is buried to her bight-heads every plunge she takes, and sometimes the solid sea pours over her bowsprit as far as the but-end of the flying jib-boom. But to hear is of course to obey; and while some of our messmates spring to the downhaul of the jib, and rattle it down the stay, we and another man get out along the bowsprit, and with our feet resting on the slippery, knotted footrope to windward, we clutch hold of the jib, which is hanging down and lashing over to leeward. Pitch, pitch--splash, dash, go the bows; at one moment we are tossed high in the air, and the next we sink so low that the water reaches up to our knees as the ship settles down again, only to rise for a plunge heavier than before. We have just got the jib half-stowed, 'after a fashion,' when our messmate sings out: 'Hold hard, Jack!' and we cling for dear life. The next instant, a wave rolls a fathom high over our head, and we emerge, spluttering and gasping from a genuine cold salt-water bath, such as the hydropathists have no idea of. Before our nice little job is completed, we get two or three more comfortable duckings, and finally crawl on board half-drowned, and thankful that we were not altogether washed away, as many better fellows have been, at that same blessed task of jib-furling on a stormy night.

We have just given ourselves a good shake, like a Newfoundland dog, when four bells (2 A.M.) strike, and the man at the wheel is of course relieved, his time being up. It happens to be our turn, or 'trick,' at the wheel, and we must at once take to it, all dripping and exhausted as we are. The ship steers wildly, and we have continually to ease her when she pitches; yet, do what we can, the grumbling mate has many a complimentary word for us, flatteringly intimating his opinion, that we 'know no more about steering than our grandmother; but _he'll_ work our old iron up to some tune, before he's done with us!' Ere our trick is out, our arms feel as stiff as iron bars, from the violent and unremitting strain on their muscles. The mate has steaming hot coffee brought him; but there's not a drop for poor Jack, if it would save his life. Oh, how we long to hear eight bells strike! At length they _do_ strike, and the watch below are bid to 'tumble up, Beauties, and have a look at the lovely scenery!' We are then relieved at the wheel, and go below with our watch, hoping to enjoy four hours of blessed oblivion.

We swing ourself into our hammock (or berth, as it may happen), and are fast asleep in a minute. But we have not been an hour in the Land of Nod, ere three heavy blows from a handspike are struck on the forecastle hatch, which is then slid back, and a hoarse voice bawls: 'All ha-ands a-ho-oy! tumble up to reef tops'ls!' Out we bundle, and grope for our clothes (the forecastle being as dark as a dog's mouth), get them on somehow, and hurry-scurry on deck. We find the weather and sea altered much for the worse, and the Old Man (captain) himself on the quarter-deck, giving orders to the mates, who are tearing about, bawling and swearing like demons; while the 'idlers'--that is to say, the carpenter, steward, cook, and boys, who keep no regular watch--have all been roused up, to bear a hand, and 'pull their pound.' Halliards are let go, reef-tackles hauled chock-a-block, and we lay aloft helter-skelter, best man up first, and bend over the yard, till the weather-earing is secured; and then comes the welcome cry: 'Haul to leeward!' It is done, and then we all 'knot-away' with the reef-points. The reef having been taken (or two, perchance), we shin down again to mast-head the topsails, and get all in sailing trim. A grog is now served out, and we go below, to sleep out the rest of our four hours, one of which we have been deprived of by this reefing job. Sometimes it happens, however, that we lose three, or all four, when there is absolute necessity for all hands on deck.

Here, we pause a moment, to say a word on the serving of grog--a composition of rum and water. The use of this stuff is of old date in the navy, and would seem to be considered essential to navigation. In what are called temperance ships, no grog is served, neither after reefing topsails, nor at any other time; but what is very shameful, in many instances no substitute is allowed. If sailors might have coffee instead of rum, they would thankfully accept the substitute, for coffee is incomparably a better stimulant. The invigoration from rum is only momentary, and afterwards is perhaps rather pernicious; but the wholesome effect of coffee is felt for an hour. So they very excusably observe, 'Better grog than nothing!'

To resume the tenor of our narrative: at eight bells (8 A.M.) we are summoned on duty again, and find that the squall has passed over, and that it is now a fine sunshiny morning, with all available sail set, and only a heavy swell of the sea to tell what the night has been. We now get our breakfast (half an hour allowed for that), and the other watch, which has been eight hours up to our four, gets a forenoon watch below (8 A.M. to 12 A.M.) Alterations of sails and rigging, and no end of small jobs, keep us hard at work till eight bells (noon) once more strike, and we then get our luxurious dinner of a pound and a half of salt junk, with biscuits. But junk is capital stuff for sheathing material, when it _is_ good: unfortunately, however, it too frequently is 'old horse;' and whatever its quality happens to be, all the nice juicy pieces are invariably picked out for the cabin table. Anything will do for poor Jack. His biscuits, too, are sometimes quite alive with weevils, especially on a long voyage in hot latitudes.