gold in his domains-will be well-nigh scared out of his wits by the uncouth apparition. Neptune himself would probably run away were he to catch a glimpse of a diver dressed after Klingert's fashion, with a tin-plate pot on his head, a brass-hooped cylinder round his loins, and drawers with an iron framing to protect his legs. But even adopting the best of these devices, it is found difficult to venture upon any extensive explorations. That pleasant old pratt.er in science, Bishop Wilkins, who hoped to effect such wonderful discoveries in the bed of the sea by means of his "arks," where families were to live, and where children were to be born, would have been woefully disappointed had he learned how little man can still accomplish by his submarine gropings. But as we have not provided ourselves with armour, and have satisfied our curiosity already, and have no great expectation of finding a fortune where Duke Clarence dreamt he saw such glorious wedges of gold and heaps of pearls, you become anxious that the signal for return should be given. I pull the rope accordingly. But the machine does not move! I begin to feel very uneasy. Horrible thoughts rash through my brain. Can the men above have run away, and left us t perish? People have done strange things before, why may they not do strange things again? There are scoundrels who would think it an excellent joke-really a superb piece of waggery-to let us lie here until we were drowned by the rising water, or choked with our own carbonic acid. Perhaps the rascals have gone to dinner, and not knowing anything about the chemistry of the lungs, imagine that we can make ourselves quite comfortable until they are pleased to return. Or, possibly-and the very thought seems to stiffen my hair into porcupine's quills-the tackling by which we were suspended may have snapped, and, if so, our case is perfectly desperate! Oh, why I ask myself in agony) did I enter a machine not constructed upon Mr. Spalding's plan, for did not that ingenious grocer insist upon having a separate chamber in his apparatus, in order that it might be filled with water when he wanted to sink, but occupied with air when he wish 1 to rise? My dear friend, if we had only come down upon his princips we might have ascended to the surface at pleasure, and got amongst those miscreants whilst they were in the very act of chuckling over our fate! 0. But no! a jerk is felt. The bell begins to move. I recant may uncharitable surmises. Human nature, after all, is not so diabolical as many people choose to assert. There we go-sure enough-slowly cleaving the waters on our return to the warm precincts of day. spirits mount as we approach the surface, and particularly when we reflect that we have nearly accomplished a feat which few timorous mortals would dare to attempt. You may notice, too, that your atqtite seems to rise as well. The fact is, that the compressed air of a diving bell sharpens it amazingly. Persons employed in constructie piers, breakwaters, or in other subaqueous operations, which col them to work in a dense atmosphere, become uncommonly voracious Inspiring, as they do, a larger quantity of oxygen than usual with er To act of inhalation, a quicker waste of the bodily material ensues. make this good, fuller or more frequent rations are required. Let no man therefore invite a person to dinner who has just been down in a diving-machine, unless he is prepared to see his guest make havoc with his provisions. At last, with a great "plop," such as an inverted pail or tumbler makes when it leaves the water, we emerge from the bosom of the briny deep (to use the language of poets), and are immediately brought to bank (to employ the homelier phraseology of pitmen). But after all, you ask, What is there to be seen at the bottom of the ocean? Ah, good reader, if you could walk across the bed of the Atlantic or Pacific, from continent to continent, it would be the strongest stroll that mortal ever took! You would find, if your faculties of vision were sufficiently sharpened for the purpose, that there were hill and valley-towering mountains whose tops were islands, and huge plains rivalling the great deserts of the land in their desolate sweep, with here and there volcanic cones,* sheets of hardened lava, springs of boiling water, and terrible chasms left by the earthquakes which have gashed the ground. In the deeper parts of the sea not a blade of true vegetation could be detected. Not a single fish probably swims in the profundities of the ocean, and if Schiller's diver had reached these solemn regions, he would have met with none of the monsters he encountered in howling Charybdis. There no ray of light from the smiling sun ever pierces. A stillness like that of an unpeopled planet prevails, for the fiercest tempest which ploughs up the surface in huge billows, cannot trouble the tranquillity of those awful abysses, and there the great disturber, man, never comes except dying-dead. dying dead. All, in fact, is gloom and desolation. For though the plummet has faintly probed those depths, what news has it brought up to the dwellers on the land? Simply this, that the bed of the ocean is a vast cemetery, strewn with the shells of microscopic creatures, which once lived near the surface, and when their little life was ended, sank slowly, weeks or months being consumed in their funeral march to the bottom, where they will repose till some day this spacious burial-ground will be uplifted, and then they will appear as compact and massive rocks. But "the depths have more." For there lie the remnants of the gallant ship which foundered in storm, or sunk in battle-the cannon and cutlass, which are now corroding in peacethe costly merchandise which, saved, would have secured its owners fortune; lost, destroyed his hopes, and broke his heart-the gold for which the possessor bartered his honour here, and perhaps his happiness hereafter-and, mixed with all, the grinning skull and ghastly skeleton-the bones of the fierce pirate and his helpless prey-relics alike of the lawless rovers who swept the ocean for plunder, and of the honest mariner who died in the service of civilization, and went down to rest in hope till the sea shall be summoned to give up its dead, both good and bad, both small and great. A line of cinders has been traced by the sounding apparatus for a distance of 1,000 miles between Ireland and America (Maury). gold in his domains-will be well-nigh scared out of his wits by tə uncouth apparition. Neptune himself would probably run away w he to catch a glimpse of a diver dressed after Klingert's fashion, with a tin-plate pot on his head, a brass-hooped cylinder round his loins, L. drawers with an iron framing to protect his legs. But even adopting the best of these devices, it is found dith, n't te venture upon any extensive explorations. That pleasant old pr.: in science, Bishop Wilkins, who hoped to effect such wel discoveries in the bed of the sea by means of his "arks," whis families were to live, and where children were to be born, won!d La been woefully disappointed had he learned how little man er 'accomplish by his submarine gropings. 7 But as we have not provided ourselves with armour, and ...) satisfied our curiosity already, and have no great expectation of film. a fortune where Duke Clarence dreamt he saw such glorious w. 1. gold and heaps of pearls, you become anxious that the 21. return should be given. I pull the rope accordingly. But the 1. does not move! I begin to feel very uneasy. Horrible thoughts through my brain. Can the men above have run away, and iựt perish? People have done strange things before, why n. sy th do strange things again? There are scoundrels who would ? :: excellent joke-really a superb piece of waggery-to let us }until we were drowned by the rising water, or choked with our ost carbonic acid. Perhaps the rascals have gone to dinner, and t knowing anything about the chemistry of the lungs, imagina ti at wcan make ourselves quite comfortable until they are pleased to r Or, possibly-and the very thought seems to statten my har porcupine's quills-the tackling by which we were suspen led na ba snapped, and, if so, our case is perfectly desperate! Oh, why I myself in agony) did I enter a machine not constructed pn Spalding's plan, for did not that ingenious grocer insist upon hav separate chamber in his apparatus, in order that it might b× 1 water when he wanted to sink, but occupied with air when he w to rise? My dear friend, if we had only come down upon hier we might have ascended to the surface at pleasure, and got those miscreants whilst they were in the very net of chuck.rg our fate! But no! a jerk is felt. The bell begins to move. I r uncharitable surmises. Human nature, after all, is not so di' as many people choose to assert. There we go—sure chouchcleaving the waters on our return to the warm precincts of div spirits mount as we approach the surfice, and parti ular'y w reflect first we have nearly accomplished a feat wi, h fowit : mortals would dare to att ipt. You may notice, too, that your a tite seems to rise as well. The fact is, that the compress diving bell sharpens it amazingly. Persons empy Imce piers, breakwaters, or in other subaqueous op latin, wh them to work in a dense atmosphere, become uncommonly vor. Inspiring, as they do, a larger quintity of oxygen thin ushal with, w . Το act of inhalation, a quicker waste of the bodily material ensues. make this good, fuller or more frequent rations are required. Let no man therefore invite a person to dinner who has just been down in a diving-machine, unless he is prepared to see his guest make havoc with his provisions. At last, with a great "plop," such as an inverted pail or tumbler makes when it leaves the water, we emerge from the bosom of the briny deep (to use the language of poets), and are immediately brought to bank (to employ the homelier phraseology of pitmen). But after all, you ask, What is there to be seen at the bottom of the ocean? Ah, good reader, if you could walk across the bed of the Atlantic or Pacific, from continent to continent, it would be the strongest stroll that mortal ever took! You would find, if your faculties of vision were sufficiently sharpened for the purpose, that there were hill and valley-towering mountains whose tops were islands, and huge plains rivalling the great deserts of the land in their desolate sweep, with here and there volcanic cones,* sheets of hardened lava, springs of boiling water, and terrible chasms left by the earthquakes which have gashed the ground. In the deeper parts of the sea not a blade of true vegetation could be detected. Not a single fish probably swims in the profundities of the ocean, and if Schiller's diver had reached these solemn regions, he would have met with none of the monsters he encountered in howling Charybdis. There no ray of light from the smiling sun ever pierces. A stillness like that of an unpeopled planet prevails, for the fiercest tempest which ploughs up the surface in huge billows, cannot trouble the tranquillity of those awful abysses, and there the great disturber, man, never comes except dying-dead. All, in fact, is gloom and desolation. For though the plummet has faintly probed those depths, what news has it brought up to the dwellers on the land? Simply this, that the bed of the ocean is a vast cemetery, strewn with the shells of microscopic creatures, which once lived near the surface, and when their little life was ended, sank slowly, weeks or months being consumed in their funeral march to the bottom, where they will repose till some day this spacious burial-ground will be uplifted, and then they will appear as compact and massive rocks. But "the depths have more." For there lie the remnants of the gallant ship which foundered in storm, or sunk in battle-the cannon and cutlass, which are now corroding in peace— the costly merchandise which, saved, would have secured its owners fortune; lost, destroyed his hopes, and broke his heart-the gold for which the possessor bartered his honour here, and perhaps his happiness hereafter-and, mixed with all, the grinning skull and ghastly skeleton-the bones of the fierce pirate and his helpless prey-relics alike of the lawless rovers who swept the ocean for plunder, and of the honest mariner who died in the service of civilization, and went down to rest in hope till the sea shall be summoned to give up its dead, both good and bad, both small and great. A line of cinders has been traced by the sounding apparatus for a distance of 1,000 miles between Ireland and America (Maury). VI. CLAREMONT, AND THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MARY POWELL." Daughter of chiefs and monarchs! where art thou? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy, Which filled the imperial isles so full, it seemed to cloy. Ir is more than twenty years ago that we accompanied an invalid mother one fine autumn by leisurely stages to the Isle of Wight. Our first halt was at the neat country inn of the Bear at Esher, fifteen miles from town; and while one of us remained with my dear mother in the quaint little inn parlour, the others proceeded up a by-road to the left of the inn, bounded by mossy park palings, and overhung by fine trees, till we reached a lodge-gate, surmounted by the royal arms. At the mention of a talismanic name, "the gates wide open flew," though not on golden hinges turning, and we proceeded up a carriage-road, winding through undulating turf cropped by sheep, till we came to the house. It is a substantial, light-brick mansion, with stone dressings, and a Grecian portico surmounted by the royal arms. A flight of about twenty steps led us to the entrance-door, where we soon obtained audience of the housekeeper, who took us over the first-floor, which comprises a square entrance-hall, grand staircase, and eight spacious apartments en suite. After duly admiring a fine cast of the Warwick vase in iron, lined with copper, executed at Berlin, which occupies the centre of the hall, we entered the library, which contained full-length portraits, by Dawe, of the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold; also portraits of the Princess's preceptor, Dr. Fisher, Bishop of Salisbury, and her sub-preceptor, Dr. Short. "On this chair," said the housekeeper, with a little sigh, "the Princess laid her shawl the evening she returned from her last walkand her watch on that chimney-piece. She was tired, and sat down directly she came in." We listened with reverence; then followed her into the diningroom, where there was a fine cattle-piece, by Loutherberg, over the chimney-piece. Next we came to the gallery, fifty-eight feet by twenty-four, where were full-length portraits of the Prince and Princess, again by Dawe, who seems to have basked in the sunshine of Court patronage. There were also many other portraits, inclung |