face very gingerly, knowing from experience that his customer is apt to be slightly irritable at this time of the day; and should the most homeopathic particle of soap get into master's nose or mouth, that a sudden contraction of master's right leg would send him flying to the other end of the room.

Tom then produces a razor from a collection of two or three dozen, which he keeps in a towel slung over his shoulder; and having stropped it on his Mechi -namely, the palm of his hand-seizes the protector of the poor by the nose, which indignity his highness is compelled to submit to as a necessary evil; and by half-a-dozen skilful scrapes leaves him shaven and shorn-carrying away with him his lordship's beard on his bare arm, where it is plastered in ridges together with those of other sahibs operated upon in the course of the morning.

himself on a sofa, and tries to read-a work of difficulty in the darkened room. As a matter of course, he falls asleep, and awakes unrefreshed and feverish; he wanders restlessly about the house, and, for a change, goes into the veranda, where he superintends his dhurzee, or native Buckmaster, darning his stockings, sewing buttons on his shirts, or artistically imitating a pair of London-made pantaloons.

room.

This is a small apartment generally enclosed from the veranda, with a plastered floor, and furnished with a tub of gigantic dimensions. Ranged round the room stand a dozen chatties, made of porous red earth, holding about two gallons, in which the water has stood all night, and which the process of evaporation has rendered comparatively cool, as the punka-wallah, when he got the ducking, could testify.

In the last stage of debility and bad temper, Griffin with difficulty raises a chattie in both hands above his head: he inverts it. Ha! ha! cured in an instant!' The water dashes over his splitting head and feverish body he is a new creature. Another and another follows, till the whole dozen are emptied; he gasps with delight, and then tumbles into his tub, dashing and splashing the water about in pure enjoyment, and puffing and blowing like a grampus, till in about ten minutes he emerges, all pink and smoking, a happy man, and a triumphant demonstration of the excellence of the cold-water system. At peace with all the world, he subsides into a chair under the punka, and surrenders himself, an amiable doll, into the hands of his bearer, who, with the aid of rough towels, rubs him into a pleasant glow, dries his feet, pulls on his socks-in fact, completes his not very elaborate toilet, with the exception of a few finishing-touches, which he adds himself. In most ethereal attire, and with a feeling almost amounting to energy, he manfully walks to his sitting-room, and sets to work to study Hindostanee with his moonshee, or native professor, a very stout and dignified, but not particularly clean old gentleman, who indulges in various habits offensive to Europeans; the suppression of which, however, in oriental society, is not considered essential to the character of a wellbred man. After an hour's 'grind,' he dismisses his fat friend, who departs, and bestows his agreeable society on some other aspiring sub, ambitious of the honour of writing P. H. (Passed in Hindostanee) after his name, without which magical letters no staff-appointment can be obtained. Our ensign then sits down under the punka to a plentiful breakfast, consisting of curry, omelet, fish, rice, eggs, jam, and bottled-beer. What with the bath and Hindostanee, he is positively hungry; and when, after he has done full justice to his kurreem bux's cookery, he lolls back in his arm-chair, watching the smoke of his cheroot curling up over his head, he feels comparatively cool and comfortable, although the atmosphere is that of an iron-foundry.

By degrees, however, the refreshing effects of the bath, breakfast, and 'baccy,' begin to give way to the increasing heat of the day; languor gradually steals over his frame; drawing is too laborious, writing makes his head ache, and, as a last resource, he throws

The only things at all lively are the ants, as big as beetles, that swarm in such myriads on the cracked and blistered ground, that it is impossible to walk a yard without crushing dozens; lizards, that glide with ceaseless activity over walls so hot you cannot keep your hand upon them; and troops of pretty little tabby squirrels, that play about in the shade of the mango-trees. Everything else appears to have succumbed to the intense heat, and to be indulging in a general siesta. Even the crows, usually so lively and impudent, sit gasping in long rows on the walls, incapable of motion, with their beaks wide open, and a helpless, idiotic expression on their generally wideawake countenances.

Nearly scorched, Griffin goes in-doors, and, the twelve o'clock gun having fired, proceeds, nautically speaking, to splice the main-brace'a figurative mode of describing a simple operation, which consists in skilfully combining one-third of brandy with two of water, and drinking it.

Tired of his own society, which he finds excessively stupid, Griffin orders his buggy, and determines to brave both sun and heat in search of a little excitement. Dressed in a highly starched white jacket, and continuations of the same colour and equal consistency, which give him a square, mathematical appearance, he drives to the bungalow of a married acquaintance. He is received at the entrance by a servant, who informs him with a salam that the doors are shut,' which means that the 'mem sahib,' or lady of the house, is either too hot or too lazy to receive visitors, being in all probability fast asleep on a couch, in extremely cool and comfortable, but totally unpresentable dishabille.

Our hero is more successful at the next house, where, having sent in his name-which, on its way to the interior, is transformed by the bearer into 'Gilpin sahib,' or something equally remote from the originalhe is ushered into a lofty drawing-room, handsomely furnished, with innumerable little tables scattered about, to the bewilderment of the visitor, who finds he is hopelessly entangled in a labyrinth of these small articles of furniture, from which it is impossible to extricate himself without damaging the numerous nick-knacks with which they are crowded. rescued from his nervous position by the fair proprietress, who soon floats in on a cloud of muslin, looking very pretty in the subdued light, which does not reveal the ravages made by the climate in her complexion. The visit passes off as morning visits usually do, and Griffin, having exhausted his stock of small-talk, bows himself out, upsetting a table in his way, and drives to mess. He finds the billiard-room

He is

Griffin makes a hearty meal off a quail, roasted in vineleaves, and prawn curry, while Sponge only feels himself equal to an ortolan and a plantain fritter. Though the consumption of solids appears a toil to every one, except some ravenous young cornets and ensigns with ridiculous English appetites, beer, sherry, champagne, Moselle, and claret disappear in incredible quantities, to say nothing of shandygaff, badminton, and other insinuating preparations, that circulate with a rapidity marvellous to behold.

Dessert follows, consisting of dried fruit from England, and the productions of the country, such as mangoes, plantains, pomegranates, and water-melons. As soon as the wine is placed on the table, the president rises and proposes 'The Queen;' the vice echoes the toast. Her Majesty's health is drunk in a bumper, and the band strikes up the anthem. After the decanters have gone round five or six times, coffee is brought, and, simultaneously with it, a lighted cheroot appears in every man's mouth, unless there happen to be present one or two antediluvian old patriarchs, who prefer the almost exploded hookah. Wonderful unanimity prevails, however, with regard to brandy pawnee, a goblet of which universal liquid is placed before each smoker, irrespective of age or tobacco. As soon as the band has got through its programme, Griffin and Sponge adjourn to the billiard-room, where, already slightly excited-music always has such an extraordinary effect upon him, Sponge says-they further mystify themselves by a series of 'pegs' of brandy and soda-water, till the bombardier becomes quite incoherent, and chalks the top of his finger in mistake for his cue, and Griffin sees more balls on the table than are permitted by the rules of the game.

In this jovial state they are no longer fit society for the reader, and we will therefore cut their acquaintance, not caring to follow them into the mess-house, where 'vingt un' is going on, songs sung, grilled bones and iced beer discussed, and scenes enacted that are best untold, our friend Go-ahead keeping it up till past the hour when we were first introduced to him, and being put to bed by his bearer in a condition of utter helplessness the united effect of heat and dissipation-where he will snooze away half the day in a miserable state, having taken the precaution, the evening before, in expectation of a 'wet night,' to ask for leave from parade on the plea of being indisposedwhich he certainly was.

It is perhaps unnecessary, before making my bow, to assure parents and guardians that Griffin is not to be considered in the light of a model subalternfar from it; and to enable the ship-loads of embryo members of council and generals of division, annually exported by Mr Green and the P. and O. Company, to avoid his errors and their consequences, let each young hero, on landing in the splendid country in which he has been fortunate enough to obtain an appointment, be guided by the following rules:-Eat sparingly; eschew heavy tiffins and hot suppers; drink in moderation; prefer beer to brandy; go to bed early; take regular exercise; avoid borrowing from a bank as you would the cholera; keep up your drawing, music, or any other little accomplishment you may have a taste for; study the language; get a staff-appointment; marry the first nice girl you can persuade to share your fortunes with you; and, in all human probability, by the time you have earned your pension, you will arrive at home still a young man, with a handsome competence, a healthy liver, a blooming wife and happy children, and will spend the evening of your days in the bosom of your family, in ease and comfort, with the consciousness of having deserved it. Having given which piece of advice gratis as a sort of moral, or 'tag,' the prompter's whistle sounds once more-half of Griffin's bungalow is drawn somewhere up into the roof, the other half is lowered through the stage into those mysterious lower

regions whence issue, through unexpected trap-doors, imps, fairies, ghosts, and Corsican Brothers--the wings, covered with bamboo, palm, and cocoa-nut trees, disappear we are again in dear Old England, which we never properly appreciate till we have been absent from it; and the Qui Hy makes his exit with a profound salam, trusting that the reader does not regret the twenty-four hours or thereabouts he has spent in the great John Company's Oven.

GLANCES AT DR DAUBENY'S

CHELTENHAM ADDRESS.

In this authoritative exposition of the recent progress of science, there are some particulars well worthy of general observation. The learned president of the British Association remarked that 'the discovery of cyanogen in the first instance, and the recognition of several other compound radicals in organic chemistry more lately, naturally suggest the idea, that many of the so-called elements of inorganic matter may likewise be compounds, differing from the organic radicals above mentioned merely in their constituents being bound together by a closer affinity.' This Dr Daubeny recognises as a prognostic that the reveries of the alchemists may yet be realised; adding the remark, how frequently the discoveries of modern days have served to redeem the fancies of medieval times from the charge of absurdity.'

In organic chemistry, there are certain compounds which it has hitherto been the favourite doctrine to suppose only producible by the vital force. Within the last few years, several of these have been formed in the laboratory by art; and very recently, as we learn from Dr Daubeny, some others have been produced-' several species of alcohol from coal-gas by Berthelot, oil of mustard by the same chemist, and taurine, a principle elaborated in the liver, by Strecker.' This is not merely interesting, as illustrative of one of the profoundest mysteries of nature, but it is valuable, as giving a hope that certain highly useful, but rare articles of nature's laboratory may yet be formed in man's. If quinine, for instance, to which Peruvian bark owes its efficacy, be, as it would appear from recent researches, a modified condition of ammonia, why may not a Hofmann be able to produce it for us from its elements, as he has already done so many other alkaloids of similar constitution?' The learned doctor even glances at a possible artificial substitute for coal. Why not add, bread? Meanwhile, 'chemistry has given token of her powers, by threatening to alter the course of commerce and to reverse the tide of human industry. She has discovered, it is said, a substitute for the cochineal insect in a beautiful dye producible from guano. She has shewn that our supply of animal food might be obtained at a cheaper rate from the Antipodes, by simply boiling down the juices of the flesh of cattle now wasted and thrown aside in those countries, and importing the extract in a state of concentration. She has pointed out that one of the earths which constitute the principal material of our globe contains a metal, as light as glass, as malleable and ductile as copper, and as little liable to rust as silver; thus possessing properties so valuable, that when means have been found of separating it economically from its ore, it will be capable of superseding the metals in common use, and thus of rendering metallurgy an employment, not of certain districts only, but of every part of the earth to which science and civilisation have penetrated.' [A specimen of this metal, produced from clay, was shewn at one of the evening meetings of the Association.]

Dr Daubeny adverted to difficulties which had been seen to arise in regard to the principle of 'the derivation of each species [of plants] from an individual, or

pair of individuals, created in one particular locality.' These anomalies, he says, were of two kinds, and pointed in two opposite directions; for we had in some cases to explain the occurrence of a peculiar flora in islands cut off from the rest of the world, except through the medium of a wide intervening ocean; and in other cases to reconcile the fact of the same or of allied species being diffused over vast areas, the several portions of which are at the present time separated from each other in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of the migration of plants from one to the other. Indeed, after making due allowances for those curious contrivances by which nature has in many instances provided for the transmission of species over different parts of the same continent, we are compelled to admit the apparent inefficiency of existing causes to account for the distribution of the larger number of species; and must confess that the explanation fails us often where it is most needed, for the Compositæ, in spite of those feathery appendages they possess, which are so favourable to the wide dissemination of their seeds, might be inferred, by their general absence from the fossil flora, to have diffused themselves in a less degree than many other families have done. And, on the other hand, it is found, that under existing circumstances, those Composite which are disseminated throughout the area of the Great Pacific, belong in many cases to species destitute of these auxiliaries to transmission.' He adverts to the aid which geology has given in solving these difficulties. 'By pointing out the probability of the submergence of continents on the one hand, and the elevation of tracts of land on the other, it enables us to explain the occurrence of the same plants in some islands or continents now wholly unconnected, and the existence of a distinct flora in others too isolated to obtain it under present circumstances from without. In the one case we may suppose the plants to have been distributed over the whole area before its several parts became disunited by the catastrophes which supervened; in the other, we may regard the peculiar flora now existing as merely the wreck, as it were, of one which once overspread a large tract of land, of which all but the little patch upon which it is now found had since been submerged.' We fear that Dr Daubeny has been here misled by a mere unsupported hypothesis, for assuredly we have nothing in favour of the idea but a certain mobility seen in the frame of the land, and not even an attempt has been made to shew traces of the great geological operations assumed. The notion is, in fact, irreconcilable with many features of the actual lands in question. It is particularly absurd in its application to the Pacific Islands, many of which are isolated coral formations, and where, as Dr Daubeny himself reports the recent observations of botanists, the families of plants which characterise some groups are of a more complicated organisation than those of another. Thus, whilst Otaheite chiefly contains Orchids, Apocyneæ, Asclepiadeæ, and Urticaceae; the Sandwich Islands possess Lobeliacea and Goodenoviæ; and the Galapagos Islands, New Zealand, and Juan Fernandez, Compositæ, the highest form perhaps of dicotyledonous plants.'

The truth is, an indefinite mobility of the land is merely one of those ideas which every now and then arise as a means of explaining certain things, and which, by reason of their explaining them in a certain favourite direction, are admitted upon little or no evidence, and usually reign till their fallacy becomes too gross for even the weakest and most prejudiced understandings. Another of these ideas, not long ago in full authority, was an indefinite vitality of seeds. For any appearance of new plants, this explanation was ever ready-seeds can exist in the earth for any length of time, and, after all, germinate when the proper conditions arise. We never heard of any one looking for the seeds in the ground, where many of them must

have been readily detected if they existed. Dr Daubeny now tells us that experiment speaks to the contrary purport. An inquiry conducted by the British Association itself has shewn that none of the seeds which were tested, although they had been placed under the most favourable artificial conditions that could be devised, vegetated after a period of forty-nine years; that only twenty out of 288 species did so after twenty years; whilst by far the larger number had lost their germinating power in the course of ten.'

The recent researches of Drs Hooker and Thomson in the botany of India have been in harmony with a movement which was conspicuous in the section of naturalists at Cheltenham, for the restriction of the number of species. It is now generally acknowledged that a mistake has been made in attaching the term species to so many forms of plants and animals, as a vast number of them are mere varieties resulting from slight differences of condition. Dr Daubeny views this with a confessed alarm, lest it favour a doctrine of startling consequences, that of transmutation of species. And he endeavours to repel that doctrine, but not, as it strikes us, with such powerful objections as may yet be presented. All I shall venture to remark on the subject,' he says, 'is, that had not nature herself assigned certain boundaries to the changes which plants are capable of undergoing, there would seem no reason why any species at all should be restricted within a definite area, since the unlimited adaptation to external conditions which it would then possess might enable it to diffuse itself throughout the world, as easily as it has done over that portion of space within which it is actually circumscribed. Dr Hooker instances certain species of Coprosma, of Celmisia, and a kind of Australian fern, the Lomaria procera, which have undergone such striking changes in their passage from one portion of the Great Pacific to another, that they are scarcely recognisable as the same, and have actually been regarded by preceding botanists as distinct species. But he does not state that any of these plants have ever been seen beyond the above-mentioned precincts; and yet if nature had not imposed some limits to their susceptibility of change, one does not see why they might not have spread over a much larger portion of the earth, in a form more or less modified by external circumstances. The younger Decandolle has enumerated about 117 species of plants which have been thus diffused over at least a third of the surface of the globe, but these apparently owed their power of transmigration to their insusceptibility of change, for it does not appear that they have been much modified by the effect of climate or locality, notwithstanding the extreme difference in the external conditions to which they were subjected. On the other hand, it seems to be a general law, that plants, whose organisation is more easily affected by external agencies, become, from that very cause, more circumscribed in their range of distribution; simply because a greater difference in the circumstances under which they would be placed, brought with it an amount of change in their structure, which exceeded the limits prescribed to it by nature.' Dr Daubeny thinks all this converges in favour of a law of permanence as presiding over the universe.

Towards the conclusion of his address, the learned president alluded to the variations of temperature proved by geology to have taken place at different periods, and puts this phenomenon into connection with the internal fires of volcanoes and with earthquakes. He points to a Report on Earthquake Phenomena published by Mr Mallet, as following up views of his own on volcanoes long ago published. 'If earthquakes,' he says, 'bring under our notice chiefly the dynamical effects of this hidden cause of movement and of change, those of volcanoes serve to reveal to us more especially their chemical ones; and it is only by

combining the information obtained from these two sources, together with those from hot springs, especially as regards the gaseous products of each, that we can ever hope to penetrate the veil which shrouds the operations of this mysterious agent; so as to pronounce, with any confidence, whether the effects we witness are due simply to that incandescent state in which our planet was first launched into space, or to the exertion of those elective attractions which operate between its component elements-attractions which might be supposed to have given rise, in the first instance, to a more energetic action, and consequently to a greater evolution of heat, than is taking place at present, when their mutual affinities are in a greater measure assuaged.' The professor still leans, as before, to what may be called the chemical theory of volcanoes, reminding those who prefer the contrary hypothesis on the ground that the oblate figure of the earth is in itself a sufficient proof of its primeval fluidity, that this condition of things could only have been brought about in such materials by heat of an intensity sufficient, whilst it lasted, to annul all those combinations amongst the elements which chemical affinity would have a tendency to induce, and thus to render those actions to which I have ascribed the phenomena, not only conceivable, but even necessary consequences, of the cooling down of our planet from its original melted condition.'

BROWN'S AMANUENSIS. BROWN was a magazine-writer, of what is sometimes called the fast school. His were the veriest bubbles of the current literature of the day, the merest froth of the trifles which are skimmed rather than read by the busy world of pleasure. He touched-I borrow the beautiful language of a fashionable reviewer-he touched the passing follies of the day with a light and facile pen, and people smirked over his articles in a manner pleasant to witness. My opinion is, that his abilities were-in short, were not first-rate, but he used them very ably. He never wrote in men's language for a lady's magazine, and never threw away the delicate wit which suited its pages upon the middleaged gentlemen who prefer scandal and satire.

To the world of periodicals, Brown was known as a rising comic writer, while to himself, he was a man of crushed ambition and rejected manuscripts. In a drawer of his writing-table, under a Chubbs' lock, were a treatise on ethics, several pamphlets on political and financial questions, a biography of the poet Mason -unduly neglected now, but who flourished a good deal in the last century-and, lastly, a history of Nova Zembla, with an account of the climate and productions of that isolated region. These several manuscripts were brought into existence when Mr Brown first came to London. While he had money, he wrote what he pleased; when he had not, he had the good sense (and good-fortune) to write what pleased the public. The result was, that he was in a fair way of doing well in his line of business.

But Brown was, unhappily, rather of a restless temper. 'I'll be a butterfly,' he said to himself, after he had hawked his ethics from west to east and back again; and for some months he laboured with fair success in the field of the lightest literature, and got his bread and butter by it, and amused himself in his leisure hours like any other young gentleman. It must be observed, however, that he never lost that lofty opinion of his own talents which had formerly stimulated his efforts, and he was on the look-out for a subject on which he might build a great work of fiction. 'Fiction,' he said to himself, 'is the thing. If I could only get hold of a plot, a real plot, I would

write a romance which should commence a new era in the literature of this country.'

So Brown was accustomed to meditate; but it was not until very recently that anything came of it. It was after reading of important events taking place in Spain, that he determined to lay his scene there. Spain was the land of romance; his characters should be the men now swaying its destinies, his time the present day. 'I will read up the history,' he said; 'and with Gil Blas, Mr Borrow, and the Tales of the Alhambra, I think something may be done.' Familiarity with modern Spanish customs was, however, indispensable, and Brown's knowledge of that subject was limited. Fortunately, information, like any other article, can be obtained readily in London by those who can pay for it, and after ten minutes' reflection, which was as much as he now devoted to any question, Brown sent the following advertisement for insertion in the Times:

Amanuensis Wanted. The Applicant will be required to have recently travelled or resided in Spain. Remuneration according to qualifications. Apply to B. B., 99 Hampstead Road.

Brown had certain literary engagements which it was necessary to fulfil in a given time, and he set himself busily to work to get rid of these as soon as possible. To this end he shunned amusements, public and private, retired into the solitude of his apartments, and requested the prim maid-servant who attended at his call to receive all visitors with the assertion that he was out of town. In consequence of these arrangements, he was enabled to produce in the course of the day a great deal of what printers call 'copy'-a name which, in the present state of literature, is frequently

correct in more senses than one.

Brown was seated at work as usual, and had just On the morning when the advertisement appeared, completed a philosophical paper 'On the Diminished Diameter of Ladies' Hats, when the maid-servant, fresh from the country, opened the door. 'If you please, sir'

'Well,' said Brown mildly.

'There's a lady down stairs, and she wants you, sir.' Now Brown was not accustomed to receive visits

from ladies, and the announcement caused him some little surprise; but he was not curious, and desired quiet. So he replied: 'She wants me, does she? I am very sorry, but she can't have me. Tell her so, Sarah, if you please.' 'Oh, sir, you 're such a funny gentleman,' Sarah said, and lingered.

That's how I pay my rent, Sarah,' replied Brown. 'Remember, in future, that I am out of town to everybody.'

'Please sir, it's B. B. she wants,' the girl persisted, who had received special directions as to answers to the advertisement.

"Eh! a lady? Shew her up.' And Brown hastily threw off his dressing-gown, and assumed a garment somewhat less variegated. Odd,' thought he 'decidedly;' and he seated himself in his chair to await the result. A light step was heard on the staircase, and the lady, who had sent no card, entered the room. Brown turned, and rose to offer her a chair, but paused suddenly without doing so. The visitor was equally embarrassed, and the silence endured until you have read the next paragraph. Brown paused; because instead of the middle-aged lady, with a British Museum complexion, whom he had expected to see, there stood before him a young girl, whose age could not have been more than twenty, and whose beauty was enhanced by the deep blush which rose to her downcast eyes.

Brown first recovered himself, I am happy to say; and having got hold of a chair, he jerked it rather nervously on to the ground, and said something about doing him the honour to be seated.