y 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 Reunion, 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 reunion 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