naval heart), but not a trace of inebriety will
ever be detected amongst them. In their
scrupulously white jackets and trousers, and in their
smart straw hats, they look rather like the well-
got-up crew of a yacht than the sailors of a royal
navy.

Discipline, mainly dependent as it is on habits
of temperance and sobriety, is easily maintained
amongst them, and the severe rule so necessary
on board our ships is scarcely known with them.
How little does an Italian naval officer know of
that peculiar slavery which attaches to every
English lieutenant of watching after his men on
shore! and how seldom is it that the return from
leave is, as with us, the season of punishment.

For several years back the naval service has
been popular among the aristocracy of Northern
Italy. The great changes effected in the army
after the unfortunate campaign of '48, and which
led to the introduction of a very democratic
element into the service, tended to make the navy
more in request with persons of rank and
station. The necessity of a special education—
which entailed a distinct nomination to the naval
college — and the possession of a certain fortune,
was also a barrier against the indiscriminate
admission of such men as now flooded the
regiments of the land service.

It is gratifying to our national vanity to
perceive that England is the model to the
eyes of every Italian sailor. I have heard
that one of the most distinguished, Admiral
Albini, served originally in our navy, and I know
that the present Minister of Marine, Admiral
Persano, is the devoted admirer of England, and
all that is English. The most cordial good feeling
is certain to prevail between the officers of
our respective ships when they meet, and many
a social glass has been drained to the toast of
that day when our flags shall float together, and
free England and free Italy declare to the world
that the Mediterranean is not a French Lake.

THE OHIO OIL WELL.

THE mare swerved, dashing the high lightly
built gig against a stump by the side of the
narrow road; off flew the spidery wheel; down
came the fast-trotting chesnut; and out like a
brace of rockets were flung the driver and
myself. There was a moment of scuffling,
floundering, and general entanglement, while a
thousand sparks of fire danced before my eyes,
and then I was creeping away from the broken
wreck, when I heard Ben, the driver, cry
suddenly: "J'hoshaphat, mister, mind her heels, or
you're a gone coon!" And I have an indistinct
remembrance of receiving two or three
stunning blows from what seemed to be a
blacksmith's sledge-hammer, and of hearing a loud
shout of human voices as I fainted.

When I again opened my eyes I found myself
lying on a bank, a few yards from the spot where
the accident had occurred. The smashed gig
lay in the roadway, but the mare had long since
kicked herself free, and was gone. Ben, my
careless or unlucky charioteer, stood dolefully
whistling, with the whip in his hand. His face
was scratched, and his garments were muddy,
but he seemed uninjured, though dismayed.
Six or seven men in working clothes were
lounging about, and apparently conversing on
the subject of the recent upset, but only one
seemed to concern himself about my personal
condition. He was a tall muscular young
fellow, with a fine handsome face, and a rich
bronzed complexion. He was better dressed
as well as better looking, than the others, though
he wore homespun cloth, while the rest of the
party were in patched and discoloured suits of
black. Kneeling beside me on the bank, this
young farmer — for it was easy to guess his rank
in life—was supporting my head with a gentleness
that seemed wonderful for one of his thews
and sinews.

"Labour lost, Joe," observed one shabby
smoker from his seat: which, by the way, was
on the very stump that had occasioned the accident.
"The Britisher, or Dutchman, or whatever
he be, air as dead as Julep Cæsar."

Weak and ill as I was, there was something in
this conversion of the Dictator's name into a
Yankee idiom which tickled my risible nerves,
and I gave a feeble chuckle.

"He's alive, I tell you," answered Joe;
"though it does sicken a chap, a few, to git
such a pounding as that. I'd like to see you,
Zack Brown, after such a dose of cold iron.
You'd sing a trifle less positive, or I ain't Joe
Mallory."

There was a laugh, which Joe cut short by
asking which of the bystanders had some
"whisky medicine" about him? A bottle of
this potent cordial having been produced, the
farmer put it to my lips, and with arbitrary
kindness forced me to swallow as much of the
fiery liquor as I could imbibe without actual
suffocation.

"I know'd," said Joe, in a dogmatic way,
"what puts new life into a man in such a case
as this, though I ain't overfond of the
monongahela in gin'ral. Do ye feel to be stronger,
sir, now?"

This was addressed to me, and I contrived to
answer by some feeble acknowledgment of his
Samaritan kindness.

"No bones bruk?" inquired Joe, adding, as I
shook my head, "then mebbe you could make
a shift to walk, leanin' on me? Sparta ain't
above a big mile off."

I tried to rise, and with the help of the young
farmer I did contrive to reach my feet, but I
could not keep them. One ankle was smartly
sprained, the foot having been awkwardly
twisted under me as I fell; and I sank down
with a groan, as helpless as a rag effigy of a
man. It became incumbent to carry me; and
the bystanders, now they were quite satisfied
that I was alive, volunteered with a pretty good
grace to assist in my removal. A light iron
gate that gave admission into a field hard by,
arid which contrasted oddly with the rough
worm fence of unbarked wood, was taken off its