He believes that a man is capable of sustaining
the pressure resulting from a depth of a
hundred and fifty feet; but, to attain that
result, he would require to use steam-engines
as his air-compressors. Manual labour is
incapable of the effort; and he has not at
present sufficient pecuniary means at
command to make the necessary outlay.

Whether the invention is to halt where
it is, or progressively to grow into the marvel
of a submarine locomotive steamer, the name
of the man who has already dared and
performed so much ought to be enrolled on the
list of the world's notables. And therefore, I
venture to propose that the words, Diving
Boat, or Bateau Plongeur, be now for the
last time used in England; and that henceforth,
when we wish to mention this admirable
result of mechanical skill, we call it simply—
A PAYERNE.

SUNDAY MORNING.

IT is a question not, I think, beneath the
dignity of the philosopher and psychologist to
discuss whether, supposing our dear old friend
Robinson Crusoe to have lost count of a few
days during his stay on the Island of Juan
Fernandez, he would have been enabled to
correct the notches on that dear old post—
Heaven's blessing upon it, how it stands up
in the plain of my childhood, sun-lighted for
ever!—by intuitively knowing Sunday as soon
as it came round. My theory is that he
would: rny opinion is, that there is
something in and about the aspect of the Sabbath
so contra-distinguished from other days, so
perfectly sui generis, that, the wide world
over, the cognizance and recognition of
Sunday are innate and intuitive. It is not like
other days; the air, the stillness, the noise,
are not like those of other days. There is
rain on a wet Sunday, and rain on a wet
Monday; but they are not the same rains by
any means. The Sunday sunshine and the
Saturday sunshine both light us and warm
us and cheer us; but the sunny Saturday is
far different from the sunny Sunday.

I do not hold with Sir Andrew Agnew. I
do not row in the same boat as the crusaders
against Sunday oranges and Sunday orange-
women. I cannot pin my faith to the statute
of King Charles the Second (a pretty fellow
to force sours on Sunday as on vegetables
that are none the better for pickling). I cannot
see perdition in a Sabbath-sewed-on shirt-
button; the bottomless pit in a Sunday-baked
pie; Tophet in the boiler of a Sunday steam-
boat. I do not feel inclined to blacken the
reputation of my friend the Pot because he
enjoys himself on a Sunday, seeing that he,
in his turn, might say something severe of my
mamma the Kettle. If we " maunna wheestle
on a Soonday," my friends beyond the
Grampians, we " maunna " drink quite so much
whiskey between services. I cannot, in
conclusion, see any reason why, because it is
Sunday, a man should half throttle himself
with a white neckloth; turn his eyes all ways
save the natural one; and put on a look of
excruciating wretchedness and anguish when he
is naturally inclined to be cheerful. Excuse me
if I use strong language, but I feel strongly;
and, do not think me scoffing or irreverent,
if, acknowledging my respect for missionary
enterprise and perseverance and sincerity, I
confess my inability to believe in the
conversion of that New Zealand chieftain, who,
having been educated at a missionary station,
was in after years questioned by one of his
reverend friends as to his spiritual progress,
and, on being pressed, avowed that he had
not been quite able to give up cannibalism,
but that he " nebber eat him enemies on a
Sunday, now."

Sunday morning in town and country: let
me essay, with my blunt pencil, to sketch
some Sunday morning draughts.

What sort of a Sunday morning could that
have been of the 18th of June, 1815, when
the two great armies of the English and the
French lay opposite each other (after couching
uneasily in their muddy lairs all Saturday
night), like wild beasts, ready to rend each
other in pieces presently ? Gunner and Driver
number seven, as he pushes and labours, and
toils and moils at the wheels of yonder great
piece of ordnance, overhauling and sponging
out the creature's mouth to see that it is ready
for roaring and biting, does he think of the
bloody Sunday's work he is upon,—that it was
on a Sunday morning that the great Untiring
Hand yet chose to rest from the labours of
Creation? Gunner and Driver number seven,
as, wiping the sweat from off his anxious face,
he scans the trees and farms and cottages as
well as he can for a rainy mist,—does it ever
strike him that the grey church of Waterloo
yonder was meant to be something else than
a mere " position "—than a place to hold or
defend, or to assault and attack—than a thing
to batter and rear great guns against, and
throw red-hot shot into, or may be, after the
battle, to establish an hospital or litter down
troop horses in? Comes there ever a
thought across this rude fighting man that
there are villages and village churches in his
own land of England?—notably a little, grey,
ivy-coloured fane "down in his part of the
country;" a church with a leaden spire and
a thatched roof, and little lozenge casements
glistening like diamonds; a church with a
rebellious sea of churchyard, all stormy waves
of turf, crested with breakers of white tomb-
stone, surging up viciously against the church,
and threatening to break through its Gothic
windows, and quite submerge that smug
Corinthian porch the last vicar (who had a
pretty taste for building, confound him!)
raised, rolling its verdant billows to rocks
ahead of family vaults, and the low
encompassing stone wall. Here he played, years ago,
before ever he thought of 'listing, or of being
a Gunner and Driver, or of fighting anybody