Into his nostril, starts him not from slumber.

All portions of the dreary changeless

Scene

In the last drama, with unwholesome stillness

Succeeding to the weepings and complaints

Of heaven's own justice, and loud cries for succour

That fill the dying ear not wholly dead, Distract the fluttering spirit, and invest A death-bed with a horror not its own. I thought of these things sadly, and I wondered

If in this thanatopsis, soul as clay Took part and sorrowed. While I this debated,

I knew my soul was loosing from my hold,

And that the pines around, assuming shape

Of mournful drapcries, shut out the day. Then I lost sighi and memory for a moment,

Then stood erect beside my usual couch, And saw my longwhile tenement, a pal. lid

And helpless symbol of my former self. The hands laid heavily across my breast, The eyelids down, the mouth with final courage

"My lord! my life!" to what had ceased from living,

And could no more command with words or eyes.

It moved my pity sorely, for these fingers,

Now locked in agonizing prayer, once turned

Gently the pages of his life who slumbered;

And this brave mouth, with words of faith and cheer,

Strewed flowers in the path he needs must tread.

That as a conqueror, aud not a captive, Dragged at the heavy chariot wheels of

Time,

And through an arch triumphal, where for others

A narrow portal opens in the sod,
Silent and sad, and void of outlet, he
The kingdom of his Lord might enterin.
Thus she made dying sweet and full of
beauty

As life itself. There was no harsh transition;

He that slept two-fold, woke a single nature,

Beatified and glad. But she who stayed, Poor little Roman heart, no longer brave Now that the eyes were shut for ever

more.

While she thus mused, her silent tears were stayed,

And kneeling down with her sweet patient face,

Lifted towards heaven, itself sufficient prayer.

"Lord God!" she cried, "thou knowest best how weak

And frail I am, and faithless; give me strength

To take the rod thou sendest for a staff, And falter never more in this lone journey!"

Then she went forth and gathered freshest flowers

And strewed them on the dead: young violets

Upon the breast, verbena round the temples,

Loose rose-leaves o'er the mouth, to hide the pang,

And in his hand a lily newly opened,
In token of her faith and his transition.
And in her eyes there reigned such quiet-
ude

That those who saw her, said an angel surely

Had spoken with her or, her reason's moved

By sufferings prolonged. But none

The following very sensible remarks we quote from the Petersburg Express, (one of the cleverest journals, let us say, par parenthèse, in the country,) upon the inconvenience and chagrin which the public must suffer from the policy carried into effect, both by France and Austria, of muzzling the Press upon all subjects connected with the active prosecution of the present war:

"His imperial majesty, the emperor of the French, has thought proper, in going to the wars, to decree that there shall be no newspaper correspondents following in the wake of his army, to report to the world how his majesty is winning for himself a military glory equal to that achieved by his uncle. The only accounts which he will permit the world to see, of what is going on in Piedmont, are such as shall be given in the imperial bulletins in the pleasant columns of the Moniteur Universel. We must accept the one-sided statements of the commander-in-chief, or we must turn to the narrative rendered by the correspondent of the London Times, who, writing under the protection of the Austrian general, beneath the wing of the double-headed eagle, cannot be supposed to write with the strictest im

partiality. No doubt, there were many American gentlemen, temporarily resid ing abroad, who would willingly have gone to the seat of war as the regular correspondents of journals in this country, and from them we might have hoped to receive a truthful and dispassionate recital of the progress of events. As Louis Napoleon, however, has decided the matter against them, we can only arrive at a tolerably accurate result in the movements of the campaign, by a careful comparison of the official announce. ments in the Moniteur, with the despatches forwarded to Vienna, and the full and animated letters to the great journal of Printing House Square. In old times, when the wars of the great Napoleon were going on, to lie like a bulletin,' became a proverbial expression throughout Europe, and was used to describe any mendacity which far excelled the ordinary efforts of pure invention-let us hope that bulletins will become more truthful in the hands of the Liberator of Italy.

The exclusion of journalists from the rear guard of the army, is certainly a great, though, perhaps, an unwilling compliment paid by the emperor to the press. It indicates his dread of free discussion, and his mortal dislike to the passing criticism of the great reading public. But we regard it as a blunder, not less than as a rigorous exercise of power There can be no doubt that the able, rapid, complete and brilliant summary of operations in the Crimea, made by the correspondents of the London Times, contributed largely to the final success of the allies before Sebastopolindeed, it may be seriously questioned whether, in the absence of the journalistic force, the great stronghold of Russia in the Euxine would ever have fallen. The miserable mismanagement and imbecility, manifested at headquarters during the earlier portion of the struggle, would never have been known at home, but for their fearless and masterly exposure by the writers in the Times, and this enabled the war offices in London and Paris to apply the proper corrective, and furnish the indispensable remedial agencies. Louis Napoleon, himself, might borrow some ideas in the conduct of the Italian campaign, from the impartial descriptions and reflections of a seasible letter-writer from the field of the conflict. But he must be allowed we suppose to know best about it. Certainly, the future historian of our age, find-. ing so much assistance in the Crimean correspondence of the daily newspapers in writing up the events of 1854-55, will not thank the French emperor for his order."

In all ages of the world, and in most densely populated countries, there have existed large bodies of men, who have won a precarious support by secret as sassination and robbery. But in India only, have murder and unlawful plundering been lifted to the position of absolute virtues, and a peculiar (and most horrible) mode of practicing both been handed down from father to son through centuries of hereditary succession. The Thugs, therefore, present many remarkable points of character and manners, concerning which our curiosity may be reasonably excited.

The public are now pretty well acquainted with the manner in which the Thugs secure their victims, but far less is known of the superstitious ceremonies which precede an expedition, or the admission of new members to their ranks. They profess to believe in a certain goddess of destruction, called Kalee; in her name they practice their execrable art; and their victims are held to be immolated in her honour. They declare that in former ages this divinity coöperated more directly with her votaries by disposing of the bodies of those destroyed. Kalee, however, chose to be secret in her operations, and the Thugs were prohibited from looking back to see what she was about. All was well, so long as they observed this rule; but the services of the goddess as a sextoness were lost through the indiscreet curiosity of a member of the association, who, on a certain occasion, looking back, saw Kalee in the act of devouring a corpse, one half of which was hanging out of her mouth. The displeasure of the goddess was tempered with mercy; for although she refused any longer to relieve the earth of the dreadful burdens with which her worshippers encumbered it, yet she was considerate enough to present her friends with one of her teeth for a pickaxe, a rib for a knife, and the hem of her garment for a noose. The first of these instruments, the pickare, is held by the Thugs everywhere in the highest estimation. Its fabrication is superintended with superlative care, and it is consecrated to its duty with the following ceremonies:

In the first place, a lucky day is fixed upon. The leader of the gang then instruets a smith to make the required tool, and to make it secretly. The instrument being finished, next comes the consecration A doctor deeply versed in Thug mysteries, undertakes the solemn office. He sits facing the west, and receives the pickaxe on a brass dish. It is washed four times: first in water, and afterwards in liquids more expensive and valuable. The brass dish again comes into play. The pickaxe is

placed upon it with a cocoa-nut, some cloves, white sandal wood, and sugar. A fire is next kindled, and all the articles designated, (with the exception of the cocoa-nut)are thrown into the flames, through which the priest slowly passes the axe seven times. The cocoa-nut is now placed on the ground, and stripped of its outer coat.

The comptroller of the pickaxe. holding it by the point, then says, "Shall Ï strike?" The bystanders signifying their assent, he strikes the cocoa-nut with the butt end of the pickaxe, and breaks it, exclaiming, "All hail, mighty Davy, (the goddess) great mother of us all!" The surrounding spectators respond, "All hail, Davy! and prosper the Thugs!" This is a most interesting and exciting moment to the Thugs; for upon the hardness of the nut, the skill of the operator, and the accidental circumstances which may affect the force or direction of the blow, depends the realization of the hopes of the community. If the cocoa-nut be not severed at one blow, all the labour is thrown away; the goddess is understood to be unpropitious; another day must be selected for the repetition of the ceremonies, and all the trouble be incurred again. If, how ever, the nut is cleft at once, the proof of the approval of the goddess is undisputable. The whole of the shell and some of the kernel of the nut is thrown into the fire; the pickaxe is carefully tied up in a clean white cloth, and, being placed on the ground to the west, the assembled spectators, turning in that direction, prostrate themselves in adoration before "that which their own fingers have made;" that which the labour of the smith might have fashioned with equal facility into an object of reverence or of contempt; and which, while it receives divine honours, is destined to assist in a series of acts, at once horrible by their guilt, and disgusting by their loathsomeness.

The ceremony of prostration concluded, all present receive a portion of the cocoa-nut; the fragments are then collected, and thrown into the pit which had been previously prepared, lest, if they remained on the ground, the sacred relics might be outraged by the defiling touch of some human foot.

Will the reader believe that elaborate as these ceremonies are, they serve but for a single expedition? At the commencement of every fresh series of adventures, they must be repeated.

In order to show the utterly hardened character of the followers of Thuggee, we quote part of the evidence of a Thug approver before one of the British Courts in India:

"Question.-And do you never feel

sympathy for the persons murderednever pity or compunction? Sahib.-Never.

Q. How can you murder old men and young children without some emotions of pity-calmly and deliberately as they sit with you and converse with you-and tell you of their private affairs -of their hopes and fears-and of the wives and children they are going to meet, after years of absence, toil and suffering?

S. From the time that the omens have been favourable, we consider them as victims thrown into our hands by the deity to be killed, and that we are the mere instrument in her hand to destroy them that if we do not kill them she will never be again propitious to us, and we and our families will be involved in misery and want.

Q. And you can sleep as soundly, by the bodies or over the graves of those you have murdered, and eat your meals with as much appetite, as ever?

S. Just the same: we eat and sleep just the same, unless we are afraid of being discovered.

Q. And when you see or hear a bad omen, you think it is the order of the deity not to kill the travellers you have with you, or are in pursuit of?

S. Yes. It is the order not to kill them, and we dare not disobey."

The following amusing sketch of a French publisher is given by an English author, who evidently knew his trade:

"The conversation turned upon the frivolous verses of the Abbe Boisrobert. Wonderful talent,' said the book-seller, 'two thousand the first week. Copy in satin sent to the king. Shop full of marquises, all over ribbons, coming for copies.'

How do Dejazet's works sell?' asked M. Moliere.

ler, but wont go down. Ne ver gets a word in the Reviews. Boisrobert's wonderful book touches the feelings; that's what people want now. Feelings must be touched-sense is all very well.'

'And what you call a good book.' said M. Boileau, bitterly, means a book that sells. Sir, you do what all your order do. If you find a man whose works the public buy, you pamper him, feed him, idolize him, urge him to exhaust his mental soil with quick, weak crops, in fact, to change the metaphor, drive him to death, and then let him go to the knackers. You never discover talenthave no faith, in any thing but success, because success pays; yet you, and such as you-I mean no offence-guide public taste, and receive all the wealth that books bring. You gull the author, pique him with clap-traps about honour, fa me extending reputation; and when his back is turned, lo! he is bound up in parchment fetters. You pull out your banker's book, and laugh to think what fools the world's thinkers are.'

'True,' said M. Molière, 'and what do you think of these Reviews-are they honest?'

'Very, and severe, too, when they first begin, till some publishers use them as advertisers; and afterwards, too, provided the writer of the book they review can be of no use to themprovided the book is by a man who shows no power of rising above themprovided it comes from a publisher they do not dislike, and by a man who has never stung their vanity with a bon mot. But, dear me, what with interest, clique, dining out, quarrels, ignorance, haste, and prejudice, no review is worth much. For my part, I only believe two thingsan enemy's praise and a dear friend's blame.'

In the same article is a brief touch at the way critics find fault :