ever rankled in my mind arose in dread array before me. No wonder, then, that I uttered an exclamation of joy, as they lowered my palanquin' at the door of James M.Phail, indigo-planter, who resided close to the place where the suttee was to take place.

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It was just daybreak, but I found my friend up and stirring, doing the honours of his house to a large company of Europeans, who had come to behold the strange ceremony. Amongst others were a local judge, and another magistrale, who had ridden over officially to try and dissuade the wretched fanatic from immolating herself, and had brought with them two companies of sepoys, and their officers, to protect her, should she consent to forego the dreadful rite. The British orders on this head are most clear. The authorities are forbidden to interfere, or forcibly prevent the, suicidal immolation of a religious enthusiast, who chooses to destroy herself on the funeral pile with the dead body of her husband; but at the same time they are commanded to be present, to urge the unhappy victim to avoid the dreadful sacrifice, and, in case of her consent, to promise her defence and support from the Government. A sufficient force is also marched to the ground to overawe and prevent any opposition by the natives, should the infatuated female relent from her fell purpose, and throw herself on the protection of the British authorities. After making an excellent breakfast, and taking half a dozen whiffs at the hookahs our host had provided for us, we sallied forth. We were just in time. The pile was placed in the centre of a large field. It was about twelve feet square, and four feet high. Every species of dry wood had been made use of to form it. The outward parts were of far more solid branches than the centre, which I could evidently see was filled up with brushwood and small twigs; so that when the edges were lighted, and the victim rushed to the centre, she would at once sink amidst the flames. The corpse of her deceased husband lay bare upon the pile, surrounded by his relatives as well as her own, who stood close to this part of the scene, uttering alternate lamentations and songs of joy. The players on the tom-tom (a sort of small noisy drum) were

seated on the opposite side; the Brahmins and faqueers stood at the head. A crowd of at least a thousand natives surrounded the inner ring, into which, as Englishmen, we boldly entered. Our sepoys were drawn up at about two hundred yards distant, so as to show our power, but at the same time to prove our determination not to interfere, unless called on to do so.

Presently a hackary came creaking into the field, surrounded by religious men and women of all classes and orders, shouting, singing, and throwing flowers and aromatic powder under the feet of the oxen that drew the cart, and on the person of the female who sat inside it. It was evident that they were mad from excitement, or drunk from opium. Their gestures were frantic, their cries terrific. At length the hackary arrived beside the ring; and the young girl sprang out of it. She was not above fourteen, and certainly one of the sweetest-looking natives I ever recollect seeing. The British judge instantly went up to her, and drawing her aside, energetically remonstrated with her on her wickedness and folly in thus sacrificing her life. She would scarcely hear him. out. She was, I verily believe, more than half intoxicated, and seemed to pant for the coming moment, anxious to prove her unshaken constancy to her late husband, as well as desirous of showing her courage. Flying, therefore, from the magistrate, she rushed towards the Brahmins, who quickly handed her on to the pile, and, giving her a lighted torch, began a sort of chaunt, accompanied by the tom-toms, whilst they and others lighted their brands. Suddenly a signal was given, and the suicide herself threw her burning torch into the furze, which as instantly ignited. She then began to sing furiously, madly, dancing about on the fatal pile. At the same instant, her friends and the priests of Brahma set fire to it in every direction. The flames arose I could still see the victim throwing herself about in every attitude of joy and triumph. At length the fire touched her, and human nature triumphed-I heard her distinctly scream. It was all that I was allowed to hear from her; for at that moment every tom-tom, every instrument, every voice was raised as loud as possible, undoubt

tedly to drown her cries. It was evident to me that agony had sobered her, and that she not only shrieked, but even attempted to escape her doom. But it was now, alas! too late. The crowd pressed close to the pile, and we were quietly, but effectually, squeezed out of the ring. I could still see the flames rising majestically from this pagan altar, and could, I fancied, hear the cries of the devoted victim; but it was, alas! now out of our power to assist her. She had refused our succour, -we were bound not to interfere. I turned away with an aching heart, and returned to Mr Phail's residence.

I visited the spot next day; the grass was burnt up where the pile had stood; nothing else betokened the sacrifice, or indicated the exact place where I had beheld the « suttee. »

(BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.)

VOL. IV.

22

THE CHEMIST'S FIRST MURDER.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD, ESQ.

I know not how to begin the story," said the chemist, sighing heavily, while a slight spasm passed over his sorrowful face; «but when I used to poison people—»

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I can't accept that for a beginning,» said I, interrupting him. Your conscience is over-nice, too sensitive and suspicious by half. Begin, in plain, honest English, When I was a chemist—' »

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"It means the same thing," he answered. . The people in Albania, you know, always commence their stories with 'When I was a thief.'»

So might some of us in England, who belong to what Sydney Smith calls the undetected classes of society; but you never heard a lawyer, when settled in his easy-chair, opening a narrative of the past with When I used to ruin half the parish, nor do retired members of parliament, referring to past periods of legislation, preface their anecdotes of pa-· triotism with When I practised bribery through thick and thin.

You speak, returned the chemist, sadly, of people wiser than I am; people who can very well bear their own reproaches, so long as they can contrive to escape the world's. But enough of this. When I was a pois-Well, then, when I was a chemist

"That's it-now go on. »

At that time London had the Byron fever. London contains many Londons, and they all had it with greater or less virulence. Thinking and thoughtless Londonthose who read much, and those who never read anything— the large-souled, the little-souled, and the no-souled—every one took the infection. It became quite the fashion, all of a sudden, to feel. Iron nerves relaxed, hearts of stone broke to pieces inwardly. There might be some who did not know what to think-yet these could of course talk; and there might be a few who, from long-established habits, found it quite impossible to get fast hold of a feeling-still they could shed tears.

Society became a sponge, soaking up those briny showers of the muse, which only descended faster and faster, and the big rain came dancing to the earth. Young men wept until their shirt collars fell down starchless and saturated; young ladies, sitting on sofas, were floated out of the drawing-room window into the centre of Grosvenor-square; and I verily believe that if those cantos (but they were not yet in existence) which found some little difficulty in making their way into families, could have got into a needle's eye, they would have extracted a tear from it.

For the ladies, however, I do not answer positively-I can only vouch for the condition of my youthful brethren. You might have seen them with the new volume-bought, mindnot borrowed; with the volume itself, not an American broadsheet that had pirated its precious contents; with a wet copy of the first edition, not a smuggled, sneaking, cheating, French version; with this volume of world-enchanting wonders tenderly grasped, you might have seen them hurrying along the street, stopping every now and then, and just opening it so as to peep at the mighty line within then hastening on a little way, repeating the half-dozen words that breathe just read, until they were breathless-then, burning with curiosity for the passionate revelation, they would glide down a gateway, or shelter themselves at a shop-door, to dive a little further into the sea of thought, bringing up a pearl at every dip.

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