“Hail usages of pristine mould,
    And ye that guard them, mountains old!”

can scarcely apply to bad drainage and ventilation.’  We should think not.  There is a scandalous deficiency in the ordinary institutes of the country on this important subject of town and village cleaning!

NATIONAL CUSTOMS.

Sir C. Napier put down the practice of suttee, which, however, was rare in Scinde, by a process entirely characteristic; for, judging the real cause of these immolations to be the profit derived by the priests, and hearing of an intended burning, he made it known that he would stop the sacrifice.  The priests said it was a religious rite which must not be meddled with—­that all nations had customs which should be respected, and this was a very sacred one.  The general, affecting to be struck with the argument, replied:  ’Be it so.  This burning of widows is your custom:  prepare the funeral pile.  But my nation has also a custom:  When men burn women alive, we hang them, and confiscate all their property.  My carpenters shall therefore erect gibbets on which to hang all concerned when the widow is consumed.  Let us all act according to national customs!’ No suttee took place then or afterwards.—­Sir C. Napier’s Administration of Scinde.

BY THE SEA.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

    When tired of towns, and pining sore
      For change to healthful ground,
    Thou turn’st from crowds—­still at the core
      Feeling thy heart’s worst wound—­
    When thou hast knocked at every door,
      Yet no admittance found: 
    At every door where Pleasure in
      Glides, with a sunny grace,
    But which thine own bale barreth up
      From thee—­then seek a place
    Where gates of stone and brass are none
      To frown thee in the face!

    The woods have walks, where thou mayst find
      A balm to salve thy grief;
    And in and out where waters wind,
      Are sources of relief,
    In which, if thou wilt bathe the mind,
      Thou’lt have no comfort brief,
    But peace—­that falleth like the dew! 
      For everything that shews
    God’s sunshine speaketh marvels true
      Of mercy and repose,
    And joy, in rural scenes, beyond
      All that the loud world knows!

    Yet more, than wood or woodland rill
      Can give of keen delight,
    We glean from ocean-margins, till
      The spirit—­at the sight
    Of all its range of changeful change—­
      Becometh, like it, bright! 
    Bright when the sunlight on it falls,
      Or grave and grand when, dark,
    The shadowy night lets down its pall
      Upon each human ark;
    And every surge seems but to urge
      Extinction of life’s spark!