The Reviewer however in all these accounts and conjectures, is careful to forget that Hassuna was the Prime Minister of Tripoli, that political reasons may have impelled him to prevent the delivery of the papers, and that he may have acted in the whole affair conformably with the usages not only of Tripoli, but of almost every Government in Europe. A British officer engaged in exploring the interior of Africa, may well have been the object of suspicion at Tripoli. Has scientific research been even ostensibly the only motive for such expeditions? Would Major Laing have been permitted to proceed under this pretext through certain parts of Russia? Would a French or Russian officer until lately have been allowed to visit British India? The Tripoline Government did not dare refuse a passage to the English traveller through its dominions; his actions were doubtless observed, and it was proper that they should have been; his letters may have been opened, may have been found to contain matter the communication of which would be dangerous to the state, may have been in consequence destroyed, may have been even delivered to a Consul of another Power. Such things are constantly done in St. Petersburg, in Vienna, in Paris, and in many other places, and although they cannot be defended, yet it is scarcely fair to brand the African Minister with infamy for that which is daily practised by Metternich, Nesselrode and Thiers. A PÆAN. How shall the burial rite be read? The solemn song be sung? The requiem for the loveliest dead, That ever died so young? Her friends are gazing on her, And on her gaudy bier, And weep!--oh! to dishonor Her beauty with a tear! They loved her for her wealth-- And they hated her for her pride-- But she grew in feeble health, And they _love_ her--that she died. They tell me (while they speak Of her "costly broider'd pall") That my voice is growing weak-- That I should not sing at all-- Or that my tone should be Tun'd to such solemn song So mournfully--so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong. But she is gone above, With young Hope at her side, And I am drunk with love Of the dead, who is my bride. Of the dead--dead--who lies All motionless, With the death upon her eyes, And the life upon each tress. In June she died--in June Of life--beloved, and fair; But she did not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air. From more than fiends on earth, Helen, thy soul is riven, To join the all-hallowed mirth Of more than thrones in heaven-- Therefore, to thee this night I will no requiem raise, But waft thee on thy flight, With a Pæan of old days. E. A. P. CHARLOT TAYON.