ters little dreamt of in your philosophy. Among the
bystanders, too, there are some who might, probably with more reason,
boast their proficiency in mysterious lore--fellows of smooth aspect and
polite demeanour, whom at first you imagine to have become casual
spectators from mere lack of better pastime, but whose furtive glances
and vagrant attention betray the familiars of the police--that complex
and mighty engine of modern structure, which, far more surely than the
"ear of Dionysius," conveys to the tympanum of power each echoed sigh
and reverberated whisper. It is a chilling thing to feel one's budding
confidence in a new acquaintance nipped by such frosty suspicions;
yet--Heaven forgive me!--the bare idea has, before now, caused me to
drop, unscented, the pinch of _carote_ which has been courteously
tendered by some coffee-house companion. In the group before me, I
fancied that I could distinguish some of this ungentle brotherhood; and
my averted eye rested with comparative complacency even on a couple of
_gens d'armes_, who were marching up and down before the door, and whose
long swords and voluminous cocked hats never appeared to me less
offensive.

In the mean time, knots of travellers were congregating round the
different vehicles about to depart. In the centre of each little band
stood the main point of attraction--Monsieur le Conducteur--that
important personage, whose prototype we look for in vain among the
dignitaries of Lad-lane, or the Bull-and-Mouth, and whose very name can
only be translated by borrowing one of Mr. M'Adam's titles--"the
Colossus of _Roads_." With fur cap, official garb, and the excursive eye
of a martinet, he inspects every detail of preparation--sees each
passenger stowed _seriatim_ in his special place--then takes his
position in front--gives the word to his jack-booted vice, whose
responsive whip cracks assent--and away rolls the ponderous machine,
with all the rumbling majesty of a three-decker from off the
stocks.--_Monthly Magazine_.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM.

THE RETORT MEDICAL.

Quoth Doctor Squill of Ponder's End,
"Of all the patients I attend,
Whate'er their aches or ails,
None ever will my fame attack."
"None ever can," retorted Jack:
"For dead men tell no tales"
_New Monthly Magazine_.

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

* *