This remarkable work will introduce the "Celestials" to such an acquaintance with "the outside barbarians" as cannot fail to give them new ideas, remove something at least of the insane prejudice against, and contempt of, all other nations, which has so long prevailed. We regard it as a very important agency in preparing the way for that Christianity which the friends of the perishing are seeking to introduce into that benighted empire. A book by a native Chinaman, himself high in office, and recommended by a still higher officer of the government, the author still himself a Pagan, yet reasoning upon the great facts of the Bible, and opening the hitherto unknown civilized and Christian world to his countrymen--such a book cannot but become an important pioneer in the work of pouring the light of truth upon that dark land.--_Boston Traveler_. * * * * * [FROM SARTAIN'S MAGAZINE, FOR AUGUST.] REQUIEM. UPON THE DEATH OF FRANCES SARGENT ASGOOD. BY ANNE C. LYNCH. To what bright world afar dost thou belong Thou whose pure soul seemed not of mortal birth? From what fair realm of flowers, and love, and song, Cam'st thou a star-beam to our shadowed earth? What hadst thou done, sweet spirit! in that sphere, That thou wert banished here? Here, where our blossoms early fade and die, Where autumn frosts despoil our loveliest bowers; Where song goes up to heaven, an anguished cry From wounded hearts, like perfume from crushed flowers; Where Love despairing waits, and weeps in vain His Psyche to regain. Thou cam'st not unattended on thy way; Spirits of beauty, grace, and joy, and love Were with thee, ever bearing each some ray Of the far home that thou hadst left above, And ever at thy side, upon our sight Gleamed forth their wings of light. We heard their voices in the gushing song That rose like incense from thy burning heart; We saw the footsteps of the shining throng Glancing upon thy pathway high, apart, When in thy radiance thou didst walk the earth, Thou child of glorious birth. But the way lengthened, and the song grew sad, Breathing such tones as find no echo here; Aspiring, soaring, but no longer glad, Its mournful music fell upon the ear; 'Twas the home-sickness of a soul that sighs For its own native skies. Then he that to earth's children comes at last, The angel-messenger, white-robed and pale, Upon thy soul his sweet oblivion cast, And bore thee gently through the shadowy vale,-- The fleeting years of thy brief exile o'er,-- Home to the blissful shore. * * * * *