The character of the Chinese novels is the same with that of the better parts of _Don Quixote, Gil Blas, Tom Jones_, and _Cecilia_. Their authors address themselves to the reason rather than the imagination of their readers. The other Asiatic nations, led away by a passion for the marvellous, have often disfigured the most respectable traditions, and converted history itself into romance. The Chinese, on the other hand, may be said to have given their romances the truth of history.--_N. American Review._ * * * * * The Canadian Indian females are described as passionately fond of their children, as submissive slaves, and at the same time affectionately attached to their husbands. This they evince by _self-immolation_, after the manner of eastern wives. Among the few poisonous plants of Canada, is a shrub, which yields a wholesome fruit, but contains in its roots a deadly juice, which the widow, who wishes not to survive her husband, drinks. An eye-witness describes its effects; the woman having resolved to die, chanted her death song and funeral service; she then drank off the poisonous juice, was seized with shivering and convulsions, and expired in a few minutes on the body of her husband. * * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. * * * * * TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE. "Rien n'est changé, mes amis!"[2] CHARLES DIX. [2] I have taken these words for my motto, because they _enable_ me to tell a story. When the present King of France received his first address on the return from the emigration, his answer was, "Rien n'est changé, mes amis; il n'y a qu'un Français de plus." When the Giraffe arrived in the Jardin des Plantes, the Parisians had a caricature, in which the ass, and the hog, and the monkey were presenting an address to the stranger, while the elephant and the lion stalked angrily away. Of course, the portraits were recognisable--and the animal was responding graciously, "Rien n'est changé, mes amis: il n'y a qu'un bête de plus!" I heard a sick man's dying sigh, And an infant's idle laughter; The old Year went with mourning by, The new came dancing after; Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear, Let Revelry hold her ladle; Bring boughs of cypress for the biel. Fling roses on the cradle; Mates to wait on the funeral state! Pages to pour the wine! And a requiem for Twenty-eight,-- And a health to Twenty-nine. Alas! for human happiness, Alas! for human sorrow; Our Yesterday is nothingness, What else will be our Morrow? Still Beauty must be stealing hearts, And Knavery stealing purses; Still Cooks must live by making tarts, And Wits by making verses; While Sages prate and Courts debate, The same Stars set and shine; And the World, as it roll'd through Twenty-eight, Must roll through Twenty-nine.