"The Chinese and the Outer Barbarians." By Sir John
Bowring.

*** "Our Volunteers." By Sir John Burgoyne.

Shall we point out others? We are fellow-travellers, and shall make
acquaintance as the voyage proceeds. In the Atlantic steamers, on the
first day out (and on high-and holy-days subsequently), the jellies set
down on table are richly ornamented; medioque in fonte leporum rise the
American and British flags nobly emblazoned in tin. As the passengers
remark this pleasing phenomenon, the Captain no doubt improves the
occasion by expressing a hope, to his right and left, that the flag
of Mr. Bull and his younger Brother may always float side by side
in friendly emulation. Novels having been previously compared to
jellies--here are two (one perhaps not entirely saccharine, and flavored
with an amari aliquid very distasteful to some palates)--two novels*
under two flags, the one that ancient ensign which has hung before the
well-known booth of "Vanity Fair;" the other that fresh and handsome
standard which has lately been hoisted on "Barchester Towers." Pray,
sir, or madam, to which dish will you be helped?

* "Lovel the Widower" and "Framley Parsonage."

So have I seen my friends Captain Lang and Captain Comstock press their
guests to partake of the fare on that memorable "First day out," when
there is no man, I think, who sits down but asks a blessing on his
voyage, and the good ship dips over the bar, and bounds away into the
blue water.

ON TWO CHILDREN IN BLACK.

Montaigne and "Howel's Letters" are my bedside books. If I wake at
night, I have one or other of them to prattle me to sleep again. They
talk about themselves for ever, and don't weary me. I like to hear them
tell their old stories over and over again. I read them in the dozy
hours, and only half remember them. I am informed that both of them tell
coarse stories. I don't heed them. It was the custom of their time, as
it is of Highlanders and Hottentots to dispense with a part of dress
which we all wear in cities. But people can't afford to be shocked
either at Cape Town or at Inverness every time they meet an individual
who wears his national airy raiment. I never knew the "Arabian Nights"
was an improper book until I happened once to read it in a "family
edition." Well, qui s'excuse. . . . Who, pray, has accused me as yet?
Here am I smothering dear good old Mrs. Grundy's objections, before she
has opened her mouth. I love,