Matthew Whitelock, reclining in what he called his “easy chair,” was musing, rather than thinking, over the inconsistencies of the most consistent, and pondering as to which was the more beautiful to contemplate—the love a mother bears her child, or the devotion a child renders to a parent; thinking how many instances there are of the former, and how, comparatively, few of the latter; hoping that the widow would really buy the wine and meat, as he desired; and having, like all genuine Englishmen, great faith in “creature comforts,” he converted the worn, attenuated widow into a portly woman. Having arranged this, he indulged in a vision he had of late enjoyed so frequently, that it had become almost a reality—that Richard would turn out something like Whittington: his dreams of the future had gradually taken Richard in, first as a shadow, then as a substance, until he formed a portion of all his day dreams—wondering if he could tie up fishing-flies, yet fearing to ask him, lest Martha might make it another subject of complaint; varying these fancies with probabilities as to whether he should have good fishing the first of the following June, when he made his annual journey to Teddington, and, be the day hot or cold, invariably returned with a swollen face, wonderfully helping Martha’s sarcasms during the following summer and autumn months; indeed, she constituted it a red letter day—every thing occurred “before” or after “master went bothering after the bits of fish, that the cat wouldn’t eat without butter, and got the bad face.” Then again his thoughts would dwell upon Richard, whom he believed—and with fair show of reason—endowed with a rare capacity for acquiring knowledge, and tuning it to the best account. He never thought of another power he had—that of attaching to him those who seldom formed attachments. Some observation made by the lad, in a careless, off-hand manner, would frequently set his master calculating what he could do for him. He delighted in lending him books, and to draw forth his opinions upon them; devising many clever expedients to overcome Richard’s shyness, and make him “speak out.” As the lad’s accumulated and accumulating knowledge became better known to him, he felt almost inclined to apologise when it was necessary he should take out parcels; but what especially charmed him was the boy’s unconsciousness of his own book improvement and superiority. Had it not been for the unaccountable fear Matthew Whitelock entertained of his housekeeper—which he only overcame by fits and starts—he would have forbidden Richard the kitchen, and seated him at his own little table in the dusty back room; but he knew that such a movement must lead to open rebellion. He had grown positively uncomfortable at the idea of Richard’s brushing his shoes, and cleaning knives—“a lad capable of writing the Latin names of his books without a dictionary, and was a better penman than he was himself!” However difficult it may be of belief, considering his “calling,” it is a positive fact that Matthew Whitelock reverenced literary acquirements; and when a clever book did not “sell,” Matthew would take the part of the author against “the trade”—a proceeding which caused him to be considered “a fool” by many who are wise in their own conceits.

These and such like thoughts were passing through Matthew’s mind, in a half-dreamy way; now lingering, now rushing onward, and then off, while Peter lay at his feet; and he began to long, as often he did, for Richard’s return; for he enjoyed a chat with his messenger, as he used to enjoy a newspaper. Without his perceiving it, Matty entered, and shutting the door, as she always did when she had any thing particular to say, placed her back against it, wreathed her bony arms together, and passing one foot over the instep of the other, stood on one leg, “shouldering” the door-case.

“It’s my opinion, sir, that you make too much fuss entirely with that boy, and that he’s forgetting his place.”

“Is it—how?”

“Well, thoughts is thoughts, and it’s hard to put them into words; but here they are! He’d rayther any time stay fiddling after one bit of dust or another, or stitching ould tataration books, that’s going to the bad since the year one, or mending your pen—as if you had not eyesight (the Lord preserve it) to do it yourself—than sit and rest his young bones at his supper; and as to rubbing over the knives, he does them in no time, without a bit of a stop between; so that I never have a word out of him. And the paper! he reads it shameful! reading polyticks as if they war dirt; and so ignorant, that when he’s done, he knows no more of the state of Europe than when he began. His mother says he lives without sleep, or as good as; there’s a heart-break for a tender mother! I hate unnatural ways. The truth is, he’s above his business.”

“I quite agree with you.”

“Then,” said the contradictory Matty, “it’s a sin and a shame for you to say so, sir. You have nothing to complain of: he’s willing enough to do every hand’s turn for you. I’m nothing in the house—just no-thing! He’s as civil and smooth as creme—with his good morning, and good evening, and fine day. Mrs. Cook! but that’s professional—there’s no love with it. He’s all for learning and books. If he goes on this way, you’ll have to take him into partnership.”

“Very likely!”

Matty immediately stood erect.

“Then, sir, you must look out for another housekeeper, that’s all: I’m not going to have two masters, and one of them no better than a dog-boy! Oh! that I should come to that! He’s bewitched you, so he has—put his comether over you. I shouldn’t wonder if you made him sit down at your table, and printed his poems.”

“His what?”

“Poems! Havn’t I heard you say many times that there was no good in books now, since there’s such a many writers; that a book is no longer a book, only a rubbish; and that all the half of the writers do is to spile paper and pens, and waste ink. Them’s your words, master, when you war in one of your pleasant humors, discoorsing upon the ruin that’s come into the world. And now this boy goes and writes poems, and you’ll print them!”

“Go down stairs, Matty, and bring me those poems.”

“And to be made a paper weight in my ould days—just to stand upon papers.”

“Do as I desire you.”

“I can’t: do you think I’d keep ’em in the kitchen? There they are!” she continued, throwing a roll of manuscript on the table; “there they are! As if he had any right to set up for a poet—as if his mother and him havn’t gone through starvation enough without that. That’s what comes of his neglecting the state of Europe, and hurrying over the knives: his mother wanted to tell you about it, but had no courage, and no wonder. It’s easy to see what’s before him now; and his poor mother blind and desolate. Poems! Oh! no wonder my hair’s gray! But it’s your fault, master—informing his mind! I wonder who ever troubled about my mind!” And out she flounced, while her master, not without some secret apprehension—more anxiety, in fact, for Richard than he had ever felt before—unrolled the manuscript, and, after wiping and putting on his spectacles, commenced its perusal.

[To be continued.

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Thirteen thousand, seven hundred and twenty feet above the level of the sea! At a perpendicular elevation of upwards of two miles and a half, nearly on the snow line of the Andes, stands the topmost city of the earth, Ceno de Pasco. It is the capital of the richest silver district of Peru. At the before-named height, the Andes spread themselves out into vast plains or table-lands. Such table-lands—Punas, the Indians call them—sometimes extend hundreds of miles, and, on one of them—that of Pasco—stands the before-named city of Ceno de Pasco, which I took care to visit when I was a dweller in Peru.

Through the Palace Square of Lima—not forgetting to look up for the fortieth time at its magnificent cathedral—over the Rimac by a handsome bridge, which connects the city with the suburb of San Lazaro, I got out with my friends into the open country. The plain on which Lima stands gradually contracts as it approaches the Sierra, until it becomes a narrow track between great walls of rock. The road then slowly rises to a height of upwards of six thousand five hundred feet. Having mounted thus far, and so done more up-hill business than belongs to the ascent of Snowdon, we are told quietly that we have reached the foot of the mountains. From this point the ascent is steeper and more dangerous, winding along narrow paths, and doubling huge projections, yielding, sometimes, barely room for a mule to pass; whilst, now and then, a heavy mass comes tumbling down from overhead, and lodges on some ledge that is wide enough to stop it, with a crash that makes the mountain tremble.

The Sierra is cleft in many places by gorges, that descend, straight as the plummet, to an immense depth; and, as the road passes along the edge of these abysses, the view suggests a strong temptation to make one false step, or cause the same to be made by the mule, since it would be but a moment’s work to slip into the throat of the old gaping chasm.

As we ascend, the change in the climate and vegetation, of course, soon attracts attention. We pass from the sugar-cane and banana in the plains, through every shade of increasing barrenness, to a few mosses and scrubby bushes on the Puna. A few villages are scattered on the route, and in the neighborhood of these, maize and potatoes are grown even at a height of some ten thousand feet. But, by degrees these disappear, and the monotony of the road is broken only by an occasional tambo—a most miserable stunted species of road-side inn—which yields a scanty supply of food and accommodation, and is eaten up almost to the very walls by fleas. Fleas, I should guess, were, like the potato, first imported into Europe from Peru. In that country, certainly, the species must have been multiplying rapidly from the remotest times. The scenery of the Andes (like that of the Himalayas, and of all vast mountains) appears, at first sight, to fall short of one’s previous ideas. The view is often very much confined. The idea of their enormous height is not at all conveyed by traveling over them; for, the successive valleys and table-lands present successive starting-points, and the stupendous mountain chain, supporting countries on its bosom, escapes the measurement of a mere pair of eyes.

Having crossed the passes of the Alto de Jaquehambo, and the Alto de Lachaqual—the latter of which is above the snow line, fifteen thousand, five hundred feet high—we begin to descend, and presently, a sudden turn in the road reveals a large and apparently well-built town. This town lies in a basin surrounded by rocks, and the view of it forms a scene oddly inconsistent with the grand solitude and bleakness of the scenery around. Closer acquaintance dissipates our notion that the town is well built. It is a dirty miserable place, in which there are uncomfortably huddled together fifteen thousand people. It is chiefly composed of miners’ huts—something like overgrown bee-hives—with a few tolerable houses that belong to shop-keepers and the proprietors of mines. As we descend from the pass into the Puna, a scene worthy of the Andes breaks upon us. We are on the highest and most extensive table-land in all Peru. Its breadth is about seventy miles; its length scarcely determinable, as it penetrates into the mountains at various points, and is not abruptly broken by them, but sweeps gradually upwards to their summits. In the centre is a large lake, from one side of which the principal tributary of the Amazon begins its course, whilst, from the other side, several small streams flow to the western coast, so that from this lake tribute is sent both to the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. In the distance rises the great Cordillera stretching towards the Brazils; whilst the nearer peaks of the Andes, whitened with snow, shine round about us, cold, rugged, and silent, in vast masses that cause our hearts to dilate with a half painful sense of the sublime. The clear blue sky of the plains has deepened almost into black; the dull, lead-colored sun seems to have lost the power of communicating heat, and looks like a mere spectre of the tyrant under whose reign for so many years, men, women, and children have been flayed, or roasted, or marked with a brand upon the skin.

On first reaching the Puna, we all suffer a good deal from the rarefaction of the air, which produces sickness, bleeding at the mouth and nose, and pain in the chest. Horses and mules, on their first visit, suffer from this cause more acutely than men, and the drivers often slit the nostrils of these animals, an operation which is said to give relief. The slitting of our own noses being, of course, out of the question, we get over our discomfort as we can. The only native animals found on the Puna belong to the llama tribe; alpacas, guanacas, and vicunas. The llama works at the mines as the ordinary beast of burden, and is perfectly efficient; it is more sagacious, steady, and sure-footed even than the mule. The alpacas are tamed and kept in flocks for the sake of their wool, an article which has of late become important to the English manufacturers. The guanacas and vicunas—the former the largest, and the latter the handsomest members of their tribe—are seldom to be tamed; they range the mountains, and the pursuit of them affords sport to the European hunter in Peru.

On entering the city of Pasco from the mountain solitudes, we are in the first place annoyed at the incessant clatter that surrounds us. The mines are opened in the streets, the courtyards, and occasionally even in the houses of the town. We encounter them at every step, and as they are often very shallow—the depth varying from twenty to a hundred and fifty feet—the blows of many picks and hammers are distinctly heard. The mines are generally private property, though some of them, indeed, belong to English companies. The mode of working is extremely careless. The descent into them is by a bucket hung on an old chain, or worn-out rope. The sides and roof of the galleries are frequently left unsupported, because timber happens to be scarce and dear; accidents therefore constantly occur, but nobody concerns himself about them. The rubbish is removed after a fall in; and the work goes on as usual. The miners are, for the most part, Indians. They earn, on an average, from four to six reals (two or three shillings) daily; but when a rich vein has been opened, they are paid in ore, and often earn very high wages, which they spend in brandy, chicha, and fine clothes. The town abounds with liquor-shops, eating-houses, and cafÉs which are generally kept by foreigners, men of all nations. From these places the Indian miners buy their food ready cooked. It consists chiefly of maize bread and charquÍ—slices of beef dried in the sun—great quantities of which are imported from the more southern republics, especially the Argentine. Even before food, however, the chief comfort of the Indian is the coca leaf. The coca plant is not unlike the vine in its appearance. It is cultivated by the Indians at the foot and on the sides of the Cordilleras, and bears a white flower, with a small red fruit. At the proper season, the leaves are stripped from the plants, carefully dried, and packed in bags containing each from fifty to a hundred pounds. They have an aromatic bitter taste. The cholo never is without his little pouch of coca leaves, and a small calabash containing quick-lime, or the ashes of a hot root. He first chews a quid of leaves until it is well moistened, and then thrusts a little lime into the mass on the point of a small stick; thereupon the mastication is continued till the quid is dry. This kind of refreshment is taken by the miners three times a day, about a quarter of an hour being set apart for its enjoyment upon each occasion; and the men will go through the most arduous toil, or travel for days over the mountains, with no other support than coca leaf. In traveling, a quid is kept continually in the mouth. On first using the coca, there is some excoriation suffered by the lips; this, however, passes off, and, when mixed with a little quinna, I must say that I have found the stuff very agreeable. It produces the exhilarating effects of opium without the drowsiness and stupefaction; it will ward off sleep, destroy the sense of hunger, and act as a spur upon the strength and spirit. The cholos who use it regularly are unquestionably healthy and long-lived; but the coca, like all other stimulants, is liable to serious abuse. The coquero or coca-chewer, who is never without a ball of it in his mouth, often passes the night through without sleep; he becomes debilitated, languid, nervous; his complexion takes a greenish hue; and, if he will persist in his excess—which soon becomes a vice beyond the power of his will—he perishes.

In the shops of Pasco are found the products of all countries. Bass’s pale ale is in high favor here, and knives and forks carry the stamp of Sheffield cutlers. I remember being pleasantly surprised in a shepherd’s hut on the Puna, at having placed before me some boiled maize on a plate ornamented with a picture of John Anderson my joe and his gude wife, with two verses of the song beneath it. The Indian was delighted with the pleasure I took in the plate, and was solicitous to have the lines translated.

The most common contents of dishes at the fondas or eating-houses, are pucheros and picantes; the former a mixture of every thing—beef, pork, camotes, frijoles, bananas, potatoes, maize, etc., highly seasoned with aji—a sort of ground pepper of a peculiar and pleasant flavor. The latter, the picante, is comprised of jerked beef, chopped small, and mixed with bread crumbs or crushed maize. The usual liquors are a sweet unpleasant wine, chicha, and guarapo—the latter made from fermented sugar and water; still good wines are procurable, and spirits are much too plentiful. Under the influence of spirit frequent battles occur among the Indians, in which the long knife is freely used.

As the high table-land is altogether unproductive, provisions and other necessaries are brought from the valleys on the backs of mules. That is the only practicable mode of carriage; although it is a curious fact that, during the War of Independence, cavalry and artillery were transported to these heights, and two battles were fought close to Pasco. At the latter of these Bolivar had ten thousand troops besides artillery in the field, and Canterac, the royalist general, opposed him with an equal number. They must certainly have had a taste for fighting under difficulties if they dragged themselves, their guns, and horses up these mountains for no other purpose.

An English firm at Callao, which has considerable mining property on the Ceno de Pasco, has recently procured from England a quantity of improved machinery for the extraction of the silver from its ore. The old method is still commonly practised, that is to say, the ore is amalgamated with quicksilver by treading together quicksilver and ore beneath the feet of mules and horses; this proceeding causes a considerable loss of quicksilver—ruins the feet of the animals, and does not properly fulfill its purpose. The quicksilver—nearly all of which it brought from Europe—is afterward evaporated by the application of heat. Coal is found on the Puna.

The whole annual produce of the mines of Ceno Pasco once reached the amount of eight millions of dollars, or one million, six hundred and fifty thousand pounds; but the returns now do not probably reach half that sum. There is in the city a government establishment, at which all the silver is marked before being sent to Lima. It is usually melted into large oblong flat bars, some of which weigh from sixty to eighty pounds. These are conveyed to the capital on mules, commonly with no protection except that of the mule-drivers, although the Sierra may be swarming with the bandit montoneros. These gentlemen do not consider it convenient to intercept the silver on its downward passage, they preferring to wait for the coin that is returned in payment. With this upward freight a strong escort is always sent, and when it is attacked, a fierce battle ensues, that often ends in favor of the robbers.

The singular accoutrements of the horsemen are among the first things that attract the attention of the stranger in Peru. If the rider be a rich man, the horse is almost hidden by a multitude of straps and ornaments. The saddle is made very high both on pummel and crupper, leaving just room for the rider to wedge himself into his seat between them. Under the saddle is the pillow, an alpaca or goat’s skin, dyed black, with the wool combed out or twisted with silver wire into short curls, lengthened sometimes with long fringes of dyed alpaca wool. The stirrups are heavy and clumsy; each is a solid piece of wood, often measuring twelve inches square at the bottom, and gradually tapering to a point where it is attached to the saddle by a silver ring; on one side an opening is scooped out for the foot; the other three sides are all highly polished, often carved beautifully and inlaid with silver. The bit is very heavy; often of silver. The head-band is adorned with a long fringe of plaited strips of leather; and the reins, which are separate, pass through a silver ring, one of them being continued in a long lash. In addition to the bridle, the horse’s head is encumbered with a leathern halter covered with silver ornaments. The spurs are the most preposterous part of the whole equipment. They are so formed, that the wearer can walk only on his toes. The stem of the spur is often twelve inches long, and the rowel six inches in diameter. Amongst the wealthier classes, these spurs also, are frequently of silver. Every horseman wears the poncho; and some ponchos, from their splendid colors and fine texture, are a costly article of dress. The horses that bear these encumbrances are small, but they are well made and active; they are not allowed to trot, but taught a sort of amble which, when the rider becomes used to it, is an easy kind of motion. It is very rapid. Horses are but seldom used for draught, as, even in the low country, asses are the ordinary beasts of burden. These are bred in vast numbers, and troops of them are constantly passed by the traveler on all the roads: they have no head-gear, but are driven in the same manner as cattle, the driver riding behind armed with a long whip. These poor animals are most cruelly treated. Peru has been called “the heaven of women, the purgatory of husbands, and the hell of asses.” The last clause of the proverb cannot be questioned.

The taste for gambling, so prevalent throughout South America, is most strongly developed at Ceno de Pasco. Public lotteries are drawn every week, and sometimes every day in the week. The streets are continually infested by fellows crying, “A thousand dollars to-morrow!” These men carry books, from which they tear, for each customer, a ticket, price one shilling, giving him or her a chance in the next lottery. The prize is sometimes as large as five thousand dollars, with intermediate ones of smaller amount. I believe that the strictest impartiality and fairness characterize the drawing. All these lotteries are under government control.

The billiard and montero tables are in constant request: dominoes is a favorite game in the cafÉs; but those games at cards which are rapid in their results, and depend wholly upon chance, have irresistible attractions for all classes. The shaven priest, decorated with cross and rosary, may be frequently seen playing with the ragged Indian; and instances are told of the wealthy mine proprietor losing, in a night, every dollar he possessed to one of his own ragged men.

The cock-pit is a favorite amusement. The combatants are armed with one spur only; this is a flat, curved, two-edged blade, very keen, and finely pointed. The first blow commonly decides the battle, and both cocks are often killed. Hundreds of dollars change hands every minute: the excitement of the bettors is intense; and, even here, on the afternoon of the Sabbath, which is especially appropriated to the cock-fight, the priest hands round his begging-box, or lays his dollar on a favorite bird.

Ceno de Pasco, although so high up in the world, and so close to the region of eternal snow, has, nevertheless, a tolerable warmth during the day. The nights are all frosty, and a dense fog often envelops the Puna. Excessively heavy rain falls at certain periods of the year. But the most sublime spectacle on the Andes is a thunder-storm. It is an event of frequent occurrence in the table-lands, and I had the good fortune to witness one of extraordinary grandeur. It is impossible to convey any idea of the magnificence of the spectacle.

The lightning plays around the summits of the mountains in a constant succession of brilliant flashes, whilst the thunder is prolonged through the deep ravines and distant valleys, until the echo of the one peal and the crash of another blend together in one never-ending roll. Heavy falls of snow often accompany these storms, and the condition of travelers crossing the passes during one of them is most distressing. Unable to advance or to retreat, they halt and wait, in momentary fear of being hurled over the mountain sides. Blinded by snow, and by the vivid flashes, they dare not proceed; the ledges also are, perhaps, so narrow, that if they would they could not turn the mule round to retrace their steps. In such a position as this, men have been compelled to remain during many hours in places where the thermometer falls every night in the year below freezing point, and where the most intense darkness—whilst it fails to hide the real dangers, conjures up imaginary ones, which multiply all the horrors of the scene.

There are some portions of Upper Peru which are yet comparatively unknown to Europeans. This is especially the case with that part of it which has declared itself an independent republic, under the name of Bolivia. Though possessing a coast town on the Pacific of considerable extent, with several good harbors, yet its singular formation precludes ranch intercourse with other countries. Between the Andes and the sea is a broad belt of barren desert; a sand plain in continual motion. This is traversed by a few small rivers; which, though very shallow and often dry during the summer months, render the strips of soil through which they pass extremely fruitful. Beyond this desert, the most inaccessible chain in the Andes rises and forbids approach to the fair country enclosed within. On the summit of this chain is the celebrated mountain Potosi, now nearly exhausted of its treasures: the town is situated in a district wholly destitute of vegetation. Passing from the Ceno de Pasco through the town of Larma, we enter the valley of Janja, and shortly find ourselves in a country presenting a strange contrast to the one we have just left. A succession of the most fertile valleys in the world. As the ascent of the mountain commences from the low country, the sandy desert disappears. A rich coat of lucerne spreads over the sheltered hollows. Vines and olives appear in the vales. The sugar-cane, the banana, the guava, and numberless tropical fruits flourish. At the height of eight, and sometimes ten thousand feet, Los Vales of Bolivia are covered with the most luxurious vegetation. Forest-trees of gigantic size are thickly spread over the mountains. The cereals, which live a sickly life down by the sea, appear in these lofty valleys in full vigor: including maize, quinna, rice, barley, with occasional patches of wheat, though of this last the chief supply is imported out of Chili. Rich esculents and fruits unknown in other countries are in abundance. Amongst the former are yuca, mandive, and camotes; whilst the delicious cherrimoya reigns supreme over them all.

The valleys of Upper Peru, of Bolivia, and of the province of Salta in La Plata, are rich in the most valuable products. Exclusive of minerals—which include gold, silver, copper, and lead—we have coffee, chocolate, tobacco, cotton, indigo, cochineal, sarsaparilla, logwood, and an infinity of similar productions. Cattle are numerous: mules and horses abundant. And, above all, the men are noted for their generosity and hospitality, and the women for their grace and beauty.

What a contrast between these glorious valleys—in which Rasselas might well have lived—and the rugged heights of the silver city, Ceno Pasco: its dirty streets, and half-savage people; its unhealthy mines, and blackened smelting-furnaces; its bare rocks and scrubby patches of brown herbage affording a scanty subsistence to its flock of shaggy llamas.

It is a charm to travelers among the Andes, that, within their limits, these vast mountains enclose every climate. Within the range of one degree of latitude, we may sit and burn under a palm-tree, or lie down upon a bed of Alpine moss.

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BY LYDIA L. A. VERY.

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“The Bachelor of the Albany” was a novel in which common sense was made to outshine and outsparkle paradox itself; and “Reuben Medlicott,” though inferior in sustained brilliancy of execution, is a worthy successor to the “Bachelor.” The object of the book is to exhibit the career of a man whose head is stuffed with multifarious information, who possesses mediocre but varied talents, and who mistakes a fluent use of words relating to universal ideas and generalized truths for the power to wield principles. He accordingly fails in every thing he undertakes. He cannot connect his words with affairs; practical life refuses all alliance with him. He becomes a lawyer, but despising details, and aspiring to the philosophy of law, it is soon discovered that he has neither technical knowledge nor grasp of principles. He is a great orator at philanthropic meetings, and his friends think he will make a great impression in Parliament. He is accordingly “put up” as a candidate, and the description of his election is one of the most mirth-provoking pieces of satire in the novel. He is elected, but is remorselessly coughed down in the House. Then, like all men of his peculiar kind, he makes a voyage to America, to see if he cannot succeed in the land of talkers. He thinks that he has some words in his wardrobe of verbiage which will induce the Southern States to abolish slavery. He fails in this, also, and the author conducts him through various other experiments to the close of his useless life. The novel is exactly calculated for the present time, and will exercise a good influence if generally read. The writer’s own principles are neither very lofty nor very broad, but he has the merit of resolving all moral bubbles “into their elemental suds.”

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This volume is by professor Henry Rogers, of England, the author of some of the ablest articles in the late numbers of the Edinburgh Review, and a most learned, accomplished, and earnest writer on religious subjects. The work is in the form of a dialogue, which enables the author to represent peculiarities of character as well as opinion, and give conversational ease to the statement of the weightiest truths. The reasoning, also, is more readily followed from its being in the shape of debate, our interest in the persons stimulating our attention to what they say. The two sceptical assumptions principally assailed in the volume are these: “that a revelation from God to men, through the agency of a book, is an unreasonable tenet of belief; and that it is impossible that a miracle should occur, and impossible that its occurrence should be authenticated.” The rationalists of all classes are vigorously assailed, Mr. Neuman, of England, and Mr. Theodore Parker, of the United States, being the principal persons against whose theories the author directs his argument. The style of the work is fluent and animated, sometimes rising to eloquence, and not without some fine examples of humor and wit. The chapter on “The Blank Bible,” is a very felicitous specimen of the author’s power of familiarizing and popularizing his views by striking illustrations.

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This is a very valuable work on a country which has, of late years, increased in interest to Europeans, and been the subject of the most painstaking and profound research. Its history is to be gathered from a multitude of hints, which only ingenuity can interpret and follow out. The object of Mr. Kenrick’s volumes is to give a comprehensive view of the results of the researches of all travelers, artists, interpretators, and critics, who have made Egyptian archÆology and history their study; and to describe, from knowledge thus obtained, “the land and the people of Egypt, their arts and sciences, their civil institutions, and their religions faith and usages,” and to relate their history from the earliest records of the monarchy to its final absorption in the empire of Alexander. The plan is an extensive one, and seems to us successfully executed. It is the only work which combines the results to which the many explorers of Egyptian mysteries have arrived, and may therefore be confidently recommended to the general reader as Ancient Egypt, “according to the latest dates.”

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Few titles are more descriptive than the present. It is a view of French society, amusements, morals, manners, and government, by an intelligent and inquisitive American, who has glanced, with his spectacled eyes into many nooks and corners of Parisian life, not open to the ordinary observer. We have some doubts whether the representation is a moral one, though seen from an American point of view, especially that portion referring to the peculiar relations between the sexes in Paris. But there is a great deal of innocent information given in the volume which we have seen in no other; and the book is invaluable to the traveler as a sort of piquant guide. The Harpers have issued it, profusely illustrated by elegant wood-cuts, and excellently printed, for only eighty-three cents. As it is a copyright volume, this price is low even for such cheapeners of books as they are.

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These volumes, like those on the “Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century,” which preceded them, are devoted to a description of the profligate society of Paris during the reign of Louis XV., and have all the lightness, brilliancy, and bland un-morality characteristic of their author. The painters, sculptors, poets and philosophers of the age, are all exhibited on their soft side, and the book demonstrates how little the ostentatious professors of reason, who, in their writings, were lifted so far above the prejudices and passions of mankind, were guided by reason in their conduct. Voltaire, especially, is shown to be the mere slave of the caprices of the several women he loved. He was worse off than many a hen-pecked husband. The volumes are elegantly printed, and are adorned with fine portraits of Voltaire and Madame de ParabÈre.

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This book is exceedingly ingenious, and as brilliant and readable as it is ingenious. The writer is bold to audacity in his criticism on men and on classes, and every page is racy with individual peculiarities. We do not know whether the volume is a scientific joke or not, but the resemblances the author traces between men and animals are often very happy, and seem to point to some occult principle of organization and expression. Hogs, monkeys, cats, hares, foxes, lions, are made to repeat themselves in human heads and countenances with startling effect. The author has given us about a hundred portraits of eminent men and women, with their animal prototypes annexed; and in addition to this he has generalised the shape and expression of whole classes of men into one portrait, and then, putting a pig or a fox by its side, says confidently to the reader, “judge ye.” The book is a very amusing one, even if it have but a fanciful value as regards the leading idea of the author’s theory.

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The subject of this biography is probably but little known in the United States, though the admirable account of his life and character printed in these elegant volumes, will doubtless make him familiar to many who never before heard his name. He lived an eventful life between the years 1507 and 1589, “one of the obscurely great,” says Mr. Morley, “among the prominently little” of his day. The volumes give an animated picture of the civil and religious discords of France in the sixteenth century, in connection with the narrative of the privations, persecutions, and imprisonments which Palissy underwent on account of his heretical opinions. As regards both powers of mind and honesty of character he was undoubtedly one of the foremost men of his time; and truth owes a debt to his biographer for rescuing his services to art, to science, to religion, and to France, from the oblivion into which they were fast falling. The book has the interest of a romance, and may be classed among the most captivating biographies written during the present century.

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A book of travels so rare and strange in its incidents and descriptions, devoted to scenes and people so different from those coming within the observation of ordinary travelers, and written with such thorough knowledge of the subject, as this book of Bayle St. John, is a luxury to read. It gives a complete insight into the poor laboring population of Egypt, and palpably exhibits the abysses of degradation and misery into which tyranny relentlessly plunges the people it pretends to govern. The manners and customs which St. John describes, have sometimes the strange effect on the imagination, which might come from reading an account of things as they are in some other planet. The book is admirably written, has, in its diction, that air of luxurious repose which tourists seem to catch from the climate of Egypt, and is a worthy companion to Kinglake’s “Eothen” and Warburton’s “Crescent and the Cross.” It is published, from advance sheets, in Ticknor & Co.’s most elegant and tasteful style.

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This delightful volume is divided into three parts—the first giving an account of a tour from Ostend to the lake of Constance, the second from the lake to the Simplon, and the third from the Simplon through Tyrol to Genoa. It is laden with information, of especial interest to the young, is written in a style of much clearness and simplicity, and is pervaded by that sweet and genial tone of morality and religion, characteristic of all the writing of Miss Sewall.

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The ingenious author of this singular volume makes botany speak the language of Swedenborgianism, Fourierism, mysticism, and many other isms of the day. It is as curious a theory of symbolism as we have ever read, and whatever may be thought of the scientific value of the writer’s statements, they must be submitted to be exceedingly interesting and entertaining.

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The articles of which this volume is made up were originally written for Fraser’s Magazine, under the alias of George Fitz-Boodle. They have all the unreined heartiness of wit and humor for which that periodical was once so celebrated, and are as worthy of Thackeray’s genius as the “Yellowplush Correspondence” itself, which was written for the same magazine. From sly and searching satire to mirthful caricature, there is hardly a region of the ludicrous which this little volume does not occupy and illustrate. It forms one of the series of Appleton’s Popular Library.

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This volume belongs to the original and copy-righted series of Putnam’s Semi-Monthly Library, and like the other numbers, is placed at the low price of twenty-five cents. The authoress of the present work has written a very entertaining narrative of her experiences of Texas border-life, and, with shrewd powers of observation and a tact for character peculiarly feminine, she combines manly qualities of thought and courage. Her description of Peon slavery is worthy the attention of statesmen.

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These stories are entitled “The First and Last Dinner,” “Malavolti,” “The Iron Shroud,” “The Avenger,” “The Announcements and Three Rooms”, “Nicholas Dunks,” and “Fortune-hunting Extraordinary.” Few of these are any better in plot or style than the ordinary run of tales contributed to American magazines. “The First and Last Dinner” and “Nicholas Dunks,” are perhaps the best in the collection.

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The life of Wellington, in this volume, was published in The Times the day after his death, and was written, it is said, six years ago, to be used as soon as needed. It is quite a long and able summary of the events of the duke’s memorable career, and will be read at present with great interest. The life of Peel is also well-written and discriminating.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the ebook.