learned: Fish-eating peoples and persons have not been the greatest of the earth; the facts contradict your theory. They might perhaps add, in the analogical way of reasoning, that so very phosphoric a creature ought to be comparatively intelligent, whereas "codfish” is a synonym for a stupid person. Nor are the elephant and the dog-the most intelligent beasts-fish-eaters.

A middle conclusion is safest. Eating fish will not alone make a Napoleon, a Shakspeare, nor an Ericsson. But fish is good to eat, is of great and increasing value as an article of provision, and fish-culture, just beginning to be a business in the United States, promises to be one of much usefulness and importance.

Mr. Norris' book is a condensed, clear and well-told account of the substance of doings hitherto in what may be called the manufacture of fish, of what may be done in the same, and how to do it. Mr. Norris is a sprightly and clear-headed writer, and has succeeded in making both a useful and a readable book.

Smoking and Drinking. By JAMES PAPTON. Boston (Ticknor & Fields). This stout little pamphlet consists of Mr. Parton's three articles on Smoking, Drinking, and Inebriate Asylums, reprinted in neat style from the Atlantic. Mr. Parton is a brilliant and sensible writer. He is right in his opposition to the dirty trick of using tobocco, and the bad habit of using liquor. He has here constructed arguments against them which are forcible, pungent, and entertaining.

We fear that his confident predictions of temperance to come, are more rose-colored than the prospect actually warrants. Yet he is a welcome auxiliary to the force that fights on the right side. His bright and pointed style is no less useful, for instance, than the solider and colder scientific statements of Dr. Griscom, whose little tract on the use of tobacco has been received with so much favor that an enlarged edition of it is to be issued, with an essay on the chemistry of the cigar. Perhaps by-and-by some cleanmouthed poet will fall into line with essayist and doctor of medicine. Thus far, we believe, all the poets have been on the dirty side, of the tobacco question at least.

LONGFELLOW's New-England Tragedies will, of course, be read by all his old admirers-and, thank Heaven! they are many; for, to admire Longfellow bespeaks a certain tenderness of heart if nothing more-and it

will also, pretty certainly, widen the circle of his fame. But the old admirers will miss a beauty and fragrance that has come to them in all of their dear poet's previous utterances, and will listen in vain for the music that floated with Evangeline upon the swift river and the still lagoons, as she went vainly seeking her lost lover; to which Hiawatha paddled his canoe, and Minnehaha, in her beauty, walked around the cornfields drawing the magic-circle with her feet; and the new admirers that this volume will enlist will be enlisted, if we are not greatly mistaken, not because it is poetical, but because it is interesting. Interesting it certainly is. It could hardly help being that, dealing as it does with two of the most interesting phases of early New-England life. But we do not think it is a whit more interesting than would be a simple prose account of the Quaker persecution and the witchcraft delusion. The prose of Hawthorne, dealing with the same facts, and certainly as true to their spirit, is not only much more interesting but much more poetical. And Upham's "History of Salem Witchcraft," in its naked simplicity of statement, is far more thrilling, makes the flesh creep and the teeth chatter, as this story of "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms" does not. Indeed, if this poem of Longfellow's shall stimulate its readers to procure and read Upham's noble historic estimate of that fearful time, it will do a great deal. We only wish that the story of the early Massachusetts Quakers, their singularities and their distresses, had been as well and as impartially written.

We hardly know why it is that Longfellow has failed to make his treatment of these themes so unpoetical. It is not that they are dramatic in their form; for the "Golden Legend" was that, and, unless "Evangeline" is superior to the "Golden Legend," not one of his longer poems can be reckoned so. It is not that these poems are in blank-verse. The "Spanish Student" was in blank-verse, and was as poetic and as melodious as his most perfect rhymes. Certain would-be admirers have affected admiration for the bold simplicity of these poems as suited to the boldness of the times. But the "Courtship of Miles Standish" dealt with the same period, and was not bold nor unpoetic. For one thing, Mr. Longfellow's motive in writing these two dramas seems to have been too exclusively didactic. They are meant to teach toleration, and they do it. But, for a successful poem, the didactic motive

is not enough. Poetry without beauty is but very slightly modified prose. Mr. Longfellow repeatedly shows great ingenuity in turning into verse the language of the Bible and the literal sayings of his characters; but the effect is more unique than beautiful.

The volume would have been still more interesting if copious notes could have been added. The action is, for the most part, familiar ground to the student of Colonial history; but there are some things on which he would like to be informed. Was there such a feud between John Endicott and his son as we have here represented? From the disposition made of his property by the father (Upham, vol. i. p. 75), it would seem that there was not. It would further appear by the poem that John Endicott, jr., was in love with Edith Christison. But as John Endicott, jr., was married in 1663, and died before his wife, in 1668, the poet has not, we trust, without warrant, injured his fair fame. The chronology of the John Endicott poem seems to us unneccessarily wild. In 66 'Giles Corey" we see no good reason why the Indian girl, Tituba, should be introduced so frequently and to so little purpose, when, in fact, during the whole action of the drama, she was lying in Boston jail, from which she was finally sold to pay charges. Cotton Mather should have been painted in much darker colors. There is some ground for supposing that he was at the root of the whole trouble; and if he was not, he found it most congenial to his taste, and fairly rollicked in it, till his terrible excesses outraged even the little common sense there was in the community. Upon the whole, we trust that neither of these subjects will here be dropped, but that, with the help of Mr. Longfellow's failure, even some lesser poet may take advantage of their striking situations and poetic atmosphere, and achieve an honorable distinction as the poet of the persecuted Quakers and the victims of the most terrible delusion that ever cursed God's children.

Too True: A Story of To-Day. Reprinted from "Putnam's Magazine" (Putnam & Son). Neither plot, variety of character, nor incident are wanting to give interest to this story, as the readers of "Maga for the last year well know. The slides of the stereoscope show the charming home-life of the really cultivated American family, the amusing ignorance and real good nature of the newly rich, contrasted with a few of the

pompous airs of wealthy conceit, relieved by the undershading of respectable tenementlife. With commendable taste, the author ignores the descriptions of squalor and vice, the writers of American society-novels usually drag in to give effect to their high lights of fashion and extravagance. It is one of the most carefully prepared novels of New York life which has been sent out for two or three seasons. There is sufficient plot in it for a serial of the highest sensational style. The German tutor, who has been admitted to the friendship of several homes, and is successively betrothed to two beautiful girls, elopes with the most trusting, carrying off the jewels of his employer, and turns out a real baron who has been forced to fly his native country on account of his crimes, and is an adventurer of the most unscrupulous sort. The weaving of this plot among strands of humor borrowed from the airs of the newly rich, and the comicalities of inner life, evolves a story readable, pleasing, and in its passages of sincere sentiment, worthy of even higher praise.

It must be said, however, that greater freedom of style would have brought out the sense captivatingly. The characters are charming enough to have been allowed more individuality. One misses the racy turns and elisions of New York speech; the least possible touch of well-bred slang-there is such a thing in use, from the professor's chair to the mother's Boston rocker-would give life to the careful speeches of the lovely Cameron family. Fancy a boy of thirteen, under the influence of strong excitement, saying to his sister, "There is one thing which you may rely on in my character, and that is, my devotion to the interests of those I love. I am but a boy in years; but I feel as much called upon to protect the honor of the women of my family, as if I were older!" Now, probably, the youth would have said, with clenched hand, "If I like a person, I stick to 'em, and if any body goes to meddle with you girls, I'll knock him over to Jersey.” The author who drew the mirth-provoking character of old Grizzle has no need to hamper his dramatis person with such speeches as the one quoted.

But there are passages of sentiment and of judiciously brief description which reveal the hand of a poet as the author of this book. The home-life of the Camerons, the dreamlife of Elizabeth, the passion of Milla, are themes on which he has expended his finest touches. What a perfumed paragraph is this: "In the morning she awoke, with lids like

unclosing lilies, feeling the sunshine before they part; at night, she slept, the leaves of her soul fast folded over odorous dews of dreams." And what simple pathos, after Milla's flight with an adventurer, in "the sight of the little white bed, soft shelter of innocent girlhood; a glove dropped on the floor, a pair of little slippers scarcely cold from the warmth of those small feet." What a lovely image of Milla he conjured up, in her green satin chair, "looking like a water-lily among its fresh leaves." It is one of those books whose tone is so irreproachable that the strictest censor can admit it to his family. table, secure that the only visions it leaves will be those of purity and final peace. The dark thread of the story is kept under; the refinement of the Camerons, and the tact of the lady artist, Miss Bayles, are uppermost, brightened with the absurdities of Grizzle senior, whose highest idea of enjoyment was that things "seemed like a regular Fourth of July, now!" The resignation of Sam to his various rejections by Miss Elizabeth-"If ma's satisfied, I am," is comic as a stroke of Dickens humor, and the despairing tact with which he tries to gain a last interview with her, is overcoming in its simplicity. It is to be repeated, that freedom of style alone is lacking to make the writer of this book one of the most popular novel-wrights this side of the Atlantic.

A Sister's Story, translated from the French of Mrs. Augustus Craven (née de la Ferronnays), by EMILY BOWLES. (Catholic Pub. Society.) It surely needs no Romanist to appreciate the charm of this exquisite story of love and sorrow. Something akin to the journals of the De Guérins in simplicity and sweetness, it has much more variety and incident. It tells, by means of letters and journals, the story of the love and married life of two beautiful souls, and in the descriptions of the family circle revolving about these central planets, we have most charming sketches of every affection that makes home lovely. Alexandrine d'Alopeus, the heroine of the book, marries, after two years of lover's trials, Albert de la Ferronnays, with whom she enjoys ten days of perfect felicity. At the end of that halcyon period, symptoms of consumption declare themselves in the young husband, and the two years that he has yet to live are passed in the agonizing alternations of hope and fear that characterize that treacherous disease. The second part of the book, detailing the

widowed life of the young countess, is naturally not so generally interesting as the first, especially as it diffuses that interest over too many different members of the family. But whatever objections Protestants may have to the Romanist tendencies of the narrative, it is certain that nowhere can we find a sweeter picture of the purest and most ideal love, sanctified by the fiery baptism of sorrow. You may call the religious spirit of the book by what name you will, it still retains the perfume of love to God and man, which marks the holiest minds of all faiths. It is impossible that a book so full of truth and beauty can do any thing but good.

ANY one fresh from reading Morris' exquisite rendering of the old story of "Psyche and Cupid," will be attracted by the title of a story just published by Leypoldt & Holt, called A Psyche of To-day, by Mrs. W. 0. JENKINS. And there is much to be enjoyed in it, although it is rather too sorrowful for those who seek unmixed recreation in their novels. Poor Regina does not come out of her tribulations quite so fortunately as the Psyche of olden story, and at the end of the book it is very doubtful to the reader whether she will ever enjoy the love she has at last gained.

The scene is laid in France, and there are some fresh, bright descriptions and the story is told in a simple, natural manner. The style is rather sketchy than finished, and though one sighs over the sad and rather unsatisfactory ending, yet the book also carries with it the suggestion that the author can and will do better things.

If, Yes, and Perhaps, is the singular title of a book of stories by the Rev. E. E. HALE, of Boston. They are reprinted from various periodicals, and for ingenuity of construction, wonderful truthfulness of detail, and brilliancy of dialogue, have rarely been surpassed. We allude particularly to the three called "My Double," "The Man without a Country," and the "Skeleton in the Closet," which are far better than the others. The last is an ingenious and startling description of the way in which the Southern Rebellion came to grief, not so much from the prowess of our arms, as we had fondly hoped, but through the agency of various discarded hoop-skirts, which entangled themselves in the army, the navy, and the treasury of the rebels in a most astounding manner. Probably nobody since Defoe has humbugged more

LORING, of Boston, has of late been reprinting some very charming little novelettes and stories in cheap railway form, but in good, clear type. Of Miss THACKERAY'S exquisite Fairy Tales for Grown Folks, and Mrs. SARTORIS' Week in a French Country House, no one can speak too highly. After reading the latter, one is astonished at the impression left on one's mind, of character, and incidents that remain with a fulness and completeness seemingly incompatible with the little sketch of a book in which they are presented. It is almost like the old "Arabian Nights" story of accidentally releasing genii from a bottle, and being filled with wonder at the way he expanded. Medusa, and other Tales," by Mrs. Sartoris, is good, but not equal to the earlier publication, which we judge was written last.

We cannot say much in favor of such books from the same publisher as "Was it a Ghost?" the cover of which, we should think, would be as far as most people would like to inspect. But to compensate, we have Miss Alcott's Proverb Stories, "Lucy, or Married from Pique," ," "Grace Owen's Engagement," etc., simple little love stories, which no one will be the worse for reading.

A Book about Boys. By A. R. HOPE. Boston (Roberts Brothers). This book is written by an English teacher, who is evidently young, and whose ideas are in a transition state. Self-sufficiency and modesty, conservatism and progress, brutality and tenderness are strangely mingled in this work. He believes in flogging, and appears to think it all right that a brave boy, who is tired of the blubbering and squirming of a cowardly one, should volunteer to take the flogging, and that the teacher should agree to and infiict this vicarious flogging for the general benefit of all youthful spectators. Yet, no more eloquent words have ever been written, than the author utters in this very book against brutality to boys. His warm enthusiasm for the young, his hearty sympathy

with them, his manly acknowledgment of an error are charming. His naïve confession that all his floggings failed to make a certain boy better, and his confession of his utter incapability of managing a certain stupid boy, are suggestive of a needed progress that will certainly come to one whose heart is so essentially right. With all its faults there is much good in the book, and we cordially commend it to all interested in the subject.

VERILY there is a new era in this country in the literature for children. It is not very long since all the juvenile books seemed conducted on the principle of the definition of duty "doing what you don't want to," for the books that were interesting were not considered good, and the "good ones were certainly not interesting. Most Sunday-school books were stories of unnaturally good and pious boys and girls, who, however, were not attractive enough to rouse a desire of imitation in the youthful breast.

But now we have a different order of things, and books for children are about as varied in their scope as those for grown people. One of the pleasantest books we have read for a long time is, Little Women (Roberts Bro's), the story of four young girls, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. This is a thoroughly natural and charming book, fresh and full of life, and we heartily recommend it to all young people, big or little. We gave it to a little girl of twelve to read, for whose opinion we have great respect, and she pronounced it just the nicest book. "I could read it right through three times, and it would be nicer and funnier every time." And to our certain knowledge, she read it twice in one week, and would have read it again, had not the book been carried off.

The Butterfly Hunters, by HELEN S. CoNANT (Ticknor & Fields), is one of those books which combine very pleasantly instruction and amusement. We feel, after reading it, strongly tempted to take up the study of Lepidoptera, though our own experience is, that chasing butterflies is better than catching them. Still we think all children who live in the country all or part of the year, would do well to read the book, and we do not doubt they will become as thorough devotees of the science of hunting butterflies as the children in Mrs. Conant's book.

Another book belonging to the same class, but suited to quite young children, is, What Makes Me Grow; or, Walks and Talks with Amy Dudley. This is a very pretty re

print from the English edition, by Putnam & Son, and in the conversations between a mother and her little daughter, a great deal of useful information is imparted to the youthful reader on physiology, gently administered on the principle of a sugar-coated pill. Any thing that will interest children in physiology and hygiene should be encouraged; for it is a study that ought to be made as attractive as possible.

The Bird, a translation from the French of MICHELET, published by T. Nelson & Sons, London and New York, is an exquisite specimen of book-making. It is beautifully printed, and enriched with 210 illustrations by Giacomelli, the artist to whom we owe the dainty marginal illustrations in Doré's Bible. These engravings are gems of their kind, and fitly adorn the poetry of the text. "The Bird" is no dry treatise of natural history, but a glowing rhapsody, full of that artistic feeling and poetic exaltation which distinguishes the style of Michelet. The book might almost be called the apotheosis of the Bird, to whom the author endeavors to restore the soul that philosophers have denied it. The translator's work has been done with a most laudable spirit of fidelity to the original, and he (or she) has enriched the text with copious explanatory notes, which greatly increases its value to the unscientific reader. The book, Michelet tells us, is the product of home-studies with his wife, and is one of three; "La Mer" and "L'Insecte " completing the trilogy. May Messrs. Nelson be inspired to give us the others in as beautiful a form as this! "The Bird" is not a book for a matter-of-fact person. It cannot be measured by any rule and line of criticism, but should be read in a flush of poetic fervor, as it was written. Don't sit down to it after reading "Darwin's Variation of Species," for instance, but wait till you are penetrated with the airy capricios of the mocking-bird, or all in sympathy with the busy chattering of the sparrows as they dart through the fading trees; and when you feel that birds are a sort of animate, winged poems, read "L'Oiseau," and be thankful.

Up to the time this number is made up, the annual crop of ornamental "gift-books had only begun to appear in the market. Two or three bearing the popular trade-mark of Ticknor & Fields fully sustain the

reputation of that eminent house for taste and judgment. One of these is a really charming presentation of that established favorite, the Christmas Carol, by Dickens, with twenty-five new designs by Eytinge, engraved on wood. These designs are all good, and some of them are superlatively so. Any author may be well satisfied when his theme is translated by the artist's pencil as truthfully and delicately as Mr. Eytinge has done his part in this volume. The press part of the volume is unusually excellent in all respects. Another, from the same publishers, is a new edition of Dr. J. W. PALMER'S "Poetry of Compliment and Courtship "-a comprehensive and tasteful selection of verse, old and new, more or less relating to the nevertiring theme of love, courtship, and marriage. To ornament this book the publishers have chosen some of the exquisite little vignettes engraved on steel by the American BankNote Co. to adorn bank-notes. The new order of national currency having displaced these bits of artistic skill, they find a worthy use in Dr. Palmer's book; for we seldom see such gems in the same space, or indeed in any space.

The Flower and the Star, and other stories for Children, written and illustrated by W. J. LINTON, comes from the same house. Mr. Linton is the eminent English wood-engraver who has recently taken up his residence in this country, and who appears to know how to use his pen as well as pencil.

We can but note, in a line, the announcement that Mr. Ticknor retires from this distinguished firm, which is hereafter to be known as Fields, Osgood & Co. Mr. Ticknor's name, so long made honorable by his late father, will be greatly missed from the rolls of the "Trade." The "reconstructed" firm is not likely to secede from its long and prosperous union with the domains of judicious and tasteful enterprise.