gave the name to the product that pleased his fancy. This, in a science of objects rather than ideas, leads to unutterable confusion, and could be rectified only by the means adopted. A committee of the Institute of France was formed to report a remedy; a system of nomenclature, serving retrospectively as well as for the future. The report being adopted, measures were taken to secure the concurrence of every scientific body, and this being readily attained, in a short time every thing became intelligible and simple, instead of ambiguous and complicated. The effects of this remedy were instantly perceptible. Students understood each other; a new fact became the stepping-stone to another; a capital discovery opened the door to new investigations. From the character of a gloomy converser with occult powers, and vexing night with forbidden orgies and incantations, the chemist became a man of day, intelligible to men; the benefactor of his race, and not a minion of darkness, in league with infernal spirits. And the magic of this change lay in the introduction of a nomenclature.

Each village has its phra

What is the condition of agriculture in this respect? seology, opaque to every other. Facts of deep interest to practice lie hidden in unknown hieroglyphics; decisions of the highest value, in questions put by numbers of men almost daily, are recorded in the dialect of a township. One discourses of the 'heels' of animals, and is understood to allude to their horns. Every thing is indefinite; plants, manures, implements of tillage, theoretical expressions, are all without appropriate symbols. Scarifiers,'' grubbers,' 'cultivators,'' horse-hoes,' are mutually jumbled together; and every soil in the earth is compendiously described under the euphonious term of 'loom.' Farmers draw something from many arts and sciences; and not content with the technics of these, indulge their fancy in the invention of new words, so that for one sign, understood by every chemist in the world, they create ten thousand, each one unintelligible beyond the limits of a village. Hence their outcries against 'book-farming,' which cannot be understood, on the one hand, and the jargon of practical men on the other. It is very certain that until definite terms are employed, the experience of the farmer is useless to his neighbor, because his language is unknown; and that no great improvement in agriculture can be hoped, until all are content to receive the specific words already established in the arts, from which their facts are obtained, rather than the provincialism of the county. The technical terms proper to agriculture should also be established by some central bodies, such as the large societies of this state. In the Dictionary' named at the head of this article, the preceding ideas appear to be carried out in a very admirable manner. Let us hope that this subject may attract the attention of our agricultural societies, and that our farmers, having so cheap and compendious a work placed within their reach, will at once adopt the improvement we have ventured to suggest of using the well-known words of science and art, instead of vague expressions. In the Dictionary we find against each plant its botanical name in italics; now if agricultural writers would adopt the plan, when treating of new products, or weeds, of introducing the scientific name in a parenthesis, every one who did not know the local name would discover the plant indicated. The Farmers' Dictionary' is also a work of real value to the practical man, in consequence of the account it gives of every crop susceptible of cultivation in our country. Many of these we have never before seen described. The present is the first work ever published for the purpose of explaining technical words to the farmer, and we know of no book which can be of more utility to the community, or which is des tined to do more service in giving to agriculture an intelligible nomenclature.

THE NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW. Volume Sixty-One, Number One hundred and Thirty-One, for the April quarter. pp. 528. Boston: OTIS, BROADERS AND COMPANY. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY.

THERE are nine articles in the present number of the North-American,' entitled as follows: 'WALPOLE'S Memoirs and CAVENDISH's Debates;' 'Saint Louis of France;' CARY'S 'Dante ;'The American Fisheries;' CARLYLE's Letters of Cromwell; PERDICARI'S Greece of the Greeks; O'CALLAGHAN's History of the New-Netherlands; Explanations of the Vestiges of Creation;' and LESTER'S Translations from the Italian.' Of these papers we have only found leisure to read attentively those on CARLYLE'S CROMWELL,' and Saint LOUIS of France. The last-named article is an excellent one. It is very comprehensive and clear in its grouping of historical facts, and its style is truly admirable. We select a closing passage to illustrate the justice of our encomium:

'ON the sixteenth of March, 1270, he left Paris for the sea-shore; on the first of July he sailed from France. The sad, sad story of this his last earthly doing need not be here repeated. Led, we scarce know why, to sail to Tunis; without wishing it, involved in an unjust and useless war with the Moors; delayed by the tardiness of his able but abominable brother, Charles of Anjou; and seeing daily his army melt away beneath the heat of the climate, thirst, hunger, pestilence, and the Moorish arrows; it was but too certain that the last of the crusaders was drawing near his end. From his resting-place, the castle of Carthage, Louis could look out upon the burning sands of the shore, the molten sea, the sky of burnished brass; he could watch the southern winds sweep the sharp dust of the desert into the camp of his followers; could behold the African horsemen hovering around his devoted troops, destroying every straggler. Leaning with his thin, feeble hands upon the battlements, he looked toward the bay where floated the ship in which his favorite son lay sick, stricken by the plague which was consuming so many; which even then had fastened upon the king's own blood. With tearful, anxious, yet patient and confiding eyes, he watched the vessel just moving in the roll of the bay under that August sun, and prayed to GOD and JESUS that his son might live, and his brother quickly come. His prayer was not granted; on the third of August the Count of Nevers died; on the eleventh, his death was told to his father; on the morning of the twenty-fifth, the fleet of Charles of Anjou had not yet appeared. Meanwhile, the poison in the veins of the monarch had through twenty-one days been working, and none yet knew whether he would live or die. From his sick-bed he had sent messages of comfort and resignation to the sick around him; on his bed of weakness and pain he had finished those advices to his successor which should be engraved in adamant, and given to every king and king's son to grow better by. Hold to justice,' such are some of his words; be inflexible and true, turning neither to the right hand nor the left, and sustain the cause of the poor until justice be done him. If any one has to do with thee, be for him and against thyself. Beware of beginning war, and if it be begun, spare the Church and the innocent. Appease all quarrels that thou canst. Procure good officers, and see that they do their duty. Keep thy expenses within bounds.'

So passed the closing hours of the French king. During the night of the twenty-fourth of August, he asked to be taken from his bed, and laid, unworthy sinner that he was, on a bed of ashes. His request was complied with; and so he lay, his hands crossed, his eyes fixed upon the suffering form of his SAVIOUR, until some three hours after the next midday. Those who sat by, and saw how breath failed him, drew the curtains of the window to admit the slight breeze that curled the waters of the bay, and looked out, carelessly, into the August afternoon. Afar off, a fleet was just coming in sight, the long-expected fleet of Anjou. With beating hearts they knelt and told the royal invalid on his couch of ashes; but his ear was deaf, his eye lifeless, his jaw fallen! Make ready your spices to embalm his body, poor, threadbare garment that it is! and issue your bulls to embalm his memory as a saint; for as such already his name is aromatic in the mouths of men.'

The reviewer of CARLYLE'S Letters and Speeches of CROMWELL' remarks, with truth, that the great reason why CARLYLE is welcomed so generally in this country, even by those who dislike his style, and do not admire his ways of thinking, is, that he manifests a strong friendship for his race; though it is a friendship of that kind which implies no confidence in them, and is shown in the easy and pleasant way of contempt for things existing, without proposing for their welfare any measures or improvements of his own. This distinction, however, he will not be able to keep; the sceptre is already passing into a thousand other unclean and scrambling hands. For, now, not only the moralist by profession, but the man of letters; the small poet who wants a market for his unsaleable wares; ay, and the peddling writer of fiction, whose cheap literature is likely to cost much to the rising generation; have disco

vered that the tone of humanity suits the public taste; and, as the language is easily assumed, the demand will soon have a full supply, so that there is some danger of the miller being drowned by the over-abundance of the stream.' In the notice of Mr. C. EDWARDS LESTER'S Translations from the Italian,' the reviewer has a word or two to say upon dedications, the justice of which we think we established in our last number. Instead of inscriptions briefly significant of respect or affection, they are not unfrequently artificial, ostentatious, sometimes insincere, and often grossly selfish;' we may add, too, that they are many times employed by minor authors to indicate a repute with the distinguished person to whom their book may be dedicated, which is far from being established. The North-American' still commends itself to the respect and patronage of the American people by its internal and external attractions.

THE OLD CONTINENTAL: OR THE PRICE OF LIBERTY. By the author of 'The Dutchman's Fireside,' etc. Two volumes in One. pp. 383. New-York: PAINE AND BURGESS.

We know of no other work of our patriotic countryman, PAULDING, that has pleased us so well as this. The style is simple, easy, and natural; and the incidents-many of which are full of interest, and some of them very exciting—if not strictly historical, are such as one plainly sees might actually have occurred; while the pictures of primitive American life and character are drawn with such evident faithfulness, that we are at once transported back to the times that tried men's souls.' The author, in a brief and modest preface, tells us that his work 'makes no pretentions to the dignity of a historical romance; his design being merely to convey to the mind of the reader some idea of the spirit, the sufferings, and the sacrifices of a class of people who are seldom if ever individualized in history, yet who always bear the brunt of war and invasion. His hero, however, once actually existed, and exhibited in his youth many of the qualities which are ascribed to him. Some of the adventures detailed were well remembered by the old people of the neighborhood, few if any of whom are now living. Others took place in different parts of the country, at various times; and the whole,' he adds, may suffice to give at least a faint picture of the price paid by our fathers and mothers for the freedom we enjoy. The value of the blessing may in some measure be estimated by the sacrifices by which it was obtained.' The tale was substantially written, Mr. PAULDING tells us, several years ago; and the author, after keeping it more than the period prescribed by HORACE, has here given it a last revision.' We had marked several passages descriptive of old-time manners and customs, as set forth in the sketches of the lovely heroine, JANE, and her family, together with one or two stirring hairbreadth escapes of the true-American hero; but the demand upon the pages of our present number compels us to forego the pleasure of their insertion at this time. There are, however, so many valuable lessons inculcated in the work, that Memory will doubtless often prompt the future occasion for incidental reference to its pages. The new and enterprising house to whom we are indebted for the publication of the work, have taken praiseworthy care that its external excellence should be in good keeping with its internal merits. We take pleasure always in commending good paper and nice printing; especially when they indicate a decadence of the 'cheap and nasty' publications, in which dingy paper and worn-out types are appropriately employed to scatter broad-cost a ragged and worthless literature.

NARRATIVES OF REMARKABLE CRIMINAL TRIALS. Translated from the German of ANSELM RITTER VON FEUERBACH, by Lady DUFF GORDON. In one volume. pp. 339. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS is a very remarkable and a remarkably entertaining volume. The trials which it contains are selected and abridged from a work consisting of thirteen hundred closely-printed pages. FEUERBACH, the author, was celebrated as a judge, a legislator, and a writer. He was for many years president of the highest criminal court of Bavaria, and the penal code of that country was chiefly framed by him. His exposition of criminal law is a text-book for the whole of Germany, where the work now before us, which was the last he wrote, excited great attention. He was for ten years President of the Central Criminal Court of a province of the Bavarian empire, containing several towns, and inhabited by half a million of souls, differing in faith. In the exercise of his judicial functions, many remarkable cases were brought before him, and ample opportunity was afforded him for the exercise of his extraordinary power of penetrating the recesses of the human heart, and of divining the secret motives of human action. The system of the author is well described in the preface of the work. A very long time was often employed in a minute and searching investigation into the secret motives and inmost feelings, as well as the external actions of the criminal; a prolixity and deliberation which the English editor thinks should not be condemned by those who remember that no fewer than six persons were in one year convicted of capital crimes at the Old Bailey, and left for execution, who were proved to be innocent, and saved by the zeal and activity of the sheriff. The volume is replete with deep interest, and we risk nothing in commending it to the favorable regards of our readers.

TYPEE A RESIDENCE IN THE MARQUESAS. BY HERMAN MELVILLE. In two volumes. NewYork: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

WE had perused this very entertaining work with a great deal of pleasure, from the easy, gossiping style of the author, and his constant and infectious bonhommie. We must needs admit, however, that we were frequently struck while reading it with the idea that the writer was occasionally romancing. In this impression we are confirmed by the capable critic of the Courier and Enquirer' daily journal, who says of the work: It is written in an exceedingly racy and readable style, and abounds in anecdote and narrative of unusual interest. We should not express our candid opinion, however, did we omit to say that in our judgment, in all essential respects, it is a fiction; a piece of Munchausenism from beginning to end. It may be that the author visited and spent some time in the Marquesas Islands; and there may be foundation for some portions of the narrative. But we have not the slightest confidence in any of the details, while many of the incidents narrated are utterly incredible. We might cite numberless instances of this monstrous exaggeration; but no one can read a dozen pages of the book without detecting them. This would be a matter to be excused if the book were not put forth as a simple record of actual experience. It professes to give nothing but what the author actually saw and heard; it must therefore be judged, not as a romance or a poem, but as a book of travels, as a statement of facts; and in this light it has, in our judgment, no merit whatever.'

EDITOR'S TABLE.

A VOICE FROM THE STEAMER SWALLOW.' - We say a voice from the Swallow' although it is just one year this evening since that ill-fated vessel sank down a 'night-foundered wreck' - because the author of the following sketch, in recording at our request what he has just related to us, will seem to the reader, as he has to us, to be speaking from amidst the stormy waves, the groans of distress and shrieks of agony, which stamped forever the incidents of that dreadful night upon his memory: 'The Swallow' left Albany at six o'clock P. M., on the seventh of April, 1845, and in about two hours after, while swiftly skimming on her course, struck with a terrible crash upon a rock, near the town of Athens, some forty miles below. The shock was so great that strong men were thrown violently upon the decks; and as the vessel careened, it was discovered that she had broken in halves, and was sinking. The lights in the cabins went out; the night was dark and fearful, and all was black! Women fell fainting upon the floor; cries came up from below that the boat was filling; and for a moment, all was hushed. Suddenly, fierce flames of burning gas shot out from the hissing furnaces, as the water rushed in, and danced wildly upon the deck; and as they leaped up and pierced the storm-clouds that enveloped the ill-fated steamer, the dreadful cry of Fire!' fire!' spread through the vessel, and the stoutest hearts quailed with fear. "Twas a terrible scene! Husbands sought their wives; frantic mothers caught up their babes, and in their frenzy plunged overboard and disappeared in the dark and gurgling water. So rapidly did the steamer settle, that before I could pass from my state-room to the lower cabin, the latter was entirely filled. A command was given by the captain for all to rush forward; but as confusion and despair reigned throughout the vessel, this order was not distinctly heard; and before the women, who had swooned away, could all be carried up and forward, the waters, like a swollen creek, were sweeping over the main-deck, and many with their offspring clasped to their bosoms, were engulphed, and in that sacred embrace were borne to heaven! As the affrighted crowd rushed for the steps, pressing through water now nearly up to their arm-pits, some holding young children above their heads, others bearing their wives and sisters, and all calling upon the ALMIGHTY to save them, the scene was fearful indeed.

'Escaping thence, I went abaft, upon the upper or 'promenade-deck;' but so fast had the boat filled, that by the time I reached the ladies' saloon the water was ankle-deep; and in it stood men and women quivering with fear, and made helpless by the threatening dangers around them. Hurrying aft, through the water, which was