upward. The herdsman knew that a storm was approaching.

Suddenly a dark speck, so distant that it seemed but a mote on the dazzling face of heaven, caught his eye. His heart bounded within his breast.

The speck grew larger; he clasped his hands in an ecstacy of joy and gratitude. It was the condor! Soaring at a height immeasurable, it still drew nearer. Schaffhold hid himself in the foliage of the tree, and watched the flight of the majestic bird. Of the condor it is said that it will remain for days upon the wing, and never lights upon earth save for food. The youth knew, by the steadiness of its onward and descending course, that it sought its eyrie. Rapidly it came on: floating calmly in mid air, as if it scorned the feeble enmity of man. Schaff hold's eyes followed its flight: he saw it tending towards a lofty and inaccessible rock. On the summit of this stood an aged tree, half stripped of its leaves by the wind and storms. There, he was at length convinced, was the nest of the mountain tyrant.

Not a moment was to be lost. Descending from his elevated situation, he hastily crossed the valley, and passed along the side of the mountain, cutting a path for himself through the dense undergrowth of the forest. The storm had begun; the wind surged heavily through the thick foliage; he heard the roar of rushing streams, and the crackling of forest trees bent by the blast; but pressed onward without seeking rest. At length he had climbed the mountain to the foot of the rock. Pausing a few moments to take breath, he commenced the steep and perilous ascent.

Grasping the shrubs growing on the face of the rock, and cutting footsteps as he slowly advanced, he reached the most dangerous part. The cliff projected over the abyss, and on its verge stood the lightning-scathed tree, the throne of the winged monarch, never before invaded by man. He could see the dark form of the bird above him. The parent was feeding her young. Her fiery eyes flashed, and her wings flapped threateningly, as she watched the intruder. Schaffhold saw his imminent peril, suspended thus between heaven and earth, and at the mercy of such a foe. The clamorous impatience of her young for food, alone stayed her revenge. When they were gorged, her next swoop would be upon him.

Commending himself, by a brief yet fervent prayer, to heavenly protection, the youth turned aside, and clambered upward by a more circuitous route, where a few straggling pines aided his almost perpendicular ascent. He stood at last on the summit. One peril was surmounted-he was now to strive for life and death with the fierce enemy whose realm he had invaded. The condor sate perched on the top of the lofty tree, whetting her beak for the encounter, her large keen eyes glaring defiance, her talons rending the bark of the tree. A thought struck the young herdsman. Gathering a heap of the driest brushwood, he fastened it to the end of a long pole, which he had cut down with his axe. Then, striking fire, he kindled it, and placed it as high as he could reach, in the branches of the tree.

The half-decayed boughs were instantly on fire. The violence of the wind swept it upward; and the nest itself, composed of dry twigs and moss, was wrapped in flames. The condor had taken flight at the first gush of smoke, but recalled by the cries of her young, wheeled round and round the blazing tree, uttering a hoarse short cry at intervals, and flapping her huge wings, as if maddened by rage and despair. Anon she dashed furiously at the human foe. Schaff hold struck at her with his axe, his only weapon of defence; the bird wheeled round him, retreated, and then plunged madly into the midst of the flames, whence issued the last stifled cries of her young ones. The mother's instinct proved her own destruction. Blinded by the flame, her wings singed, and struggling helplessly for escape, it was now easy for the herdsman to climb into the burning tree and dispatch her with his axe. He had barely time to drag his panting foe to the ground, when the shivered and crackling limbs of the tree, so lately his foot-hold, gave way. The blazing fragments fell into the abyss. Schaff hold threw himself prostrate in thankfulness both for his escape and his success; and bearing the huge bird, tied securely with ropes, prepared for his descent.

All the population of the valley, as well as the stately followers of the court, were assembled next morning before the castle. The Duke came forth to meet the young man who had slain the condor. He received his homage, listened to his account of the adventure in which he had

Pictorial History of England: reprinted from the London Edition. New York. Harper & Brothers.

It is, we believe, acknowledged that this pictorial work is in many respects the best history of England which has yet appeared. Hume's great effort, as a calm and elegant narrative of national movements, changes in the government, embracing besides a splendid gallery of portraits-the eminent characters of the country-with just enough philosophy to preserve it from appearing merely a narrative, has deservedly received the first place among the English annals. It is not, unfortunately, always trustworthy. We may doubtless rely substantially on its facts, and most of its portraits of character; but the impressions left with the reader, by skillful coloring and disposition of figures-and no man was ever more skilled in these arts than Hume -the impressions produced about both men and measures, were often false in the extreme. It is especially as the evident zealous apologist for the Stuarts, that he is the least worthy of confidence. Still, with all these defects-and they are great onesthe exquisite union of dignity and grace, so rare in modern writers, the sustained clearness of a style eminently English, the exclusion of unnecessary details, the Livylike picturing of great events, and the general credibility of the narrative, except where his prejudices are quite manifest, have rendered it deserving of nearly all the praise lavished upon it, and will always give it a place in the language.

Turner's History, comparatively dull as a book to be read, has greater fullness of illustration, arising from more antiquarian research. Particularly on the Anglo-Saxons its information is far more satisfactory than Hume's. The philosophic and classical Scotsman did not half study up the subject. But there is one great point in which both of these histories, like most of those which have been produced in all languages, are extremely deficient. History should present to us the life of a people. It is of course most important that we should know the chief political movements, the revolutions, the battles, the course of diplomacy and commerce, the national institutions, and the great moral causes that have conspired to mould the character of a people; but it is not less important to become acquainted with their habits and feelings, their customs, costumes, dwellings and manufactures, all that makes up the daily life of the vast majority who have no immediate hand in the government, but

who are yet the nation. It is only by a consideration of these latter,

"Catching the manners living as they rise," that we can see clearly how the "form and pressure" of one age grow out of that which went before it. The growth of civ ilization is silent, and the character of a people is mainly formed at the fireside. It is this deficiency in other histories of England that this pictorial work was designed to supply; and it cannot be denied, that the design has been successfully carried out. The reprint by the Harpers is beautifully executed, the paper and print superior to the English edition, and most of the wood engravings equally fine. The chie failure is in those illustrations where faces of men are introduced. Some of these are poor, possessing not half the spirit and character of the original. A little attention to these and to some of the more picturesque buildings, will make the reprint a splendid work. It ought to have a place on the shelves of every American, who cares to know the home history of the race from whom he is descended."

By

The Puritans and their Principles. EDWIN HALL. Baker & Scribner, New York.

The main design of this work is exhibited in the title. It gives the history of the Puritans from the beginning-develops the causes which brought the sect into existence and impelled them on step by step in their wonderful career, till they finally made themselves a home on the shores of New England. The difficulties with which they had to encounter-the strength of principle and character which overcame them-the motives that impelled them onand the faith which sustained them, are delivered with great ability. Mr. Hall has written the work evidently con amore, and hence takes strong ground in their favor, and even sometimes in refusing to see the real defects they exhibit, or at least in as strong a light as a more impartial writer would behold them. A Puritan himself in principle, he of course defends the church policy of the Puritans, shows how it differs from the prelatic, and claims for it the sanction of the Bible. He contends that its system is indispensable to true religious freedom and purity, and indeed to the real freedom and success of governments. He goes thoroughly into his subject, and uses the mass of information he collects to the best advantage. It is a noble subject-the life and principles of the Puritans-em

upward. The herdsman knew that a storm was approaching.

Suddenly a dark speck, so distant that it seemed but a mote on the dazzling face of heaven, caught his eye. His heart bounded within his breast.

The speck grew larger; he clasped his hands in an ecstacy of joy and gratitude. It was the condor! Soaring at a height immeasurable, it still drew nearer. Schaffhold hid himself in the foliage of the tree, and watched the flight of the majestic bird. Of the condor it is said that it will remain for days upon the wing, and never lights upon earth save for food. The youth knew, by the steadiness of its onward and descending course, that it sought its eyrie. Rapidly it came on: floating calmly in mid air, as if it scorned the teeble enmity of man. Schaff hold's eyes followed its flight: he saw it tending towards a lofty and inaccessible rock. On the summit of this stood an aged tree, half stripped of its leaves by the wind and storms. There, he was at length convinced, was the nest of the mountain tyrant.

Not a moment was to be lost. Descending from his elevated situation, he hastily crossed the valley, and passed along the side of the mountain, cutting a path for himself through the dense undergrowth of the forest. The storm had begun; the wind surged heavily through the thick foliage; he heard the roar of rushing streams, and the crackling of forest trees bent by the blast; but pressed onward without seeking rest. At length he had climbed the mountain to the foot of the rock. Pausing a few moments to take breath, he commenced the steep and perilous ascent.

Grasping the shrubs growing on the face of the rock, and cutting footsteps as he slowly advanced, he reached the most dangerous part. The cliff projected over the abyss, and on its verge stood the lightning-scathed tree, the throne of the winged monarch, never before invaded by man. He could see the dark form of the bird above him. The parent was feeding her young. Her fiery eyes flashed, and her wings flapped threateningly, as she watched the intruder. Schaffhold saw his imminent peril, suspended thus between heaven and earth, and at the mercy of such a foe. The clamorous impatience of her young for food, alone stayed her revenge. When they were gorged, her next swoop would be upon him.

Commending himself, by a brief yet fervent prayer, to heavenly protection, the youth turned aside, and clambered upward by a more circuitous route, where a few straggling pines aided his almost perpendicular ascent. He stood at last on the summit. One peril was surmounted-he was now to strive for life and death with the fierce enemy whose realm he had invaded. The condor sate perched on the top of the lofty tree, whetting her beak for the encounter, her large keen eyes glaring defiance, her talons rending the bark of the tree. A thought struck the young herdsman. Gathering a heap of the driest brushwood, he fastened it to the end of a long pole, which he had cut down with his axe. Then, striking fire, he kindled it, and placed it as high as he could reach, in the branches of the tree.

The half-decayed boughs were instantly on fire. The violence of the wind swept it upward; and the nest itself, composed of dry twigs and moss, was wrapped in flames. The condor had taken flight at the first gush of smoke, but recalled by the cries of her young, wheeled round and round the blazing tree, uttering a hoarse short cry at intervals, and flapping her huge wings, as if maddened by rage and despair. Anon she dashed furiously at the human foe.

Schaff hold struck at her with his axe, his only weapon of defence; the bird wheeled round him, retreated, and then plunged madly into the midst of the flames, whence issued the last stifled cries of her young ones. The mother's instinct proved her own destruction. Blinded by the flame, her wings singed, and struggling helplessly for escape, it was now easy for the herdsman to climb into the burning tree and dispatch her with his axe. He had barely time to drag his panting foe to the ground, when the shivered and crackling limbs of the tree, so lately his foot-hold, gave way. The blazing fragments fell into the abyss. Schaff hold threw himself prostrate in thankfulness both for his escape and his success; and bearing the huge bird, tied securely with ropes, prepared for his descent.

All the population of the valley, as well as the stately followers of the court, were assembled next morning before the castle. The Duke came forth to meet the young man who had slain the condor. He received his homage, listened to his account of the adventure in which he had

the sections on cupellation, the blow-pipe, and the action of acids, though short, are full enough for the beginner, and written with great clearness and precision. In fact, one half of the work, as it stands, is his own, and the rest revised, so that it is almost a new treatise. We quote from the annals of the University of Heidelberg, the very favorable comments of the distinguished Prof. Leonhard :-

"The fifth edition of a work is the best encomium upon its character; especially of one of a scientific nature. The first four editions of Phillips' work appeared in London; the fifth has now been published in Boston, edited by Mr. Alger, whose name was previously advantageously known by his beautiful investigations in Nova Scotia, and by the essay which he published thereupon, in company with Dr. Jackson. It was but very recently that we had occasion to allude in these pages to the scientific activity that reigns in the United States; and this work of Mr. Alger furnishes us with additional proof thereof. The Mineralogy of Phillips appears in a new dress, much improved and augmented. As in Dana's work, the minerals are arranged according to a chemical system. With each species the most satisfactory analyses are given, and additional analyses are given of American minerals by Dr. Jackson and others-as Danaite, Cananite, Hudsonite, Masonite, and Ledernite. The figures of the crystals, amounting to 600, are admirable, and there is much interesting information touching the occurrence of minerals, those of Nova Scotia and South America in particular. There is no doubt in our mind, that Mr. Alger's Mineralogy, splendid as it is in its getting up, will find many readers. It is peculiarly adapted as a compendium for students."

Scenes and Thoughts in Europe, by AN AMERICAN. Wiley & Putnam, New York.

This is No. XVI. of Wiley & Putnam's series of American books, and embraces a skipping tour over England and a part of the Continent, or at least it has that appearance, for the author takes his reader up in one place and sets him down in another, sans ceremonie, leaving him to conjecture how he came there as best he may. Another peculiarity about this volume is, it has no table of contents, and Mr. Calvert seems determined if his reader finds a plea sant chapter in it, he shall note it down, or hunt through the entire book to find it again. This is always inconvenient, especially in a book like the present, which is worth referring to again.

Mr. Calvert is a reflective, rather than a descriptive writer, and gives us more of his " thoughts" than "scenes." This is

always a dangerous course for a traveler to pursue. They travel to see, not to be talked to. He, however, shows himself no ordinary man, in writing so interesting a book, with so few sketches in it. The first six pages are devoted to Wordsworth, or rather to his place. We are heartily sick of gossip about “Rydal Mount,” and Lake Winandermere. One would think it was the only spot worth seeing in England. The description of Napoleon's funeral, which he saw in Paris, would have been infinitely more interesting. But Mr. C. is evidently an accomplished man, with a mind prepared beforehand for the scenes he was to pass through, and by the quiet, intelligent and natural way in which he expresses himself, interests the reader, while he instructs him. He has a long description of a water-cure establishment, in Germany, and though he seems not to have been much excited amid Alpine scenery, his description of sunrise on Mount Righi shows him to have been profoundly impressed with this gorgeous spectacle, and the few sentences he writes upon it are among the finest in the book. He sees everything with his own eyes, and gives us a transcript of his own impressions, and thus makes an entertaining and useful book.

The Dream and other Poems.-The Child of the Island. By the Hon. Mrs. NORTON. Francis' Cabinet Library.

will find thoughts replete with tender Open these volumes at random, and you grace, and expressions breathing that quick and divine spirit of impulsion, which is the legitimate attribute of true poetry; and yet, with these essential constituents of the art, there is nothing in all these four hundred pages, to induce one to read otherwise than at random. "The Child of the Isl

ands," is a tale of material life-a sort of nouvelette in rhyme-a dangerous experiment, when they are so much easier to read in prose. So much for the conception of the poem. In execution it evinces a good deal of poetical power, though it lacks that excellence of forcing and commanding the interest of the reader through its varied stages of development; an excellence which few attain, and which, when fully possessed by an author, men are constrained to call Genius. The minor pieces we prefer to any of Mrs. Norton's longer efforts, and upon them, we think, depends her claims to popularity. "The Blind Man's Bride," is a natural and sweet drift of fancy and feeling. "The Child of Earth," is a little poem, of very great beauty. Her songs, when wedded to music, make their way to the heart. The longer poems all have merit, but no individuality. Will she go down to posterity? We cannot tell. She might, had she lived at an earlier date. It

FOR Some time past, a change has been going on in the world of thought. The works, which stand at the head of this article, are but the unerring indices of this change, and, for the present, no farther concern us.

Ideas are now familiar, and sentiments trite, of which the philosophy of our fathers could not have dreamed. Pick up an old author-Livy, for example and how commonplace seem all those reflections, which in his day were deemed most profound. How little does the od Patavinian really tell us of the people whose history he writes. His books are filled with the "gloria imperii," he gives us auguries, traditions and battles-he delights to tell us how Rome, "ab exiguis profecta initiis, eò creverat ut jam laboret magnitudine sua:" but are these things Rome? nay, are they in any wise part of her or her character? Has he brought her before us, panoplied in all the armor of her strength, and made her stand forth a being of life-cold, stern, iron-cast, yet true? Far from it. We ask for her spirit, and he shows but her corpse; we ask for her heart, and he shows us her muscle and sinew. In the days of Titus Livy, the interest, nay, the being of the man was absorbed in the interests and being of the State. Men were never thought of, save in the multitude, as some vast, spring-set, wireworked machine, in the hands of emperors, senators and tribunes. As individuals, and as beings of the fireside circle, none ever heard of them. They were important only as they made patres conscripti and consuls, comitia and legions. And yet Rome, the State, has passed away, teaching man but little beyond that which bitter experience teaches him every day. Her temples and her arches have crumbled to ruin. Her tribunes and consuls, her comitia and centuria, are but

themes of antiquarian research or schoolboy harangues, whilst the minds of her chosen few, her Virgil, her Horace and her Tacitus, are our earliest instructors. Her laws are well nigh forgotten, whilst the filial love of Coriolanus and the maternal pride of Cornelia, are the nursery tales of our children. Her forms are gone, her body is mingled with the dust, but her soul is ever amongst us, in the verse of her poets, and the eloquence of her orators and historians. La materiel is dead-la spirituel is immortal.

"Societies," says Roger Collard, “are born, live, and die upon earth; there they accomplish their destinies, but they contain not the whole man." The State holds not all that binds him to earth, for not in that alone does he live. Within himself there is a world, a microcosm, wonderful in all its parts, divinely and harmoniously wrought. Besides, there is for him another world; that bright and happy one, the circle of his fireside. To live as becomes him, he must act well his part in these three worlds. All his duties must be so blended together, that he may fulfill his high appointment as an individual, as a citizen of the State, and as a being of the household. Sadly for him, he has too often, whilst in one sphere of life, forgotten the existence of another. Cast back the eye five centuries ago. In that twilight of time, where was the individual man, where was the being of the household? Nowhere to be found. A blind despotism of the mass everywhere ruled. The whole man was merged in the multitude, guided to and fro by want and passion. Of action there was much, of suffering much, of thinking none.

The influences which law and government have on the inner man are of necessity few. Possessed of but negative power, it is theirs not to create good, but