whole tendency of his poem is to depreciate the benefits and real happiness of peaceful occupations, and to consider the spirit of war as the one which should be encouraged. Out of civilized life he draws uncivilized teachings. His poem, magnificent though it be in many respects, is but the advocate of unchristian thoughts. Mr. Longfellow finds his heroes and heroines in the woods, existing long before the dawn of civilization had lit up their savage and ignorant natures. Yet from their wild lives he draws lessons inculcating love towards one another and the exercise of the gentler virtues. He takes the rudest materials and he fashions a story which breathes a moral.

-

Mr. Longfellow has not attempted to portray the entire nature of the Indian. He has left to other pens, or rather, let us hope, to his own at some other time, the description of the rude portion of their character, their thirst for revenge, their cruel and inhuman tortures, their treachery, their cunning, their love of the chase and of war. He has contented himself with telling us much of their more interesting qualities. He has taken us into their wigwams and seated us by the fireside. He has told us of their love of the Great Spirit in whom they reposed all the confidence of their hearts, "the author and the finisher of their faith," of the gentleness of the maidens, and the bravery and fine looks of the young men, and the sage counsels of the chiefs. He has furnished us with much new and interesting knowledge. He has appealed to our more delicate sensibilities and awakened our warmest sympathies. He has told us the delightful legends of the Indians in the warm and truthful language of his heart.

IN CAIRO.

THE flaming sun is sinking to his couch
Of radiant clouds, and his long, level rays
Stream through the open casement, lending to
The crimson draperies a deeper dye,
Lighting the apartment with a ruddy glare,

And giving omen of a sultry morrow.
I lie on my divan, fanned by the slave
Obsequious, and languidly I gaze
Upon the city wrapped in purple haze.
And as my eye rests on the crowding mosques
And towers, while the Moslem crier from

The neighboring minaret loud summons to

Their evening prayer the Faithful, my sad thoughts Steal dreamily away from Orient skies,

To the far West, and in my reverie

I wander from the weary, burning clime.

I do remember a clear autumn eve,

When o'er the land the Indian summer reigned,

And a new grace its tender influence gave

To the calm aspect of the tranquil landscape,

That seemed to sleep while gentle winds kept watch.

Along the rivulet's marge I wandered slow:

The sun had set, and o'er the western verge

Of the horizon hung the evening star;
Against the lucid yellow sky each tree
Upon the summit of the distant range
Of hills stood boldly out, and every spray
Seemed to embrace a planet in its robe
Of variegated leaves. The silver light
Quivered a moment on the placid stream,
Then sped reflected back to its far source.
Through the still chambers of the sombre woods
The breezes sobbed monotonous. Above
In leafy homes the fall birds twittered, and
The cricket's chirp rose shrilly echoing up
In air. Beside me moved a slender form;
A soft hand lay in mine confidingly;
Dark, lustrous eyes were bent upon my face,
Through whose transparency a pure soul looked,
And each bore sparkling up a diamond, with
Whose glistering the brightest stars of heaven
Might vie, only to yield the palm of brilliancy.
With blushes that the dusk could scarce conceal,

History of the Reign of Philip II., King of Spain. By W. H. PRESCOTT. Vols. I. and II. Boston: Phillips, Sampson, and Company. 1855.

MR. PRESCOTT has already, in his former History, shown us how, under Ferdinand and Isabella, Spain emerged from the obscurity in which it had long been hidden and took a prominent part in the affairs of Europe. He has told us the interesting and romantic story of Spanish chivalry seeking wealth and honor in the New World. It remained for him to explain the fall of Spain, to show us how the kingdom of Charles V., from being the recognized head of Catholic Europe, has sunk to the condition of a third-rate power. This forms the subject of his present work. It displays to us the policy of Philip II., a policy which, injurious even to Philip, became ruinous when attempted by less vigorous hands. The fatal mistake, that uniformity of government requires uniformity of religion, deprived Spain, in the sixteenth century, of the Netherlands, and forced her in the nineteenth to look to foreign armies for the protection of her own soil.

This excellent History is in every way worthy of its subject. Mr. Prescott shows such a knowledge of everything relating to his subject, and such an interest in the occurrences he is describing, that he can hardly fail to succeed. He has, moreover, the rare merit of saying all that is to be said, of saying it in the right place, and in the

best and most agreeable way. One is not obliged to read a sentence over twice in order to understand it. The author's meaning stands out, as it were, so clearly, that one never considers whether the book be well written or not, the most important quality of a good style. We hope at some future time to be able to examine this book and its subject more at length; and we anticipate great pleasure in so doing. When we finished reading it the first time, we envied those who had yet that enjoyment in store for them. Soon, however, we found that we could enjoy a second reading even more. Nor is that all. We venture to say that no one can peruse Philip II. without wishing to refresh their memory by again turning over the pages of Ferdinand and Isabella.

T.

Caste, a Story of Republican Equality. By SYDNEY A. STORY, JR. Boston Phillips, Sampson, and Company. 1856.

THIS is the title of a very interesting work of fiction designed to show some of the social evils of our peculiar institution. And yet this purpose never obtrudes itself upon the reader, for the moral is closely interwoven with the story, and comes to the mind gradually, and almost imperceptibly. No characters are introduced, as in many modern books, expressly to make antislavery speeches, but whatever is said on that subject flows naturally from the mouths of the speakers, and is closely connected with the rest. The plot is ingeniously contrived, and the interest is kept up throughout. The reader is never allowed to go to sleep over stupid conversations or tedious details. Perhaps the whole is a little too highly wrought; but then nobody will complain of that in our high-pressure age.

The book is certainly one of the best of its kind, and we recommend it to those of our readers who have time and taste for light reading. The style in which it is published is exceedingly neat and attractive.

Extracts from the Diary and Correspondence of the late AMOS LAWRENCE. Edited by his Son, WILLIAM R. LAWRENCE, M. D. Boston: Gould and Lincoln. 1855.

AT the present time, when the market is flooded with books, a

volume of true value should, and invariably does, meet with due appreciation from the public. Such a one, most assuredly, is the work before us, the Diary and Correspondence of that good man and Christian philanthropist, Amos Lawrence. Every member of the community must feel grateful to his family for giving it publicity, though at a sacrifice of personal feelings. The editor (whose delicate task has been performed in a skilful as well as careful and conscientious manner) states in the Preface, that a few copies of the work were originally printed for private distribution. At the request of many who were anxious to obtain the book, and more especially at the urgent solicitation of various associations in which Mr. Lawrence took an interest, the editor has been induced to give an edition to the public. Were it a work intended to sell, we might speak of its great success, but its actual value is far above that which can be reckoned by dollars and cents. It is a book to afford excellent advice and precepts, and to hold up a striking example to those entering upon every profession, especially the mercantile. It points out the only sure road to wealth, honor, and distinction; it conveys interest and instruction to persons of all ages, and of all classes of society; and it is most eminently calculated to inspire and cheer the wayfarer, exposed to the trials and vicissitudes of a stormy life.

Mr. Lawrence was one of five brothers, of whom only the youngest survives. He came to Boston at the age of twenty-one years, and it was here that his long life of usefulness and benevolence was spent. There are few who were not familiar with his kind face; for during the last part of his life he was constantly seen riding about the city on his errands of charity,—often with his carriage crowded with children, for whom he had a great partiality. He was much tried by sickness and suffering, and for twenty years lived on the most meagre fare, never once in the course of that period dining with his family. His disease was of such a character that he was accustomed to call himself a "minute-man." minute-man." And at length, only about fifteen minutes after the bells had announced the advent of

the

year 1853, the summons came, and he rested from his earthly labors, passing calmly and peacefully away.

"The Thracians wisely gave
Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave.
Weep not for him; go, mark his high career:
He knew no shame, no folly, and no fear."

ALPHA.