of holiday books, but its unusually rich and tasteful binding, and its truly exquisite illustrations, would doubtless render it a graceful and acceptable memento of the gift-making season. The pictures, indeed, are so copious and so admirable as to relegate the text to a somewhat subordinate position, the author's simple and direct but rather home-spun style being a scarcely appropriate vehicle for such pomp of ornamentation. Colonel Waring is always judicious and sensible, with a special aptitude for those details which interest the "practical man"; and he has written an animated and no doubt perfectly accurate account of his travels in the Tyrol, in Venice, and in the lake region of Italy and Switzerland. But he has the practical man's contempt for fine writing, and his usual way of dealing with a particularly impressive or picturesque scene is to say that it would be hopeless for him to attempt to describe what an artist in words would describe, or has described, so much better, but that he enjoyed it as much as one who might be more voluble about it. The pictures, however, compensate for all such deficiencies in the text; and the book as a whole has this advantage over most holiday books—that it will maintain its interest all the year round.

Few books in our military biography are more readable than “The Life and Letters of Admiral Farragut," and the men whose life and deeds were equally deserving of record are probably fewer still. The career of Admiral Farragut extended over nearly the entire period of the existence of the American navy. As a boy he served in the War of 1812; as a youth he participated in those Mediterranean cruises which first made the United States known to Europe as a great naval power; and in the full maturity of his years and powers he directed the most important of those brilliant naval operations which contributed so largely to the overthrow of the Southern Confederacy.

The early life of Farragut was full of adventure and romance. By his father's side he was descended from a good Spanish family, whose record can be traced back to the fifteenth century; and his mother was a North Carolinian. At the age of eight he was adopted by Commodore David Porter, who had received kindnesses at the hands of Farragut's family while in New Orleans; and when little more than nine years old was appointed midshipman in the navy. In this capacity he accompanied Commodore Porter in his famous cruise in the Pacific Ocean, and served as captain's aide in the terrible fight of the Essex with the British ships Phoebe and Cherub. His professional precocity was such that at the age of thirteen he was intrusted by the Commodore with the temporary command of a vessel; and at the un

* The Life of David Glasgow Farragut, First Admiral of the United States Navy. Embodying his Journal and Letters. By his Son, Loyall Farragut. With Portraits, Maps, and Illustrations. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 8vo, pp. 586.

usually early age of eighteen he received his appointment of lieutenant. Promotion in the navy is necessarily slow during peace, and it was not until 1842, when he was already forty-one years old, that Farragut obtained a commission as commander; and but for the civil war this was the highest grade to which he could have hoped to attain. Long before this, however, he had shown that he possessed exactly those qualities which are requisite in a great emergency; and when in January, 1862, the naval expedition against New Orleans was organized, he was selected as the officer best fitted to conduct it to a successful issue.

Much the larger part of the earlier portion of the biography is composed of selections from a journal which Farragut began to keep when only fourteen or fifteen years of age; and all this part of the narrative is extremely fresh and interesting. Few things of the kind in naval literature are more graphic and realistic than the description of the cruise of the Essex in the Pacific, and of her heroic defense against the combined attack of the Phoebe and the Cherub; and the later entries give us a very close view of life on board a man-of-war. The chapters, constituting the bulk of the work, which describe in detail Farragut's achievements during the civil war, are hardly so interesting to the general reader as the earlier narrative; but they are carefully and accurately written, and they cover the most memorable period in the history of our navy

THE second volume of the series "Classical Writers is a monograph on Euripides by Professor J. P. Mahaffy, A. M. As was explained in our notice of the first volume (" Milton "), this series is designed primarily for use in schools and to meet the wants of special students, and elegance of expression and originality of view are less aimed at than the systematic and thorough presentation of facts which have stood the test of criticism. Judged by this standard, Professor Mahaffy's monograph is a praiseworthy and practically useful work. It is less interesting to the general reader, perhaps, than Mr. Stopford Brooke's similar volume on Milton; but the student will find in it all that he needs to know of the man Euripides, of the times in which he lived and the circumstances under which he wrote, of his distinguishing characteristics as a dramatist and poet, and of the history and fortunes of his works. Especially valuable, not merely to the student of Euripides, but to all students of the golden age of Greek poetry, is a chronological table of Euripides's life and times, giving a political and a literary and artistic chronicle in parallel columns.

.. Under the title of "Gems of Thought," *

....

*Gems of Thought: Being a Collection of more than a Thousand Choice Selections, or Aphorisms, from nearly Four Hundred and Fifty Different Authors, and on One Hundred and Forty Different Subjects. Compiled by Charles Northend, A. M. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

Mr. Charles Northend has brought together a collection of more than a thousand selections from nearly four hundred and fifty authors, classified under a hundred and forty different heads, from "Abstinence" (which had better have been called Temperance) to "Zeal." The selections are all brief, and for the most part moral and didactic, and, while some of them are gems of the purest water, others are a very inferior quality of paste. The author's reading appears to have been curiously limited in range, nearly all the more modern passages being taken from sermons or theological works, while under "Heroes," Carlyle, the great apostle of heroworship, who has written more fine things about heroes and heroism than all other writers combined, is not even mentioned. No doubt, however, the book will be found useful where a more copious collection would only repel.

... The incomparable Chronicles of Froissart have been the great storehouse from which nearly all later writers have drawn their stories of chivalry and adventure, and are themselves not less fascinating to-day than when they charmed the court circles of Edward III. of England and King John of France five hundred years ago. Unfortunately, however, like so many other good and interesting books, they have long been crowded aside by the fleeting generations of ephemeral literature, and have been the occasional reward of a literary knight-errantry scarcely less daring than that which Sir John himself records. In "The Boy's Froissart,"* Mr. Sidney Lanier has undertaken the pleasant task of rendering this famous work acceptable to the class of readers by whom its peculiar fascination will be best enjoyed. By eliminating the drier descriptive passages and the somewhat tedious dialogues of the original work, and by rearranging what remains, he has produced a version which is much briefer than the original, and more intelligible, while retaining all its spirit, and fire, and romance. His own in troduction to the volume is very good, though he would have done well to bear in mind Dickens's earnest protest against "writing down" to any class of readers; and the illustrations are remarkably vigorous and animated.

... Encouraged by the success of his general anthology, Mr. Henry T. Coates has compiled a "Children's Book of Poetry," which he is perhaps correct in claiming to be the most comprehensive collection of the kind that has yet been made. It contains upward of five hundred poems, ranging

from lullabys and nursery rhymes to selections from the old English ballads, and fills a large and handsomely printed volume. All the old favorites are there, together with many new pieces which deserve to become favorites; but in his desire to secure comprehensiveness, the editor appears to have dispensed with any theory of selection or standard of merit. Everything in verse that referred to children or dealt with child-life has been gathered in, and a considerable portion of the volume is children's poetry only in the sense that none but children could be induced to regard it as poetry.

... Few things in the way of fiction that have appeared in "Harper's Half-Hour Series" are so good as Mr. Barnet Phillips's novelette "Burning their Ships."* It is a piquant and animated story of American life, with some good character-drawing on a miniature scale, and written in a crisp and vivacious style, which affords a pleasure quite independent of the interest felt in the narrative itself. . . . Under the title of "Sealed Orders and Other Stories," † Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps has gathered nearly a score of the short stories and sketches which she has contributed to the various magazines since the appearance of her last collection. They show much ingenuity of invention, and a surprisingly uniform level of merit; but there is none, we think, quite so original and forceful as some of her earlier stories. ... "A Gentle Belle," by Christian Reid, is a lovestory of a pleasing if somewhat conventional kind, in which it is duly exemplified that the course of true love never does run smooth, but that the virtues and vices are duly rewarded in the end. . . . Additional volumes in the "New Plutarch" series, which started off so grotesquely with Mr. Leland's "Life of Lincoln," are "Judas Maccabæus," § by Claude Reignier Conder, R. E., and "Gaspard de Coligny," by Walter Besant, M. A. The story of Judas Maccabæus forms one of the most important episodes in Jewish history, "if only," as the author says, "because it explains how the nation first developed that peculiar phase of character which marked it at the time when Christianity was given to the world." The life of Admiral Coligny, the martyr of St. Bartholomew's day, affords the opportunity for describing that great catastrophe which proved to be the death-blow of the French Reformation, and which constitutes the most lurid page in the annals of the Church.

* Harper's Half-Hour Series. Burning their Ships. By Barnet Phillips. New York: Harper & Brothers.

18m0, pp. 120.

+ Sealed Orders and Other Stories. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Boston: Houghton, Osgood & Co. 16mo, pp. 345.

A Gentle Belle: A Novel. By Christian Reid. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 8vo, pp. 142.

§ Judas Maccabæus, and the Jewish War of Independence. By Claude Reignier Conder, R. E. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 16m0, pp. 218.

| Gaspard de Coligny (Marquis de Chatillon). By Walter Besant, M. A. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 16mo, pp. 232.

opened the door of his study, and with hand upon the latch said to him:

"

Do you want to know something, my pretty bluebird? Monsieur de Miraval has not left Lausanne. I just met him crossing the Place Saint-François."

"I have another one still. You are not of the same age."

"She is seventeen months, two weeks, and three days older than I. Is that worth talking about?"

Horace went forthwith to the Hôtel Gibbon, and was no more successful than before. He returned in the evening, and his perseverance was at last rewarded. He was overjoyed to see Monsieur de Miraval assisting his digestion by smoking a cigar on the terrace of the hotel.

"Well, uncle," said he, "I thought you had gone?"

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak," answered the Marquis. "Lausanne is such a delightful town that I had not the courage to tear myself away."

"Condescend to explain."

you as of the Bishop of Avranches, 'When will his reverence get through his studies?' If you were in business, diplomacy, or politics, I should say, 'Marry that phoenix; your future will be secure.' But it would be ridiculous for a perpetual scholar to marry Madame Corneuil. You flatter yourself that you are inspiring her with your own tastes and your enthusiasms, which only fill her with indulgent compassion. You bore her with your talk about Manetho; but, as she has many talents, one of them is that of sleeping without showing it."

"Have you finished, dear uncle ? "

My sweet friend, I will spare you the rest." "Do you think that I would take the trouble to reply?"

"I will dispense with that; I am fully con

vinced."

'Have you written to my mother?" "Not yet; I do not know what to write. I

"

Quite the contrary," said the Marquis, suddenly becoming excited. "You did not say enough that was good about that woman. There is only

one word suitable-she is adorable."

"But uncle, if that is so-" "Adorable, I say it again; but not at all suited to you. And, to begin with, you think you love her-you do not love her."

"Be kind enough to prove that."

"No, you do not love her. You see her through the medium of your mutual remembrances of travel, through the medium of the delight you took in explaining the tomb of Ti to her. You see her through Egypt and the Pharaohs. From the summits of the pyramids, forty centuries have looked down upon your betrothal, and that is why your love is so dear to you. It is a pure mirage of the desert! Leave out Egypt, leave out Ti, breathe on the rest, and nothing remains."

"If that is your only objection-"

"If you remember, you gave me your word of honor as an uncle and a gentleman that you would do nothing without my knowledge."

"Upon my word of honor, both as uncle and as a gentleman, you may see my letters. Come again in two days, at this same hour, because I do not come in until dinner-time. I will show you my scrawls."

"Now we understand each other," answered Horace; "it is war, but an honorable war."

And he took leave of his uncle without shaking hands, so deeply did he take to heart the impertinent insinuations of Monsieur de Miraval; but on his way back he soon began to find them rather more amusing than impertinent. He ended by rehearsing them to himself laughingly, and he also laughingly repeated them to Madame Corneuil, to whom he gave a minutely faithful and exact account of his visit at the Hôtel Gibbon. His sincerity was rewarded by a most enchanting smile and many evidences of lovely and delightful tenderness. As in the arbor, a radiant brow was bent forward as if to meet his lips. It is not true that there is no kiss like the first. The second filled Horace with such sweet intoxication that he could not work the rest of the day without abstraction. He was busy in remembering it.

His surprises were not over. Upon going

the next day but one to the rendezvous appointed by his uncle, he learned that Monsieur de Miraval had left the evening before, and this time for good. No one could tell where he had gone. He had paid his bill, and left the hotel without further explanation. Did the Marquis suspect that his inconsistent and whimsical behavior was troubling greatly the heart of an adorable woman, and even disturbing her nightly repose? Madame Corneuil was again overcome by these perplexities, which told upon her disposition. Madame Véretz had hard work to defend herself, although, to tell the truth, she was not in the least to blame.

"Bah!" said Horace to them. "We distress ourselves altogether too much about all this. What is the use of tormenting ourselves and bothering our heads about it? Let us not suspect dark mysteries where there are none at all. I had not seen my uncle before for two years. Perhaps, fresh as he seems, the approach of age may make itself felt; perhaps he may not have all his wits. He used always to know exactly what he wanted, now he knows that no longer. I am distressed about it, for I love him dearly; and, if he is losing his mind, I freely forgive him all the outrageous things he said to me."

He did not know what to think when, at the end of a week, one morning when it was pouring hard, he saw Monsieur de Miraval enter his study, looking sober and melancholy, with clouded brow and lusterless eye.

"Where did you come from, uncle?" exclaimed he.

"Where should I come from if not from my hotel," answered the Marquis.

"But you left it a week ago."

"I mean the Hôtel Beau-Rivage, at the borders of the lake at Ouchy, the port of Lausanne, where I settled myself, after I became dissatisfied with the Hôtel Gibbon."

"I know very well," said Horace, " that the Hôtel Beau-Rivage is at Ouchy, neither am I ignorant of the fact that Ouchy is the port of Lausanne. But I do not know why you changed your quarters without letting me know."

"Excuse me, boy-I am so busy."
"At what?"

"That is my secret."

"I am sorry for it, uncle, but your secret does not make you happy. Where is all your brilliant gayety? You seem as sober to me to-day as a prison-lock. Can you be tormented by remorse?"

"Where do you get the idea that I have remorse? This cursed rain troubles me. Look at that lake; it is rough and ugly. Does it always rain hereabouts? Have you a barometer?"

Here is one at your service. Pray, do you

confide your secrets to my mother? Have you in your pocket the scrawl of a letter which you were to show me?"

The Marquis answered neither yes nor no. He walked up and down the room, cursing the rain which prevented everything, and every now and then he returned to the barometer, which he tapped obstinately in hope that it might indicate fair weather. Then in the midst of a lamentation he took his hat and rushed out as brusquely as he had entered, in spite of his nephew's efforts to keep him to breakfast.

The next day, being Sunday, it did not rain, thanks to Heaven, but it made up for it by blowing very hard. The lake, lashed by the breeze, was no longer itself; it had the appearance of an angry ocean. The Marquis returned at the same hour, looking as cross and as disturbed as on the previous day, swearing against the wind as energetically as he had protested against the rain. He could talk of nothing else, and again tapped the barometer, but this time he wished to make it fall.

"The stupid thing has gone up too high!" growled he.

"It probably did not understand exactly what you wanted it to do," said Horace.

"I am in no mood for joking," answered he, "and am going out."

In vain Horace tried to keep him; he reached the door and stairway, whither his nephew followed him, and then, taking his arm, said that he was determined to accompany him back to his hotel. He hoped that on his way thither he might make him talk of something besides the wind. They had not gone fifty steps when they saw a carriage coming at full speed, as if to get out of the storm, and in it were Madame Véretz and her daughter. The ladies were returning from mass at Lausanne, where it has been celebrated ever since there has been a Catholic church on the Riponne.

Just as they were about to cross, Madame Véretz, who was always on the lookout, gave an order to the coachman, and the carriage stopped short. Horace took care not to let go his uncle's arm, and obliged him to halt. Evidently the charm at once began to act again, for as he drew near the open door of the carriage, and the Marquis encountered the glances of Madame Corneuil, his countenance fell. He bowed awkwardly, muttered a few words utterly devoid of sense or any pretensions thereto, then, freeing himself from his nephew's grasp, he made another bow, and, turning his back upon them, disappeared.

"

He grows more and more inexplicable," said Madame Véretz. "I begin to think his conscience troubles him."