f literature and art, together with a most vivid portraiture of social
life in Poland, a land which has ever excited so much admiration for its
heroism, and compassion for its misfortunes.

Mr. Leypoldt, the enterprising publisher of this work, merits the
encouragement of the American people, inasmuch as he has not feared to
risk the publication of a work deemed by many too excellent to be
generally appreciated by our reading community. He however has faith in
the good sense of that community, and so have we.

Fragmentary portions of Liszt's 'Chopin,' about 60 pages out of 202,
were translated by Mr. Dwight of Boston, and appeared in the 'Journal of
Music.' Those portions were favorably received, and all who thus formed
a partial acquaintance with the work will doubtless desire now to
complete their knowledge, especially as some of the most vivid and
characteristic chapters were omitted.

MY DIARY NORTH AND SOUTH. By WILLIAM HOWARD RUSSELL.
T. O. H. P. Burnham. New York: O. S. Felt, 36 Walker Street. 1863.
(Cloth, one dollar; paper covers, fifty cents.)

It is amusing to read over, at this stage of the war, these letters, in
which the Thunderer, as represented by Mr. Russell, dwindled down to a
very small squib indeed. Few men ever prophesied more brazenly as to the
war,--very few ever had their prophecies so pitiably falsified. Other
men have guessed right now and then, by chance; but poor Russell
contrived, by dint of conceit and natural obtuseness, to make himself as
thoroughly ridiculous to those who should review him in the future as
was well possible. It is, however, to be hoped that these letters will
be extensively read, that the public may now see who and _what_ the
correspondent really was, through whom England was to be specially
instructed as to the merits of this country and its war. When we
remember the advantages which poor Russell enjoyed for acquiring
information, his neglect of matters of importance seems amazing--until
we find, in scores of petty personal matters and silly egotisms, a key
to the whole. He is a small-souled man, utterly incapable of mastering
the great principles involved in this war,--a man petrified in English
conceit, and at the end of his art when, like a twopenny reporter, he
has made a smart little sneer at something or somebody. He writes on
America as Sala wrote on Russia, in the same petty, frivolous vein, with
the same cockney smartness; but fails to be funny, whereas Sa