wish
to gain comprehension and instruction. Like most untrained writers, Mr.
Stanley imagines that, with a sufficiency of matter, it is only
necessary to refrain from striving after picturesque effects or ornate
embellishments in order to attain the qualities of clearness and
simplicity. Happily, the impulsiveness that betrays itself in his style
seems to have been kept well under control in the management of his
enterprise. It is always, indeed, apparent as a leading characteristic,
but it breaks loose only on occasions when it may be safely and not
unattractively displayed.

"Life of Frank Buckland." By his Brother-in-Law, George C.
Bompas. London: Smith, Elder & Co. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott Company.

There is a story told of Sir Edwin Landseer's being presented to the
King of Portugal, who impressively greeted the famous painter with, "I
am rejoiced to make your acquaintance, Sir Edwin Landseer, _I am so fond
of beasts_." An equally ardent sympathy with Frank Buckland's specialty
was necessary to his friends while he was alive, and is required by
those who read this delightful, bizarre, and admirable history of a man
whose fellow-feeling for all creatures endowed with life was as broad
and comprehensive as Dame Nature's for all her children. He had, it
might seem, no antipathies. Everything excited his interest, curiosity,
and tenderness. Bears, eagles, vipers, jackals, hedgehogs, and snakes
roomed with him. He not only lived on intimate terms with his zoological
curiosities, petting them, training them, studying them, but he finally
ate them. As Douglas Jerrold said of the New Zealanders, "Very
economical people. We only kill our enemies; they eat 'em. We hate our
foes to the last: while there's no learning in the end how Zealanders
are brought to relish 'em."

It had been the elder Buckland's habit to try strange dishes. While he
was Dean of Westminster, hedgehogs, tortoises, potted ostrich, and
occasionally rats, frogs, and snails, were served up for the
delectation of favored guests, and alligator was considered a rare
delicacy. "Party at the Deanery," one guest notes: "tripe for dinner;
don't like crocodile for breakfast." Thus freed, to begin with, from the
trammels of habit and prejudice, there was little in the way of fish,
flesh, or fowl which Frank Buckland did not sooner or later try, with
various results. For instance, to quote from his diary:

"March 9. Party of Huxley, Blagd