ise on the
subject--that of Theile--sufficiently show. More has been done in
unravelling the mysteries of the faciae, but there has been a
tendency to overdo this kind of material analysis. Alexander
Thompson split them up into cobwebs, as you may see in the plates
to Velpeau's Surgical Anatomy. I well remember how he used to
shake his head over the coarse work of Scarpa and Astley
Cooper;--_as if Denner, who painted the separate hairs of the head
and pores of the skin, in his portraits, had spoken lightly of the
pictures of Rubens and Vandyck_.

Laymen can not decide, where doctors disagree; but there are few who
will not at least read this lecture with pleasure.

JOHN BRENT. By Major Theodore Winthrop.
Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1862.

It is strange that so soon after the appearance of _Tom Tiddler's
Ground_, with its one good story of a wild gallop over the Plains, a
novel should have appeared in which the same scenes are reproduced,--the
whole full of wild-fire and gallop.--American life-fever and
prairie-dust,--uneasy contrasts of the feelings of gentlemen and
memories of _salons_ with pork-frying, hickory shirts, and whisky. The
excitement and movement of _John Brent_ are wonderful. Had the author
been an artist, we should have had in him an American Correggio,--with
strong lights and shadows, bright colors, figures of desperadoes
inspired with the air of gentlemen, and gentlemen, real or false, who
play their parts in no mild scenes. It is the first good novel which has
given us a picture of the West since California and Mormondom added to
it such vivid and extraordinary coloring, and since the 'ungodly
Pike'--that 'rough' of the wilderness--has taken the place of the
well-nigh traditional frontiersman. It is entertaining and exciting, and
will attain a very great popularity, having in it all the elements to
secure such success. Those who recognized in _Cecil Dreeme_ the
vividly-photographed scenes and characters of New York, will be pleased
to find the same talent employed on a wider field, among more vigorous
natures, and assuming a far more active development. Never have we felt
more keenly regret at the untimely decease of an author than for
WINTHROP, while perusing the pages of _John Brent_. There went out a
light which _might_ have shown, in Rembrandt shadows and gleams, the
most striking scenes of this country and this age.

MEMOIR, LETTERS AND REMAINS OF ALEXIS