certain travelling directions, than any of the guide-books, since it sets down, with great minuteness, all the facts which the traveller is interested to know, as collected by an active and discriminating mind, and spares you all the nonsense of these manuals. 'No carpet-bag can be considered complete without it.' The author's journeys in Europe lay through England, Wales, France, Switzerland, Italy, the country of the Rhine, Prussia, and Saxony. His observations were noted down at the time, so that the account of every place visited, and every object seen, may be said to have been written by the author on the spot.

POEMS BY GEORGE P. MORRIS: The Deserted Bride, and other Productions. Profusely embellished, with Fine Engravings. In one volume, royal octavo: pp. 305. NewYork: CHARLES SCRIBNER.

THIS most superb volume - preëminently elegant in a typography which reflects the highest credit upon the press of CRAIGHEAD, in its fair white Bristol-board paper, unexcelled, and in its numerous illustrations, from the burins of ALFRED JONES and CHARLES BURT, most exquisitely engraved from the classic and facile pencils of WEIR and DARLEY-is, we hesitate not to say, one of the most beautiful that has ever issued from the American press. Praise so fervent as this might be questioned, perhaps, by those who had not seen the book; but the moment it shall present itself to the eyes of its readers — and in less than a month from the time these sentences come before the public, thousands will have seen it-it will be found that we have 'said but sooth.' Nor are the contents of the charming volume unworthy of their 'setting' and their adornment. Poems that have not the element of perpetuity have but a transient life. You shall see volumes upon volumes of 'poems' which have had their ‘little day' of sudden fame, and are already snugly stowed in Time's wallet for oblivion; volumes upon which their authors have exhausted their 'art,' and partial friends have squandered their exaggerated praise; but here is a book and the lesson is worthy of heed-which may safely rely upon its simplicity, its tenderness, its natural feeling, naturally expressed, for a reputation, (dearer far than aught else, we are sure, to the author,) instead of the mis-called 'power,' and 'inner-meaning,' and 'deep-down thought,' which were too 'powerful' for the common mind, and too high-flown and obscure for common intellects. Most of the briefer poems in this collection were given to the country twenty, and many of them as far back as thirty years ago. Not a few of them have been wedded to music as sweet and simple as them selves; and upon countless pianos in the broad domain of this our beloved land, they still find a home and an affectionate abiding-place. Some of the most popular among them, we must be pardoned the pleasure of mentioning, were written for, and originally appeared in the pages of the Knickerbocker, now the oldest of our editor-author's literary contemporaries; "The Deserted Bride,' which gives the initial-title of the volume, among the rest.

But to the poems in this collection it would be adscititious now to advert. To be sure, there are new ones, of which, did our space permit, we should like to speak, and which we should be glad to transfer to our pages. But

wherefore? When this notice comes before our readers, they will straightway bethink them of 'Woodman, spare that Tree,' 'On the Lake where droops the Willow,' 'I'm with You once Again,' 'When we were Boys together,' 'My Mother's BIBLE,' and other kindred familiar poems, equally sentient in the national, nay, the general heart; and quotation would be vain, and worse than in vain. The contents of the book have spoken, speak, and will speak for themselves. It remains for us only to pay a brief and imperfect tribute to the illustrations, which it is easy to see could only have been a 'labor of love' to the accomplished artists who designed and executed them. They are all, with one exception, (a spirited head of the author, from the facile pencil of our departed friend, HENRY INMAN, whose mantle ELLIOTT so deservedly and without challenge wears,) from the hands of WEIR and DARLEY. They are fourteen in number, and represent 'Woodman, spare that Tree,' 'LISETTE,' The Croton Ode, 'The Chieftain's Daughter,' 'The DogStar Rages,' 'When other Friends,' etc., 'The Prairie on Fire,' "'T is Now the Promised Hour,' 'Rock of the Pilgrims:' all these are by WEIR, whose pencil may be always known by one especial thing, apart from his masterly handling of his theme; and that is, appreciation of his author. Look, for instance, at the pictured expostulation with the wood-man to spare the tree, which he has begun to lay low. One positively feels that the chopper has taken what the woods-men call too wide a 'calf,' and that the venerable and venerated old tree is 'past praying for.' But not so; the wood-man relents, and that old tree will stand, 'when a hundred years are gone.' 'And long may it wave!' 'LISETTE' is a calm, sweet face, full of mingled character and feminine sweetness. The portrait of the author is an airy sketch in its kind; one of our lamented friend INMAN's best crayonish attempts. 'The Dog-Star Rages' is one of those pictures which few, if any, can paint so well as WEIR, but which, in our judgment, greatly lack the effect of color, as here presented. The conception, composition, and execution of 'The Prairie on Fire' are excellent, and all that could be expected of any artist; but who can depict a prairie on fire — next to the ocean in a storm, the sublimest of all sublime objects? "The Promised Hour,' or 'The Serenade,' is certainly in the best manner of an artist who is always good. The theme is something hackneyed, alike upon the stage, in song, and in art; but it is here poetically and most artistically treated. "The Rock in the Wilderness,' the last of WEIR's designs, is a graphic and effective picture, embodying in full the sentiment of the landing of the Pilgrims at the Rock of Plymouth,.. the 'Blarney-Stone of New-England,' as it was once irreverently styled by a departed Irish wit, and true Irish gentleman, at a 'Pilgrim' festival. DAR-LEY has but three pictures, but they have rarely been surpassed, even by himself. They are three illustrations of "The Maid of Saxony,' a play; 'FREDERICK the Great,' which brings PLACIDE before us at once in St.. PATRICK's Eve,' poor POWER's play; 'SOPHIA MANSFIELD,' a lovely representation. of the beautiful porcelain-factory girl; and WEDGEWOOD, the auctioneer, a capital impersonation of that busy, lively, and useful class of our "fellowcitizens.' But we must pause; having only to add: Buy and read this most charming volume. It is richly worth five dollars, by the outlay of which you can lay it upon your centre-table, and take it to your heart..

BLEAK-HOUSE. By CHARLES DICKENS, Author of 'The PICKWICK Papers,' 'OLIVER TWIST,' 'DOMBEY and Son,' etc., etc. In two volumes. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

WE are of that class of impatient readers who devour 'serials,' if they are attractive, as they 'come out.' An interesting narrative, with an air of authenticity, claims immediate perusal, if once you 'dip into it,' and take, as it were, the fortunes of its heroes and heroines upon 'your own shoulders.' This we have done with DICKENS's last work, 'Bleak-House,' now completed, and lying before us in two handsome volumes, elaborately illustrated, and well executed typographically, as might be expected of the renowned publishing-house whence the volumes proceed. When the work, as now, is done, and finished, and ended,' we can scarcely help envying those readers to whom all its characters will be new; who have, as yet, formed no acquaintance with the mysteries of the royal court of chancery, in England, as disclosed in 'Bleak-House;' who know nothing of the memorable case of 'JARNDYCE and JARNDYCE;' who know not the sensible, the affectionate, the gentle ESTHER SUMMERSON; nothing of the honorable and pompous Earl DEDLOCK, and his tortured lady; nothing of ADA, of TULKINGHORN, of the hopeful and pliable 'RICHARD,' of BYTHORN, of 'BAGNET,' the 'Old Girl,' and of Mrs. JELLABY-nothing of the undying SKIMPOLE! Ah! what a treat non-'serial' readers have before them! And before these sentences shall have attained to type,' the book will be in the hands of so many of our readers, that extracts from it would become a 'twice-told tale' to them. We quite agree with a daily contemporary, in whose literary judgments we are wont to confide, that all the characters of 'Bleak-House' pale and recede as the immortal HAROLD SKIMPOLE approaches:

'MR. DICKENS, in all his varied creations and their name is legion - has never produced any picture half so new, so true and so needful as that of HAROLD SKIMPOLE. This gilded lie, this butterfly-swindler, this ruffian, masquerading as a child, and pretending innocence, in order that he may rob with greater security, is not a character unnatural or unknown. He exists, with slight variations, every where, although, strangely enough, until Mr. DICKENS Served the world by publishing his portrait, he was only known in private. Exceedingly delicately has he outlined this man, preserving, with the true lightness of the artist, all those airy lineaments so difficult to catch -SO much more difficult to register. There is an exquisite balance preserved in SKIMPOLE'S character. He never discloses himself; he is never disclosed. By little and little our conceptions of him broaden into a complete appreciation of his villany; and even then, it is our own conclusion we draw -not the author's, or any of his characters'. SKIMPOLE is thoroughly sustained to the last; and even then, although he vanishes from the stage in that aerial, unsubstantial kind of way, befitting so spiritual and refined a rascal, he goes off with so intense a piece of ingratitude in his mouth, that his memory is inevitably gibbeted to our scorn.

'O, garrulous and gossipping Bard of Rimini! it will take much poetry, even of thy wishy-washy style, to wash thy hands of all connection with that pleasant, black-hearted, smiling, double-faced, heartless rogue, HAROLD SKIMPOLE! It will take many of thy 'Jars of Honey,' culled though they be for thee by the wild bees of Hybla, to sweeten this bitter pill, so publicly administered. In the very face of that 'Town' about which thou didst so lightly gossip, thou art unmantled, and standest exposed and shivering in the midst of the mocking and scornful crowd. What thy own base treachery to that noble POET, who sheltered thy unplumed carcase beneath his eagle-wing, began some

twenty years ago, Mr. DICKENS, with a few strokes of his caustic pen, has completed. Never did a more merited disgrace overtake a traitor; never did a man need more pity who deserved or will get so little.'

This paragraph points unmistakably to LEIGH HUNT; but may there not be some error in its assumption? We do not remember to have seen a single recognition of the character in any London journal. Moreover, our faith is somewhat staggered by a circumstance just mentioned to us by a distinguished metropolitan physician, recently returned from abroad, who while in London met LEIGH HUNT (to whom he brought letters) on two or three occasions at his own lodgings. The now venerable poet was desirous of negotiating with some American house for the publication of his collected works in this country. His finances were not in the best condition, our informant said, although he was busy with his pen; writing regularly, among other periodicals, for DICKENS's 'Household Words.' Now it hardly seems possible that he could be under pay to an editor who was holding him up monthly to the most withering scorn and contempt. We hold the rather, therefore, with our informant, that HAROLD SKIMPOLE must be drawn from some other original than LEIGH HUNT. If not, he would be a bold man who should undertake the re-publication of his writings in this country. He has been standing long in the pillory, and is now suspended in chains on a gibbet higher than the gallows of HAMAN.

We have abjured extracts; but we cannot resist the inclination to quote the subjoined touching picture of a devoted young wife to a 'victim of a fatal inheritance' through an English court of chancery:

ESTHER, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife indeed. You shall teach me.

'I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak; that it was she who had something to say to me.

When I married RICHARD, I was not insensible to what was before him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for; but I understood the danger he was in, dear ESTHER.' "I know, I know, darling.'

When we were married, I had some little hope that I might be able to convince him of his mistake; that he might come to regard it in a new way as my husband, and not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake-as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have married him just the same, ESTHER. Just the same!'

In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still-a firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying away with them—I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.

"You are not to think, my dearest ESTHER, that I fail to see what you see, and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could not know RICHARD better than my love does.'

'She spoke so modestly and softly, and her trembling hand expressed such agitation, as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear, dear girl!

I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know every change of his face. But when I married RICHARD, I was quite determined, ESTHER, if HEAVEN would help me, never to show him that I grieved for what he did, and so to make him more unhappy. I want him when he comes home to find no trouble in my face. I want him when he looks at me to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports me.'

'I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I now thought I began to know what it was.

And something else supports me, ESTHER.'

'She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in motion.

"I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid may come to me. When RICHARD turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with greater power than mine to show him his true course, and win him back.'

'Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her in mine. "If that little creature should fail too, ESTHER, I still look forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead, perhaps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous, brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sun-shine with him, honoring his gray head, and saying to himself, I thank GOD this is my father! ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored through me!'

'O my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against mine!

These hopes uphold me, my dear ESTHER, and I know they will. Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I look at RICHARD!' 'I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and weeping, she replied:

That he may not live to see his child-the child who is to do so much!'' 'Bleak-House' is here contained in two thick volumes, in the style of 'DOMBEY and Son;' generously illustrated, handsomely printed on good paper, and neatly bound in stamped muslin, of a bright cerulean blue.

UP THE RIVER. By F. W. SHELTON, Author of 'SALANDER and the Dragon,'' Rector of Saint Bardolph's,' etc. In one volume: pp. 325. New-York: CHARLES SCRIBNER. WE hazard little in predicting that this most charming volume will attain to general and prolonged esteem. Many of the 'Letters' of which it is composed have appeared, month after month, in these pages, and have been every where, and by all readers, admired, for the love of nature, the sweet and gentle spirit, the frequent touches of genial humor, and the true feeling, which pervade and inform them. There are other 'Letters' which our readers have not as yet seen, but they will need no added inducement to secure their perusal in the beautiful volume which contains them. We know of no rising American author whose prose style is more faultless than Mr. SHELTON'S. A Scholar, 'ripe and good,' he engrafts upon 'pure English undefiled' the fruits of classic culture. You are never at a loss for his meaning; nor can you take up any one of his sentences, or attentively regard any one of his faithful pictures, without feeling how difficult it would be to change the one for the better, or in any manner to heighten the effect of the other. His readers may always be assured that what he describes he has seen or felt, and for this very reason they will see and feel with him. At the risk, perchance, of incurring a charge of egotism, we venture to present the annexed extract from the 'Prefatory Letter to Louis Gaylord Clark,' to whom the work is dedicated:

'SIXTEEN years ago, while living near the sea-coast, I was sitting in a parlor on a pleasant summer-morning, sauntering with a lazy eye over a volume of Latin poems, a portion of the delicate opuscula, the dexterous handiwork of VINNIUS BOURNE. I remember turning over the snowy pages of that book only because the fact is connected with one of more importance such is the mysterious principle of association, which makes each petty memory the co-link in a lengthened chain. While engaged in the scansion and interpretation of a Sapphic ode, compacted by VINNIUS with an unimpeachable accuracy and adjustment of its several parts, a person bearing precisely the same name as yours, was announced; when without formality, and with a vigorous start, a friendship commenced, which up to this day has been frank, open, genial, and above disguise; interrupted, it is hoped, by no unpardonable faults, and embittered never by any unkindly suspicions.

'According to the melancholy records of social intercourse, it is a cause of gratulation, as well as a mutual compliment to both, that this fearful lapse of time has not become an impassable chasm, and that we hold the same friendship in good preser