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trations of Scripture' and 'A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles.' The present volume is quite in keeping with his theological professorship, and a Christian, patriotic testimony to the life of faith and prayer of many a brave soldier, and to the triumphant death on the battle-field and in the hospital of such as were there called to sleep in Jesus.

The author has done a good work in selecting what are believed to be truth ful incidents, and stereotyping what otherwise might have been utterly lost to the historians of the war. It is like daguerreotyping the passing ripples of the lake, or the floating motes in the sunbeam. Yet great care and caution are requisite for the verification.

There are chapters on Soldiers of the Cross in the Army, Courage Promoted by Trust in God, Happy Deaths of Brave Men, Incidents of the Camp and Battle-Field, etc.

This is a well-written novel, in style above the ordinary run of fiction; char-acters well conceived and well represented, and abounding in sage, philosophic reflections on social life. It portrays well much of the social life or death existing among us prior to the war, and indeed yet prevalent; and whilst some might object to a very few of its implications, it is, on the whole, superior in its truthful delineation of manners and morals, though rather sensational and crime-disclosing.

Published by Horace Waters, 481 Broadway:

'This Hand Never Struck Me, Mother.'
'The Little Ballad-Girl.'
'The Dying Drummer.'
'Heart Chimings.'
'Yacht Club Polka Redowa.'
'The Sanitary Fair Polka.'

Dear Knick: I am unaccustomed to writing 'Knick'-names, being an offshoot of that stiff old school which required every syllable in a name to be pronounced, and being a STRANGER to you, I know I should not take the liberty of a familiar friend, and divesting myself of all ceremony call you 'Dear Knick.' But what I have written, I have written; and now why.

I have had a great many choice dainties from your Table; my tastes have been gratified both with its fruits and flowers, and I feel like returning you a small thank-offering. As I am a very humble individual, without 'name or fame,' I have brought my offering timidly to you in the darkness, so that you may not observe how very humble I really am, and reject both me and it.

It is only a simple flower, taken from a 'Wreath of Wild Flowers from the West,' woven for me by a lovely and charming little maiden, herself a fragrant, beauteous prairie blossom. This 'wreath' is very choice to me, and therefore its flowers to you. I have selected an Adonis Rutumnalis, expression of the sweet sadness of her gentle spirit.

But I have not told you the name of my sweet prairie flower—it is Stella—and her soft blue eye ever reminds me of the modest star-flower Forget-me-not: