It would hardly be fair to dismiss the book without referring to the 500 engravings wherewith it is “embellished from designs of W. Croome and other distinguished artists” whose invaluable services Mr. Frost gratefully acknowledges. They are simply wonderful. We open, by hazard, at page 458. Before us is a picture of Fremont in his famous ride from Los Angeles “to Monterey and back; a journey of more than 800 miles, performed in eight days, including two days’ detention and all stoppages.” This is more than 130 miles in a day. Look at the splendid charger whose flowing mane and mud-tossed tail and flying form brings to mind the magic horses of the “Arabian Nights”! See how he skims over the plains, disdaining to touch the earth with his hoofs! And see how erect the rider sits upon his flying steed, riding night and day through the trackless plains, _en grande tenue_, not a speck of dirt on his gold-embroidered, epauletted coat of blue; not a trace of the soil upon his immaculate trousers; not a sign of fatigue upon the earnest face which the three-cornered hat protects from sun and storm; nor any weariness in the stalwart arm, whose gloved hand carries a naked sword, holding it in strict conformity to Army regulations! Look and wonder! Certainly, this is further beyond our criticism than are the glowing canvases whereon Horace Vernet has immortalized the fields of French glory. The literature of the war, as has been before remarked, is devoid of any novels of distinguished merit, and has not been rich in poetic inspiration. But during the period of hostilities, and amidst the political excitement that followed, James Russell Lowell began in a leading Boston paper a series of political satires on the war, in the Yankee dialect, purporting to be written by Hosea Biglow. These satires were afterwards collected in a volume with Lowell’s works, and are known as the “Biglow Papers.” Their wit and vigor are admirable. The character of Parson Wilbur, to whom is attributed the introduction, notes and index, is a comic creation full of delight. The whole is a rare repository of fun, and Hosea is the embodiment of the native humor and homely mother wit of the Yankee race. It is one of the most ingenious and well sustained _jeux d’esprit_ in existence. It is perhaps not too much to say that it is the best burlesque poem that has appeared since Samuel Butler, in the first part of “Hudibras,” ridiculed the austerities of the Puritan leaders of the seventeenth century with his shining and merciless wit.