Ah!—we begin to breathe freely once more. We _had_ thought that the world and all in it (this hot weather) were going to the dogs,—“proceeding to the canines,” as Bilberry has it—but here is Mr. Roosevelt, and we feel more assured. We entrench ourselves in security behind his little book. “A larger work,” says he, “would have been more imposing in appearance, but the truth is, large works and long speeches are rarely made by men of powerful thought.” Never was anything more true. “As to boasting,” he continues, very continuously, “the writer is well aware that it is the worst policy imaginable.” In this opinion we do not so entirely acquiesce. “The little man”—says he—the reader will perceive that we are so rapt in admiration of Mr. Roosevelt that we quote him at random—“The little man may say this book was not done _secundum artem_—not nicely or critically.” He must be a _very_ little man indeed, who would say so. _We_ think he has done it _quite_ nicely. “My tone”—we here go on with Mr. Roosevelt—“may seem not strictly according to _bien science_.” Oh, yes is it, Mr. Roosevelt; don’t distress yourself now—it is, we assure you, very strictly according to _bien science_, (good heavens!) and to every thing else. “These remarks,” he observes, “are made that none may lightly damn the work.” Of course; any one who should damn it lightly should be damned himself. “But liberal criticism [ah! that is the thing,] will be accepted as a favor, [the smallest favors thankfully accepted] and writers who may undertake the task will confer an obligation by directing a copy of their articles to the author, at New York, from England, France or Germany, or any part of our own country where this work may reach.” Certainly; no critic could do less—no liberal critic. We shall send Mr. Roosevelt a copy of our criticism from Philadelphia, and we would do the same thing if we were living at Timbuctoo. * * * * * _Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. By_ Laman Blanchard. _2 vols. Lea and Blanchard._ This work contains the most authentic biography of the lamented L. E. L. yet issued from the press, together with a collection of her posthumous pieces, and several lighter effusions already published. The volumes possess uncommon interest. The detail of her every-day life, the picture of her gaiety and sweetness, and the criticisms on her genius, will commend it to all who have loved, in other days, the poetry of this sweet writer. Nor will the details of her melancholy death prove of less interest. After fully examining all the evidence relating to this tragedy, the author arrives at the conclusion that her death was natural, and instigated neither by her own sorrows nor by the jealousy of others. The conduct of her husband seems, in every respect, to have been without censure.