The present edition is a reprint from the last Edinburgh one. The translation is attributed to J. G. Lockhart, whose scholarship is a guarantee for excellence and fidelity. * * * * * _The Secretary of Machiavelli, or the Siege of Florence. By_ D. M’Carthy. _2 vols. Lea and Blanchard._ A very common-place book, too bad to praise, yet too good absolutely to condemn. It will find its place on the shelves of circulating libraries. * * * * * _The Secret Foe. By_ Ellen Pickering, _2 vols. Carey and Hart._ This is scarcely equal to Miss Pickering’s earlier production, “Nan Darrell.” Indeed, the present novel is, by no means, a work which will increase her reputation. Portions of it are written well, we admit; but the character of the book, considered as a whole, is but little above a desperate mediocrity. There is no individuality in the actors—no novelty in the plot—many incidents extravagant and unnatural; and a forced interest, if we may so speak, in the whole of the second volume. It is true, many of the scenes are drawn vividly, but they do not suffice to redeem the work. Worse than all, the introduction of the fugitive, Charles the Second, together with the whole conception of the character of the boy Jackson, is a plagiarism from Woodstock of the worst kind, because one where the spirit and not the language is stolen. We cannot forgive the author, even though a woman, for such an act. * * * * * _The Deerslayer, or, the First War-Path: A Tale: By_ J. F. Cooper. _2 vols. Lea and Blanchard._ Little can be said of this tale which has not been said of the former novels, by Mr. Cooper, in which “Leather Stocking” appears. The story is one of thrilling interest, full of perils and of hair-breadth escapes. The reader, unable to lay down the book, peruses it with painful and breathless eagerness; but, with the exception of Natty Bumpo, there is no character worthy of the name. Here is the great difference betwixt Cooper and Scott. No one will deny, that the former is nearly, if not quite, as successful as the latter in the interest his story awakens in the reader’s mind, yet we look back in vain, through the whole series of the Red Rover tales, for such inimitable characters as those of Balfour of Burley, and the other actors in the Waverley Novels. Mr. Cooper paints only the outside, he cannot reach into the soul. Yet, as an author, skilful in the management of incident, or capable of whirling away the reader in the breathless interest of a story, no writer of the day, at least no American, can, at all, compare with Mr. Cooper.