This work deservedly ranks as among the best, if not the best, by Bayard Taylor. The East, as we feel in his poems, was full of the scenes of his widely varied travels, that which most aroused his sympathy and stirred his artistic creative powers, and it is of the East that he speaks most freely and brilliantly. It was in Central Africa that he encountered his most thrilling adventures, and forgot, as we can there only do, the civilization of the Western World. Something we would say of the beautiful typography and paper of this series. If the term _mise en scène_ were as applicable to books as to dramas, it might be truely said of Mr. Putnam's that they appear as well between boards as other works do upon them. EL DORADO. PROSE WRITINGS OF BAYARD TAYLOR. Vol. IV. New-York: G.P. Putnam. Boston: A.K. Loring. 1862. Possibly some twenty years hence 'El Dorado' will be regarded as by far the best of Bayard Taylor's works--certain it is that in it he is among the pioneer describers of a land the early accounts of which will be carefully investigated and duly honored. In picturing lands, where others have been noting and sketching before, he is strong indeed who is not driven into mannerism; but in fresh fields and pastures new there is less danger of seeing through thrice-used spectacles. It is this consciousness of being the first that ever burst into their silent seas that made Herodotus and Tudela and Rubriquis and Mandeville so fresh and vigorous--and there is much of the same peculiar inspiration due to first-ness perceptible in this volume, which we cordially commend to all who would be California-learned or simply entertained. Somewhat we must say however of the fine paper, exquisite typography, and two neat steel engravings with which this 'Caxton' edition is made beautiful and most suitable either for a lady's _étagere_-book-shelf or the most elegant library. LES MISERABLES. I. FANTINE. BY VICTOR HUGO. Translated by CHARLES E. WILBOUR. New-York: Carleton. Boston: Crosby and Nichols. 1862. A novel written twenty-five years ago by Victor Hugo is a curiosity. The present was kept in reserve because the sordid publisher, who had a contract for all of Hugo's works, would not give the sum demanded--the author kept raising his price--it was like Nero and the Sybil, or the converse of the conduct of the damsel who annually reduced her terms to Martial: 'Millia viginti quondam me Galla poposcit; Annus abit: bis quina dabis sestertia? dixit.'