The _Traveller's and Tourist's Guide through the United States, Canada, &c._, by W. WILLIAMS, (published by Lippincott, Grambo & Co., of Philadelphia), is the most convenient and comprehensive hand-book of the kind we have seen. It appears in time for the tourists of the summer, who will find in it all the information they need, as to routes, distances, &c. * * * * * The author of "Standish the Puritan," who indulges a natural taste for letters, after having won fortune and eminence at the bar, is now finishing the last sheets of a new novel for the Harpers, on his estate in Georgia. * * * * * CZERNY'S _Method of the Piano Forte_, which we believe to be in all respects as good a book of instruction for that instrument, as was ever made, has been reprinted in a good edition by Oliver Ditson, of Boston. * * * * * A new edition of CARDINAL WISEMAN'S _Lectures on the Principal Doctrines of the Catholic Church_, has been published by John Murphy & Co., of Baltimore. This is a very able work, though less interesting to the mass of readers than its eminent author's work on the connexion between Science and Revealed Religion. * * * * * Among the new poems of the month are several fine ones by a new candidate for favor--a young woman of Connecticut--who writes in the _Tribune_. We quote two of them: TRAILING ARBUTUS. Darlings of the forest! Blossoming alone When Earth's grief is sorest For her jewels gone-- Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown. Tinged with color faintly, Like the morning sky, Or more pale and saintly, Wrapped in leaves ye lie, Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. There the wild wood-robin Hymns your solitude, And the rain comes sobbing, Through the budding wood, While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude. Were your pure lips fashioned Out of air and dew: Starlight unimpassioned, Dawn's most tender hue-- And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you? Fairest and most lonely, From the world apart, Made for beauty only, Veiled from nature's heart, With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art! Were not mortal sorrow An immortal shade, Then would I to-morrow Such a flower be made, And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played. A. W. H. INDOLENCE.