two grown-up daughters, after consulting with Mr.
Burns, did not object to receive him as a member of her family.

AN ARMY CONTRACTOR.

Lived a man of iron mold,
Crafty glance and hidden eye,
Dead to every gain but gold,
Deaf to every human sigh.
Man he was of hoary beard,
Withered cheek and wrinkled brow.
Imaged on his soul, appeared:
'Honest as the times allow.'

LITERARY NOTICES.

WHY PAUL FERROLL KILLED HIS WIFE. By the Author of Paul
Ferroll. New-York: Carleton, 413 Broadway. Boston: N. Williams &
Co.

Those who remember _Paul Ferroll_, probably recall it as a novel of
merit, which excited attention, partly from its peculiarity, and partly
from the mystery in which its writer chose to conceal herself--a not
unusual course with timid debutantes in literature, who hope either to
_intriguer_ the public with their masks, or quietly escape the disgrace
of a _fiasco_ should they fail. Mrs. Clive is, however, it would seem,
satisfied that the public did not reject her, since she now reaeppears to
inform us, 'novelly,' why the extremely ill-married Paul made himself
the chief of sinners, by committing wife-icide. The work is in fact a
very readable novel--much less killing indeed than its title--but still
deserving the great run which we are informed it is having, and which,
unlike the run of shad, will not we presume--as it is a very summer
book--fall off as the season advances.

THE CHANNINGS. A Domestic Novel of Real Life. By Mrs.
Henry Wood. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson. Boston: Crosby and
Nichols.

Notwithstanding the praise which has been so lavishly bestowed on this
'tale of domestic life,' the reader will, if any thing more than a mere
reader of novels for the very sake of 'story,' probably agree with us,
after dragging through to the end, that it would be a blessing if some
manner of stop could be put to the manufacture of such books. A really
_original_, earnest novel; vivid in its life-picturing, genial in its
characters; the book of a man or woman who has thought something, and
actually _knows_ something, is at any time a world's blessing. But what
has _The Channings_ of all this in it? Every sentence in it rings like
something read of old, all the incidents are of a kind which were worn
out years ago--to be sure the third-rate story-reader may lose himself
in it--just as we may for a fiftieth time endeavor to trace out the pla