s Museum_ (Westermann Brothers, New York,)
promises to meet the want which we have for some time found it
impossible to supply, of a German literary Magazine. In the recent
revolutionary storms this class of periodicals generally went down, so
that for information as to the working of the German mind we have been
forced to rely upon chance notices in the political journals, or trust
to foreign sources. It is published semi-monthly. Its cost in Leipzig is
12 _Thalers_; and is furnished here for the same number of dollars.

Under the title of _Causeries du Lundi_ M. St. Beauve has just put forth
a volume of sketches of contemporary French authors, which almost forces
us to envy the happy land blessed with such a number of men, the worst
of whom exceeds our ideas of any attainable height of perfection. A word
or two of criticism is awarded to Lamartine, but too bland to wound even
the vanity of the gentle Alphonse. But Girardin and Villemain, Cousin
and George Sand, Thiers and Montalembert receive a most unqualified
apotheosis. The title of "Monday Chat" simply indicates that the book is
made up of articles which appeared on Mondays in the _Constitutionnel_
newspaper.

Pictures by the "Old Masters," as all the world knows, are manufactured
as readily, and almost as extensively, as calico. It is not, however, so
well known that "old and rare editions" of books are produced nowadays.
The passion of book-collectors has given a new impulse to this business.
Within a few months the beautiful editions of the classics of the
Elzevirs and the Stephens have been reproduced with wonderful skill. In
paper, type, ink, and binding there is no perceptible difference; while
the precise air of antiquity desired is produced by chemical means.

M. Feuillet de Conches, a Parisian virtuoso, and great admirer of La
Fontaine, has spent a vast sum in having printed for his own sole use a
single copy of the works of the famous fabulist. It is illustrated in
the most gorgeous style, by the first artists of the day; and is
accompanied with notes and prefaces by the most eminent writers, and is
a very miracle of expensive typography and binding.

Victor Hugo has published nothing for some years, having been paid by a
publisher not to print. Report says that he will, at the close of his
term, which soon expires, make amends for his long silence by issuing
poems to the amount of three volumes, and romances to that of twelve.

A work by Origen, the