Like an echo that hath lost itself,
Among the distant hills,
Which still with melancholy note,
Keeps faintly lingering on,
When the joyous sound that woke it first,
Is gone, for ever gone.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
In commencing, with the New Year, a New Volume, we shall be permitted to say a very few words by way of exordium to our usual chapter of Reviews, or, as we should prefer calling them, of Critical Notices. Yet we speak not for the sake of the exordium, but because we have really something to say, and know not when or where better to say it.