THE last collection of the delightful essays of John Burroughs, entitled Fresh Fields" (Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ), refers to the life and scenery of Great Britain, as viewed by him in two different visits. Several of the papers are confined to English birds; one treats of British wild-flowers; one, of English woods; one speaks more comprehensively of various aspects of nature in England; another describes the Lake district immediately about Wordsworth's home; and two are occupied with reminiscences of the life and writings of Thomas Carlyle. Of the inimitable charm of Mr. Burroughs' talks about nature, there is nothing new to say. They rank with those of Izaac Walton, Gilbert White, and your own Thoreau. Where he has learned his captivating art of narration, is a mystery—as a kinsman of his has remarked—for he is not a scholar nor a reader in the usual sense. He pores over a few books—Shakespeare, Emerson, Carlyle,—and he studies the fair page of Nature, early and late. He has contented himself with simple acquirements, not striving for wide or varied information, but taking time to question his own mind. As a result, he has a good deal that is fresh and original to report from his observation: he has penetrating and instinctive thoughts to communicate, and a singularly rich, choice, expressive vocabulary at his command. The essay on Carlyle, under the title of "A Sunday in Cheyne Row," is the longest and most important in the present collection. It is a skilful analysis of the character of Carlyle, and a judicial estimate of the worth and finality of his work. It is generous and unstinted in praise; and, as the product of years of loving and profiting acquaintance with the books of the famous author, it will overbalance a multitude of the harsh and hasty condemnations of Carlyle, as man and writer, which have been put forth by superficial critics. Mr. Burroughs is one of the limited number who appreciate the value of Mr. Froude's service as Carlyle's literary executor. His "life of Carlyle, in its just completed form," he declares, "has no equal in interest or literary value among biographies since his master's life of Sterling."