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NEW BOOKS.

Recreations of a Country Parson. Second Series. Boston Ticknor and Fields. 1861.

It is particularly soothing to our present national sensitiveness to find two of the most popular and engaging English authors giving marked proofs of their appreciation of America and her difficulties at this time: I mean the nobly-worded dedication of the second volume of Tom Brown, by Thomas Hughes, and the cordial and respectful thanks for the sympathy of American readers by the Country Parson, in closing his second volume of "Recreations." The evident feeling with which the latter apologizes for whatever English flippancy he may have used toward us, is an exhibition of that naturalness and sincerity of heart which has so endeared him to the American public.

Any one who has read either or both of these volumes of essays, must have felt that through their pages there was a strong, kind, well-balanced mind, dealing simply and pleasantly with those common phases of human life and character which the reader would almost have supposed too matterof-fact for the attention of any essayist, and certainly for that of one so genial and original. There is something healthful in following the course of his essays, and seeing what a quiet and inviting path he lays out for us, an easy journey, without any undue self-excitement, without collision, through the indulgence of our foibles or passions, with Scylla on the one side or Charybdis on the other. He shows you a pleasant, happy way to get over the road, bringing his own experience kindly and not intrusively to your help, and then perhaps will run off toward some dark obstruction, which men are wont to fall afoul of, and comes back ridiculing and exposing the jaggedness and deformity of that rock Scylla, or the dirty waters of this whirlpool Charybdis, which we find it such hard work to steer clear of. In this new volume he is very versatile. He claps both hands on your shoulders cordially, at the opening, in the excess of his joy at seeing you again, first gives you, as an old friend, a glimpse at the course of his happy, useful life, and then introduces you to a varied array of subjects. He speculates on Disappointment and Success" with you; he accompanies you through "Summer Days" and through "Solitary Days,” even glances towards "Future Years," - introduces you to the acquaintance of his favorite "Friends in Council"; while the rest of his subjects range from “The Pulpit of Scotland" and "Country Churchyards" to "Glasgow down the Water" and "The Water-Cure," stopping at about the middle of his volume to invite you into his study, with leave to view and criticise without ceremony.

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In closing, I will merely say, that I regard these as eminently "college"

books, calculated to act as a wonderful tonic to any one tainted with the oftentimes wrong atmosphere which a college draws around itself, and to administer a salutary check to that "stiltedness" of manner, more particularly in what we write, which has come, with some justice, to be considered one of the effects of a college life. They are, besides this, volumes written by one who has not lost, with the advance of years and experience, that youthfulness of feeling and expression which should give him a recommendation to our regard and an introduction to our libraries.

That they may find a place in both with all of us, is the most charitable wish that the reviewer can find for his readers.

Edwin of Deira. A Poem. By ALEXANDER SMITH. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1861.

THIS volume is to poetry what a novel of Scott is to prose, the history of an eventful period made fascinating in a story of love and war. In Edwin, King of Deira, is represented the purest and foremost prince in the seven kingdoms by whose consolidation England was formed. In his reign occurred the conversion of the Saxons to the religion which has determined the institutions of England. In the choice and treatment of this subject, Mr. Smith has incurred the charge of imitating Tennyson in his Idyls; but the charge cannot be fairly made, unless the position of laureate brings with it a monopoly of metres and English annals. To say that we are pleased with this poem would be to express tamely the keen delight with which we have read it. As we follow a story which we feel at once is well and simply told, one glowing passage after another flashes upon us, which we read with lingering care, and turn from the closing line to read again. Though he has chosen a worthy hero from a romantic age, while the treatment of his theme shows that he appreciates the value of these allies, it is not from love and war alone that the author makes his volume so attractive. Its great charm lies in the fitness of his brilliant metaphor and description. We come with delighted surprise upon paintings of the fairest scenes in our vacation travel and Saturday afternoon rambles. Visions of mist and moonlight, sea-waves and cascades, and all the fantasies of light and shade which we had imagined dear to ourselves alone, are here depicted with a tender minuteness and warmth of coloring which shows that nature is a sacred thing to him. It is a priceless privilege to take down from a book-case, in a single volume, a hundred scenes, each of which we would travel many miles to revisit.

Mr. Smith does not snarl up his reader in so perplexing a web of plots and counterplots that the single feeling at the end is satisfaction at his safe disentanglement. The events follow in natural and interesting order. The hunt and feast, the evening gathering in the red light, of stalwart brothers, busy with thoughts of war and chase, jesting with each other, teasing by turns

and caressing the one pet sister, give us a vivid picture of English life in the days of the Heptarchy. Sleepless nights and listless days, burning words of love, the train of sad and noble events which tested the worth of a lover, lead us on, patient of delay, to the days when

"The gray priest lifted up his solemn hands,

And two fair lives were sweetly blent in one,
As stream in stream."

To give fragments of so perfect a whole would be unfair to author and reader also. Those who are willing to be pleased, will find the poem well sustained throughout. They will find peculiar expressions, which when fairly viewed contain a world of meaning and beauty. A poem which will not pay the reader for thinking upon it earnestly is not worth reading. We must grant the use of strange words to one who condenses a page in such a word. It would deprive after readers of much pleasure and profit if the growlings of critics should compel Mr. Smith to drop his forcible and expressive style, to soften to dimness the splendor of his painting, and substitute a graceful mediocrity for a rich fulness of meaning, which makes his present volume worthy of repeated and thoughtful perusal.

The Silver Cord. A Novel. By SHIRLEY BROOKS. New York: Harper and Brothers.

1861.

THIS author, whose last novel, "The Gordian Knot," appeared a year or two ago, has just completed another, of which the issues of the English "Once a Week" have for some time been giving us instalments. Mr. Brooks has previously written two or three comedies for the London public, which have been received with great favor, and which, on each reproduction, have invariably met with success; but in the story before us there are a very few scenes only which would seem at all to sustain this reputation for humorous power. He gives us a domestic drama, which contains some combinations most severely tragical, and there is a sombre shade hanging over the whole, which materially checks the reader's interest.

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The scene continually shifts between England and France, between London and Paris, - the English village of Lipthwaite and the palace city of Versailles. An aristocratic English family is thrown into confusion by the weakness of one of its members, who, having by a previous amour placed herself in the power of the villain of the story, Ernest Adair, has not the strength of will to make the necessary confession to her husband, a warm-hearted Scotchman, Robert Urquhart; and thereby an imputation is allowed to rest on the character of her sister, which alienates the affections of her husband. The aim of the story is to clear away this false suspicion, which a series of incidents at last successfully accomplishes, though with the death of Urquhart. Some side love-passages between an English waitingmaid and a French admirer considerably increase the interest.

Mr. Brooks, like so many other recent novelists, puts a controlling force beneath the apparent current of his story, in the shape of the infallible Bureau of French Police. Detectives figure slyly in almost every chapter of the last half of the book. This Police Bureau wields as mighty a power in the narrative, as the assembly of Olympian detectives in any ancient heathen myth. They almost assume the part of Fates. Is any member of the uninitiated mass of puny, weak-sighted mortals, whose fortunes are sketched, in trouble or baffled by his enemy, let him present an earnest, prayerful appeal to the Parisian Chief of Police, and in fifteen minutes he has what seems almost supernatural aid. But notwithstanding this controlling power, the characters of the book are the freest of free agents. The same chapters will witness the formation of plot and counterplot in such rapid succession, and falsehoods tripping after each other so recklessly, that we must admit at once, that for the most part the characters have no consciousness whatever of any superior power which can claim any authority over their words or actions.

There is an excellent chapter occupied with the description of a duel between Ernest Adair and the French lover, the humor of which is admirably sustained. Take too the London theatre-manager, who is so pleasantly sketched; his liveliness and good-nature have a wondrously enlivening effect on the ill-natured plot. There are domestic scenes too, particularly some of those laid in England, which cannot fail to please any novel-reader ready to be appreciative.

One word for the illustrations, which are of themselves worthy of the attention of any one who dares not engage to master the story. They are from the pencil of the English Tenniel, and will to the examiner give a better idea of the different characters, than would be afforded perhaps by the majority of book-notices and reviews. You would perhaps like in some a little more strength, but the entire effect of the series on one's mind is one which is so pleasant, through the clear and exquisite truthfulness of each sketch, that we cannot but regret at once, that the course of the narrative should induce in us an uncertain feeling of distrust a sense of unnaturalness—so opposite to its illustrations.

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EDITORS' TABLE.

DRILL. Everybody remembers, and many now regret, their frequent failures to attend drill towards the close of last term. Many of us have to recall evenings misspent and utterly wasted in lying under the trees, smoking, and watching the evolutions of our fellow-students in the ranks, with lazy and criticising eyes. We believed then that we were taking the easiest and decidedly the most philosophical way of spending the time, and were rather disposed to pity the zeal which induced men to run about with a heavy musket on their shoulder, when they might have been lying on the grass as we were. But now, when we say it was precious time and opportunity thrown away, we believe we express the feelings of many besides ourselves. We realize now more strongly than ever, how important knowledge of this kind is to every young man. In a year we of the Senior Class graduate, and if the war lasts, of which we fear there is little doubt, many intend to enter the army in some capacity. If we become private soldiers, and it may be necessary by next spring for every man who has the strength to shoulder a musket, who knows? a knowledge of drill will be a sure recommendation to promotion. But it is useless to lament the past. This notice has to speak about what may yet be done. We hoped to be able to make up for past deficiencies by a thorough drill throughout the present year. But the College Government has seen fit, for good reasons, we have no doubt, to deny us this privilege, and do not intend to renew the drill until next spring, some say because there are no muskets, and some because their efforts in this direction were so ill appreciated last year. Yet it seems strange there should be no oldfashioned and useless guns in some corner of the State arsenals, when new and improved ones are constantly being bought and manufactured by the State; and as for the attendance, enough we will venture to say - will be found to attend punctually and constantly. We have at least one, and probably several, among us who are abundantly qualified as teachers in drill. But no matter whether the instructors be classmates or outsiders, let us have instructors of some sort, and speedily. Better, if we may venture to say it, drop some part of the College studies, important as they are, than graduate totally ignorant of what will be the chief study of many of us after graduation, the military art. Who would not prefer a mark of 160 for proficiency in "Hardee's Tactics," than in "Butler's Analogy," at the end of this term? With all respect to both the book and its author, we would. We don't wish to be unreasonable in our requests, but would n't it be possible, in addition to the drill, to study some work on fortification, or the organization and support of armies? We don't know exactly what, but is n't there something? There is a very general and strong desire on the part of many to fit themselves for service in this war for our Government.

If this matter is put off to spring, the Senior Class will get very little out of it, probably not more than six or eight weeks at most. The Examinations, the fuss of Class day, the Class supper, and a thousand and one little matters attendant on the breaking up of a College course, will certainly so take up the time, that, before we have fairly begun, we shall be cut off from the exercise of

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