Whatever has Moreover, I have

not reverence antiquity all they ought, sir Modern. served man keeps the memory alive, at any rate. known men learn the glory of the oak, by the frequent visiting of the old Charter tree. Yet my tree needs no story, let its roll be vacant,— did not king Cophetua wed the beggar maid and think her a rare prize for her beauty. And I am looking into the green recess of its leaves. A glorious portal it has to its leafy hall,-not of human architecture and sleeping stone, but guarded by rustling watchers and crowned with battlements of restless front. Beyond are the arches, that sway and cannot fall, upbearing a canopy of mingled shades and light, changing and glowing, such as Venice gained not from Titian. Precious stones, indeed! jasper, emerald, sapphire, sardonyx, radiant with all the lights of heaven and earth, such as glowed in the city of the Apocalypse; not even Aladdin's fabled palace, whose windows none could frame, glowed in beauty and harmony like this. Rebuilt by every breeze, its glory loseth not; storms but darken its isles and wake them into louder song; it still lives while lives the summer. The Dreamer wishes that man may one day learn how to perpetuate his music, that his Gothic halls may have that

1 "Sweet, doubtful din that droppeth unawares,"

a music like the music of the spheres if we had only ears for it. Do you want the Dreamer's idea of a poet's heaven? Perhaps, as he sits here, he thinks at times of a sea of foilage, with depths hollowed out of its tide of greenery, and winding ways. Well, he likes it better than the sea of light; the idea is too cold in the use of some authors. Tennyson shuddered when he wrote

The Dreamer, despite of his name, does'nt like the abstraction and refining away of substantial ideas. He is lying near the shadow of the tree now, but the chapel bell will find him flesh and blood.

Homer, Shakspeare, and the larger lights that do revolve about them, give room to no vagueness of such sort, because their greatness leads to truth. Only a mean genius will long cling to what he knows to be false. But in this life, leaving out the next, there is nothing more lovely than the tree. Some will say that the water has more of quiet beauty, more lovely life

"Where the netted sunbeams dance
Against the sandy shallows."

But water has not the joyousness of a full robed tree, which has,

too, at times all the grandeur of a wave with a grace the wave has not. This grace is imparted by its elastic swinging and borrows much from our knowledge of its lightness. But its lightness would be worth little without the leaves; the naked tree, though still pleasing has not the voluptuous unity of its summer dress. Its boughs clash and sway singly-each for itself. But to analyse is to prose; for proof see the "Essay on Man."

The morning is hastening apace and the sun is giving life to the leaves, not yet below, but up where it first strikes over the roofs. Fix the mind attentively on that small spray at the top and consider the shades therein, number them if you can, or tell before the changes they must suffer when the wind shakes the sunlight through,-to paint it will defy you. Here is weakness of the Pre-Raphaelite school. The Dreamer would point it out to one of them, could he summon them here; let them follow nature as closely as they pretend, and eternity will wait for the completion of their work. Pictures can be nothing more than the histories of mental impressions, not the perfect image of Nature. Trees too, borrow their beauty, in a great degree, from the constant change of light, the green of the leaves being susceptible of great changes in hue, limitedly chamelion like. Hence the dead appearance of most trees in painting. The oak from its spare foliage is the best for painting. Church, in a small and by no means widely known picture, the "Pilgrims in the wilderness," has an oak whose leaves are real individuals, and are well painted, though perhaps some sprays want in variety of hue. This is a rare experiment. But a judicious painter will avoid the use of foreground trees except in small parts, or viewed from the back of the leafy front. Evergreens are easy to manage, but most of these as classes, except the Norway pine, are related to other trees in point of beauty, as is the cactus to the other flowering plants. As classes, for there are many exceptions; but below me is a fir which hardly stirs its sluggish arms in the breeze; broad and black, like wings, they stretch close to the ground. It sets the Dreamer thinking of stagnant Lethe. Their foliage never falls; it is as far true in nature as in humanity, that the most beautiful is the shortest lived. But the leaves of my tree have seen sorrow and I have sorrowed with them. Twice have they reddened before my eyes; twice have I eagerly and long watched for the first burst of the summer; slowly they expand and hide the stars which all winter long "Went in and out as if at merry play;"

more and more they shut me out till I, like those who awaited the stir

ring of the pool, wait for a favoring breath before I can penetrate their seclusion.

Aisles are mine, like one I told you of; aisles dewy dark in the morning, light green at noon, like the glint of the sun through snow, or through water when it closes above, but at night lit up at the west by the setting sun, not piercing through, but resting without closing up my vista with the red shadows, till imagination has but little to do to call up the great window of Canterbury Cathedral.

Cheaply can I transfer myself from the present and its scenes, by gazing there where no foot hath ever trod, and few eyes but mine have been. The constant sound of passing feet rises through it, the dust of the hot street rains through it, but still it preserves its seclusion inviolate. Now all is quiet but the rain slowly dying and with it the voices of the leaves, proclaiming that my dreamy Maying must soon be done. Long ago the tramp of feet commenced, but the Dreamer wove the sound into his own dim dream, the hoofs of Theseus, the merry dance of the men in Lincoln green or the banished duke and his company reveling at Rosalind's bridal.

May is passing into the reality of summer; the Dreamer arose.

M. W. E.

Book Notices.

Silas Marner, or the Miller of Raveloe. By GEORGE ELLIOT, Author of Adam Bede, etc. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1861.

FOR minute accuracy of detail in the narrative of incidents, graceful felicity in delineation and coloring of natural scenes, graphic portraitures of domestic character and life, searching insight into the varied intricacies and struggles of the human heart, a delicate perception and appreciation of the beautiful and picturesque, and a lively, outgushing, pure-hearted sympathy with Truth, we do not hesitate to rank the Miller of Raveloe among such master-pieces of romance as Adam Bede and the Mill on the Floss. It is true the story is more simple and unambitious, while the plot stirs up a less intense and harrowing interest than some of the previous efforts of the same nov

elist; but the same elegant touch and refined genius are here to complete her exquisite conceptions. The character of Silas Marner is admirably drawn. The gradual hardening up of every generous sentiment in his nature, when "cut off from faith and love," is beautifully succeeded by the touching scene, where the life-chasm in his lonely existence is bridged over, in an instant, by the gladsome, golden-haired Effie. It is interesting, too, as we watch the contests of Godfrey Cass with selfish pride, unmanly secresy and temporizing cowardice, to observe the separate processes which accompany and betoken the final humiliation of his weak, untrustful character. The book abounds, also, in quaint and dexterous passes at false gentility. Nancy presents, in herself, a fine contrast to such absurdities. Her maidenly thrift, modesty, and self-reliance, merge naturally and gracefully into wifely sincerity, love, and reverence. But perhaps the finest act in the humble drama, records the indignant repulse which Effie, in her steadfast love for her adopted sire, opposes to the long delayed but heartfelt offerings of her now repentant father. Considered as a whole, the book, though perhaps inferior in tragic power to others by the same writer, more than atones for this deficiency by its cultivated purity of diction, its brilliant range of poetic fancy, and it unmarred championship of sincerity and truth.

The Recreations of a Country Parson. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1861.

The Essays which are published under this title were originally contributed to Fraser's Magazine, and were afterwards reprinted in our own country. They consist of practical sayings about practical things, and without display present many truths in a clear and forcible manner, which, though we may casually know their value, have never been fully realized by us. The freshness, vigor, and simplicity so manifest in these writings is, indeed, remarkable. Old convictions ere reënlivened with so much discrimination, naturalness and delicacy, that they come to us as new truths, and with a double weight. It is "the art of putting things," which the author has illustrated so felicitously in one of the Essays which compose this collection, that constitute the secret of the success and deserved popularity of these articles. Under somewhat peculiar but pointed titles, we are told many things in the most pleasing and dignified style, " concerning" our daily life and its worries too, and how to meet them. Free from all unnatural and forced use of language, these Essays, as a model of simplicity and elegance, are rich contributions to our literature. Especially to those who permit their fancy to run wild with their judgment, will

they be useful in illustrating the dignity of propriety and moderation. This book. though a rare one among us, is thoroughly appreciated and valued by those who have already had occasion to learn by experience the lessons which it teaches. It is one from which all may derive much satisfaction and good.

Autobiography of Dr. Alexander Carlyle. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1861.

It is a rare thing that an Autobiography combines with its detailed history so much important and general information as the one before us. Extending through a period of nearly half a century, it embraces accurate accounts of the events and the men of the times in which the author lived. Written, too, in a vivid, descriptive style, these memorials are more than ordinarily interesting. The University systems of Scotland, and student life, both at home and abroad, are so minutely described that we can scarcely mistake the character of the one, or be ignorant of the peculiarities of the other. From 1722, through fifty years, the author has given us sketches of the customs which marked his times, and his own convictions concerning the men who came under his observation. The book is, therefore, historically valuable.

Personal History of Lord Bacon. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1861.

There is scarcely any one who does not desire to join to his admiration for the genius of Lord Bacon, an abiding confidence also in his character. But it has hardly been possible, in these later times at least, to disregard entirely the bitter satires which have assailed him, and the vast amount of historical condemnation to which his character has been subjected, in forming our opinions of his personal life. To expose the negative side of his character, seems to have afforded a delightful task to Poets, Essayists, and Historians. To those who have been inclined to think that integrity and true manliness could not be separated from the great genius of this great man, this book comes as a real friend. Written with the ostensible purpose of vindicating Lord Bacon's character, it is not one of panegyrics solely, but from facts and letters proves the falsity of those charges which have been so often and so recently made. Those who have formed their estimates of Lord Bacon from sources which have hitherto been open, will rejoice in the appearance of this work, as affording a basis by which to correct their opinions.