whether Mr. Timothy Winnegar obtained his seat in the senate or not, they could, at least, make a good show of fight for his cause. Although the first day of canvassing (the day on which the plot was hashed up between little Ada and her friend) had been a very busy one with Mr. Sniggers and Tom, yet the latter firmly declined the invitation of the former to "a pipe or so," and went to enjoy a short hour's talk with Ada before he went to rest.

Now, whilst they were sitting hand-in-hand on the sofa, with the room in a kind of twilight in spite of the candles, for neither thought of snuffing them, and the wicks had helmets on, which did not add to their glory, sitting and not talking much, but repeating a good many things over again, as the fashion of lovers is—the while this was going on, Mr. Brancrust was returning in his spring cart from his errands of the morning. The night was rather dark, and there was not much to look at, and the horse knew the way so perfectly that Mr. Brancrust had not much trouble in guiding him. So his thoughts were penned up, as it were, within himself, and confined to those things which lay next to his heart—unequalled by any external objects—of course, in the centre of this circle of hearty thoughts resided Ada, the old man's Ada, and round her revolved all things that pertained to her and to her affections.

The old man Brancrust was described when first mention was made of him, as being a pompous and an argumentative old man, with a mind as full of consequence as the bearing of his body would seem to imply. Perhaps many from following his action in this narrative would fail to discover this; but the fact was, that it would have been very wrong, radically wrong, to have made him carry that dignity to his home to parade it before his little Ada and Tom, who was, before his unhappy vote rose into importance, almost domesticated there. We have seen how a love for old things and customs had matted round the heart of Mr. Brancrust, without his being able to account for it altogether, and from this, perhaps, sprang much of his pomposity. If the mat of musty prejudices had been unrolled, it is likely in Mr. Brancrust we should have seen a hearty old English character, not needing to wait until the "seventh glass" had softened down his angles.

In his spring cart that evening, on the lonely road, he was very confidential and easy with himself; from thinking of the Ada of the present, he quickly glided into thoughts of an Ada of the past, sitting in a cheerful home, from which long ago he had led her to take possession of the old mill house. As the old man wandered about in these old buried days, recalling and repainting every look.

and word of that dear one who had outstripped him in their pilgrimage, his tears crept slowly down his cheeks, and the reins lay listlessly in his hands, whilst the horse, taking advantage, dropped from a trot into a slow walk. After about half a mile had worn on slowly, a random thought hurled Mr. Brancrust from the past into the present; the reins were jerked up suddenly, and the animal was soon fully instructed into the evil of taking advantage of any one, by means of a few hearty blows on the broad back. As the walk of the horse was changed into alternate trot and gallop, the motion soon shook all the unwonted romance out of Mr. Brancrust, and when he saw the dim lights of Fleeceington through the trees, from being in a very amiable mood with the past, peopled as it was, he had fallen into a very savage mood with the present, in which exist such beings as Winnegars, and Sniggers, and Tom Suffrages, and in which, being admitted to the franchise, is rendered a torture to so many.

Mr. Brancrust could'nt and would'nt understand why a man like Tom Suffrage would absolutely rather give up the promise of his own Ada, than refuse his vote "to a set of scoundrels," as he was pleased to call the band of patriots and their partizan Winnegar. Mr. Brancrust was lost in amazement that a young shopkeeper like Tom should lose the chance of obtaining respectable customers by voting for such a one-Mr. Brancrust could not bring himself to feel the necessity of any such a thing as patriotism, and so he made his horse feel the whip.-Mr. Brancrust could not conceive that any one could wish to change institutions which had served their fathers, and-so by way of a change, he caught his steed a savage fillip under the ear, which sent him flying round the last turn of the road, and into Lower Fleecington.

It was, therefore, in a nice frame of mind that Mr. Brancrust reached his home, and the spectre of that young gent of whom he had been thinking, sitting on the sofa with his arm round Ada, was certainly" a nice sight for a father"-in that frame of mind.

Mr. Brancrust did not, however, serve Tom as he had served his animal; but, strange to say, he assumed that dignity which he usually laid aside before Tom. As Tom rose to speak, he said in a pompous but determined tone

"Mr. Thomas, the election is not over; and as that decides whether or not you have a right to domesticate here, I must beg you to leave now, and not to come again and see my girl till you have won her by obeying me in your vote. Good evening!"

Tom was paralysed-Ada began to squeeze Tom's hand and to cry-Tom gave her a sly kiss whilst Mr. Brancrust's head was

turned, and sidled out, after saying a "good night, Sir," which was not answered, and looking another "good night," which WAS!

Ada was evidently going to be very supplicating before her father after Tom had left, but Mr. Brancrust, stretching out his hand for her to shake, said, in a rather rougher tone than usual— "Go to bed, my dear-don't say anything to me now-I'm not in a humour for it!"

And Ada went up stairs, and her father lost himself in the fumes of his last pipe.

(To be continued in our next.)

REVIEW S.

THE REVIEWER REVIEWED; OR THE "NORTH BRITISH

REVIEW" VERSUS LONGFELLOW.

IN by-gone days critics were considered as a genus of the species homo, distinguished from other members of the same extensive family by an atrabilious temper, by a love for detecting faults, and an envy of other people's good works. They are pictured to us in some old books as revelling around a real, or supposed fault-sucking its bitters-revealing its deformities—buzzing from their penny trumpets an Io Triumphe -and proclaiming to the world that their discovery was of the most vital importance to the future of literature, science, and art. Quite model biped-bees in their way, only with this difference, instead of extracting sweets and manipulating honey, they bore away only bitters and distilled from them gall. This school of Dennises and others has almost past away. Criticism has, of late, become the handmaid and help of the author, generously showing his good, and, not veiling, but kindly, as a brother or a friend, pointing out his faults. Criticism has become a welcome part of our literature, and critics have grown to understand and appreciate the worth and dignity of their calling; and to see that fault-finding, though a necessary, is but the lowest office they have to perform. We are proud of the critics of our day, and there is scarcely an author but welcomes their strictures with pleasure and profit. Yet, occasionally, the old spirit will break out, the cloven foot appears, and the envy and malice of an unsuccessful aspirant of literature show their intensity of bitterness in gall and wormwood. Rarely has this spirit been so nakedly displayed as in a recent article on American poetry in the North British Review.

Our present business with this paper, however, is only with that part of it which relates to Longfellow. But we take this opportunity of saying, that an article taken in the whole, with so little of that power which often mitigates the foolishness of the opinions expressed, it has rarely been our lot to read. The writer sets out with this sentence:"It is the unhappy error of nearly all the recent criticisms of art-of

poetry especially-that its judgments have been formed without reference to any high or very distinct standard of what it is desirable and right that poetry should be." Well, you naturally expect after this that the writer is about to give you some definition of the principles upon which such a standard should be formed, and thereby enabling his readers to judge of the earnestness of his own review. Nothing, however, is further from our author's achievement; nothing, perhaps, further from our author's power. His object seems to be that of an Iconoclast, and he exclaims to the people of England and America, -see, here is this Longfellow, whom you infatuated beings have made much of, taken to your homes and your hearts, treasured his name as a household word, and made partaker of your loves and affections; he is but a poor idol of clay, or wood, or stone, and I am come to dash him from his throne, and show you how poor an idol he is after all. In doing this, he first gives a snarl at Goethe, calling him in the usual language of Dunces, "heartless," and kindly informing us that too much has been made of this German, and, after all writing of Fausts, &c., is no very great thing, and the renown which has gathered round the name of this man, only shows the utter want of sound principles, and the absence of "some high standard of what purity should be," and is a sad satire on the age. Having thus put aside Goethe, whom he accepts as Longfellow's model, he proceeds con amore, to reduce this presumptuous American to his proper level.

First of all the beautiful tale of "Evangeline" is disproved of. The hexameters, or rather the jingling measure, which here is called by that old-renowned name, are declared to be no hexameters at all. We profess to have no particular liking to this verse ourselves, and think all modern languages, with the exception of the German, not at all adapted to it: but that a man, after reading this exquisite romance, should say that they "are, indeed, more than the revival of 'measured prose,' which was thought so much of in the days of our grandmothers," only shows how much an embittered mind will allow its judgment to be blighted by the malign influence of a disappointed ambition. Happily the writer has attempted to justify his opinions by long quotations, We are quite content to leave the beauty of these to equalise any effect of his poor and unbeautiful prose. Here is one specimen of his mode of treatment. He is quoting the description of the farmer's cozy kitchen." It ends thus:

And the pewter plates on the dresser,

Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. "Here," says the author, "is a piece of singularly good description quite ruined, as far as regards the unity of feeling, by the last half line. What in the world have shields of armies to do with a farmer's cozy kitchen in Acadia?" Poor man! did he ever see a shield in the sunshine, and a pewter plate on a dresser with a good fire reflecting in its bright face? If so, he would feel that nothing would so naturally suggest itself, at the sight of a row of such plates reflecting the bright

fire, as a row of shields in the sunshine. To our fancy, the beauty is heightened by the use of a simile suggesting the strife of the combat, the turmoil of battle, and the din of conflict, in contrast with the sweet place and almost breathless silence of Acadia. This one is a type of all the objections made. The use of scripture illustrations in this poem, "Evangeline," is declared to be the most ohjectionable, and altogether incongruous; we give one of his quotations in confirmation of this opinion, and leave the reader to judge; Evangeline is looking at the evening sky—

And as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star followed her footsteps, As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered mith Hagar! But what shall we say of a writer who calls the beautiful thought that the stars are the "forget-me-nots of angels," a "conceit!"

In the same manner he deals with the "Spanish Student," and the "Golden Legend," about whose beauties he scarcely writes a sentence, and then proceeds to deal with the smaller poems. If it be true, as we have good reason for believing, that the writer of this review is himself a writer of verses, which have not been read by many readers, nor stirred many hearts with their beauties, nor thrilled many bosoms with their noble utterances of great truths, we have a key for the animus which breathes throughout the article. Yet few men would be bold enough to quote the poems which our author has, to confirm him in depreciating their merit, and resisting Longfellow's claim to be considered a poet. One would almost suppose he was non compos mentis at the time, for he gives his readers the "Psalm of Life" and "Excelsior," as sufficient evidences of the low place the American bard ought to occupy in the Parnassian world. He says,—" we could be very funny at Mr. Longfellow's expense, (?) had we space to enter into a philosophical (sic) analysis of this "Psalm of Life." We opine our readers would question the powers of the writer either to be philosophical or funny.

We must, however, draw to a close. Enough has been said to ease our conscience, and to enter our protest against so transparent an attempt to make one man's spleen the instrument of wounding a noble heart and a true poet. The review closes-mirabile dictu-with a string of advices to American authors. Could not the author have made his meaning clearer, and effected more good for his self-elected clients, by giving an example from his own poems? This would at at once have shown a specimen of the standard to which he so kindly alluded at the outset. But here we pause. Against the reviewer's dictum we have the many thousands whose hearts have been elevated, whose sorrows have been soothed, whose sense of the beautiful has been delighted, whose souls have been made more spiritual, and whose love for their fellow-beings has been enlarged and strengthened by the inspirations of the first of Trans-Atlantic poets. And sure we are the place which the large-minded Longfellow now occupies in our homes and hearts, will never be changed by the mean snarl of any littleminded reviewer.