practical experience, and best of all, solid substantial common sense. He loves nature with a love not mawkish nor affected, but simple, honest and true. Even a dog becomes in his hands a hero, for his love for nature is love for animals also. It is strange that he should have been so long before he laid pen to paper in the line of authorship. But it is better as it is. He waited, and like a goodly ship well laden with a precious freight, has at last gained the harbor, whence, let us hope, he shall go no more out until the summons for the last long voyage shall come.

To conclude such an article as this without a word on his critical ability and discernment, would be to leave it unfinished indeed. The turn of his mind seems always to have been towards a quick appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and from that to the same grace in art and poetry. Of the last he is a true critic, kindly yet strict; well stored with the best works of the best men, and fit to give an opinion in any case. There is a subtle aroma about all real poetry which it requires a certain amount of appreciative power to perceive. So too it needs a careful taste to separate the good from the poor-to give credit for excellences and discredit for defects. This discerning sense the author of "Spare Hours" undoubtedly has. The single critique on Vaughan's Poems would show that at once.

And there is yet another thing. He has called his book "Spare Hours"—a suggestive title when we consider that he is and has been for many years, an Edinburgh physician in active practice. At the sound of the title there rises before us the restless round of such a man's daily duties; how, possibly on his way from patient to patient, he has had many of the thoughts whose record we have read. And how when at last he is home in the evening, he has sat down with a dread of interruption, Parvula in the cradle, the Sputchard on the hearth-rug and the S. Q. N. in her chair in the corner. It lends additional interest to the book when we know that most, if not all of it, has been thus written. So we can apprehend better his joy at a country ride or walk, his childlike pleasure at hill and forest and glancing stream, and it knits us closer to him than before.

Very fortunate are we when we can be escorted through this pleasant world by one who has the secret of fern-seed-who walks invisible-whom elves and fairies do not fear, and who disturbs by his presence, no thing, however timid. Under his guidance we can see Nature, the true Queen of the Beautiful, surrounded by her train. As did the Eleusinian mysteries, he opens to us the hidden things of the great earth and makes us free of our craft, and free of our guild for ever after. S. W. D.

Did You ever Write Poetry?

THIS inquiry, whether growled out by a plain, matter of-fact friend, yawned out by a careless friend, or more fondly spoken by a romantic friend, invariably claims and receives an affirmative answer. No man (this broad statement is made boldly, without fear of contradiction,) ever passed through life without at some time courting the capricious muse; although few, indeed, receive the least encouragement. Whether the attempt is made in a Valentine, in the Poet's Corner of the New York Ledger, or in a sonnet to the "Prettiest Girl I ever saw," makes but litte difference; the attempt is made, and it is, almost invariably, a failure.

This writing of Poetry (?) has become so common that poets must grant pardon if, for a moment, it is regarded as a disease. It is true that, with some, it has become by far the most beautiful of intellectual accomplishments; but it is equally true that, in the multitude of wouldbe poets, the number of those that attain even to mediocrity is almost nothing. At times, the most violent disease passes away and leaves the body, which it has so lately tortured, more beautiful than before; but such cases are of comparatively rare occurrence, and it would be a poor policy to seek the curse, trusting to the slim chance of the blessing which may follow. With the foregoing explanation, it can hardly be considered disrespectful to regard Poetry as an intellectual disease; and, viewing it in this light, the great similarity between the mental and physical is most strikingly evident. Poetry, in the true sense of the word, is excluded from this essay, and objection is made only to the making of one's head a mill to grind out doggerel. With a mere change of name, a disquisition on the croup would answer equally well for an essay on Poetry. Omitting names, then, let us take a brief resume of the subject, looking at it in a light purely medical.

The young are especially subject to attacks from this disease, and, with a few exceptions, childhood may be considered its proper sphere. At a very early age it seizes its victim, while the young intellect is too weak to resist the blighting malaria, but, fortunately, while the soil is too thin to allow it a permanent hold. In a few cases the patient's very nature seems to assimilate with the disorder, and after its first violence has passed away, the seed planted in the child grows up and

prospers in the man-a disease no longer, but rather the light and life of intellectual accomplishment. Such is the Poet, and with him, it must be remembered, we do not intend to deal. The young mind soon throws off the withering influence, and regains its lost power.Harmless in itself, the malady becomes a very mountain when opposed, for the strains of the martyr-poet are as endless as the Nile. The strictest scrutiny has ever failed to discover its cause-even quacks have not yet pretended to the discovery of its preventive or cure. Not only does it seem infectious and contagious, but self-creative; medical skill is entirely at fault, and nature must take its course. Thus we can regard the disease, in common with the thousand other ills that assail children, as disagreeable, retarding general good health for a season, but as entirely free from danger. It is, however, a startling fact, that all these minor ills increase at Compound Interest, so that the lucky child who passes safely through the time proper for sickness, is laying by a heavy settlement for the man-a child's disease taken in manhood is almost certain to prove fatal. So with the mind and its troubles. Years passing over a man's head may not bring to his mind strength and power of self-government, but they invariably develop obstinacy and self-conceit. Into a soil thus prepared for its reception, the seed is thrown. Obstinacy clings to the new dogma, from mere unwillingness to give up that which has once been undertaken; self-conceit easily persuades even the very prosiest man that his nature is poetical-that the power, so long dormant in him, must, from that very fact, be just about to burst forth with multiplied strength. When a man, with a mind thus prepared, is stricken with the mania for writing poetry, it is evident that the disease will be, with him, permanent, and it surely does not demand even example to show its debilitating, ruinous effect. Frequent usage has almost banished "Poeta nascitur non fit," from the list of allowable quotations, but in this connection its triteness is more than equalled by its argumentative force. This wholesale destruction of intellect should be, and, in most cases is, frowned down by every one. Yet everywhere men are toiling away in the wrong direction, bending every energy to the wrong work, and wondering that success does not at last crown their efforts. While every one is ready and willing to advise his erring neighbor, hardly a single wanderer has ever discovered that he himself is on the wrong road. Such is the curse of misdirected literary labor, that this essay was to portray; and for what purpose was it written? When a great epidemic has broken out in a city, straightway the papers appear with an elaborate history thereof. The cause, the advance, and the power

of the evil, are all represented at large. In short, its entire history, from its birth up to the date of publication, is in print, and for what purpose? Not for warning and instruction, for the articles are never read; not for renown, for the same objection still holds good. Whatever may be their purpose, such is mine.

This epidemic is most common in the College world. The Poet's reputation stands preeminently above every other; therefore many enter for the prize, merely on account of its value, without giving a single thought to their ability as contestants in the struggle.

Nature must make the Poet, and those destitute of natural ability to shine in that sphere, should retire, with the best grace possible, to plainer prose. But above all, no man should ever confer the backhanded compliment of signing to his own poetical effusions the initials of another, in inverted order.

J. F. K.ernoch.

Mrs. Stowe's New Works.

THE democratic element in our social system is so powerful that the existence of one prominent family cannot be permanent. Aristocracy of birth is discountenanced. New names are continually appearing in the list of leading men, and familiar characters soon depart. The wealth obtained by the father is squandered by the son. Talent cannot be transmitted as a legacy. Public position depends upon the ever changing will of the masses. Under such influences, few families can preserve a marked position for many years. The Beecher family is one of this small number. It has long represented the most influential body of Christians in New England. The Beechers have done much to lead their sect above its rugged but illiberal and superstitious theology. The father was a deep thinker, searching for truth with boldness and energy. The son is faithful to his memory. He works earnestly that there may remain no intolerance in the church, and no dishonor in our national existence.

Mrs. Stowe's connection with such an influential family undoubtedly gave a favorable audience to her earlier efforts. This debt her later works have amply repaid; and now the family gains as great a repu

tation from the Novelist as from the Preacher. The religious culture which she received in youth gave her sound theological opinions and a lively sympathy for the unfortunate. It was natural that, when she began to think for the public, she should become interested in the religious controversies and reformatory movements of the times. She selected a style of writing which has created for her a high literary reputation, and an extensive circulation for her peculiar ideas. The public mind, already ripening to a genuine sympathy for the slave, had not reached such maturity as to adopt the views of extremists. The victim, and not the institution, excited attention. The Radicals needed a strong representation of society at the South to arouse support for their political movements. "Uncle Tom" was an engine of great power, and was welcomed by all classes. Highly dramatic, it pleased the common people, while the cultivated were entertained by its literary value. It satisfied a popular demand, and was successful. It was not merely a novel, but a novelty.

Mrs. Stowe's next effort, although possessing the beauties and excellencies of its predecessor, has not been received with much enthusiasm. The characters are similar to those of "Uncle Tom," but are not grouped with such dramatic force. Mrs. Stowe turned to a new field for scenery and actions. The early years, the domestic life and characteristics of New England, were before her. No master hand had plucked the choicest fruit, and the faithful account of the manner in which our fathers lived and toiled could not fail of interest and favor. This was a subject with which she was familiar. She knew well the religious history and the customs of our early society. Taking the stern Puritan as her hero, she exalted his sublime faith by an honest portrayal, and described his errors with patient delicacy. The customs of society have not changed, entirely, during the last century. There are relics of ancestral customs still lingering among us; and we love the "Minister's Wooing," because it seems so home-like, and we can appreciate it so readily.

The two last works of the gifted authoress were in course of prepa. ration for nearly a year, and published simultaneously. It is not my intention to criticise them, but to trace out the similarity which exists between their characters. I shall endeavor to show that this likeness was intentional, and that the teachings of the one require the contrast of the other to make them prominent.

The "Pearl of Orr's Island" is a story of New England life. It bears the same relation to the "Minister's Wooing," as "Dred" to Uncle Tom." The characters and their history are entirely differ

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