have opened the fountain of tears. It is
no mean proof of the skill of the "Bachelor," that his pathetic scenes
are always true to their aim. He has risked more than authors can
usually afford, by dealing with the most exquisite elements of feeling,
but he always forces you to acknowledge his empire, and yield your
sympathies to his bidding.

It must not be inferred from these comments that our "Bachelor" is
always in the lachrymose vein. Far from it. We have alluded to his
mastery in the pathetic, because this is one of the most unerring tests
of the sanity and truth of genius. But his "Reveries" also abound in
touches of light and graceful humor; they show a quick perception and
keen enjoyment of the comic; his sketches of character are pointed with
a fine and delicate raillery; and his descriptions of natural beauty
breathe the gushing cordiality of one who is equally at home in field
and forest. With a rare facility of expression, obtained by dallying
with every form of phrase that can be constructed out of the English
vocabulary, and a beautiful freedom of spirit that makes him not ashamed
to unfold the depths of his better nature, Mr. Ik. Marvel has opened a
new vein of gold in the literature of his country. We rejoice that its
early working gives such noble promise that its purity and refinement
will not be surpassed by its richness.

_Richard Edney and the Governor's Family_ (published by Phillips,
Sampson, and Co., Boston), is a new novel by the author of _Margaret_,
the original and erratic New England story, which established the
reputation of the writer as a shrewd delineator of manners, a watchful
observer of nature, a satirist of considerable pungency, and a profound
thinker on social and religious topics. _Richard Edney_ is of the same
stamp with that unique production. It has all its willful perversity,
but with less ability. It is not so fresh and lifesome, but has more
method, more natural sequence in the details of the story, and will
probably please a more numerous class of readers. We do not think this
author has come into the full possession of his powers. He is too
conscious to permit their spontaneous and facile use. While he thinks so
much of the motion of his wings, he can never soar into the empyrean. He
often talks as if the burden of a prophet were on his heart, but he is
too introspective for the fullness of inspiration. Even his strange and
grotesque ways are not redeemed by showing the f