He has only sought to make his picture a true one, careless as to whether our cheeks glow with shame or enthusiasm. He seems to have heard a voice continually whispering, as he wrote, 'Be sincere— be sincere ;' and, indeed, there does not seem to have been the merest film of untruthfulness clouding his eyes, and his clear gaze has never wandered from the truth. We feel strangely attracted towards Mr. Hughes, he has written in such entire sympathy with us. His enthusiasm and sympathy are apparently as buoyant and fresh as though he were still at Rugby himself. His book is a splendid example of the old axiom, that he who feels most deeply, writes that which affects us most. Is it so much a wonder, then, that he reaches our hearts so readily, since he is telling of sports that have made his own blood bound; of friendships, that have made him feel that hearts can be drawn close together, when they understand what fidelity and confidence mean; and of sad scenes, that have touched the depths of his own pity and tenderness? Is it so much a wonder, that his words are at one time so strong and eloquent, and at another, so tenderly pathetic, when we know that he is standing in his old foot-prints, and summoning around him old scenes and familiar faces?

But it is useless to dwell on points that suggest themselves to every mind, or to attempt praise of a book, whose abiding beauty and power we all recognize. We started with the qestion, "Have we a 'Tom Brown' among us." We do not propose to offer a categorical answer. We only intend a hasty, and therefore by no means a rigid analysis, of Tom Brown's character, and let each answer for himself. We suppose the most of us, when we close the book, say, 'what a splendid character,' meaning, how perfectly developed. Subject, we believe to "like passions with us," yet, somehow, treading on immeasurably higher ground. Purposes nobler, life purer, than are those of any we see daily walking in our midst. We say, in a general way, that there were gathered in him an unsurpassed union of those qualities, that make the nearly perfect standard. Though we believe this is the common opinion, yet we venture to assert, that if a real Tom Brown were among us, shared our walks and chats, was admitted to our closest fellowship, we should hardly be aware of the fact. We might allow, in our loose language, that he was a "good fellow," but what we mean, is, that we should scarcely think of him as reaching our common conception of Tom Brown's character. Place us in the future, when years have cleared away the mists that blind us now, and purified our judgment, and we could come to a more just appreciation.

The first thing one observes, on a close examination of Tom Brown's character, is, that he was by no means possessed of brilliant qualities.

He would have made a sorry figure in prize debate, and could lay down rules for fishing and cricket easier than he could plan and develop an argument. The delicate, clear-headed Arthur could start a question and dash on like a keen-scented hound to the inevitable conclusion, while Tom would come lumbering along, stumbling over side questions, and always ending with some positive assertion. The fault was, his heart held complete mastery over his reasoning. He stubbornly clings to a sweeping condemnation of Naaman, because he thought he detected evidences of cowardice in him.

He was no scholar. He struggles a long time with East in the fifth form, while the quick-witted Arthur is far ahead of them. He uses "vulguses," and his repudiation of them, through Arthur's pleading, is one of the most notable scenes in the book, as well as one of the finest illustrations of his character. Why does he reject them? Is it because his scholarship will be less superficial? Is it because the grand thoughts, that lie hid in ancient poetry and philosophy, would be revealed to him? If the pleader had only used such arguments as these, the lessons would have been "done" in the old way; but as soon as Arthur makes him appear in the light of a deceiver to the Doctor, the victory is won. Tom's brain is bothered with the intricacies of an argument, but he never falters when a question of right is to be decided. Still he honors scholarship. He feels a sort of reflected glory in Arthur's success, and is proud of his scholarly attainments, although he is so much his own superior. Greek was to him only a most wearisome task, and hence it is that he looks on with such a mysterious awe, as Arthur's exquisite sensibility is touched to its very core by Helen's lament over Hector. It is a matter of amaze-ment, how out of those Greek words that represent nothing to him but modes and tenses, there can come something that should draw tears.. But how lightning-like comes the challenge to Slogger Williams! His sneers at his friend's tenderness, fire his whole nature in a moment.. We now come to another reason for our enthusiasm in Tom Brownnot a point in his character, but an external circumstance. We refer to his splendid vitality; his exuberant, bounding life. Right here, perhaps, is to be found the chief reason for his lack as a scholar. Football, cricket, racing over the fields, and fishing were too enticing. It would make a sick man's eye grow bright, and his pulse gather strength to read with what complete abandon he threw himself into these manly sports, and what perfect pleasure it was to give play to his overflowing, physical power.

What have we got now, after proceeding thus far in our imperfect analysis? Simply a roguish, healthful fellow, with no brilliant parts, and a dull scholar. Is this our model-our boy-hero? Is this our character, that we have to lift up our eyes to-he seems so far above us-and then imagine that we only dimly comprehend? Where, then, does lie the wonderful charm of Tom Brown's character. We may be at fault in answering this question, but we venture our belief. We remember those simple words of his father, when he left him; "Tell the truth; keep a brave, kind heart, and never listen to, or say anything you wouldn't have your mother and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see you." Beautiful precepts, because they came with such living power to the heart. Beautiful precepts, because they made their appeal to those feelings that grow dull the last, and never wholly die. Beautiful precepts, because they were possessed of such utter simplicity, and yet reached out so far as to lie at the very gateways of religion. That he kept these words so fresh in his mind, and wandered from them so little, we believe is the reason of our just enthusiasm for his character. The soul of honor; brave as it was possible for a boy to be, and yet watching over Arthur as carefully as his own mother; hating cowardice with a perfect hatred, but hating meanness with an intense hatred ; making friends not quickly but binding them to himself with close bonds, and withal, of naturally deep religious sensibilities-such is our idea of Tom Brown, and yet we are forced to believe that if such as this were among us, and the slow, plodding thinker and dull scholar that he was, he could never win our hearty admiration, as he does in the book. Our veneration for the more marked abilities warps our judgment. We reverence a splendid intellect more than we do a great heart. Where lies the fault, that we cannot do full honor to a realized Tom Brown? Partly, because he was destitute of the more shining qualities of intellect that are so especially fascinating to us. Partly, because his nobleness is so clearly set forth that we cannot but reverence it. But we think we can show a more profound reason than these, why, if a Tom Brown did dwell among us, he would not be valued rightly. The dying words of Schiller were, "many things are becoming plain and clear to me." The dawning light,-partly coming, perhaps, from the New Life, but more, we believe, because years had wrought their perfect work in setting reason free from the trammels of the feelings, and the feelings from the trammels of reason,―had driven away doubts and darkness, and given certainty to trembling hopes, and faith to halfbelieved promises. Thus, not to profane these beautiful words of the

dying poet, is it with us. We need years to dissipate the false colorings we give to character, and set it in its true light, and we even know that the few years of College, work amazing changes in our estimation of our fellows. This may be an excessively common-place fact, but we question whether we give it its true value.

What, then, is the guiding principle of Tom Brown's character, which we claim is so easily overlooked? We believe that when we enunciate this, we paint his whole character in a single word. A great seriousness was the overshadowing thing in his life. He threw his whole soul into whatever he was engaged in. Every question he touched became a serious question. He was most emphatically a type of an earnest man. What a poor, misconceived word earnest is! It is dragged into so much cant, and so tortured and twisted about, that it has at last got little significance with us, or if it means anything, it means a sort of Puritanic character, with all the gloom and shadow, and none of the bright parts of the picture. We believe an earnest man to be one who, from day to day, acts honestly by himself and fellows. Nothing, to take a superficial glance, appears very hard about this, and yet it requires fearlessness, and a depth of sincerity that we little imagine. It is a continual heroism to act honestly by your fellows, and who can stand the test?

Such we believe Tom Brown to have been. They always knew that what he said was his understanding of the truth, and when he took sides for or against an associate, he did it with an entire fearlessness, because he thought it right. Still, with all this, we are compelled to the belief, that a realized Tom Brown would be known among us worshippers of intellect and muscle, more as an expert oarsman and a good boxer, than because he was leading a more sincere life than the rest of us. So the question, without impropriety, may assume this form. "Have we an earnest man among us?" Can you point one out? At rare intervals you see one, but where do you find him? Is he among those honored ones? Is he among those who wear garlands on their heads,-symbols of triumph? Not so, but you will find him lower down--a quiet man, who always greets you cordially, and with such a pleasant smile. He is the most earnest man we have, and comes nearer than any to our Tom Brown standard. Even then, it is generally only by some sudden revelation, some accidental unveiling, that we catch a glance of inner nobleness.

With these hasty thoughts touching the question with which we started, and these few hints about Tom Brown's character, we end this sketch. We are conscious that our attempt at its analysis is essentially

weak, and that many vital points are left without a word. As we close, there press up before us a multitude of other questions, that spring from what we have written, and demand answers. Can we cultivate

honest, earnest men, like Tom Brown? dergo a revolution before we can do this?

Must our social system un-
How can those who hunger

and thirst for better things be filled and satisfied? These, and other searching questions, come thronging around us, but we are compelled reluctantly to put them aside without attempting answers.

We watch, almost with solicitude, Tom's career at Oxford. We torture ourselves with doubts as to whether he will still be the brave, honest Rugby boy, only more manly and more dignified, or will degenerate into the Oxford swell and rowdy. Will the deep, religious sensibilities of his school-days be deadened or blotted out by these later scenes? Above all, will the man be ashamed to carry with him to College those same beautiful precepts that the boy carried with him to school?

H. S. B.

Symptoms.

I have a friend who is ailing,

And what can the matter be?
His appetite fast is failing,

And he dines upon toast and tea;
His cheeks are thinning and paling
To the hue of the pod of a pea.

He mopes through the recitation,
Till he's called upon to speak,
When he muddles his mensuration,
And murders his Latin and Greek.

The tutor looks up from his pages

To see what the man can mean,-
For when asked what the Golden Age is,
He stammers, "She's just eighteen."

He takes no thought for his linen,
He towzles his flowing hair,