the whole matter assumes a very different form. The nature of the subject demands this same easy, story-telling style, and consistency has chosen the metre as the one best suited for the words. In regard to the length, the objection is at least a weak one, for although "too much of a good thing is good for nothing," yet it is very seldom that this "too much" is attained. With these few words in regard to the more prominent points of critical attack, let us pass over to a general survey of the work itself.

In the story there is nothing of peculiar interest, but it borrows all its charm from the simple beauty of the narration. It is a mere love story of modern times, prettily chosen in incident, indeed, but in no way uncommon or even improbable. The delineation of character is exceedingly fine, and what is still more unusual, true to life.

It is not possible here to enter upon any criticism on this point, for any brief remarks on such a subject are most unprofitable. The distinction in nationality is plainly shown in the contrasted characters of Lord Alfred and Eugène. The treatment of the most unimportant characters, their perfect likeness to life itself, shows the touch of a master-hand, and by its truth alone keeps up the interest. The crowning point of the work, however, is "Lucile;" for the author has not fallen into the common, the almost universal fault, of overdrawing his favorite. She is represented, not as an angel, but a woman-superior, but not beyond the bounds of possibility, in body or in mind-not a mere automaton of the writer's fancy, but a creature of flesh and blood and fault as all of us. In this masterly treatment of a difficult point, lies the great secret of the unbroken interest, for the whole scene of the book is not thrown outside of our own sphere. In the grand old poems, it is true, we find much to admire, much to reverence, but because the subjects are above us, we cannot feel sympathy, love. Towards Lucile the reader cannot but feel the sympathy of a friend; mourning with her through all her sorrows, rejoicing in her final triumph.

The descriptions, and especially those of scenery, are worthy of the highest praise. Here the subject changes, and with it the style. No more the easy, story-telling verse, but the thoughts and the words are as grand as the mighty scene of which they are the mere exponentwith the human he is human, with the divine he is divine.

There is another marked peculiarity, which, more than anything else, has led men to consider this work as unworthy of the name, Poem. There is at every point the keen philosophy of true life, never allowing the story to fall into an over-degree of sadness, but, true to life, ever mingling the sweet and bitter in the same cup, ever linking

together joy and sorrow. Finally, the greatest argument for its success springs from the fact, that it seems to conjure up a friendship between the writer and the one who reads; and this can be easily accounted for. The heart of the author is evidently in the work which he has undertaken; for, throughout the entire work, shining out at times through the merry, easy running song, there is a vein of melancholy, which proves it the production of a man of feeling, not of a machine. It does not seem so much like a written composition, but rather like the conversation of a friend.

Owen Meredith has opened a new and untried field for poetic literatare; but, on account of its originality alone, his effort could not, with justice, be defended. If a new movement is at the same a good one, then alone it is worthy of praise; but originality, by itself, is neither a vice nor a virtue. The only consideration then is, whether this kind of literature can lay claim to any place peculiarly its own; and this, I think, does not require any proof. It is true that we need, usually, books for instruction, books that we can admire and reverence; but the mind, like the body, needs relaxation; and in poetry, as in prose, lighter reading is at times absolutely necessary. If this deficiency is granted, the success of the work will be certain-and the world will give the praise of true merit to Owen Meredith and "Lucile,"

J. F. K.

My War Experience.

WHEN one has been to war, and has returned from the conflict, covered with scars, or otherwise, a natural curiosity on the part of his friends, results in an oft-repeated account of his adventures. This principle has not failed to apply to the writer, who has frequently been called upon to narrate to breathless circles, his experience in the trenches at Cincinnati, during the last long vacation. At the request of one of the Editors-overcoming his natural modesty-he has prepared for the Lit. a true and faithful chronicle of those eventful hours,

when, with thousands of others, he gallantly rushed to the defense of his native city.

Actuated by no selfish love of gain-for no pay was received for those hours of work-moved by no vain ambition-for no glory is to be gained by gallantly wielding the pick and shovel-they went forthimpelled by the sense of duty-and the martial law. The glory, however, did follow, and now, no prouder title can be worn, than that of a Hero of the trenches.”

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It was my good fortune to arrive in Cincinnati, two or three days before the "Commencement of hostilities." On Tuesday, September 2d, the city was thrown into intense excitement by the approach of the Rebel Army, and the consequent declaration of "Martial Law." With this came the call for volunteers, for thirty days or the emergency, closing with the laconic sentiment, "Citizens for the trenchessoldiers for the field." Here was a field for patriotic effort, such as no other vacation had ever afforded a student. Thoughts of Hale, Winthrop, and the hosts of Alma Mater's sons, who had nobly served their country in its hours of danger, urged me to embrace the precious opportunity; so, off I hurried, and enrolled myself as a citizen in the 14th Ward Company A. Evilly disposed persons have hinted at the Provost Guards, and not patriotism, as being the motives for my alacrity, but-let that pass.

Our Company met at 2 P. M. on the above-mentioned day, to organize completely and report for duty. Here we formed a long double line, of a hundred and twenty-five, and stood in the hot sun for an hour. This time we were variously occupied-some swearing at the outrageous heat-others, beneath umbrellas, being more patient-while I found variety in gazing on the fairy form, and beautiful face of a maiden, who, from an upper window, admired our exceedingly martial appearance.

At last we were marched off six or seven squares, halted, and by a novel method, formed into a hollow square, when we proceeded to elect our officers.

The election went off well, with the usual anxiety of everybody to fill some office, and at the end, I found myself invested with the responsible duties and honors of Fourth Sergeant. On our return to our original headquarters, we were dismissed for one hour, to re-assemble, with blankets and rations, prepared for our expedition.

While we were forming, after the usual style of raw recruits, there loomed up in the distance the manly form of P-, a Junior at Yalewhom, after a little persuasion, I impressed into our ranks, and thus,

at 6 P. M., we marched off for Kentucky. Our company was composed of rather varied elements. We had four Ministers-an Actor, of good local reputation-two Yale Students-a number of lawyers and merchants-several doctors-three men over seventy years of age—one of these, eighty—a few working-men, and a mixture of clerks, grocerymen, and gentlemen of leisure.

Being the first Company off, on our way through the city to the river, we caused no little notice and some enthusiasm, which was all very gratifying. Arrived at the river, our war duties actually commenced; here a guard was placed in charge of four drunken Dutchmen, who had strayed from their own company. And here let me notice one of the facts my military experience has taught me war is eminently productive of drunken Dutchmen-why this is, I leave more inquiring minds to determine, merely suggesting its possible connection with the old article of "Dutch courage."

Safely over the river, we marched into the "Dark and bloody ground," over a road that had been pounded into dust by the continual tramping of mules and cavalry. On to the court-house, to headquarters where we were permitted to lie around on the pavement for two hours, awaiting orders. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; coming out with the glorious intention of spending the night at hard work for the defense of our homes, we were anxious to be up and doing. At last came our orders to march, not, alas, on to the trenches, but back to the city. Ignorant of the formalities of War, our Captain had brought us over without marching orders, and back again he must lead us. The indignation of the Company can be better portrayed by the reader's imagination than my pen. Blood-thirsty heroes disappointed of a battle, never retired with poorer grace than did we, disappointed of a night's work in the trenches.

Over the river-up the hill-another long halt at the general headquarters-off to our own-and we were dismissed for the night at half past ten, to meet at six the next morning, feeling very much like the famous King of France-only a little more so.

One hundred and twenty unhappy individuals were awakened at five the next morning. War is a stern master, and forbids the comfortable morning nap. An early breakfast-and once more to our rendezvous. Here again another exasperating delay. Our worthy Captain, claiming the privileges of rank, slept sweetly on-took his breakfast in ease, and appeared on the grounds an hour and a half behind time. Suffice it to say, if one might judge from the language of the profane members of Company A., the popularity of its Captain

was decidedly on the wane. One hour and a half spent in idle standing around, with the ever recurring thought, that you might as well be at home, in bed, or enjoying a good breakfast, is not all conducive to equanimity of temper. The Captain at last came-once more we started this time with orders, and safely arrived at out old stoppingplace, the court-house. Here delay, the ever-present evil genius of our war, detained us another hour, the monotony only being varied by the passing of a veteran regiment. Our march resumed, brought us to a second halt, a mile on. After all, war is but a series of marches and halts-a battle being but the result of an attempt of one side to force a halt upon the other. This time, our tarrying place, the grounds of a Baptist Theological Seminary, was one far preferable to a street pavement, though one bearing sad testimony to the troubles of our unhappy country. The old Slavery question had divided its supporters, and thus enfeebled, it is gradually wasting away in irrecoverable decay. Here, stretched at ease on the grass, or collecting the neighbors' fruit, we lolled away another hour, gradually so reduced in spirit as to submit to almost anything.

At last, joyous moment, our final orders came, and off we gaily marched, for the trenches, with promises of no more halting. Our frequent delays had resulted in this final outset at half-past ten o'clock, when the sun-glorious orb-was unnecessarily warm. A three miles march under this sun, over a road ascending successive hills, when shawls seemed superfluous comforts—a march varied by a halt at a roadside spring, for water-which never before seemed so precious-although many eyes mournfully gazed upon the occasional liquor saloons, which stern martial law had hermetically sealed,-a march, whose felicities were heightened by the dust, aroused by the passage of fifteen hundred horses, almost innumerable baggage-waggons, and the little wagons, containing the worldly possessions of some poor refugees-such a march, gave us our first true impressions of the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war." Within a half mile of Fort Mitchell, on whose trenches we were to work, we passed the first guards, and several regiments encamped on each side of the road; and this, with the furious galloping of staff officers and orderlies, warned us of our entrance within the "lines," and a few rods further brought us to the Fort. This is an earth work, commanding the Lexington turnpike, which was commenced last Winter, and whose trenches we, with other companies, were called upon to finish. Its site was upon the grounds of a beautiful suburban residence, all of whose beauties had been sacrificed to the ruthless destroyer, war. Great trenches