We have told as well as we may, but very imperfectly as we feel, the story of “Now and Then.” It is not for us to advise the reader to get the volume and to read it for himself. For this he will, as he should, use his own discretion; but we will, as a faithful Mentor, and a long-tried friend, entreat him, grave, intelligent, and responsible Christian man as he is, should he peruse the volume, to consider well at its close the actual frame of mind in which the book has left him. We hold this to be the true test of all literary metal, whosoever be the coiner, wheresoever be the mint. If the solemn elements brought into the light and pleasant texture of this simple narrative, do not elevate the spirit and brace the heart of all but the thorough sceptic—whom nothing will elevate but liquor, and nothing brace but a good three-inch oak stick—we are content to be set down as the mere slavish flatterer of Mr Warren, and not as his calm and uninfluenced, though warm and devoted counsellor. The organs of public opinion in London have dwelt upon the contrast which “Now and Then” affords to the current literature of the day. We are not surprised at the impression these critics have received. Whether we regard the tendency and object of the story, its conception and execution, the style of the language, or the construction of the plot, we are bound to confess, that between this production and the heap of Christmas and other tales that drop uselessly, and worse than uselessly, into the world, there is all the difference of the bright, fresh, vigorous mountain air, and the thick fusty atmosphere of the lanes. The current of piety that flows so equably on through the whole of the work, is lucid as a stream, polluted by no admixture of rank weeds or earthly dirt. It has been justly remarked, by the leading journal of the world, that “Now and Then” “is a vindication in beautiful prose of the ways of God to man.” Every actor in the history vindicates these ways: every fact as it arises does the same. The old Saxon Ayliffe, who, from his entrance till his exit, maintains the justice of God’s doings, and walks peacefully and unruffled over burning plough-shares, because he sublimely feels the practical influence of his faith, is one champion. Hylton, the indefatigable clergyman, doing good for his Master’s sake, reproving the high-born, sympathising with the lowly, preaching and acting reconciliation everywhere, is another champion. The Earl of Milverstoke is a champion too. If he be not, our soul has been moved in vain by the childlike piety and humble self-denial of his broken-hearted latter days.