The Press.
London, England, 1857-10-17 00:00:00

Surely, such a passage is not calculated to
settle the minds of young men—over whom
Mr. Robertson is said to have had such great
influence—in the confession of the true faith,
and to keep them stedfast in that faith.
In the sermon on Absolution, he maintains
most warmly the absolute need of human ab-
solution, and then propounds an entirely new
form for its exercise, or rather for the people's
reception of it, which seems to amount to very
little, while he leaves untouched all those
godly exercises by which the mind of the
Christian may attain to peace through the
sacrifice of Christ. We know of no sermon so
likely to lead unsettled minds to Rome as this
fifth sermon of Mr. Robertson.

Many similar references might be made to
his mode of handling other vital questions,
but we have said enough to point out the most
mischievous tendency of teaching which
springs from a highly wrought intellect with-
out sobriety, judgment, and orthodox faith to
guide and direct it.

Recreations of Christopher North. Vol. I.
(Works of Professor Wilson. Vol. IX.) Lon-
don : Blackwoods.
THE contents of this volume do not differ
materially from those of the Essays recently
given to the public. Like those, tha " Recre•
ations " appeared originally in Blackwood:
Magazine, and form a similar admixture of
fun, sense, and sentiment. If we have a fault
to find with them, it is perhaps that they are
slightly monotonous. " Christopher in his
Sporting Jacket," and " Christopher on the
Moors," though written in a style that might
have made even Dr. Johnson a sportsman,
contain too much repetition; the air of rhap-
sody is sustained too long; and we crave
sometimes to be let down into the common
air, and to hear a few genuine and circum-
stantial stories of grouse•shooting and trout-
fishing. But Christopher is at once too mur-
derous and too changeable to suit our own
taste, who like one thing at a time, and not to
take out fishing-rod, fowling-piece, and rifle
for a single day's sport. There is, however,
this one crowning merit in Wilson's sporting
papers,—they exhibit in unmistakable colours
the real poetry of field sports. If he had done
nothing more, he would for this alone deserve
the gratitude of all educated sportsmen, whose
number has much increased since the days of
Chesterfield and Squire Western. From the
first of these papers we extract the following
amusing passage upon " boys":—

- _
What I surely if you have the happiness of being a
parent, you would not wish your only boy—your son and
heir—the blended image of his mother's loveliness and his
father's manly beauty—to be a smug, smooth, prim, and
proper prig, with his hair always combed down on his
forehead, hands always unglaured, and without spot or
blemish on his white-thread stockings? Yon would not
wish him, surely, to be always moping and musing in a
corner with a good book held close to his nose—botanising
with his maiden aunts—doing the pretty at tea-tables with
tabbies, in handing round the shortbread, taking cups, and
attending to the kettle—telling tales on all naughty boys
and girls—laying up his penny a week pocket money in a
penny pig—keeping all his clothes neatly folded up in an
untumbled drawer—having his own peg for his uncrushed
hat—saying his prayers exactly as the clock strikes nine,
while his companions are yet at blind-man's-buff —and
puffed up every Sabbath eve by the parson's praises of his
uncommon memory for a sermon, while all the other boys
are scolded for having fallen asleep before Tenthly ? You
would not wish him, surely, to write sermons at his tender
years—nay, even to be able to give you chapter and verse
(or every quotation from the Bible ? No. Better far that
he should begin early to break your heart, by taking no
care even of his Sunday clothes—blotting his copy—
impiously pinning pieces of paper to the Dominie's tail
who to him was a second father—going to the fishing no,
only without leave, but against orders—bathing in the fort
bidden pool, where the tailor was drowned—drying'
powder before the schoolroom fire, and blowing himself
and two crack•skulled cronies to the ceiling—tying kettles
to the tails of dogs—shooting an old woman's laying hen—
galloping bare-backed shelties down stony steeps—climbing
trees to the slenderest twig on which bird could build, and
up the tooth-oftime•indented aides of old castles after
wallflowers and starlings—being run away with in carts by
colts against turnpike gates—buying bad ballads from
young gipsy girls, who, on receiving a sixpence, give ever
so many kisses in return, saying, " Take your change out
of that;"—on a borrowed broken•knee'd pony, with a
switch tail—a devil for galloping—not only attending
country races for a saddle and collar, but entering for and
winning the prize—dancing like a devil in barns at kirns—
seeing his blooming partner homo over the blooming
heather, most perilous adventure of all in which virgin
puberty can be involved—fighting with a rival in corduroy
breeches, and poll shorn beneath a caup, till his eyes just
twinkle through the swollen blue—and, to conclude "thus