That Firmilian—for we shall not say Mr Percy Jones—was well qualified for such an undertaking as he finally resolved to prosecute, must be evident to every one who has perused the earliest extract we have given; and we shall certainly hold ourselves excused from quoting the terms of the course of study which he now proposes to himself. Seriously, it is full time that the prurient and indecent tone which has liberally manifested itself in the writings of the young spasmodic poets should be checked. It is so far from occasional, that it has become a main feature of their school; and in one production of the kind, most shamefully bepuffed, the hero was represented as carrying on an intrigue with the kept-mistress of Lucifer! If we do not comment upon more recent instances of marked impurity, it is because we hope the offence will not be repeated. Meantime, let us back to Firmilian. As he approaches the catastrophe, we remark, with infinite gratification, that Mr Percy Jones takes pains to show that he is not personally identified with the opinions of his hero. Up to the point which we have now reached, there has been nothing to convince us that Jones did not intend Firmilian to be admired—but we are thankful to say that before the conclusion we are undeceived. Jones, though quite as spasmodic as the best of them, _has_ a sense of morals; and we do not know that we ever read anything better, in its way, than the following scene:— A GARDEN. FIRMILIAN. MARIANA. FIRMILIAN. My Mariana! MARIANA. O my beautiful! My seraph love—my panther of the wild— My moon-eyed leopard—my voluptuous lord! O, I am sunk within a sea of bliss, And find no soundings! FIRMILIAN. Shall I answer back? As the great Earth lies silent all the night, And looks with hungry longing on the stars, Whilst its huge heart beats on its granite ribs With measured pulsings of delirious joy— So look I, Mariana, on thine eyes! MARIANA. Ah, dearest! wherefore are we fashioned thus? I cannot always hang around thy neck And plant vermilion kisses on thy brow; I cannot clasp thee, as yon ivy bush— Too happy ivy!—holds, from year to year, The stalwart oak within her firm embrace, Mixing her tresses fondly up with his, Like some young Jewish maid with Absalom’s. Nay, hold, Firmilian! do not pluck that rose! FIRMILIAN. Why not? it is a fair one. MARIANA. Are fair things Made only to be plucked? O fie on thee! I did not think my lord a libertine! FIRMILIAN.