“The deep spirit of the wind awoke, Ruffling in wrath each glassy verdant mound, While onward roll’d the army of huge waves, Until the foremost with exulting roar, Rose proudly crested o’er his brother slaves, And dashed triumphant to the groaning shore.” The ocean finally passes from her sleeping vision and the winged travellers fly into a different scene— “We look on England’s woodland fresh and green,” and a beautiful picture is presented of the rural scenery of Great Britain, until the scene changes again to some romantic resting-place of the dead, to some _Père la Chaise_, or Laurel Hill, or Mount Auburn, to a— “heath Where yew and cypress seemed to wave O’er countless tombs, so beautiful, that death Seemed here to make a garden of the grave.” And as the fair one wanders over the “mighty dead,” over “warriors,” and “sons of song” and orators— “whose all persuading tongue Had moved the nations with resistless sway,” and “pale sons of science”— “He who wandered with me in my dream Told me their histories as we onward went, Till the grave shone with such a hallowed beam, Such pleasure with their memory seem’d blent That, when we looked to heaven, our upward eyes With no funereal sadness mock’d the skies.” We are ourselves getting rapidly to envy that “fellow” who is “wandering with her.” In our opinion she will soon be able to answer her own _naïve_ question about love. Her companion leads her, with admirable discernment, as we think, into a glorious “old library.” What better place could he have selected to impress the heart of an imaginative and appreciating “little love.” If the cemetery and those “histories” did not explain to her the novel psychological emotion about which she consulted her mother, what occurs in the library certainly will. For see how the youth plays with the susceptibilities of a girl of “sixteen”—