“I can’t say I _do_ see very clearly at present,” returned Frere; “what kind of poetry is it that you accept?” “Oh, there are different styles. Now here’s a little thing I’ve got in the June part, ‘The Homeless Heart, by L. O. V. E.’ Her real name is Mary Dobbs, but she couldn’t very well sign herself M.D.; people would think she was a physician. She’s a very respectable young woman (such a girl to laugh), and engaged to an opulent stockbroker. Now listen: “‘Homeless, forsaken, Deeply oppress’d, Raving, yet craving Agony’s rest; Bitterly hating, Fondly relenting, Sinning, yet winning Souls to repenting; When for her sorrow Comes a to-morrow, Shall she be bless’d?’” “That’s a question I can’t take upon myself to answer,” interrupted Frere. “But if those are in the style you consider suited to the tone of your Magazine, it must be a very wonderful publication.” “I flatter myself it is, rather,” replied Bracy complacently. “But that’s by no means the only style; here’s a thing that will go down with the million sweetly. Listen to this,” and as he spoke he extracted from a drawer a mighty bundle of papers labelled “Accepted Poetry,” and selecting one or two specimens from the mass, read as follows:-- “THE COUNTESS EMMELINE’S DISDAINMENT.” “Bitter-black the winter’s whirlwind wail’d around the haunted hall, Where the sheeted snow that fleeted fester’d on the mouldering wall. “But his blacker soul within him childish calm appear’d to view, And when gazing, ’twas amazing whence the sceptic terror grew. “Then her voice, so silver-blended, to a trumpet-blast did swell, As she task’d him when she asked him, ‘Mr. Johnson, is it well?’ “Ashen-white the curdled traitor paled before her eagle eye, Whilst denying, in replying, deeper grew his perjury.” “There! I can’t stand any more of that, at any price!” exclaimed Frere, putting his hands to his ears. “Unless you wish to make me seriously ill, spare me the infliction of those detestable compound adjectives.” “My dear fellow, you’ve no taste,” returned Bracy. “Why, that’s written by one of our best contributors; an individual that will make Tennyson look to his laurels, and do the Brownings brown, one of these days. But if that’s too grand for you, here’s a little bit of pastoral simplicity may suit you better:-- “‘TO A HERBLET, NAME UNKNOWN. ‘Once upon a holiday, Sing heigho; Still with sportive fancy playing While all nature was a-maying, On a sunny bank I lay;