Then, too, there come to us the tender and overpowering moments when we can no longer put up with being separated from beloved objects, who tore at the grain of our life when they went away elsewhere, with portions of it clinging to them. We must have them again. Shall life be stabbed and no justice compensate these sickening drippings of the soul in her secret faintness? The old familiar faces have registered in our hearts a contempt for graves and burials. Not so cheaply can we be taken in, when the lost life lies quick in memory still, and cries against the insults which mortality wreaks on love. Is not this an exclamation of temperament? John Weiss was essentially a poet. His pages are saturated with poetry. His very arguments are expressed in poetic imagery. To take two or three examples: One who rides from South-west Harbor to Bar Harbor in Mt. Desert will see a grove in which the pines stand so close that all the branches have withered two-thirds of the way up the trunks, and are nothing but dead sticks, broken and dangling. But every tree bears close, each to each, its evergreen crown; and they seem to make a floor for the day to walk on. This pavement for the feet of heaven, more precious than the fancied one of the New Jerusalem, stretches all round the world, above the thickets of our spiny egotism, where people run up into the only coherence upon which it is safe for Deity to tread. Or this about the poet's inspired hour: