Such passages, though they add nothing to the verisimilitude of Kathrina's character, help to make her appear consistent in not laughing at a certain weird poem which her lover reads to her. Few ladies in real life, however great a tenderness they might feel for a morbid young poet, could practise Kathrina's self-control, when, depicting himself as a godless youth imprisoned by phantoms "among the elves of the silent land," he sings: "Under the charred and ghastly gloom, Over the flinty stones, They led him forth to his terrible doom, And, plunged in a deep and noisome tomb, They sat him among the bones." Where, crouching, he beholds, through a "loop" in the wall, "a sweet angel from the skies":-- "Could she not loose him from his thrall, And lead him into the light? 'Ah me!' he murmured, 'I dare not call, Lest she may doubt it a goblin's waul, And leave me in swift affright!'" The question is of the poet himself, immersed in his own gloomy thoughts, and of Kathrina, who could rescue him from them; but she has heard "only a wild, weird story," and her lover is obliged to explain it, and still we are to suppose that she did not laugh. Nay, we are told that she instantly accepted the poet, who exclaims: "Are there not lofty moments when the soul Leaps to the front of being, casting off The robes and clumsy instruments of sense, And, postured in its immortality, Reveals its independence of the clod In which it dwells?--moments in which the earth And all material things, all sights and sounds, All signals, ministries, interpreters, Relapse to nothing, and the interflow Of thought and feeling, love and life, go on Between two spirits, raised to sympathy The body dust, within an orb outlined, It shall go on forever?" We have no reason to suppose that this is not thought a fine passage by the author, who will doubtless find readers enough to agree with him, if he should not care to accept our estimate of his whole poem. Nevertheless, we must confess that it appears to us puerile in conception, destitute of due motive, and crude and inartistic in treatment. But we should be unjust both to ourselves and our author, if we left his work without some allusion to its highly embellished style, or, having failed to approve the whole design, refused to notice at all the elaborate ornamentation of the parts. Not to be guilty, then, of this unfairness, let us cull here some of the fanciful tropes and figures which enamel these flowery pages. The oriole is "a torch of downy flame"; the "reiterant katydids rasp the mysterious silence"; a mother's loss and sorrow are "twin leeches at her heart"; the frosty landscape is "fulgent with downy crystals"; Kathrina wears a "pale-blue muslin robe," which the hero fancies "dyed with forget-me-nots"; and the landscape has usually some effect of dry-goods to the poet's eye. We might almost believe that this passage,