s, angels,
and other silestial influences. We can all do it, Barnet; nothing in
life is esier. I can compare my livry buttons to the stars, or the
clouds of my backopipe to the dark vollums that ishew from Mount Hetna;
or I can say that angels are looking down from them, and the tobacco
silf, like a happy sole released, is circling round and upwards, and
shaking sweetness down. All this is as esy as drink; but it's not
poatry, Barnet, nor natural. People, when their mothers reckonize them,
don't howl about the suckumambient air, and paws to think of the happy
leaves a-rustling--at least, one mistrusts them if they do. Take
another instans out of your own play. Capting Norman (with his eternil
SLACK-JAW!) meets the gal of his art:--

"Look up, look up, my Violet--weeping? fie!
And trembling too--yet leaning on my breast.
In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter.
Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas,
My sailor's bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes?
Nay--From those roses let me, like the bee,
Drag forth the secret sweetness!

VIOLET.

"Oh what thoughts
Were kept for SPEECH when we once more should meet,
Now blotted from the PAGE; and all I feel
Is--THOU art with me!"

Very right, Miss Violet--the scentiment is natral, affeckshnit,
pleasing, simple (it might have been in more grammaticle languidge, and
no harm done); but never mind, the feeling is pritty; and I can fancy,
my dear Barnet, a pritty, smiling, weeping lass, looking up in a man's
face and saying it. But the capting!--oh, this capting!--this windy,
spouting captain, with his prittinesses, and conseated apollogies for
the hardness of his busm, and his old, stale, vapid simalies, and his
wishes to be a bee! Pish! Men don't make love in this finniking
way. It's the part of a sentymentle, poeticle taylor, not a galliant
gentleman, in command of one of her Madjisty's vessels of war.

Look at the remaining extrac, honored Barnet, and acknollidge that
Capting Norman is eturnly repeating himself, with his endless jabber
about stars and angels. Look at the neat grammaticle twist of Lady
Arundel's spitch, too, who, in the corse of three lines, has made her
son a prince, a lion, with a sword and coronal, and a star. Why jumble
and sheak up metafors in this way? Barnet, one simily is quite enuff in
the best of sentenses (and I preshume I kneedn't tell you that it's as
well to have it LIKE, when you