f ours, that John Bull, in this matter of theology, has his
mumps and scarlatina very late, and they are likely to go hard with a
constitution that is weaned from the pure truth of things.

"Gold Hair," notwithstanding its picturesque lines, is weak and
inconclusive. Its moral is conventional, while the incident is too
far-fetched for sympathy. The series of little poems called "James Lee"
is full of beauties, but it is too vague to make a firm impression. We
suppose it tells the story of love that exaggerates a common nature,
clings to it, and shrivels away. What can be finer than the way in which
an unsatisfied heart makes the wind the interpreter of its pain and
dread? This is the sixth poem, "Under the Cliff."

"Or wouldst thou rather that I understand
Thy will to help me?--like the dog I found
Once, pacing sad this solitary strand,
Who would not take my food, poor hound,
But whined and licked my hand."

But in this very poem the figure of the nun is artificial, and
interrupts the pathetic feeling. And we cannot make anything out of the
piece, "Beside the Drawing-Board," unless we first detach it from its
position in the series, and like it alone. On the whole, many fine lines
are here, but no real person and no poetic impression.

Neither the dramatic nor the lyrical quality appears in this volume as
it did once in the splendid "Bells and Pomegranates," which gave us such
vivid shapes, and emotions so consistent and sustained, even though they
were so often flawed by over-reflection. In this volume the purposes are
less palpable, and the pen seems to have pursued them with less tenacity
than usual. It has the air of having been scraped together. Yet how
charming is "Confessions," and "Youth and Art," and "A Likeness"!
Besides these, the best pieces are those which touch upon the highest
themes.

"Mr. Sludge, the Medium," cannot be called a poem. It would not be
possible to write satire, epic, idyl, not even elegy, upon that
"rat-hole philosophy," as Mr. Emerson once styled the new fetichism of
the mahogany tables. It has not one element that asks the sense of
beauty to incorporate it, or challenges the weapon of wit to transfix
it. It is humiliating, but not pathetic, not even when yearning hearts
are trying to pretend that their first-born vibrates to them through a
stranger's and a hireling's mind. It is not even grotesque, but it is
gross, and flat, and stale; its messages are fatuo