I call all good Christians the Church. Capillarians and all. But I am in
too light a humor to touch these matters. May all our churches flourish!
Two things staggered me in the poem (and one of them staggered both of
as): I cannot away with a beautiful series of verses, as I protest they
are, commencing "Jenner," 'Tis like a choice banquet opened with a pill
or an electuary,--physic stuff. T'other is, we cannot make out how Edith
should be no more than ten years old. By 'r Lady, we had taken her to be
some sixteen or upwards. We suppose you have only chosen the round
number for the metre. Or poem and dedication may be both older than they
pretend to,--but then some hint might have been given; for, as it
stands, it may only serve some day to puzzle the parish reckoning. But
without inquiring further (for 'tis ungracious to look into a lady's
years), the dedication is eminently pleasing and tender, and we wish
Edith May Southey joy of it. Something, too, struck us as if we had
heard of the death of John May. A John May's death was a few years since
in the papers. We think the tale one of the quietest, prettiest things
we have seen. You have been temperate in the use of localities, which
generally spoil poems laid in exotic regions. You mostly cannot stir out
(in such things) for humming-birds and fireflies. A tree is a Magnolia,
etc.
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