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of poetry,—of what is called sentimental poetry, at least.

CLERMONT.

Did you not like my friend's sonnets, which I brought you yesterday?

MISS FRANKLAND.

O dear, no! I did not understand them.

CLERMONT.

Surely some of the thoughts they express are beautiful and tender.

MISS FRANKLAND.

I dare say they are; but why should beautiful thoughts be cramped up in such patterned shapes of versification,—all rule and difficulty? I have neither ear for the measure, nor quickness of comprehension for the meaning.

CLERMONT.

Don't say so, Fanny. Neither ear nor comprehension are in fault with you.—I should rather fear—I should rather say—No matter!

MISS FRANKLAND.

What would you say?

CLERMONT.

Nothing.

MISS FRANKLAND.

Nay, a blush passes over your face. Were any of those sonnets written by yourself?