utterly incapable of relishing the exquisite savours of "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," or of that great chapter which is intituled, "How they Chirruped over their Cups."
Very well; it is a great pity, and we are sorry for them. We know that they miss a great deal of the pleasures of life—which are none too many. We will not, perhaps, go all the way with Shakespeare, and declare them fit for murders, treasons, stratagems, and spoils; though, by the way, Shakespeare usually knew what he was talking about. But we, not having the title to use the high wrath of Shakespeare, are sorry for those poor people who say they "see nothing" in this masterpiece, and can't understand "why people make such a fuss" over that, and are "bored to tears" by the other. We are sorry for them; but if they called their state of mind Free-
