AN ENIGMA
Seldom we find, says Solomon Don Dunce, Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet-- Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff- Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it. And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent-- But _this_ is, now,--you may depend upon it-- Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.