An Enigma
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.Through all the flimsy things we see at onceAs 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 puffTwirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."And, veritably, Sol is right enough.The general tuckermanities are arrantBubbles--ephemeral and so transparent--But this is, now--you may depend upon it--Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dintOf the dear names that lie concealed within't.
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