My heart almost failed in the perusal of Mrs. Tighe's Psyche. What is a buttered bun? I perceive that she was a Foxite, poor soul! and a true Irish woman. She makes "veil" rhyme to "conceal" — "Consale yourself, honey, my husband's coming" — in a minor poem; and tells us that when Psyche brought in her candle, the eyes of Love were shedding radiance on his form, so she might have seen him long before by his own light — a bull which may belong to Apuleius or the French poets, but still 'tis a conceit of all the Whigs and Edinburgh Reviewers in the world.