ith this came the poem already published in her volume and entitled "Renunciation"; and also that beginning "Of all the sounds dispatched abroad," thus fixing approximately the date of those two. I must soon have written to ask her for her picture, that I might form some impression of my enigmatical correspondent. To this came the following reply, in July, 1862: --

    Could you believe me without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves. Would this do just as well?
    It often alarms father. He says death might occur, and he has moulds of all the rest, but has no mould of me; but I noticed the quick wore off those things, in a few days, and forestall the dishonor. You will think no caprice of me.
    You said "Dark." I know the butterfly, and the lizard, and the orchis. Are not those your countrymen?
    I am happy to be your scholar, and will deserve the kindness I cannot repay.
    If you truly consent, I recite now. Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, sir, and fracture within is more critical. And for this, preceptor, I shall bring you obedience, the blossom from my garden, and every gratitude I know.
    Perhaps you smile at me. I could not stop for that. My business is circumference. An ignorance, not of customs, but if caught with the dawn, or the sunset see me, myself the only kangaroo among the beauty, sir, if you please, it afflicts me, and I thought that instruction would take it away.
    Because you have much business, beside the growth of me, you will appoint, yourself, how often I shall come, without your inconvenience.
    And if at any time you regret you received me, or I prove a different fabric to that you supposed, you must banish me.
    When I state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person.
    You are true about the "perfection." To-day makes Yesterday mean.
    You spoke of Pippa Passes. I never heard anybody speak of Pippa Passes before. You see my posture is benighted.
    To thank you baffles me. Are you perfectly powerful? Had I a pleasure you had not, I could delight to bring it.

YOUR SCHOLAR.                

This was accompanied by this strong poem, with its breathless conclusion. The title is of my own giving: --

        THE SAINTS' REST

 Of tribulation, these are they,
      Denoted by the white;
 The spangled gowns, a lesser rank
      Of victors designate.

 All these did conquer; but the ones
      Who overcame most times,
 Wear nothing commoner than snow,
      No ornaments but palms.

 "Surrender" is a sort unknown
      On this superior soil;
 "Defeat" an outgrown anguish,
      Remembered as the mile

 Our panting ancle barely passed
      When night devoured the road;
 But we stood whispering in the house,
      And all we said, was "Saved!"

[Note by the writer of the verses.] I spelled ankle wrong.

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