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. It would seem that at first I tried a little—a very little—to lead her in the direction of rules and traditions; but I fear it was only perfunctory, and that she interested me more in her—so to speak—unregenerate condition. Still, she recognizes the endeavor. In this case, as will be seen, I called her attention to the fact that while she took pains to correct the spelling of a word, she was utterly careless of greater irregularities. It will be seen by her answer that with her usual naïve adroitness she turns my point:— DEAR FRIEND,—Are these more orderly? I thank you for the truth. I had no monarch in my life, and cannot rule myself; and when I try to organize, my little force explodes and leaves me bare and charred. I think you called me “wayward.” Will you help me improve? I suppose the pride that stops the breath, in the core of woods, is not of ourself. You say I confess the little mistake, and omit the large. Because I can see orthography; but the ignorance out of sight is my preceptor’s charge. Of “shunning men and women,” they talk of hallowed things, aloud, and embarrass my dog. He and I don’t object to them, if they’ll exist their side. I think Carlo would please you. He is dumb, and brave. I think you would like the chestnut tree I met in my walk. It hit my notice suddenly, and I thought the skies were in blossom.