Sometimes there would be a long pause, on my part, after which would come a plaintive letter, always terse, like this:— “Did I displease you? But won’t you tell me how?” Or perhaps the announcement of some event, vast in her small sphere, as this:— Amherst. Carlo died. E. Dickinson. Would you instruct me now? Or sometimes there would arrive an exquisite little detached strain, every word a picture, like this:— THE HUMMING-BIRD A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald; A rush of cochineal. And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head;— The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy morning’s ride. Nothing in literature, I am sure, so condenses into a few words that gorgeous atom of life and fire of which she here attempts the description. It is, however, needless to conceal that many of her brilliant fragments were less satisfying. She almost always grasped whatever she sought, but with some fracture of grammar and dictionary on the way. Often, too, she was obscure, and sometimes inscrutable; and though obscurity is sometimes, in Coleridge’s phrase, a compliment to the reader, yet it is never safe to press this compliment too hard. Sometimes, on the other hand, her verses found too much favor for her comfort, and she was urged to publish. In such cases I was sometimes put forward as a defense; and the following letter was the fruit of some such occasion: DEAR FRIEND,—Thank you for the advice. I shall implicitly follow it. The one who asked me for the lines I had never seen. He spoke of “a charity.” I refused, but did not inquire. He again earnestly urged, on the ground that in that way I might “aid unfortunate children.” The name of “child” was a snare to me, and I hesitated, choosing my most rudimentary, and without criterion. I inquired of you. You can scarcely estimate the opinion to one utterly guideless. Again thank you. YOUR SCHOLAR. Again came this, on a similar theme:— DEAR FRIEND,—Are you willing to tell me what is right? Mrs. Jackson, of Colorado [“H. H.,” her early schoolmate], was with me a few moments this week, and wished me to write for this. [A circular of the “No Name Series” was inclosed.] I told her I was unwilling, and she asked me why? I said I was incapable, and she seemed not to believe me and asked me not to decide for a few days. Meantime, she would write me. She was so sweetly noble, I would regret to estrange her, and if you would be willing to give me a note saying you disapproved it, and thought me unfit, she would believe you. I am sorry to flee so often to my safest friend, but hope he permits me.