“Are you not afraid, Miss Conway,” said I, “to receive such warning notes?” “It is from the best girl in America,” was the frank reply; “read it.” A perusal of the few dashing lines was enough, and my generous host, reading my eyes, gave me the coveted notelet. That notelet begot an interest in the writer; an interest fully repaid by the strong, careful work put forth under her name. Louise Imogen Guiney, poet, essayist, dramatist, was born in Boston, that city of “sweetness and light,” in January, 1862. Her parents were Irish. Her father, Patrick Guiney, came from the hamlet of Parkstown, County Tipperary, at an early age. He was a man of the most blameless and noble character. During the civil war, as Col. Guiney of the Irish Ninth Massachusetts Volunteers, his heroism on behalf of his adopted country won him the grateful admiration of all lovers of freedom. This admiration at the close of the war was substantially shown by his election as Judge of Probate. Constant suffering from an old wound, received at the battle of the Wilderness, gave the old soldier but few years to enjoy honors from his fellow-citizens. His death was mourned by all who loved virtue and honor. Of him a Boston poet sang: “Large heart and brave! Tried soul and true! How thickly in thy life’s short span, All strong sweet virtues throve and grew, As friend, as hero, and as man. Unmoved by thought of blame or praise, Unbought by gifts of power and pride, Thy feet still trod Time’s devious ways With Duty as thy law and guide.” Good blood, you will say, from whence our poet came, and blood counts even in poetry. I have no anecdotes to relate of Miss Guiney’s early years. I am not sure that there were any. Anecdotes are usually manufactured in later life, if the subject happens to become famous. Her education was carefully planned, and intelligently carried out. She was not held in the dull routine of the school-room, but was allowed to emancipate herself in the works of the poets. What joy must have been her’s, scampering home after the study of _de omni scibili_, the ordinary curriculum of any American school, to a quiet nook and the dream of her poets. Amid these dreams came the siren whisperings of the muse, telling her of the poet within struggling for life and expression. These struggles begot a tiny little volume happily named “Songs at the Start.” The great American reviewer, who, ordinarily, “Bolts every book that comes out of the press, Without the least question of larger or less,”