In the library of the British Museum there is a small octavo pamphlet of 24 pages, entitled “Pot-Pourri.” It was apparently printed for private circulation only. The author’s name is not given, but it bears the imprint, “Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by ABEL REID, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.” “S. W. GREEN, Printer and Electrotyper, 16 & 18, Jacob St., New York.” The eleven poems it contains are all parodies of Poe’s writings, as the titles sufficiently indicate. Indeed many of the lines are taken bodily, and without the slightest acknowledgement, from Poe himself, whilst the stanzas, entitled, “Part of an Unfinished Ghoul-Poem,” in “Poetic Fragments,” were written by Poe, and intended by him to form the conclusion of “Ulalume.” He had, however, suppressed these lines at the request of Mrs. Whitman, the lady to whom he was engaged to be married, when his career was cut short by his miserable excesses. The author of “Pot-Pourri,” though evidently an admirer of the genius of Poe, utters a protest against the excessive hero-worship of some American critics; but it is a pity that he was not himself more candid and ingenuous in his treatment of the dead poet’s works. The following is an exact reprint of this scarce pamphlet; to facilitate comparison with the originals, a few stanzas from Poe’s poems are quoted at the foot of several of the parodies. POT-POURRI. THE RUINED PALACE. DREAM-MERE. ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS. THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY. HULLALOO. TO ANY. HANNIBAL LEIGH. RAVING. THE MONSTER MAGGOT. POETIC FRAGMENTS. UNDER-LINES. ――――:o:―――― * THE RUINED PALACE. In a green depth, like a chalice, By most sweet flowers tenanted, Stood a fair and stately palace. There a poet-soul――now dead―― Lived in days in vain lamented,―― Had lived to-day, But was wayward――or demented,―― Weak, or worse,――who dares to say? For his thought was streak’d with fancies, To all simple truth untrue; Bizarre, as the hues of pansies,―― The dark shades he knew; And he wander’d from this Aidenn: Wander’d, and was lost, alas! Though his own beloved maiden Track’d his footsteps through the grass. He return’d not. Devastation Housed in his disorder’d rooms; On his couch lay Desolation; Vampyres flitted through the glooms. By the pure white Parian fountains Lounged the ghouls, obscenely bare; Never wind came from the mountains To refresh the stagnant air.