Among the thousands of strangers who streamed through our rooms, I, of course, could know or remember the names of but few individuals; and many an one had his or her designation by which we used to recognize them, as--the White Spirit, or the Black, or the Gray, the Count, the Slick Wig, the Old Oriental, the Hippopotamus, etc., etc. By the way, the Count was also an elderly gentleman with white hair and angelic eyes, a foreigner, who at parting made me a present of a set of old china of extreme rarity, for which I have since refused a dealer's offer of a thousand dollars, and which I still employ at parties and fêtes, and particular occasions, and always with a kind thought of the dear old donor. The summer season of travel, of course, brought many Southerners to our rooms, as well as visitors from other cities of the Union. We again passed through an ordeal of special investigation by a large committee of the first men of New York, in scientific and literary, as well as social distinction, which took place at the residence of the Rev. Rufus W. Griswold, for some account of which, and the signal triumph in which it resulted, I refer to a letter which will be found further on, and which was extensively republished. Only one very painful thing occurred: an anonymous present made to me of a large, superb bouquet of flowers, the smelling of which nearly cost me my life. I was thought to be at death's door; and a week had passed before I fully recovered from the effect. Spirits told us that it had proceeded from the malignity of a hostile quarter, and that the bouquet was poisoned. I have always had a peculiar sensitiveness to poison; and could not even now, in the open air, pass near to certain growing plants, such as poison ivy, without suffering sensibly from their vicinity.