Would impious hand of foe disturb Its memories' holy spell, And blight it with a dew of blood? Ha, tr-r-aitor!! * * * It is well. And this is the last of the rejected anthems I can quote from at present, my boy, though several hundred pounds yet remain untouched. Yours, questioningly, ORPHEUS C. KERR. LETTER IX. IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT TEMPORARILY DIGRESSES FROM WAR MATTERS TO ROMANTIC LITERATURE, AND INTRODUCES A WOMAN'S NOVEL. WASHINGTON, D.C., July --, 1861. While the Grand Army is making its preparations for an advance upon the Southern Confederacy, my boy, and the celebrated fowl of our distracted country is getting ready his spurs, let me distract your attention for a moment to the subject of harrowing Romance as inflicted by the intellectual women of America. To soothe and instruct me in my leisure and more ebrious moments, one of the ink-comparable women of America has sent me her new novel to read; and before I allow _you_ to enjoy its green leaves, my boy, you must permit me to make a few remarks concerning the generality of such works. Long and patient study of womanly works teaches me that woman's genius, as displayed in gushing fiction, is a power of creating an unnatural and unmitigated ruffian for a hero, my boy, at whose shrine all created crinoline and immense delegations of inferior broadcloth are impelled to bow. Such a one was that old humbug, Rochester, the beloved of "Jane Eyre." The character has been done-over scores of times since poor Charlotte Bronté gave her famous novel to the world, and is still "much used in respectable families." The great difficulty with the intellectual women of America is, that they will persist in attempting to delineate a phase of manly character which attracts them above all others, but which they do not comprehend. Woman entertains a natural fondness for that which she can not understand, and hence it is that we very seldom find her without a wildly-vague admiration of Emerson. There is in this world, my boy, a noble type of manhood which unites dignified reserve with the most loyal integrity, relentless pride of manner with the kindest humility of heart, rigid indifference to the applause of the world with the finest regard for its honest respect, and carelessness of woman's mere frivolous liking with the most profound and chivalrous reverence for her virtues and her love. This is the type which, without comprehending it, the intellectual women of America are continually striving to depict in their novels; and a pretty mess they make of it, my boy,--a pretty mess they make of it.