We say, then, that we are not anxious to repel this charge brought against our great western Republic, that we assign to arts and letters a secondary place; on the contrary, we are content that the over-cultivation of these should fatten on the decaying and effete nations of Europe, as phosphorus shines in rotten wood.’ Now she had determined to read every sentence of this article conscientiously, as something more than a mere intellectual treat; but, as she went on, joy did not seem to be the result. The reference to Patrick Milligan and the postmastership in Connecticut she considered to be distinctly impertinent; but perhaps Jack Huysen had not explained clearly to the young gentleman all that she had written to Emma Kerfoot? Anyhow, she thought, when he came to Ronald’s little Highland poem, he would perhaps drop his Athenians, and talk more like a reasonable human being. ’That the first strain from the new singer’s lyre should be placed at the services of the readers of the _Citizen_, we owe to the patriotism of the well-known and charming lady whose name we have given above; nor could the verses have fallen into better hands. In this case there is no need that Horace should cry to Tyndaris— _O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior,_ _Quem criminosis cunque voles modum_ _Pones iambis, sive flammâ_ _Sive mari libet Hadriano._ Moreover, we have received a hint that this may not be the last piece of the kind with which we may be favoured; so that we have again to thank our fair fellow-townswoman for her kindly attention. But lest our readers may be growing weary of this _prolegomenon_, we will at once quote this latest utterance of the Scottish muse which has come to us under such favourable auspices:’ Here followed Ronald’s poor verses, that perhaps looked insignificant enough, after this sonorous trumpet-blaring. The writer proceeded: