Again I coime to the fold, this time
more at ease, both in body and mind,
than I canme last week. Then I wrote
under dij eultie', the principal one of
which was fatigue from over indulgence
ininirth anid enjoynient.
Pn glancing over the CuhiF of the 13th,
I notice the return to the fold of another
stray lami, I mean
VIVIAN.
I know she most be a charming little
lady with a heart as big as a hushel
that is if she hasn't given it into sonic
one's keeping-for she loves poetry. But
what a pity that her knowledge of the
sublime is so limited as she has confessed.
When one is fond of poetry and decides
among the great poets with sufficient
surety to say that Longfellow is their
favorite, and that, too, notwithstanding
they are familiar enough with his
writing to select a quotation, and the
one they would "have liked to appear
spoutaneous had to be hunted out and
copied," that person is really sympa
thized with, and I extend mine most
heartily.
How inconsistent are some of our
natures. Behold our fair cousin with a
love " that passeth all understanding"
for Longfellow, Tennyson and other
great poets and yet with not enough
romance in her nature to enjoy a picnic.
