talian origin--was able to assume motley without loss of dignity, and
that wounded Titan, the late W. E. Henley, was another exception. Both
he and Rossetti had the faculty of being foolish, or obscene, without
impairing the high seriousness of their superb poetic gifts.

But I refer to more serious folly--that of the disciples of Silas Wegg.
Some friends of mine in the country employed a ladies'-maid with literary
proclivities. She was never known to smile; the other servants thought
her stuck up; she was a great reader of novels, poetry, and popular books
on astronomy. One day she gave notice, departed at the end of a month,
left no address, and never applied for a character. Beneath the mattress
of her bed was found a manuscript of poems. One of these, addressed to
our satellite, is based on the scientific fact (of which I was not aware
until I read her poem) that we see only one side of the moon. The ode
contains this ingenious stanza:--

O beautiful moon!
When I gaze on thy face
Careering among the boundaries of space,
The thought has often come to my mind
If I ever shall see thy glorious behind.

It was my pleasure to communicate this verse to our greatest living
conversationalist, a point I mention because it may, in consequence, be
already known to those who, like myself, enjoy the privileges of his
inimitable talk. I possess the original manuscript of the poem, and can
supply copies of the remainder to the curious.

In a magazine managed by the physician of a well-known lunatic asylum I
found many inspiring examples. The patients are permitted to contribute:
they discuss art and literature, subject of course to a stringent
editorial discretion. As you might suppose, poetry occupies a good deal
of space. It was from that source of clouded English I culled the
following:--

His hair is red and blue and white,
His face is almost tan,
His brow is wet with blood and sweat,
He steals from where he can:
And looks the whole world in the face,
A drunkard and a man.

I think we have here a Henley manque. In robustious assertion you will
not find anything to equal it in the Hospital Rhymes of that author. I
was so much struck by the poem that I obtained permission to correspond
with the poet. I discovered that another Sappho might have adorned our
literature; that a mute inglorious Elizabeth Barrett was kept silent in
Darien--for the asylum was in the immediate vicin