rapped very quickly.

"Are these numbers?"

"Yes," again.

"I will write them," she added, and, doing so, took up the card and
tapped the letters. The spelling was pretty rapid, and ran thus as she
tapped in turn, first the letters, and last the numbers she had already
set down:--

"UNITED STATES ARMY MEDICAL MUSEUM, NOS. 3486, 3487."

The medium looked up with a puzzled expression.

"Good gracious!" said I, "they are _my legs! my legs!_"

What followed, I ask no one to believe except those who, like myself,
have communed with the beings of another sphere. Suddenly I felt a
strange return of my self-consciousness. I was re-individualized, so to
speak. A strange wonder filled me, and, to the amazement of every one, I
arose, and, staggering a little, walked across the room on limbs
invisible to them or me. It was no wonder I staggered, for, as I briefly
reflected, my legs had been nine months in the strongest alcohol. At
this instant all my new friends crowded around me in astonishment.
Presently, however, I felt myself sinking slowly. My legs were going,
and in a moment I was resting feebly on my two stumps upon the floor. It
was too much. All that was left of me fainted and rolled over senseless.

I have little to add. I am now at home in the West, surrounded by every
form of kindness, and every possible comfort; but, alas! I have so
little surety of being myself, that I doubt my own honesty in drawing my
pension, and feel absolved from gratitude to those who are kind to a
being who is uncertain of being enough himself to be conscientiously
responsible. It is needless to add, that I am not a happy fraction of a
man; and that I am eager for the day when I shall rejoin the lost
members of my corporeal family in another and a happier world.

ON TRANSLATING THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.

SECOND SONNET.

I enter, and see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.
The air is filled with some unknown perfume;
The congregation of the dead make room
For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.
From the confessionals I hear arise
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
And lamentations from the crypts below;
And then a voice celestial that begins
With the pathetic words, "Although your sins
As