Dear Sir: These are yours: you have earned them. I commend to your especial notice the one styled "De Mundo Comburendo." At a future time you may hear again from
Bartholomew Graham.
A casual glance at the papers convinces me that they are of great literary value. Summerfield's fame never burned so brightly as it does over this grave. Will you publish the MSS.?
XXVII.
THE AVITOR.
Hurrah for the wings that never tire—
For the nerves that never quail;
For the heart that beats in a bosom of fire—
For the lungs whose cast-iron lobes respire
Where the eagle's breath would fail!