DICKENS' son. Hence the name of DICKENSON. Very good, so far. Now--

But it is unnecessary to press the argument. If the prejudiced bigot is
not yet convinced, nothing would convince him short of a horse-whipping.

The poet, when he wrote "Thou wilt come no more, gentle ANNIE," was
clearly laboring under a mistake. If he had written "Thou wilt be sure
to come again next season, gentle ANNIE," he would have hit it. Lecture
committees know this. Miss DICKINSON earns her living by lecturing.
Occasionally she takes a turn at scrubbing pavements, or going to hear
WENDELL PHILLIPS on "The Lost Arts," or other violent exertion, but her
best hold is lecturing. She has followed the business ever since she was
a girl, and twenty-four (24) years of steady application have made her
no longer a Timid Young Thing. She is not afraid of audiences any more.

It is a favorite recreation of the moral boot-blacks and pious newsboys
of New York to gather in the evening on the steps of Mr. FROTHINGHAM'S
church, and scare each other with thrilling stories of the gentle
ANNIE'S fierce exploits and deeds of daring. Among the best
authenticated of these (stripped of the ornate figures of speech with
which the pious newsboys are wont to embellish the simple facts) are the
following:

1. In the memorable canvass of 1848, Miss DICKINSON stumped the mining
districts of Pennsylvania for FRED DOUGLASS, and was shot at by the
infuriated miners forty-two times, the bullets whistling through her
back hair to that extent that her chignon looked like a section of
suction-hose when the campaign was over.

2. Near the close of the rebellion, Miss DICKINSON wrote to JEFF DAVIS