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They had been trying me. In those days phrenology was in high favor and as a last attempt to find out whether I was a "born poet" or not, the "science" was brought to bear upon my case, when a favorable opportunity came. This was very soon, the occasion being a visit of the celebrated Dr. Combe of Boston for the purpose of examining the craniums of some of our pupils. There was one boy among them who could listen to two stories, sing a song, and solve a hard problem in mathematics at the same time, -- at least it was said he could do all that. When the doctor come to him, he exclaimed, "Here is a great mathematician; and some day you will hear from him." Daniel Webster was always greatly admired for his brain power, but he said of himself that he could think of only one thing at once. But our pupil was unlike him in this respect, and also in one other, -- he never did become famous, as the phrenologist predicted he would.

When Dr. Combe came to look at my head he re-marked, "And here is a poetess; give her every possible advantage. Read the best books to her, and teach her to appreciate the best poetry." This was certainly welcome news to me, and it must have had some little effect upon my teachers; for they now encouraged me in all the ways wherein they had before tried to dis-hearten me.

Mr. Hamilton Murray, who at that time was a mem-ber of the Board of Managers of the Institution, soon took me into his charge; and I became known to my friends as his "little protege." His knowledge of the classics was broad, his natural talents superior, and his command of the mother tongue excellent. He read to me from the classics by the hour and advised me to commit long passages to memory; and frequently he gave me the lines of favorite poets to imitate. Most of these, of course, were means to an end; and consequently were soon forgotten. I can, in fact, recall but one, a scrap of verse in the style of Nathaniel P. Willis, whom I was told to imitate in such a way that "it cannot be told from his original poem." The specimen from Willis is called "Morning," and runs as follows, --

"O could we wake from sorrow,
Were it all a changeful dream like this:
To cast aside like an untimely garment of the morn;
Could the long fever of the soul be cooled
By a sweet breath from nature,
How lightly were the spirit reconciled."

My parody is:

"O could we with the gloomy shades of night
Chase the dark clouds of sorrow from the brow;
Could pure affection feel no withering blight,
But heart to heart in one sweet tie be linked,
How were the soul content to fold her wings,
And dwell forever in such loveliness."

The political campaigns in the years between 1840 and 1850 called forth a great amount of versifying. In the autumn of the first-named year General Harrison was elected to the presidency. Everybody loved the hero of Tippecanoe; and the opposing party hunted high and low, but they could find not one thing in his record that might be used against him. He was the candidate of the Whig party; and I was an ardent Demo-crat. One of the interesting ditties used during the campaign is now remembered by many,

"Did you ever hear of a farmer,
Whose cabin's in the West,
Of all the men for President
The wisest and the best?
To put him in the Capitol
We've found a capital way;
O we'll sing our Harrison song by night,
And beat his foes by day."

In my zeal for the Democratic party, I felt it proper to change the last line into

And scratch his eyes by day.

Perhaps the best-remembered song is "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too," the first lines of which are,

"Oh what has caused this great commotion, motion, motion,
Our country through?
It is the ball that's rolling on
For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too."

But the hero of Tippecanoe lived but a single month to serve his country as president. Evidently the new surroundings at Washington did not agree with him; and he passed away on April 4, 1841. In memory of the sad event I wrote some eulogistic stanzas, which have already been mentioned, in connection with my grandfather's eight-mile walk. As this poem was the best that I had written previous to 1841, I quote it in part: --

"He is gone: in death's cold arms he sleeps.
Our President, our hero brave,
While fair Columbia o'er him weeps,
And chants a requiem at his grave;
Her sanguine hopes are blighted now,
And weeds of sorrow veil her brow.

"Ah, Indiana, where is he,
Who once thy sons to battle led?
The red man quailed beneath his eye,
And from his camp disheartened fled.
With steady hand he bent the bow
And laid the warlike savage low.

"The forest with his praises rung,
His fame was echoed far and wide, --
With loud hurrah his name was sung,
Columbia's hero and her pride.
The tuneful harp is now unstrung
And on the drooping willow hung."

One afternoon at the commencement of our summer vacation our superintendent came in and said that Presi-dent Tyler, who succeeded General Harrison, was in the reception room; and that the Mayor and Common Council were with him. Well did I know what that meant; and said, "Now, give me ten or fifteen minutes and I shall have the best welcome that I can prepare in so short a time." I recited my poem; then sang a piece; and concluded by reading a song, which I had composed for the previous Fourth of July, all of which I remember is two lines of the chorus,