One bright October morning in the year 1828, a lone lorn woman by the name of GUMMIDGE might have been seen standing at the corner of a wheat-field where two cross-roads met and embraced.  She was weeping violently.  Ever and anon she would raise her head and gaze mysteriously in the direction of a cloud of dust which moved slowly over the hill toward the town.  Her name was FATIMA.  FATIMA GUMMIDGE.  “Sister ANNIE,” she cried, “what do you see?” But sister ANNIE was far away.  She was not there.  She was attending an agricultural fair in the beautiful young state of Kansas.

Thus gracefully do we introduce our heroine upon the scene.  The reader will be able to judge, from this, whether we are familiar with the literature of our day, or not.  He will be able to form a complimentary opinion of our culture.  He will perceive that we are acquainted with the writings of Messrs. JAMES, and DICKENS, and BLUEBEARD.  There is nothing like impressing your reader with an adequate sense of your ability for laborious research, when you are doing biography for a high-toned journal.

At what period in her career our illustrious victim applied to the Legislature to change her name from GUMMIDGE to DICKINSON, we are unable to discover.  There is no record of the event in the musty tomes we have waded through at the Astor Library in search of reliable data.  One thing must be apparent, even to the most violently prejudiced and brutish bigot—­namely, that Miss DICKINSON no longer confesses to the name of GUMMIDGE.  However disrespectful this may be to the memory of Mrs. GUMMIDGE’S father—­but on reflection is it not possible that Mrs. GUMMIDGE’S maiden name was DICKINSON?  There may be something in this.  Let us see.  Mrs. GUMMIDGE was born of the brain of Mr. C. DICKENS.  Mr. DICKENS may be said to be the father of the whole GUMMIDGE family.  This, of course, includes GUMMIDGE pere.  GUMMIDGE pere was therefore 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: