tiae in the finish of character, they must bring
disappointment." He who looks for all and exactly the same things in
the poems which he had found in the novels, will assuredly, like other
foolish seekers, be disappointed. Sir Walter Scott did not put his
Bailie Nicol Jarvie nor his Andrew Fairservice into rhyme; nor does a
lay of border chivalry embrace all that variety of character, or of
dialogue, which finds ample room in the historical romance.

Amongst a certain class of critics, it has been long a prevailing
humour to decry one Alexander Pope. Mrs Margaret Fuller is resolved
that if not first in the field against this notorious pretender, no
one shall show greater hardihood than herself in the attack upon him.
It is one of those occasions when, though surrounded by a goodly
company of friends, she yet finds opportunity for an individual act of
heroism. They are but a few words she utters--but match them if you
can! We do not flinch, we Amazonian warriors. It is _a-propos_ of Lord
Byron that she takes occasion to point a shaft, or rather to throw her
battle-axe, at the head of this flagrant impostor. The whole passage
must be quoted:

"It is worthy of remark that Byron's moral perversion never paralysed
or obscured his intellectual powers, though it might lower their
aims. With regard to the plan and style of his works, he showed
strong good sense and clear judgment. The man who indulged such
narrowing egotism, such irrational scorn, would prime and polish
without mercy the stanzas in which he uttered them." (Wonderful! that
an egotist and a misanthrope should have been kept from defacing his
own verses. Then follows our terrible bye-blow.) "And this bewildered
idealist was a very bigot in behoof _of the common-sensical satirist,
the almost peevish realist_--_Pope_!" (P. 76.)

With what consummate disdain does she condescend to give the
_coup-de-grace_ to the unhappy lingering author of the "Epistle to
Arbuthnot," and "The Rape of the Lock!" These poems of the "peevish
realist," shall have no place, since Mrs Margaret Fuller so determines
it, in the new literature of America. We will keep them here in
England--in a casket of gold, if we ever possess one.

One other specimen of the lady's eloquence and critical discrimination
must suffice. She is characterising Southey.

"The muse of Southey is a beautiful statue of crystal, in whose bosom
burns an immortal flame. We hardly admire as they deserve, the
perfect