s, Miss Walter, of
_The Transcript_. We have been looking all over her article with the aid
of a taper, to see if we could discover a single syllable of truth in
it--and really blush to acknowledge that we cannot. The adorable creature
has been telling a parcel of fibs about us, by way of revenge for
something that we did to Mr. Longfellow (who admires her very much) and
for calling her 'a pretty little witch' into the bargain. The facts of
the case seem to be these: We _were_ invited 'deliver'(stand and deliver)
a poem before the Boston Lyceum. As a matter of course, we accepted the
invitation. The audience was 'large and distinguished.' Mr Cushing[B]
preceded us with a very capital discourse. He was much applauded. On
arising we were most cordially received. We occupied some fifteen minutes
with an apology for not 'delivering,' as is usual in such cases, a
didactic poem: a didactic poem, in our opinion, being precisely no poem
at all. After some farther words--still of apology--for the
'indefiniteness' and 'general imbecility' of what we had to offer--all
so unworthy a _Bostonian_ audience--we commenced, and with many
interruptions of applause, concluded. Upon the whole, the approbation was
considerably more (the more the pity too) than that bestowed upon Mr.
Cushing. When we had made an end the audience of course arose to depart;
and about one-tenth of them, probably, had really departed, when Mr.
Coffin, one of the managing committee, arrested those who remained, by
the announcement that we had been requested to deliver 'The Raven.' We
delivered 'The Raven' forthwith--(without taking a receipt)--were very
cordially applauded again--and this was the end of it--with the exception
of the sad tale invented to suit her own purposes, by that amiable little
enemy of ours, Miss Walter. We shall never call a woman 'a pretty little
witch' again as long as we live.

[Footnote B: Hon. Caleb Cushing, then recently returned from his mission
to China.]

"We like Boston. We were born there--and perhaps it is just as well not
to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostonians are
very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are
delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their common is no common
thing--and the duck-pond might answer-if its answer could be heard for
the frogs. But with all these good qualities, the Bostonians have no
soul. They have always evinced toward us, individually, the ba