sest
ingratitude for the services we rendered them in enlightening them about
the originality of Mr. Longfellow. When we accepted, therefore, an
invitation to 'deliver' a poem in Boston, we accepted it simply and
solely, because we had a curiosity to know how it felt to be publicly
hissed--and because we wished to see what effect we could produce by a
neat little _impromptu_ speech in reply. Perhaps, however, we overrated
our own importance, or the Bostonian want of common civility--which is
not quite so manifest as one or two of their editors would wish the
public to believe. We assure Major Noah that he is wrong. The Bostonians
are well-bred--as _very_ dull persons very generally are. Still, with
their vile ingratitude staring us in the eyes, it could scarcely be
supposed that we would put ourselves to the trouble of composing for the
Bostonians anything in the shape of an _original_ poem. We did not. We
had a poem, of about 500 lines, lying by us--one quite as good as
new--one, at all events, that we considered would answer sufficiently
well for an audience of Transcendentalists. _That_ we gave them--it was
the best that we had--for the price--and it _did_ answer remarkably
well. Its name was _not_ 'The Messenger-Star'--who but Miss Walter would
ever think of so delicious a little bit of invention as that? We had no
name for it at all. The poem is what is occasionally called a 'juvenile
poem,' but the fact is it is anything but juvenile now, for we wrote it,
printed it, and published it, in book form, before we had completed our
tenth year. We read it _verbatim_, from a copy now in our possession, and
which we shall be happy to show at any moment to any of our inquisitive
friends. We do not, ourselves, think the poem a remarkably good one: it
is not sufficiently transcendental. Still it did well enough for the
Boston audience--who evinced characteristic discrimination in
understanding, and especially applauding all those knotty passages which
we ourselves have not yet been able to understand.

"As regards the auger of _The Boston Times_, and one or two other
absurdities--as regards, we say the wrath of Achilles--we incurred it-or
rather its manifestation--by letting some of our cat out of the bag a few
hours sooner than we had intended. Over a bottle of champagne, that
night, we confessed to Messrs. Cushing, Whipple, Hudson, Fields, and a
few other natives who swear not altogether by the frog-pond-we
confessed, we sa