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 basest 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.