"We had _tact_ enough not to be 'taken in and done for' by the Bostonians. _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_--(for _timeo_ substitute _contemno_ or _turn-up-your-nose-o_.) We knew very well that among a certain _clique_ of the Frogpondians, there existed a predetermination to abuse us under _any_ circumstances. We knew, that write what we would, they would swear it to be worthless. We knew, that were we to compose for them a 'Paradise Lost,' they would pronounce it an indifferent poem. It would have been very weak in us, then, to put ourselves to the trouble of attempting to please these people. We preferred pleasing ourselves. We read before them a 'juvenile'--a _very_ 'juvenile' poem--and thus the Frogpondians were _had_--were delivered up to the enemy bound hand and foot. Never were a set of people more completely demolished. They have blustered and flustered--but what have they done or said that has not made them more thoroughly ridiculous? What, in the name of Momus, is it _possible_ for them to do or say? We 'delivered' them the 'juvenile poem,' and they received it with applause. This is accounted for by the fact, that the _clique_ (contemptible in numbers as in everything else) were overruled by the rest of the assembly. These malignants did not _dare_ to interrupt by their preconcerted hisses, the respectful and profound attention of the majority. We have been told, indeed, that as many as three or four of the personal friends of the little old lady entitled Miss Walter, did actually leave the hall during the recitation--but, upon the whole, this was the very best thing they could do. We have been told this, we say--we did not _see_ them take their departure:--the fact is, they belong to a class of people that we make it a point _never to see_. The poem being thus well received, in spite of this ridiculous little cabal--the next thing to be done was to abuse it in the papers. Here, they imagined, they were sure of their game. But what have they accomplished? The poem, they say, is bad. We admit it. We insisted upon this fact in our prefatory remarks, and we insist upon it now, over and over again. It _is_ bad--it is wretched--and what then? We wrote it at ten years of age--had it been worth even a pumpkin-pie, undoubtedly we should not have 'delivered' it to _them_. To demonstrate its utter worthlessness, _The Boston Star_ has copied the poem in full, with two or three columns of criticism (we suppose), by way of explaining that we should have been hanged for its perpetration. There is no doubt of it whatever--we should. The _Star_, however, (a dull luminary,) has done us more honor than it intended; it has copied our _third_ edition of the poem, revised and improved. We considered this too good for the occasion by one-half, and so 'delivered' our _first_ edition with all its imperfections on its head. It is the first--the original edition--the _delivered_ edition--which we now republish in our collection of Poems."