Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of Polly’s speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she stepped across, kissed Polly’s brow tenderly, and went back to her seat. “What is it that you are reading, Molly?” “The _Edinburgh Review_ for this month—an article on ‘Marmion.’ And, Polly—would you think it?—the editor has no appreciation for our great poet’s genius! No, none whatever. He writes—he writes as if Mr. Scott were but a common man like any other scribbler, and not the mighty world-wide genius that he is.” “Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The two are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And what may he see to find fault with?” “What, indeed?” echoed eager Molly. “Do but hear what rubbish the worthy man sees fit to write! ‘A good deal longer’ than the last poem. ‘More ambitious,’ ‘greater faults’ and ‘greater beauties,’ ‘less sweetness,’ ‘more vehemence,’ and ‘redundancy.’ ‘Unequal and energetic,’ ‘a general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked by timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of taste or elegance of fancy.’ “Oh!” gasped Molly. “And now listen again— “‘But though we think this last romance of Mr. Scott’s about as good as the former, and allow that it affords great indications of poetical talent, we must remind our readers that we never entertained much partiality for this sort of composition, and ventured on a former occasion to regret that an author endowed with such talents should consume them in imitations of obsolete extravagance.... His genius, seconded by the omnipotence of fashion, has brought chivalry again into temporary favour. Fine ladies and gentlemen now talk indeed of donjons, keeps, tabards, scutcheons, tressures, caps of maintenance, portcullises, wimples, and we know not what besides; just as they did in the days of Dr. Darwin’s popularity of gnomes, sylphs, oxygen, gossamer, polygynia, and polyandria. That fashion, however, passed rapidly away; and Mr. Scott should take care that a different sort of pedantry does not produce the same effects.’” “Oh!” once more cried indignant Molly, never imagining that the reviewer might perchance see with keener insight than the populace of the day, or that his judgment might be in certain respects endorsed by a later generation. “And then all fault-finding—scarce any sort of praise. Does Mr. Scott deserve such treatment? To think that any critic can be so blinded by prejudice—can so traduce the most eminent poet that ever has lived! There have been other poets, ’tis true, but none, sure, to compare with the author of ‘Marmion.’ Why, what were Homer and Milton—what are those old plays of Mr. Shakespeare’s which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared with the writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind never to look at the _Edinburgh Review_ again!” Molly flung the number to the ground.