Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian’s or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the controversy. _Tantæne animis?_ Can great minds descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favour of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the beginning of the epic poem “Temora.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is alive and panting with immortality—this, William Wordsworth, the author of “Peter Bell,” has _selected_ for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis: And now she’s at the pony’s head, And now she’s at the pony’s tail, On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss— A few sad tears does Betty shed, She pats the pony, where or when She knows not: happy Betty Foy! Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor! Secondly: The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink; I heard a voice: it said,—“Drink, pretty creature, drink!” And, looking o’er the hedge, be—fore me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a—maiden at its side. No other sheep were near,—the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was—tether’d to a stone. Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it, indeed we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wished to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart. But there are occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an extract from his preface: “Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a waggon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.