ertile or
comprehensive. "But his poetry is purely the language of his inmost
nature, and the simple, lovely garb in which his thoughts are arrayed, a
direct gift from the Muse."

Halleck, Willis, and Dana receive each their meed of praise at her
hands. Passing over what is said, and well said, of them, we come to a
criticism on Mr. Longfellow, which is much at variance with his popular
reputation, and which, though acute and well hit, will hardly commend
itself to-day to the judgment either of the learned or unlearned. For,
even if Mr. Longfellow's inspiration be allowed to be a reflected rather
than an original one, the mirror of his imagination is so pure and
broad, and the images it reflects are so beautiful, that the world of
our time confesses itself greatly his debtor. The spirit of his life,
too, has put the seal of a rare earnestness and sincerity upon his
legacy to the world of letters. But let us hear Margaret's estimate of
him:--

"Longfellow is artificial and imitative. He borrows incessantly, and
mixes what he borrows, so that it does not appear to the best
advantage.... The ethical part of his writing has a hollow, second-hand
sound. He has, however, elegance, a love of the beautiful, and a fancy
for what is large and manly, if not a full sympathy with it. His verse
breathes at times much sweetness. Though imitative, he is not
mechanical."

In an article of some length, printed in connection with this, but first
published in the "New York Tribune," Margaret's dispraise of this poet
is in even larger proportion to her scant commendation of him. This
review was called forth by the appearance of an illustrated edition of
Mr. Longfellow's poems, most of which had already appeared in smaller
volumes, and in the Annuals, which once figured so largely in the
show-aesthetics of society. Mr. Greeley, in some published reminiscences,
tells us that Margaret undertook this task with great reluctance. He, on
the other hand, was too much overwhelmed with business to give the
volume proper notice, and so persuaded Margaret to deal with it as she
could.

After formulating a definition of poetry which she considers "large
enough to include all excellence," she laments the dearth of true
poetry, and asserts that "never was a time when satirists were more
needed to scourge from Parnassus the magpies who are devouring the food
scattered there for the singing birds." This scourge she somewhat
exercises upon writers who