appier moments I might have
done, but said, digressively:

"By-the-by, while I think of it, I must put down on my tablet the order
of Mr. Vernon. He wants 'Longfellow's Poems,' if for sale in Savannah.
He has been permeating his brain with the 'Psalms of Life,' that have
come out singly in the _Knickerbocker Magazine_, until he craves every
thing that pure and noble mind has thrown forth in the shape of a song."

And I scribbled in my memorandum-book, for a moment, while Major Favraud
mused.

"Longfellow!" he said, at last, "Phoebus, what a name!" adding
affectedly, "yet it seems to me, on reflection, I _have_ heard it
before. He is a Yankee, of course! Now, do you earnestly believe a
native of New England, by descent a legitimate witch-burner, you know,
_can_ be any thing better than a poll-parrot in the poetical line?"

"Have we not proof to the contrary, Major Favraud?"

"What proof? Metre and rhyme, I grant you--long and short--but show me
the afflatus! They make verse with a penknife, like their wooden
nutmegs. They are perfect Chinese for ingenuity and imitation, and the
resemblance to the real Simon-pure is very perfect--externally. But when
it comes to grating the nut for negus, we miss the aroma!"

"Do you pretend that Bryant is not a poet in the grain, and that the
wondrous boy, Willis, was not also 'to the manner born?' Read
'Thanatopsis,' or are you acquainted with it already? I hardly think you
can be. Read those scriptural poems."

"A very smooth school-exercise the first, no more. There is not a
heart-beat in the whole grind. As to Willie--he failed egregiously, when
he attempted to 'gild refined gold and paint the lily,' as he did in his
so-called 'Sacred Poems.' He can spin a yarn pretty well, and coin a new
word for a make-shift, amusingly, but save me from the foil-glitter of
his poetry."[1]

"This is surprising! You upset all precedent. I really wish you had not
said these things. I now begin to see the truth of what my copy-book
told me long ago, that 'evil association corrupts good manners,' or I
will vary it and substitute 'opinions.' I must eschew your society, in a
literary way, I must indeed, Major Favraud."

"Now comes along this strolling Longfellow minstrel," he continued,
ignoring or not hearing my remark, "with _his_ dreary hurdy-gurdy to cap
the climax. Heavens! what a nasal twang the whole thing has to me. Not
an original or cheerful note! 'Old Hundred' is joyful in comparison!