iefly demanded of him. The poems that she had singled out for praise in his early volumes were those like The village Blacksmith and The Driving cloud, which had a flavor of the soil; and as he grew older, this quality became unmistakable.
But hers was at any rate legitimate literary criticism, and would perhaps have left no sting behind but for the single fact that she compared the weak portrait of him, prefaced to the first illustrated edition of his poems (Philadelphia, 1845), to a dandy Pindar.
Any one who will look to-day at that picture will see that there could hardly be a more felicitous characterization of it than in these three words; but it was fancied at the time, most gratuitously, that she meant it for a hit at Longfellow himself; and hence followed a very needless irritation, which fortunately the amiable poet did not greatly share.
In regard to Lowell, the case was a little different, and her tone was blunter, though equally free from all personal grudge.