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WITHOUT PICTURES.
69
TWELFTH EVENING.
I peeped in at a critic’s window,—said the Moon,—in a city of Germany. The room was filled with excellent furniture, books, and a chaos of papers; several young men were sitting there; the critic himself stood at his desk; two small books, both by young authors, were about to be reviewed. “One of these,” said he, “has been sent to me; I have not read it though—but it is beautifully got up; what say you of its contents?”
“O,” said one of the young men, who was himself a poet, “there is a deal that is good in it; very little to expunge; but, he is a young man, and the verses might be better! There is a healthy tone in the thoughts—but they are, after all, such thoughts as every-
