body has!—but as to that, where does one find anything new? You may very well praise him, but I never believe that he will turn out anything of a poet. He has read a deal, however; is an extraordinary orientalist, and has sound judgment. He it was who wrote that beautiful critique of my Fancies of Domestic Life. One ought to be gentle towards a young man.”
“But he is a thorough ass!” said another gentleman in the room; “nothing worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he does not get above that!”
“Poor fellow,” said a third, “and his aunt makes herself so happy about him. She it was, Mr. Critic, who obtained so many subscribers’ names to your last translation.”
“The good woman! yes, I have given a short notice of the book. Unmistakeable talent! a welcome gift! a flower out of the garden of poesy; beautifully got out, and so on. But the other book—he shall catch it! I had to buy it—I hear it is praised; he has genius, don’t you think?”
“That is the general opinion,” said the poet, “but there is something wild about it.”
