and more interested in him. He felt a curiosity to know if his talents
equalled his aspirations: he hinted to Cesarini his wish to see his
compositions--it was just what the young man desired. Poor Cesarini!
It was much to him to get a new listener, and he fondly imagined every
honest listener must be a warm admirer. But with the coyness of his
caste, he affected reluctance and hesitation; he dallied with his own
impatient yearnings. And Maltravers, to smooth his way, proposed an
excursion on the lake.

"One of my men shall row," said he; "you shall recite to me, and I will
be to you what the old housekeeper was to Moliere."

Maltravers had deep good-nature where he was touched, though he had not
a superfluity of what is called good-humour, which floats on the surface
and smiles on all alike. He had much of the milk of human kindness, but
little of its oil.

The poet assented, and they were soon upon the lake. It was a sultry
day, and it was noon; so the boat crept slowly along by the shadow of
the shore, and Cesarini drew from his breast-pocket some manuscripts of
small and beautiful writing. Who does not know the pains a young poet
takes to bestow a fair dress on his darling rhymes!

Cesarini read well and feelingly. Everything was in favour of the
reader. His own poetical countenance--his voice, his enthusiasm,
half-suppressed--the pre-engaged interest of the auditor--the dreamy
loveliness of the hour and scene--(for there is a great deal as to time
in these things). Maltravers listened intently. It is very difficult
to judge of the exact merit of poetry in another language even when we
know that language well--so much is there in the untranslatable magic of