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 expression, the little subtleties of style. But Maltravers, fresh, as he himself had said, from the study of great and original writers, could not but feel that he was listening to feeble though melodious mediocrity. It was the poetry of words, not things. He thought it cruel, however, to be hypercritical, and he uttered all the commonplaces of eulogium that occurred to him. The young man was enchanted: "And yet," said he with a sigh, "I have no Public. In England they would appreciate me." Alas! in England, at that moment, there were five hundred poets as young, as ardent, and yet more gifted, whose hearts beat with the same desire--whose nerves were broken by the same disappointments. Maltravers found that his young friend would not listen to any judgment not purely favourable. The archbishop in /Gil Blas/ was not more touchy upon any criticism that was not panegyric. Maltravers thought it a bad sign, but he recollected Gil Blas, and prudently refrained from bringing on himself the benevolent wish of "beaucoup de bonheur et un peu, plus de bon gout." When Cesarini had finished his MS., he was anxious to conclude the excursion--he longed to be at home, and think over the admiration he had excited. But he left his poems with Maltravers, and getting on shore by the remains of Pliny's villa, was soon out of sight. Maltravers that evening read the poems with attention. His first opinion was confirmed. The young man wrote without knowledge. He had never felt the passions he painted, never been in the situations he described. There was no originality in him, for there was no experience; it was exquisite mechanism, his verse,--nothing more. It might well deceive him, for it could not but flatter his ear--and Tasso's silver march rang not more musically than did the chiming stanzas of Castruccio Cesarini.