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.