motion which can alone produce a finished piece, and then to carry the whole through the press, were the duties expected from the critic. Alas! how rarely is this done faithfully. The delicacy of the operation precludes even a friend from doing what even the poet himself in all sincerity may wish, in order to secure his path to immortality. But he has not the heart to pull his offspring to pieces. A man may write nonsense in prose, yet in time become aware of the fact and amend it. Not so at all times with verse; it is a more cherished kind of offspring. The one is the son, the other the daughter of his fancy; and with all natural partiality for the more delicate and beautiful party, sees not her faults or tries to excuse them. He views her with admiration and tenderness, soothes her with a father’s care; and if direct praise from him be not admissible, takes care to show devoted though silent attachment to the child of his imagination. Who may venture to disturb this complacency by hinting to the parent unpalatable truths?
The poem was Roman Portraits. Malone, although busily occupied in researches connected with stage history, and in meeting the cavils or indirect censures of Steevens, gave his time freely to the task. Frequent correspondence as to the necessary alterations ensued. Many of these letters lie before me, of which the following is the first. But the piece did not issue into life until the following year, and has not retained hold of public opinion.
