346, "Moses," by Mr. S. Solomon. I thought it had
a great intention, I thought it finely drawn and composed. It nobly
represented, to my mind, the dark children of the Egyptian bondage, and
suggested the touching story. My newspaper says: "Two ludicrously ugly
women, looking at a dingy baby, do not form a pleasing object;" and so
good-by, Mr. Solomon. Are not most of our babies served so in life?
and doesn't Mr. Robinson consider Mr. Brown's cherub an ugly, squalling
little brat? So cheer up, Mr. S. S. It may be the critic who discoursed
on your baby is a bad judge of babies. When Pharaoh's kind daughter
found the child, and cherished and loved it, and took it home, and found
a nurse for it, too, I dare say there were grim, brick-dust colored
chamberlains, or some of the tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses at
court, who never had children themselves, who cried out, "Faugh! the
horrid little squalling wretch!" and knew he would never come to good;
and said, "Didn't I tell you so?" when he assaulted the Egyptian.
Never mind then, Mr. S. Solomon, I say, because a critic pooh-poohs
your work of art--your Moses--your child--your foundling. Why, did not
a wiseacre in Blackwood's Magazine lately fall foul of "Tom Jones?"
O hypercritic! So, to be sure, did good old Mr.
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