Roderic the last of the Goths is, as he properly terms it, a tragic poem, containing many beautiful descriptions of nature, and some affecting incidents described in poetical, though sometimes bombastic language. It is, however, much superior to any of his former attempts at epic poetry; and is, properly speaking, a Romance in blank verse, although founded on some remote incidents of Spanish history. To the blank verse of Southey, however pleasing some episodes or short passages may be, the general censure of Dr. Johnson seems particularly applicable. "Those who think they can astonish may write blank verse, but those who hope to please, must condescend to rhyme."

William Wordsworth, another candidate for fame, has published a poem in blank verse, in one large and solid volume quarto. As a descriptive poem, conveying natural, and sometimes beautiful pictures of rural scenery, and inter spersed with many judicious reflections on hu man life, the production of Mr. Wordsworth has merit; but most readers will be disposed to yawn, before they come to the conclusion of a descriptive poem of three or four hundred pages quarto.

On a general and candid review of the volu minous productions of Southey, Scott, Words worth, and Lord Byron, it may fairly be assert ed, that their pretensions to the fame of epie

poets, or even writers above mediocrity, are unsupported by any of their productions.

That our literature has in some instances been injured by that torporific influence of anonymous criticism, which is repressive of the energies of juvenile genius, cannot be doubted; while on the other hand, the barbarisms of bad taste, and the pretensions of vanity, have frequently been corrected by the well-timed censures of those judicious critics, who have written for the Monthly Review. The editor of a Monthly Magazine, attempted to depreciate this well-established literary journal; but his animadversions on the late proprietor of the Monthly Review, require the castigation of the indignant satirist. Many literary men can truly affirm, that they are much indebted to this Review for the improvement of their taste. At the same time it must be acknowledged, that the Monthly Reviewers, like their contemporaries, are liable to errors, arising from prejudice, the influence of particular religious, political, and philosophical opinions, and other infirmities, which man in his most enlightened state "is heir to." But on a candid comparison with other literary journals, or even the most elabo rate productions of the best English, and French eritics, the Monthly Review will fully maintain its claims to popularity, and continue in due estimation, not only for the general candour of

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its critical strictures, but the manliness, liberality, and independence of those political principles, so boldly and so eloquently illustrated in its pages. A rara avis, like a black swan, entitled the Eclectic Review, made its appearance a few ago in the aviary of the Muses. descript journal, may be termed a literary prude, who comes forward with pretensions to superior purity of principle, judgment in selection, and critical acumen. These pretensions have been advanced with varied success, for the Eclectic Review like "th' inconstant moon," waxed or waned, according to the abilities of the editor and his coadjutors. In imitation of high life, whatever is vulgar, or common, is excluded from the pale of this apparently incorruptible censor. It leaves the disgusting vices, the ridiculous follies, and the absurd fashions of the fleeting hour, to the castigation of inferior critics, and soaring on the wings of Aristotelian sagacity, and Johnsonian precision, rises into the higher atmosphere of literature, where all is pure; and selects such passages, with correspondent garnishing, as may regale the nice amateurs of Eclectic criticism. Hence, the most sensitive and modest mortal, may safely read aloud the contents of this decent journal, which is no small praise in this boasted age of refinement, when virtue, and 'vice, like the colours in shot-silk, are so ingeniously

interwoven by corrupt artisans, that it is difficult to distinguish the one from the other. From this description, it must be evident, that the Eclectic Review may be read with profit and pleasure, by persons of taste, whose delicacy will be protected from the rude shock of impiety, ribaldry, and folly, which annoy the general reader.

Indeed, the principal prose writers of the present day are mere compilers, among whom the reviewers are most conspicuous, and remarkable, for the ingenious facility with which they fill the pages of monthly and quarterly books of scraps. Dr. Aikin, who is perhaps the most entertaining compiler in existence, has rather ludicrously described the productions of modern prose writers, as a species of cabinet-work; but although he is himself a nice operator, some of his contemporaries are clumsy workmen. This is particularly the case with Quarterly Reviewers, who cannot plead haste as an extenuation of their errors: three months are certainly sufficient for the manufacture of one hundred and fifty pages of indifferent prose, in an age when an industrious bard, can work up scraps of antiquity into a legendary ballad, of double the size, in the same time. One quarterly censor, however, the Edinburgh Review, is ably conducted; the critics, like their countryman Scott, dexterously

extract the essence of a volume, and after mingling it with their own strong and significant comments, they send it from their manufactory into the commercial world, an elegant and attractive article, like a Birmingham button trebly gilt. Indeed, the whole secret of the art by which the Edinburgh Reviewers have obtained popularity, is their skilful gratification of the worst passions of the human mind. In religion, their philosophisme has cherished the pride of infidels; in politics, their bold censure of men in power, whether just or unjust, gratified the predisposition of mankind to depreciate their rulers; and in literature, by a retrogradation of a century or two, and talking most learnedly about Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, Ford, Marlow, Cowley, Dryden, and Milton, and illustrating their com ments by very beautiful figures and passages; some stolen, some borrowed, and some original, they spared their readers a world of application, and saved them the trouble of rising from their seats, to consult authors by way of reference, though they were ranged around the shelves of their libraries. Thus by complimenting the taste, ministering to the indolence, and cherishing the ignorance of mankind, whom they professed to inform; the Edinburgh Reviewers have established their periodical quantum of criticism, which will doubtless be purchased, read, and