not I to take occasion to shew that I too am not entirely destitute of abilities of this kind; but that, by possessing a decent share of critical discernment, and critical jargon, I am capable of becoming a very tolerable commentator. For the truth of which, I shall rather prefer calling the attention of my readers to an object as yet untreated of by any of my immediate predecessors, than venture to throw in my observations on any work which has passed the ordeal of frequent examination. And this I shall do for two reasons; partly, because were I to choose a field, how fertile soever, of which many others had before me been reaping the fruits, mine would be at best but the gleanings of criticism; and, partly, from a more interested view, from a selfish desire of accumulated praise; since, by making a work as yet almost wholly unknown, the subject of my consideration, I shall acquire the reputation of taste, as well as judgement, of judiciousness in selection as well as justness in observation;-of propriety in choosing the object, as well as skill in using the language of commentary.

The epic poem on which I shall ground my present critique, has, for its chief characteristics, brevity and simplicity. The author,-whose

name I lament that I am, in some degree, prevented from consecrating to immortal fame, by not knowing what it is the author, I say, has not branched his poem into excrescences of episode, or prolixities of digression; it is neither variegated with diversity of unmeaning similitudes, nor glaring with the varnish. of unnatural metaphor. The whole is plain and uniform;. so much. so indeed, that I should hardly be sur prised if some morose readers were to conjectnre, that the poet had been thus simple rather from necessity than choice; that he had been restrained not so much by chastity of judgment, as sterility of imagination.

Nay, some there may be, perhaps, who wilk dispute his claim to the title of an Epic Poet; and will endeavour to degrade him even to the rank of a ballad-monger. But I, as his commentator, will contend for the dignity of my author; and will plainly demonstrate his poem to be an Epic Poem, agreeable to the examples of all poets, and the consent of all critics heretofore.

First, it is universally agreed that an epic poem should have three component parts; a beginning, a middle, and an end; secondly, it is allowed, that it should have one grand action, or main design, to the forwarding of which, all the

parts of it should directly or indirectly tend; and that this design should be in some measure consonant with, and conducive to, the purpose of morality;-and, thirdly, it is indisputably settled, that it should have a hero. I trust that in none of these points the poem before us will be found deficient. There are other inferior properties, which I shall consider in due order.

Not to keep my readers longer in suspense, the subject of the poem is "The Reformation of the Knave of Hearts." It is not improbable, that some may object to me that a "knave" is an unworthy hero for an epic poem; that a hero ought to be all that is great and good. The ob jection is frivolous. The greatest work of this kind that the world has ever produced, has "The Devil," for its hero; and supported as my author is by so great a precedent, I contend, that his hero is a very decent hero; and, espe cially, as he has the advantage of Milton's, by reforming at the end, is evidently entitled to a competent share of celebrity.

I shall now proceed to the more immediate examination of the poem in its different parts. The beginning, say the critics, ought to be plain and simple; neither embellished with the flowers

of poetry, nor turgid with pomposity of diction. In this how exactly does our author conform to the established opinion! he begins thus:

Can any thing be more clear! more natural! more agreeable to the true spirit of simplicity! Here are no tropes-no figurative expressions, -not even so much as an invocation to the muse. He does not detain his readers by any needless circumlocution; by unnecessarily informing them what he is going to sing; or still more unnecessarily enumerating what he is not going to sing: but, according to the precept of Horace,

In medias res,

Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit;

that is, he at once introduces us, and sets us on the most easy and familiar footing imaginable, with her majesty of Hearts, and interests us deeply in her domestic concerns. But to pro

ceed:

The Queen of Hearts

She made some tarts,

All on a summer's day.

Here, indeed, the prospect brightens, and we

are led to expect some liveliness of imagery, some warmth of poetical colouring; but here is no such thing. There is no task more difficult to a poet, than that of rejection. Ovid among the ancients, and Dryden among the moderns, were, perhaps, the most remarkable for the want of it. The latter, from the haste in which he generally produced his compositions, seldom paid much attention to the "limæ labor," "the labour of correction," and seldom, therefore, rejected the assistance of any idea that presented itself. Ovid, not content with catching the leading features of any scene or character, indulged himself in a thousand minutiæ of description, a thousand puerile prettinesses, which were in themselves uninteresting and took off greatly from the effect of the whole; as the numberless suckers and straggling branches of a fruit-tree, if permitted to shoot out unrestrained, while they are themselves barren and useless, diminish considerably the vigour of the parent stock. Ovid had more genius, but less judgment, than Virgil; Dryden more imagination, but less correctness, than Pope: had they not been deficient in these points, the former would certainly have equalled, the latter infinitely outshone, the merits of his countrymen. Our author was undoubtedly possessed of that power which they