ductions, in their rather improved state, the poets of all nations have drawn their richest inventions. Spenser is the child of their creation, and it is certain that we are indebted to them for some of the bold and strong touches of Milton." The romance of Amadis of Gaul (once universally read and ad ́mired, but of late years almost exclusively confined to public collections, and the shelves of the curious) has been assigned to various authors, but principally to Vasco Lobeira, a Portuguese, “who was born at Porto, fought at Aljubarotta, where he was knighted upon the field of battle by king Joam, of good memory, and died at Elvas, in 1803." Mr. Southey, from what he conceives unquestionable authority, is decidedly of opinion, and positively asserts, that Vasco Lobeira was its real author. His arguments, however, in support of this hypothesis, although ingenious, are by no means conclusive; and, with all due deference to his opinion, we are much rather inclined to think, as well from the internal evidence, as from a variety of concurring testimonies, that the general outlines of Amadis are of French extraction. The oldest version extant, however, is, we believe, universally allowed to be that of Garciodonez de Montalvo, who merely professes, in general terms, " to have corrected the work from the old originals, to have abridged it of many superfluous words, and to have inserted others of a more polished and elegant style." Montalvo's work was translated into French by D'Herberay, in 1540, and from thence into English by Anthony Munday, in 1613. These, however, are rarely to be met with, and are, indeed, wholly superseded by the free translation of the Comte de Tressan, "who has completely modernised and naturalised the character of the romance. His book," says Mr. Southey, "is what he designed to make it, an elegant work; but the manners and feelings of the days of chivalry are not to be found there; they are all hidden under a varnish of French'sentiment. He has scoured the shield; the glitter which it has gained, does not compensate for the loss of its sharpness, nor for the lines that are effaced." The romance itself is sufficiently known for its skilful structure, and the beauty and variety of its incidents, to render any commendation of ours superfluous. Its beauties have been ascertained and decided upon, by the verdict of ages; and the curate, who in the purgation of Don Quixote's library, spared it, as being the first and best of the kind, seems but to have given us a just appreciation of its genuine merits. Of the present version, comprising the four first books, from the Spanish of Montalvo, it is imposssble to speak in too high terms: we should indeed be niggards of praise, if we denied it our unqualified applause. With the fourth book, which closes with the celebration of the nuptials of Amadis and Oriana, the story obviously concludes; yet, even this portion of the work, comparatively short, Mr. Southey professes to have reduced to about half its original length," by abridging the words, not the story; by curtailing the dialogue, avoiding all recapitulations of the past action, consolidating many of those single blows which have no reference to armorial anatomy, and passing over the occasional moralizings of the author.” “Amadis of Gaul,” he observes,“ is valuable, not only for its intrinsic merit as a fiction, but as a faithful representation of manners and morality;" and as such, he assures us, “these volumes may be referred to as confidently as the original.” The character of the language has been assimilated to the work, "not by intermixing obsolete words, but by rejecting modern phraseology and forms of period;" and the rude and savage nakedness which occasionally, though but rarely, appears in the original, has been scrupulously veiled; a nakedness which D'Herberay seems to have taken delight in exposing, and to introduce which “he has dilated single phrases into whole paragraphs, with that love of lewdness which is so peculiarly and characteristically the disgrace of French literature." Having been liberal in our commendations on Mr. Southey thus far, we could wish that it was in our power to dismiss him without finding fault. When, however, from his attachment to Portuguese literature, and well-known poetical talents, we were induced to expect an able version of the few metrical pieces which occur in the work, we cannot avoid expressing our displeasure at being fobbed off with the miserable doggrel of Anthony Munday, which Mr. S. himself well characterises as the "shadow of a shade.” The Question, Why do we go to War? temperately discussed, according to the Official Correspondence. 1s. Wallis. 1803. It is to be deplored that abilities of the most splendid kind should not, at a moment of peril like the present, be exerted for the benefit of the country. The state in danger, every good and loyal subject should lend his aid to its assistance. We here see the energies of a great mind endeavouring rather to damp the ardour than raise the spirit of the country. The Reason Why. In Answer to a Pamphlet entitled, Why do we go to War? 1s. 6d. Stockdale. 1803. A VERY seasonable antidote to the specious poison, lurking under the semblance of fairness and candour, in the last pamphlet. 1 Society, a Poem in two Parts; with other Poems. By James Kenney. 12mo. 4s. Longman and Rees. 1803. THE author of this little volume modestly brings it before the tribunal of public criticism; and while he admits his inability to appreciate correctly the value of his own work, hopes at least to be acquitted of the charge of presumption, at a period when, " upon no better credentials than rhyme or measure," so many claimants to the venerated title of poet are incessantly appealing to the decision of the public. In classifying Mr. Kenney, however; far from assigning him an undistinguished station, among the common herd of rhymers, whose lines are alike destitute of intellectual vigour and genuine sensibility, as of polished and melodious rhythm, we consider his poem as combining, with some blemishes and defects, a very considerable portion of poetic merit, containing much good sense, and breathing sentiments of the most amiable benevolence and the purest morality. The subject suggested itself, no doubt, to the author, while perusing the declamations of Zimmerman and others, against the evils of society, and listening to the eloquent flourishes in which they have displayed the charms and the moral advantages of solitude. The design of the poem is, accordingly, to picture both situations in their true colour, and hence to infer, on the contrary, the disadvantages of a solitary life, when contrasted with the pleasures, the comforts, the blessings of society. on In pursuance of this design, Part I. is employed in the representation of the evils of solitude. The author considers the various effects which solitude produces on those delicate minds, who seek it to indulge the reveries of fancy and poetical contemplation those who recur to it in order to cherish sorrow, which he exemplifies by an episode; and on the victims to superstitious seclusion: and he enquires into the tendency of solitude to improve the heart. In Part II. the poet is occupied with the more pleasing pictures of social intercourse and affection. He illustrates his views on this part of the subject, by various rustic scenes; by the alleviation which sickness derives from social love; by the resources hence derived by age and infirmity; by allusions to the poet Savage, Mrs. Montague's society, the parties of Voltaire; by descriptions of the advances made in arts and civilization by a combination of man's powers, &c. &c. In a poem of considerable length the most captious critic will S VOL. XVI. pardon the pauca macula, whether in style or matter, which occasionally deface the works of the most careful composers. But the complaint of Horace is, perhaps, peculiarly applicable to the present age, when the labour of polishing his work, the toil of blotting and replacing tint sfter tint, till the asperities of the picture are softened down into mellowness, without diminishing its strength, is a task, among our poetical limners, too generally neglected or contemned. "Offendit unum― Quemque poetarum lima labor, et mora." HoR. Although the author is not a disciple of that school which considers this vulgar negligence of garb as an elegant dishabille, calculated to display rather than to conceal the beauties of truth and sentiment; yet, in several of those less important parts of the poem, necessarily introduced to give a connexion and form to the whole, he is not altogether free from the censure of carelessness. Take, for example, such lines as these: "Much merit ever may be found to claim "Thine interest and regard, on which bestow'd "Without regret amid the busy world." Part 1, 1. 91, &c. "For to you "A path of equal danger open lies." P. 1, 1. 182. "Each source of pleasure seems in frost's arrest. The poem, and especially the second part, abounds, however, with passages, which, by their beauty and energy, amply compensate for these common defects; and which will not fail to gratify those cultivated minds, who peruse with pleasure the efforts of the modern muse, in the works of the Cowper's, the Hayley's, the Rogers's of the age. The whole episode of Giraldus and Fidelio is entitled to this praise. After being conducted by the poet to the fatal beach, where the melancholy Giraldus (who had left his bed at midnight) was discovered in the morning by the old fisherman, his host, for ---"A kinder couch he had found "On the smooth sand---a bed of sound repose. "His lullaby to everlasting rest." P. 1, 1. 328. The delicacy and force of the introduction of the lines, after the conclusion of the story by which we are, for the first time, apprised that a desperate resolution, and not accident, had produced the fatal catastrophe, pleased us extremely. "Self-slaughter! how it shocks the soul at ease! "Like thee had shuddered, e'er his treacherous woe "Had tempted him to solitude." P. 1, 1. 339. Till we satisfy ourselves by referring to the "Seasons," it is scarcely possible not to suspect an act of plagiarism in the following lines, so forcibly are we reminded of the descriptive pencil of Thomson: "A ruder season comes. Stern winter reigns; "And darkness more than equal empire holds: "The feeble day peeps faintly o'er the waste, "And straight reclines.---On the bleak north-breeze flits "The quiv'ring fleece, at the lone cottage door, "Held scarcely vacant when the hind would view. "The desolate expanse, intruding thick, "And bleaching half the murky robe of night." P. 2, 1. 58, &c. "The Task" is likewise repeatedly suggested to the recollection of the reader, by several pleasing passages; but want of room compells us to forbear quotation. We cannot, however, resist the pleasure of adding another extract, in which the author describes, in the true spirit of poetry, the operations of human energy, directed by social culture, when contrasted with the vegetating impotency of savage, solitary man, as exemplified in the person of the wild boy,' found in the woods of Hamelin. "To you of undistinguish'd class he seem'd--- "To parallel the mountains, and with them "To pierce the clouds, and mingle with the storm!" P. 2, 1.461. Some poems of minor importance complete the volume, which evince a degree of humour, and are penned with a neatness, that entitle them to praise, and afforded us considerable amusement, The Suicide; with other Poems. By the Rev. Charles Wicksted Ethelston, M. A. Rector of Worthenbury. 8vo. THE pernicious doctrines inculcated in "The Sorrows of Werter," are the objects of attack in the first of these poems, in which |