humour of Sancho, into any other language. To those also who have visited the country which the author describes, the work will have a double relish; for in many respects the manners and customs remain exactly the same, as well as the face of the country. I must add that I believe it is the first work of the kind that ever contained a strong delineation of character.

If the "Devil on Crutches" and "Gil Blas" are, as some have asserted, originally Spanish, the mantle of Cervantes seems to have been caught up by some kindred spirits. Admitting, however, that the hints might be taken from the "Diablo Cojuello," and "Don Guzman," yet it must be allowed that M. Le Sage has greatly improved upon his originals. He excels in the delineation of character, especially in his Gil Blas, which perhaps is the first work extant in the line of fictitious narrative. But it is too generally known and admired to require either commendation or criticism.

Of the novels of Mr. Richardson I have little knowledge. They were too full of trite sentiment, and too tedious, to engage my attention in my youth, and I have not since attempted

to read them. Persons of great judgment and taste, however, have agreed that the Clarissa of this author contains many fine passages, and some pathetic scenes worthy of the pen of the most accomplished tragic writer.

Le Sage seems to have been the model on which our admirable Fielding proceeded in this walk of literature. Yet his first essay in fictitious history, and perhaps his best, was originally designed as a burlesque upon the writ ings of Mr. Richardson, and particularly his Pamela. Perhaps no writer, not Shakspeare himself, has excelled Fielding in the delineation of character. Parson Adams, Barnabas and Trulliber, all three of the same profession, are equally striking, and yet so natural that though few have been ambitious of appearing in the latter characters, the candidates for the honour of representing Parson Adams have greatly outnumbered the cities which contended for the birth of Homer; and in my youth there was scarcely a village in England that did not claim for itself the credit of producing the original from which the portrait was drawn. Tom Jones, which by many is considered as Fielding's first performance, is in my opinion infe

rior to Joseph Andrews. Yet the characters of Squire Western, Partridge, Thwackum and Square, are admirable efforts of inventive genius. His Amelia seems a hasty performance, and is inferior to the other two, though the character of Justice Thrasher may class with any that has been drawn by the hand of this exquisite master.

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Smollett, though not equal to Fielding, is yet possessed of a most excellent vein of humour. His characters are in general not quite so natural as those of Fielding; but we must except his sea personages, who are unrivalled. Perhaps he is not quite equal to his great original, at least as far as respects Tom Jones, in the skill and address of conducting a plot, and winding it up in a dramatic manner; yet his novels never fail of exciting the most lively interest in his reader. Roderic Random is very superior to his Peregrine Pickle, independently of the gross deficiency in moral, which is a cen-sure that justly attaches to the latter work. Indeed Tom Jones is in some measure culpable in this respect; for actual vice is treated too much as venial levity, and exhibited in too amiable and alluring a light not to be injurious

to young readers. Humphrey Clinker, though it has little of plot or story, keeps attention alive by the constant display of odd characters well caricatured, and by an uninterrupted flow of genuine humour. No man can read these performances without regretting that the time and genius of Smollett, instead of pursuing a track for which he was so admirably adapted by nature, should have been wasted on the compilation of a dull, and in all respects very indifferent history.

The popularity of Sterne is so far passed away, that it seems like insulting the ashes of the dead to criticize him with severity. Under the class of fictitious narrative it seems as if we could only consider his Tristram Shandy; for in what view to regard the Sentimental Journey, whether as truth or fiction, is difficult to determine; nor does it much signify with respect to so contemptible a performance. I heard it once remarked of this work, "That the author seemed to have acted folly purposely for the sake of recording it." The first pages of his Tristram Shandy are a manifest theft from the Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus. Indeed it has been proved that all his best passages are plagi

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arisms, of which however he made not the best I allow him all his merits when I say he had some turn for humour, some taste for the pathetic. But I am convinced that the ephemeral reputation of Tristram Shandy was much increased by the obscene allusions, and not a little by what Dr. Blair not unhappily terms "typographical figures."

On the modern productions in this walk of literature I am not, for many reasons, disposed to enlarge. I cannot however omit paying a just tribute to the merit of two female writers of the present day. Miss Burney, now Madame D'Arblay, is not without a portion of those talents which distinguished Smollet and Fielding, particularly the art of delineating character, with a better style; and the ingenuity of Mrs. Radcliffe cannot be too much admired, particularly in the happy solutions which she affords of those tremendous scenes of horror with which she so successfully agitates the feelings of her readers. The Cæcilia of the former, and the Mysteries of Udolpho of the latter, are, in my opinion, their best performances.

It would be trifling to take notice of the