are stationed in private libraries, and which are read with avidity, and quoted with applause. But they possess certain attractive qualities, not easily described, though powerfully felt. They overflow with charms for every laudable variety of taste, and for each degree of understanding. To their matter, and the harmonious numbers in which it is conveyed, there exists something responsive in every bosom no preparative erudition is required to make them intelligible, nor any comment wanting to indicate their beauties; and, to the reader of these pages, if not very fastidious, I

should hope that an apology is unnecessary for introducing a few of the distinguished passages in each of these poems: and first, of the Traveller and Deserted Village.

Of these, Mr. Cumberland, in his Memoirs of himself, has an observation which appears to me, and will, I believe, be thought by most other readers, exceedingly unjust. He says of Goldsmith, that the paucity of his verses does not allow us to rank him in that high poetical station to which his genius might have carried him; and adds, of the Deserted Village, Traveller, and

M

Hermit, that they are only specimens "Birds' eggs on a string, and eggs of

small birds too."

Mr. Cumberland's objection to the claims of Goldsmith, from the circumstance of his not having written more in verse than he did, is altogether so destitute of force, as to render a laboured refutation superfluous. He must know, as well as any one, that excellence in an author consists not in writing much but in writing well. When we read the ode addressed by Horace to Aristius (22d ode, 1st book), the Pollio of Virgil, or the Lycidas of Milton, we are satis

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inestimable productions emanated, were truly poetical, and of the highest class: and surely the dramatic reputation of the amiable and ingenious author of the West Indian would not have suffered any diminution had he composed nothing more for the stage than that admired comedy.

The meaning of Mr. Cumberland's birds' eggs, &c. is not very distinct, though the expression is very puerile: neither the epicure, nor the amateur of delicate plumage or of the music of the fields and groves, would agree with

Mr. Cumberland in preferring the eggs of the crocodile, the ostrich, or the goose, for their produce, to those of the pheasant, the goldfinch, or the lark!

If the Traveller and Deserted Village

are examined, they will be found, in most respects, to bear the closest scrutiny of criticism, to abound with precepts of the soundest policy, the shrewdest remarks on human character, descriptions of local scenery as rich and as appropriate as any thing that ever came from the pen of Shakspeare or the pencil of Claude; and, for plaintive melody of versification, and pathetic appeals to