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Nothing more powerfully displays that men are all but children of a larger growth, than the extraordinary predilection which is more or less manifested by every rank of society for the perusal of the marvellous. Nay even though we pretend to deride the idea of supernatural agency, we are, nevertheless, fond of listening to the detail of any narrative, avouched as a fact, though it is in direct opposition to the tenets we profess. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that Milton, Locke, and Dr. Johnson, should have felt interested in the perusal of romances, and the fables of knights errant and their persecuted dulcineas. Within the last twenty years the leading features of romance writing have undergone a complete change, as no production of this nature can go down, the drama of which is not performed in a catholic country, and the burthen of the tale connected with some wandering spirit of the night, To Clara Reeve and Sir Horace Walpole we are greatly indebted for this species of composition, which afterwards received additional strength from the German productions respecting the Illuminati, Rosicrucians, &c. &c., while, with giant strides, a Radcliffe and Monk Lewis appeared with lucubrations that made the former tales of the nursery appear as so many insignificant pigmies. In the old romances we find no mention of ghosts; but, in lieu of such flitting agency, if we refer to the black letter translations, for the which we are indebted to Sir John Bourchier, Knight, Lord Berners, we shall perceive many which possess a great share of merit. The Mort D' Arthur abounds with picturesque scenes, particularly one, where the effect of the “stroke dolorous,” is described. “Huon of Bourdeaux” has conferred obligations on many subsequent writers, which they had not the gratitude to acknowledge. His wild and picturesque stories of Judas whirling about in the sea, and of Cain in the desert, with an attendant friend, have supplied M. Petit de la Croix with the most interesting parts of his Persian Tales; nor has Huon's “Castle of Adamant” been spared by the same plagiarist.—There is a romance little known, called “Galienus Restored,” which, from the specimen given by an ingenious French writer, must be very interesting. The account of a visit, which, the author says, Charlemagne and his twelve peers paid to an Emperor Hugo of Constantinople, and the reception which that prince gave to them, is, as the same writer expresses it, “Un des plus grand naivetez qu'on ait jamais ecrites.” After a magnificent entertainment these guests were conducted to a sumptuous bed-chamber by Prince Tiberius and the lovely Princess Jacqueline. Thirteen pompous beds ornamented the apartment; that in the middle was for Charlemagne, who, not being sleepy, proposed to amuse himself with his knights by a species of conversation which the author of the romance calls “Gaber,” and which consisted of the most improbable rhodomontades; from whence, it is conjectured, is derived “The Gift of the Gab.” The emperor himself began by vaunting that, with his good sword Joyeuse, he could cut a man in twain, though defended by the best tempered steel. Orlando, his nephew, professed that, with a blast of his horn, he would level with the ground fifty fathoms of the walls of Constantinople; and thus every peer made his boast, when, the Gabs being completed, the party composed themselves to sleep, which would not have been the case had they known what awaited them the ensuing morning. Now it chanced that the Emperor Hugo, expecting much from the conversation of thirteen such paragons of valour and wisdom, placed a spy, who was directed to note every word which passed, and report the same early in the morning. The commission was faithfully executed, and the result made known to Hugo, who was so disappointed to find, in the room of the wise maxims he had expected, such a farrago of lies, that, unmindful of the laws of hospitality, he sent word to the whole party, that, unless each performed the purport of his “Gab,” he had made an oath to hang up every one of them, not excepting the great Charlemagne himself. The remainder of the story is too long, too profane, and much too free for this work; wherefore those who are desirous of ascertaining how the emperor and his peers extricated themselves from the scrape must consult Menage, who will inform them of the humanity of Princess Jacqueline, and of the very different figure which a celestial messenger made by undertaking a business quite out of his line.

The style of this would-be flight of fancy, like the dull monotonous language of the Mysterious Mother before mentioned, is a further convincing proof of its writer's total incapacity to produce any composition bearing the stamp of originality and genius. As a compiler of the Anecdotes of Painting and Engraving, Lord Orford appears in a respectable light; but for the accomplishment of any literary attempt beyond the mere drudgery of research he never was intended by nature; and, consequently, the world would have lost nothing had his romance and his drama existed only in the mazes of his lordship's pericranium.

There is a simplicity in the style and a constant interest kept up throughout the tale of Miss Reeve's Old English Baron, which must command the plaudits even of the most fastidious advocates for literature; for myself I am free to confess that I perused its pages with infinite pleasure; nor is there, in my humble opinion, a better fiction now extant among the countless works of the same description which have since been handed from the circulating libraries.

Miss Lee's Recess is ably put together; she has blended truth with fiction in a masterly way, and the only fault of this production is the tediousness of the last volume.

Much has been said respecting the Mysteries of Udolpho, from the pen of the above lady; but I have no hesitation in stating that I should never for a moment balance in awarding the preference to the Romance of the Forest. In the first-mentioned production the descriptions are carried on to an extent that not only renders them tedious, but unintelligible; and I very much query if two, and sometimes three of Sonini's Alpine pictures were not condensed into one by the author upon these occasions. But the most flagrant defect in this performance is the miserable denouement of what constituted such unceasing terror during so many thick volumes; I mean a mere effigy in wax behind a curtain, which every reader is prompted to believe a more horrific spectacle than ever before met human optics. The Romance of the Forest, on the contrary, is replete with interest; such actions, such scenery, and such characters might, and doubtless have, existed; and for this plain reason do I prefer the last mentioned volumes. As to Mrs. Radcliffe's productions, taken in the aggregate, they undoubtedly prove her to have possessed a most fertile imagination combined with no small share of literary acumen.

Having previously commented Mr. Lewis's productions under the head of poetry, I shall content myself by stating, that, from this writer's horrific predilection, he would not have found a bad auxiliary in Mr. Urquhart, of the navy department in Somerset House, whose taste, as a book and print collector, is further extended to a predilection for the ropes which have ended the career of all our notorious malefactors; which relics might have afforded ample scope for the production of the terrific from Monk Lewis's pen. Strange, however, as this branch of collecting may be deemed, I do not see but much good may result from the same; as upon reviewing each life-bereaving cord, the possessor cannot fail to recur to the particular crime of the man whose career it was instrumental in terminating; and from thence a train of reflections, no doubt, occupy the mind of Mr. Urquhart, as to the baleful effect of indulging, to excess, certain passions of the human heart, which more or less contributed to the disgraceful exit of the criminal. From this it is evident that circumstances, however trivial to appearance, may act as a most beneficial lesson to the contemplative and well-informed mind.

The lady now under review, who cherishes, I believe, all the extravagant notions of Mary Wolstonecraft, has apparently endeavoured, also, to adopt her vigorous mode of expression. All this may be excusable in a female, but any mind tinctured with morality can never for a moment tolerate the giving publicity to such scenes, heightened by the most florid descriptions, as are delineated in the progress of Zofloya the Moor. It is universally allowed that the existing state of society is sufficiently depraved; wherefore, let such writers take shame to themselves who not only labour to increase the existing evil, but willingly pervert those talents which, if applied to the purposes of virtue, science, and morality, would not fail to insure to the possessor the respect and admiration of every praiseworthy member of the community.

As the last annotation applied to the sister of the above lady also conveys my opinion respecting the present personage, I shall dismiss the subject with this remark, that, to the conclusive line of Sir Noodle's stricture, I, from my very soul, exclaim Amen.

The compositions of Miss Owenson (now Lady Morgan), I must candidly allow have delighted me; and I will therefore refrain from any further animadversions than are couched in the above couplets, as it would be ungallant in the extreme to follow up the two preceding comments by a third attack upon a female's productions, whose good sense will, I am convinced, in future, prevent the necessity of using the language of reprehension, should her fancy commit any further lucubrations to the ordeal of public scrutiny.

This gentleman, who has long found out the fallacy of interfering with the political horizon, is now honourably employed in placing to account those talents he possesses. As a romance writer he has justly acquired a high degree of consideration; his fictions are tolerably managed; and the language, though sometimes inflated, is not of that vague character which marks the generality of such performances.

Sir Scribblecumdash having thought fit to unite the above gentlemen, I shall not have the temerity to break the link, as the performances of both partake sufficiently of the marvellous to rank them brothers in fiction. Mr. Ireland's ebullitions of this class contain much imagery; and though his language is at times rather inflated, yet, upon the whole, the atural flow of his phrases bespeaks a mind attuned to harmony, while his plots and the developements of his fictions are the indications of a creative fancy. Mr. Curtis, pursuing a similar track, is not only more copious in his descriptive parts, after the manner of Anne Radcliffe, but his incidents partake in a greater degree of the marvellous than those of his compeer. However, with all these extravagancies, there is no doubt but ladies out of number have trembled for the fate of the heroes, and wept over the distresses of the dulcineas of their eventful pages.

Three sisters of the above name have displayed much talent in pursuing this walk of literature; and the praise which has been bestowed by romance readers upon their several labours is but a just tribute to their industry and literary deserts.

In addition to his romantic productions, which are of a superior class, the gentleman, of whom I now speak, is the author of a novel entitled the Vagabond, containing an instructive lesson and excellent sarcasm upon the pursuits of a misguided individual, who, led astray by the false philosophy of the then revolutionized France, became a prey to sufferings and misfortunes which were the sole result of his own misguided opinions and immoral pursuits.

The Pilgrim of the Cross, from the pen of Mrs. Helme, though possessing great merit as a romance, must, notwithstanding, yield the palm to her Farmer of Inglewood Forest, than which a better novel, perhaps, has not of late years issued from the British press.

Fully determined to attempt every style of literature, our great epic laureat has not disdained to herd with the children of romance by producing the above performance, throughout which we find a great deal that calls to remembrance the pompous and declamatory ebullitions contained in Sydney's Arcadia; in short, all the lucubrations of this gentleman display a certain something which indicates that the writer is desirous of exclaiming with King Richard, “I have no brother, am like no brother.”

The abilities of Messrs. Murphy and Lathom are of the most respectable class, with whom may be conjoined Mr. N. Brewer; not so is it, however, with Miss Stanhope, who produced the Bandit's Bride, a romance which will never soar above mediocrity in the judgment of any unbiassed reader. Having now brought Sir Noodle to the termination of his muse's present flight, I deem it necessary to remark that the catalogue of non-descripts, designating themselves retailers of the wonderful, might be extended beyond all conception; but when it is remembered that such annotations could contain nothing but a recapitulation of unknown names, the catalogue may well be spared.