THE BRITISH CRITIC, A NEW REVIEW, FOR JULY, AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, OCTOBER, PRINTED FOR F. AND C. RIVINGTON, NO, 62, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD, PREFACE. IN the prefent state of European Literature, every year produces, almoft in every country, a vaft acceffion of books. England, as in the Arts of War, fo in thofe of the Mufes, makes efforts far beyond the proportion of her natural fize; fo that we, whofe attention is confined almoft exclufively to our domeftic productions, find it by no means a trifling undertaking to keep pace with the labours of the Britih prefs. The fairs of Leipfic, indeed, furnish annually fuch catalogues as, to an obferver in any other nation, appear enormous: but what is England to the German empire, in the map of Europe? Far more difproportioned in extent, than their refpective publications in multitude. Were the acceffion of Wisdom to keep pace, in any degree, with this multiplication of its materials, Europe might indeed have caufe to boast of its enlightened ftate. But new books are ufually made up of the old materials; to which, if a little felicity of combination or illuftration accede, it is as much as we can reafonably expeat. If Error writes a book, another is required from Truth to anfwer it; each fide finds its partizans; and it is well if, when the conteft clofes, Wifdom have not made fome retrograde movement. Our duty and inclination lead us to point out, periodically, thole new books in which fome wifdom, or fome rational amusement, may be found; to fave for the ERIT. CRIT. VOL. X. a bufy |