But many of our old poets are so uniformly stupid, that nothing can be extracted from them to repay the labour of research. Such a one was Dr. Henry More. The odour of his ineffable dulness is absolutely infectious; one feels, while reading him, a kind of mist creep over his understanding, clouding the judgment, and benumbing the creative faculty. To what purpose should such a person be reviewed? Is there any danger that his example should be followed? It is probable there are not two persons in Great Britain possessed of sufficient patience to wade through such a gulf of folly as his poems, and still fewer who could reap any benefit by so doing.