much entertaining illustration of known events. But its chief interest and merit lie in the individual portraits with which it abounds. These are drawn with great animation and skill, and certainly make their subjects much more accurately known to us than they have ever hitherto been. The author himself appears but little on the scene, which takes from the book the character of egotism, which one would, at first, expect it to possess. Still his personal character will occasionally peep out:-in recording the mots of Doddington and Charles Townshend, he betrays his fondness for small wit; and his anecdotes of court scandal give us a frequent glimpse of his known old-maidenish propensities.

It appears that he has left other historical works behind him; but concerning what date they treat, or whether or not they will be published, the Editor does not disclose. The events immediately succeeding the accession of the late King, and the period of the American war, are, in our view, much more interesting than "the last ten years of the reign of George the Second;" but at that time Walpole's political connexions were, in great measure, broken through, and his remarks on the latter years of his life, would possibly, like the homilies of the Archbishop of Granada, smack strongly of declining age. We should be glad, however, we confess, to see more of the contents of the "wainscot chest;" for, though the showman be not a very dignified or amiable person, he moves his wires well, and imparts to his exhibition a considerable degree of interest and amusement.

THE ALBUM.

No. II.

THE AUGUSTAN AGE IN ENGLAND.

THERE are few things more remarkable than the changes which have of late taken place in our literary tastes. It is not very long since the writers of the time of Queen Anne reigned paramount without dispute. The mighty spirits of the Shakspearian age were looked on as, at best, but splendid barbarians; and it was accounted the height of heterodox presumption to place modern writers in competition with established names. As the march of mind, however, advanced, and we began to throw off the shackles of classical influences, the reign of Queen Anne, ceased to be esteemed our Augustan age; and the writers of that day fell more to the level of their deserved repute. But even now, we think, they are rated beyond their real merits. The elders of the present generation cling with the tenaciousness of habit to the favourites of their youth. They still consider Addison the model of prose style, and look, with almost Catholic horror, on any doubts regarding the infallibility of Pope. The length of time, too, during which the name of these writers stood pre-eminent, has tended much to retard their merited decline. Literary prejudices, like all others, are slow of decay; but, also like all others,

truth must prevail over them at last. Accordingly, we are now allowed to think that Pope was not the greatest of poets-and that Addison was none at all;-that the Spectator is not the ne plus ultra of English compositionthat Swift had at least as much grossness as humour, and far more bitterness than wit,-and, above all, that there are other ages in English literary history, which cast this period into the most humiliating shade.

The merits of POPE are a vexata questio-but we must be allowed to say a few words concerning them. We are the farthest in the world from under-rating him ;—we have, on the contrary, the highest admiration of his powers;but we cannot allow that he was a great poet. The ethical nature of his subjects prevented any display of poetical ge-, nius. "Thoughts that breathe and words that burn"pathos-passion-all the great elements of poetry—could not be employed in moral disquisition. The estro, which is the essence of poetical composition, could find no place in writings on such themes. The Eloisa, and other scattered indications, prove that Pope had the wherewithal to form a poet of the highest order,-that is, a poet who excels in painting the workings of human passion;—but we do not speak of what might have been, but of what is. The Essay on Man-the Moral Essays-and all the satirical writings, are not, and from their nature could not be, poetry. The sentiments they contain would be equally fitted for prose, were it not that the form of verse gives pithiness to the expression, and fixes the idea more quickly and permanently in the mind. The aphorisms of the moral writings would not be, as they are, in every mouth, were they not condensed into the easily remembered form of a line, or at most a couplet, of verse. The sly inuendo,-the caustic remark, -the bitter invective-would lose half their sting, if the

satires had been written as a pamphlet. For these reasons these works are better in verse, but they cannot, in our mind, be called poetry :-they have as much merit as writings of the kind can have; but that merit is of an order far below the triumphs of poetical genius. The Rape of the Lock has been cited to entitle Pope to the appellation of a poet. A poet we do not deny him to be; but we cannot concede that he is a great one. Rape of the Lock is the perfection of that style of composition;-it has fancy, imagination, elegance, brilliancy; but to class it in the higher ranks of poetry is absurdity, and injustice to the work itself. We concede every praise to a beautiful yacht, as such; but who ever thinks of its being a production of art equal to a line-of-battle ship?

The

With the exception of Pope, the age of Anne had no poet-absolutely none; for no one dreams in these days of calling Cato,-or the Letter from Italy-or Cadenus and Vanessa,—or Gay's Fables-poetry. Young, it is true, lived in the reign of Anne; but the works on which his fame rests were composed at so much later a period, that he can scarcely be classed among the writers of whom we speak. Indeed, we believe, that very few even of his earlier pieces were composed, or at least published, till after the death of Queen Anne. Addison and Swift are the two other great pillars on which the fame of this era rests.

We must say that we consider ADDISON to have acquired a reputation far-very far-exceeding his merits. Cato is the very icicle of tragedy-" you might slide from his shoulder to his heel, with no longer run than his head and neck."-As a sermon, or a political pamphlet, Cato may be of some merit; but, as a poem or a play, who would, if it were now first produced, sit out the first act, or cut open the second leaf? We will venture to assert, that