our view, the excelling merit of this delightful writer. We know not whether we had the right to cite his name, in speaking of 'the Augustan age in England;' but who that has read his powerful appeal on the subject, can wish to keep up any distinction of this kind between his countrymen and our own?

There is yet another class of authors of which we can now boast of which there was scarcely any example in the other ages of which we have spoken-we mean our female writers. We are not among those who judge of the works of Baillie, Edgeworth, Opie, Holford, with reference to their being written by women: -we try them by their own merits: and, on this ground, we view them as capable of shedding increased glory on our time. We must be allowed-far as this article has stretched-to say a few words concerning the merit of two of these authors-with one splendid exception, the first female writers who have ever appeared.

MISS BAILLIE has cramped her genius by adhering to a peculiar line of composition. Developing only one passion in a play, was an impracticable object, and the endeavour to attain it has thrown an air of constraint over her writings. Still they abound with passages of poetry, the merit of which, in all ways, has been scarcely excelled. Pathos, passion, and simplicity, are equally in her command; and she has made use of each in turn with the most powerful and successful effect. Count Basil and De Montfort must ever hold a foremost rank in poetry.

With the name of EDGEWORTH, most of our childhood's recollections are entwined. From our earliest remembrance up to the present hour, her writings have yielded us delight. The noble ambition of being useful to her kind, has been that which has guided Miss Edge

worth's way; and never was ambition more perfectly accomplished. That she has led the inexperiencedconfirmed the wavering-reclaimed the erring- are truths to which we nearly all can bear witness, whether as children or as men. To her we individually owe, in great measure, our literary tastes-to her we owe serious benefit on more occasions than we care publicly to avow. The direct enjoyment also, which we have derived from her works is proportionate with the advantages of which we have been speaking. In her writings, Genius has been made to minister to Virtue-the beauties of literary composition have been considered only as the means of conferring permanent and exalted benefit.

We have now gone through the more prominent writers of the present time; but we are conscious that we have omitted many whose names will hereafter stand high, but whose reputation is yet too newly-fledged to allow us to profit by it in the support of our hypothesis. We hope that we have established that hypothesis in the minds of many. With some, indeed, we believe

all we have said was needless; for we recollect when we once broached to a friend the opinion we have now supported, he said, "Why write on it?-it is a mere truism." Many, however, we know have not thought so: and we trust, at least, that we shall have led them to give some thought to the distinguished claims of our living writers. We are far from putting them in competition with all the rest of English literature; we say only that they are superior to any one age. In the whole of this discussion we have been cramped for want of space, which has prevented us from quoting proofs of many of the positions which may now to some readers appear the most startling. A mere rehearsal, however, of the names of which we have spoken in detail, will

serve to shew how pre-eminently distinguished is the present age. In poetry we have named Byron, Crabbe, Campbell, Moore, Milman, Cornwall, Rogers, Shelley, Hunt, Maturin, Baillie,-to say nothing of Scott, Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth. In prose, besides the periodical works, we have cited the Author of Waverley, Jeffrey, Stewart, Alison, Hazlitt, Hope, Irving and Edgeworth. Where, we will ask, is an assemblage like this to be found in any other age? If some of the names appear new and strange, take the works of these authors, and we will fearlessly put them in competition with even those of the Shaksperian era itself. The genius of the writers of those days may have been equal to that of ours, but the very condition of the times prevented their writings from equalling those of the present advanced age. Let any person well versed in English literature weigh well all that we have said, and refer as he proceeds, to the authors we mentioned-let him free himself from the bias which his ear gives him in favour of established names, and against those which are new and unclassical-for to this prejudice we must still recur-let him, in short, judge of all writings on their own merits only-and we have small doubt that he will concur with us in calling this The Augustan Age in England.'.

SCENE.-The Country near Paris.-Evening. ANNABELLE, MARGUERITE; Peasant Girls, &c., dropping off by degrees.

ANNABELLE (taking Marguerite by the hand.)
LIGHT-hearted France, whose deepest groans are breathed
To merry pipes and mirth-resounding feet,

When wilt thou learn to feel? Oh, what a brow
Were this to sparkle in some clime of laughter
Where nothing withered saving guilt and grief!
There it were lovely as the smile of seraphs
Descending Heaven to bring a spirit home-
But here the paler the more beautiful—
This eye more wet with pity were more bright—
This voice more tremulous, most musical!

Marg. Sweet Annabelle, why dost thou weep?
Anna.
Alas!
Has not each day borne weeds and widowhood

To every hamlet of romantic Seine?
Broke in the midst the lively vintage song

And made it end in tears and lamentation?

O, we have friends and brothers!

Marg.

We have lost none.

Anna. We have the more to lose. Those crimson streets

Of the dread city never will be dry

Till every eye and every throbbing vein

Has paid its tributary drop-Did'st hear

That leaden sound come shuddering thro' the air?

Didst hear it, Marguerite?

The ceaseless voice of that inhuman engine

Telling its tale of death.

Anna.

And canst thou guess

What spirit, newly freed, floats on the wind
Which passes us? This morn we might have told
Each star that formed the blessed constellation
About our hearts-How may we count them now?
Marg. Thy fancy is too busy. More than this
I shared with thee at first, but frequent horrors
Have grown familiar; and the worn in battle,
Tho' he can find a sigh for those who fall,
Repels the fears for those who may. E'en thou
Hast not been long a yellow leaf amidst
The purple wreath of mingling gaiety
Circling our rustic homes. I've seen thee dash
Thy tears away, and seem the very spirit
Of mirth and frolic innocence. E'en then
I've seen thee, when yon fatal sound, as now,
Brought its black mandate thro' the still, soft night,
To stay our steps and cast an eye to Heaven,
Yield thy unclasped hand to him thou lov'st
And force thyself to happiness again.

Anna. True-I have much to mourn.

Marg.

But yet, not this

Some recent grief reflects its vividness

Upon the fading colours of the past.

The time's gone by thou should'st have been a bride,

And thou dost talk no more of the

Who was so dear a theme.

Annu.

young soldier

It is because

A worthless maiden's words cannot enrich him.

Marg. Why art thou changed?

Anna.

I am too much the same.

O, not unkind!

Marg. And he has proved unkind?
Anna.

Yet, if he were, what right have I to blame him?

I had no claim upon his love-no more

Than the scorched pilgrim on the summer breeze;