fashion; and if they thought "virtue but a name," and were nobly careless about an hereafter, they trod but in the steps of their patrons—they were

"The masters of the poet and the song,"

and to them, (judging from their poems,) was subordinated every lofty and independent sentiment; and it well became those who ridiculed the great men of the commonwealth, and satirized the first of English monarchs, in noble defiance of historic truth, to eulogize the liberal principles of Oxford, and praise the stern virtues and unbending patriotism of Bolingbroke.

In all these last-mentioned points, the earlier poets may be most favourably contrasted. In none of their productions do we find religion treated with irreverence, or human nature with contempt. They seem to have delighted in viewing man as the heir of immortality-noble, though in ruins and great, from the loftiness of his destiny. In the works even of the older dramatists we continually find allusions to religious subjects; and the only epic our language possesses, was composed "to vindicate the ways of God to man. Nor are their lighter compositions less marked with solemn feeling; in their range through the fields of nature, every object presents a moral. If the rose fade, it is "that she may see"

"How short a space of time they share,

That are so wondrous sweet and fair."

Waller.

If the lily, "the flower, and plant of light," wither, it is to teach us

"In small proportions, we just beauty see,"

And in short measure, life may perfect be.' Jonson.

A sweet and gentle morality breathes through most of these lighter productions; and from the fading blossom or the falling tree, from the rose in her summer beauty, or the wild flower that blooms unregarded, he gives his lesson of wisdom, and excites

Thoughts that lie too deep for tears."

To return, however, to the wits of Queen Anne's days, we must not forget that nearly all of them were essayists, as well as poets, and as much known by their prose compositions as by their poetry. This reign was abundant in authors on all subjects; but those alone who constituted the "little senate" of wits, can now come under our consideration. The strictness of criticism, which chased from our

poetry all that rich imagery, and all that force of expression, which characterized the earlier poets, was on the whole beneficial to prose composition. That discursive range of fancy, that chase after various and often far-fetched images, in which our earlier prose writers delighted, was now proscribed, and a regular arrangement of the subject, and the utmost perspicacity of expression, was substituted for the unconnected style and affected play upon words, which formerly prevailed. In didactic works this general superiority is apparent; the subject is kept in sight throughout; and though we miss with some reluctance the rich glow of feeling and the brilliant imagery which charms us in the pages of Jeremy Taylor, or those powerful bursts of eloquence which distinguish Milton's prose works, yet the even elegance of the style, and the sustained vigour of thought, leave little to be desired. But it is in light essays, playful allegories, and humorous tales, that the talents of these writers are most successful, in that species of literature of which they were the founders, and which gave rise to the Tatler, the Guardian, and the Spectator. In these admired works, we do not find those philosophic views of human nature, those profound moral disquisitions, nor those wild and imaginative tales, which interest us so much in the Rambler, and other collections of the same kind; but we find subjects which interested the "great vulgar and the small," the wit of the coffee-houses, the scandal of the tea-table, the gossip of the mall, and the politics of stocksmarket, collected into an amusing whole. The Spectator "walks his narrow round," from the Exchange to St. James's, and gives laws to poets and tailors, eulogizes Marlborough the hero, and Charles Lilly the performer, discusses the merits of the last new head-dress, and the last new poem, with the same degree of importance. In these essays, man is never represented in those general views and feelings which belong to him alike on the shores of the Danube and the banks of the Thames: but it is the Englishman of the days of Queen Anne;-the thrifty citizen, who smokes his pipe at the club, and reads the " Daily Courant;" the antiquated beau, lamenting the "golden days" of Charles II.; the fine lady spending her mornings at the conjuror's, and her evenings at the basset-table; or the careful housewife, spelling out receipts for cordial waters, and "working the whole bible in tapestry," that is here described: and it is this minute delineation of the opinions, superstitions, prejudices, and social habits of the English at the beginning of

last century, that makes the Spectator so interesting. Trifles become dignified in the lapse of an hundred years: we follow with interest the conquests of that beauty whose charms were irresistible generations since, and sympathize in the anxieties of that heart above which the grass has waved through a century. These minute pictures of times long gone by would give interest to a work, though ungraced by those felicities of conception and execution which are so justly the claim of the Spectator.

In the truth and spirit of his portraits, in the brilliancy of his wit, and in his resistless humour, Addison bears a strong resemblance to Pope: he brings us into company with his characters, and we feel towards them as though they were old acquaintances. We go to the club with Sir Andrew Freeport, and hear his vindication of commerce from the aspersions of his aristocratical friends; or listen to Will Honeycomb's solemn decision on the merits of cherry-coloured heads we admire the accomplishments of Miss Liddy, "who can dance a jig, raise a paste, keep an account, and give a reasonable answer;" but, above all, we turn to the inimitable Sir Roger, with an interest, and almost an affection, which can never grow old. In this admirable character Addison has caught all those delicate and fleeting points which seem to elude the attempt to delineate them, and has combined with so much skill the apparent contrarieties of character; his shrewd simplicity, cautious boldness, unquestioning belief of all he learnt in childhood, sturdy scepticism with regard to every new opinion, and his pride of ancestry, so well attempered by his benevolent feelings, that we feel we might as soon doubt that Anne reigned, and Marlborough conquered, as of the actual existence of Sir Roger de Coverley. In the allegorical papers, both in the Tatler and Spectator, a similar superiority to those of earlier times is apparent; the dissection of the Belle's heart, the Beau's head, and the Vision of Life, will occur to every one. In the papers devoted to criticism, we perceive some attempts (though but feeble) to throw off the yoke of French authority: the Spectator was the first fashionable work that recommended Milton to public notice, and dared to introduce quotations from that "child of fancy," Spenser: still the lovers of Italian poetry can never forget that the Spectator first gave currency to that celebrated line of Boileau, "Le clinquant de Tasso," and thus, by an unlucky epithet, consigned to contempt one of the first poets of modern Europe.

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It has been customary to speak of the moral tendency of this work in terms of the highest eulogy; (compared with the poetry of that age, it well deserves it;) but the morality is too accommodating; there is a timid deference to rank, a hesitating politeness, an anxiety to soften the stern requisitions of principle. The Spectator, instead of taking his stand on the precepts of Christianity, and reasoning temperance, righteousness," and, what gives emphasis to all, a judgment to come," gives a lecture on envy, from the distressing circumstance of a lady dying with vexation, because her friend had the handsomest brocade; and enforces the duty of sobriety, by the important consideration, that a man of temperate habits will look younger at sixty than a bon vivant of forty. Considering morality and religion as a part of the laws of the land, he addresses his readers as citizens rather than as Christians, and seems more anxious for the well-being of the state, than for the advancement of that kingdom which is not of this world.

In closing this view of the general characteristics of these widely dissimilar schools, the question arises, To what is the difference to be attributed? Writers flourishing within less than a century and half of each other, natives of the same land, educated (generally speaking) in similar principles, and subjects of the same political institutions, are yet as opposed in the character of their literature, as the natives of widely distant regions and far removed ages. But on looking more attentively at the general situation of these respective periods, we shall perceive that to this may be attributed all the differences we perceive. The reigns of Elizabeth and the first James were characterized by an assemblage of romantic circumstances, singularly calculated to give genius its fullest development. The mind was just aroused to exertion after the slumber of ages, and unexampled discoveries and unparalleled improvements followed in such rapid succession, that the intellectual courtiers of the reign of Elizabeth looked back with wonder and disgust on the barbarism which characterized the reign of her father, and could scarcely believe that but half a century had intervened. A spirit of inquiry was awakened; the founders of the first school of English literature stood on the ruins of systems hallowed by ages, on the wreck of establishments which superstition had fondly pronounced indestructible; barriers which had been raised for centuries were falling around them, and a new heaven and a new earth burst on their sight. Witnessing in so short a period

such incredible advances in science and literature, no subject seemed too vast for their genius, nothing impracticable to their daring, and they launched their "slight pinnace" on the wide and turbulent ocean, with a spirit of enterprise unknown to more modern times. An imaginative character pervaded every department of literature and science: the sun of philosophy had indeed arisen on the earth, but the shadows of night yet lingered, and the phantom of darkness still floated in dim and indistinct outline before his early beams; the fictions of ancient romance were still believed by the people, and the influence of time hallowed superstitions, which, though weakened, were not destroyed. The witch still muttered her charm, and the night-spell was still religiously said; the evil eye yet terrified, and the eclipse was yet viewed with dismay. The belief in fairies pervaded all classes, from the high-born damsel to the "fair and happy milkmaid;" and there was scarcely a field or grove unmarked by the mystic ring, which bore witness to the gay revels of Queen Mab, or the mischievous frolics of Robin Goodfellow. In the pursuits of science at this period, there was much to excite the wild and ardent imagination: the dream of the visionary took its place beside the deductions of philosophy, and the quaint and fanciful hypothesis challenged equal deference with the cautious and laborious experiment. The golden visions of alchymy played round the head of the young aspirant, and the "stars in their courses" were the arbiters of his destiny; the elixir of life might reward his exertions, or the mighty dead arise and come at his bidding. We smile at these "follies of science," as a later age has termed them; but yet to their influence, probably much of the lofty and daring character of the times may be attributed. The man felt himself connected by mysterious ties with the world of nature, and the world of spirits. Influences from above, and counter-influences from beneath, were at work on his actions, and the glorious lights of heaven performed their mighty revolutions but for him.

The principal events of a reign, the most glorious perhaps of any in our annals, were also well calculated to add to the romantic spirit that prevailed. The destruction of the armada, the circumnavigation of Drake, the embassies received from nations with whose very existence the common people were before unacquainted, and, above all, the numerous discoveries which distinguished the reign of the maiden queen, gave to plain facts the wildest garb of fiction. Fro