been discouraged from becoming competitors, and that few, if any, of
the professional authors can afford to write for nothing, and, of
course, have not been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury
Lane, we may confidently pronounce that, as far as regards NUMBER,
the present is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English poetry.
Whether or not this distinction will be extended to the QUALITY of
its productions, must be decided at the tribunal of posterity; though
the natural anxiety of our authors on this score ought to be
considerably diminished when they reflect how few will, in all
probability, be had up for judgment.

It is not necessary for the Editor to mention the manner in which he
became possessed of this "fair sample of the present state of poetry
in Great Britain." It was his first intention to publish the whole;
but a little reflection convinced him that, by so doing, he might
depress the good, without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled
what had the appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality
of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has diminished
his collection to twenty-one. Those which he has rejected may
possibly make their appearance in a separate volume, or they may be
admitted as volunteers in the files of some of the newspapers; or, at
all events, they are sure of being received among the awkward squad
of the Magazines. In general, they bear a close resemblance to each
other; thirty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal
Wellington and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the last-
mentioned gentleman is said to dislike praise in the exact proportion
in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers have probably been
only building a wall against which they might run their own heads.

The Editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf of that