we approach it with deeper veneration, as the monument of the departed great. There are many fine and affecting associations hanging about the monuments in Westminster Abbey; although their effect is as much diminished, as it could conveniently be, by the mode of their position, and I may add execution. After the museum of French monuments at Paris, it would be difficult to imagine any thing more unfortunate. In general, what is called the monument of a great man is one of the most unworthy and inadequate memorials, that remain of his existence. The practice of erecting them seems to be a relic of the infancy of civilization, when there was little, if any, communication between different tribes, when literature was in its rudest state, and there was hardly any other means of handing down a name to the next generation, except that of writing it upon a rock. But at the present day, what addition is it to the glory of a great man, which resounds from one quarter of the globe to another, to put together a little tasteless heap of stone and marble, and call it a monument? The world itself,' says Thucydides, is the monument of illustrious men.' Of the multitudes that repeat the name of David Hume with admiration and respect, how few know any thing of the little structure at Edinburgh, which bears this simple and

sublime inscription:-His monument is in his works. And with all the reproaches which we have heaped upon ourselves for not erecting a suitable monument to Washington, what nobler one does he need or could he have, than the liberty and happiness of his countrymen? Or, if the glory of such a man could be enhanced by applying his name to any material construction, what object is more suitable to this purpose, than the capital city of the union? Indeed there is a strange and unpleasant contrast between the diminutive size of what are commonly called monuments, and the greatness of the objects to which they are commemorated. There is nothing in nature so truly venerable, as the memory of a great and good man; but while we devote the most magnificent and expensive structures to the ordinary purposes of life, we satisfy our respect for the dead with a miserable mound a few feet square. If we must erect such edifices, let them be as grand and as durable as the pyramids, as splendid as the mausoleum or the tomb of Porsenna; and after all, the simple record of a good action or a fine thought will say more to kindred spirits, than the whole put together. A statue or a picture is a memorial of a different description, and very worthy of its object. It is charming to see the material forms which were

once inhabited by genius and virtue; and a well executed work of this kind is also the best commentary upon the life of the subject. Houdon's inimitable statue of Voltaire throws more light upon his character, than all the biographies of him that have ever been written. But I have been led from one thing to another, till I have nearly lost sight of my point of departure, which was, the present flourishing situation, to all outward appearance, of the British empire.

There is, however, no essential impropriety in reviewing the poetical and historical recollections associated with the natural scenery of England, in connexion with the subject of its present flourishing appearance, since it is a striking and honourable feature in this prosperity, that it has been adorned and ennobled by a great simultaneous development of intellectual talent. It is true that the period of the highest literary and scientific glory of Great Britain has not precisely coincided with that of her greatest power, wealth, and freedom. The golden age of creative invention in poetry and prose, the age of Shakspeare, Spenser, Taylor, and Bacon, preceded the birth of liberty. Probably the same secret and inscrutable causes, which were then stimulating the people to undertake the political reforms that soon after occupied their whole atten

tion, gave an extraordinary spring to such minds as, by natural genius and education, were predisposed to literary efforts. When the revolution commenced, its paramount interest effaced every other of less immediate importance. Even Milton became a politician; and had the commonwealth continued, would have been only Latin secretary of state to the last. It was the temporary triumph of arbitrary power, which gave the world the Paradise Lost and its author his crown of glory. The second age of literary excellence, the age of high finish and perfection, that of Dryden, Pope, Swift, Addison, and Bolingbroke, coincided with the establishment of liberal institutions. It may be remarked, however, as rather a singular fact, that the preponderance of genius seems to have been, at this time, on the side of arbitrary power. Of the great men just mentioned, though all took a strong interest in political affairs, one only was a friend of liberty. The nation had thus passed through the two most remarkable epochs of literary progress before its political importance was fully unfolded; and it seems to be a law of nature, that after the period of invention and that of high polish have arrived and passed away, neither of them ever return again to the same people. Hence the subsequent epoch of the highest political prosperity of England has

not been marked, as a literary age, by either of these characteristics. There has been little poetical invention, and still less finished execution. Within a few years, indeed, there seems to be an effort to revive the first epoch of original creation, in all its wild and prolific vigour. Much talent has been displayed, and a great temporary effect produced; but the attempt is injudicious, and must finally prove unsuccessful. The careless rudeness of the literary age that precedes fine taste is graceful, because it is natural; at any succeeding epoch this quality is repulsive, because it is unnatural and fantastic. After the sweets of high literary finish have been tasted by a nation, the proudest genius that follows must bend his neck to the toil required for attaining it, if he means to take his place with the classical authors of his country. But though the English have not, as may well be supposed, inverted the order of nature in their literary progress, their activity, in this department, has kept pace with their increasing power and wealth. The language has been maintained in its purity by a succession of elegant and powerful writers. The field of history has been explored with singular success, and the works of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon stand but little, if at all, below the great models, which have been handed down to us from antiquity. Johnson,