Upon the propriety of this plan men’s minds were, as they usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee to abolish that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing unseen in the background; while others contended that the scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an amphitheatre in which all Grub Street (that is to say, all London and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The event has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in a degree wrong. One hundred and twelve _Addresses_ have been sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed, “as per order,” some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some by men of no talent. Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the Committee, in thus contracting for _Addresses_ as they would for nails—by the gross; but it is surprising that none should have censured their _temerity_. One hundred and eleven of the _Addresses_ must, of course, be unsuccessful: to each of the authors, thus infallibly classed with the _genus irritabile_, it would be very hard to deny six stanch friends, who consider his the best of all possible _Addresses_, and whose tongues will be as ready to laud him as to hiss his adversary. These, with the potent aid of the bard himself, make seven foes per address; and thus will be created seven hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to condemn the strains of Apollo himself—a band of adversaries which no prudent manager would think of exasperating. But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them for ascertaining and establishing one point, which might otherwise have admitted of controversy. When it is considered that many amateur writers have 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.