study of Ecclesiastical History, in the ordinary discharge of his official duty, though, as I have endeavored to show, these are worth something. He will derive some light from it, which will guide him in questions of a practical nature, which will be continually presenting themselves. But viewed in reference to its indirect and more remote effects, as part of a liberal culture, of which a minister cannot well be destitute, if he would hold a high rank in his profession, and of which he should not be willing to be destitute, if he could, I certainly do attribute no small importance to the study. I think that many species of knowledge, and many intellectual accomplishments, are to be sought by the minister, which he cannot turn to any present and visible account, though he will turn all to account in the end.

There are many evils attending a partial culture and slender attainments in the minister. He will be in danger of sooner exhausting himself, and breaking down, in consequence, or will find himself in some way cramped and impeded in his exertions. On many subjects he will be apt to exhibit a one-sidedness or dogmatism, which are not desirable, and the chance is that he will, at one time or another, see cause to regret his deficiencies, or his friends will for him. The present, surely, is not the period in which high culture can be dispensed with. Many of the questions of the day, questions in which not the theologian merely, but the minister, must take an interest, upon which he can hardly avoid, at some time, and in some way, touching, require in their discussion a wide survey of the past history of the human mind. Some of the problems, which present themselves for solution, carry us back into remote ages. We must call on the past to surrender its facts. We must examine and interrogate those facts, that we may separate reality from illusion, history from fable, divine truth from its earthly envelope and mere time-vesture. The manifestation of the religious element in our nature, and revelations of truth to the human soul, are as old as the existence of man on earth; and there is no fact connected with their history, which may not have its use, and which will not have its use, with the reflecting mind, and often in a manner least anticipated.

THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA.

HERE is a large volume, whose plan seems suggested by such works as "Campbell's," or " Aiken's British Poets." It is designed "to exhibit the progress and condition of poetry in the United States." It is far more formidable in size, and more elegant in its outward getting-up (bating only the portraits in the Frontispiece, which are libels on the distinguished names beneath them) than any of the popular "Selections," as they are called. It is a whole Museum of all the natural and artificial curiosities, peculiar to this region, which fall under the conventional term of poetry. It is a sort of Camera Obscura, which brings within a convenient circle of vision the whole country, with its natural features and its improvements. All our original and all our borrowed wealth are here fancifully paraded on long glittering tables, a true Poets' Fair. Faneuil Hall was never more loaded and decked out with specimens of our industrial mechanical powers. This last figure is most to our purpose, and shall suggest the divisions of our discourse. For as we go to a Faneuil Hall Fair, first, to gratify curiosity, secondly, to buy what we want, and thirdly, to indulge a patriotic pride in contemplating the fruits and future promise of our domestic industry and skill; so the book before us, the "Poets and Poetry of America," may be regarded as a chapter in literary history for the curious; as a collection of poetry, where the hungry soul may feed itself on quickening thoughts; and as a practical answer to the much vexed question, whether there be any poetry, or any prospect of any poetry, which may be called American. The book has a historical, a poetic, and a patriotic interest; curiosity, poetic sensibility, and national pride are the appetites to which it appeals.

The historical view of life under any aspect, of literature, of art, &c. almost necessarily engenders the love of completeness, which tyrannizes over the observer, prompting him to note down much which has no interest but its historical prox

[The Poets and Poetry of America. With an Historical Introduction. By RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. Philadelphia: Carey and Hart. 1842. 8vo. pp. 468.]

VOL. XXXIII. 3D S. VOL. XV. NO. I.

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imity to other, better, and more genuine things of the same kind. The questions which we asked of the stars, as we ignorantly gazed at the heavens, the astronomer with telescope and figures undertakes to answer; but in getting the answer, he brings us back much more than we care or need to know; he catalogues many a star of quite inferior magnitude, many a one which we should never look for in the heavens, or anywhere but in his chart. Yet this is well. And equally so in literary history, in the cataloguing of those hosts of stars, called poets and philosophers, which shimmer through that other firmament, the dimly-lighted, boundless mystery of Mind. The love of philosophy and poetry suggests the love of literary history; enamored of its work, this searches round and rescues from oblivion a thousand poets, whom no one ever thought of loving. It is a large class of minds who love these tabular views of literature; the collectors of literary shells and coins are respectable, good people; and a streak of the same propensity lurks in almost every one who reads, even the man of genius, who is himself a poet. For such, among other things, is this collection of American poetry intended. If the end be laudable, the manner in which it is reached here is no less so. execution of the work, as another chapter in the history of poetry, merits the praise of thoroughness, clearness, and good taste. As Mr. Griswold remarks, "the judicious critic will be more likely to censure me for the wide range of my selections, than for any omissions he may discover." And again; "In selecting the specimens in this work, I have regarded humorous and other rhythmical compositions, not without merit in their way, as poetry, though they possess but few of its true elements." Accordingly he has given us, first, a very valuable historical introduction on the poetry of America before the Revolution, which, if it all falls under the head of "humorous and other rhythmical compositions, not without merit in their way," and reveals not much poetic genius in our ancestors, serves at least to show what poetry they read, and what the culture, not the sentiment of the times, prompted them to write. Then follows the body of the work, consisting of quite copious selections from the poems of no less than eighty-seven different authors; doing as much justice to each, probably, as could be done in a book of this kind; sometimes assigning more space to one author, not because he has more merit, but because he happens to be less known, or from some accidental consideration.

The

Of course this is a delicate undertaking; one in which it would not be possible to gratify the preferences of each poet and his circle of admirers, either as regards the quantity or the selection given from his pieces. Considering the difficulty, we think the task has been admirably performed. No two readers of poetry, in attempts to make a select album of the choicest verses from their favorite authors, would probably make anything like the same, hardly a similar, collection. And this partly from variety of tastes, and partly because of accidental associations; the worth of a poem to our own private mind consisting so often in the mere fact of the time when we first read it, our own outward and inward state when first it smiled and spake to us. In addition to all this, the book contains an herbarium of choice poetic flowers esteemed for their intrinsic beauty, and not as specimens of the works of those who have written enough to be called poets. Of these there are some sixty-six, some of them anonymous. To the name of each author is prefixed a brief biographical notice, sometimes with criticisms, which are generally just, often beautiful and instructive, and which show that the editor had no undiscriminating enthusiasm about American poets, and did not deceive himself into the idea, that it was all pure gold which he was offering

us.

Our long known and our newly risen bards of promise seem all to be here represented. Freneau and Trumbull and Dwight, &c. of the old school, who labored through their long heroics, in the safe old normal style of Iliad and Eneid, and Pope and Dryden, and Butler's Hudibras, are followed by the names we love, the school of more American bards, like Allston, Dana, Bryant, Percival; and the line is faithfully traced down to the present time.

But was it worth the while? And have we here a book of poetry? So inexpressible and unscrutable is that thing in its essence, which we call Poetry, that we will not attempt to define it. There is much that is beautiful; much that is melodious and gracefully turned; much that is choice in thought and diction; much that is original; - and yet it is not poetry. We can tell all about it, except that in which its essential nature consists. We can give a composition credit for beauty, melody, delicacy, richness and freshness of ideas, depth of feeling and of thought, all that is desirable in poetry, and yet feel that it is not accepted of the Muse. Like everything which never

parts with the power to charm, it keeps that power a secret and a mystery. It never explains itself; but imparts itself to whom it will. It is in vain therefore, that we try to tell what poetry is, preparatory to what we may have to say upon the poetic merits of Mr. Griswold's collection. We will not complain that he has not been more select; since it was his plan, and not his taste or poetic appreciation, which led him over so wide a field, to gather up such a profusion of flowers.

Of course, among so many, (and no one can think of reviewing a hundred poets at a sweep,) there must be all varieties of excellence. There is some true poetry; some little gems, which give us the feeling which all genuine beauty gives, that the smallest thing, if only beautiful, is infinite; that all regard to length or size vanishes, that quantity ceases to be an element, so soon as quality is perfect. We can say this of all the picture-poems of Allston; of the "Thanatopsis," the "West-wind," the "Water-fowl," &c. of Bryant, (though it is only in a limited department that he is a poet, while uniformly as a describer of outward nature, and as an artist in words, rising sometimes to a diction almost Shakspearian, he is unsurpassed;) of the "Picture-song," the "Health," and the "Serenade of Pinckney; of the Sonnets of Jones Very; of pieces by Emerson, and of many a gem scattered through the volume; we speak from casual recollection, and the omitting of a name is not the denying of merit.

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Then there is much which has every excellence, except that of genuine poetic inspiration. There is a great amount of clever talent displayed throughout the book; lively fancy, sweetness and variety of melody, and almost universally a pure moral tone, a high ideal of virtue. All the various styles of poetry have been, to say the least, happily imitated. At first, as we have seen, it was all Pope and Dryden and Butler. Since, we have had Byron and Wordsworth, and something of Keats, (see "Hymns to the Gods," by Alfred Pike,) and quite too much of Mrs. Hemans. These, mixed in various proportions with such original force as our own most susceptible minds have found in themselves, have dictated the form, and in great part the material of our later poetry. And now, within these few years, we have Shelley, and Goethe, and Schiller, responded to in echoes of their own influence, but in notes of greatest promise; for their effect has been, not so much to set a standard, which can be tamely followed, or to create a shallow en