wholly escaped, not even the distinguished name at the head of this article. There is not only manifest impropriety, but sinful presumption in introducing our sons and daughters to a pickpocket's garret, or the purlieus of the Five Points, though under the plea of showing how vile their inhabitants can be, or how capable the writer is of describing their sayings and doings. No one can become familiarized with such scenes of vice, and remain as pure and happy as he was before. And when poetry lends its enchantments to the tale, the danger is the more to be apprehended.

It may be urged that "tastes differ." True, but no one has a right to cater to a vitiated imagination. It is a dearbought fame which is achieved by the ruin of hearts and the blight of souls. Who would take all the glory of Byron, were it coupled with the responsibility of his demoniac influence?

There is another aspect in which we must view the authorship of the age, the very opposite of the gross, morbid school to which we have already referred, but not a whit the less dangerous, and, perhaps, of the two, really the most to be dreaded. It is subtle and refined-very intelligent and fastidious-assumes a sanctified tone and genteel exclusiveness; is exceedingly liberal and charitable, allowing its own interpretation of these terms; and withal, quite religious, it talking "much about God" constitutes such a character. The religion of this sect is the apotheosis of sentiment; pantheistic and transcendental, and a most unsafe guide for the young mind, so apt to be allured by the glitter of a polished rhetoric, and the seductive influences of a false philosophy.

The Athens of America" is the acknowledged centre of this school of authorship, and its most eminent disciples have lived and had their being under the nurturing of its institutions, among whom Prof. Longfellow stands conspicuous "if not first, in the very first line." His prose works have all the striking characteristics of his sect-refined, subtle, beautiful in expression, and seemingly full of religious refinement-they are

But when closely examined, they are as the statue of an angel, looking like one of the "shining ones," but really hewn out of the earth. But as it is not the province of this paper to discuss his prose writings, that subject is passed, to allow his position and character as a Poet to receive that attention to which his merits and popularity give him a just claim.

Prof. Longfellow's idiosyncrasy is every way peculiar and individual; indeed, there is, perhaps, no writer in America whose individuality is more distinct than his, and this, of itself, is sufficient to rebut the unfounded charges of plagiarism made against him. He does, indeed, borrow his themes uniformly, but his manner of presenting them is wholly his own. This personal localism is marked in his earlier productions, and has grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength, until it is the most striking peculiarity of his writings, and his own face is not more easily distinguished among his associates, than are the children of his brain in the pages of the Atlantic Monthly Magazine. This peculiarity has, doubtless, given rise to the various and widely-conflicting opinions respecting his claims as a poet; some investing him with the highest attributes and honors of genius, while others pronounce him only a conventional rhyme-maker, nice in his epithets, and elaborate and scholarly in finish.

Longfellow is a true poet, but his relative position is yet unsettled, being fixed by the multitude of his readers, according to their individual tastes. One loves some

"Summit soft and fair,

Clad in colors of the air."

To them it is indeed true,

"Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue."

Another takes a nearer prospect as a stand-point, then all the illusion which so enraptured the first, is dissipated by

One mind is fitted to appre

the stern roughness of nature. ciate what is grand and sublime. Such a one loves to follow the tread of mighty armies, when

"Firm paced and slow"

they go forth to battle; he plunges into Milton's contest for the sceptre of heaven with all the enthusiasm of a real combatant; sits entranced on the brow of Niagara, listening to its "voice of many waters ;" and, with Byron, loves the ocean best, when,

"Dark heaving, boundless and sublime,
It glasses itself in tempests."

Whatever is wild with excitement or vast in action is in harmony with the chords of his own soul, and will be loved and extolled with all the force of thought and language. Another can see nothing in such scenes to admire or praise; he does not like to be,

"Stunned with the music of the spheres."

His spirit loves repose, and feasts on retirement; and the author who embodies these soft and pensive emotions, touches the harmonies of such a soul, and the tongue delights to praise the genius who can picture Nature—

"In her more quiet moods."

Another heart is the dwelling-place of tenderness and sympathy; there is no pleasure but in continual heart-throbbings; the melting mood is the acme of bliss. Such a mind has no time nor inclination to feel sublime, or indulge in philosophic meditations, and it shrinks from passive enjoyments. Such a heart is like wax, melting at the first touch of the fires of genius; not as the burning bush, wrapped in flames, yet unconsumed.

Thus men, like Bunyan's Pilgrim going up to the wicket gate, carry their burden of prejudices with them to the perusal of an author, and not a few keep them all the way through the book. Now, a writer like Longfellow is sure to call forth these elements in his readers more than any

other of our poets. He is peculiar ;-he is a learned poet, an independent one, saying what he pleases in his own way.

Some claim that he is the greatest poet which America has yet produced; others style him a mere stilted rhymemaker, transcendental and enigmatical, with more learning than genius, and more successful than deserving.

If Longfellow had never been harnessed with the armor of the schools, he would, nevertheless, have been a poet whose "wood-notes wild" would have charmed thousands of admiring readers; and his thorough intellectual training has not robbed him of his native-born genius, nor cramped into a strait-jacket the free utterances of his spirit. It has refined the native gold so richly possessed, giving it the polish of art, and the image and superscription of genuine coin. He has not sung, and cannot sing, with the simple tenderness of "Mary in Heaven," "Home, Sweet Home," or "Woodman, spare that Tree;" nor with the brilliant rusticity of the "Old Oaken Bucket;" nor could he have done this, had he never been trained in the nice distinctions of the schools, for the simple reason that it is no part of his intellectual endowment. Neither has he given any evidence of possessing that mirth-provoking fac ulty which has immortalized a Butler and a Hood. Indeed, if his claims as a pcet are to be tested by an exhibition of that spirit who comes with

none.

the question is decided at once-he is a presumptuous intruder into the realms of song, for wit or humor he has Anything partaking of the jovial style seems as much out of place in Longfellow's ideality, as an Esquimaux in Arabia, or a cactus on an iceberg. The attempts which he has made at the humorous are found mostly in the "Spanish Student," where Chispa is made a bungling imitation of Shakspeare's clowns, with the addition of a few gipsy proverbs. The genius which inspired him, when he first sung the "Prelude" to the "Voices of the

Night," still lingers to shade his musings, and whispers into his pensive and willing ear,

"Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
Yes, into life's deep stream!

All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn voices of the night,
That can soothe thee, or affright,-
Be these henceforth thy theme."

And most faithfully has he obeyed the injunction. This, however, is no serious objection, but rather a high mark of credit in this age, when "Anniversary Poems" and Lyceum Exhibitions seem to have no higher aim than to prostitute the Muse at the shrine of Laughter. Two things the readers of Longfellow never do-they neither laugh nor His seriousness has not the melting heat; it leads to meditation and resolve. If his genius is too dignified for mirthfulness, it is also too philosophic for tears. One is left for clowns, the other to rustics.

weep.

For these reasons he has no hold upon the minds of the masses; his readers are of the "higher walks," and more especially those who are of the particular literary sect of the author-more intellectual than feeling,-more ideal than matter-of-fact; and who admire truth more than they feel the necessity of personal piety.

This last remark leads to the statement, that one of the most striking characteristics of Longfellow, is his earnest and, no doubt, sincere devotion to moral beauty, to truth. In this respect he is directly in opposition to the absurd theory of Poe, in his lecture on the "Poetic Principle." His devotion to this heaven-born sentiment is not, as is too often the case, only a loose adjustment to the exterior, while a little penetration will discover huge deformity and rottenness beneath; but a deep-seated and never-swerving adherence to all that is good and ennobling in human nature. Try any of his poems by this scrutiny, and it will be seen how true the remark is. Even in that bright creation of his genius, Preciosia, the Gipsy Ballet-dancer, his devotion to purity has invested her with a spirit so unearthly