PERIODICAL LITERATURE-POETRY AND THE DRAMA.

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THAT poetry, within the last twenty years, has received a new and extraordinary impulse, must be evident to the most superficial observer. We think we may safely assert, that no period of our literary history can at all compare with the times in which we live, with regard to the number of poems, good, bad, and indifferent, that are continually issuing from the press; and, if the singular excitement, so evident in the public mind, continues to increase, in the same degree as it has heretofore done, there is every human likelihood that all productions of information and amusement will go on increasing also; so that at last, as indeed it is very nearly the case at present, there will be more works produced than can possibly be read. From the increased, and increasing, quantities of poetry, some of which, be it remembered, has been attended with uncommon success-passing through five or six editions, in the of as many months-this question very naturally presents itself; What portion of the works of our living Poets will survive the wreck of one hundred years, and hold the same place in the public estimation as the writings of Milton, Pope, and Swift, maintain in the present day? the enquiry, so far as it would affect some of our popular Bards, would, if it were indeed possible to come to a satisfactory conclusion on such a question, redound, we have little doubt, to their fame and credit. Not that we conceive, however, that the entire works of any one of our living Poets, will descend to posterity, and claim unqualified admiration. But their selected beauties, purged from the dross with which they are too commonly surrounded, must survive, if taste and true feeling continue to be felt and cherished. But what then is become of the host of minor Poets who, without putting forth any decided claims to the notice of posterity, continue, nevertheless, to draw attention to their verses, and to excite no ordinary degree of interest and admiration in the reading public? what space will their writings have shrunk into after the lapse of a century; and for what purpose have their Muses been so prolific, if they must abandon in despair the hopes of being remembered hereafter? the truth is, that the Poets of the day are, in general, apparently careless of their future fame; they write with only two objects in view, namely, their own emolument, and to gratify the taste of the age, which is directed to that which amuses, rather than to that which instructs. To the public then must be ascribed the faults and superfluities of our living Poets-their beautiful but broken fragments-their hasty and unfinished sketches. The increase of wealth, population, and general intelligence, brought with it, as a natural consequence, an eager thirst for enquiry; and writers on every subject, and of every degree of power, were called into immediate action. A road was at once opened to them all, where not only present fame attended their labours, but an object, a material one to most authors (and one of proverbial importance to Poets in particular), was speedily attained, and wealth rewarded their exertions. With such stimulants to excite industry, the consequence is natural; a vast bulk of undigested matter-innumerable volumes

of loose prose, and poetry run wild, in ponderous quarto and thick octavo---edition succeeding to edition, beyond even the author's dreams or the publisher's expectations, flowed in upon the town, and the press continues, to the present hour, unremitting in its endeavours to supply food for the public craving. To that hungering after novelty, and to the rewards that are sure to attend successful authorship, may be attributed, not only the number of writers of various pretensions that have of late years entered the field of literature, but the many crude, incorrect, and hasty productions, in prose and verse, that even some of our first-rate authors have given to the world. The fashionable writer never knows when to stop; volume follows volume. Scarcely has the public time to consider the merits of his last work, than his publisher announces another, and he writes on under the consoling assurance, that whatever has the magic of his name, will be greedily devoured; and although his name may not live in after-time, he has the pleasure to reflect that he is popular at present, and that when he pleases he can draw on his bookseller, whose interest goes hand in hand with his willingness to oblige him.

With such inducements to write, can it be wondered then, that men of the first genius have written too much? This we maintain is the crying sin of the age. The way to the temple of fame (whether it be the true temple, or an airy and perishable fabric, that shines in the distance on our literary horizon, we pause not to inquire,) is no longer a weary. and difficult road. If a writer make what is technically termed a hit, his name is up, and he has little else to do than to learn the speediest method of short-hand to facilitate his ideas. The aspirant to literary distinction need not now, as was formerly the practice, seek for patronage under favor of a great name before he timidly ventures to send his book into the world. Patrons and dedications are quite out of fashion. The public is the great Macænas of the nineteenth century; and if a writer be but fortunate enough to secure popular approbation, he has little occasion for private patronage. If, as Dr. Blair observes, the first object of a poet is to please and move, it must, we think, be admitted, that the poets of the present day have been eminently successful; but if, in poetry, the useful should blend with the entertaining and moving, it then becomes most questionable how far this object is accomplished in the writings of our living bards. Without insisting on the observance of the rule in every production of the Muse, we cannot but remark, that as poetry is a powerful engine, and one that appeals most strongly to the pas sions of men, its uses should not be wholly left aside. It is true that an art or science has never been taught through the medium of verse: but the best moral lessons may be, and have been, clothed in the divine language of the poet, and the finest affections of humanity are capable of being excited by the perusal of his works. Looking then to the vast quantity of poetry that has of late years been added to the previous stock, and observing its general character and tendency, we cannot but feel that the powers of some of our ablest writers, in this seducing art, have been lavished either on light and trivial subjects, or on local and perishable circumstances, remote from general interest, and incapable of fixing the attention of posterity.

The prospect that lies before a vast majority of the poets of the day, is by no means cheering. Before time can apply his unerring test to their effusions, we fear that their very names will be forgotten; and the future Johnson, in compiling a new edition of the poets, will find after all but a few names of the present times to adorn his collection; indeed, if it were otherwise, his task would be endless; but Byron, Southey, Moore, and perhaps a few others, will and must be enrolled upon the list, and their beauties, hallowed with the hour of time, will delight the next century even more than they charm the present. Madame De Stael has remarked, in some of her writings, that a romantic spirit pervades the age in which we live. What portion of this spirit is infused into the business of real life, we are at a loss to learn, but, with respect to our current literature, and particularly with regard to the poetry of the day, we own the observation is well-founded. Tales of romance and chivalry, oriental fictions, and wild and extravagant legends, seem to suit the prevailing taste; and Sir Walter Scott, in his capacity of ballad-master-general, has furnished a goodly supply. Born and educated in a region of romantic beauty, whose history abounded with events and incidents in perfect unison with the character of its scenery, Sir Walter, of necessity, became a poet. In imitation of those wandering Minstrels, whose verses were familiar to his boyhood, his harp resounded to feats of broil and battle, blended with the softer strains of love, and breathing at intervals, a high note resounding to his country's glory. The singular success which attended his various metrical romances, added fame and fashion to his name, and for some years he reigned 'Lord of the Ascendant,' and "bore his blushing honors thick upon him." But authors who are so fortunate as to gain the public favour seldom know when and where to pause from their labours, and retire amid the shade of their laurels. Sir Walter's Muse became somewhat too lavish of her favours; the interest of his poetry declined, and then, and not till then, like a prudent, and half-beaten general, he retired from a field in which total defeat must have attended his future exertions; and referring to the resources of his elegant and active mind, he entered on a new scene of action, and under the mystic title of the great unknown, came forth, arrayed in new and ten-fold powers. His place as a poet was speedily supplied, and the depth of feeling, the pathos, and the passion, of the lamented Byron, made a deep and lasting impression on the public mind. But it is not our desire, at present, to enter on the poetical history of that singularly gifted man. He has left behind him the imperishable records of his fame, these will speak for him hereafter; and what would a few weak words add to the general sympathy which his untimely fate has so deeply excited? The production of "Childe Harold," and the succession of beautiful poems, that soon followed, gave a new impulse to the poetical spirit of the age. "The Lady of the Lake," and "The Lay of the last Minstrel," made room for the "The Corsair,” "The Bride of Abydos," and other Tales and fragments of singular pathos and beauty; and the light and airy verses of Scott, gave way to the strength and spirit-stirring line of Byron. Yet, although their poetry may be said to have given a character to this elegant department of our

literature, and to have excited, perhaps, a livelier interest in the public mind than the writings of any other of our living poets, (if we except prose,) we have a host of names of scarcely inferior note, who have put forth claims of undisputed genius to the poet's bays. Have we not Southey, Moore, Campbell, Crabbe, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Rogers? and who will say, that they have not evinced, according to their peculiar powers, talents of the finest order? but it is not our present intention to enter on a general critique of their writings, neither can we here enumerate the voluminous and unequal professors of the art who yet remain to be mentioned, and whose pretensions are as various as the schools in which they practice. Such a task would lead us not only far beyond our limits, but subject us, we are well aware, to imputations of unfairness and partiality. Every lover of poetry has his peculiar One admires the grand and melancholy; another the gay and simple. Some delight in wit and satire, and some are all for music, smiles, and flowers. One loves the Muse of terror, and professes a sovereign contempt for the soft and soothing; while the taste of another is exclusively directed to pleasing images, and harmonious verses. For ourselves, the love of poetry is so deeply fixed in our nature—so interwoven with the thread of our existence, that we worship the Muses with unfeigned delight, without professing to pay our undivided homage to a particular sister. Yet, however this our general admiration, might fit us for the task of impartial criticism on the subjects of poets and poetry, we cannot but feel, that in weighing the genius of our living bards, and in apportioning to each the quantum of praise to which, in our judgments, we might think he was entitled, our motives and opinions would be subjected to unworthy charges.

taste.

To the future critic then, who perchance may occupy our dusty and moth-eaten chair, we leave the task of praising and comparing. On his judgment must depend the merits and defects of our living poets, and the various schools and styles to which their writings respectively belong. The Cockney, the Satanic, and the Lake, will then be fairly investigated. We must here, however, repeat our former opinion, that the greater part of our current poetry will not descend to posterity, and that much of the work of even our greatest poets, will pass away and be forgotten; and the cause of this (as we have before endeavoured to shew) may be traced, first and principally, to the prevailing taste of the age for light and fanciful subjects, to gratify which our finest and most powerful writers have frittered away their strength; and secondly, to the pecuniary temptations that are held out to successful authorship, which render men of genius careless of their future reputation, and only anxious to secure their present enjoyment.

A few words with respect to the character and tendency of our popular poetry, and we hasten at once to our concluding remarks. There is, unquestionably, a freshness of thought and a vigour of execution observable in the writings of our living poets; and even the minor and less important pieces that find their way into our principal periodical works, and are often the gratuitous offerings of unknown pens, display much taste, sweetness, and feeling. Looking to these circumstances, and to

the number of hands that are daily engaged in adding to our stores of rhyme, we think it must be admitted, that the present is a highly poetic period. The romantic spirit, remarked by the author of Corinne, seems to be infused into the imaginations of our poets. The wild and incredible are embodied forth, and knights, haunted castles, and enchantments, flit before our fancies. It seems to be no longer the object of the poet to hold the mirror up to nature, show scorn her own image, and give to time his form and pressure. The bards of old

Told us the fashion of our own estate,

The secrets of our bosoms

but our modern poets limit their views to less sober objects; they waft us to the land of fiction, and delight us with the brightness of their dreams. Romance has come back to us clothed in new thought and polished numbers. In the reign of Elizabeth, a romantic feeling imbued the spirit of the age, and its literature caught the enthusiasm. The public mind was agitated then, as it is at present, and the same desire to drink at the fountains of knowledge, and to taste of the yet sweeter springs of poetry, were felt by all classes. But how different in other respects were these times to the present; the people of that period were filled with romantic fancy-love and chivalry went hand in hand, and the young nobles of the court of the virgin Queen were distinguished as well by their literary attainments, as by their heroism and gallantry. But, as far as regards the business of real life, the times in which we live are any think but romantic. We are a cool, plodding, calculating race: the age of chivalry, with all its fanciful associations, its loves, emulations, and adventures, are long since passed away, as though they had never been. Yet how beautiful they seem as they come to us in the language of the poet; how well do they relieve the common-place realities by which we are surrounded. If then the great majority of the poets of the day must necessarily sink into oblivion, we, who have enjoyed their transitory beauties, must acknowlege ourselves their debtors for many delightful moments: and although we fear that our prediction will be truly fulfilled, let us still hope, that their selected beauties may be collected together by some future editor, some Percy of the day; and that they may be found in the collections of the curious, and referred to with pleasure, as relics of the minor poets of the nineteenth century!

We wish, while on the subject of poetry, to add a few words respecting tragic compositions adapted to the stage. How is it that so little has been done to revive the expiring embers of Dramatic Poetry? how has it happened that not one of our numerous poets has been able to produce a successful tragedy? If it be answered, that there have been successful tragedies produced within the last ten years, we say the assertion cannot be supported; for we will not call a tragedy successful that happens to struggle through a few nights, or a few seasons, owing to the talents of a favourite actor, the popularity of the author himself, for whom fashion might have gained a name, or the adventitious aids of new scenery, dresses, and decorations. The causes to which we may attribute the