Philosophy and Poetry are nearer of kin than they are commonly accounted. The true Poet is the profoundest Philosopher; the sagest Philosopher breathes the sublimest Poetry. He may not be a master of the mechanism of verse; unskilled he may be in the rhymester's craft; these are not poetry, but only its outward vestments and decorations; the spirit that is the life of poetry lies in the thoughts, and exists and glows, however coarsely clothed, and whether expressed in the plain garb or prose, or in the musical accents of verse.

Emerson is undoubtedly a Philosopher, and, therefore, he is also a Poet. And they who have read his “Essays,” so rich, not alone in poetical thought, but in him a volume of Poetry in proper lyrical form, nor to learn that, whereas in his previous publications he has scattered poetry throughout his philosophy, so here he has preached his philosophy in poetry.

But while cordially admitting Emerson's right to the title of a Philosopher, we must express regret that he has not answered the expectation excited by his first efforts. He began with distinct and definite views; he has plunged so far into the mystical that he has fairly lost his way; he is begirt with fog and mist; his mind is obfuscated; and having substituted vague, shapeless dreams for clear ideas, his language has come to reflect the confusion of his thoughts, and he fails to make himself intelligible to his readers simply because he does not clearly comprehend his own views.