in representation, men are made puppets of each other, with each string and pulley apparent to all; or, on the contrary, how often are their productions so full of plots and counterplots, that like the gordian knot, the whole must be rudely severed, or remain entangled forever. But Scott, Cooper, James, and a few others, belong to that nobler class of writers who make the world their study, and point out the errors of the great, the virtues of the humble, the defects in human laws, and the absurdity of unnatural distinctions. Scott deserves our thanks for the spirit he has infused into the character of his heroines in contrast with those of Cooper, who are invariably tame and insipid, acquiescent without judgment, yielding without grace, and enduring because too weak to resist. This is all wrong. A woman may approach more nearly to the general elements of the male character, without losing her identity, than is usually imagined. Allow her courage as well as fortitude, the capacity to suggest, as well as the disposition to obey, the nerve to act, as well as the power to think, and she is more perfect as a woman, provided she possesses the feminine delicacy of vision to discern the hair-line between energy and boldness, between spirit and manly daring, than she, who with a mind exclusively bent upon the preservation of the distinguishing female graces, passes a life of gentle dependence. There is a noble medium between the headlong torrent and the petty streamlet. It is the flowing river-bold but not boundless rushing yet constrained-deep, yet not fathomless. A woman cannot preserve her loveliness as a woman, unless her ambition and her love of worldly honors are subservient to the softer impulses of her heart. Shakspeare is right when he makes love control the destinies of his heroines. They may aspire reasonably, but they were never meant to trample upon their own hearts and the hearts of others for empty aggrandizement, as men may de with greater impunity. But even with men, we doubt if there are many whose ambition has not been at some time during their lives, the very slave of their affections. It is extremely interesting to compare the different productions of our best writers with each other, Beginning with Scott, and continuing the observation down to our own Paulding, it is surprising to see what varied combinations of character are placed before us. It is as useful to give a cursory glance at this imaginary world, as it is actually to mingle with mankind in their public assemblages, or in the more refined circles. Human nature has been well sifted since the days of Fielding. He is the Shakspeare of prose. Since his bold sketches, writers have drawn more from nature than from the imagination exclusively, as formerly. It is certainly true also, that the more keenly we scan our fellow beings, the more minute do the complicated folds of their different temperaments appear. Aristotle's system of a world within a world is more true of the inward than outward nature. Enough is created; imagination need only embellish. Time is not mis-spent in perusing our best novels. We know it is the opinion of some, that when they have Shakspeare and Fielding, Milton, Johnson, &c., before them, they have enough for a life. True, here are mines of thought, but they are susceptible of numberless ramifications. D'Israeli, in his "Curiosities of Literature," gives us a chapter upon "Imitations," which shows how much an idea may be heightened, and how gradual is its approach to perfection. In observing how often the thoughts of others have been imbibed, unconsciously improved and re-produced by some of the greatest minds the world has ever known, we are led to believe that there is, strictly speaking nothing new under the sun. In modern days, a man of talent, is a sort of mental alchymist, and we rejoice to say, that greater success has attended the transmutation of heavy suggestions into current truths, than ever crowned the efforts of the ancient searchers for the philosopher's stone. We do not approve of too much reading. Literature should be absorbed by the mind, exactly as water is taken up by a sponge; itself unseen, save as it increases the bulk of the original material. But to pack down the thoughts of others just as we would pack down a jar of sweetmeats, is absurd in the extreme. When the taste is once formed, then reading may be desultory. Let the compass of the mind be first extended by our acquaintanee with the solid writers, and then, every thing else will be like tributary streams, which swell the original current, while their own tiny natures are lost in its depths. Desultory reading is advantageous, because we are thus led to comprehend the full extent of our own powers. We are often in the beginning, attracted towards our best friends by a casual but happy remark. Thus may the imperfect supposition of others touch a train of thought, which afterwards embodies new and important discoveries. The mind, like the bell, is struck ere it can sound; but the various vibrations, whether they be strong or weak, belong intrinsically to the metal of which it is composed. PRIZE POEM. BY SARAH H. WHITMAN. Spoken at the opening of the Shakspeare Hall, Providence, HIST! what strange influence hovers in the air? Can we forget when first, in childhood's hour, Bright, breathing, palpable! scarce could we deem |
