IT is often asserted that the attainments of women are superficial. If the fact be admitted, the reason is obvious; for our system of education is continually enlarging its circle of sciences and accomplishments, without extending the time in which to acquire them. Yet are there not causes which concur to make the age in which we live, as well as our own sex, superficial? Does early discipline enforce that fixedness of attention, which was formerly held essential to the acquisition of profound learning? Is not the unfolding mind, especially in our large cities, made miscellaneous, by the number and variety of objects presented to its view? May not the ease and luxury of fashionable life, lull it into sloth until its powers are enervated? Hear we of any Daniel, who for the sake of wisdom, avoids the dainties of a princely table, and chooses pulse and water? Are our own times likely to produce a Salmasius, who at the age of fourteen, published a Latin work, with critical annotations? or a Theophrastus, who at ninety-nine, wrote delineations of human nature, with the fervent spirit of youth? We require of those who seek intellectual eminence, a conformity to customs which almost destroy the possibility of such eminence. We expect a student to sacrifice his time to the routine of calling and visiting, to be a man of genteel dress and manners, to acquaint himself with the etiquette of ceremonious society, to have the power of saying trifling things elegantly. The days are past, when a Demosthenes might retire to his solitude, with his head half shaven, and escape censure, or a Diogenes take refuge in his tub, and be applauded for wisdom.

The multitude of miscellaneous works, sweeps away the power of mental application, and breaks up consecutive trains of thought. A rapid mode of reading is thus rendered necessary, which omits to call into exercise the retentive powers, until they become inert, and languish; or vengeful from neglect, and refuse their aid, when invoked. The ancients, with their few books, were like men of small estate, who cultivated their domain carefully, and left wealth to others: the moderns, like the settlers on our new western lands, purchase a province, and die ere its forests are felled. When we read merely the titles of books, which have sprung forth in a single depart. ment of literature, it would seem that our threescore and ten years, frittered away as they are, by other claims, would scarcely suffice for their perusal.

The state of the sciences, as well as the influence of modern habits, render profound knowledge a rare possession. What wonderful accessions have been made to the boundaries of some of the sciences, with in the memory of the present generation. And he, who would grasp their whole circle, how far may he hope to travel, before the little hour-glass of life runs out? How have the limits of History heen extended since the time of Herodotus, of Geography, since the dim outline of Strabo, of Natural Philosophy, since the days of Bacon. The mutability of those sciences which depend on experiment, keeps the mind of their votaries on the stretch, like Columbus with his spyglass amid the billows of the Pacific. Others have

a more permanent basis, and promise the student a surer foothold. Political Economy takes note of man as of a merchant, the amount of his capital, his facilities for transmuting his capacities into gold: Mathematics views him by his faculties of counting and admeasurement: Law takes cognizance of him as capable of “impeding, or being impeded ;" the study of the human mind, and of the Deity invite him to their magnificent thresholds, by peculiar allurements, the object of the first having received no new powers, by the lapse of centuries, and the last having in Himself neither change or shadow of turning. He who dives deep into the knowledge of himself, and of his Maker has not the mortification to find the treasure that he amasses, the continual sport of the passing wave. In Intellectual Philosophy, we still look back to the Stagyrite, of whom it has been well said, that he "surpassed all men in acute distinctions, in subtle argument, in severe method, in the power of analyzing what is most compounded, of reducing to simple principles, the most various and unlike appearances;" while in Theology, the babe and the sage of hoary hairs, are alike learners, from One Book, of that love to God and man, on which "hang both the law and the prophets."

To the obstacles to profound erudition which grow out of the habits of modern times, the vast extent of ground occupied by the sciences, and the unsettled and advancing character of some of them, we add another, peculiar to our own country, and the universal strife and labour for riches. Though the desire of wealth, is, in some degree, inherent in human nature, yet the scope allowed for its exercise, in our republic, is unusually broad. No titled aristocracy here says to the peasant, "hitherto shalt thou come, and no further," but the son of the day labourer may in imagination clutch a purse, as long as the heir of thousands. The false sentiment that it is necessary to be rich, in order to be respectable, inwrought with the elements of mind, leads the man of genius, to jostle in the thoroughfare, with the crowds who but imperfectly comprehend him, and by whom he will be sure, on such a ground, to be surpassed. In the realm of learning, it produces the same effect, which the expectation of mines of the precious metals wrought on the colony at Jamestown, where in the words of its quaint historian, all other employments were abandoned for the sake of a vague hope to "dig gold, refine gold, wash gold, and load gold." Could the man who covets learning, make a sacrifice of his desire to die rich, what lofty heights might he attain, among what serene contemplations and elevated pleasures might he revel.

"But these he must renounce, if lust of wealth

E'er win its way to his corrupted heart,
For ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart,
Prompting the ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme,
The stern resolve, unmov'd by pity's smart,
The troublous day, and long, distressful dream;
Return, my roving muse, pursue thy purpos'd theme."

Yet if the tendencies of the present age, are rather to draw men from the heights of contemplative phi

losophy, or the depths of scientific research, they reveal here and there, a salient point, decidedly favourable to the intellectual progress of our sex. One of these, is the cordiality with which they are welcomed to pursuits from which they were formerly excluded. Man, among his recent discoveries, has made one, to which the keen eye of all antiquity was blind, that in educating his weaker companion, he doubles his own strength.

Knowledge was long since pronounced to be power," and yet it remained locked up in hierogly. phics from one half of the human race. Had there been no monopoly, on the part of the stronger sex, when "Learning cowled her head," and was cloistered with the monk—no mistake, when in the madness of chivalry, they deified one moment, what the next, they cast away-no jealousy of the feeble companion who guarded their hearthstone-with what strides had the world advanced in civilization and refinement. From time immemorial, man has not feared to entrust power to his allies, or to give honour to his -friends, but with her, who dwelt nearer to his heart, than friend or ally, he hesitated to share the rich fruits of knowledge; he divided himself, and walked on alone, in those paths where he might have had, if not vigorous aid, at least, sweet companionship.

But the present age, though not absolutely the discoverer of the gain which might arise from educating her, who is in one form or another, to educate all mankind, has exerted itself, beyond all its predecessors, to atone for long neglect. It has proclaimed that he who obstructs in woman, the attainment of fitting knowledge, is his own enemy; that the guardianship of domestic comfort, the nurture of the unfolding mind, the regency over home's hallowed sanctuary, cannot safely be committed to a soul darkened by ignorance. It has perceived that in each of these departments, she needs the sustaining power of a love and respect which cannot well be steadily accorded, unless she is intellectually worthy of such distinction.

It is no slight generosity which voluntarily throws off ancient prejudices, and hastens to make restitution. The man who aids the mental progress of his weaker companion, deserves gratitude from the community, and from a future generation. Pliny spoke his own praise, though he supposed himself to be praising only his wife Calphurnia, when he said, "to her other good qualities, she unites a taste for literature, inspired by her tenderness for me." Those conjugal attachments where intellectual improvement is made a mutual object, have been observed to contain elements of peculiar tenderness and constancy. The philanthropist, who promotes female culture, on a thorough and extended scale, that culture which combines the love and practice of womanly duties, with the knowledge which elevates, and makes them graceful, will confer a benefit on posterity, which shall endure, when the eloquence of Peter the Hermit, and the exploits of Cœur de Lion, or the Saladin, shall have faded from remembrance, like a worn out tale.

I would say to the young of my own sex, be grateful for the rich gift which is put into your hauds, and zealous to improve it to the utmost. Give diligence not to defraud those from whose generosity you enjoy the blessing of education, by allowing them to suffer in their domestic comforts; but rather, "let them receive their own, with usury." Neither defraud yourselves, by becoming superficial, a sound,

without a substance. If as high or profound acquisitions in science, are not expected of you, as of the other sex, it is still indispensable, that all your advances be marked by patient study, and thorough comprehension. Keep the plain rule for your guide, that "whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well." A good foundation in literature and a familiar ac quaintance with the best authors, will fit you for companionship with the intellectual and refined, and enable you to make your firesides, altars of wisdom. Whatever may be your occupation, devote a portion of every day to the standard writers in your native language, the historians and poets, the essayists, and theologians. Do not consider the more ancient poets, as of slight consequence, in a course of reading, which consults improvement. "For Poetry," says Coleridge, "that of the loftiest, and seemingly that of the wildest kind, hath a logic of its own, as severe as that of the sciences, and even more difficult, because more subtle, more complex, and dependent on more fugitive causes."

You will find a well-disciplined literary taste, a source of great delight. It has a self-sustaining power, when the tinsel of life fades. We are in our inherent structure, as well as by the usages of refined society, far more dependent than the other sex. Our happiness rests on a few props, formed out of the affections. If they fail us, and they may, we cannot turn to the world for a substitute. Even were its fame and honour subject to our control, they could not sooth us, if the heart's sanctuary was invaded, any more than the imaginary music of the spheres, might console the homeless wanderer who shrinks from the beating of the tempest. But a well regulated mind, full of rich resources, is a fortress of no ordinary strength. Among those resources, is a substitute for friendship, in that fellowship with the great of every age, which makes the solitary study a peopled land of choice spirits. We share a satisfaction almost like personal intercourse, with those mighty minds which the world has worshipped. Literary characters," said de la Mothe, “are cotemporaries of all ages, and citizens of every clime." Even the page that has silently chronicled our thoughts, becomes to us a sister. I part with my manuscripts as with dear friends, who have cheered me in hours of sadness," said the sensitive Cowper.

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The power of calling forth friends, from buried ages, and from distant realms, will naturally be prized by the sex, so prone to friendship, and whose life is in the affections. They are also incited to cast off the odium of being superficial students, by the hope of doing good. Who can estimate the amount of good which may be done, in a country like ours, by educated women? Men may have more knowledge, yet influence others less. By the nature of their pursuits, they cannot often pause to scatter its seeds by the way side. Borne on by the current of a restless and excitable age, multitudes of them struggle for wealth, or honour, as the swimmer breasts the wave; they ride for a moment upon the crested billow, or sink beneath it, and their wisdom perishes with them. But the daughter and sister in the quietness of the parental home, the faithful teacher in the village school-house, the mother in her secluded nursery, are all forming others after their own model, writing upon that which is never to die.

Man may have more knowledge, and yet hoard it up in his cabinet, or embody it in expensive tomnes,

The same lofty reasoning is enforced throughout the sonnets. Love, with Spenser, is no dalliance of an idle hour, nor beauty a toy to be lightly won and lightly worn. In his view, they are things of serious import, objects on which he can meditate gravely and discourse philosophically.

Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that yourself ye daily such do see;
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,

And virtuous mind, is much more prais'd by me.
For all the rest, however fair it be,

Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue;
But this alone is permanent, and free
From the corruption that doth flesh ensue [follow];
That is true beauty; that doth argue you

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed,
Deriv'd from that bright source whence did all true
And perfect beauty from the first proceed;
The only fair, aud what the fair hath made:-
All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.

The sovereign beauty which I do admire,

Witness the world how worthy to be prais'd, The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire

In my frail sp'rit, by her from baseness rais'd; And being now with her vast brightness daz'd [dazzled], Base thing I can no more endure to view:

But, looking still on her, I stand amaz'd
At wondrous sight of so celestial hue!

So, when my tongue would speak her praises due,
It stopp'd is with the thought's astonishment;
And when my pen would write her titles true,
Is ravish'd with the fancy's wonderment:
Yet, in my heart, I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot indite.

Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride!
The thing which I do most in her admire,
Is by the world unworthily espied:
For in those lofty looks is clear implied
Scorn of base things, and 'sdeign of foul dishonour,
Threat'ning rash eyes which gaze on her too wide,
That loosely they may not dare look upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour;
That boldness innocence bears in her eyes:
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.
Was never in this world aught worthy tried,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are display'd,
All sorts of flowers that on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously array'd;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid
Yet in her winter bower, not well awake;

Tell her the joyous time will not be staid,
Unless she do him by the forelock take.
Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make

To wait on Love amid his beauteous crew;
Where every one that misseth then her mate,

Shall be by him amerc'd with penance due. Make haste, then sweetest love! while it is prime, For none can call again the gone-pass'd time.

Since I did leave the presence of my love,
Many long weary days have I outworn,
And many nights, that slowly seem'd to move
Their sad protract from evening until morn:
For when the day the heaven doth adorn,
I wish that night the joyless day would end;
And when the night hath us of light forlorn,

I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time in expectation spend,
And fain my grief with changes to beguile,

That further seems his term still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a mile.
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last,
But joyous hours do wing their flight too fast!

The famous warriors of the ancient world

Used trophies to erect in stately wise,
On which they would the records have enroll'd
Of their great deeds and valorous emprize.
What trophies, then, shall I most fit devise,
On which I may record the memory

Of my love's conquest. peerless beauty's prize,
Adorn'd with honour, love, and chastity?
Even this verse, vow'd to eternity,

Shall be thereof immortal monument,

And tell her praise to all posterity,

That made admire such world's rare wonderment,
The happy guerdon of my glorious spoil,
Gotten at last with labour and long toil.

The doubt which ye misdeem fair love is vain,
That fondly fear to lose your liberty,

When, losing one, two liberties ye gain,

And make him bound that bondage erst did fly.
Sweet are the bands the which true love doth tie,
Without constraint, or dread of any
ill!

The gentle bird feels no captivity

Within her cage, but sings and feeds her fill.
When pride dare not approach, nor discord spill

The league 'twixt them, whom loyal love hath bound, But simple truth and mutual good will

Seeks with sweet peace to salve each other's wound. There Faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower, And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bower!

One day I wrote her name upon the sand,

But came the waves and wash'd it all away; Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide and made my pains his prey. "Vain man!" said she, "that fruitless dost essay A mortal thing so to immortalize!

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And e'en my name shall be effac'd likewise.""Not so," quoth I, "let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame;

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And on the heavens inscribe your glorious name, Where when as Death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

The above sonnets have been so selected out of the eighty-eight, as to form something of a subject; and we think it will readily be allowed, that rarely has a tale of love been told with so much loftiness of thought, joined to so much tenderness and delicacy. We must afford space for a specimen of Spenser's powers on a loftier theme. After moralizing on the folly

Of rearing trophies for devouring death,

With so great labour and long-lasting pain,
As if our days for ever should remain,

and describing Rome as a tyrant-mistress,

Who made all nations vassals of her pride,
And on the neck of all the world did ride,
Yet with her own weight now down-press'd she lies,
And by her heaps her hugeness testifies;

he has bequeathed us a noble pair of sonnets on the same subject, undeniable evidences of his great powers of conception, and of his command of language worthily to embody them.

O that I had the Thracian poet's harp,
To waken from the deep infernal shade
Those antique Cæsars, sleeping long in dark,
The which this ancient city whileom made!

O that I had Amphion's instrument,

To quicken with his vital note's accord The stony joints of these old walls now rent, By which th' Ausonian light might be restor'd: Or that, at least, I could with pencil fine Fashion the portrait of these palaces, By pattern of great Virgil's sp'rit divine: I could essay with that which in me is, To build with level of my lofty style That which no hands can ever more compile.

He that hath seen a huge oak dry and dead,
Yet clad in reliques of some trophies old,
Lifting to heaven her aged hoary head,

Whose foot on ground hath left but feeble hold,
And half disbowel'd, lies above the ground,

Shewing her wreathed roots and naked arms,
And on her trunk all rotten and unsound,

Only supports herself for meat of worms:
And though she owe her fall to the first wind,
Yet by the crowd devoutly is ador'd;

While many young plants spring out of her rind.
Who such an oak hath seen, let him record
That such this city's honour was of yore,
And 'mongst all cities flourished much more.

This sonnet leads us by a natural association to Spenser's Fable of the Oak and the Briar. There is a power of painting, and a picturesque vigour in the language of this piece, which stand alone and unapproached in that, or perhaps any age of English poetry. We must find room for it, to the exclusion of some more airy pieces, which we had marked for insertion.

FABLE OF THE OAK AND THE BRIAR.
There grew an aged tree on the green,
A goodly Oak had it sometime been,
With arms full strong, and largely display'd;
But of their leaves they were disarray'd;
The body big and mightily pight [built],
Thoroughly rooted, and of wondrous height:
Whilom had it been the king of the field,
But now the gray moss marr'd his rind,
His bared boughs were beaten with storms,
His top was bald, and wasted with worms,
His honour decay'd, his branches sere.

Hard by his side grew a bragging Briar.
It was embellish'd with blossoms fair,
And thereto age wonted to repair;
The shepherd maidens to gather flowers,
To paint their garlands with his colours;
And in his bushes small was used to shroud
The nightingale so sweet, and thrush so loud,
Which made this foolish Briar to wax so bold,
That on a time he cast himself to scold,
And snub the good Oak for that he was old.

"Why stand'st thou there, (quoth he), thou brutish block,
Which nor for fruit nor shadow serves the flock,
Behold how fresh my flowers are spread,
Dyed both in lily-white and crimson-red,
With leaves engrain'd in lusty green,
Colours meet to cloathe a maiden queen.
Thy vast hugeness but cumbers the ground,
And darks the beauty of my blossoms round;
The mouldy moss which thee aicloyeth [encircles],
My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth;
Therefore I rede thee, soon from hence remove
Lest thou the force of my displeasure prove."

So spake this saucy Briar with great disdain,
But little him answer'd the Oak again,
But yielded, with shame and grief ad-awed,
That by a weed he was so over-craw'd [crowed over].
It chanced soon after, upon a day,
The husbandman's self to come that way,

As custom was to view his ground
And his trees of state to compass round;
Him when the spiteful Briar espied,
He causeless complain'd and loudly cried
Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife:
"O sovereign liege! thou lord of my life,
Pleaseth you weigh your suppliant's plaint,
Caus'd by wrong, and cruel constraint,
Which I, your poor vassal, daily endure,
And but your goodness the same do cure,
Am like, for desperate dole, to die
Through felonous force of mine enemy."

Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,
Him rested the good man on the lea,
And bade the Briar in his plaint proceed,
With painted words then 'gan this proud weed.
(As mostly usen ambitious folk)

His colour'd crime with craft to cloak.

"Ah! sovereign lord of us creatures all,

Thou placer of plants, both humble and tall,
Was I not planted by thine own hand,

To be the primrose of all thy land,

With flowering blossoms to furnish the prime,
And scarlet berries in summer-time?
How falls it then that this faded oak
Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,
Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire,
Unto such tyranny doth aspire,
Hindering with his shade my lovely light,
And robbing me so of the sweet sun's light?
So to beat with his boughs my tender side,
That oft the blood springeth from woundès wide;
Untimely my flowers are forc'd to fall,
That are the honour of your coronal;
And oft he lets his canker-worms alight
Upon my branches, to work me spite;
And oft his hoary locks he down doth cast,
Whereby my flowrets' freshness is defac'd.
For this, and many other such outrage
I crave your kindly power to assuage,
The rancorous vigour of his might,
Nought ask I, only but to hold my right.
Submitting me to your good sufferance,
And praying to be guarded from grievance."

To this the Oak did cast him to reply
Well as he could, but this his enemy
Had kindled such coals of displeasure,
That the good man could not stay his leisure,
But home he hasted with furious heat,
Encreasing his wrath with many a threat.
His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas, that it so ready should stand!)
And to the field alone he speedeth,
For little help to harm there needeth.
Then to the root he bent his sturdy stroke,

And made full many wounds in the vast Oak;

The axe's edge did often turn again
As half unwilling to cut the grain,
It seem'd the senseless iron did fear,
Or to wrong holy eld it did forbear;
For it has been an ancient tree,
Sacred with many a mystery,
And often cross'd by the priestly crew,
And often hallow'd with holy-water dew;
But such like fancies were foolery,

For nought might they save him from decay,
For fiercely the good man at him did lay;
The block oft groan'd beneath his blow,
And sigh'd for his near overthrow.

At length the steel hath pierc'd his pith,
And down to the ground he falls forthwith;
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,
The earth shrunk under him, and seem'd to shake.
There lieth the old Oak pitied by none!
Now stands the Briar, like a lord, alone,