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,
November 27, 1838.

HIST! what strange influence hovers in the air?
Soft music breathes and festive torches glare,

A roseate light illumes the storied wall,

And youth and beauty throng the lofty hall;
Lo, where the Drama, thro' the gloom of night,
Bursts in soft splendor on the ravished sight!
All hail! bright queen of fancy's fairy train,
Long lost, long mourned, resume thy genial reign!

Can we forget when first, in childhood's hour,
Our footsteps sought thy vision-haunted bower?
When trembling, wondering 'mid the enraptured throng,
We quaffed the tide of eloquence and song-
While stood revealed the creatures of our dream,

Bright, breathing, palpable! scarce could we deem

That earth confessed such beauty-to abide
With these were life-vain shadows all beside.
O cold the hearts that from such 'witching sway
Could turn unmoved and passionless away.

But tho' less genial prove our western clime,
To Art's bright reign, than when in olden time,
Thy noblest influence filled Athena's halls,
While thundering plaudits shook her marble walls—
Yet have thy temples rose, thine altars smiled,
Where late the savage tracked the pathless wild,
And far around thy festive notes are borne,
Ere fade the echoes of the huntsman's horn.

Once more we bid thee welcome to our shores,
Confess thy empire and assert thy cause,

Again we haunt thy courts, throng round thy shrine,
And pour soft incense to the breathing Nine.

Oft when the wint'ry storms shall hurtle round,
Or silent snow-flakes print the frozen ground,
When the cold rain comes pattering on the blast,
And mantling clouds night's blazing host o'ercast,

Here shall we sit in this enchanted hall,

While "breathing thoughts and burning words" enthral,— Regardless of the cold world's sordid strife,

And all the hollow mimicries of life

Where vainer actors idler pageants play,

And wear their masks in the broad eye of day.

Oft shall young beauty to this shrine repair,
And manhood here cast off life's coiling care,
Entranced and spell-bound by her potent sway,
Who" calls each slumbering passion into play"-
Exulting, trembling, as her accents flow

In varying strains of triumph or of woe

Now decked in smiles, and now her brow o'er fraught With the pale cast of melancholy thought.

Far thro' the twilight vistas of the past,
Where gathering years their cloudy mantles cast,
Oft turns her eagle eye, and at its glance,
The shadows vanish from that drear expanse—
Lo, at her gaze night melteth into day,
And the dark mist of ages rolls away!

Each old romantic region hath she traced,
And gathered many a floweret from the waste,
Which fancy nurtured with her softest dews,
While wit and wisdom lent their golden hues.
She hath "called spirits from the vasty deep,"
Roused kings and heroes from their dreamless sleep,
Restored the scenes of a chivalrous age,

Where knightly forms heroic conflicts wage,
The victor's triumph on th' ensanguined field,

The plume, the penon, and the blazon'd shield—
Bade the dead lover's clay-cold bosom glow,
And the slain warrior meet once more his foe,