poets, or dramatists, or moralists, or mere tale-tellers in simple
prose--or, more dangerous still, "hold the mirror up to nature" on
the stage that mimics life--if we have but few, we have, and have
had _some_, of whom we are justly proud; women of such well-balanced
minds, that toil they ever so laboriously in their public and perilous
paths, their domestic and social duties have been fulfilled with as
diligent and faithful love as though the world had never been purified
and enriched by the treasures of their feminine wisdom; yet this
does not shake our belief, that despite the spotless and well-earned
reputations they enjoyed, the homage they received, (and it has its
charm,) and even the blessed consciousness of having contributed to
the healthful recreation, the improved morality, the diffusion of the
best sort of knowledge--the _woman_ would have been happier had she
continued enshrined in the privacy of domestic love and domestic duty.
She may not think this at the commencement of her career; and at its
termination, if she has lived sufficiently long to have descended,
even gracefully, from her pedestal, she may often recall the homage of
the _past_ to make up for its lack in the _present_. But so perfectly
is woman constituted for the cares, the affections, the duties--the
blessed duties of un-public life--that if she give nature way it will
whisper to her a text, that "celebrity never added to the happiness of
a true woman". She must look for her happiness to HOME. We would have
young women ponder over this, and watch carefully, ere the veil is
lifted, and the hard cruel eye of public criticism fixed upon them.
No profession is pastime; still less so now than ever, when so many
people are "clever", though so few are great. We would pray those
especially who direct their thoughts to literature, to think of what
they have to say, and why they wish to say it; and above all, to weigh
what they may expect from a capricious public, against the blessed
shelter and pure harmonies of private life.