ated and civilized man as much as charcoal differs from the
diamond. The sentiment of love, as distinguished from the passion, is one
of the last and best results of Christianity and civilization: in no one
thing does savage life differ from civilized more than in the relations
between man and woman, and in the affections that unite them. Uncas is a
graceful and beautiful image; but he is no Indian.

We turn now to a more gracious part of our task, and proceed to say
something of the many striking excellences which distinguish Cooper's
writings, and have given him such wide popularity. Popularity is but one
test of merit, and not the highest,--gauging popularity by the number of
readers, at any one time, irrespective of their taste and judgment. In
this sense, "The Scottish Chiefs" and "Thaddeus of Warsaw" were once as
popular as any of the Waverley Novels. But Cooper's novels have enduring
merit, and will surely keep their place in the literature of the language.
The manners, habits, and costumes of England have greatly changed during
the last hundred years; but Richardson and Fielding are still read. We
must expect corresponding changes in this country during the next century;
but we may confidently predict that in the year 1962 young and impressible
hearts will be saddened at the fate of Uncas and Cora, and exult when
Captain Munson's frigate escapes from the shoals.

A few pages back we spoke of Cooper's want of skill in the structure of
his plots, and his too frequent recurrence to improbable incidents to help
on the course of his stories. But most readers care little about this
defect, provided the writer betrays no poverty of invention, and succeeds
in making his narratives interesting. Herein Cooper never lays himself
open to that instinctive and unconscious criticism, which is the only kind
an author need dread, because from it there is no appeal. It is bad to
have a play hissed down, but it is worse to have it yawned down. But over
Cooper's pages his readers never yawn. They never break down in the middle
of one of his stories. The fortunes of his characters are followed with
breathless and accumulating interest to the end. In vain does the
dinner-bell sound, or the clock strike the hour of bed-time: the book
cannot be laid down till we know whether Elizabeth Temple is to get out of
the woods without being burned alive, or solve the mystery that hangs over
the life of Jacopo Frontoni. He has in ample measure th