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388
“ Why grieve ye V ’
Then, pointing to the new-made mound,
she said:
It is only after death, a Christian wears
the crown of love, and joy, and peace.—
Death has lost its ‘sting —the grave has no
victory here.”
A voice was raised, and cried :
“Never despair. Despair is dark, and
leads to darkness; it never belongs to Heav
en. It is wise to hope—to hope under all
circumstances. A truly brave heart U'ill
hope—it will hope on, whilst Life's toper
burns
Columbia , S. C.
(SHimpsts of 3fan> Books.
THE LOVE OF READING.
[From “ Household Education,” by Harriet M>'-
tineau ]
Children who read from the lovfc G s read
ing, are usually supremely happy over their
book. A wise parent will indulge the love
of reading, not only from kindness in permit
ting the child to do what it likes best, but be
cause what is read with enjoyment has in
tense effect upon the intellect. The practice
of reading for amusement must not begin too
* oon ; and it must be permitted by very slow
degrees, till the child is so practised in the
•in of reading as to have its whole mind at
liberty for the subject, without having to think
about the lines or ihe words. Till he is suf
ficiently practised for this, he should be read
to ; and it will then soon appear whether he
is likely to be moderate when he gets a book
into his own hands. My own opinion is,
that it is better to leave him to his natural
tastes—to his instincts—when that important
period of his life arrives, which makes him
an independent reader. Os course, his proper
duty must be done—his lessons, or work of
other kinds, and his daily exercise. But it
seems to me belter to abstain from interfering
with that kind of strong inclination than to
risk the evils of thwarting it. Perhaps scarce
ly any person of mature years can conceive
what the appetite for reading is to a child. —
it goes oil, or becomes changed in mature
years, to such a degree as to make the facts
of a reading childhood scarcely credible in
remembrance, or even when before our eyes.
iv.it it is all right; and the process had bet
ter not be disturbed. The apprehension of a
child is so quick, his conceptive faculty is so
ravenous for facts and pictures, or the merest
suggestions, and he is so entirely free from 1
those philosophical checks which retard in
adults the process of reception from hooks,
that he can, at ten years old, read the same
book twice as fast as he can—if he duly im
proves meanwhile—twenty years later. 1
nave seen a young girl read Moore's Lalla
Rookh through, except a very few pages, be
f< re breakfast—and not a late breakfast —and
not a passage of the poem was ever forgot
ten. When she had done, the Arabian scenes
appeared to be the reality, and the breakfast
table and brothers and si.-ters the dream; but
that was sure to come right; and all the ideas
of the thick volume were added to her store.
I have seen a school-boy of ten lay himself
down, back uppermost, with the quarto edi
tion of “Thalaba” before him, on the first
day of the Easter Holidays, and turn over
the leaves, notwithstanding his inconvenient
position, as fast as if lie was looking for
something, till, in a very few hours, it was
‘lone, am! he was off with it to the public li
brary, bringingback the “ Curse of Kehama.”
Thus he went on with all Southey’s poems,
and some others, through his short holidays,
scarcely moving voluntarily all those days,
except to run to ihe library. He came out of
the process so changed, that none of his fam
ily could help being struck by it. The ex
pression of his eye, the cast of his counte
nance, his use of words, and his very gait,
were changed. In ten days, he had advanced
years in intelligence; and I have always
thought that this was the turning-point of liis
life. His parents wisely and kindly let him
ukme—aware that school would presently
put an end to ail excess in the new indul
gence. I can speak from experience of what
children feel towards pare: is who mercifully
leave them to their own propensities—foi
l-earing all reproach about the i’l manners
and the selfishness of which the sinners are
keenly conscious all the while. Borne chil
dren’s greediness for Looks is like a drunk
ard’s for wine. They can no more keep their
hands off a beloved hook tl an the tippler
from tue bottle before him. The great dilier
ence as to the safety of the case is, that the
ch.ld's greediness is sure to subside into mod
§©©lFl2Hi Si El fla II If S HIFIF®*
! oration in time, from the development of new
I faculties, while the drunkard’s is sure to go
jon increasting till ail is over with him. If
| parents would regard the matter in this way,
they would neither be annoyed at the excess |
of the inconvenient propensity, nor proud of
any child who has it. It is no sign yet of a
superiority of intellect; much less ol that
wisdom which, in adults, is commonly sup
posed to arise from large book-knowledge.—
it is simply a natural appetite for that provi
sion of ideas and images which should, at
this season, bd laid in for the exercise of the
higher faculties which have yet to come into j
j use. As I have said, I know from experience
1 the state of things which exists when a child
! cannot help reading to an amount which the
i parents think excessive, and yet are unwil
ling, for good reasons, to prohibit. One Sun
day afternoon, when I was seven years old,
1 was prevented by illness from going to chap
el —a circumstance so rare, that I felt very
strange and listless. I did not go to the maid
who was left in the house, hut lounged about
the drawing-room, where, among other books
which the family had been reading, was one
f turned down upon its face. It was a dull
i looking octavo volume, thick, and bound in
( calf, as untempting a book to the eyes of a
i child as could well be seen ; but, because it
happened to be open, I took it up. The pa
per was like skim milk—thin and blue, and
the printing very ordinary. Moreover, I saw
the word ‘ Argument’—a very repulsive word
to a child. But my eye caught the word
‘Satan,’ and I instantly wanted to know how
anybody could argue about Satan. I saw
that he fell through chaos, found the place
in the poetry, and lived heart, mind and soul
in Milton from that day till I was fourteen. |
I remember nothing more of that Sunday,, j
vivid as is my recollection of the moment of j
plunging into chaos; but I remember that l ,
from that time, till a young friend gave me a :
pocket edition of Milton, the calf-bound vol- ;
ume was never to be found, because I had ,
got it somewhere; and that, for all those
years, to me the universe moved to Milton’s I
music. I wonder how much of it I knew
by heart —enough to be always repeating
some of it to myself, with every change of
light and darkness, and sound and silence —
the moods of the day and the seasons of the
year. It was not my love of Milton which
required the forbearance of my parents —-ex-
cept for my hiding the book, and being often
in an absent lit. It was because this luxury
had made me ravenous for more. .1 had a
book in my pocket, a book under my pillow,
and in my lap as 1 sat at meals; or, rather,
on this last occasion, it was a newspaper. I
used to purloin the daily London paper be
; fore dinner, and keep possession ol it. with a
! painful sense of the selfishness of the act;
j and with a daily pang of shame and self-re
proach, I slipped away from the table when
i the dessert was set on, to read in another j
room. I devoured all Shakspeare, sitting on i
a footstool, and reading by firelight, while ;
1 the rest of the family were still at table. I
was incessantly wondering that this was per
mitted: and intensely, though silently, grate-
I ful I was for the impunity and the indul- j
gence. It never extended to the omission of j
any of my proper business. I learned my :
lessons; but it was with the prospect of read- 1
I ing while I was brushing my hair at bed
time ; and many a time have 1 stood reading, j
with the brush suspended, till I was far too
I cold to sleep. I made shirts with due dili
gence —being fond of sewing; but it was •
with Goldsmith, or Thompson, or Milton,
open on my lap, under my work, or hidden i
i by the table, that 1 might learn pages and !
cantos by heart. The event justified my pa- ;
rents in their indulgence. I read more and j
1 more slowl} r , fewer and fewer authors, and j
1 with ever-increasing seriousness and rellec- j
tion, till I became one of the slowest of read-;
1 ers, and a comparatively sparing one. Os
; course, one example is not a rule for all: but
J the number of ravenous readers among chil
dren is so large, and among adults so small,
in comparison, that I am disposed to consider
it a general fact, that when the faculties,
naturally developed, roach a certain point of i
| forwardness, it is the time for laying in a
i store of facts and impressions from books j
i which are needed for ulterior purposes.
The parents’ main business during this pro
cess, is to look to the quality of the books j
read. I mean, merely to see that the child
has the freest access to those of the best qual
ity. Nor do I mean only to such as the pa
rent may think good lor a child of such and
; such an age. The child’s own mind is a
i truer judge in this case than the parents’ sup
’ positions. Let hut nolle books be on the
j shelf—the classics of our language —and the
I child will get nothing but good.
The last thing that parent* need fear is,
that the young reader will be hurt by pass
| ages in really good authors, which might
raise a blush a few years later v Whatever
children do not understand slips through the ;
mind, and leaves no trace; and what they;
do understand of matters of passion, is to
j them divested of its mischief.
Original PortrjL
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
SONGS IN THE NIGHT.
BY WILLIAM E. DaliS.
“ But none saith, Where is God, my Maker, who givelh
Songs in the Night?"—Jon, xxxv. ch., 10 v.
We have no Songs, O ! Lord of Light!
Like those thou sendest in tho night,
Unheard—but oh ! how sweetly felt,
As round the heart they Boat and melt.
| Not royal David's minstrel hand
Did sound for Israel’s chosen band,
One note more full of music’s tone
Than those that circle from thy throne.
With them, thy saints thou dost inspire,
And fill them with celestial Ore,
To meet each new and trying strife,
And pass each pensive scene of life :
With them, come teeming Hopes of love,
Which guide each thought to realms above —
Where wait those spotless diadems —
That perfect peace—these heavenly gems —
Which saints on earth are taught to know
Will round their future mansions throw
1
A halo bright—and joys serene :
Which ‘‘ear hath not heard, or eye hath seen,’
Or Fancy, in her grandest play,
Could ever yet for man portray.
Songs such as these, new light bestow,
Dispelling pomp’s illusive show —
. Displaying grandeur’s emptiness,
And the World's Ambition’s littleness :
Compared with one eternal joy,
Earth's brightest sreptre sinks a toy ;
Compared with one eternal pain,
Whole years of pleasure will prove vain.
Each gem that waits a prayerful deed,
Will far out-vie Earth's proudest meed.
Such songs as these teach us far more
Than all the student's toilsome lore —
To wait, to suffer, and to pray,
That every moment of delay
Will waft a perfume far above
To hover round each crown of lovo ;
That every sad, conflicting hour,
Pass’d in temptation’s trying power,
Will with increasing glory fling
New splendors o’er each angel wing.
That e’en ’midst sorrow, care and gloom,
Fair Sharon's Rose doth sweetly bloom,
Enriching still our future field
With all the joys that Love can yield.
‘Tis then Earth’s mourners lift the eyo
In ccstacy, to bliss on high—
For then they fed the pitying strain
Descending to assuage each pain;
And then, though crush’d, they love to raise
Ascending notes of grateful praise:
O ! Lord of Love ! of Truth ! of Light!
We thank thee for thy Bongs at Night;
They lead to Christ, our Saviour Lord,
Through whom we find each bright reward ;
They sweetly cheer the saddest hour,
And softly teach thy healing power,
And melting gently e’er the heart,
The soothing balm of Peace imparts,
And thus we feel, O ! Lord of Light,
The songs thou sendest in the night
Are sweet as those bless'd David sung,
When Judah with thy praises rung.
Columbia, S. C.
Qome Comsponiinue.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-YORK LETTERS.—NO. 40.
New York, April 11, 1849.
My Dear Sir, —Much interest is felt in
certain quarters, at this time, in the ap
proaching festival of the lately established
Dramatic Fund Society. This event is ap
pointed for Tuesday evening next, at the As
tor House, and, no doubt, a right merrie com
panie will be then and there assembled—a
world of good things will be eaten, drunk and 1
spoken—and, what is of greater import, a
very liberal amount will, most probably, be
added to the funds of the Association. Thus
far, this interesting movement has met with
decided favor and success, and it now gives
good promise to realize the object of its found- |
ers, in securing honorable means of subsist
ence and comfort to the members of the his
trionic profession in affliction and old a c
Such a recourse is needed by no class°oi’
men more than by actors, so completely are
they left unprovided for, in sickness, by the
slightest wear and tear of their powers, or
by the loss of the popular favor, always, and
with the highest gifts, most capricious. Mr.
Forest, the distinguished tragedian, has giv
en much offence to some, in the apparent
want of sympathy with his professional
brethren, manifested by his refusal of the
Presidential chair of the new Institution.
That his conduct in the matter was prompted
by more just and kindly motives, appears
very evident, from the fact that he purposes,
as report says, devoting the splendid edifice,
; which he is now erecting at Font Hill, to the
very same benevolent object; making it ulti
! mately a retreat —and a very enviable one it
will be—for disabled and decayed wearers of
the sock and bus^.
Speaking of Arr. Forest, recalls to my
mind, if what is on every body's lips needs
recall, the subject of dispute between that
gentleman and his eminent rival, Mr. Macrea
dy. This unfortunate affair is, apparently,
very far yet from completion. Mr. Forest
has recently published a letter, reiterating
the charges which he made some months
ago, in Philadelphia, against the British
Roscius, of prejudicing the English public
against him, by jealous and unjust criticisms,
during his transatlantic engagement, several
years since ; and demanding of Mr. Macrea
dy the judicial investigation of the matter
which that gentleman has long threatened to
seek, without keeping his promise. Every
reader of the newspapers is, of course, quite
au courant in the whole story, and 1 need but
add, that Mr. Forest seems resolved that Mr.
Macready shall either plead guilty to the
charges against him, or make a full and sat
isfactory defence. Each gentleman has a
troup of earnest friends, and the quarrel may
possibly lead to disgraceful results.
Apropos of squabbles. The promenaders
in the most crowded parts of Broadway were
highly diverted, one bright day last week, in
witnessing a flagellation, inflicted upon the
person of Mr. Judson, alias “Ned Buntline,”
by a beauteous damsel, glorying in the ro
mantic cognomen of Miss Kate Hastings.
The sufferer is editor of a weekly journal,
called “Ned Buntline’s Own,” one of those
pernicious sheets which, under the semblance
of exposing vice, caters for, and fosters the
worst passions and appetites; and, in the
shameful and reckless display of scenes and
actions, from which the veil should never be
withdrawn, and is not, without the grossest
violation of the sacred precincts of the do
mestic hearth, increase a thousand fold the
evils which they profess to cure; until vice
in their columns is “seen so oft,” that, “fa
miliar with its face, the readers first endure,
then pity, then embrace.” Such journals
are more common in American cities than in
those of any other country, and a greater
pest cannot well be imagined.
But, to return to our adventure. Miss
Kate, it appears, while professing less than
our editor, is very little better; and, giving
vent to the vindictive feeling of her kind and
sex, she inflicted the punishment mentioned
in return for the too explicit reference to her
little private affairs, which the editor had
published in his virtuous columns. While
the lady applied the whip, the sufferer point
ed a pistol at her breast, without, however,
complying with her taunting invitation to
“fire!” and he was relieved from his awk
ward position only by the interposition of
the by-standers.
Another very funny affair recently hap
pened at the Howard Hotel. Some unfortu
nate benedict, after following his runaway
spouse from her home in Albany, had the
good fortune to retrap Madame in the draw
ing-room of- the Howard, where, after some
unsatisfactory confab, as the sequel showed,
he discharged a pistol at her head, and an