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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