1857.] My Spelling-Book. 291 a man by the name of "Sheridan," and another whose name was "Walker," had also written each a spelling-book. But we were informed that "there is not the least necessity for placing a figure over each vowel," as these men had done in their books. Moreover, we were solemnly taught that "in nine-tenths of the words in our language, a correct pronunciation is better taught by a natural division of the syllables, and a direction for placing the accent, than by a minute and endless repetition of characters." Of the justice of this remark, so far as we understood it, we boys had not a single doubt; and that which we did not understand, we very properly left to "the master." In our neighborhood, therefore, and as far as the eye could reach around us, the conclusion of the whole matter was that Webster's was emphatically the Spelling-Book; and the yellow-backed, green-covered, twenty-five cent copies are the true copies, and the only copies ever made. Such was the book that was now drawn forth, as aforesaid, from the saddle-bags, and which we were permitted to handle with our own hands, and even to call our own. Such was the book upon the study of which we were now to enter-at once an evidence of the educational facilities at hand, and of our vigorous determination to go forward in the path of science. The first thing that now remained to be done was to cover this book. It can be covered with paper; but it is better to cover it with flowered calico, a material which adds beauty to durability. This will now be done; for, with a foresight that augurs well for the future in a boy, arrangements had been made with sister for this part of the work long before the book had arrived from town. Indeed the job was already paid for by the transportation of a very formidable heap of bake-wood from the wood-pile to the bake-oven. The wood would have been carried at any rate, and gratis; but it seemed convenient in these circumstances to stipulate in view of an important event which was then uppermost in our mind, and make the performance of this business seem to depend upon the aforesaid condition. Besides covering the book, it was distinctly agreed, during a conference which took place between sister and myself, when the wood was about half carried, that she should also make us "a marker" of yellow gilded paper. The next thing necessary was to have my name written in it. As this, in a new book, ought to be well done, it must be deferred till Monday, so that it may be done by "the master" himself. None of the "larger boys" can do justice in this case. The name beautifully written, there are still several important things wanting. The corners of the book must be cut off to keep them from curling up; and this, too, the master can best do with his sharp pen-knife. One thing more-a "thumbpaper." In regard to this there will be little difficulty, as one can easily be procured "at dinner time," by way of trade. A nice apple will at any time bring in a nice "thumb-paper." Thus fully fitted out, and with a firm determination to keep the new book clean and untorn, we place it between the first finger and the thumb, take our seat upon the unbacked bench, and bounding forward with fresh enthusiasm into the second degree of the liberal arts, begin with "baker." But alas for human hopes and resolutions! To determine to keep the new book clean and actually to carry it out are two things. We believe it wholly impossible for a boy to get all the good out of a spelling book without wearing it out. It was so in our experience. Behold it as it now lies before us! The thumb-paper place is literally worn through, and the lower part of the literature which fills its pages is gone beyond recovery. The corners of the book are much shorter and rounder than ever "the master" cut them; for a boy, if he has any genius at all, will bite his book, in spite of all "the rules of the school," or the "rulers" of the master. There seems to be a necessary connection between devouring the contents of the book literally and devouring the book itself. Besides this wear and tear, the pages containing the pictures are sadly defaced. The milk-maid's eyes are put out; the fox's head is painted with elderberries, and various other improvements in the pictures have been undertaken which the engraver had overlooked or did not think of when he made it. The calico covering is clean gone, and with it also one of the covers, whilst the other is green no more. Alas! alas! precious relic! thou hast been in the service, and honorable marks of good done are upon thee. Instead of blaming thee for what thou art, I love thee for what thou hast been. Rest thee in honor among the precious relics which remind me of the pleasantest days of my life. The reader will please accept this much, humbly presented as the outward and least important part of the history of our Spelling Book; while we promise hereafter to attempt more inward and more earnest things in relation to its merits and meaning. RULES FOR GROWING OLD. AT the late commencement of Yale College, the Rev. Daniel Waldo, as the oldest graduate present, (of the class of 1788,) thus closed a speech to the assembled Alumni: I am now an old man. I have seen nearly a century. Do you want to know how to grow old slowly and happily? Let me tell you. Always eat slowly-masticate well. Go to your food, to your rest, to your occupations, smiling. Keep a good nature and a soft temper everywhere. Never give way to anger. A violent tempest of passion tears down the constitution more than a typhus fever. Cultivate a good memory, and to do this you must always be communicative; repeat what you have read; talk about it. Dr. Johnson's great memory was owing to his communicativeness. You, young men, who are just leaving college, let me advise you to choose a profession in which you can exercise your talent the best, and at the same time be honest. The best profession is the ministry of the gospel. If you have not mind enough to be a minister, be a lawyer-but be an honest lawyer. Pope's line should be altered to read: "An honest lawyer is the noblest work of God." 1857.] Thomas Dick and Eugene Sue. 293 THOMAS DICK AND EUGENE SUE. THE same mail from Europe which brought intelligence of the death of Eugene Sue, also bore tidings of the demise of Dr. Thomas Dick, author of "The Christian Philosopher," and many other works written in vindication of the sacred and sublime truths of Revelation; works which, particularly in Scotland, have been circulated most extensively, consoling, teaching and elevating the minds of millions. He ran his earthly course in pain and poverty. He did not sit at rich men's tables. He was not clothed in purple and fine linen. He had scanty, simple fare, and knew no luxury, save the luxury of doing his duty. In the ullest and most beneficent manner he was a Teacher of the People; devoted to scientific studies, and had the art-so rare and so valuable-of writing on these difficult and abstruse subjects so plainly, that even the peasantry of his native land could understand him. Nor was his character unknown, unappreciated or unhonored in this country. His numerous works (moral, religious and scientific,) were largely re-printed and circulated all over the Union. His name was even a household word among hosts of serious-minded, thoughtful, religious people. American travelers who visited Scotland, often went out of their way to visit him at his humble cottage, in the village of Broughty Ferry, on the banks of the silvery Tay. There they found an aged man, infirm of body, but strong of mind, acute, and learned; poor in worldly riches, but whose life had indeed been devoted to laying up for himself treasures in heaven. The American heart warmly sympathized with this fine old man, and a few years ago, some benevolent and wealthy citizens of Philadelphia practically illustrated their sentiment toward him, by presenting him with a handsome pecuniary gift, as some provision for his closing days. Strange enough, this American liberality led to Dr. Dick's receiving some justice, tardy and small enough, from the hands of the British Government. He was the recipient of a small pension (£50 a year,) and, limited as this dole was, it sufficed for his humble wants. He died, a fortnight ago, at Broughty Ferry, at the ripe age of eighty-five. About the same time there passed away into the far Hereafter, the French novelist, Eugene Sue, one of the most popular and michievous writers ever produced by a country, which, though it gave the world such men as Fenelon, Pascal, Bossuet and Massillon, also cast up, on the scum of its society, such men as Voltaire, Rousseau, Paul de Kock and Alexander Dumas. Infidels, scoffers at all religious belief, socialists, and steeped in the very foulest obscenity, were the writers who for several years, corrupted the mind of France. Chief among these ministers of evil was Eugene Sue. Nor was the mischief he did confined to his own country. He wrote so well, that his works got translated into almost every living language of Europe. They circulated widely in England, and here in America they commanded a sale so large that we should probably be considered romancing if we stated it. But, even at this risk, we will add that over a million of copies of "The Mysteries of Paris," "The Wandering Jew," and "The Seven Capital Sins,' have been sold in the United States, at a price and in a form calculated to throw them into the hands of the masses. They figured largely among the infamous "yellow-cover literature," for some years a disgrace to our country, and they demoralized the public mind to a greater extent than can readily be calculated. Communism and Socialism, with the strongest infusion of impiety and indecency, were the staple of Eugene Sue's popular fictions. He painted Vice in the most attractive manner, so that, looking at her gorgeous habiliments, the psctateor scarcely heeded her brazen features. He was sensuous in his descriptions, and, even while sometimes pretending to "condemn sin, drew its semblance so attractively, that the opposite of repulsion was the effect produced. He was constant and conisstent in insinuating and declaring that reason (as he called it, in the slang of the old Encyclopedists,) was a surer and better guide than Revelation. All through his works there is a ruling doubt of God's goodness and merciful justice, of man's honor, of woman's chastity. Sue had no faith in Virtue. He professed to be a champion of popular rights, and, while he lived in luxury which an epicurean might have envied, invariably turned a deaf ear to all personal appeals from Poverty. He was returned as a member of the National Assembly, between the last French Revolution and the re-organization of the Empire, but made a very remarkable failure in public life. Finally, suspected of complicity in some of the plots against what is called "The State" in Paris, he became an exile. Once off his own soil, it seemed as if his skill as a writer had vanished. He commenced a Socialist novel, called "Les Mysteries du Peuple," the publication of which was prevented by the Government-a needless prohibition, for his former admirers, the workmen, contemptuously pronounced that he had written himself out. He died, in exile, at the age of fifty-two. Such, and so contrasted, were Thomas Dick and Eugene Sue, the believer and the infidel. Unquestionably, large and intellectual gifts were bestowed upon each. How one used, and how the other misused them, we have briefly indicated. These men might almost stand as representatives, among modern writers, of Good and Evil. One felt that his mission was to teach, to Look through Nature up to Nature's God, and the other acted as if he were convinced that his allotted work was to defile the purest and holiest decencies of life, and impress dark doubts of a world beyond the grave upon the minds of all who read his works. The Christian philosopher to whom, at the age of eighty, a pension of £50 a year was comparative wealth, lived in privation, self-denial and frequent poverty. The popular novelist was surrounded with all that wealth can supply, and with the flattery and adulation of millions. Yet who, life's fitful fever ended, would prefer a career like Sue's? With indignant truth has the poet said: I'd rather be One of those hinds that round me tread, The noonday's sun that's o'er his head. 1857.] Bingen on the Rhine. 295 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. BY MRS. NORTON. A soldier of the Legion Lay dying at Algiers; There was lack of woman's nursing, There was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, And bent with pitying glances, The dying soldier faltered, As he took that comrade's hand, Take a message and a token To some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen At Bingen on the Rhine. Tell my brothers and companions, In the pleasant vineyard ground, And that when the day was done, And 'midst the dead and dying, Were some grown old in wars— But some were young, and suddenly And one had come from Bingen- Tell my mother that her other sons For I was still a truant bird That thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, And even when a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell And when he died and left us To divide his scanty hoard, I let them take what e'er they would- And with boyish love I hung it Where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen Calm Bingen on the Rhine. |