MY SPELLING BOOK. BY THB EDITOR. CHILDREN love pictures; and what is more they often receive lasting impressions from them good or bad, pleasant or otherwise. How often have we wished we could get clear of the vivid image which haunts our memory and imagination of what was called the "battle of Waterloo" that used to hang on our wall. A pedlar had brought it round, and sold the "thing of art" for a shilling. There it hung, and in dreamlike wonder did we use to gaze at the hatefully interesting thing. We could scarcely believe that there ever were horses quite such as the one which the General rode; nor could we imagine that it was possible for a rider to sit so straight, look so calmly self-important, in the midst of bayonets, guns, cannons, broken wheels of artillery wagons, and bleeding soldiers. But so it was on the picture; and on all this it was thought necessary our childish eyes should rest every morning and every evening and so the disgusting picture still curses our imagination in the present. Now had the picture been lovely or instructive, then the image of it had been pleasant and of advantage until now. Such pictures there are, and good old Noah Webster did not forget to put some of them in our spelling book. For this we thank him kindly; and the thought of it increaseth our veneration for the man as well as continueth our love for his book. The first picture he gives us-and which from its location about the middle of the book, formed a goal earnestly longed for by all who entered upon the mysteries of learning as opened up in that volume-is one which, with its lesson, we shall never forget. It is a rural scene connected with farm life, which shows the authors partiality to the poet's sentiment: "God made the country, man made the town." Still the picture is not untarnished by the evidences of mischief and sin. There is the humble frame house, with its sharp gable, low eaves, long slooping roof-with its low windows and its tall chimney, from which the smoke is gracefully curling. This, however, is mere back ground. The main idea of the picture is the old man and the apple thief. How sternly and in an attitude which indicates more than decision, does the farmer look up at the little thief hanging to the lower limb of a tree in the act of hasty descent. The old gentleman's hand swung back, and that which seems to be in it, and the little urchin's affrighted turning of the head towards him all indicate a real encounter. What the picture means, and what further took place the reader shall learn from the story itself. "FABLE I. "OF THE BOY THAT STOLE APPLES. "An old man found a rude boy upon one of his trees stealing Apples, and desired him to come down; but the young Sauce-box told him plainly he 1858.] My Spelling Book. 89 would not. Won't you? said the old Man, then I will fetch you down; so he pulled up some tufts of Grass, and threw at him; but this only made the Youngster laugh, to think the old Man should pretend to beat him down from the tree with grass only. Well, well, said the old Man, if neither words nor grass, will do, I must try what virtue there is in Stones; so the old man pelted him heartily with stones, which soon made the young Chap hasten down from the tree and beg the old Man's pardon. 66 MORAL. "If good words and gentle means will not reclaim the wicked, they must be dealt with in a more severe manner." The Fable, in perfect harmony with the entire spelling book, breathes the stern, disciplinary spirit of a time which has we fear gone by. In the school where our spelling book was used, and also in the family where we "stopped," as the Yankees say, in childhood, there was a custom in vogue which always seemed to us to be of a piece with this picture, and which carried out the moral of the fable belonging thereto. It also had that is the custom-some relation to the apple-trees. In fact, the smooth shoots of a year's growth, which could always be found in the orchard, were regarded as indispensable aids to carry out the business to its legitimate results. A full description of the affair is hardly necessary, inasmuch as tradition, especially among the aged, still preserves the mode of procedure. If not, an account of it may be read in various parts of Solomon's Proverbs. The question whether the custom ought to be continued, and so handed down to the generations coming, has been much discussed in late years. It has been said on the one hand that families and schools can get along as well without it, and it has been as earnestly said on the other hand that families and schools cannot get along as well without it. And here the dispute lies. What shall we say? How shall we argue on it? Now to us the question seemeth to resolve itself into this: Shall the Proverbs of Solomon be continued? If not, then we give it up, having no arguments beyond this. But if those venerable sayings, which old-fashoned people think will be true up to the day of judgment, are true for us, then the view to be taken of this matter delivereth itself in the following words, to wit: "A rod is for the back of him that is void of understanding. A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back. He that spareth his rod hateth his son; but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes. Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. Withhold not correction from a child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and The rod and reproof give wisdom; but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame." shalt deliver his soul from hell. All these words are by Solomon. Now the argument, put in proper form is this: Solomon is in favor of the rod, if Solomon is to be taken as authority, then, consequently, the rod is wholesome. But, if Solomon is to be put out of schools, as the Bible in which he speaks has in many places been put out, then the rod must go with Solomon and the Bible, as belonging to an age which has been left behind by the nineteenth century. We go with Solomon, the Bible, the picture and the fable. Let it not be overlooked that all these authorities commend the rod only as the last resort. It is as cruel and unwise to use it in some cases as it is to neglect its use in others. That it has often been wickedly used in families and schools in former times is just as evident as that it is often wickedly neglected now. As all persons are not fit to use it, so all do not deserve to receive it. We fear this age is becoming somewhat effeminate; and the picture, with its fable and moral, on which we are commenting, would be pronounced by many as behind the age. There is everywhere visible a relaxation in discipline and the strict administration of justice. Men would honor mercy at the expense of justice. A weak and morbid fondness of parents toward their children, leads them to neglect discipline. The same want of discipline is seen in schools. The good old name, "master," is out of fashion, and we hear only "teacher." But lately we heard it earnestly agreed that the word school-master ought to be done away; that it indicates too much the stern spirit of the olden time. So it does, and for that we like it. We are willing to regard this change of name as indicative of a change in school tactics, but we regard the change as evil instead of good. Whilst there has been no doubt in some cases too much sternness and strictness in times gone by, the fault was on the safe side. Too much discipline is by no means the fault of this age-the danger lies all the other way. The relaxation of which we speak shows itself in every sphere of life. Courts and prisons are not feared as they used to be. Sentences are more mild. How common also it is for the sympathies of the public to go with criminals instead of being with the law and an outraged and injured community. Capital punishment shocks the nerves of many, who have nerve enough to see a butchered family lying in their blood! The feelings of piety and commiseration which should be given to a wife whose husband has been murdered, or to children whose parent has been cut off, is reserved for the gallows-scene of him whose hands did the deed of blood. How hard it is, says the public feeling, for that prominent citizen, who has swallowed up in a bold defalcation the substance of many widows and orphans, to be sent to the penitentiary! What a heart-rending thought! How hard for his family! But there is scarcely a sigh for fifty families whose all has been taken away by his rascality! In fact neither verdict nor sentence can be procured against such a one. Justice limps lamely after him, snuffling words of pity, and weeping tears of morbid mercy. Prosecution is regarded as persecution; crime is turned into heroism, and the injured are forgotten in sickly compassion for the injurer! We submit to the readers of The Guardian whether our expansion of the moral in this fable is not just. That such a lesson stands, illustrated, in good old Noah Webster, is another witness speaking loudly to the honor and praise of our spelling book. WOMAN. NOT she with trat'rous kiss her Saviour stung- 1858.] Any Letter For Me, To-Day. 91 ANY LETTER FOR ME, TO-DAY. BY HIRAM TORREY. WITH how much of hidden emotion is this question asked at the city post-office! Many a time, after receiving our own letters, have we stopped to watch the faces of the throng who were waiting their turn 40 ask the common question: "Any letter for me, to-day?" and were always thus led to more serious reflection upon the joys and sorrows of life, and made more sensibly to realize the power of little things over human happiness. It is a little thing to ask for a letter, and the answer "yes" or "no" is but a little thing; the letter itself is but a small package, in appearance, unimportant and valueless; and when passing the post-office we casually glance at the people who have come for their little message, we deem it a very little affair-an every day occurrence of no special significance. But could we see the expectation, desire, the trembling hope and fear, smothered beneath the simple question, "Any letter for me?" then should we know that it is not a little thing to the heart interested. There is no other place in the world where strong feeling, genuine heart emotion, is so immediately aroused as at the post-office. It may be subdued, it is true, or hidden from the human eye, but it is felt there. No where else can so great a variety of feeling be called into exercise; for here all come-all ages, classes and conditions of men, each hoping and fearing. Any letter for me to-day? asks the man of business. Yes. He takes it-opens it and reads a notice of a protested note; or of a failure; or of some other calamity from which he must date his own ruin. Perhaps he reads of rise in real estate in stocks, or of the success of some grand mercantile speculation by which he is suddenly released from embarrassment, and made rich. Oh, what an electric touch to his whole being is that letter! Any letter for me, to-day? asks the aged mother; her voice trembles, and her heart throbs heavily while the clerk turns to look for the expected message. Her children are all scattered over the world-have been gone from her for many years, but she still feels the same love for them she did when they were "wee darlings" nestled safely under one roof, and a letter of good news from either of them thrills the heart with the same joy which their smiles and merry glee brought to her long years agone. Any letter for me to-day? asks the young man who has been but a few months from home, seeking employment in the city. His countenance indicates a quick alteration of hope and fear, and when the answer is given, "No letter, sir," he turns away, as he has many times before, struggling to suppress tears and sighs. He had been unsuccessful in his efforts of business-the means given him by his father when he started out to try the world for himself, were exhausted, and weeks before he had written imploring further aid. Thus without money, without work, in want and alone in the great city, what home yearnings arise in his heart, and upon that little expected letter seems to hang his whole destiny. Any letter for me to-day? timidly inquires the maiden, her face suffused with the blush of first love. The clerk knows it is the heart that speaks in those low, soft tones, and a little joy touches his own, it may be from sympathy or the awakening of some cherished memory, as he discovers her name so prettily written upon an embossed envelope. So he places it in her hand with a cheerful smile, and with joy beaming eyes she hurries away eager to read over the vows of constancy and devotion, which create a new paradise in her soul. Trusting girl! Little does she dream of the wide difference between love in letters and love in real life. Any letter for me, to-day? asks the wife whose husband is away in California seeking gold. He could not be contented with the "slow and sure" growth which honest labor invariably secures; but he must amass wealth quickly, make a fortune in two or three years, then he will return to live in "splendid style." This dream of greatness was worth to him more than all the comforts and endearments of home; and so he made the sad exchange. During the four years, he has only written as many letters to his wife, and sent her money barely sufficient to procure the necessaries of life. But her love towards him did not falter-it reached all the way to that distant land, and brought him still nearer to her. The few lines received at these long intervals, are read with tearful eyes, many times over, and sacredly treasured as mementoes of her husband's love. But to-day she received a letter bordered with black, and the hand writing is not his. How like lead it falls upon her heart. The dream of her husband is ended-the delusive gold vision has faded, and he has passed away to the possession of immortal riches! That little folded sheet brought to her a life-long wo. And thus, one after another of the great human throng, come up to the post-office, with the same inquiry upon their lips: "Any letter for me to-day?" The rich and poor, the joyful and sorrowing, the learned and ignorant, the good and depraved, all, have friends somewhere in this wide world; and what a blessed thing it is that through this medium they can hold communiou. Letters are winged messengers of the heart that go out every day from thousands of homes. There is more truth in them than spoken or printed words, for their literature is not studied, but felt. They are mostly the issues of the affections-the utterance of the inner-life, and fullest representations of the various phases of common humanity. WHERE spades grow bright, and idle words grow dull- Where doctors foot it, and where farmers ride; |