On the romantic borders of a beautiful river, in one of our Northern
States, there is situated an elegant mansion. Spacious grounds
surround the dwelling, and, what is not usual in this country, it has
a terraced garden. This is a hill, situated at the side of the house,
presenting a mass of living verdure. You ascend gradually, step by
step, each platform, as it were, richly embroidered with brilliant
flowers.
In this retreat of elegance and retirement, lived Mr. and Mrs. M.,
their daughter, and a French governess. No expense or labor had been
spared to make this daughter an accomplished woman; but not one
thought was ever bestowed upon the immortal interests of her soul. At
the age of sixteen, she was beautiful and intelligent, but utterly
destitute of all religious principle. Enthusiastically fond of
reading, she roamed her father's spacious library, and selected
whatever books best pleased her. Of an imaginative turn, earnest and
impassioned, hers was the very mind that required the strong,
controlling hand of a matured judgment. Yet it was left to feed at
will upon the poisoned fruits that lie scattered around. She naturally
turned to the novels that stored the library shelves; and at sixteen
was as much at home in the pages of Bulwer as she was in her French
grammar. The ridiculous romances of Mrs. Radcliffe were laid aside
with disgust, and Bulwer, James, and others, took their place. But she
descended a step, many steps lower, and, supplied by the governess,
eagerly devoured the very worst fictions of Eugene Sue and George
Sand. Next she was heard discussing and excusing the most heinous
crimes of which human nature can be guilty.
Her parents heard with horror her freely expressed sentiments, and
wondered where she had inhaled such lax ideas. They never thought of
looking into her library for the cause, or at the unprincipled
governess. The poison began to do its work; she could no longer live
this tame life; she must have something more exciting, more
exhilarating. The resolution was formed; with a beating heart she
collected her mother's jewels; took one long look at her indulgent
parents; bade a silent farewell to the scenes of her happy childhood,
and left the house forever. No warning voice implored her to return;
no hand was stretched out to save. On, on she went, until she reached
the far-off city. Its lights dazzled her, its noise confused her, but
she never regretted the peaceful home she had so culpably deserted.
Her plan was to go on the stage, and become a renowned actress, like
the heroine of one of her French novels. But this was not so easily
achieved as she imagined; and after a most unsuccessful attempt, she
was compelled to act only in subordinate parts. She had lost home,
happiness, and respectability, and had not gained that fame for which
she had sacrificed so much.
But it would be too painful to follow her through all her wretched
life, and tell how each succeeding year she grew more degraded and
more miserable, until at length having run a fearful career of vice
she sank into a dishonored and early grave. No mother's hand wiped the
cold death-dew from her brow; no kind voice whispered hope and
consolation. Alone, poor, degraded, utterly unrepentant, she will
appear before the judgment-seat of Christ; we pause; for we dare not
follow it further.
The sound of her name never echoed through the halls of her childhood.
Her father, stern and silent, buried all memories of his guilty child
deep within his heart; whilst the mother, wan, broken-hearted,
hopeless, wept in secret those tears of bitter agony whose fountain
was perpetually welling afresh.
It is "to point a moral" that we have opened these annals of the past;
and we would have the young ponder well the lesson that this history
teaches. There _is_ a danger in novel reading; it vitiates the taste,
enervates the understanding, and destroys all inclination for
spiritual enjoyment. The soul that is bound in fetters of this habit,
_cannot_ rise to the contemplation of heavenly things. It has neither
the inclination nor the power. We knew one, who, even with death in
view, turned with loathing away from the only Book that could bring
her peace and salvation, to feed greedily on the pages of a foolish
romance. It matters not that some of the finest minds have given their
powers to this style of writing; that bright gems of intellect flash
along their pages. The danger is so much the greater; for the jewels
scattered by Genius, blind even while they dazzle. "Some of the
greatest evils of my life," said a remarkable woman, "I trace to the
eager perusal of what are called 'well-written novels.' I lived in a
world of delusion. I had no power to separate the false from the real.
My Bible lay covered with dust; I had no desire for its pages." Oh,
then, if the young would reach a heavenly haven; if they would be
guided unto "the still waters" of everlasting bliss, let them avoid
the dangerous rock of novel reading, upon which so many souls have
been shipwrecked and utterly lost.