at once senseless to the earth,1 with the blood gushing in torrents from his mouth and nostrils. And the miserable wife, amid the shrieks of her despair, was hurried on board the vessel, and borne away from him, over the calm, sleeping, and beautiful sea, forever.

MARY S. B. DANA.

THIS lady is the daughter of the late Rev. Dr. Palmer, of Charleston, South Carolina. She is the author of a volume of sweet religious and elegiac poetry, entitled The Parted Family, and other Poems; also of the Northern Harp; the Southern Harp; Original Sacred and Moral Songs; and Temperance Lyre. From The Parted Family I select the following beautiful and instructive piece, which was written soon after she had lost her husband and her only child.

PASSING UNDER THE ROD.

I saw the young bride, in her beauty and pride,
Bedeck'd in her snowy array;

And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek,
And the future look'd blooming and gay:

And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart

At the shrine of idolatrous love,

And she anchor'd her hopes to this perishing earth,

By the chain which her tenderness wove.

But I saw, when those heartstrings were bleeding and torn,
And the chain had been sever'd in two,

She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief,
And her bloom for the paleness of woe!

But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart,
And wiping the tears from her eyes,

And he strengthen'd the chain he had broken in twain,
And fasten'd it firm to the skies!

There had whisper'd a voice-'twas the voice of her God:
"I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!"

I saw the young mother in tenderness bend

O'er the couch of her slumbering boy,

And she kiss'd the soft lips as they murmur'd her name,
While the dreamer lay smiling in joy.

Oh, sweet as the rosebud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air,

So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd,
As he lay in his innocence there.

1 This reminds us of Bryant's touching poem-"The African Chief.”

But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,
Pale as marble, and silent, and cold,
But paler and colder her beautiful boy,

And the tale of her sorrow was told!

But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart,

And taken her treasure away;

To allure her to heaven, He has placed it on high,
And the mourner will sweetly obey.

There had whisper'd a voice-'twas the voice of her God:

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"I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!"

I saw the fond brother, with glances of love,
Gazing down on a gentle young girl,

And she hung on his arm, and breathed soft in his ear,
As he played with each graceful curl.

Oh, he loved the sweet tones of her silvery voice,

Let her use it in sadness or glee;

And he twinéd his arms round her delicate form,

As she sat in the eve on his knee.

But I saw when he gazed on her death-stricken face,
And she breathed not a word in his ear,

And he clasped his arms round an icy-cold form,
And he moisten'd her cheek with a tear.

But the Healer was there, and he said to him thus,
"Grieve not for thy sister's short life,"

And he gave to his arms still another fair girl,
And he made her his own cherish'd wife!

There had whisper'd a voice-'twas the voice of his God: "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod !"

I saw, too, a father and mother who lean'd

On the arms of a dear gifted son,

And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won;

And the fast coming evening of life promised fair,
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet,

And the starlight of love glimmer'd bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.

And I saw them again, bending low o'er the grave,
Where their hearts' dearest hope had been laid,
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.

But the Healer was there, and his arms were around,
And he led them with tenderest care;

And he show'd them a star in the bright upper world,

'Twas their star shining brilliantly there!

They had each heard a voice-'twas the voice of their God: "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the red!"

HENRY REED, 1808-1854.

PROFESSOR HENRY REED was born in Philadelphia, on the 11th of July, 1808. After the usual preparatory studies, under that accomplished school-master, Mr. James Ross, he entered the sophomore class in the University of Pennsylvania, in September, 1822, and graduated in 1825. He began to study law with Hon. John Sergeant, and was admitted to practice in the courts of the city and county of Philadelphia in 1829. In September, 1831, he relinquished his profession, on being elected Assistant Professor of English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. In November of the same year, he was chosen Assistant Professor of Moral Philosophy, and in 1835 he was elected Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature. He continued in the service of the college for twenty-three years, discharging his duties with untiring industry, and with such ability and zeal, united to great urbanity of manners, as to secure the warm attachment and profound respect of all who came under his instruction.

It had long been Professor Reed's earnest wish to visit Europe; but his professional duties and other claims had prevented him. Early in 1854, however, leave of absence was granted by the trustees; and in May he sailed for England. His reputation as a scholar had preceded him, and he was received with the kindest welcome by many of England's most distinguished poets and scholars. He also visited the continent, and returned to England in the latter part of the

summer.

On the 20th of September, he embarked at Liverpool for New York in the steamship Arctic. Seven days afterwards, at noon, a fatal collision occurred, and before sundown every human being left upon the ship-about three hundred in all-had sunk under the waves. When the news of his loss reached Philadelphia, feelings of intense grief pervaded all hearts which had had even a slight knowledge of him. It was felt that Philadelphia had lost one of her most gifted spirits,-one who was an ornament to the elevated position which he held in the University, and who, had his life been spared, would have resumed his responsible duties with increased zeal, efficiency, and usefulness.

Professor Reed was married, in 1834, to Elizabeth White Bronson, a granddaughter of Bishop White.

Shortly after Professor Reed's death, his brother, William B. Reed, Esq., prepared for publication, with his well-known taste and judgment, his manuscript notes and lectures on English Literature and Poetry, which are among the choicest contributions to American Literature. These are Lectures on English Literature from Chaucer to Tennyson, 1 vol. 12mo; Lectures on the British Poets, 2 vols. 12mo; Lectures on English History and Tragic Poetry, as illustrated by Shakspeare, 1 vol. 12mo; and Two Lectures on the History of the American Union; of all of which fine editions have been published by Parry & McMillan, Phila.'

1 Before he went to England, Professor Reed had prepared editions of the following works:-Alexander Reid's " Dictionary of the English Language;" Graham's "English Synonyms, enriched by Poetical Citations from Shakspeare. Milton, and Wordsworth;" Wordsworth's Poems, with an appreciative Introduction; Gray's Poems, with a new Memoir; Arnold's "Lectures on Modern History;" and Lord Mahon's "History of England."

BEST METHOD OF READING.

It is not unfrequently thought that the true guidance for habits. of reading is to be looked for in prescribed courses of reading, pointing out the books to be read, and the order of proceeding with them. Now, while this external guidance may to a certain extent be useful, I do believe that an elaborately prescribed course of reading would be found neither desirable nor practicable. It does not leave freedom enough to the movements of the reader's own mind; it does not give free enough scope to choice. Our communion with books, to be intelligent, must be more or less spontaneous. It is not possible to anticipate how or when an interest may be awakened in some particular subject or author, and it would be far better to break away from the prescribed list of books, in order to follow out that interest while it is a thoughtful impulse. It would be a sorry tameness of intellect that would not, sooner or later, work its way out of the track of the best of any such prescribed courses. This is the reason, no doubt, why they are so seldom attempted, and why, when attempted, they are so apt to fail.

It may be asked, however, whether every thing is to be left to chance or caprice; whether one is to read what accident puts in the way, what happens to be reviewed or talked about. No! far from it: there would in this be no more exercise of rational will than in the other process: in truth, the slavery to chance is a worse evil than slavery to authority. So far as the origin of a taste for reading can be traced in the growth of the mind, it will be found, I think, mostly in the mind's own prompting; and the power thus engendered is, like all other powers in our being, to be looked to as something to be cultivated and chastened, and then its disciplined freedom will prove more and more its own safest guide. It will provide itself with more of philosophy than it is aware of in its choice of books, and will the better understand its relative virtues. On the other hand, I apprehend that often a taste for reading is quenched by rigid and injudicious prescription of books in which the mind takes no interest, can assimilate nothing to itself, and recognises no progress but what the eye takes count of in the reckoning of pages it has travelled over. It lies on the mind, unpalatable, heavy, undigested food. But reverse the process; observe or engender the interest as best you may, in the young mind, and then work with that,-expanding, cultivating, chastening it.

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POETICAL AND PROSE READING.

The disproportion usually lies in the other direction,-prose reading to the exclusion of poetry. This is owing chiefly to the want of proper culture; for although there is certainly a great disparity of imaginative endowment, still the imagination is part of the universal mind of man, and it is a work of education to bring it into action in minds even the least imaginative. It is chiefly to the wilfully unimaginative mind that poetry, with all its wisdom and all its glory, is a sealed book. It sometimes happens, however, that a mind well gifted with imaginative power loses the capacity to relish poetry simply by the neglect of reading metrical literature. This is a sad mistake, inasmuch as the mere reader of prose cuts himself off from the very highest literary enjoyments; for if the giving of power to the mind be a characteristic, the most essential literature is to be found in poetry, especially if it be such as English poetry is,-the embodiment of the very highest wisdom and the deepest feeling of our English race. I hope to show in my next lecture, in treating the subject of our language, how rich a source of enjoyment the study of English verse, considered simply as an organ of expression and harmony, may be made; but to readers who confine themselves to prose, the metrical form becomes repulsive instead of attractive. It has been well observed by a living writer, who has exercised his powers alike in prose and verse, that there are readers "to whom the poetical form merely and of itself acts as a sort of veil to every meaning which is not habitually met with under that form, and who are puzzled by a passage occurring in a poem, which would be at once plain to them if divested of its cadence and rhythm; not because it is thereby put into language in any degree more perspicuous, but because prose is the vehicle they are accustomed to for this particular kind of matter; and they will apply their minds to it in prose, and they will refuse their minds to it in verse."

The neglect of poetical reading is increased by the very mistaken notion that poetry is a mere luxury of the mind, alien from the demands of practical life,—a light and effortless amusement. This is the prejudice and error of ignorance. For look at many of the strong and largely-cultivated minds which we know by biography and their own works, and note how large and precious an element of strength is their studious love of poetry. Where could we find a man of more earnest, energetic, practical cast of character than Arnold?-eminent as an historian, and in other the gravest departments of thought and learning, active in the

Taylor's Notes from Books, p. 215.