SONNET OF MICHEL AGNOLO BUONAROTTI, Written in the near view of Death. GIUNTO è gia 'l corso della mia vita Onde l'affetuosa fantasia Che l'Arte si fece idolo e monarca, O pensier miei gia de miei danni lieti Ch' aperse a prender noi in croce e braccia. [The following translation does not give the exact words of the original, still IN fragile bark o'er troubled waters borne, And anchors there, whence all must pass to answer, Well prove I now the burden of that sin, Thoughts that were erst so joyful o'er my ruin, Vain are the pencil and the chissel now, To soothe the soul that nothing more can calm, REVIEW OF CHILDREN'S BOOKS, AND NOTICES OF NEW PUBLICATIONS. A Tribute of Parental Affection to the Memory of a beloved and only Daughter, containing some Account of the Character and Death of Hannah Jerram. By C. Jerram. G. Wilson, Essex Street. 1823. WE took up this little book under the influence of considerable objections to the great increase of such works in general. We live in a day when truth and fiction have come to be so blended in religion, that we begin to tremble lest it soon should wear the character of fiction altogether a tale to weep over and shudder at; but no reality, big with eternal consequences. Precose piety and happy deaths have grown so common in our juvenile reading, and are so much calculated to work on the imagination of the young, that we confess ourselves alarmed lest they become as exciting, as inebriating, and as delusive, as the blue lights, and moving curtains, and midnight whispers, that were used to be the never-failing flowers of fiction-lest our young readers should become as anxious, and with much the same feeling, to be the heroine of a pious tale, as once they were to be the prisoner in an enchanted castle. We hope we shall not be misunderstood. Far is it from us to imply that these things are no realities. As far are we from desiring that what passes in the chambers of death should be veiled from the eyes of youth, as something with which they have not to do. On the contrary, we would introduce them on every fitting occasion to the things themselves; they should be early led to witness, if possible, the awful reality of death. But let it be the reality-and if the dying Christian's last struggles are to be written and published, and cried like a ballad through the streets, let us not venture one word of exaggeration to awaken the feelings, and kindle the imagination, in the hope of making a useful impression. And at least let such reading be sparingly and carefully administered. We all know that what moves the feelings is acceptable. There is nothing we naturally enjoy so much as the dying scenes of a tragedy, and the more horrors and the more marvels attend the death, the greater the enjoyment. So when we have seen sensitive children devouring in motionless excitation these tales of happy or unhappy deaths, we own our hearts have misgiven us, lest we are making the awful question on which our eternal happiness or misery depends-that deep, internal question, which is between the dying sinner and his God, of which angels perhaps wait the decision in suspensive silence-is there no danger lest we are making it the mere winding-up of every story, sure to end well, however it begins? And if it cannot be as our fears have whispered, that by the habitual perusal of these scenes, our children may learn to find them as amusing, and as affecting, and as little alarming to themselves as any other tragick story, is there no danger that we shall teach them to presume on a similar opportunity of demonstrating their own piety, and making their peace with a neglected God? There is no delusion on earth so false and so fatal as the idea, that the bed of sickness and death is the place for manifesting our faith and settling our eternal interests. Thank God, it is the place where the too little trusted Saviour proves himself faithful to the weakest of his people-where the benighted pilgrim sees the bright openings of eternal day-where the weary and heart-broken lay down their burden-it is most awfully the place where the careless sinner parts from the delusion that persuaded him he was righteous. But they who know most of these scenes, know best how seldom it is that there is any ness in that hour to attend to concerns so important. The confusion of the fevered brain, the distracting influence of pain, the application of remedies, the bustling watchfulness of doctors, friends, nurses, all conspiring to banish reflection, and forbid the retirement of the mind into itself, the danger, sometimes real and some fit times imaginary, of calling the feelings into action at such precarious moments-how seldom do all these things admit even of connected thought, much less of conversation, argument, and enquiry-how seldom can the parched lip tell out its hopes and fears the convulsed and throbbing bosom compose itself to any continuance of prayer. There are instances to the contrary, we know there are instances where the dying Christian, for the benefit of the living, has been allowed to show forth his fears, his consolations, and his happiness. But there is great danger in our mistaking these brilliant portraits for the likeness of a sick bed in general. We confess they bear no resemblance to most that we have seen, even where we could not doubt the inward communion of the suffering spirit with its God. There is great danger lest we learn to leave too much to those uncertain hours, trusting to be openly acknowledged at the last, by him whom we now neglect or coldly serve, and extolled as distinguished saints by our partial and afflicted friends, whose fondness remembers nothing of us but that which is their just and only consolation. These scenes are realities, therefore let us not conceal them-they are rare realities, therefore let us not be prodigal of them-and let us mix no fiction with them-no fine painting. Except in very rare cases indeed, we confess we dread the effect of all the publicity it is now the fashion to give to the religious feelings of the living and the dead. We should not have made these general remarks on this sort of publication with this excellent little volume before us, had they been applicable to it. We feel too much for the suffering parent who writes, and for the affecting recital itself, and for the truth and simplicity that characterise its pages, to have made such an attack upon this particular work. On the contrary, we have never read one of the kind so natural, and so free from most of the objections we have made; so little calculated to flatter or delude. We believe it is the truth-the undressed truth, except so far as a fond parent may be allowed to embellish the character of a departed child. It is written with piety, simplicity, and good sense, and must be read with interest and feeling. Whether or not we would give it to our children, would depend on their peculiar character. We should not give it to all. Next to indifference as to the consequences of death, there is nothing worse for the mind than a superstitious fear of dying. We have seen people agonized at the mere thought of dying, who seem to care very little whether they go to heaven or hell when once dead. The gravecloth, and the coffin, and the sexton, are far more terrible images to them than an eternity of misery. And in some there is a dread of the pains of death, of the act of dying, as if it were some mysterious thing they dare nor encounter. These apprehensions we think are to be guarded against. They totally absorb the only just and real ground of terror-our eternal destiny when the pains of death are passed. They over-cloud the fair prospect of eternal bliss, and deprive the dying Christian of the consolation held forth to him in the gospel. We believe these fears are in themselves groundless-for though the suffering is sometimes very great, it is probably not greater than in many recoverable illnesses-and often, we know, death is but an almost imperceptible transit from the sleep of exhausted nature. But whether the pain be much or little, of what moment is it compared with that which is to follow it? Of what moment when weighed against the horrors of unpardoned sin, an unreconciled God, and an approaching judgment? We should wish to guard the minds of our children from every terror in death, but the terror of eternal misery, that that might have its due force, and not be kept in the back ground, as it so often is, by mysterious fears of the brief space that divides them from it: then if the sweet promise of pardon and peace shine in upon their souls, it will not be obscured by these intervening terrors. On this ground we would not give to timid and sensitive children so fearful a picture of death as that before us. We think the young lady herself probably suffered more from the fear of dying than from the fear of eternity. Her remark was |