Walking On Sunshine

It should be a profession

This might become more disastrous than even a meagre support. We ask only enough to induce the ablest  writers to make authorship a profession. American literature will never become what its true friends desire, until it is pursued as a calling, just as really as that of tie physician, lawyer, or clergyman. But, with no greater encouragement than the present book-world offers, such a result cannot be enjoyed. For, while men may have courage to press to gory fields of battle, and lay down life itself in the strife for freedom, few will ever have the presumpticm to emlist in the ranks of learning for an author’s scanty fare, and possible crown of martyrdom.  I close with the following sentiments of an unknown writer, as expressive of correet ideas upon this subject. “Literature should be a profession, not a trade., lucrative enough to furnish a good subsistence to its members, but in no way lucrative enough to tempt speculators. As soon as its rewards are high enough, and secure enough, to tempt men to enter the list for the sake of the reward, and parents think of it as an opening for their sons, from that moment it becomes vitiated. Then will the ranks already so numerous, be swelled by an innumerable host of hungry pretenders. It will be— and, indeed, is now fast approaching that .state—like the army of Xerxes, swelled and encumbered by women and children, and ill-trained troops. It should be a Macedonian phalanx, chosen, compact, and irresistable.” «  THE CURRENT OF LIFE.  The current of thy life thou canst’t not shape  In all things to thy will; Resist not waves which thou can’st ne’er escape,  And hast no power to still.  THERE’S N  There’s nothing lost. The tiniest flower    That grows within the darkest vale, Though lost to view, has still the power   The rarest perfume to exhale; That perfume, borne on zephyr’s wings,  May visit some lone, sick one’s bed, And like the balm affection brings, ‘Twill scatter gladness round her head.  There’s nothing lost. The drop of dew   That trembles in the rosebud’s breast, Will seek its home of ether blue,   And fall again as pure and blest, Perchance to revel in the spray,   Or moisten the dry, parching sod, Or mingle in the fountain spray,  Or sparkle in the bow of God.  There’s nothing lost. The seed that’s cast   By careless hands upon the ground, Will yet take root, and may at last  A green and glorious tree be found; THING LOST.  Beneath its shade, some pilgrim may   Seek shelter from the heat at noon, While in its boughs the breezes play,   And song-birds sing their sweetest tune. There’s nothing lost. The slightest tone  Or whisper from a loved one’s voice, May melt a heart of hardest stone,  And make the saddened heart rejoice. And then, again, the careless word  Our thoughtless lips too often speak, May touch a heart already stirred,  And cause that troubled heart to break.  There’s nothing lost. The faintest strain  Of breathing from some dear one’s lute, In memory’s dream may come again,  Tho’ every mournful string be mute. The music of some happier hour —  The harp that swells with love’s own words May thrill the soul with deepest power,  When still the hand that swept its chords.  Anon.   DISCRIMINATION AMONG PARENTS.  EDITORIAL.  Perhaps discrimination is as important to parents as to any other class. Its faithful exercise will save many hours of perplexity and trial. It will aid in understanding, the tempers and tendencies of childhood, in perceiving the bent of the mind with reference to the 21calling of life, in detecting the incipient advances of disease, and in other things nearly as important to the welfare of children, and the success and happiness of parents. It is a quality that can find occasions for constant exercise at the fireside.