NOVEL READING AND ITS EFFECTS.
By Anna Northup
I BEGAN reading novels and story papers at an early age, and, although my mother objected to it, I had such a longing for such reading that I would read them. I used to borrow books and papers and hide them in my room, and after the rest of the family were asleep, I would read until a late hour. It had the effect of making my mind very unsteady and imaginative. I had unreal views of life, and felt dissatisfied with my lot, and would sometimes weep and sometimes feel angry to think I was not born rich and beautiful so as to have an experience like some of the heroines I read about. I often felt reproved by the Spirit of God, but would stifle my convictions and plunge into some high-colored romance to drive away sober thoughts. When I married I found my husband quite as fond of such reading as myself, and we spent all we could spare for books and magazines and began to accumulate a library. Gradually, as I indulged my mind thus, I came to look upon religion as a sham. I was a church member, but many a time when God would talk to me in the night seasons, I would reason away death and the judgment, and even seriously question the existence of God. I was feeding my mind with what I knew was false, and I lived in a very bewildered, unsatisfied state. I thought I was much better than I was, and that those with whom I associated did not appreciate my worth, etc. But God brought me face to face with the awful facts of death and eternity, and I saw myself a poor, wretched, lost soul, and I cried to God for mercy and sought him earnestly, and one day while in secret prayer I asked God to make me a woman that would have a godly influence over my family and associates. He said, "What about those books?" and I saw it all so plain, plainer than words could make it, the poison that was in them, and that I could not be a godly woman and follow up this practice, I said, "Lord, I will never read them any more, and I will put them away from off my center table and from off my shelves, and out of sight up in the attic." "To be found there," said conscience, "sometime with your name in them for some of your children to read and perhaps treasure up for your sake?" "Well," I said, "I have some young friends who will read such books anyway; I will give them to them." "And by so doing be as bad as 'he that putteth the bottle to his neighbor's lips,'" said conscience. "There is a way," said I, "to get rid of them, and I will." I rose from my knees and gathered them up and carried them down to the kitchen stove and laid them in, nicely bound volumes of Dickens, Scott, Mrs. Holmes, etc.; Demorest, Ladies', and Peterson's Magazines, New York Ledgers, Saturday Nights, Youth's Companions, and even the novel Sabbath School Weekly Magnet, etc. I made a clean sweep, and such exquisite pleasure it was to see them burn, I would gladly have laid one thousand more on the fire if I had had them. They had been prized by me very highly, but when I saw so plainly that they were an offense to Him upon whom depended my only hope of salvation, I cheerfully gave them all up. I have never allowed any questionable book or paper in my house since that time. I want to say to the glory of God that I have never since that time had one desire to read anything of the kind, and anyone who has ever been in the habit of reading novels knows that no one, of themselves, can cease to desire it any more than a drunkard can cease to desire whisky. Not only is the desire gone, but, blessed be God, the effects on my mind are gone. My memory is stronger and more retentive; my mind is clear, sober, and practical, and no longer inclined to skepticism. I love to read religious books, and, above all, the blessed Bible is a continual source of comfort and knowledge. To Him who saved me I give all the glory.—Anna Northup.