the egotist in a harmless way, I would add that the liking of which I am conscious for the oldfashioned English literature is owing to the contents of a single shelf in the house in which I spent my boyhood. That shelf contained the essays commonly known as the British Classics. I perfectly remember the eagerness with which I used to clamber up the edge of the book-cases, to reach these tempting works. At first my object was to look at the pictures, of which there were two or three in each of the thirty-nine volumes. But soon I was allured to do more; and while yet quite a little boy, was as familiar with the more light and humorous parts of Addison, Steele, Goldsmith, and Mackenzie, as I have since been with any other productions. And though books for children were fewer then than they are now, I am satisfied that the daily converse of a child with such works as the Spectator, the Guardian, and the Connoisseur, even if he finds many things above his apprehension, is more profitable and far more delightful than the perpetual dawdling over penny-volumes, written on the plan of making every thing level to the meanest capacity. These first tastes of good letters diffuse their savour through a lifetime. Hence it must be clear to every parent, that he cannot be too careful in the choice of books; meaning not merely such as are given to his children as their own, but such also as form a part of the family stock. When I try to gather up the broken recollec tions of early days, and ask what pieces of reading have left the most abiding impressions upon my mind, I discern at once that it has been that class which met my attention casually: not my schoolbooks, not the works spread before me by my sage advisers, but effusions, gay or grave, which I hastily devoured by forbidden snatches. At an early age I fell upon the Life of Benjamin Franklin, as written by himself: a book which I shall always cite as an illustration of one of my favourite maxims, that truth is more interesting than fiction. The essays appended to the volume engaged my attention; and I was not content to read merely what I could understand, but dived boldly into some of the profundities of his politics and his philosophy. The Way to Wealth, Poor Richard, and The Whistle, are perhaps as familiar to the minds of the American people, as any human productions: I may therefore cite them as remarkable instances of lasting impression. I wish my admiration of Benjamin Franklin were not mingled with anxiety as to the probable influence which one or two of these pieces, and the general tone of his economical writings, have had upon the national way of thinking. The maxims of Poor Richard are undeniable; and if the great end of man were to make money, they might be adopted as a sort of pecuniary gospel. But I fear that the boy who is bred upon such diet as—“ If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as getting;" or "Six pounds a year is but a groat a day;" or "He that murders a crown destroys all it might have produced;" or "A penny saved is twopence clear”'—or any the like adages, will be not merely rich, but miserly. I am so little of a utilitarian, that I do not believe wealth to be the chief good, or frugality the cardinal virtue; and most heartily do I regret that such an authority as Franklin should have erected for us such a tutelary saint as Poor Richard. Be this, however, as it may, my position holds true; the whole colour of our life, both mental and moral, is frequently taken from what we read during childhood; and I am here reminded that this very philosopher is an instance in point. A very little book, exceedingly prized in old-time families, seems to have had great effects on his mind. In a letter written from France, in 1784, Franklin thus addresses Dr. Mather of Boston: "When I was a boy, I met with a book, entitled, Essays to do good, which I think was written by your father. It had been so little regarded by a former possessor, that several leaves of it were torn out; but the remainder gave me such a turn of thinking, as to have an influence on my conduct through life; for I have always set a greater value on the character of a doer of good, than on any other kind of reputation; and if I have been, as you seem to think, a useful citizen, the public owes the advantage of it to that book."* These are notable words. Let them have their * From the American Museum, vol. vii. p. 100 due weight with the young. They were uttered by Dr. Franklin when he was in his seventyninth year: they were therefore not the fruit of sudden excitement. Their import is, that if he had been useful, it was owing to a torn book read in his boyhood. I hope the republication of this remark will not only have the effect of leading every one who reads it to procure this work of the famous Cotton Mather, but will induce some publisher to give it to us in a shape more elegant and better suited to the reigning taste, than that in which it has hitherto appeared. "Such writings," says Franklin, of a similar production, "though they may be lightly passed over by many readers, yet if they make a deep impression on one active mind in a hundred, the effects may be considerable." When the artisan, or the farmer, or the trades man is making up a collection of books, he ought to bear in mind that a well-kept book will last a lifetime. Some of the soundest books I have were owned by my grandfather. It is great improvidence to fill our houses with trash. Ten dollars, wisely expended, will, at an auction or book-shop, furnish you with fine old copies, in sheep or even calf, of Milton, Young, Thomson, Pope, the Spectator, the Rambler, Boswell's Johnson, Plutarch's Lives, Josephus, with quite a sprinkling of later and lighter productions. And this will be a source of endless entertainment during the winter evenings.* * See the American Mechanic, p. 267. X. READING FOR BEGINNERS. "Only, good master, while we do admire Taming of the Shrew. RULES are good things, but one may have too much of them; and overmuch legislation is a snare and a burden. Some of my friends, knowing me to be a bookish man, acquainted with a number of the old English authors, have again and again begged me to lay down for them, in black and white, a course of reading, which they might use themselves, and give to their young folks. This I have always resisted, partly because I have a dread of running all minds through the same flatting-mill, and partly, perhaps, because whatever little attainments I have myself made, have come to me, not by regulations, but in spite of them. I am half disposed to think this is nature's own way. Men and families that have been held down to as rigid a uniformity as a British garrison, whose regimental order is absolute, even to gaiter, moustache, and pipe-clay, always have, in my eye, a cramp look. They have |