mathematical precision, that impatience of theory, that positive and
self-reliant--we don't mind saying, somewhat dogmatical--air, that
sternness of feature, thinness of lip, and coldness of eye, which belong
to the best examples. We respect even the humbler ones; for they at
least hate sentiment, they do not comprehend or approve of humor, and
they never relish wit. What does a taste for these qualities indicate,
but an idle and frivolous mind, devoted to trifles: and how fatal is
such a taste, in the pursuit of wealth and respectability!

Fantastic people have much to say of the "affections," the "graces and
amenities of life," "soul-culture," and the like. We cannot too deeply
deplore their fatuity, in giving prominence to such abstractions. As for
children, the most we can concede is, that they have a natural--though,
of course, depraved--taste for stories: yes, we will say that this
fondness is irrepressible. But, what we really must insist on, is, that
in gratifying that fondness, you give them _true_ stories. Where is the
carefully trained and upright soul that would not reject "JACK, the
Giant-killer," or "Goody Two-shoes," if it could substitute (say, from
"New and True Stories for Children,") a tale as thrilling as this:

"When I was a boy, I said to my uncle one day, 'How did you
get your finger cut off?' and he said, 'I was chopping a
stick one evening, and the hatchet cut off my finger.'"

Blessings, blessings on the man who thus embalmed this touching
incident! Who does not see that the reign of fiction is over!

That the parental portion of the public may judge what the future has in
store for their little ones (who, we hope, will be men and women far
sooner than their ancestors were,) we present them with a fragrant
nosegay (pshaw! we mean, a shovel-full) of samples, commending them,
should they wish for more, to the nearest Sabbath-school library.

Ah, it is a touching thing, to see some great philanthropist come
forward, at the call of Duty and his Publisher (perhaps also quickened
by the hollow sound emitted by his treasure-box), and compress himself
into the absurdly small compass of a few pages 18mo., in order to afford
himself the exalted pleasure of holding simple and godly converse with
children at large!

"All truth--no fiction." What further guarantee would you have? How
replete with useful matter must not a book with _that_ assurance be! Let
us read:

"The Indians canno