Chapter 18 - Page 2

entertainment and edification beautifully and harmoniously combined; and
though, at first, I might possibly find it dull, yet, if I perused the
book thoroughly, it would soon discover hidden charms and unforeseen
attractions; besides teaching me, perhaps, the true way to retrieve the
poverty of my family, and again make them all well-to-do in the world.

Saying this, he handed it to me, and I blew the dust off, and looked at
the back: "Smith's Wealth of Nations." This not satisfying me, I glanced
at the title page, and found it was an "Enquiry into the Nature and
Causes" of the alleged wealth of nations. But happening to look further
down, I caught sight of "Aberdeen," where the book was printed; and
thinking that any thing from Scotland, a foreign country, must prove
some way or other pleasing to me, I thanked Mr. Jones very kindly, and
promised to peruse the volume carefully.

So, now, lying in my bunk, I began the book methodically, at page number
one, resolved not to permit a few flying glimpses into it, taken
previously, to prevent me from making regular approaches to the gist and
body of the book, where I fancied lay something like the philosopher's
stone, a secret talisman, which would transmute even pitch and tar to
silver and gold.

Pleasant, though vague visions of future opulence floated before me, as
I commenced the first chapter, entitled "Of the causes of improvement in
the productive power of labor." Dry as crackers and cheese, to be sure;
and the chapter itself was not much better. But this was only getting
initiated; and if I read on, the grand secret would be opened to me. So
I read on and on, about "wages and profits of labor," without getting
any profits myself for my pains in perusing it.

Dryer and dryer; the very leaves smelt of saw-dust; till at last I drank
some water, and went at it again. But soon I had to give it up for lost
work; and thought that the old backgammon board, we had at home,
lettered on the back, "The History of Rome" was quite as full of matter,
and a great deal more entertaining. I wondered whether Mr. Jones had
ever read the volume himself; and could not help remembering, that he
had to get on a chair when he reached it down from its dusty shelf; that
certainly looked suspicious.

The best reading was on the fly leaves; and, on turning them over, I
lighted upon some half effaced pencil-marks to the following effect:
"Jonathan Jones, from his particular friend Daniel Dods, 1798." So it
must have originally belonged to Mr. Jones' father; and I wondered
whether he had ever read it; or, indeed, whether any body had ever read
it, even the author himself; but then authors, they say, never read