literature. All that I heard of books, was when an Indian history, or
tale of shipwreck, was sold by a peddler or wandering subscription-man,
to some one in the village, and read through its owner's nose to a
slumberous auditory. Like my brother fishermen, I grew into the
belief that all human erudition was collected in our pedagogue, whose
green spectacles and solemn phiz, as he passed to his little school-
house, amid a waste of sand, might have gained him a diploma from any
college in New England. In truth I dreaded him. When our children
were old enough to claim his care, you remember, Susan, how I frowned,
though you were pleased, at this learned man's encomiums on their
proficiency. I feared to trust them even with the alphabet; it was
the key to a fatal treasure.

But I loved to lead them by their little hands along the beach, and
point to nature in the vast and the minute, the sky, the sea, the
green earth, the pebbles, and the shells. Then did I discourse of the
mighty works and coextensive goodness of the Deity, with the simple
wisdom of a man whose mind had profited by lonely days upon the deep,
and his heart by the strong and pure affections of his evening home.
Sometimes my voice lost itself in a tremulous depth; for I felt His
eye upon me as I spoke. Once, while my wife and all of us were gazing
at ourselves, in the mirror left by the tide in a hollow of the sand,
I pointed to the pictured heaven below, and bade her observe how
religion was strewn everywhere in our path; since even a casual pool
of water recalled the idea of that home whither we were travelling, to
rest forever with our children. Suddenly, your image, Susan, and all
the little faces made up of yours and mine, seemed to fade away and
vanish around me, leaving a pale visage like my own of former days
within the frame of a large looking-glass. Strange illusion!