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could be realized, it would be, interesting to observe how we should take back to our very nursery, and its oft-told tales, some of our strongest impressions of right and wrong. Might we not thus retrace, through all its gradual accumulation from after circumstances, our indignation against oppression, and our contempt and dislike for avarice to "the greedy guardian uncle fierce," in our pet story of "The Babes in the Wood"? or somewhat of our conviction of the benefits of humility and punctuality to Cinderella? Should we find none of our feeling of rightful independence, and self-exertion owing to boyhood's hero, Robinson Crusoe? or just sentiments of action to such books as "Sandford and Merton," and Miss Edgeworth's and Mrs. Sherwood's delightful narratives? Should we not thus, moreover, find ourselves indebted for our first lessons on the advantages of patience, industry, and all sorts of virtues, to many a delicious faëry tale, read while nestling under the sunny trees of our childhood's garden, or in a snug corner by the winter-hearth of our early days?
We have heard it rumoured, again and again, that Philosophy intends to extirpate these so-called frivolous fictions from the domain of childhood, after they have been led as captives to grace the triumphal march of intellect. Our own private conviction is, that Philosophy is far too wise to attempt such an egregious folly. No, no; Philosophy is too conversant with the features of her sister, Wisdom, not to recognize her, and acknowledge her influences, even under the simplest disguises she may sometimes see fit to assume—ay, in the very disguises, too, from which the ignorant and superficial have disdainfully turned; although, had they received her, veiled as
