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- 3453
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.838Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3400
- text
- 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 their own books; writing them, being enough in all conscience.
At length I fell asleep, with the volume in my hand; and never slept so
sound before; after that, I used to wrap my jacket round it, and use it
for a pillow; for which purpose it answered very well; only I sometimes
waked up feeling dull and stupid; but of course the book could not have
been the cause of that.
And now I am talking of books, I must tell of Jack Blunt the sailor,
and his Dream Book.
Jackson, who seemed to know every thing about all parts of the world,
used to tell Jack in reproach, that he was an _Irish Cockney._ By which
I understood, that he was an Irishman born, but had graduated in
London, somewhere about Radcliffe Highway; but he had no sort of brogue
that I could hear.
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