“I never heard that was a sense,” replied I, laughing.
“Then you haven’t half finished your education, Jacob.”
“Are reading and writing senses, father?” inquired Mary.
“To be sure they be, girl; for without sense you can’t read and write; and rowing be a sense just as well; and there be many other senses; but, in my opinion, most of the senses be nonsense, and only lead to mischief.”
“Jacob,” said Mary, whispering to my ear, “isn’t loving a sense?”
“No, that’s nonsense,” replied I.
“Well, then,” replied she, “I agree with my father that nonsense is better than sense; but still I don’t see why I should not learn to read and write, father.”
“I’ve lived all my life without it, and never felt the want of it—why can’t you?”
“Because I do feel the want of it.”
“So you may, but they leads no no good. Look at those fellows at the Feathers; all were happy enough before Jim Holder, who is a scholar, came among them, and now since he reads to them they do nothing but grumble, and growl, and talk about I don’t know what—corn laws, and taxes, and liberty, and all other nonsense. Now, what could you do more than you do now, if you larnt to read and write?”