“What the best of us want, more or less, my good lady,” said the bookseller, with unusual briskness, “and had much that few of us possess.” And then, after some consideration, he added slowly, rather as if talking to himself than addressing another--“Let me see. The early part of his life was stained, like the lives of many--John Bunyan to wit--with faults almost amounting to crimes; and those would have remained untold, unrecorded--indeed, perfectly unknown, even by his most intimate friends--but for the extraordinary truthfulness of the man’s great nature. In the brief account of his own life, he confesses that he was blown about by every wind of doctrine; and to what purpose? to fall into the quagmire of unbelief. Now, this would be dangerous to read and think over for lads of Richard’s age and eager temperament, if the entire honesty of Franklin’s nature--downright, brave, looking-straight-in-the-face truth--had not made him confess and condemn his errors. He was scourged--as all unbelievers are, if they would only admit so much--by his unbelief; he had to endure the bitterness and self-reproach of knowing that the young friends whom his arguments had perverted turned upon and ill-used him: he recalled his own misconduct--born of, and nurtured by unbelief; and, though his nature was neither pious nor enthusiastic like that of John Bunyan, he saw, like Bunyan, the evil of his ways, particularly in a reasoning point of view. He learned that unbelief was the proof of a weak, not of a strong nature: he saw how foolish it would be to call a boy ‘strong-minded,’ because he would not believe what his father told him! As he grew in years, he strengthened in truth: another proof of his great mind. And then his works live in our literature: they keep their place by their own specific gravity. The lad is old enough to understand this man’s greatness, and the value he was to his country--indeed, to all countries--and to imbibe those lessons of usefulness and industry which are taught in his works, without being tainted by his confessed sin. Infidelity is put, and by himself, at such a disadvantage, that it holds out no temptation: it shows from first to last the confessed blot upon a radiant memory. Ay, indeed, this great man--this man so in advance of his time--this true man was, as I have said, scourged by his infidelity, and he shows his stripes. I dare say” (the bookseller was a great phrenologist, and the science engrafted much charity on his simple, yet shrewd mind) “I dare say the organ was depressed at veneration, but large in benevolence; with an almost over-weight of the reasoning faculties. Ah! if historians would only give us the measurement of _heads_, and their developments, instead of their own crude or prejudiced analysis of _character_, we should better know where to render our hero-worship--don’t you think so?”