CHAPTERI—HOWMYMOTHERGOTHERSOFTFACE
OnthedayIwasbornweboughtsixhair—bottomedchairs，andinourlittlehouseitwasanevent，thefirstgreatvictoryinawoman’slongcampaign；howtheyhadbeenlabouredfor，thepound—
noteandthethirtythreepenny—bitstheycost，whatanxietytherewasaboutthepurchase，theshowtheymadeinpossessionofthewestroom，myfather’sunnaturalcoolnesswhenhebroughtthemin（buthisfacewaswhite）—Isooftenheardthetaleafterwards，andsharedasboyandmaninsomanysimilartriumphs，thatthecomingofthechairsseemstobesomethingIremember，asifIhadjumpedoutofbedonthatfirstday，andrunbentoseehowtheylooked。Iamsuremymother’sfeetwereettlingtobebenlongbeforetheycouldbetrusted，andthatthemomentaftershewasleftalonewithmeshewasdiscoveredbarefootedinthewestroom，doctoringascar（whichshehadbeenthefirsttodetect）ononeofthechairs，orsittingonthemregally，orwithdrawingandre—
openingthedoorsuddenlytotakethesixbysurprise。Andthen，I
think，ashawlwasflungoverher（itisstrangetometothinkitwasnotIwhoranafterherwiththeshawl），andshewasescortedsternlybacktobedandremindedthatshehadpromisednottobudge，towhichherreplywasprobablythatshehadbeengonebutaninstant，andtheimplicationthatthereforeshehadnotbeengoneatall。Thuswasonelittlebitofherrevealedtomeatonce：IwonderifItooknoteofit。Neighbourscameintoseetheboyandthechairs。Iwonderifshedeceivedmewhensheaffectedtothinkthattherewereotherslikeus，orwhetherIsawthroughherfromthefirst，shewassoeasilyseenthrough。Whensheseemedtoagreewiththemthatitwouldbeimpossibletogivemeacollegeeducation，wasIsoeasilytakenin，ordidIknowalreadywhatambitionsburnedbehindthatdearface？whentheyspokeofthechairsasthegoalquicklyreached，wasIsuchanewcomerthathertimidlipsmustsay’Theyarebutabeginning’beforeIheardthewords？Andwhenwewerelefttogether，didIlaughatthegreatthingsthatwereinhermind，orhadshetowhisperthemtomefirst，andthendidIputmyarmroundherandtellherthatI
wouldhelp？Thusitwasforsuchalongtime：itisstrangetometofeelthatitwasnotsofromthebeginning。
Itisallguess—workforsixyears，andshewhomIseeinthemisthewomanwhocamesuddenlyintoviewwhentheywereatanend。
HertimidlipsIhavesaid，buttheywerenottimidthen，andwhenIknewherthetimidlipshadcome。Thesoftface—theysaythefacewasnotsosoftthen。Theshawlthatwasflungoverher—wehadnotbeguntohuntherwithashawl，nortomakeourbodiesascreenbetweenherandthedraughts，nortocreepintoherroomascoreoftimesinthenighttostandlookingatherassheslept。
Wedidnotseeherbecominglittlethen，norsharplyturnourheadswhenshesaidwonderinglyhowsmallherarmshadgrown。Inherhappiestmoments—andneverwasahappierwoman—hermouthdidnotofasuddenbegintotwitch，andtearstolieonthemuteblueeyesinwhichIhavereadallIknowandwouldevercaretowrite。
Forwhenyoulookedintomymother’seyesyouknew，asifHehadtoldyou，whyGodsentherintotheworld—itwastoopenthemindsofallwholookedtobeautifulthoughts。Andthatisthebeginningandendofliterature。ThoseeyesthatIcannotseeuntilIwassixyearsoldhaveguidedmethroughlife，andIprayGodtheymayremainmyonlyearthlyjudgetothelast。TheywerenevermoremyguidethanwhenIhelpedtoputhertoearth，notwhimperingbecausemymotherhadbeentakenawayafterseventy—sixgloriousyearsoflife，butexultinginherevenatthegrave。
Shehadasonwhowasfarawayatschool。Irememberverylittleabouthim，onlythathewasamerry—facedboywhoranlikeasquirrelupatreeandshookthecherriesintomylap。WhenhewasthirteenandIwashalfhisagetheterriblenewscame，andIhavebeentoldthefaceofmymotherwasawfulinitscalmnessasshesetofftogetbetweenDeathandherboy。Wetroopedwithherdownthebraetothewoodenstation，andIthinkIwasenvyingherthejourneyinthemysteriouswagons；Iknowweplayedaroundher，proudofourrighttobethere，butIdonotrecallit，Ionlyspeakfromhearsay。Herticketwastaken，shehadbiddenusgoodbyewiththatfightingfacewhichIcannotsee，andthenmyfathercameoutofthetelegraph—officeandsaidhuskily，’He’sgone!’Thenweturnedveryquietlyandwenthomeagainupthelittlebrae。ButIspeakfromhearsaynolonger；Iknewmymotherforevernow。
Thatishowshegothersoftfaceandherpatheticwaysandherlargecharity，andwhyothermothersrantoherwhentheyhadlostachild。’Dinnagreet，poorJanet，’shewouldsaytothem；andtheywouldanswer，’Ah，Margaret，butyou’regreetingyoursel。’
MargaretOgilvyhadbeenhermaidenname，andaftertheScotchcustomshewasstillMargaretOgilvytoheroldfriends。MargaretOgilvyIlovedtonameher。OftenwhenIwasaboy，’MargaretOgilvy，areyouthere？’Iwouldcallupthestair。
Shewasalwaysdelicatefromthathour，andformanymonthsshewasveryill。Ihaveheardthatthefirstthingsheexpressedawishtoseewasthechristeningrobe，andshelookedlongatitandthenturnedherfacetothewall。Thatwaswhatmademeasaboythinkofitalwaysastherobeinwhichhewaschristened，butIknewlaterthatwehadallbeenchristenedinit，fromtheoldestofthefamilytotheyoungest，betweenwhomstoodtwentyyears。Hundredsofotherchildrenwerechristenedinitalso，suchrobesbeingthenararepossession，andthelendingofoursamongmymother’sglories。Itwascarriedcarefullyfromhousetohouse，asifitwereitselfachild；mymothermademuchofit，smootheditout，pettedit，smiledtoitbeforeputtingitintothearmsofthosetowhomitwasbeinglent；shewasinourpewtoseeitbornemagnificently（somethinginsideitnow）downtheaisletothepulpit—side，whenastirofexpectancywentthroughthechurchandwekickedeachother’sfeetbeneaththebook—boardbutwerereverentintheface；andhoweverthechildmightbehave，laughingbrazenlyorskirlingtoitsmother’sshame，andwhateverthefatherashehelditupmightdo，lookdoitedprobablyandbowatthewrongtime，thechristeningrobeoflongexperiencehelpedthemthrough。Andwhenitwasbroughtbacktohershetookitinherarmsassoftlyasifitmightbeasleep，andunconsciouslypressedittoherbreast：therewasneveranythinginthehousethatspoketoherquitesoeloquentlyasthatlittlewhiterobe；itwastheoneofherchildrenthatalwaysremainedababy。Andshehadnotmadeitherself，whichwasthemostwonderfulthingaboutittome，forsheseemedtohavemadeallotherthings。Alltheclothesinthehousewereofhermaking，andyoudon’tknowherintheleastifyouthinktheywereoutofthefashion；sheturnedthemandmadethemnewagain，shebeatthemandmadethemnewagain，andthenshecoaxedthemintobeingnewagainjustforthelasttime，sheletthemoutandtooktheminandputonnewbraid，andaddedapieceuptheback，andthustheypassedfromonememberofthefamilytoanotheruntiltheyreachedtheyoungest，andevenwhenweweredonewiththemtheyreappearedassomethingelse。Inthefashion!I
mustcomebacktothis。Neverwasawomanwithsuchaneyeforit。
Shehadnofashion—plates；shedidnotneedthem。Theminister’swife（acloak），thebanker’sdaughters（thenewsleeve）—theyhadbuttopassourwindowonce，andthescalp，sotospeak，wasinmymother’shands。Observeherrushing，scissorsinhand，threadinmouth，tothedrawerswhereherdaughters’Sabbathclotheswerekept。OrgotochurchnextSunday，andwatchacertainfamilyfilingin，theboyliftinghislegshightoshowoffhisnewboots，butalltheothersdemure，especiallythetimid，unobservant—
lookinglittlewomanintherearofthem。Ifyouweretheminister’swifethatdayorthebanker’sdaughtersyouwouldhavegotashock。Butsheboughtthechristeningrobe，andwhenIusedtoaskwhy，shewouldbeamandlookconscious，andsayshewantedtobeextravagantonce。Andshetoldme，stillsmiling，thatthemoreawomanwasgiventostitchingandmakingthingsforherself，thegreaterwasherpassionatedesirenowandagaintorushtotheshopsand’befoolish。’Thechristeningrobewithitspatheticfrillsisoverhalfacenturyoldnow，andhasbeguntodroopalittle，likeadaisywhosetimeispast；butitisasfondlykepttogetherasever：Isawitinuseagainonlytheotherday。
Mymotherlayinbedwiththechristeningrobebesideher，andI
peepedinmanytimesatthedoorandthenwenttothestairandsatonitandsobbed。Iknownotifitwasthatfirstday，ormanydaysafterwards，thattherecametome，mysister，thedaughtermymotherlovedthebest；yes，moreIamsureeventhanshelovedme，whosegreatgloryshehasbeensinceIwassixyearsold。Thissister，whowasthenpassingoutofher’teens，cametomewithaveryanxiousfaceandwringingherhands，andshetoldmetogobentomymotherandsaytoherthatshestillhadanotherboy。Iwentbenexcitedly，buttheroomwasdark，andwhenIheardthedoorshutandnosoundcomefromthebedIwasafraid，andIstoodstill。IsupposeIwasbreathinghard，orperhapsIwascrying，forafteratimeIheardalistlessvoicethathadneverbeenlistlessbeforesay，’Isthatyou？’Ithinkthetonehurtme，forImadenoanswer，andthenthevoicesaidmoreanxiously’Isthatyou？’again。Ithoughtitwasthedeadboyshewasspeakingto，andIsaidinalittlelonelyvoice，’No，it’snohim，it’sjustme。’ThenIheardacry，andmymotherturnedinbed，andthoughitwasdarkIknewthatshewasholdingoutherarms。
AfterthatIsatagreatdealinherbedtryingtomakeherforgethim，whichwasmycraftywayofplayingphysician，andifIsawanyoneoutofdoorsdosomethingthatmadetheotherslaughI
immediatelyhastenedtothatdarkroomanddiditbeforeher。I
supposeIwasanoddlittlefigure；Ihavebeentoldthatmyanxietytobrightenhergavemyfaceastrainedlookandputatremorintothejoke（Iwouldstandonmyheadinthebed，myfeetagainstthewall，andthencryexcitedly，’Areyoulaughing，mother？’）—andperhapswhatmadeherlaughwassomethingIwasunconsciousof，butshedidlaughsuddenlynowandthen，whereuponIscreamedexultantlytothatdearsister，whowaseverinwaiting，tocomeandseethesight，butbythetimeshecamethesoftfacewaswetagain。ThusIwasdeprivedofsomeofmyglory，andI
rememberonceonlymakingherlaughbeforewitnesses。Ikeptarecordofherlaughsonapieceofpaper，astrokeforeach，anditwasmycustomtoshowthisproudlytothedoctoreverymorning。
TherewerefivestrokesthefirsttimeIslippeditintohishand，andwhentheirmeaningwasexplainedtohimhelaughedsoboisterously，thatIcried，’Iwishthatwasoneofhers!’Thenhewassympathetic，andaskedmeifmymotherhadseenthepaperyet，andwhenIshookmyheadhesaidthatifIshowedittohernowandtoldherthatthesewereherfivelaughshethoughtImightwinanother。Ihadlessconfidence，buthewasthemysteriousmanwhomyouranforinthedeadofnight（youflungsandathiswindowtowakenhim，andifitwasonlytoothacheheextractedthetooththroughtheopenwindow，butwhenitwassomethingsternerhewaswithyouinthedarksquareatonce，likeamanwhosleptinhistopcoat），soIdidashebademe，andnotonlydidshelaughthenbutagainwhenIputthelaughdown，sothatthoughitwasreallyonelaughwithatearinthemiddleIcounteditastwo。
Itwasdoubtlessthatsamesisterwhotoldmenottosulkwhenmymotherlaythinkingofhim，buttotryinsteadtogethertotalkabouthim。Ididnotseehowthiscouldmakeherthemerrymothersheusedtobe，butIwastoldthatifIcouldnotdoitnobodycould，andthismademeeagertobegin。Atfirst，theysay，Iwasoftenjealous，stoppingherfondmemorieswiththecry，’Doyoumindnothingaboutme？’butthatdidnotlast；itsplacewastakenbyanintensedesire（again，Ithink，mysistermusthavebreatheditintolife）tobecomesolikehimthatevenmymothershouldnotseethedifference，andmanyandartfulwerethequestionsIputtothatend。ThenIpractisedinsecret，butafterawholeweekhadpassedIwasstillratherlikemyself。Hehadsuchacheerywayofwhistling，shehadtoldme，ithadalwaysbrightenedheratherworktohearhimwhistling，andwhenhewhistledhestoodwithhislegsapart，andhishandsinthepocketsofhisknickerbockers。I
decidedtotrusttothis，soonedayafterIhadlearnedhiswhistle（everyboyofenterpriseinventsawhistleofhisown）fromboyswhohadbeenhiscomrades，Isecretlyputonasuitofhisclothes，darkgreytheywere，withlittlespots，andtheyfittedmemanyyearsafterwards，andthusdisguisedIslipped，unknowntotheothers，intomymother’sroom。Quaking，Idoubtnot，yetsopleased，Istoodstilluntilshesawme，andthen—howitmusthavehurther!’Listen!’Icriedinaglowoftriumph，andI
stretchedmylegswideapartandplungedmyhandsintothepocketsofmyknickerbockers，andbegantowhistle。
Shelivedtwenty—nineyearsafterhisdeath，suchactiveyearsuntiltowardtheend，thatyouneverknewwhereshewasunlessyoutookholdofher，andthoughshewasfrailhenceforthandevergrowingfrailer，herhousekeepingagainbecamefamous，sothatbridescalledasamatterofcoursetowatchherca’mingandsandingandstitching：thereareoldpeoplestill，oneortwo，totellwithwonderintheireyeshowshecouldbaketwenty—fourbannocksinthehour，andnotachipinoneofthem。Andhowmanyshegaveaway，howmuchshegaveawayofallshehad，andwhatprettywaysshehadofgivingit!Herfacebeamedandrippledwithmirthasbefore，andherlaughthatIhadtriedsohardtoforcecamerunninghomeagain。Ihaveheardnosuchlaughasherssavefrommerrychildren；thelaughterofmostofusages，andwearsoutwiththebody，buthersremainedgleefultothelast，asifitwerebornafresheverymorning。Therewasalwayssomethingofthechildinher，andherlaughwasitsvoice，aseloquentofthepasttomeaswasthechristeningrobetoher。ButIhadnotmadeherforgetthebitofherthatwasdead；inthosenine—and—twentyyearshewasnotremovedonedayfartherfromher。Manyatimeshefellasleepspeakingtohim，andevenwhileshesleptherlipsmovedandshesmiledasifhehadcomebacktoher，andwhenshewokehemightvanishsosuddenlythatshestartedupbewilderedandlookedabouther，andthensaidslowly，’MyDavid’sdead!’orperhapsheremainedlongenoughtowhisperwhyhemustleavehernow，andthenshelaysilentwithfilmyeyes。WhenIbecameamanandhewasstillaboyofthirteen，Iwrotealittlepapercalled’DeadthisTwentyYears，’whichwasaboutasimilartragedyinanotherwoman’slife，anditistheonlythingIhavewrittenthatsheneverspokeabout，noteventothatdaughtershelovedthebest。Nooneeverspokeofittoher，oraskedherifshehadreadit：onedoesnotaskamotherifsheknowsthatthereisalittlecoffininthehouse。Shereadmanytimesthebookinwhichitisprinted，butwhenshecametothatchaptershewouldputherhandstoherheartorevenoverherears。
CHAPTERII—WHATSHEHADBEEN
Whatshehadbeen，whatIshouldbe，thesewerethetwogreatsubjectsbetweenusinmyboyhood，andwhilewediscussedtheoneweweredecidingtheother，thoughneitherofusknewit。
BeforeIreachedmytenthyearagiantenteredmynativeplaceinthenight，andwewoketofindhiminpossession。Hetransformeditintoanewtownataratewithwhichweboysonlycouldkeepup，forasfastashebuiltdamswemaderaftstosailinthem；heknockeddownhouses，andtherewewerecrying’Pilly!’amongtheruins；hedugtrenches，andwejumpedthem；wehadtobedraggedbythelegsfrombeneathhisengines，hesunkwells，andinwewent。
Butthoughtherewerenevercircumstancestowhichboyscouldnotadaptthemselvesinhalfanhour，olderfolkareslowerintheuptake，andIamsuretheystoodandgapedatthechangessosuddenlybeingworkedinourmidst，andscarceknewtheirwayhomenowinthedark。Wherehadbeenformerlybuttheclickoftheshuttlewassoontheroarof’power，’handloomswerepushedintoacornerasaroomisclearedforadance；everymorningathalf—pastfivethetownwaswakenedwithayell，andfromachimney—stackthatrosehighintoourcallerairtheconquerorwavedforevermorehisflagofsmoke。Anothererahaddawned，newcustoms，newfashionssprangintolife，allaslustyasiftheyhadbeenbornattwenty—one；asquicklyastwopeoplemayexchangeseats，thedaughter，tillnowbutaknitterofstockings，becamethebreadwinner，hewhohadbeenthebreadwinnersatdowntotheknittingofstockings：whathadbeenyesterdayanestofweaverswasto—dayatownofgirls。
Iamnotofthosewhowouldflingstonesatthechange；itissomething，surely，thatbacksarenolongerprematurelybent；youmaynomorelookthroughdimpanesofglassattheagedpoorweavingtremulouslyfortheirlittlebitofgroundinthecemetery。
Ratheraretheirworkingyearstoofewnow，notbecausetheywillitsobutbecauseitiswithyouththatthepower—loomsmustbefed。Well，thisteachesthemtomakeprovision，andtheyhavethemeansastheyneverhadbefore。Notinbatchesareboysnowsenttocollege；thehalf—dozenayearhavedwindledtoone，doubtlessbecauseinthesedaystheycanbegintodrawwagesastheystepoutoftheirfourteenthyear。Hereassuredlythereisloss，butallthelosseswouldbebutapebbleinaseaofgainwereitnotforthis，thatwithsomanyofthefamily，youngmothersamongthem，workinginthefactories，homelifeisnotsobeautifulasitwas。
SomuchofwhatisgreatinScotlandhassprungfromtheclosenessofthefamilyties；itisthereIsometimesfearthatmycountryisbeingstruck。Thatweareallbeingreducedtoonedeadlevel，thatcharacteraboundsnomoreandlifeitselfislessinteresting，suchthingsIhaveread，butIdonotbelievethem。Ihaveevenseenthemgivenasmyreasonforwritingofapasttime，andinthatatleastthereisnotruth。Inourlittletown，whichisasampleofmany，lifeisasinteresting，aspathetic，asjoyousaseveritwas；nogroupofweaverswasbettertolookatorthinkaboutthantherivuletofwinsomegirlsthatoverrunsourstreetseverytimethesluiceisraised，thecomedyofsummereveningsandwinterfiresidesisplayedwiththeoldzestandeverywindow—blindisthecurtainofaromance。Oncethelightsofalittletownarelit，whocouldeverhopetotellallitsstory，orthestoryofasinglewyndinit？Andwholookingatlightedwindowsneedstoturntobooks？ThereasonmybooksdealwiththepastinsteadofwiththelifeImyselfhaveknownissimplythis，thatIsoongrowtiredofwritingtalesunlessIcanseealittlegirl，ofwhommymotherhastoldme，wanderingconfidentlythroughthepages。SuchagriphashermemoryofhergirlhoodhaduponmesinceIwasaboyofsix。
Thoseinnumerabletalkswithhermadeheryouthasvividtomeasmyown，andsomuchmorequaint，for，toachild，theoddestofthings，andthemostrichlycolouredpicture—book，isthathismotherwasonceachildalso，andthecontrastbetweenwhatsheisandwhatshewasisperhapsthesourceofallhumour。Mymother’sfather，theoneheroofherlife，diednineyearsbeforeIwasborn，andIrememberthiswithbewilderment，sofamiliarlydoestheweather—beatenmason’sfigurerisebeforemefromtheoldchaironwhichIwasnursedandnowwritemybooks。Onthesurfaceheisashardasthestoneonwhichhechiselled，andhisfaceisdyedredbyitsdust，heisroundedintheshouldersanda’hoast’huntshimever；soonerorlaterthatcoughmustcarryhimoff，butuntilthenitshallnotkeephimfromthequarry，norshallhischappedhands，aslongastheycangraspthemell。Itisanightofrainorsnow，andmymother，thelittlegirlinapinaforewhoisalreadyhishousekeeper，hasbeenmanytimestothedoortolookforhim。Atlasthedrawsnigh，hoasting。OrIseehimsettingofftochurch，forhewasagreat’stoop’oftheAuldLichtkirk，andhismouthisveryfirmnowasiftherewereacaseofdisciplinetoface，butonhiswayhomeheisbowedwithpity。Perhapshislittledaughterwhosawhimsosternanhouragodoesnotunderstandwhyhewrestlessolonginprayerto—night，orwhywhenherisesfromhiskneeshepresseshertohimwithunwontedtenderness。Orheisinthischairrepeatingtoherhisfavouritepoem，’TheCameronian’sDream，’andatthefirstlinessosolemnlyuttered，’InadreamofthenightIwaswaftedaway，’
shescreamswithexcitement，justasIscreamedlongafterwardswhensherepeatedtheminhisvoicetome。OrIwatch，asfromawindow，whileshesetsoffthroughthelongparkstothedistantplacewhereheisatwork，inherhandaflagonwhichcontainshisdinner。Sheissingingtoherselfandgleefullyswingingtheflagon，shejumpstheburnandproudlymeasuresthejumpwithhereye，butsheneverdalliesunlessshemeetsababy，forshewassofondofbabiesthatshemusthugeachoneshemet，butwhileshehuggedthemshealsonotedhowtheirrobeswerecut，andafterwardsmadepaperpatterns，whichsheconcealedjealously，andinthefulnessoftimeherfirstrobeforhereldestbornwasfashionedfromoneofthesepatterns，madewhenshewasinhertwelfthyear。
Shewaseightwhenhermother’sdeathmadehermistressofthehouseandmothertoherlittlebrother，andfromthattimeshescrubbedandmendedandbakedandsewed，andarguedwiththeflesheraboutthequarterpoundofbeefandpennybonewhichprovideddinnerfortwodays（butifyouthinkthatthiswaspovertyyoudon’tknowthemeaningoftheword），andshecarriedthewaterfromthepump，andhadherwashing—daysandherironingsandastockingalwaysonthewireforoddmoments，andgossipedlikeamatronwiththeotherwomen，andhumouredthemenwithatolerantsmile—allthesethingsshedidasamatterofcourse，leapingjoyfulfrombedinthemorningbecausetherewassomuchtodo，doingitasthoroughlyandsedatelyasifthebrideswerealreadydueforalesson，andthenrushingoutinafitofchildishnesstoplaydumpsorpalaulayswithothersofherage。I
seeherfrockslengthening，thoughtheywereneververyshort，andthegamesgivenreluctantlyup。ThehorrorofmyboyhoodwasthatIknewatimewouldcomewhenIalsomustgiveupthegames，andhowitwastobedoneIsawnot（thisagonystillreturnstomeindreams，whenIcatchmyselfplayingmarbles，andlookonwithcolddispleasure）；IfeltthatImustcontinueplayinginsecret，andI
tookthisshadowtoher，whenshetoldmeherownexperience，whichconvincedusboththatwewereverylikeeachotherinside。Shehaddiscoveredthatworkisthebestfunafterall，andIlearneditintime，buthavemylapses，andsohadshe。
Iknowwhatwasherfavouritecostumewhenshewasattheagethattheymakeheroinesof：itwasapalebluewithapalebluebonnet，thewhiteribbonsofwhichtiedaggravatinglybeneaththechin，andwhenquestionedaboutthisgarbsheneveradmittedthatshelookedprettyinit，butshedidsay，withblushestoo，thatbluewashercolour，andthenshemightsmile，asatsomememory，andbegintotellusaboutamanwho—butitendedtherewithanothersmilewhichwaslongerindeparting。Sheneversaid，indeedshedeniedstrenuously，thatshehadledthemenadance，butagainthesmilereturned，andcamebetweenusandfullbelief。Yes，shehadherlittlevanities；whenshegottheMizpahringshedidcarrythatfingerinsuchawaythatthemostreluctantmustsee。Shewasveryparticularabouthergloves，andhidherbootssothatnoothershouldputthemon，andthensheforgottheirhiding—place，andhadsuspicionsoftheonewhofoundthem。Agoodwayofenragingherwastosaythatherlastyear’sbonnetwoulddoforthisyearwithoutalteration，orthatitwoulddefythefaceofclaytocountthenumberofhershawls。Inoneofmybooksthereisamotherwhoissettingoffwithhersonforthetowntowhichhehadbeencalledasminister，andshepausesonthethresholdtoaskhimanxiouslyifhethinksherbonnet’sets’her。Areviewersaidsheactedthus，notbecauseshecaredhowshelooked，butforthesakeofherson。This，Iremember，amusedmymotherverymuch。
Ihaveseenmanywearyon—dingsofsnow，buttheoneIseemtorecollectbestoccurrednearlytwentyyearsbeforeIwasborn。Itwasatthetimeofmymother’smarriagetoonewhoprovedamostlovingashewasalwaysawell—lovedhusband，amanIamveryproudtobeabletocallmyfather。Iknownotforhowmanydaysthesnowhadbeenfalling，butadaycamewhenthepeoplelostheartandwouldmakenomoregulliesthroughit，andbynextmorningtodosowasimpossible，theycouldnotflingthesnowhighenough。
ItsbackwasagainsteverydoorwhenSundaycame，andnoneventuredoutsaveavaliantfew，whobuffetedtheirwayintomymother’shometodiscussherpredicament，forunlessshewas’cried’inthechurchthatdayshemightnotbemarriedforanotherweek，andhowcouldshebecriedwiththeministerafieldawayandthechurchburiedtothewaist？Forhourstheytalked，andatlastsomemenstartedforthechurch，whichwasseveralhundredyardsdistant。
Threeofthemfoundawindow，andforcingapassagethroughit，criedthepair，andthatishowitcameaboutthatmyfatherandmotherweremarriedonthefirstofMarch。
Thatwouldbetheend，Isuppose，ifitwereastory，buttomymotheritwasonlyanotherbeginning，andnotthelast。Iseeherbendingoverthecradleofherfirst—born，collegeforhimalreadyinhereye（andmyfathernotlessambitious），andanonitisagirlwhoisinthecradle，andthenanothergirl—alreadyatragicfiguretothosewhoknowtheend。Iwonderifanyinstincttoldmymotherthatthegreatdayofherlifewaswhensheborethischild；
whatIamsureofisthatfromthefirstthechildfollowedherwiththemostwistfuleyesandsawhowsheneededhelpandlongedtoriseandgiveit。Forofphysicalstrengthmymotherhadneververymuch；itwasherspiritthatgotthroughthework，andinthosedaysshewasoftensoillthatthesandrainedonthedoctor’swindow，andmenrantoandfrowithleeches，and’sheisinlife，wecansaynomore’wastheinformationforthosewhocameknockingatthedoor。’Iamsorrowtosay，’herfatherwritesinanoldletternowbeforeme，’thatMargaretisinastatethatshewasneversobadbeforeinthisworld。TillWednesdaynightshewasinaspooraconditionasyoucouldthinkoftobealive。
However，afterbleeding，leeching，etc。，theDr。saysthismorningthatheisbetterhopednow，butatpresentwecansaynomorebutonlysheisaliveandinthehandsofHiminwhosehandsallourlivesare。Icangiveyounoadequateviewofwhatmyfeelingsare，indeedtheyareaburdentooheavyformeandIcannotdescribethem。Ilookonmyrightandlefthandandfindnocomfort，andifitwerenotfortherockthatishigherthanImyspiritwouldutterlyfall，butblessedbeHisnamewhocancomfortthosethatarecastdown。OformorefaithinHissupportinggraceinthishouroftrial。’
Thensheis’onthemend，’shemay’tholethro’’iftheytakegreatcareofher，’whichwewillbeforwardtodo。’Thefourthchilddieswhenbutafewweeksold，andthenextattwoyears。Shewashergrandfather’scompanion，andthushewroteofherdeath，thisstern，self—educatedAuldLichtwiththechappedhands：—
’IhopeyoureceivedmylastinwhichIspokeofDearlittleLydiabeingunwell。NowwithdeepsorrowImusttellyouthatyesterdayIassistedinlayingherdearremainsinthelonelygrave。Shediedat7o’clockonWednesdayevening，Isupposebythetimeyouhadgottheletter。TheDr。didnotthinkitwascrouptilllateonTuesdaynight，andallthatMedicalaidcouldprescribewasdone，buttheDr。hadnohopeafterhesawthatthecroupwasconfirmed，andhardindeedwouldthehearthavebeenthatwouldnothavemeltedatseeingwhatthedearlittlecreaturesufferedallWednesdayuntilthefeebleframewasquitewornout。Shewasquitesensibletillwithin2hoursofherdeath，andthenshesunkquitelowtillthevitalsparkfled，andallmedicinethatshegotshetookwiththegreatestreadiness，asifapprehensivetheywouldmakeherwell。Icannotwelldescribemyfeelingsontheoccasion。
Ithoughtthatthefountain—headofmytearshadnowbeendriedup，butIhavebeenmistaken，forImustconfessthatthebrinyrivuletsdescendedfastonmyfurrowedcheeks，shewassuchawinningChild，andhadsucharegardformeandalwayscameandtoldmeallherlittlethings，andasshewasnowspeaking，someofherlittleprattlewasverytaking，andthelivelyimagesofthesethingsintrudethemselvesmoreintomymindthantheyshoulddo，butthereisallowanceformoderategriefonsuchoccasions。ButwhenIamtellingyouofmyowngriefandsorrow，IknownotwhattosayofthebereavedMother，shehathnotmetwithanythinginthisworldbeforethathathgonesonearthequickwithher。Shehadnohandlingofthelastoneasshewasnotableatthetime，forsheonlyhadheronceinherarms，andheraffectionshadnottimetobesofairlyentwinedaroundher。Iammuchafraidthatshewillnotsoonifevergetoverthistrial。Althoughshewasweaklybefore，yetshewasprettywellrecovered，butthishathnotonlyaffectedhermind，butherbodyissomuchaffectedthatsheisnotwellabletositsolongasherbedismakingandhathscarcelytastedmeat[i。e。food]sinceMondaynight，andtillsometimeiselapsedwecannotsayhowshemaybe。ThereisnonethatisnotaParentthemselvesthatcanfullysympathisewithoneinsuchastate。Davidismuchaffectedalso，butitisnotsowellknownonhim，andtheyoungerbranchesofthefamilyareaffectedbutitwillbeonlymomentary。Butalasinallthisvastado，thereisonlythesorrowoftheworldwhichworkethdeath。Ohowgladdeningwoulditbeifwewereinasgreatbitternessforsinasforthelossofafirst—born。OhowunfittedpersonsorfamiliesisfortrialswhoknowsnotthedivineartofcastingalltheircaresupontheLord，andwhatmultitudesaretherethatwhenearthlycomfortsistakenaway，maywellsayWhathaveImore？alltheirdelightisplacedinsomeonethingoranotherintheworld，andwhocanblamethemforunwillinglypartingwithwhattheyesteemtheirchiefgood？Othatwewerewisetolayuptreasureforthetimeofneed，foritistrulyasolemnaffairtoenterthelistswiththekingofterrors。Itisstrangethatthelivinglaythethingssolittletoheartuntiltheyhavetoengageinthatwarwherethereisnodischarge。OthatmyheadwerewatersandmineeyesafountainoftearsthatImightweepdayandnightformyownandothers’stupidityinthisgreatmatter。Oforgracetodoeverydayworkinitspropertimeandtoliveabovethetemptingcheatingtrainofearthlythings。Therestofthefamilyaremoderatelywell。IhavebeenforsomedaysworsethanIhavebeenfor8monthspast，butImaysoongetbetter。IaminthesamewayIhaveoftenbeeninbefore，butthereisnosecurityforitalwaysbeingso，forIknowthatitcannotbefarfromthetimewhenI
willbeoneofthosethatoncewere。Ihavenoothernewstosendyou，andaslittleheartforthem。Ihopeyouwilltaketheearliestopportunityofwritingthatyoucan，andbeparticularasregardsMargaret，forsherequiresconsolation。’
Hediedexactlyaweekafterwritingthisletter，butmymotherwastoliveforanotherforty—fouryears。Andjoysofakindneversharedinbyhimweretocometohersoabundantly，solongdrawnoutthat，strangeasitwouldhaveseemedtohimtoknowit，herfullerlifehadscarceyetbegun。Andwiththejoysweretocometheirsweet，frightenedcomradespainandgrief；againshewastobetouchedtothequick，againandagaintobesoillthat’sheisinlife，wecansaynomore，’butstillshehadattendantsvery’forward’tohelpher，someofthemunborninherfather’stime。
Shetoldmeeverything，andsomymemoriesofourlittleredtownarecolouredbyhermemories。Iknewitasithadbeenforgenerations，andsuddenlyIsawitchange，andthetransformationcouldnotfailtostrikeaboy，forthesefirstyearsarethemostimpressionable（nothingthathappensafterwearetwelvemattersverymuch）；theyarealsothemostvividyearswhenwelookback，andmorevividthefartherwehavetolook，until，attheend，whatliesbetweenbendslikeahoop，andtheextremesmeet。ButthoughthenewtownistomeaglassthroughwhichIlookattheold，thepeopleIseepassingupanddownthesewynds，sitting，nightcapped，ontheirbarrow—shafts，hobblingintheirblackstochurchonSunday，arelessthoseIsawinmychildhoodthantheirfathersandmotherswhodidthesethingsinthesamewaywhenmymotherwasyoung。Icannotpicturetheplacewithoutseeingher，asalittlegirl，cometothedoorofacertainhouseandbeatherbassagainstthegav’le—end，orthereisaweddingto—night，andthecarriagewiththewhite—earedhorseissentforamaideninpaleblue，whosebonnet—stringstiebeneaththechin。
CHAPTERIII—WHATISHOULDBE
Mymotherwasagreatreader，andwithtenminutestosparebeforethestarchwasreadywouldbeginthe’DeclineandFall’—andfinishit，too，thatwinter。Foreignwordsinthetextannoyedherandmadeherbemoanherwantofaclassicaleducation—shehadonlyattendedaDame’sschoolduringsomeeasymonths—butsheneverpassedtheforeignwordsbyuntiltheirmeaningwasexplainedtoher，andwhennextsheandtheymetitwasasacquaintances，whichIthinkwascleverofher。OneofherdelightswastolearnfrommescrapsofHorace，andthenbringthemintoherconversationwith’collegedmen。’Ihavecomeuponherinlonelyplaces，suchasthestair—headortheeastroom，mutteringthesequotationsaloudtoherself，andIwellrememberhowshewouldsaytothevisitors，’Ay，ay，it’sverytrue，Doctor，butasyouknow，\"Eheufugaces，Postume，Postume，labunturanni，\"’or’Sal，Mr。So—and—so，mylassieisthrivingwell，butwoulditno’bemoretothepointtosay，\"Omatrapulchrafiliapulchrior\"？’whichastoundedthemverymuchifshemanagedtoreachtheendwithoutbeingflung，butusuallyshehadafitoflaughinginthemiddle，andsotheyfoundherout。
Biographyandexplorationwereherfavouritereading，forchoicethebiographyofmenwhohadbeengoodtotheirmothers，andshelikedtheexplorerstobealivesothatshecouldshudderatthethoughtoftheirventuringforthagain；butthoughsheexpressedahopethattheywouldhavethesensetostayathomehenceforth，shegleamedwithadmirationwhentheydisappointedher。InlaterdaysIhadafriendwhowasanAfricanexplorer，andshewasintwomindsabouthim；hewasoneofthemostengrossingofmortalstoher，sheadmiredhimprodigiously，picturedhimattheheadofhiscaravan，nowattackedbysavages，nowbywildbeasts，andadoredhimfortheuneasyhourshegaveher，butshewasalsoafraidthathewantedtotakemewithhim，andthenshethoughtheshouldbeputdownbylaw。Explorers’mothersalsointerestedherverymuch；
thebooksmighttellhernothingaboutthem，butshecouldcreatethemforherselfandwringherhandsinsympathywiththemwhentheyhadgotnonewsofhimforsixmonths。Yetthereweretimeswhenshegrudgedhimtothem—asthedaywhenhereturnedvictorious。Thenwhatwasbeforehereyeswasnotthesoncomingmarchinghomeagainbutanoldwomanpeeringforhimroundthewindowcurtainandtryingnottolookuplifted。Thenewspaperreportswouldbeabouttheson，butmymother’scommentwas’She’saproudwomanthisnight。’
WereadmanybookstogetherwhenIwasaboy，’RobinsonCrusoe’
beingthefirst（andthesecond），andthe’ArabianNights’shouldhavebeenthenext，forwegotitoutofthelibrary（apennyforthreedays），butondiscoveringthattheywerenightswhenwehadpaidforknightswesentthatvolumepacking，andIhavecurledmylipsatiteversince。’ThePilgrim’sProgress’wehadinthehouse（itwasascommonapossessionasadresser—head），andsoenamouredofitwasIthatIturnedourgardenintosloughsofDespond，withpea—stickstorepresentChristianonhistravelsandabuffet—stoolforhisburden，butwhenIdraggedmymotherouttoseemyhandiworkshewasscared，andIfeltfordays，withacertainelation，thatIhadbeenadarkcharacter。BesidesreadingeverybookwecouldhireorborrowIalsoboughtonenowandagain，andwhilebuying（itwastheoccupationofweeks）Iread，standingatthecounter，mostoftheotherbooksintheshop，whichisperhapsthemostexquisitewayofreading。AndItookinamagazinecalled’Sunshine，’themostdeliciousperiodical，Iamsure，ofanyday。Itcostahalfpennyorapennyamonth，andalways，asIfondlyremember，hadacontinuedtaleaboutthedearestgirl，whosoldwater—cress，whichisadaintynotgrownandIsupposeneverseeninmynativetown。ThisromanticlittlecreaturetooksuchholdofmyimaginationthatIcannoteatwater—
cressevennowwithoutemotion。Ilayinbedwonderingwhatshewouldbeuptointhenextnumber；Ihavelosttroutbecausewhentheynibbledmymindwaswanderingwithher；myearlylifewasembitteredbyhernotarrivingregularlyonthefirstofthemonth。
Iknownotwhetheritwasowingtoherloiteringonthewayonemonthtoanextentfleshandbloodcouldnotbear，orbecausewehadexhaustedthepennylibrary，butonadayIconceivedagloriousidea，oritwasputintomyheadbymymother，thendesirousofmakingprogresswithhernewcloutyhearthrug。Thenotionwasnothingshortofthis，whyshouldInotwritethetalesmyself？Ididwritethem—inthegarret—buttheybynomeanshelpedhertogetonwithherwork，forwhenIfinishedachapterI
boundeddownstairstoreadittoher，andsoshortwerethechapters，soreadywasthepen，thatIwasbackwithnewmanuscriptbeforeanotherclouthadbeenaddedtotherug。Authorshipseemed，likeherbannock—baking，toconsistofrunningbetweentwopoints。
Theywerealltalesofadventure（happiestishewhowritesofadventure），nocharacterswereallowedwithinifIknewtheirlikeintheflesh，thescenelayinunknownparts，desertislands，enchantedgardens，withknights（noneofyournights）onblackchargers，androundthefirstcorneraladysellingwater—cress。
AttwelveorthereaboutIputtheliterarycallingtobedforatime，havinggonetoaschoolwherecricketandfootballweremoreesteemed，butduringtheyearbeforeIwenttotheuniversity，itwokeupandIwrotegreatpartofathree—volumenovel。Thepublisherrepliedthatthesumforwhichhewouldprintitwasahundredand—however，thatwasnottheimportantpoint（Ihadsixpence）：wherehestabbedusbothwasinwritingthatheconsideredmea’cleverlady。’IrepliedstifflythatIwasagentleman，andsincethenIhavekeptthatmanuscriptconcealed。I
lookedthroughitlately，and，oh，butitisdull!Idefyanyonetoreadit。
Themalignancyofpublishers，however，couldnotturnmeback。
FromthedayonwhichIfirsttastedbloodinthegarretmymindwasmadeup；therecouldbenohum—dreadful—drumprofessionforme；
literaturewasmygame。Itwasnothighlythoughtofbythosewhowishedmewell。Irememberbeingaskedbytwomaidenladies，aboutthetimeIlefttheuniversity，whatIwastobe，andwhenI
repliedbrazenly，’Anauthor，’theyflunguptheirhands，andoneexclaimedreproachfully，’AndyouanM。A。!’Mymother’sviewsatfirstwerenotdissimilar；forlongshetookminejestinglyassomethingIwouldgrowoutof，andafterwardstheyhurthersothatItriedtogivethemup。Tobeaminister—thatshethoughtwasamongthefairestprospects，butshewasaveryambitiouswoman，andsometimesshewouldadd，halfscaredatherappetite，thattherewereministerswhohadbecomeprofessors，’butitwasnotcannytothinkofsuchthings。’
Ihadonepersononlyonmyside，anoldtailor，oneofthefullestmenIhaveknown，andquitethebesttalker。Hewasabachelor（hetoldmeallthatistobeknownaboutwoman），aleanman，pallidofface，hislegsdrawnupwhenhewalkedasifhewasevercarryingsomethinginhislap；hiswalkswereoftheshortest，fromthetea—
potonthehobtotheboardonwhichhestitched，fromtheboardtothehob，andsotobed。Hemighthavegoneouthadtheideastruckhim，butintheyearsIknewhim，thelastofhisbravelife，I
thinkhewasonlyintheopentwice，whenhe’flitted’—changedhisroomforanotherhardby。Ididnotseehimmakethesejourneys，butIseemtoseehimnow，andheissomewhatdizzyintheoddatmosphere；inonehandhecarriesabox—iron，heraisestheother，wonderingwhatthisisonhishead，itisahat；afaintsmellofsingedclothgoesbywithhim。Thismanhadheardofmysetofphotographsofthepoetsandaskedforasightofthem，whichledtoourfirstmeeting。Irememberhowhespreadthemoutonhisboard，andafterlookinglongatthem，turnedhisgazeonmeandsaidsolemnly，WhatcanIdotobeforeverknown，Andmaketheagetocomemyown？
TheselinesofCowleywerenewtome，butthesentimentwasnotnew，andImarvelledhowtheoldtailorcouldseethroughmesowell。Soitwasstrangetometodiscoverpresentlythathehadnotbeenthinkingofmeatall，butofhisownyoungdays，whenthatcoupletsanginhishead，andhe，too，hadthirstedtosetoffforGrubStreet，butwasafraid，andwhilehehesitatedoldagecame，andthenDeath，andfoundhimgraspingabox—iron。
Ihurriedhomewiththemouthful，butneighbourshaddroppedin，andthiswasforherearsonly，soIdrewhertothestair，andsaidimperiously，WhatcanIdotobeforeverknown，Andmaketheagetocomemyown？
Itwasanoddrequestforwhichtodrawherfromatea—table，andshemusthavebeensurprised，butIthinkshedidnotlaugh，andinafteryearsshewouldrepeatthelinesfondly，withaflushonhersoftface。’Thatisthekindyouwouldliketobeyourself!’wewouldsayinjesttoher，andshewouldreplyalmostpassionately，’No，butIwouldbewindyofbeinghismother。’Itispossiblethatshecouldhavebeenhismotherhadthatothersonlived，hemighthavemanageditfromsheerloveofher，butformypartIcansmileatoneofthosetwofiguresonthestairnow，havinglonggivenupthedreamofbeingforeverknown，andseeingmyselfmoreakintomyfriend，thetailor，forashewasfoundattheendonhisboard，soIhopeshallIbefoundatmyhandloom，doinghonestlytheworkthatsuitsmebest。WhoshouldknowsowellasI
thatitisbutahandloomcomparedtothegreatgunsthatreverberatethroughtheagetocome？Butshewhostoodwithmeonthestairthatdaywasaverysimplewoman，accustomedallherlifetomakingthemostofsmallthings，andIweavedsufficientlywelltopleaseher，whichhasbeenmyonlysteadfastambitionsinceI
wasalittleboy。
NotlessthanminebecameherdesirethatIshouldhavemyway—
but，ah，theironseatsinthatparkofhorriblerepute，andthatbareroomatthetopofmanyflightsofstairs!WhileIwasawayatcollegeshedrainedallavailablelibrariesforbooksaboutthosewhogotoLondontolivebythepen，andtheyalltoldthesameshudderingtale。London，whichsheneversaw，wastoheramonsterthatlickedupcountryyouthsastheysteppedfromthetrain；therewerethegarretsinwhichtheysatabject，andtheparkseatswheretheypassedthenight。Thoseparkseatswerethemonster’sglaringeyestoher，andasIgobythemnowsheisnearertomethanwhenIaminanyotherpartofLondon。Idaresaythatwhennightcomes，thisHydeParkwhichissogaybyday，ishauntedbytheghostsofmanymothers，whorun，wild—eyed，fromseattoseat，lookingfortheirsons。
Butifwecoulddodgethosedrearyseatsshelongedtoseemetrymyluck，andIsoughttoexcludethemfromthepicturebydrawingmapsofLondonwithHydeParkleftout。Londonwasasstrangetomeastoher，butlongbeforeIwasshotuponitIknewitbymaps，anddrewthemmoreaccuratelythanIcoulddrawthemnow。ManyatimesheandItookourjaunttogetherthroughthemap，andweremostgleeful，poppingintotelegraphofficestowiremyfatherandsisterthatweshouldnotbehometilllate，winkingtomybooksinlordlyshop—windows，lunchingatrestaurants（andrememberingnottocallitdinner），saying，’Howdo？’toMr。AlfredTennysonwhenwepassedhiminRegentStreet，callingatpublishers’officesforcheque，when’Willyoutakecareofit，orshallI？’Iaskedgaily，andshewouldbecertaintoreply，’I’mthinkingwe’dbettertakeittothebankandgetthemoney，’forshealwaysfeltsurerofmoneythanofcheques；sotothebankwewent（’Twotens，andtherestingold’），andthencestraightway（bycab）totheplacewhereyoubuysealskincoatsformiddlingoldladies。Buterethelaughwasdonetheparkwouldcomethroughthemaplikeablot。
’Ifyoucouldonlybesureofasmuchaswouldkeepbodyandsoultogether，’mymotherwouldsaywithasigh。
’Withsomethingover，mother，tosendtoyou。’
’Youcouldnaexpectthatatthestart。’
ThewenchIshouldhavebeencourtingnowwasjournalism，thatgrisetteofliteraturewhohasasmileandahandforallbeginners，welcomingthematthethreshold，teachingthemsomuchthatisworthknowing，introducingthemtotheotherladywhomtheyhaveworshippedfromafar，showingthemevenhowtowooher，andthenbiddingthemabrightGod—speed—hewereaningratewho，havinghadherjoyouscompanionship，nolongerflingsherakissastheypass。Butthoughshebearsnoill—willwhensheisjilted，youmustservefaithfullywhileyouarehers，andyoumustseekheroutandmakemuchofher，and，untilyoucanrelyonhergood—
nature（notethis），notawordabouttheotherlady。WhenatlastshetookmeinIgrewsofondofherthatIcalledherbytheother’sname，andevennowIthinkattimesthattherewasmorefuninthelittlesister，butIbeganbywooingherwithcontributionsthatwereallmisfits。InanoldbookIfindcolumnsofnotesaboutworksprojectedatthistime，nearlyalltoconsistofessaysondeeplyuninterestingsubjects；thelightestwastobeavolumeontheoldersatirists，beginningwithSkeltonandTomNash—thehalfofthatmanuscriptstillliesinadustychest—theonlystorywasaboutMaryQueenofScots，whowasalsothesubjectofmanyunwrittenpapers。QueenMaryseemstohavebeenluringmetomyundoingeversinceIsawHolyrood，andIhaveahorridfearthatImaywritethatnovelyet。Thatanythingcouldbewrittenaboutmynativeplaceneverstruckme。Wehadreadsomewherethatanovelistisbetterequippedthanmostofhistradeifheknowshimselfandonewoman，andmymothersaid，’Youknowyourself，foreverybodymustknowhimself’（thereneverwasawomanwhoknewlessaboutherselfthanshe），andshewouldadddolefully，’ButIdoubtI’mtheonlywomanyouknowwell。’
’ThenImustmakeyoumyheroine，’Isaidlightly。
’Ageyauld—farrant—likeheroine!’shesaid，andwebothlaughedatthenotion—solittledidwereadthefuture。
ThusitisobviouswhatweremyqualificationswhenIwasrashlyengagedasaleader—writer（itwasmysisterwhosawtheadvertisement）onanEnglishprovincialpaper。AtthemomentIwasasupliftedastheothers，forthechancehadcomeatlast，withwhatweallregardedasaprodigioussalary，butIwaswantedinthebeginningoftheweek，anditsuddenlystruckmethattheleadersweretheonethingIhadalwaysskipped。Leaders!Howweretheywritten？whatweretheyabout？Mymotherwasalreadysittingtriumphantamongmysocks，andIdurstnotletherseemequaking。Iretiredtoponder，andpresentlyshecametomewiththedailypaper。Whichweretheleaders？shewantedtoknow，soevidentlyIcouldgetnohelpfromher。Hadsheanymorenewspapers？Iasked，andafterrummaging，sheproducedafewwithwhichherboxeshadbeenlined。Others，verydusty，camefrombeneathcarpets，andlastlyasootybundlewasdraggeddownthechimney。SurroundedbytheseIsatdown，andstudiedhowtobecomeajournalist。
CHAPTERIV—ANEDITOR
Adevoutlady，towhomsomefriendhadpresentedoneofmybooks，usedtosaywhenaskedhowshewasgettingonwithit，’Sal，it’sdreary，weary，uphillwork，butI’vewrastledthroughwithtougherjobsinmytime，and，pleaseGod，I’llwrastlethroughwiththisone。’Itwasinthisspirit，Ifear，thoughshenevertoldmeso，thatmymotherwrestledforthenextyearormorewithmyleaders，andindeedIwasalwaysgenuinelysorryforthepeopleIsawreadingthem。InmysparehoursIwastryingjournalismofanotherkindandsendingittoLondon，butnearlyeighteenmonthselapsedbeforetherecametome，asunlookedforasatelegram，thethoughtthattherewassomethingquaintaboutmynativeplace。Aboywhofoundthataknifehadbeenputintohispocketinthenightcouldnothavebeenmoresurprised。AfewdaysafterwardsIsentmymotheraLondoneveningpaperwithanarticleentitled’AnAuldLichtCommunity，’andtheytoldmethatwhenshesawtheheadingshelaughed，becausetherewassomethingdrolltoherinthesightofthewordsAuldLichtinprint。Forher，asforme，thatnewspaperwassoontohavethefaceofafriend。TothisdayI
neverpassitsplacardsinthestreetwithoutshakingitbythehand，andsheusedtosewitspagestogetheraslovinglyasthoughtheywereachild’sfrock；butletthetruthbetold，whenshereadthatfirstarticleshebecamealarmed，andfearingthetalkofthetown，hidthepaperfromalleyes。Forsometimeafterwards，whileIproudlypicturedhershowingthisandsimilararticlestoallwhofeltaninterestinme，shewasreallyconcealingthemfearfullyinabandboxonthegarretstair。AndshewantedtoknowbyreturnofpostwhetherIwaspaidforthesearticlesasmuchasIwaspaidforrealarticles；whensheheardthatIwaspaidbetter，shelaughedagainandhadthemoutofthebandboxforre—reading，anditcannotbedeniedthatshethoughttheLondoneditorafinefellowbutslightlysoft。
WhenIsentoffthatfirstsketchIthoughtIhadexhaustedthesubject，butoureditorwrotethathewouldlikesomethingmoreofthesame，soIsenthimamarriage，andhetookit，andthenI
triedhimwithafuneral，andhetookit，andreallyitbegantolookasifwehadhim。Nowmymothermighthavebeendiscovered，inanswertocertainexcitedletters，flingingthebundleofundarnedsocksfromherlap，and’goinginforliterature’；shewasrackingherbrains，byrequest，formemoriesImightconvertintoarticles，andtheycametomeinletterswhichshedictatedtomysisters。HowwellIcouldhearhersayingsbetweenthelines：’Buttheeditor—manwillneverstandthat，it’sperfectblethers’—’Bythispostitmustgo，Itellyou；wemusttaketheeditorwhenhe’shungry—wecannabeblamedforit，canwe？heprintsthemofhisfreewill，sothewiteishis’—’ButI’mnearterrified。—IfLondonfolkreadsthemwe’redonefor。’AndIwassoundedastotheadvisabilityofsendinghimapresentofalippieofshortbread，whichwastobehercraftywayofgettingroundhim。
Bythistime，thoughmymotherandIwerehundredsofmilesapart，youmaypictureuswavingourhandstoeachotheracrosscountry，andshouting’Hurrah!’Youmayalsopicturetheeditorinhisofficethinkinghewasbehavinglikeashrewdmanofbusiness，andunconsciousthatupinthenorththerewasanelderlyladychucklingsomuchathimthatshecouldscarcelyscrapethepotatoes。
Iwasnowabletoseemymotheragain，andtheparkseatsnolongerloomedsoprominentinourmapofLondon。Still，theretheywere，anditwaswithaneffortthatshesummonedupcouragetoletmego。Shefearedchanges，andwhocouldtellthattheeditorwouldcontinuetobekind？Perhapswhenhesawme—
Sheseemedtobeverymuchafraidofhisseeingme，andthis，I
wouldpointout，wasareflectiononmyappearanceormymanner。
No，whatshemeantwasthatIlookedsoyoung，and—andthatwouldtakehimaback，forhadInotwrittenasanagedman？
’Butheknowsmyage，mother。’
’I’mgladofthat，butmaybehewouldnalikeyouwhenhesawyou。’
’Oh，itismymanner，then!’
’Idinnasaythat，but—’
Heremysisterwouldbreakin：’Theshortandthelongofitisjustthis，shethinksnobodyhassuchmannersasherself。Canyoudenyit，youvainwoman？’Mymotherwoulddenyitvigorously。
’Youstandthere，’mysisterwouldsaywithaffectedscorn，’andtellmeyoudon’tthinkyoucouldgetthebetterofthatmanquickerthananyofus？’
’Sal，I’mthinkingIcouldmanagehim，’saysmymother，withachuckle。
’Howwouldyousetaboutit？’
Thenmymotherwouldbegintolaugh。’Iwouldfindoutfirstifhehadafamily，andthenIwouldsaytheywerethefinestfamilyinLondon。’
’Yes，thatisjustwhatyouwoulddo，youcunningwoman!Butifhehasnofamily？’
’Iwouldsaywhatgreatmeneditorsare!’
’Hewouldseethroughyou。’
’Nothe!’
’Youdon’tunderstandthatwhatimposesoncommonfolkwouldneverhoodwinkaneditor。’
’That’swhereyouarewrong。Gentleorsimple，stupidorclever，themenareallalikeinthehandsofawomanthatflattersthem。’
’Ah，I’msuretherearebetterwaysofgettingroundaneditorthanthat。’
’Idaresaythereare，’mymotherwouldsaywithconviction，’butifyoutrythatplanyouwillneverneedtotryanother。’
’Howartfulyouare，mother—youwithyoursoftface!Doyounotthinkshame？’
’Pooh!’saysmymotherbrazenly。