experiences, at least the experiences of those not born to a great
name, could hardly be called flattering to their feelings. Indeed,
manuscripts suffer much humiliation, doubtless little suspected of the
world. And it requires a manuscript strong in the spirit of detachment
to lay bare its heart.

My parent--manuscripts commonly have but one parent--bore me great
love; indeed I think he loved me beyond everything else in the world.
He was a young man apprenticed to the law, but he cared more for me, I
think, than for his calling, which I suspect he decidedly neglected for
my sake. I know that in his family he was held a rather disappointing
young man; but his family did not know the fervour of his heart, or the
tenacity of purpose of which he was capable. He toiled over my
up-bringing for two years, and often and often into the very small
hours. I think I was never altogether absent from his thoughts, even
when he was abroad about his business or his pleasure. I was his first
manuscript--his first, that is, that ever grew up. And though I know
he was not ashamed but very proud of me, he attempted to keep my
existence something of a secret. I could not but feel that as I
developed I was a great happiness to him, and yet at times he would
give way to black discouragement about me. I know that I have passages
which caused him intense pain to bring about. Throughout the time of
my growth my dear parent alternated between periods of high exultation
and of keen torture. As time passed he became more and more completely
absorbed in me. When my climax came into sight he fell to working upon
me with exceeding fury, and in the construction of my climax it was
plain that he wrestled with much agony--an agony, however, which seemed
to be a kind of strange, mad joy.

And then one night (I remember a storm raged without) my parent came to