journey would transport me into it. I had been there twice or thrice in
my life, but only for a few hours each time. I knew not a human face,
and was a stranger to its modes and dangers. I was qualified for no
employment, compatible with a town life, but that of the pen. This,
indeed, had ever been a favourite tool with me; and, though it may
appear somewhat strange, it is no less true that I had had nearly as
much practice at the quill as at the mattock. But the sum of my skill
lay in tracing distinct characters. I had used it merely to transcribe
what others had written, or to give form to my own conceptions. Whether
the city would afford me employment, as a mere copyist, sufficiently
lucrative, was a point on which I possessed no means of information.

My determination was hastened by the conduct of my new mother. My
conjectures as to the course she would pursue with regard to me had not
been erroneous. My father's deportment, in a short time, grew sullen and
austere. Directions were given in a magisterial tone, and any remissness
in the execution of his orders was rebuked with an air of authority. At
length these rebukes were followed by certain intimations that I was now
old enough to provide for myself; that it was time to think of some
employment by which I might secure a livelihood; that it was a shame for
me to spend my youth in idleness; that what he had gained was by his own
labour; and I must be indebted for my living to the same source.

These hints were easily understood. At first, they excited indignation
and grief. I knew the source whence they sprung, and was merely able to
suppress the utterance of my feelings in her presence. My looks,
however, were abundantly significant, and my company became hourly more
insupportable. Abstracted from these considerations, my father's
remonstrances were not destitute of weight. He gave me being, but
sustenance ought surely to be my own gift. In the use of that for which