bed early, and that thus the horrors of the Sabbath were in my case
abbreviated. The older members of the family sat in a silent semicircle
round the smouldering fire, each holding, and some possibly reading, a
book, the suitableness of which for use at such a time was beyond
question. The Bible, the metrical version of the Psalms, and one or two
volumes of discourses by divines of undoubted orthodoxy, formed the only
literature recognised on these occasions. For myself, I had brought with
me from home a copy of the delightful, though now forgotten, book called
"Evenings at Home." and my Sabbatical sufferings were intensified by the
sight of this volume on a high bookshelf, where it remained beyond my
reach from Saturday night till Monday morning.

My life among these grave, elderly men and women would probably have been
a sad one but for one fact. Adjoining my grandfather's residence was a
small printing office, which he had established some years before for the
benefit of a widowed daughter-in-law. A door opened from the house into
the printing office, and through it I would steal whenever I got the
chance. It was not only that the journeyman printer (there _were_
journeymen in those days) was the kindest of men, whose memory I cherish
with affection to this hour, and who never failed to welcome me with a
smile and a pleasant word when I invaded his domain. The place had a
charm of its own for me, mysterious, inexplicable, but absolutely
enthralling. The cases of type, the presses, the ink-rollers, the damp
proof-sheets--chiefly of bills announcing public meetings or the "roup"
of some bankrupt farmer's stock--filled me with wonder and delight. Child
as I was, I saw in these humble implements of the petty tradesman the
means by which one mind can place itself in contact with many.

It is not to be supposed that I had even the dimmest perception of
anything beyond the most obvious features of the printer's business, but