her had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though
poor.

So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to
being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived
respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference
between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But
for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably
and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace,
which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to
produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be
little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad
thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a
Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my
fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in
some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in
the management of the affairs of the world--if education was a benefit to
some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it,
any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I
did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her
mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could
turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the
perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no
means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that
it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it,
and--and--I felt myself getting into a maze. What is right, thought I?
what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every
action is bound up with necessity.

"Necessity!" I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints.

"Ah, it is a bad thing," said the old woman.

"What is a bad thing?" said I.

"Why, to be poor, dear."

"You talk like a fool," said I; "riches and poverty are only different
forms of necessity."

"You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother
a fool."

"You are not my mother," said I.

"Not your mother, dear?--no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put
me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool--and you just
now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip."

"After all, I don't know that you are not my mother."

"Don't you,