n was not the first one, it was hardly even
a recent one; I should have to go back ages before Caesar's day to find
the first one. To save space I will go back only a couple of generations
and start with an incident of my boyhood. When I was twelve and a half
years old, my father died. It was in the spring. The summer came, and
brought with it an epidemic of measles. For a time a child died almost
every day. The village was paralyzed with fright, distress, despair.
Children that were not smitten with the disease were imprisoned in
their homes to save them from the infection. In the homes there were no
cheerful faces, there was no music, there was no singing but of solemn
hymns, no voice but of prayer, no romping was allowed, no noise, no
laughter, the family moved spectrally about on tiptoe, in a
ghostly hush. I was a prisoner. My soul was steeped in this awful
dreariness--and in fear. At some time or other every day and every night
a sudden shiver shook me to the marrow, and I said to myself, "There,
I've got it! and I shall die." Life on these miserable terms was not
worth living, and at last I made up my mind to get the disease and have
it over, one way or the other. I escaped from the house and went to
the house of a neighbor where a playmate of mine was very ill with the
malady. When the chance offered I crept into his room and got into bed
with him. I was discovered by his mother and sent back into captivity.
But I had the disease; they could not take that from me. I came near to
dying. The whole village was interested, and anxious, and sent for news
of me every day; and not only once a day, but several times. Everybody
believed I would die; but on the fourteenth day a change came for the
worse and they were disappointed.

This was a turning-point of my life. (Link number one.) For when I got
well my mother closed my school career and apprenticed me to a printer.
She was tired of trying to keep me out of mischief, and the adventure of
the measles decided her to put me into more masterful hands than hers.

I became a printer, and began to add one link after another to the chain
which was to lead me into the literary profession. A long road, but I
could not know that; and as I did not know what its goal was, or even
that it had one, I was indifferent. Also contented.

A young printer wanders around a good deal, seeking and finding work;
and seeking again, when necessity commands. N. B. Necessity is a
CIRCUMSTANCE;