s trade. For marriage either time or inclination
had failed him, and, being now an old man, he felt a favourable
disposition towards me, and declared the intention of making me heir to
a considerable portion of his fortune provided that I showed myself
worthy of such kindness. The proof he asked was not beyond reason,
though I found cause for great lamentation in it; for it was that, in
lieu of seeking to get to London, I should go to Norwich and live there
with him, to solace his last years and, although not engaged in his
trade, learn by observation something of the serious occupations of life
and of the condition of my fellow-men, of which things young gentlemen,
said he, were for the most part sadly ignorant. Indeed, they were, and
they thought no better of a companion for being wiser; to do anything or
know anything that might redound to the benefit of man or the honour of
God was not the mode in those days. Nor do I say that the fashion has
changed greatly, no, nor that it will change. Therefore to Norwich I
went, although reluctantly, and there I stayed fully three years,
applying myself to the comforting of my uncle's old age, and consoling
my leisure with the diversions which that great and important city
afforded, and which, indeed, were enough for any rational mind. But
reason and youth are bad bedfellows, and all the while I was like the
Israelites in the wilderness; my thoughts were set upon the Promised
Land and I endured my probation hardly. To this mood I set down the fact
that little of my life at Norwich lives in my memory, and to that little
I seldom recur in thought; the time before it and the time after engross
my backward glances. The end came with my uncle's death, whereat I, the
recipient of great kindness from him, sincerely grieved, and that with
some remorse, since I had caused him sorrow by refusing to take up his
occupation as my own, preferring my liberty and a moderate endowment to
all his fortune saddled with the condition of passing my days as a
cloth-weaver. Had I chosen otherwise, I should have lived a more
peaceful and died a richer man. Yet I do not repent; not riches nor
peace, but the stir of the blood, the work of the hand, and the service
of the brain make a life that a man can look back on without shame and
with delight.

I was nearing my twenty-second birthday when I returned to Hatchstead
with an air and manner, I doubt not, sadly provincial, but with a lining
to my pocket for