It cost a halfpenny or a penny a month, and
always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale about the
dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown and
I suppose never seen in my native town. This romantic little
creature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot eat water-
cress even now without emotion. I lay in bed wondering what she
would be up to in the next number; I have lost trout because when
they nibbled my mind was wandering with her; my early life was
embittered by her not arriving regularly on the first of the month.
I know not whether it was owing to her loitering on the way one
month to an extent flesh and blood could not bear, or because we
had exhausted the penny library, but on a day I conceived a
glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my mother, then
desirous of making progress with her new clouty hearthrug. The
notion was nothing short of this, why should I not write the tales
myself? I did write them - in the garret - but they by no means
helped her to get on with her work, for when I finished a chapter I
bounded downstairs to read it to her, and so short were the
chapters, so ready was the pen, that I was back with new manuscript
before another clout had been added to the rug. Authorship seemed,
like her bannock-baking, to consist of running between two points.
They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who writes of
adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their like
in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert islands,
enchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on black
chargers, and round the first corner a lady selling water-cress.
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