had severally made representations to
which my father thought it best to listen. I had no festivities at any
rate for my poor coloured people; and it made my own holidays a very
shaded thing.

I found, however, this winter one source of amusement, and in a measure,
of comfort. In the bookcases which held my grandfather's library, there
was a pretty large collection of books of travel. I wanted to know just
then about Egypt, that I might the better in imagination follow my father
and mother. I searched the shelves for Egypt, and was lucky enough to light
upon several works of authority and then recent observation. I feasted on
these. I began in the middle, then very soon went back to the beginning,
and read delightedly, carefully, patiently, through every detail and
discussion in which the various authors indulged. Then I turned all their
pictures into living panorama; for I fancied my father and mother in every
place, looking at every wonder they described; and I enjoyed not merely
what they described, but my father's and mother's enjoyment of it. This
was a rare delight to me. My favourite place was the corner of the study
fire, at dusk, when lessons and tiresome walks for the day were done, and
Miss Pinshon was taking her ease elsewhere in some other way. I had the
fire made up to burn brightly, and pine knots at hand to throw on if
wanted; and with the illumination dancing all over my page, I went off to
regions of enchantment, pleasant to me beyond any fairy tale. I never cared
much for things that were not true. No chambers of Arabian fancy could have
had the fascination for me of those old Egyptian halls, nor all the marvels
of magic entranced me like the wonder-working hand of time. Those books
made my comfort and my diversion all the winter. For I was not a galloping
reader; I went patiently through every page; and the volumes were many
enough and interesting enough to last me long. I dreamed under the Sphynx;
I wandered over the pyramids; no chamber nor nook escaped me; I could have
guided a traveller--in imagination. I knew the prospect from the top,
though I never wrote my name there. It seemed to me that _that_ was
barbarism. I sailed up the Nile--delightful journeys on board the Nile
boats--forgetting Miss Pinshon and mathematics, except when I rather
pitied the ancient Egyptians for being so devoted to the latter; forgetting
Magnolia, and all the home things I could not do and would have liked to
do; forge