ten the
event, must e'en confess that my story does not begin there. A like
adventure chanced often at the parsonage, and, at nine years of age, I
reigned king absolute over a nursery full of her Majesty's subjects who
called me brother, and quailed before my nod like Helots before the
crest of a Spartan. But, as I say, all that is neither here nor there
in my story.

Nor, in truth, is that grey September day, when, on the tail of a
country hay-cart, I rode tremulously at my dear father's side into
London; where, with much pomp and taking of oaths, I was bound
apprentice, body and soul, to Master Robert Walgrave, the printer, in
the presence of the worshipful Master, Wardens, and Assistants of the
Company of Stationers, who enriched themselves by 2 shillings 6 pence at
my father's cost, and looked upon me in a hungry way that made me
tremble in my bones, and long to be out of their sight before they
should order the bill of fare for their next feast. That was a day in
my life truly, but it was ancient history when my story begins. I had
grown a big lad since then, and was the king of Clubs without Temple
Bar, and the terror of all young 'prentices for a mile round, who looked
up with white cheeks when I swaggered by, and ran with their tails
between their legs to hide behind counters and doorposts till I was out
of sight.

No; nor yet does my story begin even at that sad day--alack!--when I
stood by my widowed mother at the open grave of him who had been the
pillar of our house and the pride of our lives. "Humphrey, my boy," she
had said as she placed her hand on my arm and led me, like one in a
dream, from the place, "it is God who has taken--He will surely also
give. Shall I count all lost, with a stalwart arm like this to lean
upon?" Then she kissed me, and I, for very shame, dried my eyes and
held up my head. Ah me! that was but a year before; the world had still
moved on, the grass covered his grave, and still my story lacked a
beginning.

How comes it, then, that this day in May, of all others, should stand up
like a wall, as I look back over my life, and seem to me the beginning
of all things? Perhaps this history may show--or, perhaps, he who reads
it may come to see that I was right when I said I could not explain it.

It was a great day in London, within and without Temple Bar; and for me,
if for no other reason, it was famous, because on that day, for the
first and last time, I saw the great Que