Cranford

I

My father has written of the memories connected with the writing of
books, and of the scenes and feelings which are printed on the pages,
quite other from those which they recount. And there are also the
associations of the readers as well as of the writers. One scene in
Cranford always comes back to me, not only for its own most pathetic
value, but because I saw my father reading it. I can still remember him
coming through the doorway just as I had finished the chapter, when not
without some agitation and excitement I put the close printed number of
Household Words into his hand. It was in the little dining-room of his
house in Young Street, by gas light, just before dinner-time. The story
was that of Captain Brown and he sat down and read it then and there,
and afterwards told me the writer’s name. But indeed I did not think of
it as a story at all, it seemed to me rather that I had witnessed some
most touching and heroic deed, some sad disaster, and though I was a
grown girl at the time I had a foolish childish wish for my father’s
sympathy, and a feeling that even yet he might avert the catastrophe.
Dear Captain Brown! in his shabby wig and faded coat, loved and