six o'clock in
the morning
Perhaps I have lived long enough -- longer than many a grey-headed man . There is a race of mortals who become Old in their youth , and die ere middle age . And might not those days of mine then have counted as months ? -- those days when , before starting forth to walk two miles to the shop at six o'clock in the morning , I sat some three or four hours shivering on my bed , putting myself into cramped and painful postures , not daring even to cough , lest my mother should fancy me unwell , and come in to see me , poor dear soul ! -- my eyes aching over the page , my feet wrapped up in the bedclothes , to keep them from the miserable pain of the cold ; longing , watching , dawn after dawn , for the kind summer mornings , when I should need no candlelight . Look at the picture awhile , ye comfortable folks , who take down from your shelves what books you like best at the moment , and then lie back , amid prints and statuettes , to grow wise in an easy-chair , with a blazing fire and a camphine lamp . The lower classes uneducated !