# Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 1

SUSAN HOPLEY.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH INTRODUCES SUSAN TO THE GENTLE READER.
Worthy, excellent Susan! methinks I see her now, in her neat, plaited cap, snuff-coloured stuff gown, clean white apron, and spectacles on nose, plying her knitting needles, whose labours were to result in a comfortable pair of lamb's wool stockings for my next winter's wear, or a warm waistcoat for poor old Jeremy; or in something, be it what it might, that was to contribute to the welfare and benefit of some human being; and I believe, if it had so happened that the whole human race had been miraculously provided to repletion with warm ​stockings and waistcoats, that Susan, rather than let her fingers be idle and not be doing something for somebody, would have knit jackets for the shorn lambs and blankets for the early calves.
Excellent Susan I she is dead now; and sadly, sadly I miss her; for when by the death of my wife and the marriage of my children I grew a lone old man, she became my companion as well as my housekeeper. During the day, whilst I looked after my farm, or wandered over the fields with my gun in my hand, or wrote or read in my library, she was engaged with her household affairs, and superintending the servants; but with the tea urn, in the evening, came Susan, so neat, so clean, with her honest, benevolent face, which although it was not handsome, was the pleasantest face I ever looked upon; and whilst she made my tea—by the by, the flavour of teas is sadly falling off, I observe; it's nothing like what it was in Susan's time but whilst she poured me out the pleasant beverage, and sweetened it exactly to my taste-it's very odd; one would think a man ought to know his own taste, but I always put in too much sugar or too little; and in trying to repair the error, I regularly make things worse but as I was saying, whilst she presided at ​my tea table, or plied her knitting needles, sometimes I read aloud, but more generally we used to talk over old times and past adventures and pleasant chat it was! Some people, if they had listened to us, might have thought there was a sameness in our conversation-a repetition of old stories, but they ever wearied us; I think I liked them better every night; and so did she.
At length, one evening, it occurred to us that what amused us so much, might perhaps amuse other people. "Suppose, we write our histories," said I, "Susan; I think we could make out three volumes of adventures before we settled down into this quiet life, which furnishes nothing to tell. In the evening, we can collect our materials and arrange our plan; and on wet days, when I can't get out, I'll put it all on paper: and we shall then be able to judge how it reads. I've a notion it wouldn't be a bad story. The world don't want extraordinary events, and improbable incidents, to amuse it now. They have found out that, 'the proper study of mankind is man;' and he who can paint real life and human nature, has the best chance of being read. It has often been said that few biographies would be uninteresting, if people would or could disclose the exact truth ​with all its details. Let us make the experiment, and relate simply without addition or subtraction the events of our early years. Nearly all are dead now who would be pained by the disclosures; and we have but to conceal the names of places and of people, and wait a few years, and perhaps when you and I are both gone, some kind friend may revise our manuscript, and give it to the world; and we may thus, by furnishing our quota to the amusement of mankind, pay back some part of the pleasure we have derived from the excellent tales that have cheered our evening fire-side."
Susan liked the idea; and accordingly we lost no time in putting our plan into execution. Whether the result of our labours will ever see the light—whether it will be considered worth publishing "by the trade," or worth reading by the public, is more than I can foresee; but this I know, that the occupation it furnished, afforded Susan and myself many a pleasant hour; and that come what may of it, it will not be all lost labour.
HARRY LEESON.