succeed in his purpose, so he drank it himself and threatened, using fearful imprecations, that if I ever said a word about it he would kill me on the spot. I don't think I should ever have said anything about it, but thieves are generally great fools. Jim in his greedy haste did not turn the tap back as it was before, so that there were a few drops on the pavements. The dipper, also, was wet and smelled of cider. So Mr. Greenham accused him, but Jim began to call God to witness that he was as innocent as a dove, and he had the impudence to refer to me to prove his honesty. The master asked me and I told him the simple truth, knowing full well that I should catch it soon. As soon as Jim's guilt was discovered beyond dispute, he began to shed crocodile tears, and to lament and beg pardon in such a humble and seemingly contrite manner that the master's eyes were blinded, and he forgave him there and then.

The next day we went into a field to plough, and now my punishment began. Jim belaboured me with the horsewhip as long as he felt disposed. He knocked me down and tried to jerk the breath out of my body. Then he wrenched my mouth open with a large nail and filled it with dirt. He allowed me to get on my legs again and resume ploughing for a time, but he soon began on me again. He struck me down and kicked me, and danced upon me, till I felt very faint and ill with loss of blood. I really thought my end had come, and I felt very glad. It may seem rather paradoxical, but that moment was the happiest moment of my life. I thought of dear Miss Brown, and her teachings: "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." All these and other precepts flashed into my mind, for I knew it was out of envy that I was so cruelly used. But somehow I refused to die at his bidding, so Jim waited for another time to try and send me out of the world as if by accident.

One of the horses was exceedingly ticklish when touched in a certain way upon its backbone, and could not bear to be touched on this particular spot with a curry comb, and sometimes when so irritated would let fly with both heels at once. So on the morning following the last punishment Jim set me to clean some portion of the harness, and made me stand in a certain position directly behind the ticklish horse. There I worked away without any idea that mischief was brewing. Jim, however, had laid all his plans, and if they had succeeded and I had been killed, he would have been found blameless. There was an open window to the stable exactly opposite and close to the ticklish horse, so that a man outside, by standing on a ledge of the wall, could put his hand through and touch the horse's back. I heard the horse make a noise, and on looking up saw Jim's head outside the window, and his hand upon the horse's back. At the same moment the horse let fly, and one of his heels came against my left side and sent me dashing against the wall. I knew no more until I found myself in bed with my mother crying and washing the blood from my hair and face, and felt a great pain in my hip, where the horse's hoof struck. There was also a big scar on my head where I was knocked against the wall. I can only account for not having been finished off that time by the fact that the horse did not kick when it was first touched, but began to prance about, which arrested my attention and I moved close to his heels. If I had been a little further off his heels would have struck my head or the upper part of my body and I should not have been here to write.

After lying in bed about a week, where I cogitated and wondered for what earthly purpose I was born, I had to go back under this fiend again. Every other place in the parish was filled and my parents could not afford to keep me in idleness, so there was nothing for it, but to go back to work again as soon as possible.

A few days after this the very same horse got restive in a field where we were and turned over a cartload of manure upon poor Jim. I thought he was killed, in fact for a moment I hoped he was killed. But immediately I would have given worlds to have called back the thought. Miss Brown's words came upon me, quick as a lightning flash, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." Other of her precepts came strongly into my mind, and I shook with fear, for I had learned that to wish a man dead amounted to the same thing as killing him. Therefore, I felt that I had committed a most grievous sin, and I cannot express the joy I felt when I saw Jim crawl out from under the cart unhurt. He began to curse and swear at the horse and me, saying it was all my fault, whereas it was his own fault, as in harnessing the horse he had negligently left the buckle of a strap under the cartsaddle, so that the buckle rested exactly upon the backbone of the horse and caused him to be restive.

I was under Jim's control for five years—years of my childhood, which I ought to be able to say were the happiest of my life. But they were just the reverse, and if I stated all that I suffered at his hands, no sane person would believe that such things could have been done with impunity.

Not many years ago Mrs. Beecher Stowe shocked the refined feelings of the civilized world with her graphic account of the sufferings of the negro slaves in the United States of America. I cannot write my history in the shape and manner of a novel, with its parts and counter-parts, but what I have written are some of the main facts and features of my boyhood life. Some people, those who have passed smoothly through their childhood, and have scarcely known sorrow, may ask whether it is possible that such things could have been done in England? My answer to this is, yes. It was not the parents, but the age that was to blame, as may be learnt from some of the works of Charles Dickens, and other writers who have given pictures of the period. I know that my brothers could write a parallel history, and they were not under the hands of so complete a blackguard as it fell to my lot to be under.

When the season for ploughing was over I used to get a few weeks' relief from the hands of my tormentor. During such times I was sent into the fields minding sheep. These were days of pleasure and happiness. I had to work hard, but toil was a pleasure as long as I had no one to abuse and ill-use me. I was the happy possessor of a tattered Testament, and I used to read from its torn pages. It began at the words, "Let not your heart be troubled," and ended with the twenty-seventh chapter of the Acts. I read the first and last chapters more than all the rest, and really knew them all, every word.

Now dear old Mr. Cornwall used to come out in the fields and find me out and ask me questions about Scripture history, and I believe I used to answer him to his satisfaction for he called me a good boy. As far as I know it was the first time I had been called a good boy except by my mother, and I fancy I grew an inch taller all at once and that his calling me a good boy had a very strong influence in making me try to be good; but whenever he talked to me my conscience pricked me relative to old George Pant's wig. I never could forgive myself for stealing it, and would have confessed to Mr. Cornwall concerning it, but I thought he would tell my father, and I did not want an extra thrashing.

I used to leave work at six o'clock, and Mr. Cornwall told me that if I would come to the parsonage and pull up the weeds in his garden path he would give me a shilling. The idea of having a whole shilling, all in a lump, frightened me. I had never possessed a coin of the realm above the value of a