not remember. That period of my life seems
to have been all summer.

Had it not been for Mary's father I should
never have learned to read or write, for there
was no school in our neighbourhood. I do
not wish to speak evil ot my betters, but I
cannot think that our clergyman quite did his
duty to us. They said that he was very rich,
that he received a thousand pounds a year for
teaching us the way to Heaven, which he
certainly did so once a week in church, for it
was a very good sermon he preached—and
always the same.

But he never visited the poor unless they
sent for him when on their death-beds, for
his time was much occupied in country sports,
of which he seemed very fond. I suppose he
felt such amusements necessary to drive away
the monotony of his life, for there being no
gentlemen educated like himself within many
miles, he was without any companions but
the neighbouring farmers, and was perhaps
almost driven, for company's sake, to interest
himself in their pursuits. But I still think
he would have done his duty better had he
attended a little more to the poor, for religion,
which is a good deal to the rich, is everything
to them.

But the clergyman did not approve of
schools. One day Mary and I were sitting
in our favourite spot near the mill, both reading
out of the same book, when we were
startled by the voice of a lady who had come
close behind us without our hearing her. It
was the clergyman's sister then staying on a
visit at his house, who had come down with
him to the river to see him fish; and, on
rising, we saw him whipping the water at a
short distance from us.

"What are you reading, my dears?" said
she, taking the book from Mary's hand. "Oh,
the Pilgrim's Progress. Do you go to school?"

"No, ma'am."

"Not go to school! then how did you learn
to read?"

"Father taught us, ma'am," answered Mary,
who was the chief speaker.

"But why do you not go to school?"

Here her brother came up.

"School," said he, "school! I would not
have a school in my parish on any account.
If you educate the poor, you will make them
all infidels and Chartists, or Dissenters, which
is just as bad." And he took his sister off.

Doubtless, the clergyman was much better
informed on most points than I can pretend
to be, but I cannot help thinking that he was
wrong in this instance. If he had had more
experience among the poor I think he would
have altered his opinion, and I remember two
cases which seem to confirm this idea of mine.
One was Joe Smith, who used to declaim
against the wickedness of fox-hunting, and
when asked why he considered that amusement
incompatible with future salvation,
replied, that it was written in the Bible that
if any man would glory, he should glory in
the Lord, whereas foxhunters gloried in an
animal's tail! I do not think Joe Smith
would have talked such nonsense if he had
been able to read and write. The other case
was that of Tom Johnson, who left the Church
and joined the Jumpers, because on passing
the parsonage one Sunday morning he saw
the clergyman at his window desecrating the
Lord's Day by—shaving. It is almost needless
to say that Tom Johnson was "no
scollard." Our parson was one of the old
school. Since his day, I know that the clergy
know their duty and do their duty very
much better.

These days of dreamy happiness did not
last long, though the weakness of my frame
saved me several years of toil, and it was not
till I was twelve years old that I began to
help my father in his duties as a shepherd,
holding his salves when he "doctored" the
sheep, or helping the dog to keep them in a
corner.

I remember how proud I felt when I
received my first wages; and I was glad to
feel that I was of some use to my father and
mother. So for some time I was still very
happy, for my work was light, and I found
many opportunities of studying the books I
managed one way and another to pick up.
Mary, too, often kept me company while I
was watching the sheep.

But it was in the spring that I began to
work, and when summer and autumn had
passed, and winter set in, I began to feel the
real pain of labour. My work was in the
turnip-field, topping and tailing the turnips
for the sheep, and dragging the roots out of
the ground when they were eaten close. This
work was very severe in frosty weather when
the ground was dry and hard. I still took
every opportunity of improving my mind, but
the freshness, the romance, the spring of life
was gone for ever.

Years followed years; I hardly counted them,
every day was like the former one, all was
toil, toil, toil! Yet I was better off than my
fellow-labourers, for had I not the Sunday?
They too had that day to sleep and yawn over,
but to me every seventh day brought a far
greater pleasure than the mere respite from
labour; I had my books, and Mary to talk to
about them.

When I had reached the age of twenty-four,
my father was persuaded by a gentleman from
Louth to emigrate to America, taking the rest
of his family with him. They wanted me to
go too, and then it was that I discovered how
dear Mary was to me. Brought up as we had
been together, it seemed quite natural to me
that we should marry, and so, when I
mentioned the matter, it seemed to her. Then
came the question, whether she should go out
too, but I had read a book which set forth the
hardships of emigrants in so strong a light,
that I could not bear the thought of exposing
Mary to them. Would to God I had never
read that book!