day afternoon. ""Tis as good as anything you do," I woudl grumble, as I stole away out of his presence. As to his dress, my uncle Robert might have passed well as an object of charity among respectable persons. He delighted in still wearing a wornout fustian coat, which he never changed from Monday to Saturday, though it was often drenched with rain. The pockets were the only parts which he cared to keep in repair. On Sunday he was tolerably well dressed, but never seemed to know what to do with himself. To church he went, and, strange to say! he sometimes read the "Pilgrim's Progress" in the evening. What he made out of that book I cannot tell; for he never said a word about it; but I have since thought he must have had some good thoughts and feelings, now and then, under the rugged rind of his external behaviour, or he never could have wasted an hour's candlelight over that story, which every one may interpret so as to suit his own case. Yet I have thought, at other times, when feeling less charitably towards him, he must have construed Christian's adventures into an allegory on money-getting, or he never would have taken up the book twice. But this is all speculation. I must state the facts of his character fairly on both sides—if I can find two sides to it. Neither going to church, nor reading the "Pilgrim's Progress," taught him to be merciful; to give one penny more wages; or to lower his rents one farthing. If he believed in a heaven, he expected it to come by magic, with "hocus-pocus!" and "hey presto!" He had no notion of getting into it by improving the world as he passed along. Perhaps he thought that its enjoyment would depend, like earthly enjoyments, upon contrast ; and therefore he made, for all those around him and depending upon him, the night of life as black, dark, and cold as he could, that, at last, the breaking morning might be all the more welcome to the poor creatures. But just as I have written this, which seems rather severe, the thought occurs to me-No one ever taught him better he was brought up so he had nothing better within him-how could he make the world better?

This leads me to another thought-Who made that sad Robert's Fold such a miserable place? Ay, or seek out for me— commonplace moralist! dividing the world into Pharisees and Publicans, the very good and the very bad, the sources of the vice and woe in the most wretched lanes of London. Tell me how much of it may be ascribed to sins of omission on the part of the virtuous, the respectable ?-tell me how much of it may be

owing to the speculatists, and dogmatists, who have divided mankind into contending parties, instead of uniting them for the improvement of their own nature? But all my thoughts on this subject will be implied in my story; so I proceed with it.

In one of the houses in the Fold lived a poor widow with a large family of sons, from seven to seventeen years of age. The hut in which they were huddled together was in a wretched condition, and my uncle would do nothing to improve it; but he took the utmost possible rent, while he paid the poor woman (for she laboured in the fields) and her sons the lowest wages. Never did I feel so disposed, with all my heart, to hate a fellow-creature, as when I saw him, on a Saturday night, in winter, screwing the last halfpenny out of this poor widow, and overcharging her for milk, potatoes, and everything she had of him, while he knew that he was not leaving her enough for firing and subsistence. One of her sons he put in the stocks for stealing three turnips, and two of them have since been transported. For whose fault? I must tell the truth. My uncle knew that what he gave them was not sufficient to satisfy the cravings of hunger: when the eldest complained, he told him to seek employment elsewhere, but he knew that none could be found. After a while the eldest of the poor woman's sons ran away from Fordenton, and was never heard of until he was lodged in a jail. I have never lost the impression made upon my mind by the poor distressed mother. Care and hard labour had effaced all marks of female character from her person, but had left her feelings alive. When she heard of her son's arrest, she sat upon a low stool in her hut, swinging her body to and fro, clenching her hands and exclaiming :-"Oh, he would have been an honest man if he could-oh he would !—if he could have got work and wages-if he only could!-he never would have been there!" This was her cry all day long. I must come to my own case. My misery, while I lived (if I may call it life) in Robert's Fold, was such as no tongue can express, and I shall not torment you with its particulars. It is enough to say, literally and strictly, I had not so good a life as the house-dog. Every good faculty that I had was repressed and blinded. Every good feeling was poisoned, and I was filled with loathing and hatred. "Home!" I had none. I had no place to which I loved to go. I entered my uncle's house every night, when my toil was done, ate my food in sorrow, and crept, heavily, up the old dark staircase to a room without a window, where scarcely

But

ever a ray of light penetrated, to throw myself into forgetfulness. In the morning I sometimes felt instinctively cheerful for a few moments, before I remembered exactly where I was. Then, throughout the day, it was not the hard work that oppressed me, though it was continued from early in the morning till late in the evening;-no, it was not the bodily work-men have done more and happily-but it was the absence of every encouraging motive, of every cheering thought; it was the thanklessness" of all I did; it was the slavery of the soul which oppressed me. You may say, why did I not run away? I was a young man, and strong-why did I not seek another situation? Ah, sir, there is such a difference between theory and reality. The worst of my slavery was, that it had deprived me of hope. I saw the world all in the colours which this Robert's Fold had impressed on my mind. Where should I go? I knew not a better place. I had some recollections of having lived more comfortably with my mother; but she was dead, and I wished I had died with her.

I could not bear to look back upon this period of my life, if I did not consider that it has taught me, far better than any book could teach me, some lessons for the good of others. It has taught me, sir, that men are not to be paid for their labour in money or bread only! The labourer requires, as we all require, brotherly feelings, sentiments of mutual respect, to make him feel himself a man and live as a man. Who wants an equality of earthly riches among men? They must be poor earthly souls who would strive for such a low object. But an equality of honour and kind feeling for all who labour in the system of human existence-this is what we want, something to raise the head and encourage the heart of the poor workman, to make him feel that his fellow-men reckon him worth something. I have felt this want a thousand times, heavily, and I know I am not wrong in believing that it is the most pressing and degrading deprivation which the poor and the hard-toiling have to endure. Where is the religious law of "Honour all men?"

Another truth I have learned is, that to mend the thoughts and dispositions of men, you must mend their circumstances too. We are not angels. We are not sunbeams, equally pure in all places. You who look forth upon pleasant parks, from the windows of drawing-rooms, oh, it is so easy for any little book of poetry, or religious prose, to convince you that the world is a very pleasant place, that the Maker of it clearly designed all men to be happy;

but things have a different appearance when viewed on a dull winter's day, through the paper squares of the cottage windows in Robert's Fold, and many places like it. You who distribute tracts through the miserable lanes and alleys of our towns-your purpose is a good one; but remember that air and light, cleanliness and beauty, are God's good messengers; and contribute your endeavours to remove the gloomy, wretched places left upon the face of the earth by centuries of thought and action bestowed upon wrong purposes. If you would have the people believe in a heaven, show them a little of it.

But I must return to my story, though I wish to avoid it. The current of evil and miserable feelings between myself and my uncle was brought to a crisis by circumstances which I must now relate. During the winter evenings I was glad to hide myself in any of the cottages where still some human feeling was to be found. Several times my uncle expressed his displeasure at this conduct, by locking me out of doors. To one of the cottages I was often attracted by the presence of a good-natured girl, who threw something of a cheering light even over the miserable place in which she lived. There was no serious attachment between us; but I frequently visited the cottage to indulge in a little harmless talk, and to screen myself from the continual contempt and ill-will with which my uncle treated me. He expressed his resentment at my visits in every possible annoying way, threatened to turn the family out of the cottage, and to dismiss the brothers of the girl from his service, which he did. At last, on one occasion, he used an expression concerning my visits, which raised my anger to the highest degree. I gave him a violent and threatening reply, and, from that time, he treated me with still greater ill-will and severity. One night I came home much later than usual. He was sitting by the kitchen fire. I sat down and endeavoured to eat the crust of bread left upon the table for me. He proceeded with a strain of virulent abuse, until I dashed the bread upon the floor and vowed, vehemently, that I would never taste another morsel in his house. He repeated the exceedingly obnoxious expression. "Now don't say that again," I exclaimed, starting on my feet" don't say that again, if-if you would go to bed alive!' He repeated it, just as I laid hold of the barrel of an old gun which stood in a corner; and hardly had the words escaped his lips, when, with one blow upon the back of his head, or his neck, I prostrated him. The blow seemed to have hit me also.

I was stunned-a dreadful sound was ringing in my ears-a thick mist was before my eyes I knew not where I was till I found myself out in the field. There I stood in the middle of the wide pasture under the lowering sky; a few moments since, and I was miserable, but free from crime; now I was a villain—a murderer, not fit to live in the world!

"I have slain the old man! I am a murderer! he forced me to it!" said I, as I sought the covert of a wood; "and now let them take me and end my miserable days as soon as they please!" I added, as I threw myself down under the trees. I lay there for some time in all the agony of remorse and despair; but the first glimpse of morning light affrighted me. "To London!" flashed through my mind, and I bent my steps southwards with my utmost speed, taking the loneliest tracks over the moors, and never stopping save to quench my thirst at a spring, and to lave my face, until, at the close of the next day, I was more than forty miles from Robert's Fold. When it was quite dark, 1 approached a hamlet, entered a little shop, and bought a loaf; then, worn down with fatigue, found a few hours' sleep beside a hay-stack. Before daylight I started off again southwards. I had no clear idea of the object of my journey; but something drove me onwards, onwards there was no spot of the earth upon which I could rest. But how can I tell you the horrors of that journey to London! How can I make you understand the feelings with which I passed through villages and hamlets, and saw men and women, and heard little children laughing! They seemed to be in another world, far away from the world of despair in which my mind was imprisoned. How could they talk and laugh? it seemed to me so very strange. They were in heaven-I was in hell. Sometimes I thought, "Oh if this could be all a dream—if it could pass away-if I could once feel I had never done the deed-then the most wretched spot upon the face of the earth would be a paradise for me. Hard work! twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day; hard fare dry chips of bread, the refuse of a beggar's table-these would be luxuries to me; I should be in heaven with them, cowering from the cold wind and the rain in the most miserable hovel; I should be rich and happy as a king if this smothering load could be lifted from my bosom if this horrible thought would cease its pressure on my brain." Yet, in the night, strange to say (but it is the fact), my dreams were of indifferent things, and my uncle came to me in his usual dress, and set me my jobs of work for the next