of it. I did not complain of this, for I expected to work; but what made
my position almost unbearable was the constant habit of fault-finding in
which my employer indulged. He was dreaded and feared by all under his
roof. He was constantly on the watch for waste and expenditure
within-doors, and without there could never be enough done to satisfy
him; do your best, and he always thought you should have done more. As
I have before said, I was very fond of books, and I had counted upon
having my evenings at my own disposal that I might still do something in
the way of self improvement; but I soon learned that books were quite
out of the question in my new home. There was either corn to shell or
errands to perform; in short, there was something to keep me busy till
nearly bed-time every night. I used sometimes to think the farmer used
to study up something to keep me busy on purpose to keep me from study.
I believe my greatest fault in his eyes was my love of books. He was
entirely without education himself, which, (in a great measure)
accounted for his narrow and sordid mind; he looked upon any time
devoted to books or mental culture as a dead loss.

"What's the use of botherin' over books," he would often say; and would
often add in a boasting manner, "I don't know _a_ from _b_, and if I do
say it myself, where will you find a man who has got along better in the
world than I have done." If getting along well with the world consists
only in hoarding up dollars and cents till every feeling of tenderness
and benevolence toward the rest of mankind becomes benumbed and
deadened, then truly Mr. Judson _had_ got along remarkably well. His
door was but a sorry place to ask charity, as every one could testify
who ever tried the experiment. It was reported that a poor woman once
called at the house and asked for food. The farmer chanced to be from
home, and his wife, thinking he might not return for a time, ventured
to prepare a comfortable meal for the poor traveller; but, as fate would