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I AM aware that this autobiography differs drastically in many respects from the memoirs which appear from time to time in volumes written by men and women who have been associated with the great and the famous, even as it differs from those recollections which appear in the popular press and have to deal with half-forgotten scandals and the better forgotten transactions of sometime millionaires.

Essentially it is the story of the poor, and of one atom that climbed out of the thick mud which clogs the feet of the battling millions. If it encourages one ambitious child to strive to eminence, if it helps make lighter the lot of one man or one woman and gives hope where there is no hope, it will not have been written in vain.

Incidentally, this little autobiography is in itself a tribute to the system under which we live. There cannot be much wrong with a society which made possible the rise either of J. H. Thomas or Edgar Wallace, that gave "Jamie" Brown the status of a king in Scotland, and put Robertson at the War Office as Chief of the Imperial General Staff.

We were the poor who were not satisfied with our poverty; the lowly who grew to the stature of our faith and are growing still, I hope.

I have sought nothing so illusory as "success"—rather have I found new footholds from which to gain a wider view, new capacities for gratitude towards my fellow-man, and a new and heartfelt sense of humility as, from my little point of vantage on the ever-upward path, I watch the wondrous patience and courage of those who are struggling up behind me.