through the city streets, where all I behold speaks of plenty, wealth, ay, even luxury and splendour— a beg gar, homeless, friendless, alone; I gaze with wistful face into the eyes of every passer-by, seeking one to whom I may appeal for bread. Hungry and fainting, I ask of some wealthy stranger, but he spurns me from him, and rudely denies me the poor pittance which I Who is he seek. Who am I, that I ask alms of him? that he should thus deny me? He is God’s steward entrusted with wealth and plenty, but only to be dis pensed again to necessitous fellow-men like me. He is God’s vicegerent, commissioned to feed His poor. have tempted him, and he falls. I have demanded of him the store with which God trusted him. and he has failed in his commission. For this act my mark is set on him; his lack of charity to me is a failure in his duty—a sign on him which shall remain forever. Un known by name yet in eternal destiny I am known to him as some one forever. We may never meet again I may look upon his face no more, but forever and forever he carries the stamp of my individuality through the temptation, to good or evil, which I became to him. “I pass on, and another gives me the alms which he has denied. We, too, part, perhaps forever, but the deed of kindness wrought on me can never die. Or that man’s fate my need has written mercy, and charity and through my agency there has a record gone up to heaven for him, and I have been the means. Though we may never more stand face to face on earth, yet in the great day of account, when God numbers up His jewels, that stranger’s deed wrought out through me, the beggar, shall be remembered. I am something then to him. And to both these strangers I am a part of destiny. “I pass on still further. There are curious eyes gazing upon me; there are inquiring lips, demanding of me my history; they give me neither alms nor scorn but they listen to my story, and in the organization of city life they cite me as an example—the pauper, and to them the representative of pauperism; they leave me to devise some schemes for remedying the condition of the poor, so that in all the reforms suggested by my condition, how much of consequence I have become to my kind! "I am no more the mere waif on the ocean of life. Society changes, and people think of and care for me. Though I know not my identity, yet I am one of those who form the sub-stratum of society. Beneath their feet my tears are falling; they tread upon my woes, and shape their pathways in my griefs. I am a motor in life’s noblest schemes of reformation, and when the world shall be made wiser, and society more equal, my name shall be found recorded in the series of causation. Pauper as I am, when night’s shadows fall around my way, I, like more favoured beings, seek some place of rest, and, no matter where I sleep or lay me down, be neath the tattered banner of my wretchedness and rags there cluster round me some who love or own me. Perhaps it is a father, mother, or relative; perhaps some poor companion, but some one there is who knows and cares for me, to help me; and beneath the ragged vest burns human love as tender as fills the heart which throbs beneath the silken robe. "No ! in my houseless wanderings I am not alone. There are loving eyes that looked upon my own in unconscious infancy; there are kind voices still to bid me welcome, though it be but to the shelter of the wayside ; there is ever some one to love me, and for me to love. I am something to my kind, and millions such as I exist; millions, that walk the city streets—some to love, and some to hate—but all to make some mark upon the eternal page of human destiny. "I pass on. I am now the toiling operative ; there are thousands of rough coats, and blistered hands, and breaking backs and hearts like mine. Who knows me among the masses, as I carry my hod, or wield my hammer, and toil from early dawn to sinking sun? Who cares for me? I am weary now, and seek my humble home, and as I go, I look upon the various buildings of the splendid city, the bridges, dykes, roads, and canals which my hands, or the hands of such as I. Why, I and mine have helped to form. Who am I? are the thews and sinews, nerves and muscles of the world, and through our veins rushes the tide of power which brings the result of perfected civilization. The do not write my name on the shining roll of fame, on emblazon it on monuments of bronze or stone ; but the world is rife with me, and temples of worship, galleries of art, lyceums of science and works of use, are monu mental tributes to my deeds and the deeds of such as I. We are all and each identities in the midst of masses; we can each say to the world, This I have done for you —what have you done for me? “ Let me enter my humble dwelling. Everywhere I see the good and use another’s hands have wrought the planks beneath my feet have been felled fron primeval woods, and sawed and laid down for my use the hands of toil erected the walls around me ; around me are the images of well-known faces which the sun god majesty of the heavens have traced for me—faces of loved ones, drawn by the magic finger of the sunbeam; the jet of flame which lights my humble home is a mighty gospel, written by God Himself; He laid the