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 grudged for its cost. Such was her too common lot! Ten years ago, the poor dressmaker fagged out her life; fainting during her brief minutes of "rest;" standing when sleepy, while one, of more robust strength than her companions, stalked about the thronged and ill-ventilated work-room, till past midnight, touching those whose fingers relax, and whispering the warning sound—"Wake up—wake up!"

Need we prolong this list—this contrast, appalling yet glorious, of the present time with ten years ago? One more must be added to it presently.

Ten years have, indeed, wrought many and marvellous changes. A cry has been raised throughout the Empire, ; not by the oppressed, but for them! It was a righteous cry, and holy are the sympathies it has awakened; sympathies which convey our superfluous riches to that storehouse where neither moth nor rust can corrupt; convincing us that, while a closed heart is never happy, a hand open as day to melting charity, secures a mightier reward than the wealth of Crœsus can purchase!

There is, then, one newly-awakened sympathy to be yet added to the, of which, in preceding remarks, I have given only an abridgement. Ten years ago—nay, years ago—the poor woman or man, who had been stricken with  was left to perish. For her or for him there was literally "no hope." Every other ailment was cared for—might be "taken in time." But this terrible disease was, like the leprosy of old, or the plague in modern times—a signal for the sufferer to be deserted, abandoned in despair. Blessed be the God of mercy, such is not the case now; a "new sympathy," has been awakened, and, by the aid of a merciful Providence, it has spread widely! An establishment, hitherto conducted on a small scale, but hereafter to be in a degree commensurate with the, exists in this Metropolis, where the patient will not apply for help in vain. It is sufficiently notorious that nearly all the great projects which have given pre-eminence to this country, and have made it—as it has been, is, and, by God's help, ever will be—the envy and admiration of surrounding states, have been the births of private enterprise. It is so in science, in literature, in the arts, and, above all, in charity. Some one man, more thoughtful, more energetic, and more indefatigable than the great mass of his fellow men, stirs the hearts of others, sets himself and them to the great work of improvement, or mercy—and the thing is done. If we recur to the several leading public charities, we shall find that all, or nearly all, of them, have thus originated; the names of their founders have been handed down to posterity, and individuals, comparatively insignificant and obscure, are classed as benefactors to mankind, entitled to, and receiving, the gratitude of a whole people.

Thus the name of a poor player, whose monument is at Dulwich, has been made famous for ages; that of a humble sea-captain is identified with the preservation of