anged it,
and gave this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor man burst into
tears as I placed the sixpence in his hand, and said--"You are the first
friend I have met in London." I bade him farewell, and left him with a
feeling of regret that I could not place him beyond the reach of want. I
went on my way to the city, and while going through Cheapside, a streak
of light appeared in the east that reminded me that it was not night. In
vain I wandered from street to street, with the hope that I might meet
some one who would lend me money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and
fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when the great clock of St
Paul's Church, under whose shadow I was then passing, struck four. A
stroll through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was again pacing my
room. On my return, I found a letter from Worcester had arrived in my
absence, informing me that a party of gentlemen would meet me the next
day on my reaching that place; and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as
you will doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence had been
spent for postage stamps, in order to send off some letters to other
places, and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to the one last
from Worcester. The only vestige of money about me was a smooth farthing
that a little girl had given to me at the meeting at Croydon, saying,
"This is for the slaves." I was three thousand miles from home, with but
a single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is a man without money
more destitute? The cold hills of the Arctic regions have not a more
inhospitable appearance than London to the stranger with an empty
pocket. But whilst I felt depressed at being in such a sad condition, I
was conscious that I had done right in remitting the last ten pounds to
America. It was for the support of those whom God had committed to my
care, and whom I love as I can no others. I had no friend in London to
whom I could apply for temporary aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out
of town, and I did not know his address. The dark day was rapidly
passing away--the clock in the hall had struck six. I had given up all
hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and had just rung the bell for
the servant to bring me some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was
heard--the servant entered, and informed me that a gentleman below was
wishing to see me. I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The stranger
was my young friend Frederick Stevenson, son of the exce