BY RUSSELL STURGIS, JR.

In the year of our Lord 1844, a young clerk, named George Williams, consulted with a few others and determined that something should be done to save the young men, who came by thousands to London, from the terrible temptations and snares to which they were exposed.  The old times had passed when the young man came to the city recommended to some friend who would feel a personal interest in him, either take him into his own house or find some good home for him; who felt responsible for him and bound to know where he went and with whom he associated; who often had him at his own board, if not regularly there, and who expected to see him in his family pew on Sunday.

[Illustration:  Old Building.[A]]

[Footnote A:  NOTE.—­The illustrations are furnished by the architects of the new building, Messrs. Sturgis and Brigham.]

Perhaps this state of things had, from necessity, ceased to be; perhaps the introduction of machinery and the employment of large numbers of young men in the cities made this personal relation no longer possible.  Whether possible or no, the fact remains that this close relation between employer and employed ceased.  There are, even now, some noble exceptions to this, as in the case of Mr. Williams himself, and the firm of Samuel Morlay and Company.

The young man to-day comes fresh from the pure air and clear lavish sunshine of his country home, where summer’s flower-decked green is a continuous feast, and winter’s glories a delight no less.  Whether upon the snow in sleigh, or hillside coasting, or the swift skate on the frozen river, or at evening’s cozy fireside before the blazing logs, all rejoice in simple pleasures, and prayer closes the day.  Dear country home, where every sound is ministry; the morning cock and cackling hen, the birds’ hopeful morning song, the twittering swallow, noon’s rest and healthy appetite, the lowing cattle, the birds’ thankful evening note, the village bell—­old curfew’s echo, the pattering on the pane, the wind in the treetops, the watchdog’s distant bark for lullaby, and quiet restful sleep; his greatest sports—­those of the evening village-green—­the apple bee, the husking, and the weekly singing-school.

He stands at evening gazing at the splendors of the blacksmith’s glowing forge, and in the morning says “good-by” to all, and starts upon his journey to the city.

Arrived, and having found employment, he works from a fixed hour in the morning till evening, then he goes home—­where?  ’T is all the home he has—­all he can afford:  a room, or perhaps a part of a room, on the upper floor of a tall house, in a narrow street—­houses all about—­the view all brick and slate,—­the sunshine never penetrates to him—­the air is close and heavy; not one attraction is there for him here.  But on his way from work he must perforce pass many a front, where the electric light casts its brilliant beams quite across the street.  Yes, this proprietor can well afford the costly allurement—­it pays—­a very wrecker’s light to lure to destruction.  Its baneful brightness makes day of that dark narrow street.  Within is warmth, companionship, music, wine, play,—­all that appeals to a young man’s nature.  What wonder that he turns in here rather than go on to his cold, dreary room.