“I do not deny,” he said, “that there are defects in our country.  What I say of them is this—­that they are incidental very much to an old country like our own.  Dr. Simpson knows very well, and so does every medical man, that when a man gets old he gets very infirm, his blood vessels get ossified, and so on; but I shall not enter into that part of the subject.  What is true of an old country is true of old men, and old women, too.  I am very much disposed to say of this young nation of America, that their teasing us with our defects might just get the answer which a worthy member of the church of Scotland gave to his son, who was so dissatisfied with the defects in the church, that he was determined to go over to a younger communion.  ’Ah, Sandy, Sandy, man, when your lum reeks as lang as ours, it will, may be, need sweeping too.’[J] Now, I do not deny that we need sweeping; every body knows that I have been singing out about sweeping for the last five years.  Let me tell my good friends in Edinburgh, and in the country, that the sooner you sweep the better; for the chimney may catch fire, and reduce your noble fabric to ashes.

“They told us in that letter about the poor needlewomen, that had to work sixteen hours a day. ’’Tis true, and pity ’tis ‘tis true.’  But does the law compel them to work sixteen hours a day?  I would like to ask the writer of the letter.  Are they bound down to their garrets and cellars for sixteen hours a day?  May they not go where they like, and ask better wages and better work?  Can the slave do that?  Do they tell us of our ragged children?  I know something about ragged children.  But are our ragged children condemned to the street?  If I, or the lord provost, or any other benevolent man, should take one of them from the street and bring it to the school, dare the policeman—­miscalled officer of justice—­put his foot across the door to drag it out again to the street?  Nobody means to defend our defects; does any man attempt to defend them?  Were not these noble ladies and excellent women, titled and untitled, among the very first to seek to redress them?”

I wish I could give you the strong, broad Scotch accent.

The national penny offering, consisting of a thousand golden sovereigns on a magnificent silver salver, stood conspicuously in view of the audience.  It has been an unsolicited offering, given in the smallest sums, often from the extreme poverty of the giver.  The committee who collected it in Edinburgh and Glasgow bore witness to the willingness with which the very poorest contributed the offering of their sympathy.  In one cottage they found a blind woman, and said, “Here, at least, is one who will feel no interest, as she cannot have read the book.”

“Indeed,” said the old lady, “if I cannot read, my son has read it to me, and I’ve got my penny saved to give.”

It is to my mind extremely touching to see how the poor, in their poverty, can be moved to a generosity surpassing that of the rich.  Nor do I mourn that they took it from their slender store, because I know that a penny given from a kindly impulse is a greater comfort and blessing to the poorest giver than even a penny received.