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 excellent minister of the Borough Road Chapel.  I had lectured in this chapel a few days previous; and this young gentleman, with more than ordinary zeal and enthusiasm for the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for me, had gone amongst his father’s congregation and sold a number of copies of my book, and had come to bring me the money.  I wiped the silent tear from my eyes as the young man placed the thirteen half-crowns in my hand.  I did not let him know under what obligation I was to him for this disinterested act of kindness.  He does not know to this day what aid he has rendered to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I am but discharging in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to this young gentleman, in acknowledging my obligation to him.  As the man who called for bread and cheese, when feeling in his pocket for the last threepence to pay for it, found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed, countermanded the order for the lunch, and bade them bring him the best dinner they could get; so I told the servant when she brought the tea, that I had changed my mind, and should go out to dine.  With the means in my pocket of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down to dinner at the Adelphi with a good cut of roast beef before me, and felt myself once more at home.  Thus ended a dark day in London.