If it were one of those costly charities, so
called, whose yield of wool bears no sort of proportion to their
cry for cash, I very likely might have a word or two to say on the
subject. If its funds were lavished in patronage and show, instead
of being honestly expended in providing small annuities for hard-
working people who have themselves contributed to its funds--if its
management were intrusted to people who could by no possibility
know anything about it, instead of being invested in plain,
business, practical hands--if it hoarded when it ought to spend--if
it got by cringing and fawning what it never deserved, I might
possibly impress you very much by my indignation. If its managers
could tell me that it was insolvent, that it was in a hopeless
condition, that its accounts had been kept by Mr. Edmunds--or by
"Tom,"--if its treasurer had run away with the money-box, then I
might have made a pathetic appeal to your feelings. But I have no
such chance. Just as a nation is happy whose records are barren,
so is a society fortunate that has no history--and its president
unfortunate. I can only assure you that this society continues its
plain, unobtrusive, useful career. I can only assure you that it
does a great deal of good at a very small cost, and that the
objects of its care and the bulk of its members are faithful
working servants of the public--sole ministers of their wants at
untimely hours, in all seasons, and in all weathers; at their own
doors, at the street-corners, at every railway train, at every
steam-boat; through the agency of every establishment and the
tiniest little shops; and that, whether regarded as master or as
man, their profits are very modest and their risks numerous, while
their trouble and responsibility are very great.
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