of trade,
or the accidents of life. It not only breaks down the bulwarks of
independence, but the outposts of virtue itself.

Large sums of money are left by rich men to found "Charities." They wish
to do good, but in many cases they do much moral injury. Their
"Charities" are anything but charitable. They destroy the self-respect
of the working-classes, and also of the classes above them. "We can get
this charity for nothing. We can get medical assistance for nothing. We
can get our children educated for nothing. Why should we work? Why
should we save?" Such is the idea which charity, so-called, inculcates.
The "Charitable Institution" becomes a genteel poor-house; and the
lesson is extensively taught that we can do better by begging than by
working.

The bequeathment of Stephen Girard, the wealthy American merchant, was
of a different character. Girard was a native of Bordeaux. An orphan at
an early age, he was put on board a ship as a cabin boy. He made his
first voyage to North America when about ten or twelve years old. He had
little education, and only a limited acquaintance with reading and
writing. He worked hard. He gradually improved in means so that he was
able to set up a store. Whilst living in Water Street, New York, he fell
in love with Polly Luna, the daughter of a caulker. The father forbade
the marriage. But Girard persevered, and at length he won and married
Polly Lum. It proved a most unfortunate marriage. His wife had no
sympathy with him; and he became cross, snappish, morose. He took to sea
again; and at forty he commanded his own sloop, and was engaged in the
coasting trade between New York, Philadelphia, and New Orleans.

Then he settled in Philadelphia, and became a merchant. He devoted his
whole soul to his business; for he had determined to become rich. He
practised the most rigid economy. He performed any work by which money
could be made. He shut his heart against the blandishments of life. The
desire for wealth seems to have possessed his soul. His life was one of
unceasing labour. Remember, that Girard was unhappy at home. His nature
might have been softened, had he been blessed with a happy wife. He led
ten miserable years with her; and then she became insane. She lay for
about twenty years in the Pennsylvania hospital, and died there.

Yet there was something more than hardness and harshness in Girard.
There was a deep under-current of humanity in him. When the yellow fever
broke o