It was the twilight hour, and we saw an old and deformed woman standing in front of St. Paul’s, asking alms. We happened to be in the mood just then, and tarried for a few moments to watch the charity of the world. Many, in the passing tide of human life, were to us unknown, but of the few that we recognized the following attracted our particular attention: First came a gentleman whom we knew to be a merchant of great wealth; and, as he approached the beggar, we surely thought that he would listen to her petition. But no—he was thinking of his last importation, or the sum total of his rents, and he passed on with these words as a donation: “You must go to the poor-house, my good woman.” We thought upon the days of darkness. Then came a scholar-like looking young man, whom we knew to be a struggler with poverty; but he approached the beggar with a smile upon his countenance, dropped a shilling into her withered hand, called for God’s blessing to rest upon her head, and resumed his way. My fancy now wandered to that blessed region where ever floweth the river of life. Next came an intemperate and selfish man. When the imploring look of the cripple met his own, he coolly frowned upon her, uttered a wicked curse, and reeled onward to a hall of sinful revelry. And now we pondered on the worm that never dieth. Finally came a little flock of boys and girls, returning from school. The woman smiled upon them, but spoke not a single word. The children knew her to be a beggar, and paused to talk with her a moment. She told them briefly the story of her life, and they were melted to tears. All the pennies that the children could raise were given to the woman; and each child, with an immortal jewel in its heart, passed on its way to receive a shower of kisses from its fond parents. And now our mind reveled in a dream of heaven-born loveliness. And now, by way of giving our readers an idea of _self-inflicted_ poverty, we will furnish them with a brief sketch of an old miser residing in the Empire city: