Ay! there _is_ an eloquence in those words--an eloquence which touches the softer chords of the heart,--"The poor man enjoys"! Nobody more than Officer McWatters, the philanthropist, could appreciate the poor pensioner's letter. But is there not in that letter that which touches other chords than those of sympathy--the chords of justice in all decent souls? a sense of justice which regards with horror, and burns with indignation over, the wretched order of things, or disorder the rather, which creates these suffering poor? Very likely that pensioner, who tells us so touchingly of "a poor man's feelings," has done more for the world, created more for the good of his fellow-men, through his labor, in the form of agricultural products, necessary work of one kind or another, etc., etc., than all the millionnaires of New York together,--the mere cormorants, who fatten upon the toil of the laboring classes. Is it not a shame to our common humanity that a barrel of flour should, in any family, become a subject for their rejoicing? "How a poor man feels!"--in this world of wealth! in this age of Christian teaching! in this era of churches! Bah! it is enough, one would think, to make the apostles of the Nazarene arise from their graves, and seize the sword of Peter, to put an end to the villany which still enslaves the masses and keeps them poor. But we do not hear that they are disturbed, nor do we learn that there is pity anywhere in the universe for the poor, save in the souls of the poor themselves, and in those of a few philanthropists here and there. But that is well, for it is not pity which is to work the good reformation which must some time be wrought; it is justice, the justice which shall yet demand _rights_, and banish even the name of _privileges_; justice, with science as its means. All else has signally failed to achieve any great good.