generation is probably the most thankless, profitless work that any
human being could undertake. The poor old man was burdened with a
heavy bundle of the worst literary trash of a religious kind ever put
out of a publishing house. He was to get twenty-five per cent. on the
sales; so he shouldered his kit, with his heart full of enthusiasm,
and began the summer journey on foot. He carried his diary with him,
and although the entries are very brief, they are to the point.

"August 29. Sold nothing. No money for bread or lodging. _God is
good._ Night came and I was _so_ tired and hungry. I went into a grove
and with a prayer of confidence on my lips, I went to sleep. A clock
not far away struck two. Then, rain fell in torrents and a fierce
wind blew. The elements drove me from the grove. A constable held me
up. 'I am a servant of God, dear friend,' I said. 'Why doesn't he give
you a place to sleep, then?' he answered. 'God forgive me,' thinks I
to myself, 'but that is the same unworthy thought that was in my own
mind.' I went into a building in course of erection and lay down on
some planks; but I was too wet to sleep."

Next day hunger drove him to work early. He was turned from one door
after another, by saints and sinners alike, until finally he was so
weak with hunger that he could scarcely walk. Then he became desperate
to a degree, and his diary records a call on another reverend doctor.

This eminent divine had no need for religious literature, nor had he
time to be bothered with beggars. Dowling records in his diary that he
told the minister that he was dropping off his feet with hunger and
would be thankful for a little bread and a glass of water. It seems
almost incredible that in a Christian community such things could
happen; but the diary records the indictment that those tender lips in