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man who lay before him on a miserable bed, scorched with burning fevers, and unprepared to meet his God, "be ye fed and be ye clothed," and at the same time withhold his hand from giving, and expect the poor man to listen to the voice of his admonition and prayer. He could not behold the widowed mother upon a bed of long continued illness, while her perishing babes were by her side, crying for bread, and attempt to speak to her of the necessity of making a preparation to meet God, before he had relieved the wants of herself and little ones. Ah! no. Hard, indeed would be the heart that could look upon such scenes as he has witnessed, and not be moved to compassion. He communicated these facts to the Board, which immediately resolved to raise a poor fund. And how nobly were its appeals met by a generous public; to which, in connection with those generous hearted editors, whose assistance has been so valuable, we would return our most sincere and heartfelt thanks.

But, how shall we find words to express the gratitude that is due to Almighty God, for the success which has crowned our humble efforts, to extend his kingdom and better the condition of our neighbors, since then? If we did a little towards accomplishing these objects before, how much more are we enabled to do now. How many poor, degraded creatures, bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh, have we been instrumental in raising to a respectable position in society! How many sorrowing hearts have we been enabled to make glad, by the unexpected, but timely visit of our missionary. And how many little starving, freezing children have we been enabled to feed and warm.

Will you go with us to yonder dark and dreary alley? Behold before you a tottering and dilapidated dwelling. Let us enter. Every thing around, though neat and clean, bears

marks of the most pinching poverty. Before you is stretched, upon a miserable bed, the poor victim of that fell destroyer -consumption. The affectionate companion of his joys and sorrows, hangs over him in tears, worn down with long continued watching and hunger; while his little boy and girl are hanging on the sides of his bed, crying for something to eat. Ah! what anguish fills that poor man's heart. It has not always been so with him. Once he had a comfortable home, and he could look upon his little family with joy. But alas! that rapacious disease, which has fastened itself upon him, has so long preyed upon his manly and athletic frame, that all his comforts have gradually vanished. And now there appears to be not even a kind friend left to smooth his pillow, to lessen the burden of his wife, or to hush the cries of his little ones. But hark! there is a knock at the door, and some one enters that abode of sorrow. It is the Home Missionary. He inquires into the circumstances of the family, and finding them to be in the greatest distress, supplies their present wants. He converses with them upon the subject of religion-offering them its consolations and finding them not possessed of it, urges them, in the most kind and persuasive manner, to embrace it at once. They are much affected. He prays with them, and departs with the intention of calling again, after he ascertained more about them, to render further assistance. Oh! what a change is wrought upon that little group, by that short visit of the messenger of love and mercy. Comparatively speaking, all is now happiness, where, but a few moments ago, dwelt nothing but sorrow.

many touch

This is no fancy sketch, but only one of the ing scenes of wretchedness that our missionary, (or some member of the Board,) has been called upon, in his walks, to witness daily.

The ribald songs are now no longer heard along the shores of the Schuylkill. Of a calm summer evening, a chorus of voices send forth the following beautiful Hymn, written by Bishop Heber.*

From Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain !

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Java's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile:

In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strewn,
The Heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone!

Can we, whose souls are lighted

With Wisdom from on high,
Can we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd Messiah's name!

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransom'd Nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign!

* Before he knew what was to be his last high destiny on earth, and ere he left the shores of England, he had breathed the secret aspirations of his piety in a Hymn before a collection made for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

Such are a few of the blessings, which have fallen upon

the dark and the sorrowing portions of our earth, and have we not cause to exclaim:

Salvation! oh, Salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd Messiah's name!



So much has been written about the crimes and mysteries of great cities, with appalling descriptions of vice; and the localities of her votaries painted in such horrific colors, that the mind starts back from the mere contemplation of the scene, and is at last led to doubt a description which does not bear upon its front the least tint and shadow of truth. Many of these works, the origin of which can be traced to the licentiousness of the French press, have been got up in our midst for no other reason than to cater for, and pander to a depraved appetite. Rich and poor are commingled together, vice and virtue dished up as delicate morsels for the gourmand, and the human passions played upon as if they were a part and portion of the entertainment. Youth, that season of life, on whose sacred ground even vice is fearful to tread, becomes the medium through which these monstrosities are made to sell, and the publisher is at times, an innocent accessory to the promulgation of vice in its most attractive form. Indecent words, and exciting descriptions of life, so

called, are nothing compared to the plates which accompany them, and not unfrequently the latter are introduced throughout a work, to which the reading has no connection or allusion. If it were not to insult the reader, the names of these books would be given.* The chaste and beautiful productions of our gifted writers, are set aside for such works as we have alluded to. We must have some standard whereby our literary character, and the morality of the press can be judged. Are there not men of sufficient moral courage in our midst, to raise their voices in high places, against an abuse which if permitted to exist, will not only bring ruin, but disgrace, upon the literary character of our country. That vitiated taste, a taste created to gratify the insatiate maw for such things, has given rise to a series of romances, so called, which we are fearful, will give our youth a foretaste of that dyspeptic feeling which now racks and tortures the whole moral system of our literature.

Have we not arrived at that fearful epoch in our literary history? and one which fully justifies us in raising our voice in defence of our youth, and the advocacy of a more chaste and classical style of writing, giving it more of the coloring of divine truth, and strive to render the pages of our books like unto virtue, pure and unsullied. Erect a standard on a moral basis, then will the sense come out from their leaves, like perfume from a bed of violets.

We do not, be it understood, condemn romance, for we look upon it as a playful ripple of the imagination on the lake of truth, passing away, and sparkling o'er the stream like the short lived meteors of the night. Romance may

adorn, but it cannot beautify truth.

Deity, the other the creation of man.

One is the creation of

The one lives in the

* To the credit of Philadelphia publishers be it said, such a thing has never occurred to the knowledge of the author.

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