probably dishonesty.-The glance is deceptive. The mother is honest, industrious and religious; but without work and without tact; moreover, she was raised in a slave state and learned inefficiency from her sugar-trough cradle. The eldest boy is in a bad way, it is true; for being out of work, he has fallen into the company of boys whose parents are bad, and is learning evil rapidly. He and his sister sleep so late this morning because they were up by turns through the night with a neighbor's child; however, they rarely rise before nine, having no work, and animal warmth being cheaper than fuel. The sister is by nature one of the most beautiful girls in the city; modest, intelligent, full of feeling; but slatternly, careless, and inefficient.

The father of this family has gone to that great receptacle of husbands and sons, known by the somewhat vague name of "down the river:" nothing has been heard from him for eight months.-This is probably, then, one of the deserted families. The mother goes out to wash-the elder daughter takes care of the younger children, one of whom is a cripple-the elder son works in brick-yards, tobacconist's shops, printing-offices, and when out of work runs the streets, and by intervals goes to school. For some days all have been out of work; they have no money, no meat, no bread;-a little lard, a few pounds of flour, a "drawing" or two of coffee, without milk or sugar,-behold their possessions! Rent is due, also, and wood fast drawing to a close. Friends on earth this family has not; but the mother has still her faith in God's Presence, and in his Providence. The power, the value of that faith, those of us who dwell not in the constant To that poor wopresence of want do not, cnanot, realize. man, God is no abstraction, but a living Father. He is not among the stars, but by her bed side. When the hour of great need, of hopeless need, almost, comes, her Bible and Methodist hymn book have a divine power in them, and her last crust becomes, like the five loaves in the desert-place, enough for a multitude.

But want of food is not so hard to bear as what followsthe temptation to forget want in whiskey;-the temptation to supply want by dishonesty,-by, what many tongues sug gest, the prostitution of that young girl. It is when we see the immense "purchase" which Satan has whereby to move such hearts, and look at the frequency with which he moves our own,- that we may learn tolerance for the vices of the poor. Let a man, or woman, fall down drunk in in the street, or be caught in a petty theft-lo! the refined pass

by in disgust and contempt; the worldly with a sneer; the vulgar stop and look on with a laugh. The pity without condemnation, without contempt, without derision,- such as becomes a Christian,-we seldom witness.

SECOND SCENE.

A room 23 by 18; 12 feet high; windows reaching to the floor; splendid curtains; sofas of rose-wood; pier-tables; mirrors; pictures; hanging and mantle lamps; seats of various kinds worked in worsted; a carpet into which the foot sinks half-way to the ankle. It is the edge of evening.Two old ladies sit, looking at the fire; one keeping time to an imaginary band of music with her foot. One young lady, near the window is engaged in running her eyes over Marryat's "Diary." From an adjoining room is heard that peculiar kind of uproar which commences towards dusk in a dinner party. A young man enters and throws himself, full length, on a sofa.

The door bell rings; servant enters and says there is a woman wishing to see Mrs. A., the same woman who called this morning. "Tell her to call to-morrow morning," says Mrs. A.-"Why not see her to-night, aunt?" says the young man. "Why! my dear John?" cries the second old lady, Mrs. B., "don't you know how many houses have been robbed of their cloaks, only just last week and within a month? To be sure the woman must come by daylight, and not in this kind of robbery way at midnight." John groans, gets up, and goes into the entry. He asks the poor woman her errand; she is after some work promised last week. John tells his aunt.-"Say she may call day after to-morrow-it isn't cut out yet," is the reply, which John transmits. The woman turns, goes to the door, hesitates, bites her lip, swallows her heart once or twice, opens the door, stops again, and turns round, looking downward, so as to hide her face, though it is too dark to see color or feature. John says to himself "Well, I do believe she's a thief, after all," and watches her narrowly. She asks, after another gulp or two, if she can have the halfdollar yet due her? John, fearing a trick, remains in the entry and calls to his aunt. The reply is heard indistinctly, mingled with renewed roars of laughter from the diningroom,-"Tell Mrs. Page," is the reply, "-call-pay herown leisure." Mrs. Page turns; John draws out a halfdollar, and, putting it into her hand, asks her place of residence. She tells him and departs. John walks once or

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twice through the entry, and then returns to his sofa. "Do you know that woman, aunt?-Oh! no; she's a poor thing. I give her work to keep her from pestering me; but it don't do." "She is not content with work," says John, "but wants money!-most unreasonable!" Mrs. A. does not understand, and yawns. The young lady rubs her eyes, and says Marryat's "a right fine fellow." Mrs. B. proceeds to remark how wicked it is to beg, instead of working; and how strange it is that the benevolent societies do not provide for the poor; and how wonderful it is poverty should be allowed. John begins to say something about "fellowmen, and fellow-Christians," but his aunt cuts him short by asserting that Mr. Page is neither man nor Christian."Why not Christian?" cries John.-"Because she told me herself she had never been to church for time immemorable.” "Did she say why!" "Oh! as usual, something about clothes; just an excuse of course. Every body knows a true humble Christian don't mind the like of clothes." The dinner party breaks up-eight men in the four hours having consumed as much (in cost) as would support a "poor family" of three or four the year round.

THIRD SCENE.

A small room in the suburbs, shed roof, no plastering on the walls. In a closet, a few plates and saucers neatly arranged-a bed smooth and orderly-a fire of saw dust-on some chunks of wood sit a man and two little girls,, of 8 and 10, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, looking up into their father's dim-seen face-he is telling them the story of Joseph.The door opens, and Mrs. Page enters; puts down her basket; kisses her children, who jumped up to meet her; turns down the bed-clothes to look at the sleeping baby; and then sits down by the fire. "No work, Edward," she says, sighing. "But you have the pay for the last?" "I have some bread, and some sugar, and your medicines; and paid up at the apothecary's." "Then we will thank God, and go to bed, and tomorrow pray for our daily bread again." An hour is spent in talk and prayer, and all go to bed.

FOURTH SCENE.

Mrs. Page's house; 9 A. M.-All clean and in order; breakfast over, floor scrubbed; Mrs. P. gone to get work, if possible.-John enters; hesitates; looks round; "Is this Mrs. Page's

house?" "It is." Asks for her; is invited to sit down; looks upon Mr. P. as an outlaw and ruffian, and prefers to stand. John inquires as to family, etc.; the two little girls come and take his hand at their father's bidding, John rather shrinking, as from young scorpions. Mr. Page tells his story; he was a carpenter; he hurt himself by a fall, and has been sick all winter. His wife has supported him. Has been visited by few; helped only by poor neighbors. One who visited them, "an excellent christian woman she was too," he said, had talked hard to his wife for ironing some clothes on Sunday morning for his children to go to Sunday school in, though she was up till ten the night before working; it had dispirited his wife a great deal. "Does your wife go to church?" asks John. "She has not had a shoe of her own for months," is the answer, "when she goes out she borrows a neighbor's, who can't lend them of a Sunday," John returns to his aunt's, with some new views of life.

FIFTH SCENE.

Front street, of a sunny day, early in January. A good looking young man is going from store to store, asking for work. Some have none; some ask his politics, and tell him he's served right for voting for Van Buren; some ask his name, condition, birth-place, etc. He is named John Scott; came from Cuyahoga county; has a mother and sister mainly dependent on him; worked all the summer and fall on one of the public works, and lost half his wages through some dispute between the company and contractors; has no home in Cincinnati, but puts up at D.'s, on Water street, when he can pay, and sometimes sleeps on the floor by the stove when penniless. Has no friend in the city, and no means of leaving it.

Finding no work, John leans against a post, and suns himself, and thinks of his poor mother's disappointment at receiving no letter from him. He fears to write, for he has no money to send, and is conscious of having misspent what little he has earned. His heart sinks, his blood grows bitter and savage; he would like to drown thought in drink, quarrel, any thing. A comrade touches him on the shoulder, "Liquor, John?" With a mad alacrity he joins the drinkers. Had the good Whig who rejected him for his vote, employed him, he might have saved a soul alive.

SIXTH SCENE.

A cold, snowy afternoon late in January; dusk is drawing near; men muffled up to the chin step along quickly, and remark through their coat-collars that it's quite a snow-storm; then drive on again, bending against the cold wind, with visions of hot rolls and buttered toast, of a cosy evening by the fireside, and a soft warm bed, in their minds. One of them is stopped by a man whose legs move under him as he stands, as if all his joints were of the ball-and-socket make; a large rent in the leg of his pantaloons reveals no under garment; another in the seat fails to discover a shirt; his teeth chatter; his whole frame quivers as in an ague; his fingers stand out like icicles. "Stranger," he says, "where can I get warm?" "Go home, go home, my good fellow," answers the other with mingled nausea and pity. "I have no home," growls John Scott, "I'm cold; I've slept out two nights; two nights by the watch, stranger. I'm cold, I tell you; I have not seen a fire for eight hours. As God made you, stranger, where can I get warm?" Two more gentlemen come up; stop; and one asks what the matter is. "Oh! the man's only drunk!" cries his friend, "come along, or the muffins will be burnt." They pass on-John Scott looks after them, and mutters something about their being burnt one day; while his eyes are wandering, the person first addressed, feeling unable to do any thing,. pushes for home. John, muttering curses, and prayers, and promises of amendment, staggers up the street. Soon after dark he was picked up from the middle of the street, (where two or three persons had poked him with their canes to see what the matter was, and concluded he was "only drunk,") and taken to a tavern by a young, chicken-hearted clerk, who was such an enemy to Temperance as to pity an intemperate man.

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SEVENTH SCENE.

A small, dark room, unplastered; the crevices of the walls pasted over with leaves from the Bible. A small fire of pine boards, (it is late in February.) Two men sit by a table, at some game of chance, by the light of a candle stuck in a knothole. One is John Scott, the other Mike Simmons. Mike was once a boatman, hale and handsome; he is still handsome, but dying of consumption; he was once honest, sober, industrious he is now a drunkard, gambler, idler, and lives by stealing logs from the saw mills, and lumber from rafts. He keeps a child at a pay school.