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that so moves my compassion as on a cold winter morn. ing to see one of these newsboys, a fourth clad, newspa pers on his arm that he cannot seem to sell, face or hands bleeding from a fall, or rubbing his knee to relieve it from having been hit on the side of a car, as some "gentleman," with furs around his neck and gauntlets lined with lamb's wool, shoved him off, saying: “You miserable rat!" Yet hawking the papers through the streets, papers full of railroad accidents and factory explosions, and steamers foundering at sea in the last storm, yet say. ing nothing, and that which is to him worse than all the other calamities and all the other disasters, the calamity that he was ever born at all. Flash the police lantern around, and let us see these poor lads cuddled up under the stairway. Look at them! Now for a little while they are unconscious of all their pains and aches, and of the storm and darkness, once in awhile struggling in their dreams as though some one were trying to take the papers away from them. Standing there I wondered if it would be right to wish that they might never wake up.
. God pity them! There are other regiments in this reserve corps--regiments of rag-pickers, regiments of match-sellers, regiments of juvenile vagrants. Oh! if these lads are not saved, what is to become of our cities?
But I said to the detective, “I have had enough of this to-night; let us go.” But by that time I had lost the points of the compass, for we had gone down stairways and up stairways, and wandered down through this street and that street, and all I knew was that I was bounded on the north by want, and on the south by squalor, and on the east by crime, and on the west by despair. The fact was that everything had opened before us; for these detectives pretended to be searching for a thief, and they took me along as the man who had lost the property!
The stratagem was theirs, not mine. But I thought coming home that rainy night, I wished I could make pass before my congregation, as in a panorama, all that scene of suffering, that I might stir their pity and arouse their beneficence, and make them the everlasting friends of city evangelization. “Why," you say, "I had no idea things were so bad. Why, I get in my carriage at Forty-fifth street and I ride clear down to my bankinghouse in Wall street, and I don't see anything." No, you do not want to see! The King and the Parliament of England did not know that there were thirty-six barrels of gunpowder rolled into the vaults under the Parliament House. They did not know Guy Fawkes had his touch wood and matches all ready-ready to dash the Government of England into atoms. The conspiracy was revealed, however. I tell you I have explored the vaults of city life, and I am here this morning to tell you that there are deathful and explosive influences under all our cities, ready to destroy us with a great moral convulsion. Some men say: "I don't see anything of this, and I am not interested in it.” You ought to be. You remind me of a man who has been shipu recked with a thousand others. He happens to get up on the shore, and the others are all down in the surf. He goes up in a fisherman's cabin, and sits down to warm himself. The fisherman says: “Oh! this won't do. Come out and help me to get these others out of the surf.” “Oh, no!” says the man; “it's my business now to warm myself.” “But,” says the fisherman, “these men are dying; are you not going to give them help?" "Oh, no! I've got ashore myself, and I must warm myself!” That is what people are dig in the church to-day. A great multitude are out in the surf of sin and death, going down forever; but men sit by the fire of the church, warming their Christian graces, warming their faith, warming their hope for heaven, and I say, "Come out, and work to-day for Christ." "Oh, no," they say; "my sublime duty is to warm myself!” Such men as that will not come within ten thousand miles of heaven! Help foreign missions. Those of my own blood are toiling in foreign lands with Christ's Word. Send a million dollars for the salvation of the heathen-that is right-but look after the heathen also around the mouths of the Hudson and East rivers. Send missionaries if you will to Borioboola-gha, but send missionaries also through Houston street, Mercer street, Greene street, Navy street, Fulton street, and all around about Brooklyn Atlantic Docks. If you will, send quilted coverlets to Central Africa to keep the natives warm in summer-time, and send ice-cream freezers to Greenland, but do have a little common sense and practical charity, and help these cities here that want hats, want clothes, want shoes, want fire, want medicines, want instruction, want the Gospel, want Christ.
I must adjourn to another Sabbath morning much of what I have v say in regard to this city midnight exploration, and also the proposing of remedies; for I am not the man to stand here Sabbath by Sabbath talking of ills when I have no panacea. There is an almighty rescue for the city, and in due time I will speak of these things.
You have seen often a magic lantern. You have seen the room darkened, and then the magic lantern throwing a picture on the canvas. Well, this morning I wish I could darken these three great emblazoned windows, and have all the doors darkened, and then I could bring out two magic lanterns—the magic lantern of the home, and the magic lantern of the police. Here is the magic lan
tern of the home. Look now upon the canvas. Mother putting the little children to bed, trying to hush the frisky and giggling group for the evening prayer; their foreheads against the counterpane, they are trying to say their evening prayer; their tongue is so crooked that none but God and the mother can understand it. Then the children are lifted into bed, and they are cov. ered
to the chin. Then the mother gives them a warın good-night kiss, and leaves them to the guardian angele that spread wings of canopy over the trundle-bed. Mid. night lantern of the police. Look now on the canvas. A boy kenneled for the night underneath the stairway in a hall throngh which the wind sweeps, or lying on the cold ground. He had no parentage. He was pitched into the world by a merciless incognito. He dees not go to bed; he has no bed. His cold fingers thrust through his matted hair his only pillow. He did not sup last night; he will not breakfast to-morrow. An outcast; a ragamuffin. He did not say his prayers when he retired; he knows no prayer; he never heard the name of God or Christ, except as something to swear by. The wings over him, not the wings of angels, but the dark, bat-like wings of penury and want Magic lantern of the home. Look now on the canvas. Family gathered around the argand burner. Father, feet on ottoman, mother sewing a picturesque pattern. Two children pretending to study, but chiefly watching other children who are in unrestrained romp, so many balls of fun and frolic in full bounce from room to room. Background of pictures and upholstery and musical instrument, from which jew. eled fingers sweep "Home, Sweet Home.” Magic lantern of the police. Look now on the canvas.
A group in toxicated and wrangling, cursing God, cursing each other; the past all shame, the future all suffering. Children fleeing from the missile flung by a father's hand.
Fragments of a chair propped against the wall. Frag. inents of a pitcher standing on the mantle. A pile of refuse food brought in froin some kitchen, torn by the human swine plunging into the trough. Magic lantern of the home. Look now upon the canvas.
A Christian daughter has just died. Carriages rolling up to the door in sympathy. Flowers in crowns and anchors and harps covering the beautiful casket, the silver plate marked, "aged 18." Funeral services intoned amid the richly-shawled and gold-braceleted. Long procession going out this way to unparalleled Greenwood to the beautiful family plot where the sculptor will raise the inonument of burnished Aberdeen with the inscription, ‘She is not dead, but sleepeth.” Oh! blessed is that home which has a consecrated Christian daughter, whether on earth or in heaven. Magic lantern of the police. Look QUw on the canvas. A poor waif of the street has just expired. Did she have any doctor! No. Did she have any medicine? No. Did she have any hands to close her eyes and fold her arms in death? No. Are there no garments in the house fit to wrap her in for the tomb? None. Those worn-out shoes will not do for these feet in their last journey. Where are all the good Christians ? Oh! some of them are rocking-chaired, in morning gowns, in tears over Bulwer Lytton's account of the last days of Pompeii; they are so sorry for that girl that got petrified! Others of the Christians are in church, kneeling on a soft rug, praying for the forlorn Hottentots! Come, call in the Coroner-call in the Charity Commis. sioner. The carpenter unrolls the measuring-tape, and decides she will need a box five and a half feet longTwo men lift her into the box, lift the box into the wagon, and it starts for the Potter's Field. The excavation is not large enough for the box, and the men are in a