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room for inspection, quite equal to any productions of white children, whose ages and opportunities are equal.
We might go to Philadelphia and spend hours with the indigent widows and single women, in their airy house-learn their histories from themselves, and admire the plants they cherish, the wool they knit, the silken patchwork they make, and the tranquillity they enjoy. Or, with the ladies of the Nurse Society, we might inquire into the events in the district of each during the month, and learn how many lives have been saved by proper supplies of necessaries and kind attentions in the hours of nature's sorrow; or admire the economy of a charity that can succour so many at so cheap a rate. “Many poor emigrants, with families of little children, have touched our country just in time to make a native of their youngest born, without the means of providing for themselves or little ones, and Providence, who clothes the lilies of the field, has mercifully afforded relief through the patrons of the Moyamensing district of the Nurse Society."*
A pile of reports, a foot deep, interest without tiring one who has the buildings, the ladies, and the objects of their charity, placed by them, afresh before her eyes, but they cannot interest others in the same way.
It is enough to say, that the footsteps of Mrs Graham-whose name is familiar and honoured in
* Eleventh Report of the Nurse Society of Philadelphia.
Scotland—and of her friend Mrs Hoffman, have been followed steadily by her successors. The judgment, the economy, the healthful regulations, and the Christian influences, which she was so happy as to introduce into the Orphan Asylum, her Widows' Society, and her Sabbath-schools, forty-five years since, are still the pattern of her state and city. Happy she to have fallen on a time which opened the way for the exercise of all her Christian piety and skill! Happy time, in its necessities, that had an Isabella Graham for a guide in the outset of philanthropic effort !
It is now more than thirty years since Dr Mason saw, for the first time, an English edition of that good woman's life on our table. He was glad to see it, and told us of her family; so that to meet her now venerable daughter, Mrs Bethune, still, at the end of forty-five years, acting as first Directress of that same Orphan Asylum which her mother founded, was like finding a link which bound the past and the departed to the present and the useful.
How few live to see a good work advance in its useful cause without once being turned aside, for nearly half a century! How pleasant was it to stand in the noble mansion at Bloomingdale, the monument of the States' benevolence, and hear of the small beginning of the asylum, and look on the portraits of benefactors now in heaven! How pleasant to hear large and accurately taught bands of orphans examined, to look on their thriving countenances, to listen to their sweet voices as they sung, and to learn, when admiring the ingenious liveliness of many of the infant school exercises, that the dear old lady by our side was the living, sprightly inventor of all that wit, fun, and instruction, and also of many of the more sacred lessons! How quickening to the heart's throb to see a crowd of babes flock around her knees, each wishing to be noticed and caressed !
On the exhibition day, when they were brought into the city that the public might see all the children, consisting of from babes of two years old up to boys and girls of fifteen, we stayed to congratulate the dear First Directress on the appearance made by her blooming family. But it was not easy to approach her—she was encircled by a band of goodlooking young men, well dressed and of pleasing expression. “Who are all these, dear lady, who surround you so that one cannot reach your hand ?" “Oh, these are a few of my own boys, who expect to see me here once a year. I am glad to see their faces, and to know that they are prospering." "I should think that they had grown out of your knowledge.” “No-no-I know all that keep up the acquaintance. Here is one-a troublesome little fellow he was. He always thought when I went to mind my business that I had nothing to do but nurse him. I used to push him away. He was two years old.” “And so you did nurse me," said the grateful man; “but I was younger than
that, I was not a year and a half when you took me up."
One's sympathies flowed out with theirs, when the respected son of the venerated lady* made his way to her and embraced her, as they looked on each other with moistened eyes. It was a sight to make the heart sing.
* The Rev. Dr Bethune of Brooklyn.
It is a curious and rather painful sight, to watch the emptying of a newly-arrived cargo of emigrants on the unknown shore. Squalid, thinly clad, and far from clean, you instantly distinguish the bony Irishman, with his wife, and all the children, dragging an ill-packed bundle tied with a bit of rope, which is made long enough by the help of a strip of ticking, or a list border. They slide their bundle—their all of worldly wealth-down a plank, and having drawn it aside on the dock, they hang helplessly around it, the children tumbling on it, till the ship has disgorged her motley company, and all are ready to appear at the Emigrant Office. Next you will see a pair of stout, thickly-clothed Germans, letting down their heavy chest, well nailed and corded, with a parcel of bedding on the top. And again, a rosy, round-cheeked Englishman, with his deal box, painted red. Each pours forth with a load to carry or care for, like the busy population on an ant-hill, and group after group sit on or watch by their