LETTERS TO A FRIEND ON HELPING

THE POOR.

BY MRS. SEWELL,

Author of "HOMELY BALLADS," "MOTHER'S LAST WORDS,"
"PATIENCE HART," &c.

"If thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy
the afflicted soul, then shall thy light rise in obscurity,
and thy darkness be as the noon day."

Isaiah lviii. 10.

Third Edition. Seventh Thousand.

LONDON:

JARROLD AND SONS, 12, PATERNOSTER ROW.

250. t. 71.

BIBLI

Author's Preface.

IN bringing the following Letters before the Public, the Author confesses that she does it with fear and trembling. She is deeply sensible of the vast importance of the subject upon which she has attempted to write, and not less of its extreme difficulty and delicacy. She is well aware that a wide experience, wisely gathered, and a pen of commanding talent, are required to do it adequate justice; and to enforce, with practical efficacy, its high obligation and privilege.

From a very secluded position, and with, comparatively, a limited experience, the Author has ventured only to touch the subject here and there, as it has impressed itself upon her in the common daily round of life and duty. She trusts that her feeble offering to the cause of humanity, may not be a stumbling-block in the way, but that it may induce others, who have obtained a higher stand-point of experience, to give to the multitude of waiting workers. wider, wiser, and more profitable thoughts.

Introductory.

"A POOR wayfaring man of grief,
Hath often crossed me on my way;
Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer, 'Nay:'
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake;
Just perishing for want of bread:

I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate; but gave me part again:
Mine was an angel's portion then;
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mocked his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on:

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,

Dipt, and returned it running o'er;

I drank, and never thirsted more.