But, Jeremy, we live in a funny world, and even with our criminal code, and prison discipline, I fear me, the moral reformer has a vast work to do. The shades of right and wrong, as worked up in the woof of practical life, are not of colors which contrast very strongly. They form rather the figures of a kaleidoscope. Is there not a little gambling done, in the way of “specimens” in literature, as well as in “specimens” in copper? Do the samples shown as “inducements” always honestly represent the real article afterward put upon the purchaser? Oh! very nice, rigid and self-complacent moralist, “with good fat capon lined,” why are thy hands held up in such affected holy horror at thy brother, who has stumbled and fallen, “because he has done this thing;” when printed records of thy falsified pledges and assertions, fill the post-towns of the country, the Union over! The lie in type and upon record, is it less venal, because multiplied by thousands, than that by word, which palms upon the unsuspecting a sinking fancy stock! Let the canting, praying hypocrite, of all trades, go down into his own heart, and clear it of its “dead men’s bones, and all uncleanness,” before, with bastard honesty, he casts a stone at his most desperate brother. Ah, Jeremy, is there not a thriving business done, by men professing to be respectable, by “The Suction and Pumping Process,” in most of the trades of life—even in the very honorable business of manufacturing and selling goods? Ay! in the thousand well dressed, painted living lies, that stare at you in the streets, and from behind counters, and impose upon the ignorant—is there no rascality? When goods are put upon the poor and ignorant hired girls at high prices—the remnants of shabby gentility—are the shopkeepers honest do you suppose? In the poisoned rum, that is sold for _good_ (God defend us!) and which sends destitution, misery, and crime into the hovels of the poor—is there no weight of damnation, past finding out? Is every marble palace, with steeds prancing at the door, the monument of a good man’s well spent life; has every stone and carved niche been paid for by money honestly earned? Are the laces, and feathers, and gold and jewels, that flash upon us and glitter in the sun, _all_, always the well-earned rewards of honest and praiseworthy toil? Much of the money thus lavishly displayed, and on which an insolent pride fattens and corrupts, may it not be the legitimate reward of a sin that would taint the fingers of a thief? Hold up thy head, young brother, and keep thy heart pure; all is not lost! the courage to dare, the power and will to do are thine! Up! and against wrong and oppression of every shade, set thy face as a flint, and with conscious might and truth, press on! The world is before thee where to choose—it is thy battle-ground! Do nobly, and thou art man—meanly, a more creeping thing than a worm a upon whom every coward braggart will set his heel.