Not so, however, with the other two classes of the poor. The shiftless poor, who were denominated by my aged friend ‘poor devils,’ who go just as wind and tide will take them, and carry to ultraism the principle of letting to-morrow take care of itself, are actually too lazy to have so lively a feeling as gratitude. And of the _vicious_ poor it may be said, that it requires something more than the selfish principles of this world to attend upon them with cheerful faithfulness. There is often, it is true, much show of gratitude; but it is seldom, though it is sometimes, more than mere show. The romance of doing good will not stand this trial. Nothing short of the untiring benevolence of Christianity will do it. Sometimes, indeed, so much effect is produced upon the views and feelings of the poor by the bounty and kind attentions of the benevolent, that an actual reform is effected, and an abode of vice and misery is converted into one of virtue and happiness. Then, of course, the most lively gratitude is manifested. But it is rarely so. We must apparently _throw away_ much time and effort, and it is only once in a great while that our hearts can be cheered by any obvious good results, or any real gratitude. Benevolence does now and then seem to have a magic wand, with which, almost in a twinkling, she turns scenes of gloom and desolation into those of beauty, and makes even the wilderness to blossom as the rose. But she is generally employed in real drudgery with little immediate prospect of success. She digs and digs patiently, and with the animation of hope. She finds but few gems; but these, be it remembered, will survive all the changes of time, and will shine in her coronet forever. It is true that gratitude is sometimes awakened in the heart of the vicious poor, even when our influence does not produce any improvement in their moral condition. But it has only a momentary existence, and, amid the giddy whirl of grovelling enjoyments, our kindness is forgotten, and the recollection of it is excited only by their returning necessities. And then too, the apathy, into which the heart is apt to be schooled by the miserable monotony of a vicious poverty, effaces every trace of feeling which may occasionally be impressed upon it. This state of heart may be read in the very countenance—the wooden features, which our kindness may have roused to some degree of animation, soon resume their wonted inexpressive fixedness after the exciting cause is gone. And often, very often, the favors we dispense are received with a vacant stare, the recipients being strangers themselves to any other motive than selfishness, and therefore taking no cognizance of the existence of anything like benevolence in the bosoms of others.