See that last and most innocent sufferer, the poor little Dauphin, every tender feeling crushed, deliberately instructed in vice, doomed to disgusting and degrading services, and, ere long, cruelly starved to death! American mother, wife, sister, daughter, the same earthquake is trembling under your feet! If such an awful period agitates any portion of this land, it will be those raised by wealth and station as the objects of popular envy, who must first meet the storm. You sit now in peace and plenty; you spend your time in elegant pleasures, and, while absorbed in selfish enjoyment, you forget the young and destitute growing up around you. And as you embroider the flower, and twine the silk, and fold the riband, they are learning to sharpen the dagger, and twine the cord, and plant the cannon. Within a stone’s throw of that smiling child with golden locks, who now absorbs a mother’s thoughts, may be growing up, in the darkness of ignorance and vice, the very hand that, at some awful crisis, will grasp those locks in rage, and plant the dagger in that happy bosom. And when, in some after hour of terror and distress, when the roar of musketry is heard, shooting down father and husband, and brother and friend; when the bells are tolling, and the drums beating, and the wife, mother, and daughter behold those they love best girding to meet the violators of law; when they catch the parting expression of flushed excitement, or stern determination, or serious foreboding, as the loved one departs, perhaps to be returned a breathless corse--then, in the hour of anxious solitude, will the solemn inquest be made for those ruffian minds, ruined by neglect; and the voice of the Lord God will be heard, walking in the trees of the garden, demanding, “Where is thy brother?” And the trembling response, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” will meet the stern rebuke, “What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.” But why appeal to motives of fear and danger? Alas! those thousands and millions of neglected little ones in our land, they know not their wants or their danger, or they would raise their supplicating hands. Is there anything more appropriate than that gentle woman should be invoked to their aid? Is there anything more beautiful, more heavenly, than that she should spend her time, and thoughts, and means to rescue them? What is it that you would enjoy the most in after days, gazing at the fading beauties you have wrought in canvass, muslin, or lace, or looking around on the intelligent, useful, happy minds you have been instrumental in training, and who will rise up and call you blessed? True, you cannot gain this rich reward without some self-denying toil and persevering effort. But is it not worth the labour?