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"The poor-house, Mrs. Rodman, is the worst refuge of religious humanity that claims to be an institution of mercy. My attention has of late been called to it by Mrs. Haddock and others, as you know. In fact, it is not called so much a mercy as a necessity. The town PAUPERS must be supported; that is the rule under which they are leased out and cared for. But mercy would clothe them, warm them, feed them, comfort and bless them. Necessity but sells them to the lowest bidder -- a bidder who cannot make any thing out of the job, if he exercises compassion. I am heartily, thoroughly sick of it, disgusted, mortified at its picture. How strange a fact is this in our social Christian system. How has it come to be a universal condition of things -- how discreditable to civilization, wealth, refinement, sociality and religion."

The boy who answered to the name of Jims, seemed to listen to these remarks with an attentive ear. It was plain that he understood something of what Mr. Rodman had been saying, and was turning over in his mind a new development of thought.

Mr. Rodman continued -- "The poor are, in all our towns, the most degraded, unfortunate, imbecile, unhappy class found in them. Every town has them. In some communities they are numerous, while in others they are few, but they all answer to one general, broken-down description. They have no money, often little character, few if any living friends and relations. They have been intemperate, vicious, idle, or extremely unfortunate beyond the bounds of ordinary charity to support them. They have, therefore, fallen into this last living destiny of humanity, the poor-house."

"Is it not possible to elevate them?" inquired his wife. "Cannot measures be taken to bring about an entire change in the system that now provides in part for them -- so that the selfishness of the benevolence may not be so prominent?"

"We don't know how generally there may be an amelioration effected, and the comfort and alleviation of the poor secured; there are those who have deep feeling in regard to it, and I hope to live to see arrive a great improvement in our poor-houses."

"So do I, by George!" shouted the rude boy, starting up from his seat by the stove, and clapping his hands together smartly on his bare head. "Say what they will," he continued, "the poor-house is a darned patched up old consarn. It's so plaguy rotten you are afraid you'll fall through the floor into the cellar, and so c -- d cold."

"Don't, don't, my dear boy," said Mrs. Rodman, "don't make use of such hard and wicked words. You can speak to us calmly, and in words that we shall under- stand without using those severe and bitter expressions -- can't you -- now try." She said this with woman's sweetest and most persuasive smile.

The boy gulped down a whole sentence of oaths, and. looked completely at a stand. At last, recovering a little, he began in a mild way --

"Down there -- you know, at the poor-house -- it's a -- a -- a terrible cold place. You see, there's a big fire-place, and a tarnal lot of wood, sich as they picks up, thrown in, but the old ricketty house hasn't many good doors, tight windows, warm floors, or good shingles on the roof. "Wet weather drowns us, cold weather pinches us, hot weather smuthurs us, and I s -- s -- swanny, it's no use trying to git along, and be any body, by -- by thunder!"

"Jist so; an' you're right, sure ye ar," said Ann, with a deep indignation-color over her whole face, and with a voice almost as loud, too, as Jims.

"Well, they call you James, I suppose, at the poor-house?" asked the pastor.

"No, sir; they call me 'Jims.'"

"'Would you not rather be called James?" inquired Mrs. Rodman.

"May be I should, if I got used to it. 'Jims' is good enough for poor folks, and we are all of us, as the parson says, poor. We're the poorest kind of folks. There ain't one of us who's got a sixpence, unless happen'd so, somehow. We don't own any thing, never call any thing our own in arnest, not even the clothes we have on, or the victuals we eat. Our cider is given to us. We don't seem to own our time, our comfort, our pen-knives, our loose strings in our pockets, the tools we work with, the beds we sleep on. No, sir, we ain't worth, as I can see, a copper. And, now, these poor folks, when they dies, as aunt Dorothy has, is they jist as bad off, or worse? I've a notion, because Cap'n Bunce so of en 'wishes me in ,' and d s' and 'c s me to ,' that there's a terrible site worse poor-houses in 'tother world than there is in our'n."

This was uttered with a wild, solemn, staring look, and Mr. Rodman, as well as he could under the circumstances, explained to him what the Bible revealed on the subject.

Jims said he believed there was a heaven for somebody, because the old widow Prescott often told him so, and urged him to be good and patient, and perhaps he would some time go there. But of this he professed to have considerable doubt.

"Good Mrs. Prescott 1" said the pastor's wife, "and who is she, Jims?"