centre the throne of the Caesars, drove the minions of Popery within the walls of Rome, and shook defiance at them as they stood cowering beneath the shadow of the Vatican. The true religion had become defiled. Its Omnipotent Author raised for its renovation, first the press, afterwards its operator. Had it not been for the aid of printing, the dark clouds of Popery, closing above the meteor flash of Luther's terrific struggle with the powers of darkness, would have hung with deeper gloom even now about our heads.—Dependant upon the imperfect pen of the scribe for its propagation of his writings, a single bonfire might have destroyed the slender frame-work of the reformation. But with the re-productive energies of the Press at its control, books—Phoenix-like—rose from the ashes of those burned before, and the Papal Bull, consigning the works of Luther to the flames, became the surest means of their immortality. The results of that glorious reformation, effected by the Press while yet in its infancy, will be felt at time's remotest boundary.
This great reformation was the first, but not the only achievment of the Press. It has raised the world from the midnight of heathenism to the noon-day brightness of civilization. "But how are the mighty fallen!" This powerful agent, degraded from the proud eminence of its youth, has become, in its crowning manhood, but a servile instrument for inflaming man's lowest passions.
The legitimate province of the Press is the formation of the literary taste of the public. Whatever reading is required by the community at large, the Printer furnishes. Those who wield the power of the Press, possess the ability to lead the minds of the people in their search after truth, or bid them grovel in the depths of licentiousness and crime. That their aim should be to elevate rather than depress, all will admit: but that the mass or reading put forth at the present day is debasing in its tendency, is equally true. Glance abroad for a moment. Crime seems to be increasing in rapid ratio. Every few days chronicle some new outrage, present to the public a further infringement of law and shows that human passion is gaining a fearfully powerful ascendency. Almost every public print brings to light some new development of human depravity. Yet the accounts of these cold-blooded murders, these heart-rending evidences of the wickedness of man's heart, are eagerly sought after, and devoured with avidity by the generality of readers. In fact, the publication of such articles has become one item, and that not a small one, of the subsistence of the newspaper press. The tendency of it is obvious. In the language of another: "When some monstrous or unusual crime has been revealed to the public, it seldom passes without a sad repetition. A link in the chain of intellect is struck, and a crime is perpetrated, which else had not occurred." Thus the very reason urged, "that crimes are published to prevent repetition," in the end accomplishes that which it sought to avert.
" 'Tis this sustains that course licentious tribe
Of tenth-rate typemen, gaping for a bribe
That reptile race, with all that's good at strife,
Who trail their slime through every walk of life,
Stain the white tablet where the great man's name
Stands proudly chiseled by the hand of fame;
Nor round the sacred fireside fear to crawl,
But drop their venom there and poison all."
Such, then, is the present state of the newspaper press, making the everlasting misery of its readers a means of subsistence. But there is a greater and deadlier evil. Sin cloaked under the garb of holiness. Falsehood dressed in the habbments of truth. It is the world of fiction. The novels so eagerly sought after by all classes—the works of Sue, Bulwer, and a host of others. They stand before the public naked representations of the most degraded states of human society, with no plea for their recommendation except that the public taste requires them. Vitiated as public sentiment has become, it has been brought to that state in a great measure by such works published under the guise of representing the evils of society as a warning to others. Flint and steel when brought forcibly in contact, emit a spark: so "the too close inspection of crime may grow into criminality itself." "The object of the successful novel writer is to make a saleable book, and the cant about the amelioration of society is merely a trick of authors, whereby they hope to add a degree of dignity to their pages that shall gild the pill of their licentiousness."
Beside the novels of foreigners we have authors of the same stamp among ourselves, capable of accomplishing even more evil in the limited sphere in which they move than their more gifted cotemporaries. The novelettes of Ingraham, what are they, as a general thing, but memoirs of "her whose steps take hold on hell?" Year after year the Press is sowing such trash broadcast over the land. The public will feast upon the demoralizing pamphlets of Ingraham, or the splendid conceptions of the more gifted Sue, and laying them aside, turn to the newly-printed Journal, yet damp, to gloat over horrid tales of seduction, murder and crime of every description. Is such a proper-state of society? Is this the grand mission of this greatest of agencies? No! the watchman has come down from his tower, and, mingling with the giddy throng, is hurrying them on to ruin and destruction.
"All are not such? On no, there are, thaink Heaven
A noble troop to whom the trust is given.
Who all, unbribed, on Freedoms rampart's stand
Faithful and firm, bright wardens of the land.
By them the Press stil lifts its arms abroad,
To guide all-curious man along life's road;
To cheer young Genius, Pit's tear to start,
In Truth's bold cause to rouse each fearless heart."
Yet a reformation great as that commenced by the humble son of the miner of Mansfeldt, is required to purge our land from this evil. The renovation of the church was brought about by one of its most devoted followers, and who more appropriate to undertake this work than the Printers themselves? Or what time better calculated to act on the subject than the birth-day of the Printer, Philosopher and Statesman you celebrate to-day? Why wait longer? We see men shot down in cold blood. Murder palpable as sunlight is committed, and yet the law acquits the perpetrator, and the people shout and clap their hands
