As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on his first visit to Briar street had aroused him to a new and deeper sense of his duty as a citizen.  Against all the reluctance and protests of his natural feelings, he had compelled himself to stand face to face with the appalling degradation and crime that festered and rioted in that almost Heaven-deserted region.  He had heard and read much about its evil condition; but when, under the protection of a policeman, he went from house to house, from den to den, through cellar and garret and hovel, comfortless and filthy as dog-kennels and pig-styes, and saw the sick and suffering, the utterly vile and debauched, starving babes and children with faces marred by crime, and the legion of harpies who were among them as birds of prey, he went back to his home sick at heart, and with a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness out of which he found it almost impossible to rise.

We cannot stain our pages with a description of what he saw.  It is so vile and terrible, alas, so horrible, that few would credit it.  The few imperfect glimpses of life in that region which we have already given are sad enough and painful enough, but they only hint at the real truth.

“What can be done?” asked Mr. Dinneford of the missionary, at their next meeting, in a voice that revealed his utter despair of a remedy.  “To me it seems as if nothing but fire could purify this region.”

“The causes that have produced this would soon create another as bad,” was answered.

“What are the causes?”

“The primary cause,” said Mr. Paulding, “is the effort of hell to establish itself on the earth for the destruction of human souls; the secondary cause lies in the indifference and supineness of the people.  ‘While the husband-men slept the enemy sowed tares.’  Thus it was of old, and thus it is to-day.  The people are sleeping or indifferent, the churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the enemy goes on sowing tares for the harvest of death.”

“Well may you say the harvest of death,” returned Mr. Dinneford, gloomily.

“And hell,” added the missionary, with a stern emphasis.  “Yes, sir, it is the harvest of death and hell that is gathered here, and such a full harvest!  There is little joy in heaven over the sheaves that are garnered in this accursed region.  What hope is there in fire, or any other purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go on sowing his evil seed at will?”

“How will you prevent it?” asked Mr. Dinneford.

“Not by standing afar off and leaving the enemy in undisputed possession—­not by sleeping while he sows and reaps and binds into bundles for the fires, his harvests of human souls!  We must be as alert and wise and ready of hand as he; and God being our helper, we can drive him from the field!”

“You have thought over this sad problem a great deal,” said Mr. Dinneford.  “You have stood face to face with the enemy for years, and know his strength and his resources.  Have you any well-grounded hope of ever dislodging him from this stronghold?”