CHAPTER XLVII.

THE POOR OF LONDON.

EYOND comparison London exceeds all
other cities of Europe for the number of
its poor, and the misery and suffering of
those who individually make up
the gross
totals in workhouses, back slums, and
miasmatic tenements.

One of the most interesting-if not the most curious and cheerful scenes in the metropolis-may be witnessed any day by a visit to the East London "Half-Penny Soup House," an institution established by good and merciful people, whereby the poor little castaways and waifs of the city are provided with a dish of soup, a piece of meat, and a small loaf of bread, once in each twenty-four hours.

The children are gathered from the promiscuous juvenile assemblages that may be, at any time, found in the London streets, and are taken to the Soup House where large and steaming dishes of soup are given them, by charitable ladies, after which they are dismissed until the next twenty-four hours have elapsed, when again they assemble to partake of the same plentiful and grateful food. This nourishment costs but a half-penny per head, all the attendance and time being given gratuitously by the good ladies who seek the little ones for their own merciful purpose.

The struggles of the London poor to keep soul and body together, are very wonderful to understand or relate. Out of every five poor families in London-it is known that at least three are compelled, between Easter and Christmas, to denude

their households of all the most necessary articles of clothing and furniture, to take them to the pawnbroker's shops in order that bread and meat may be procured for their little ones. And what terrible scenes are witnessed in these pawnbroker's shops, on Saturday nights when the goods are reclaimed by dint of economy and hard scraping? None but God, the police, and the pawnbroker, ever see such struggles.

One day I paid a visit to the Workhouse of St. Martin's, in the Fields, which is not far distant from Trafalgar square. This workhouse looks like a vast prison, stern, gloomy, and frowning, in the very busiest quarter of the city. Opposite to its entrance was the barracks of some regiment of infantry, and round the doors, were talking and smoking, half-a-dozen of long-legged and slim-waisted private soldiers, in red shell jackets, whose chief occupation seemed to be that of switching

THE MASTER OF THE WORKHOUSE.

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their manly calves with slender rods which they jauntily carried in their hands.

The workhouse door was shown to me by a squad of small boys who were at play in the adjoining gutters, clad in a pauper's uniform of blue, and on whose heads were dirty but comfortable caps of plaid pilot cloth.

"Yes, master, there is the Workus, over yander. Will ye give us a penny? We are all Workus," said they in chorus.

I entered the low entrance and stood in a small vestibule, where stood a shelf, or stand, upon which was placed an open blank or visitors' book, in which each caller was to inscribe his name and residence, together with his object for visiting the workhouse. On the opposite page were blank spaces, on which an attendant entered the hours when a visitor called and when he left the institution.

A miserable, worm-eaten looking old man, devoid of teeth, and shambling in his gait, a perfect wreck, shuffled up to me with a deprecating look in his eye, as if he were asking pardon for being alive. Heavens! how the iron of poverty, and the bitterness of dependence, must have eaten away that poor wretch's soul before such enduring lines of degradation could have been impressed on his features.

This old pauper was detailed to wait upon the visitors, and to see that their names were inscribed, with the warning that he should not attempt to ask for or receive any gratuity.

He faintly said in a childish voice:

"What can I do for you, Sir? Do you wish to see the Workus? Ah, yes, of course, a goodish bit of people comes to see the poor paupers, now and then, but we are never allowed to take anything, Sir. No never, never. Poor paupers, poor paupers," and so he mumbled away until the Master of the workhouse was announced by his footsteps that came in echoes as I sat in the little, poverty-stricken ante-room.

To the Master, who is the supreme authority in the workhouse, under the direction of the Board of Guardians of the parish, I explained my motives for visiting the paupers' residence, and he welcomed me with much politeness, offering me