“Bless me! the poor are quite numerous enough, and are in unusual straits just now.”

“I know, and for that reason they are better off than usual.  People say, ‘How the poor must suffer in these pinching times!’ So they double their charities.”

“Poverty is an ocean without bottom, my friend.  All that is given is like emptying stones into the sea; the waves swallow them and sweep over as before.”

“True, you can’t satisfy the beggars till you drown ’em.  Wouldn’t a gentle asphyxia by water, now, be the best thing for some of the Broad-Street cellarers?”

“Very likely; but they would probably object to the remedy.”

“But to return to my project.  I see some forms of distress that seem to me far more painful than utter poverty.  I won’t expatiate, but state a case.  I know a man of good sense and culture, able and willing to do his part in the world.  His employer has failed, so that his salary will stop.  He is unmarried, but has a mother, an invalid, who never stirs out of doors; and besides has some poor relation or other to support.  He has a house, it is true; so they needn’t sleep in the street; but how are the mouths to be fed, the backs to be clothed?”

“Let him sell his house and wait till better times for employment.”

“It is easy to say sell; but who will buy?  A house won’t fetch half its value, and there isn’t any money to be had.  Besides,—­and this is the hardship,—­the pride and the feelings of association cling round a house that has been consecrated by years of affection and by the memory of the dead.—­I believe I am making an oration; but I despair of expressing myself.”

“I understand you perfectly; it is sad, indeed.”

“Excuse me, you don’t understand me.  Some men put off old houses and put on new ones, like their clothes, without a thought.  Others grow into their habitations and become a part of them.  You might as well say to a lobster, ‘Get out of your shell,’ when you know that the poor wretch will die when his naked, quivering members are exposed to the sharp-edged stones.  A delicate nature, proud, but gentle, too sensitive to accept charity, and doubtful of a friendly service even, suffers more anguish in one hour, under such circumstances, than your brazen beggar feels from his dirty cradle to his nameless grave.”

Mr. Holworthy mused.

“He has nothing to do, then?”

“Nothing, but to suck his thumbs.”

“Is he willing to work, even if the task should appear irksome?”

“I haven’t a doubt.  He has no false pride.  Anything honorable would be welcome.”

“Perhaps I can find something for him to do; it will be temporary, but its continuance will depend upon himself.”

“And what is it?”

“In visiting the district which has been allotted to me, I have found an unusual number of ignorant, vicious boys, cared for by no one, growing up for the prison or the gallows.  I have thought of making some effort to gather them together and start a ragged school.  Some friends have agreed to provide the means.  But the pay would necessarily be small, and the labor and difficulty great.”