various parishes in my time, and I have seen the poor in all conditions and under all circumstances, and I thought I knew them well enough; but I derived a new lesson now, and learned that it is possible for humanity to undergo the direst misfortunes without losing heart and hope—­to drain the cup of misery to the dregs without becoming utterly selfish—­and to be long immersed in the lowest depths of necessity, and yet be human still.  I shall describe one or two of these hapless claimants upon the benevolence of their wealthy fellow-citizens, premising that a few of them only are the recipients of parish pay.  They see no disgrace, perhaps, in participating in a voluntary alms, because it is voluntary, and, as such, cannot be regarded as the peculiar property of that numerous class who assert and maintain a life-interest in compulsory funds legally levied for their support.

One of the first who seemed to attract general sympathy was an old, old man, trembling on the very verge of the grave, who had outlived almost every faculty of mind and body.  He could walk only by instinct, advancing his foot mechanically, to save himself from falling, when he was pushed gently forwards.  When standing, he could not seat himself—­and when sitting, he could not get up without help.  In whatever posture he was placed, there he remained.  Altogether insensible to question and remark, he looked wildly round upon us, and smiled, and winked with both eyes.  These were his sole remaining capabilities—­to wink, and to look agreeable.  He had been recommended as an object worthy of charity by a liberal donor, and he was brought in person to justify the recommendation.  He was clean, and neat, and tidily dressed, but evidently in a state of perfect unconsciousness of everything around him.  He had lived once, but it was in times long past and gone:  you might guess him to be what age you chose, but you could hardly think him older than he was; time, who had stolen his faculties, had forgotten to wreck the casket that contained them:  the spirit of life had left its tenement, and by some strange mistake, the animated machine had gone on without it.  My neighbour, the watchmaker, compared him to a clock with the striking-train run down, and the works rusty beyond repair.  He could not thank us for the alms we gave him, but he did all he could—­he winked, and smiled, and tried to make a bow, but failed in the attempt, and resigned himself cheerfully to the care of his friends, who carried him off.

Another quiet applicant was a lady, whose natural-born gentility poverty might obscure but could not conceal.  Years of want and struggling deprivation had dimmed her charms; but they had neither bowed nor bent her stately form, nor quenched the inherent virtue of self-respect, nor deprived her of the correct and appropriate diction, and the winning and courteous expression which once graced a drawing-room.  She was introduced to us by the beadle as Lady W——­;