The Method of treating the Borough Paupers—­Many maintained at their own Dwellings—­Some Characters of the poor—­The Schoolmistress, when aged—­The Idiot—­The poor Sailor—­The declined Tradesman and his Companion—­This contrasted with the Maintenance of the Poor in a common Mansion erected by the Hundred—­The Objections to this Method:  Not Want, nor Cruelty, but the necessary evils of this Mode—­What they are—­Instances of the Evil—­A Return to the Borough Poor—­The Dwellings of these—­The Lanes and Byways—­No Attention here paid to Convenience—­The Pools in the Pathways—­ Amusements of Sea-port Children—­The Town Flora—­Herbs on Walls and vacant Spaces--A female Inhabitant of an Alley—­A large Building let to several poor Inhabitants—­Their Manners and Habits.

Yes! we’ve our Borough-vices, and I know
How far they spread, how rapidly they grow;
Yet think not virtue quits the busy place,
Nor charity, the virtues crown and grace. 
   “Our Poor, how feed we?”—­To the most we give
A weekly dole, and at their homes they live; —
Others together dwell,—­but when they come
To the low roof, they see a kind of home,
A social people whom they’ve ever known,
With their own thoughts, and manners like their own. 
   At her old house, her dress, her air the same,
I see mine ancient Letter-loving dame: 
“Learning, my child,” said she “shall fame command;
Learning is better worth than house or land —
For houses perish, lands are gone and spent;
In learning then excel, for that’s most excellent.” 
   “And what her learning?” ’Tis with awe to look
In every verse throughout one sacred book;
From this her joy, her hope, her peace is sought;
This she has learned, and she is nobly taught. 
   If aught of mine have gain’d the public ear;
If Rutland deigns these humble Tales to hear;
If critics pardon what my friends approved;
Can I mine ancient Widow pass unmoved? 
Shall I not think what pains the matron took,
When first I trembled o’er the gilded book? 
How she, all patient, both at eve and morn,
Her needle pointed at the guarding horn;
And how she soothed me, when, with study sad,
I labour’d on to reach the final zad? 
Shall I not grateful still the dame survey,
And ask the Muse the poet’s debt to pay? 
   Nor I alone, who hold a trifler’s pen,
But half our bench of wealthy, weighty men,
Who rule our Borough, who enforce our laws;
They own the matron as the leading cause,
And feel the pleasing debt, and pay the just applause: 
To her own house is borne the week’s supply;
There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to die. 
   With her a harmless Idiot we behold,
Who hoards up silver shells for shining gold: 
These he preserves, with unremitted care,
To buy a seat, and reign the Borough’s mayor: 
Alas!—­who could th’ ambitious changeling tell,
That what he sought our rulers dared to sell?