CHAPTER VIII.



A man cannot go wrong in Trinity Ward just now, if he wants to see
poor folk. He may find them there at any time, but now he cannot
help but meet them; and nobody can imagine how badly off they are,
unless he goes amongst them. They are biding the hard time out
wonderfully well, and they will do so to the end. They certainly
have not more than a common share of human frailty. There are those
who seem to think that when people are suddenly reduced to poverty,
they should become suddenly endowed with the rarest virtues; but it
never was so, and, perhaps, never will be so long as the world
rolls. In my rambles about this ward, I was astonished at the dismal
succession of destitute homes, and the number of struggling owners
of little shops, who were watching their stocks sink gradually down
to nothing, and looking despondingly at the cold approach of
pauperism. I was astonished at the strings of dwellings, side by
side, stript, more or less, of the commonest household utensils--the
poor little bare houses, often crowded with lodgers, whose homes had
been broken up elsewhere; sometimes crowded, three or four families
of decent working people in a cottage of half-a-crown a-week rental;
sleeping anywhere, on benches or on straw, and afraid to doff their
clothes at night time because they had no other covering. Now and
then the weekly visitor comes to the door of a house where he has
regularly called. He lifts the latch, and finds the door locked. He
looks in at the window. The house is empty, and the people are gone-
-the Lord knows where. Who can tell what tales of sorrow will have
their rise in the pressure of a time like this--tales that will