audible in the ears of their neighbours. Now and again, however, a
harsh cry from the depths is heard for a moment, jarring rudely upon
the ear and then all is still. The inarticulate classes speak as
seldom as Balaam's ass. But they sometimes find a voice. Here for
instance is one such case which impressed me much. It was reported in
one of the Liverpool papers some time back. The speaker was haranguing
a small knot of twenty or thirty men: --

"My lads," he commenced, with one hand in the breast of his ragged
vest, and the other, as usual, plucking nervously at his beard,
"This kind o' work can't last for ever." (Deep and earnest
exclamations, "It can't! It shan't") "Well, boys," continued the
speaker, "Somebody'll have to find a road out o' this. What we want is
work, not work'us bounty, though the parish has been busy enough
amongst us lately, God knows! What we want is honest work,
(Hear, hear.) Now, what I propose is that each of you gets fifty mates
to join you; that'll make about 1,200 starving chaps--And then?"
asked several very gaunt and hungry-looking men excitedly.
"Why, then," continued the leader. "Why, then," interrupted a
cadaverous-looking man from the farther and darkest end of the cellar,
"of course we'll make a--London job of it, eh?" "No, no," hastily
interposed my friend, and holding up his hands deprecatingly, "we'll go
peaceably about it chaps; we'll go in a body to the Town Hall, and show
our poverty, and ask for work. We'll take the women and children with
us too." ("Too ragged! Too starved! They can't walk it!") "The women's
rags is no disgrace, the staggerin' children 'll show what we come to.
Let's go a thousand strong, and ask for work and bread!"

Three years ago, in London, there were some such processions. Church
parades to the Abbey and St. Paul's, bivouacs in Trafalgar Square, etc.