which very poor people are strangers. I was once put into a house
down George's-yard--that little dirty court at the back of the gas-
works; and I never shall forget the misery of them people, dear me!
It was a distress for half a year's rent--two pound ten, I think.
There was only two rooms in the house, and as there was no passage,
the lodgers up-stairs always went through the room of the people of
the house, as they passed in and out; and every time they did so--
which, on the average, was about four times every quarter of an
hour--they blowed up quite frightful: for their things had been
seized too, and included in the inventory. There was a little
piece of enclosed dust in front of the house, with a cinder-path
leading up to the door, and an open rain-water butt on one side. A
dirty striped curtain, on a very slack string, hung in the window,
and a little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the
sill inside. I suppose it was meant for the people's use, but
their appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, that I'm
certain they never could have plucked up courage to look themselves
in the face a second time, if they survived the fright of doing so
once. There was two or three chairs, that might have been worth,
in their best days, from eightpence to a shilling a-piece; a small
deal table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of
those bedsteads which turn up half way, and leave the bottom legs
sticking out for you to knock your head against, or hang your hat
upon; no bed, no bedding. There was an old sack, by way of rug,
before the fireplace, and four or five children were grovelling
about, among the sand on the floor. The execution was only put in,
to get 'em out of the house, for there was nothing to take to pay
the expenses; and here I stopped for three days, though that was a
mere form too: for, in course, I knew, and we all knew, they could
never pay the money. In one of the chairs, by the side of the