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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



window, and instantly retreats ; a powdered foot- 

 man appears at the door, and looks up and down 

 the street ior a policeman to remove the nuisance. 

 Several well-dressed passengers look at the poor 

 man, and pass on the other side; ladies, as they go 

 by him, fumble a little in their pockets — as if they 

 meant to give something ; but think better of it. 

 An elderly gentleman, with drab gaiters and silk 

 umbrella, pretends to feel the patient's pulse, 

 sha'ces his head solemnly, and walks off, satisfied 

 that he has detected an impostor. A housemaid 

 of the mansion, totiehed with tender pity, hands 

 up through the area rails a glass of water. 



Now troop by the poor lost creature a group of i 

 working men, in fustian jackets, going to their 

 dinners, whistling and gossiping as they go. They i 

 halt and surround the unfortunate man; they lift | 

 him, and put him in a more easy posture. One i 

 runs to the public-house, bringing some ale, warm, I 

 with ginger; they speak kindly to him. bidding . 

 him keep up his heart ; they ask him — question i 

 to bring tears into dry eyes — where is his home? ' 

 He looks up piteously, and whispers — he has no I 

 home. He has not where to lay his head ! 



" Now then," says one of the fustian jackets, 

 taking off his hat, and shoving it into the encircling 

 mob, "the poor devil's hard up, hasn't got no 

 home, nor no victuals ; drop a few browns to pay 

 for a cab, you'll never miss it."' 



The appeal is heard, curiosity is shamed into 

 benevolence ; the Samaritans in fustian call a cab, 

 and the homeless man is driven to try the hos- 

 pitality of Mary-le-bone workhouse. 



I think I hear a respectable gentleman, in an 

 easy chair, with an easy income, and easy shoes, 

 exel im : — 



" Mister Author, this is very fine, but I have 

 no doubt, for my own part, the fellow was a 

 humbug — the scoundrel was acting." 



" Was he though ! All I can tell you is, my 

 good fellow, if he was acting, you never missed 

 such a chance in the course of your theatrical 

 life ; you have paid seven shillings to the dress 

 circle many a time and oft, for a much worse per 

 formance, and here was a little bit of tragedy, 

 without scenery, machinery, dresses, or decora- 

 tions, you might have seen for sixpence, and been 

 six and sixpence better for it." 



I have seen these tragedies more than twice — 

 everybody has seen them who knows London : 

 Gilbert White saw them when he said: — 



I shall sink, 



As sinks a stranger in the busy streets 



Of crowded London ; some short bustle's caused, 



A few inquiries, and the crowd close in, 



And all's forgotten. 



I do not deny that impostors are common. I 

 know that they are clever, and are with difficulty 

 to be discriminated from those real heart-rending 

 cases of distress that London almost daily exhibits 

 to our view. No punishment is great enough for 

 these scoundrels ; not that the offence is so great 

 in itself, but because it adds and ministers to 

 that covetousness, that hardness of heart, which 

 furnishes us with an excuse, which we are all too 

 ready to make, of not giving once, lest we might 

 once be deceived. 



To a man living on the shady side of life, whose 

 poverty compels him to walk with his own feet, 



hear with his own ears, and see with his own 

 eyes, the contrasted conditions of London Life, 

 afford much matter for painful contemplation. 

 These contrasts are striking and forcible ; they 

 run the whole gamut of the social scale, from the 

 highest treble to the deepest bass. They exhibit 

 human life in every color, from hues of the rain- 

 bow to the deepest shadows and most unchequered 

 glooms ; and all this in a day's walk — in the space 

 of a few palmy acres. Next door to luxury and 

 profusion, you have hunger and despair — the rage 

 of unsatisfied hunger, and the lust of desires that 

 no luxury can quench. 



I have seen little children, fat enough for the 

 spit, wrapped in woolpacks of fleecy hosiery, seated 

 in their little carriages, drawn by goats, careering 

 over the sward of Hyde Park ; and at the same 

 moment, crawling from the hollow trunks of old 

 trees, where they had found refuge for the night, 

 other children, their nakedness hardly concealed 

 by a few greasy rags flapping against the mot- 

 tled limbs of the creatures, heirs of shame and 

 sorrow, and heritors of misery and its necessary 

 crime. I have seen a poor family, ragged and 

 hungry — the children running after an ugly pug- 

 dog, with a velvet jacket on, who was taking 

 the air, led by an attendant footman with gold- 

 headed staff. I have seen an old woman of eighty, 

 painted, periwigged, bejewelled, and brocaded, 

 taking an airing in a gorgeous coach, three foot- 

 men hanging on behind, her ladyship's companion, 

 a cynical-faced pug, probably the only friend she 

 had in the icorld ; and I have seen another old 

 woman of eighty — any of the Wapping Old Stairs 

 watermen will remember Mary Mudlark — up to 

 her mid-leg in the Thames, raking and scraping 

 the mud and water, for rags, bits of stick, ginger- 

 beer bottles, scraps of iron, or whatever she could 

 recover from the waters, by which she might earn 

 a few pence to keep her from starving. 



But it is painful to multiply these painful 

 contrasts of condition, which every day's walk 

 exhibits. One only conclusion can we draw from 

 these spectacles — namely, how far removed is man 

 by the " accident" of fortune from his fellow-man ; 

 how utterly abandoned, even in the centre of 

 civilisation, outlawed from human aid, protection, 

 sympathy, so soon as lie ceases to have certain 

 tokens of humanity in silver, gold, paper, or brass 

 about his person. 



THE GOODNESS OF PROVIDENCE. 



Lo ! a fond mother with her children round, 

 Her soft soul melting with maternal love. 

 This on the cheek she kisses ; that she clasps 

 Unto her bosom ; on her knee one rests, 

 Another sits upon her foot ; and while 

 Their actions, lips, and speaking eyes unfold 

 Their various wishes, all she understands ; 

 To these she gives a look, a word to those, 

 Smiling or chiding, still in tender love. 

 Such unto us is blissful Providence, 

 So o'er us watches, comforts, and provides ; 

 Listening to all, assisting every one, 

 Withholding oft the favors we implore 

 But to create more earnest supplication — 

 And, while it seems a blessing to deny, 

 In the refusal grants us — happiness. 



