houses are large as palaces, though anything but remarkable as regards
their exterior, unless we except the fact that in these, as in all the
better class of houses in London, the windows of the first _etage_ (or
second story) are adorned with iron-barred balconies, and also on the
_rez de chaussee_ there is a black railing protecting the entrance to
certain subterranean apartments. In this part of the city there are also
great "squares," where rows of houses like those already described form
a quadrangle, in whose centre there is a garden, inclosed by an iron
railing and containing some statue or other. In all of these places and
streets the eye is never shocked by the dilapidated huts of misery.
Everywhere we are stared down on by wealth and respectability, while,
crammed away in retired lanes and dark, damp alleys, Poverty dwells with
her rags and her tears.

The stranger who wanders through the great streets of London, and does
not chance right into the regular quarters of the multitude, sees little
or nothing of the fearful misery existing there. Only here and there at
the mouth of some dark alley stands a ragged woman with a suckling babe
at her weak breast, and begs with her eyes. Perhaps, if those eyes are
still beautiful, we glance into them, and are shocked at the world of
wretchedness visible within. The common beggars are old people,
generally blacks, who stand at the corners of the streets cleaning
pathways--a very necessary thing in muddy London--and ask for "coppers"
in reward. It is in the dusky twilight that Poverty and her mates, Vice
and Crime, glide forth from their lairs. They shun daylight the more
anxiously since their wretchedness there contrasts more cruelly with the
pride of wealth which glitters everywhere; only Hunger sometimes drives
them at noonday from their dens, and then they stand with silent,
speaking eyes, staring beseechingly at the rich merchant who hurries
along, busy, and jingling gold, or at the lazy lord who, like a
surfeited god, rides by on his high horse, casting now and then an
aristocratically indifferent glance at the mob below, as though they
were swarming ants, or rather a mass of baser beings, whose joys and
sorrows have nothing in common with his feelings. Yes--for over the
vulgar multitude which sticks fast to the soil there soars, like beings
of a higher nature, England's nobility, to whom their little island is
only a temporary resting-place, Italy their summer gard