fingers moving as rapidly and in
as unerring manner as an old experienced needlewoman. These three
children are fine looking, as are most of the little Portuguese I
visited. Their large heads and brilliant eyes seem to indicate capacity
to enjoy in an unusual degree the matchless delight springing from
intellectual and spiritual development. Yet the wretched walls of their
little apartment practically mark the limit of their world; the needle
their inseparable companion; their moral and mental natures hopelessly
dwarfed; a world of wonderful possibilities denied them by an inexorable
fate over which they have no control and for which they are in no way
responsible. We often hear it said that these children of the slums are
perfectly happy; that not knowing what they miss life is as enjoyable to
them as the young in more favorable quarters. I am satisfied, however,
that this is true only in a limited sense. The little children I have
just described are already practically machines; day by day they engage
in the same work with much the monotony of an automatic instrument
propelled by a blind force. When given oranges and cakes, a momentary
smile illumined their countenances, a liquid brightness shot from their
eyes, only to be replaced by the solemn, almost stolid, expression which
has become habitual even on faces so young. This conclusion was still
more impressively emphasized by the following touching remark of a child
of twelve years in another apartment, who was with her mother busily
sewing. "I am forty-three years old to-day," remarked the mother, and
said Mr. English, "I shall be forty-two next week." "_Oh, dear_," broke
in the child, "_I should think people would grow SO TIRED of living so
MANY YEARS._" Was utterance ever more pathetic? She spoke in tones of
mingled sadness and weariness, revealing in one breath all the pent-up
bitterness of a young life condemned to a slavery intolerable to any
refined or sensitive nature. Is it strange that people here take to
drink? To me it is far more surprising that so many are sober. I am
convinced that, in the slums, far more drunkenness is caused by abject
poverty and inability to obtain work, than want is produced by drink.
Here the physical system, half starved and often chilled, calls for
stimulants. Here the horrors of nightmare, which we sometimes suffer
during our sleep, are present during every waking hour. An oppressive
fear weighs forever on the mind. Drink offers