A PAWNBROKER'S SHOP.
One day I paid a visit to the Workhouse of St. Martin's, in the Fields, which is not far distant from Trafalgar square. This workhouse looks like a vast prison, stern, gloomy, and frowning, in the very busiest quarter of the city. Opposite to its entrance was the barracks of some regiment of infantry, and round the doors, were talking and smoking, half-a-dozen of long-legged and slim-waisted private soldiers, in red shell jackets, whose chief occupation seemed to be that of switching their manly calves with slender rods which they jauntily carried in their hands.
THE MASTER OF THE WORKHOUSE.
The workhouse door was shown to me by a squad of small boys who were at play in the adjoining gutters, clad in a pauper's uniform of blue, and on whose heads were dirty but comfortable caps of plaid pilot cloth.
"Yes, master, there is the Workus, over yander. Will ye give us a penny? We are all Workus," said they in chorus.
I entered the low entrance and stood in a small vestibule, where stood a shelf, or stand, upon which was placed an open blank or visitors' book, in which each caller was to inscribe his name and residence, together with his object for visiting the workhouse. On the opposite page were blank spaces, on which an attendant entered the hours when a visitor called and when he left the institution.
A miserable, worm-eaten looking old man, devoid of teeth, and shambling in his gait, a perfect wreck, shuffled up to me with a deprecating look in his eye, as if he were asking pardon for being alive. Heavens! how the iron of poverty, and the bitterness of dependence, must have eaten away that poor wretch's soul before such enduring lines of degradation could have been impressed on his features.
This old pauper was detailed to wait upon the visitors, and to see that their names were inscribed, with the warning that he should not attempt to ask for or receive any gratuity.
He faintly said in a childish voice:
"What can I do for you, Sir? Do you wish to see the Workus? Ah, yes, of course, a goodish bit of people comes to see the poor paupers, now and then, but we are never allowed to take anything, Sir. No never, never. Poor paupers, poor paupers," and so he mumbled away until the Master of the workhouse was announced by his footsteps that came in echoes as I sat in the little, poverty-stricken ante-room.