"True, you can't satisfy the beggars till you drown 'em. Wouldn't a gentle asphyxia by water, now, be the best thing for some of the Broad-Street cellarers?"
"Very likely; but they would probably object to the remedy."
"But to return to my project. I see some forms of distress that seem to me far more painful than utter poverty. I won't expatiate, but state a case. I know a man of good sense and culture, able and willing to do his part in the world. His employer has failed, so that his salary will stop. He is unmarried, but has a mother, an invalid, who never stirs out of doors; and besides has some poor relation or other to support. He has a house, it is true; so they needn't sleep in the street; but how are the mouths to be fed, the backs to be clothed?"
"Let him sell his house and wait till better times for employment."
"It is easy to say sell; but who will buy? A house won't fetch half its value, and there isn't any money to be had. Besides,—and this is the hardship,—the pride and the feelings of association cling round a house that has been consecrated by years of affection and by the memory of the dead.—I believe I am making an oration; but I despair of expressing myself."
"I understand you perfectly; it is sad, indeed."
"Excuse me, you don't understand me. Some men put off old houses and put on new ones, like their clothes, without a thought. Others grow into their habitations and become a part of them. You might as well say to a lobster, 'Get out of your shell,' when you know that the poor wretch will die when his naked, quivering members are exposed to the sharp-edged stones. A delicate nature, proud, but gentle, too sensitive to accept charity, and doubtful of a friendly service even, suffers more anguish in one hour, under such circumstances, than your brazen beggar feels from his dirty cradle to his nameless grave."
Mr. Holworthy mused.
"He has nothing to do, then?"
"Nothing, but to suck his thumbs."