we help to support, do not meet all the needs
of the unfortunate. Down the mews behind our
houses, in back streets, courts, and alleys close
at hand, there are honest, hard-working men and
women suffering from temporary misfortunes,
which a little kind help would enable them to
surmount; there are sick children dying for
the want of a little nourishment (a cup of that
gravy which we waste on some fantastical dish
which we never taste, the drainings of our wine-
glasses); there are poor clerks and artisans
hiding their heads in the time of illness or loss
of employment in obscure garret-rooms, whose
rent, small as it is, they are unable to pay.
There are wives working their fingers to the
bone to support a sick husband and a swarm of
hungry children; there are starving creatures
huddled together in cold bare rooms, whose
furniture and comforts have been eaten up,
piece by piece, by the pawnbroker; there are
others who need but a few shillings to save
their poor "sticks" from the broker's man.

A strange fact—stranger than anything in
fiction—came to my knowledge lately, with
regard to a poor family who were visited by the
broker's man. When the broker's man came
in, the tenant of the house, driven to desperation
by his misfortunes, rushed upon him with a
knife to kill him.

"For God's sake, don't kill me," cried the
broker's man. "I am a poor unfortunate wretch
like yourself. While I come to take possession
of your things, there is a man in possession of
mine."

"Then you ought to have some feeling for
me," said the other.

"God knows, I have," said the broker's
man; "but I have had nothing to do for a
long time, and I was starving when I was
offered this job. I never did such cursed work
before, and I will starve to death before I do it
again."

The visit of the amateur broker's man was an
angel's visit to that poor family. He had
received five shillings in advance for what he
called his "cursed work," and he made a blessed
use of it, by giving the starving family a meal.
When a benevolent clergyman entered the house
to render some assistance to the distressed
family, he found the children clinging to the
broker's man's neck, kissing him, and calling
him "uncle."

Thus, too frequently, are the respectable poor
steeped to the lips in poverty, and driven, by
dire necessity, to prey upon each other, though
one's misfortunes may be as great as the
other's.

These are the deserving poor, whom we might
help to some purpose. The poor on whose
behalf we make our chief efforts are in many cases,
perhaps in most, professed paupers, who regard
our charity as a right, and live upon us from
one year's end to another.

But charity, to be genuine, should begin
nearer home still. Who is there among us,
however rich he may be, or however exalted his
station, that does not own (and too frequently
disown) a poor relation? Every one has a family
skeleton of this kind in his cupboard—a ne'er-
do-well brother, an unpresentable uncle, a sister
who has married beneath her and come to
poverty, a scapegrace son, a criminal cousin.
Our charity is very cold indeed, and a mock
offering in the sight of Heaven, though we may
subscribe to all the hospitals in the land, if we
turn a deaf ear to the distresses and misfortunes
of our own flesh and blood. It is the
true test of charity in its best sense, to let love
conquer pride, to be long suffering and willing
to forgive our brother, not until seven times,
but until seventy times seven.

I say again, that it would be most ungracious
to charge the upper classes of this country, who
give so much (whatever the motive may be),
with neglect of their duty towards the poor.
Furthermore, I believe that the upper classes
are particularly distinguished for their private
charity, and for the personal interest which
they take in their poor neighbours, particularly
in the country. But in London there is a large
section of the middle classes which does nothing
for the poor beyond paying poor-rates. Let
me ask, what is ever done by bachelors living in
chambers and lodgings—those free, gay, jovial
young men whose whole lives are devoted to
the pursuit of pleasure and self-gratification?
They are not bad-hearted fellows by any means,
and they do give away money. But to whom?
To professed beggars, to loafers, who touch
their hats to them, to loose, worthless characters
of all kinds. Let me ask, what is ever done by
the thousands of middle-class families, who,
though not sufficiently distinguished to be a mark
for alms' hunters, are yet well off, and well able
to assist in relieving the poor? What is done
by the élite of the working classes, who earn
such good wages, and live more luxuriantly
than many of their betters? In most cases very
little, or absolutely nothing. And yet, not
because they are destitute of charitable feelings,
but because no influence is brought to bear
upon them, and because they are apt to think
that enough is done by the classes above them.
Feeling assured that a large field, that might be
cultivated to great fertility, is now lying fallow,
I would suggest a new mission—a mission to
the poor in their own homes. I will not propose
a society, with directors, secretary, collectors,
and the rest of it, for I distrust that sort of
thing. When you begin with machinery, you
make the whole thing mechanical. You substitute,
as it were, a heart of steam for a heart of
human blood, and cold arms of steel for warm
arms of flesh. No; let it be a mission of the
graphic pen and the persuasive tongue. Let
all who speak and write to the public point out
to them what work there is for them to do, and
how it may best be done. And chiefly insist
upon this—charity begins at home, but needs
not end there.