Till the world below was a fancy fond,
And the real life was the life beyond.

Is there a soul and a life to be?
Hearken to one last word from me.
'Ither and thither blowed and tossed,
Others may balance the cons and pro's ;
Them, old chap, as has loved and lost,
They doesn't hargey, because they knows.

I tell you, I do, if I warn't as clear
As it's I myself a-standing here,
That every life in these teeming streets,
From the cry of birth, till the gasp of death,
Sways as the heart of the great God beats,
As the bo-som sways with the breath;
If I warn't as sure that this life of sin-
This troublesome life as we lives to-day-
Is just a-tuning the violin

For the strain as is to play ;

If I wasn't sure whenever I die,

Not all on it's said in "dust to dust," And there isn't no sham, nor fudge, nor lie, In the sure and certain trust;

If I wasn't sure, on some 'appy shore,

Some peaceful, and sinless, and blessed landHer as I loved, and as went before Shall take me by the hand. If I didn't know as this was true, I'll tell you, Billy, the thing I'd do. I'd just walk off to my room to-night, And shut the door, and bolt it tight, And load my gun with powder and ball, And spatter my brains agen the wall.

IT

SOME PHASES OF POOR LIFE.

T is an old and true saying, that one half of the world knows little of the manner in which the other half lives. Much has of late been written concerning the hard and bitter life of "the masses;" and a great deal has, and is being done to ameliorate their condition, but much still, and will probably always remain to accomplish. Despite the amount that has been written of our poorer brothers and sisters, little is perhaps known of the means by which hundreds of families eke out a precarious existence at equally precarious trades, upon starvation wages, and in dwellings where overcrowding, vice, and general unhealthiness tend to make life altogether incompatible with morality and health.

Duty often calls the writer of this paper to various districts south of the Thames, among "all sorts and conditions of men" and women, in streets where the houses are tottering to their fall, and from whence are gathered some of our worst criminals. Here, throughout the day, language of the vilest description is poured forth from the lips of men who have the calling of thief written plainly on their face, and from bold and brazen-faced viragos, who assist in making night hideous with their fighting, quarrelling, and loathsome language, when the temporary shelter of the various glaring gin palaces, which abound and flourish on all sides, are closed and their occupants are turned into their natural home -the streets. It is not, however, intended in this paper to depict this depraved class: it is to other and more congenial phases of life that the writer wishes to draw attention, viz., to a class who, though very poor, still strive hard to be honest, and who are mostly engaged in an uncertain and almost hopeless contest to support life,-a life many would think hardly worth the living, and one the bare possession of which can only be maintained after a desperate struggle, and at the cost of putting aside all that can give the slightest happiness or interest to it.

Let us for a few minutes take a glance into a few of the dwellings in these streets of squalor and dirt. Most of the doors stand open, or in cases where this is not so, a piece of string hangs through a hole, by pulling which the latch is raised inside and entrance gained. I knock at one of these places, and am greeted with a gruff "Come in."

I push open the door and struggle into a small room, in

which at first nothing is very plainly discernible until the clouds of rank tobacco smoke have had an opportunity of making their exit through the open portal. When the eye has become accustomed to this atmosphere, a glance around shows the place to be (excepting an old table and a few broken chairs) devoid of furniture. The ceiling in parts is crumbling away, the walls are damp and moist, the firegrate is without fire, although the season is cold, and an old mattress thrown together in a corner does duty as a bed for father, mother, and three little ones, the whole being enveveloped in a sickly vapour. The inmates are all busily employed woodchopping, an occupation extensively carried on in this particular district. The father saws up the logs, the wife chops away with her hatchet, and the eldest of the three children "piles" or makes the sticks up into bundles ready for sale. By hard work, this family are enabled to earn 12/- to 15/- per week.

The father bids me be seated, but as no chair in the room possesses more than three legs, and in other ways look very unsuitable articles for domestic use, I gently decline the proffered courtesy. The old woodchopper ceases his work for a few minutes, and after lighting his pipe, and taking a deep draught from the contents of a black bottle that is standing on the mantel-shelf, he pours into my ears a long tale of his family trials and afflictions, and he thus concludes, "You see, sir. I'm getting too old for much work now; the fact is, I ain't every one's money, but we manage to earn 12/- or 15/- a week between us at woodchopping, which, arter paying 3/- a week for this here room, don't leave us over much for food, and we certainly ain't able to live like lords on liver and bacon, and them 'ere luxuries every day of our lives but there, we has our bit of bread-and-butter or cheese for dinner, and we's very 'appy and contented, for we're got a comfortable little home, and the missus ain't a "railer," but is a good 'un to work, and makes the most of things, and when I ain't laid up with rheumatics, and can get me drop of beer and bit of baccy, I'm as 'appy as a king."

This family of woodchoppers is typical of many in the immediate neighbourhood,-families whose average earnings rarely amount to over 15s. or 16s. per week, but who still try to support themselves on this small amount without applying to the Relieving Officer for assistance the last painful resource left open to the struggling and self-respecting poor. My next visit is to a small room overhead, in the same house as that in which the woodchopper resides, where lives a "Sempstress lean, and weary, and wan, With only the ghosts of garments on.

The apartment which she and her two young children occupy is scrupulously clean, but almost devoid of furniture. Crouching over the firegrate, which contains but a handful of coals, is the poor sempstress, sewing away for dear life. She is slop-shirt making, and button-holing cuffs and collars; and it requires no practised hand to see by the hectic flush on her sunk and hollowed cheeks that she is sewing with a double thread a shroud as well as a shirt. Mrs. C. rises upon my entrance, and offers me the only chair in the apartment; but I prefer standing, and she reseats herself and busily plies her needle with what must be a very wearying "stitch, stitch, stitch."

I ask whether work is plentiful?

"Oh, yes, sir!" is the response; "there's no lack of work; but the pay is so poor I have to sew almost night and day before I can earn sufficient to keep the little ones and myself, even in our moderate way of living."

I inquire how long she has done this kind of work, and how many hours a day she is usually employed at it?

"I've done slop-shirt making and button-holing now, sir," is the reply, "ever since my husband deserted me three years ago. He went away one night, a week after my little Georgie was born. I never knew what for, and I've not heard of him since. I was never very strong, and not able to go to the washtub or out charing, so I took to shirt-making; but it's hard work and poor pay at the best. I work nearly sixteen hours a day, and by so doing I can earn 7s. to 7s. 6d. a week; and besides this I get an allowance from the parish of 2s. and two loaves, and that is all I have to support myself and two children."

"But do you always manage to earn that amount each week?" I ask.

"Sometimes work

"Well, no; not always," is the reply. is very slack, and sometimes I can get none at all; then we only have our parish pay to live on, and then life hardly seems worth living. You see," she adds, pointing to the fire, "I have extra coals and candles to provide out of my small earnings. In cold weather like the present I am bound to keep up a small fire, or my fingers get so benumbed that I am unable to feel or thread my needle, so my work is retarded; and then again of an evening I must burn candles, whereas if I was not sewing, I could sit in the dark, and so save expense."

During this conversation Mrs. C. has repeatedly to stop, from the effects of a troublesome and hacking cough; and it is painfully evident, from her flushed face and white, thin hands-thin almost to transparency,-that her days are numbered.

I bid the poor woman good morning, descend the rickety old staircase, and gain the street, along which I pass to its further end; and there enter a tumble-down dwelling, where lives an aged staymaker. This unfortunate woman earns, by working from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. daily, from 3s. to 3s. 6d. per week at binding and stitching stays. Her pay is even worse than the shirt-makers. Moreover, the firm from which she obtains her employment are hard taskmasters; and if she fails to perform a full day's work, stoppages from her wages ensue, or she is threatened with dismissal. The staymaker is a single woman, and therefore has only herself to support. By working her fingers to the bone she is barely enabled to earn sufficient to keep body and soul together. Sharing the same room as herself is another woman, who is literally "killing herself to live." She is employed in a white lead factory, and suffers from chronic lead-poisoning. She is an old hand at this particular work, its chief fascination being that she can earn comparatively good wages at it; but the poison has got such a strong hold upon her system that she knows it will not be long 'ere it kills her. Despite the continual warnings of friends, she daily trudges to and fro to the factory, and will probably continue to do so until her failing health will no longer permit it. This poor creature, having but few friends and no relations, has managed to save two or three pounds from her dearly-earned wages. This she keeps sacredly treasured up in a box in the hope that it will someday defray the expenses of her burial; and she may, therefore, not have to undergo the degradation of a pauper's funeral. It is her boast that in times of sickness she has never applied to the parish for help; and when she dies she will try and leave sufficient behind her so as not to be beholden to them for a funeral.

The next house visited is a small tenement of one room. There is neither handle nor knocker to the front door, which is closed, so I knock gently with the end of an umbrella. I hear a noise inside, and a voice sings out, "Get away you brute, get away." I begin to grow anxious, hardly knowing whether these words are addressed to me, but to make matters certain I knock again, and the voice from inside this time calls out, "Come in; pull the string." I accordingly pull the string hanging to the door, and enter. On a straw mattress, thrown across an old bedstead in a corner of the room, is the individual from whom the recent words proceeded, and by the foot of his bed is a donkey, and to this object Mr. D.'s previous words were addressed. Mr. D. is a costermonger, hawking vegetables, etc., about the streets, and the donkey is kept to assist him in his business.

K