stly
fallen from the walls of the room, the very laths are cut away, and the
naked bricks and rude masonry are exposed. The ceiling is blackened with
the tobacco-smoke of years, ascending every night from a hundred pipes.
The filth that accumulates is seldom cleared away, but is swept into
heaps in the corners, and remains there perhaps for weeks. A stench
pervades the place, and a horrible moisture settles upon the walls. The
room every night has the appearance of a market-place, where beggars
vend and where beggars are the purchasers. From the roof a dim light is
suspended, and candles stuck into glass bottles are placed upon the
table. The daily contributions of the benevolent are here disposed of;
what one has, another lacks. Old coats, old boots and shoes, old gowns,
are freely bartered for tobacco and gin. Women from neighboring
rag-shops attend to buy, and candle-makers send their agents to collect
fat and grease. Every individual brings his own food, for the proprietor
of the house finds lodging only, and not board. The atmosphere reeks
with the smell of herrings and fried sausages. After supper is finished,
a fiddler--one of their number, paid for his services by contributions
of tobacco and beer--strikes up some merry music; dancing commences, and
goes on till midnight, and often far into the morning. Save in such
houses, such dancing and such dancers were never seen. The lame cast
aside their crutches, the blind regain their sight, the paralyzed are
alert and nimble, the trampers of every species jig in turn, or
altogether, shaking their rags unto the jocund tune; and where is there
a blither party? Burns has pictured the scene in his 'Jolly Beggars,'
and he is the laureate of the night.

Would you know what kind of dormitories these people resort to when
their dancing is finished? I will describe one out of many that I saw,
which will serve as a specimen of the rest. Let us ascend the rickety
staircase. The atmosphere is intolerably foul, and you feel that a
week's confinement in such a den would cause your death. Well, these are
the beds; a heap of straw, matted with long service, and a filthily foul
rug for a coverlet. The sleepers have no other covering, in summer or
winter. These beds change their occupants, perhaps, every night; for a
tramper seldom sleeps two consecutive nights in the same place. Do not
approach too near, for they are alive with loathsome vermin. There are
twenty-five beds in a room th