of a simple ballad sung by a shepherd
lad. I was accompanied in this instance by the Rev. Walter Swaffield, of
the Bethel Mission, and his assistant, Rev. W. J. English.

[Illustration: INVALID IN CHAIR (SEE NOTE).]

The first building we entered faced a narrow street. The hallway was as
dark as the air was foul or the walls filthy. Not a ray or shimmer of
light fell through transoms or skylight. The stairs were narrow and
worn. By the aid of matches we were able to grope our way along, and
also to observe more than was pleasant to behold. It was apparent that
the hallways or stairs were seldom surprised by water, while pure, fresh
air was evidently as much a stranger as fresh paint. After ascending
several flights, we entered a room of undreamed-of wretchedness. On the
floor lay a sick man.[2] He was rather fine-looking, with an intelligent
face, bright eyes, and countenance indicative of force of character. No
sign of dissipation, but an expression of sadness, or rather a look of
dumb resignation peered from his expressive eyes. For more than two
years he has been paralyzed in his lower limbs, and also affected with
dropsy. The spectacle of a strong man, with the organs of locomotion
dead, is always pathetic; but when the victim of such misfortune is in
the depths of abject poverty, his case assumes a tragic hue. There for
two years he had lain on a wretched pallet of rags, seeing day by day
and hour by hour his faithful wife tirelessly sewing, and knowing full
well that health, life, and hope were hourly slipping from her. This
poor woman supports the invalid husband, her two children, and herself,
by making pants at twelve cents a pair. No rest, no surcease, a
perpetual grind from early dawn often till far into the night; and what
is more appalling, outraged nature has rebelled; the long months of
semi-starvation and lack of sleep have brought on rheumatism, which has
settled in the joints of her fingers, so that every stitch means a throb
of pain. The afternoon we called, she was completing an enormous pair of
_custom-made_ pants of very fine blue cloth, for one of the largest
clothing houses in Boston. The suit would probably bring sixty or
sixty-five dollars, yet her employer graciously informed his poor white
slave that as the garment was so large, he would give her an _extra
cent_. Thirteen cents for fine custom-made pants, manufactured for a
wealthy firm, which repeatedly asserts that its clothing is not made