is tail high in air, and quite
as rigid as the Duke's dignity, in front; the opening that terminates
the Strand, and gives place to Parliament street, at the head of which
an equestrian statue of Charles the First, much admired by Englishmen,
stands, his back on Westminster; the dingy shops of Spring Garden, and
the Union Club to the right; and, towering high over all, Nelson's
Column, the statue looking as if it had turned its back in pity on the
little fountains, to look with contempt, first upon the bronze face of
the unfortunate Charles, then upon Parliament, whose parsimony in
withholding justice from his daughter, he would rebuke--and the picture
is complete.

The stranger turns, walks slowly past the steps of St. Martin's church,
crosses to the opposite side of the street, and enters a narrow, wet,
and dimly-lighted court, on the left. Having passed up a few paces, he
finds himself hemmed in between the dead walls of St. Martin's
"Work-house" on one side, and the Royal Academy on the other. He
hesitates between fear and curiosity. The dull, sombre aspect of the
court is indeed enough to excite the fears of the timid; but curiosity
being the stronger impulse, he proceeds, resolved to explore it--to see
whence it leads.

A short turn to the right, and he has reached the front wall of the
Queen's Barracks, on his left, and the entrance to the "Work-house," on
his right; the one overlooking the other, and separated by a narrow
street. Leave men are seen reluctantly returning in at the night-gate;
the dull tramp of the sentinel within sounds ominously on the still air;
and the chilly atmosphere steals into the system. Again the stranger
pauses, as if questioning the safety of his position. Suddenly a low
moan grates upon his ear, he starts back, then listens. Again it rises,
in a sad wail, and pierces his very heart. His first thought is, that
some tortured mortal is bemoaning his bruises in a cell of the
"Work-house," which he mistakes for a prison. But his eyes fall to the
ground, and his apprehensions are dispelled.

The doors of the "Work-house" are fast closed; but there, huddled along
the cold pavement, and lying crouched upon its doorsteps, in heaps that
resemble the gatherings of a rag-seller, are four-and-thirty shivering,
famishing, and homeless human beings--[8] (mostly young girls and aged
women), who have sought at this "institution of charity" shelter for the
night, and bread to appease their hunger.[