out glass, a cupola without size, a portico without height,
pepper boxes without pepper, and the finest site in Europe without
anything to show upon it."

In spite of all this, to which the pilgrim must at once agree, the
Square itself, with the Nelson Pillar and the noble lions at its base,
nobler for their very simplicity; its fountains and its outlook on the
beautiful portico of St. Martin's, the busy Strand and the great
buildings rising all about, is all that is claimed for it, and the
traveller welcomes any chance that takes him through it. Treasures of
art are at its back, and within short radius, every possibility of
business or pleasure, embodied in magnificent hotels, theatres,
warehouses, is for the throng that flows unceasingly through these main
arteries of the city's life.

This is one phase of what may be seen in Trafalgar Square. But with
early autumn and the shortening days and the steadily increasing
pressure of that undercurrent of want and misery through which strange
flotsam and jetsam come to the surface, one saw, on the long benches or
crouched on the asphalt pavement, lines of men and women sitting
silently, making no appeal to passers-by, but, as night fell, crouching
lower in their thin garments or wrapping old placards or any sack or
semblance of covering about them, losing memory in fitful sleep and
waking with dawn to a hopeless day. This was the sight that Trafalgar
Square had for those who passed through it, and who at last began to
question, "Why is it? Who are they? They don't seem to beg. What does it
mean?"

The Square presently overflowed, and in any and every sheltered spot the
same silent lines lay down at night along the Thames Embankment, in any
covered court or passage, men rushing with early dawn to fight for
places at the dock gates, breaking arms or dislocating shoulders often
in the struggle, and turning away with pale faces, as they saw the
hoped-for chance given to a neighbor, to carry their tale to the hungry
women whose office was to wait. The beggars pursued their usual course,
but it was quite plain that these men and women had no affinity with
them save in rags. Day by day the numbers swelled. "Who are they? What
does it mean?" still sounded, and at last the right phrase was found,
and the answer came: "They are the 'unemployed.' There is no longer any
work to be had, and these people can neither get away nor find any
means of living here."

For a time London woul