University of Virginia Library

Grey and grisly 'neath this sky
Of bitter darkness, gleam'd the long blind wall
Of that grim institute, we English call
The Poor-House.
We build houses for our poor,
Pay poor-rates,—do our best, indeed, to cure
Their general sickness by all special ways,
If not successful, still deserving praise,
Because implying (which, for my part, I
Applaud intensely) that society
Is answerable, as a whole, to man,
—Ay, and to Christ, since self-styled Christian!
For how the poor, it brings to birth, may fare;
Tho' some French folks count this in chief the' affair
Of Government, which pays for its mistakes
To Revolution, when grim Hunger breaks
His social fetter sometimes. Still, remains
This fact, a sad one:—'spite of all our pains,
The poor increase among us faster still
Than means to feed them, tho' we tax the till
To cram the alms-box. Which is passing strange,
Seeing that this England in the world's wide range
Ranks wealthiest of the nations of the earth.
But thereby hangs a riddle which is worth
The solving some day, if we can. That's all.

This woman, passing by that Poor-House wall,
Shudder'd, and thought . . . no matter! 'twas a thought
Only that made her shudder,—till she caught
Her foot against a heap of something strange,
And wet, and soft; which made that shudder change
To one of physical terror.
'Twas as tho'
The multitudinous mud, to scare her so,
Had heap'd itself into a hideous heap,
Not human sure, but living. With a creep
The thing, whate'er it was, her chance foot spurn'd,
Began to move; like humid earth upturn'd
By a snouted mole, disturb'd; or else,—suppose
A swarm of feeding flies, when cluster'd close
About a lump of carrion, or a hive
Of brown-back'd bees. It seem'd to be alive
After this fashion. A collective mass
Of movement, making from the life it has,
Or seems to have, in common, tho' so small,
A sort of monstrous individual.
For, from the inward to the outward moved,
The hideous lump heaved slowly; slowly shoved
Layer after layer of soak'd and rotting rags
On each side, down it, to the sloppy flags
Beneath its headless bulk; thus making space
For the upthrusting of the creature's face,
Or creature's self, whate'er that might have been.
Whence, suddenly emerging,—to be seen,
One must imagine, rather than to see,
Since it look'd nowhere, neither seem'd to be
Surprised, or even conscious,—there was thrust
(As tho' it came up thus because it must,
And not because it would) a human head,
With sexless countenance, that neither said
To man, nor woman . . . ‘I belong to you,’
But seem'd a fearful mixture of the two
United in a failure horrible
Of features, meant for human you might tell
By just so much as their lean wolfishness
Contrived more intense meaning to express
Than hunger-heated eye or snarling jaw
Of any real wolf.
Stricken with awe,
The woman, only very poor indeed,
Recoil'd before that creature past all need,
And past all help, too, being past all hope.
For, stern and stark, against the stolid cope
Of the sad, rainy, and enormous night,
That sexless face had fix'd itself upright
At once, and, as it were, mechanically,
With no surprise; as much as to imply
That it had done with this world everywhere,
And henceforth look'd to Heaven; yet look'd not there
With any sort of hope, or thankfulness
For things expected, but in grim distress,
From the mere wont of gazing constantly
On darkness.
London's Life went roaring by,
And took no notice of this thing at all.
It seem'd a heap of mud against the wall.
And if it were a vagrant . . . well? why, there
The Poor-House stands. The thing is its affair,
Not yours, nor mine; who pay the rates when due,
And trust in God, as all good Christians do.
And yet,—if you or I had pass'd that way,
And noticed (which we did not do, I say.
Not ours the fault!) the creature crouching there,
I swear to you, O Brother, and declare
For my part, on my conscience, that, altho'
I never yet was so opprest, I know,
By instant awe of any king or queen,
Prelate, or prince, whate'er the chance hath been,
As to have felt my heart's calm beating stopp'd,
Or my knees faulter, yet I must have dropp'd
(Ay, and you too, friend whom my heart knows well!)
In presence of that unapproachable
Appalling Majesty of Misery;
Lifting its pale-faced protest to the sky
Silently against you, and me, no doubt,
And all the others of this social rout
That calls itself fine names in modern books.