It is a melancholy sight to witness the half-starved, anatomical-looking small youths, dressed in every variety of poverty's wardrobe, that linger for hours near a certain little bow-window in St. Giles's; where the nobility, gentry, and public are informed that by paying down the sum of threepence they will be allowed peaceably to depart with an imperial pint of leg-of-beef soup in their own jug. It is a moving sight. To see the hungry looks—the earnest gazes, that are darted through that little bow-window—to see with what intense relish they snuff up the odoriferous vapours which occasionally ascend through the gratings beneath that little bow-window, or roll out in their full fragrance through the doorway adjacent to that little bow-window, ensnaring at every other burst some new, hungry, unsuspecting wayfarer—to see this is indeed a moving sight. Seldom, very seldom is it the good fortune of these watchful youths to revel in such luxuries as leg-of-beef soup, or its rival, alamode; they are beings destined only to view such things afar off, and make vain speculations upon their ravishing flavour; to contemplate them as amalgams expressly prepared for the affluent—those happy ones who can spend threepence and not feel it. Oh! what felicity to be the master of such a shop!—to eat as much as he likes and nothing to pay—to be able to feast his eyesight with the savoury contents of those bright tin kettles when not hungry—to dress in a white apron and striped jacket, and to have supreme command of that ladle—to be able to look sternly upon those perturbed spirits without, and disregard their earnest whisperings of "Oh, don't it smell jolly; and warn't that piece prime, though!"—to be able to go on fishing up the delicious morsels with the same provoking coolness. Oh! to what joys are some men born!

But see. Here come two that have had their enjoyment; maybe each has eaten a whole three-penn'orth. No longer do the fumes possess any charm for them; they can now walk composedly past those magic kettles. Now, two happy beings are entering the elysium—two whose delights are yet to come. One of them is a dustman in a spotted neckerchief, red wrist-cuffs, and a cap peculiar to gentlemen in that line of business; the other is his lady, glorying in the euphonic name of "Doll."

See with what a majestic air he strides in and takes his seat, as if he could buy up the whole establishment twice over if he chose. Hark with what a lordly voice he calls the waiting-boy, whose benevolent master, for services rendered, rewards him with ninepence per week, and the gratuitous licking of all the crockery soiled on the premises.

"Vater!" again vociferates he of the neckerchief. "Yes, sir," is the reply. "Didn't you heear me call vater afore?" "Sorry, sir, but the gen'l'm'n as is just gone was agoin' to forget to pay, sir—that's all, sir." "That's nuffin to do vith me. Ven I calls 'vater,' I vants yer. I can't afford to vaste my precious breath to no purpose as the members o' parliament do, so just prick up them long ears of your'n, and then I think you'll grow the viser." "Yes, sir." "Vell, then, bring this here leddy and me a freeha'penny plate each, and two penny crusties, and ven a gen'l'm'n calls agin, listen to his woice, or maybe it's not unpossible he may get his bit o' wittles at some other ho-tel." With another professional "Yes, sir," the urchin vanishes from the presence.

Once more the purveyor's ladle dives into the bright tin kettle. Again he tortures the hungry beholders outside the window—as they look on with outstretched necks and spasmodic mouths—with glimpses of its treasures. They see the choice bits of gristle but for an instant, and no more; for whilst gazing at the sight, in a paroxysm of longing and fever of desire, the plates are borne off to that vile dustman.

"Now, Mr. Imperence," says the lady, addressing the purveyor's protÉgÉ, at the same time, with much dexterity and elegance, converting a fork she has discovered upon the seat into a toothpick. "Now, Mr. Imperence, I hope you've brought a little less paddywack in it than there was yesterday. As Will says," she continues, stirring and scrutinising the contents of the plate, "bless'd if this house ain't quite losing its caroter." "Brayvo! Doll!" ejaculates her lord approvingly, as leaning backwards with extended leg he draws from his pocket a coin of the realm. "Here, jist valk yer laziness across the vay, and travel back agin vith a pint of half-and-half. Now, vot do you stand ringing o' the money for? Do you think other people is as vicked as yerself?"—"Th' s'picious little warmint!" rejoins the lady, swallowing a spoonful of the soup with alarming expedition, and fulfilling the purposes of a napkin with the back of her hand. "Did you see wot a imperent grin the little beast give?" "Never mind, old gal, you get on," responds the dustman, lounging with both elbows upon the table, and regarding with an air of much complacency the thin-visaged youths outside. "You get on, for I must soon be astirring."

In due time the boy and the solution of malt and hops present themselves, and after a hearty draught of the grateful beverage, the dustman evinces a disposition to become musical, and whistles an air or two with perhaps rather more of good will than of good taste. He suddenly looks round, and discovering his lady has finished the plate of soup and the last drain of beer also, summons forth the juvenile waiter from behind a little partition, just at the mortifying moment when his tongue is making clean the interiors and exteriors of two recently-used plates.

"Now, then, young imp, wot's the damage?"—"Sixpence, please sir," said the waiter, vainly endeavouring to quiet his tongue, which keeps playing round the sides of his mouth; "two plates and three loaves, please, sir." "We aint had free, you cheating little wagabond!" screams the lady; "we've only had two—you know that!" "Oh! beg pardon, ma'am," replies the boy, after a sly lick; "it was t'other box where the gen'lm'n was as had three. Fippence, then, please sir—two plates and two new'uns—fippence."

"You're a nice sample o' thievery for your age," says the dustman, contemplating the boy with one eye, and then counting out four penny pieces and four farthings with curious deliberation. "You're a nice article to cast a gen'l'm'n's bill. Do you happ'n to know a cove in London by the name o' Ketch—Jack Ketch?" "Yes, sir." "Vell then, the next time as you go his vay, have the goodness to leave your card, and say you was strongly recommended to him by me. Now, Doll."

Having delivered himself to this effect, greatly to the moral benefit of the boy, who mechanically replies at the conclusion of it, "Yes, sir," with a dignified step he leads the way to the door, merely condescending, as he places his foot upon the sill, to inform the proprietor, that "he's blow'd if there's a worser prog-shop in the whole blessed vurld!"
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