" On the top of the building there
were three life-sized statues--Wellington and Nelson, with the Greek
slave between them--a curious companionship. These statues reminded
me of a certain Englishman riding through Dublin, for the first
time, upon an Irish car. "What are the three figures yonder?" said
he to the car-boy, pointing to the top of some public building.
"Thim three is the twelve apostles, your honour," answered the
driver. "Nay, nay," said the traveller,"that'll not do. How do you
make twelve out of three?" "Bedad," replied the driver, "your honour
couldn't expect the whole twelve to be out at once such a murtherin'
wet day as this." But we had other things than these to think of
that day. As we drew near the baths and washhouses, where the soup
kitchen is, the stream of people increased. About the gate there was
a cluster of melancholy loungers, looking cold and hungry. They were
neither going in nor going away. I was told afterwards that many of
these were people who had neither money nor tickets for food--some
of them wanderers from town to town; anybody may meet them limping,
footsore and forlorn, upon the roads in Lancashire, just now--
houseless wanderers, who had made their way to the soup kitchen to
beg a mouthful from those who were themselves at death's door.
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