the bailiffs in the house; and, when we do not know where on earth to get our next shilling from, we do not worry as to whether our mistress's smiles are cold, or hot, or lukewarm, or anything else about them.
Foolish people—when I say "foolish people" in this contemptuous way, I mean people who entertain different opinions to mine. If there is one person I do despise more than another, it is the man who does not think exactly the same on all topics as I do. Foolish people, I say, then, who have never experienced much of either, will tell you that mental distress is far more agonising than bodily. Romantic and touching theory! so comforting to the love-sick young sprig who looks down patronisingly at some poor devil with a white starved face, and thinks to himself, "Ah, how happy you are compared with me!" so soothing to fat old gentlemen who cackle about the superiority of poverty over riches. But it is all nonsense—all cant. An aching head soon makes one forget an aching heart. A broken finger will drive away all recollections of an empty chair. And when a man feels really hungry, he does not feel anything else.
We sleek, well-fed folk can hardly realise what feeling hungry is like. We know what it is to have no appetite, and not to care for the dainty victuals placed before us, but we do not understand what it means to sicken for food—to die for bread while others waste it—to gaze with famished eyes upon coarse fare steam-
