There are no flowers in this garden,
which is smaller than my own rose garden at home. Grass only grows here,
and it is surrounded by a sharp-spiked iron fencing, as are all the parks
of London Town, so that homeless men and women may not come in at night
and sleep upon it.
As we entered the garden, an old woman, between fifty and sixty, passed
us, striding with sturdy intention if somewhat rickety action, with two
bulky bundles, covered with sacking, slung fore and aft upon her. She
was a woman tramp, a houseless soul, too independent to drag her failing
carcass through the workhouse door. Like the snail, she carried her home
with her. In the two sacking-covered bundles were her household goods,
her wardrobe, linen, and dear feminine possessions.
We went up the narrow gravelled walk. On the benches on either side
arrayed a mass of miserable and distorted humanity, the sight of which
would have impelled Dore to more diabolical flights of fancy than he ever
succeeded in achieving. It was a welter of rags and filth, of all manner
of loathsome skin diseases, open sores, bruises, grossness, indecency,
leering monstrosities, and bestial faces. A chill, raw wind was blowing,
and these creatures huddled there in their rags, sleeping for the most
part, or trying to sleep.
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