And what's this, coiling, now, about
my foot? Another Irish me, pitifully in want of shaving, whom I
have awakened from sleep - and across my other foot lies his wife -
and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their three eldest - and
their three youngest are at present squeezed between the open door
and the wall. And why is there no one on that little mat before
the sullen fire? Because O'Donovan, with his wife and daughter, is
not come in from selling Lucifers! Nor on the bit of sacking in
the nearest corner? Bad luck! Because that Irish family is late
to-night, a-cadging in the streets!
They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of them sit
up, to stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming eye, there
is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded, from a grave of rags. Who
is the landlord here? - I am, Mr. Field! says a bundle of ribs and
parchment against the wall, scratching itself. - Will you spend
this money fairly, in the morning, to buy coffee for 'em all? -
Yes, sir, I will! - O he'll do it, sir, he'll do it fair. He's
honest! cry the spectres. And with thanks and Good Night sink into
their graves again.
Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets, and our other new streets,
never heeding, never asking, where the wretches whom we clear out,
crowd.
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