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- so lonesome now; day after day, all the day long, dear William is gone;
and all the damp day long grief drizzles and drizzles down on my soul.
But I pray to God to forgive me for this; and for the rest, manage it as
well as I may.’
Bitter and mouldy is the ‘Poor Man’s Pudding,’ groaned I to myself, half
choked with but one little mouthful of it, which would hardly go down.
I could stay no longer to hear of sorrows for which the sincerest
sympathies could give no adequate relief; of a fond persuasion, to which
there could be furnished no further proof than already was had--a
persuasion, too, of that sort which much speaking is sure more or less
to mar; of causeless self-upbraidings, which no expostulations could
have dispelled. I offered no pay for hospitalities gratuitous and
honourable as those of a prince. I knew that such offerings would have
been more than declined; charity resented.
The native American poor never lose their delicacy or pride; hence,
though unreduced to the physical degradation of the European pauper,
they yet suffer more in mind than the poor of any other people in the
world. Those peculiar social sensibilities nourished by our own peculiar
political principles, while they enhance the true dignity of a
prosperous American, do but minister to the added wretchedness of the
unfortunate; first, by prohibiting their acceptance of what little
random relief charity may offer; and, second, by furnishing them with
the keenest appreciation of the smarting distinction between their ideal
of universal equality and their grindstone experience of the practical
misery and infamy of poverty--a misery and infamy which is, ever has
been, and ever will be, precisely the same in India, England, and
America.
Under pretence that my journey called me forthwith, I bade the dame
good-bye; shook her cold hand; looked my last into her blue, resigned
eye, and went out into the wet. But cheerless as it was, and damp, damp,
damp--the heavy atmosphere charged with all sorts of incipiencies--I yet
became conscious, by the suddenness of the contrast, that the house air
I had quitted was laden down with that peculiar deleterious quality, the
height of which--insufferable to some visitants--will be found in a
poor-house ward.
This ill-ventilation in winter of the rooms of the poor--a thing, too,
so stubbornly persisted in--is usually charged upon them as their
disgraceful neglect of the most simple means to health. But the instinct
of the poor is wiser than we think. The air which ventilates, likewise
_cools_. And to any shiverer, ill-ventilated warmth is better than
well-ventilated cold. Of all the preposterous assumptions of humanity
over humanity, nothing exceeds most of the criticisms made on the habits
of the poor by the well-housed, well-warmed, and well-fed.
• • • • • •
‘Blandmour,’ said I that evening, as after tea I sat on his comfortable
sofa, before a blazing fire, with one of his two ruddy little children
on my knee, ‘you are not what may rightly be called a rich man; you have
a fair competence; no more. Is it not so? Well, then, I do not include
_you_, when I say, that if ever a Rich Man speaks prosperously to me of
a Poor Man, I shall set it down as----I won’t mention the word.’
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