In this Whitechapel Union there is no out-relief, and ‘charity’ is given only to those who, by their forethought or their self-sacrifice, awaken those feelings of respect and gratitude which find a natural expression in giving and receiving presents. The result has not disappointed our hope. The poor have learnt to help themselves, and have found self-help a stronger bond by which to keep the home together than the dole of the relieving officer or of the district visitor. The rates have been saved 6,000_l._ a year, and that sum remains in the pockets of ratepayers to be spent as wages for work, and by the new system of relief the poor are not only more independent but distinctly richer. The old system of relief has been conquered, and the result we desired has been won. What is that result? With what a state of things does the new system leave us face to face? We find ourselves face to face with the labourer earning 20_s._ a week. He has but one room for himself, his wife, and their family of three or four children. By self-denial, by abstinence from drink, by daily toil, he and his wife are able to feed and clothe the children. Pleasure for him and for them is impossible; he cannot afford to spend a sixpence on a visit to the park, nor a penny on a newspaper or a book. Holidays are out of the question, and he must see those he loves languish without fresh air, and sometimes without the doctor’s care, though air and care are necessities of life. The future does not attract his gaze and give him restful hours; as he thinks of ‘the years that are before’ he cannot think of a time when work will be done, and he will be free to go and come and rest as he will. In the labourer’s future there are only the workhouse and the grave. He hardly dares to think at all, for thought suggests that to-morrow a change in trade or a master’s whim may throw him out of work and leave him unable to pay for rent or for food. The labourers--and it is to be remembered that they form the largest class in the nation--have few thoughts of joy and little hope of rest; they are well off if in a day they can obtain ten hours of the dreariest labour, if they can return to a weather-proof room, if they can eat a meal in silence while the children sleep around, and then turn into bed to save coal and light; they are well off indeed, only because they are stolid and indifferent. Their lives all through the days and years slope into a darkness which is not ‘quieted by hope.’