Sometimes, these Alms-Houses belong to a Company or Society. Sometimes, they were established by individuals, and are maintained out of private funds bequeathed in perpetuity long ago. My favourite among them is Titbull’s, which establishment is a picture of many. Of Titbull I know no more than that he deceased in 1723, that his Christian name was Sampson, and his social designation Esquire, and that he founded these Alms-Houses as Dwellings for Nine Poor Women and Six Poor Men by his Will and Testament. I should not know even this much, but for its being inscribed on a grim stone very difficult to read, let into the front of the centre house of Titbull’s Alms-Houses, and which stone is ornamented a-top with a piece of sculptured drapery resembling the effigy of Titbull’s bath-towel. Titbull’s Alms-Houses are in the east of London, in a great highway, in a poor, busy, and thronged neighbourhood. Old iron and fried fish, cough drops and artificial flowers, boiled pigs’-feet and household furniture that looks as if it were polished up with lip-salve, umbrellas full of vocal literature and saucers full of shell-fish in a green juice which I hope is natural to them when their health is good, garnish the paved sideways as you go to Titbull’s. I take the ground to have risen in those parts since Titbull’s time, and you drop into his domain by three stone steps. So did I first drop into it, very nearly striking my brows against Titbull’s pump, which stands with its back to the thoroughfare just inside the gate, and has a conceited air of reviewing Titbull’s pensioners. ‘And a worse one,’ said a virulent old man with a pitcher, ‘there isn’t nowhere. A harder one to work, nor a grudginer one to yield, there isn’t nowhere!’ This old man wore a long coat, such as we see Hogarth’s Chairmen represented with, and it was of that peculiar green-pea hue without the green, which seems to come of poverty. It had also that peculiar smell of cupboard which seems to come of poverty. ‘The pump is rusty, perhaps,’ said I. ‘Not _it_,’ said the old man, regarding it with undiluted virulence in his watery eye. ‘It never were fit to be termed a pump. That’s what’s the matter with _it_.’ ‘Whose fault is that?’ said I. The old man, who had a working mouth which seemed to be trying to masticate his anger and to find that it was too hard and there was too much of it, replied, ‘Them gentlemen.’ ‘What gentlemen?’ ‘Maybe you’re one of ’em?’ said the old man, suspiciously. ‘The trustees?’ ‘I wouldn’t trust ’em myself,’ said the virulent old man. ‘If you mean the gentlemen who administer this place, no, I am not one of them; nor have I ever so much as heard of them.’