Who, that walks up Holborn Hill, has not observed crowds of famine-stricken creatures gathered before the window of a celebrated soup shop opposite St. Andrew's Church, peering with ravenous eyes at the shins of horse-beef, dabs of dough called pudding, steaming soup, and other equivocal viands dispensed within, or passing slowly to and fro before the door, inhaling with dilated nostrils the grateful vapour of the food they want, but must not, dare not touch?