"Davis," he said, " I want you to tell me,
between ourselves——just as a matter of curiosity,
you know——what year's wine that B. B. is that
your master so often asks for."

A phosphorescent smile flitted across the
face of Davis as he looked round at the house,
and then coughed twice. "Lord bless you,
sir!" he replied, "B. B.? That's no special
vintage, that ain't. Don't you take any of that
muck, sir. That's our bottoms of bottles!"

SAINT BUMBLE.

THE parish of St. Bumble is one of the oldest
and most densely populated of the metropolis.
It contains numerous narrow streets of little
dirty cardboard two-story tenements, which are
ill drained, and scarcely supplied with sufficient
water to make the tea of the poor people
who live in them——or rather the people who
are compelled to huddle together in them to
be poisoned with foul air and to die.

On account of this, there is a large demand
for parochial relief; and the rates of St. Bumble
have to pay smartly for his lack of accommodation
and cleanliness. His saintship's guardians
of the poor are alive to the difficulties of their
patron; and they manage their funds as
economically as possible, leaving sanitary reform to
the vestry——who leave it to somebody else.

Our guardians are all men of responsible
positions in the parish. They live well, and
know, or pretend to know, what the flavour of
good port is like, They have property in the
parish, and are consequently interested in its
welfare. The chairman had once a stiff tussle
with the world, and came off with honour
and a nice competency. His compeers have
passed through much the same conditions of
life. All have pushed themselves forward from
small beginnings to comparatively great ends
in the useful occupations of publicans, butchers,
grocers, tallow-chandlers, cheesemongers, &c.
They are good men in the main, but there are
two things which often throw their goodness
into shadow. First: they find it difficult to
understand that in the nature of things it is
impossible for everybody to be as successful in
life as they have been themselves. Second:
a growth out of the first——they are apt in their
official capacities to act on the principle that
Dives has a right to kick Lazarus, whether he
grant or refuse him a crumb.

Scene: the board-room of St. Bumble's
workhouse. Ten guardians enter respectively,
greeting each other in a jovial manner; laughing
and chatting. The chairman takes his seat, the
others follow his example, and as they drop on
the chairs, their humanity drops from them.

Enter first applicant for relief: A little woman
thinly clad, middle-aged, with pinched features,
small nervous eyes, and the general bearing
of a timid one who regards the world as an
enemy. Accompanying her are a boy, aged
about fourteen, and a girl, aged about twelve
years. The children keep close to their parent
and look in awe furtively toward the wise
men.

Chairman (loudly): " Well, what's the matter
with you?"

Applicant (in a voice made hard by hopelessness):
" My husband's been lying ill for six
weeks. I go out charing; but now the children
are out of work I ain't able to keep things
going without help."

Chairman: " You shouldn't have children if
you're not able to support them. You've been
here before?"

Applicant (sorry for it): "Yes, sir."

Chairman: "Hope you won't come again."
(A wish benevolent enough, but sounding like
a threat. Then to the boy): " How do you
get a living?"

Boy (frightened by the stern eyes bent on
him, and which seem to be detecting him in a
fib): " I was a liglit porter, sir; but I've lost
my place."

Chairman: " What did you lose your place
for?"

Boy (with increasing fright): " I wasn't
strong enough, sir, and they got an older boy
than me."

Chairman: " You ought to have worked
harder, and you'd have kept your place." (To
the girl): " And what have you been doing?"

Girl (timidly and clutching her mother's
skirt): " I was learning to be a flower-maker,
sir, and helping any way I could."

Chairman: "How much did you get for
that?"

Girl (half crying): "Three shillings a week,
sir."

Chairman (shocked): " And haven't you
saved anything? You ought to be ashamed of
yourself wasting time learning flower-making. (!)
Why don't you go out as a servant? There's
plenty of servants wanted in gentlemen's families."
(Guardians nod approvingly, and frown
on the wicked children.)

Girl (crying): " I can't get a place, sir, or
I'd be glad to take it."

Chairman: " Stop blubbering. Two shillings
a week for a month. What's the next case?"

Exeunt first applicants, and enter second
applicant. A woman in a faded bonnet and a
grey threadbare cloak, with which she endeavours
to keep an infaut warm. She is pale and
weakly looking; apparently scarcely able to
stand, and deeply sensible of humiliation. She
is not offered a seat.

Chairman: " Well, what do you want us
to do?"

Applicant (feebly): " My husband died three
months ago. I pawned nearly everything we
had to pay his funeral, and now I'm starving,
and my child's dying."

Chairman: "Then go into the house."

Applicant: " I'm expecting my brother, sir,
to come for us in a week or two."

Chairman (sharply): " So much the better.
A ticket for a loaf and two shillings a week for
three weeks."

Applicant is about to express her thanks,