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Does the unskilled person living in a great city derive no benefit from the advance of the age in mechanical power? None, until he has found a means of utilising it for his own advantage. Disused clothes may be more cheap and plentiful than when clothes were made with greater labour, but he must be able to command a ready market for his own energies before he has the wherewithal to obtain even cast-off shoddy. There are, then, two powers, which aid man— Nature, whose bounty befriends him unasked, as well as on the formal demand of agriculture; and the multiplication of power by the slaves-steam, electricity: neither of these directly benefits the shiftless person without means, living in the central slums of a great modern city? Neither, directly. He who does not own a machine and cannot find a market for his labour cannot benefit by machinery, except in the enlargement owing to mechanical facilities, of the overflow of charity; and here is the philanthropic call over again. The complex order of modern life is directly antagonistic to persons of inferior capacity dwelling in a city. The sub-division of labour renders the call for it a call for something specific, and therefore a limited, and, to that extent, apparently an arbitrary call. The labour desired is of a precise character, and for a precise period. If it come to an end, the faculties are not fitted for any other, were there any demand at that particular moment for any other. In the country-city of old there would be nearly always casual labour awaiting the hireling. Now he must form a part of an orderly system, or there is next to nothing for him, for the ordered system performs the work. In the modern city, there is nothing generally corresponding to the incessant water

carrying, the milking, the spadehusbandry, the fruit-storing of the ancient city. The nearest approach to it during the whole year is the hop-exodus, the extra traffic of race meetings, the extra labour called for by a heavy fall of snow. The snow-clearing, as a branch of the avocation of the street sweeper, shares with the business of the costermonger, a rare resemblance to ancient city employments. These require no railway journey, only a spade or a barrow.

Except in peculiar periods of scarcity, Nature will always afford some little surplus-some margin of sustenance, however scanty and hard-some unconsidered trifle to eke out the meanest human existence. Where there is room to utilise it, of which the modern city defrauds the creature who is ready to live on the sparsest overflow, the mere refuse of ordinary life can be converted into food. Where the soil is not covered with houses, and every square foot of rental value-another hard fact for the shiftless person born in a city-refuse stuff will keep rabbits, poultry, pigs; manure thrown on bare soil will foster a large provision of growth of some kind or other, sundries of garbage are of various value to the individuals on the verge of starvation. In a modern, cramped city the whole goes wasted into the drains, or into the dust-heap, which is but a nuisance to the contractor. The waste of others is a surplus that may become wealth to the very poor; in the modern city it must systematically be rendered useless to them. No gentleman, of however wasteful a household, would care to have prowling about his door the gaunt crowd that may be seen at the back door of a restaurant when the scraps are being given away, as an easy mode of getting rid of them without charge for

carriage. The poor in most instances cannot get the surplus of the rich without stealing it; it is wasted.

In addition to missing the careless surplus of nature, the multiplication of power by machinery, and the wasteful overflow of rich houses (at least in the matter of food), the city poor have to face another hard fact. Dependent upon the energy of others for such food as they have being brought within a few yards of their door, they have not even the notions of political economy possessed by the savage, who at least knows what cause and effect mean in their relation to his own life. He never yells about the plains, "I've got no work to do-o-o;" there is no one to yell at. The semi-imbecile dweller in the depths of city poverty has lost the habits and instincts of self-protection; the energies which he could put to use are become paralysed by disuse, and his children, brought up in the same shiftless state, must be like unto him, or even worse, in spite of a little theoretic teaching in a school. The girl thinks strawberries grow on trees; the boy does not know how to handle a spade. Both have their peculiar prejudices and code of morals, and would certainly rather hang about a soupkitchen than try the flavour of rats, the almost unique natural product, in the way of wild game, of a modern city. The slumborn son of a thief knows no means of livelihood save by extraction from a pocket of the period. Before the riches held in Nature's loosely-hanging gown he would be powerless, even if he could come within sight of her.

The modern city, where no atom of food, or rag of shelter, is legally obtainable except in exchange for money, is a fit place only for such as have a definite and remunerative avocation, a craft enabling them to

share in the profits due to mechanical facilities, or a distinct position of service to others. The incompetent and such must be produced in the shiftless life of the slumsare the last persons that ought to live in a crowded city. And these are they who, as things are, make up a large element of that crowdedness.

Our friend was becoming rather weary of his thoughts, and the more ready to allow that a remedy for the misery which disturbed him must be tedious. But is it quite impossible, he said to himself, jotting down his question meanwhile to submit to a wellinformed friend, for the principalities and powers of great cities to afford the the cost of a politicoeconomical department, which should, district by district, investigate every case where no reasonable means of livelihood could be shown to exist, with Parliamentary powers to give children technical education, or mechanical drill, and to institute compulsory emigration, where necessary, to such quarters of the globe as are in need of such qualifications as the older starvelings can offer? With all the means of education and transit at hand, with all the philanthropic energy and power of wealth to resort to, are we to be compelled to regard our large cities as squalid hidingplaces for useless and deteriorating human beings, city-bound ghosts that can but hover with hungry eyes round a copper of Irish stew ? Why retain matter in the wrong place to seethe and fester, soil and spread? Why not sweep the streets?

And so, coming to the best conclusion of which his powers admitted, our perturbed friend went to his violin, and played a sad but soothing air to still his brain and relieve his mind of a painful subject in the sweet forgetfulness of music.

TWO BEAUTIES.

BY AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR.

"I DON'T believe I'm a beauty," said the Philadelphia Primrose, who was getting a little tired of overhearing herself spoken of as the "new beauty." "None of the men who have really been in love with me have accused me of being pretty. But I am not to be crushed by a collection of old canvasses. Certainly, the women women of your family were handsome, but I guess I can hold my own here, even if my nose is not perfect, and my eyelashes don't curl at the ends."

So saying, she flashed a glance out of her dark eyes at her lover, who was very close behind her, with a defiance which made her captivating.

"Don't trouble to abuse yourself," remarked this gentleman, a fair-haired, blue-eyed Englishman.

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Straight nose or no I admire you, and am inclined to wish I was the

only fellow who did. If I were, I might get you to myself for ten minutes or so at a stretch, which now I never do. Look here, Prim; if I go and see that man that's waiting to speak to me about the dogs, will you be here when I come back? We might really have half an hour together then, which we've not had since I got well."

"Poor old man! I'll wait for you."

"I won't be more than two or three minutes. Promise me, Prim, that you'll be here, and not gone off to the stables with that confounded dragoon, or to play billiards with Larkins."

"I never promise," said the American girl, very solemnly, "but my word is as good as my bond. And see here now, I will have that armchair right in front of the blonde beauty who is so much like you, and I will talk to her till you come back."

With a lingering look at the pretty picture he left, Arthur Honeybell hurried away to interview his keeper.

She was like a primrose truly, this American lady: whether a beauty or no, she looked very delightful as she sank back in her red velvet armchair. Her skin was of that peculiar pale tint which America produces-primrose hue, almost: so unlike the red and white of the English girl. The Primrose did not look as if she could blush with her cheeks, they had too unvarying a pallor; but she could certainly look a blush out of the depths of the quick, earnest, dark eyes: indeed, it seemed as if she could express any emotion with them. Her black hair was all in a coil on her head; as to her dress, it was pale, and charming of course, as she belonged to that large class of American women who know how to dress. Ensconced in the red velvet chair, she looked up with an earnest critical look at a full-length portrait of a lady which hung opposite her. This was the "blonde beauty" to whom she was going to talk. The picture was only one of many such, for it was a large gallery at the top of a

country house in which the Primrose had established herself; but evidently this picture fascinated her more than any other. Probably the fascination lay in the strong likeness between the fair painted lady and Arthur Honeybell, who was at present below, indulging in an un-Christian frame of mind because so many matters required his attention and kept him from the dark-eyed American. But that lady was very well amused with critically regarding the oldfashioned beauties of the family of which she was soon to be a member; and she grew more and more interested in the sweet sad face of that one opposite whom she had placed herself. I should like to know her story," said the Primrose to herself; "in spite of that queer dress she is very pretty, and her eyes are so sad. I wonder does Arthur knów her story? I must ask him when he comes back. I declare those dim blue eyes of hers must have some mesmeric quality. I am growing sleepy with staring at her. What can be the matter with me?"

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What indeed? The heavy atmosphere of this secluded corner in the quiet old English countryhouse has produced a strange effect upon this usually wideawake young lady. She must have been growing nervous, for she started suddenly at a very slight soundthe pit-a-pat of two light-falling feet down the polished floor of the corridor. Perhaps the sound was fancy after all. She turned, but saw nothing and yet, as she settled herself again in her chair, she saw something which surprised her so much that she could only sit still and stare at it. This was nothing less than the blonde lady of the picture quietly sitting in another of the velvet armchairs and regarding the Primrose with a faded, gentle interest. No doubt

of it; it was she. The blonde ringlets curled on her forehead, just as affectedly arranged as in the picture; a thick band of fair hair surrounded her head and held in place the orange-coloured tip of a great ostrich feather which curled right over from one side of her face to the other. She wore a gauzy pink muslin dress drawn in to a waist just under her arms and edged all over with gold braid; it was open in front, displaying a beautifully fine and spotless white petticoat. Beneath this white skirt peeped two little feet cased in light blue shoes. She wore a gold band round her bare white neck, and gold earrings in her ears. Her slender arms were quite bare and unornamented, but she held in her hand a pair of long light-blue gloves, and passed them with a nervous action through her fingers.

"What a strange combination of colour," said the Philadelphia Primrose, speaking aloud-for she hardly suspected this quaint apparition to hear her-" gold, orange, pink and light blue! and that, too, with a pink and white skin and blonde ringlets!"

"Do you not like it?" asked the old-fashioned beauty, speaking in a thin, far-away voice and with a slight lisp. "It was thought an elegant mode when I wore it last: my lovers all admired it. But some

said I should have had two patches, one by the mouth and one under the left eye; but I only put this one under my left eye, because I have heard the other means kissing, and I should fear to seem immodest. Why, you have no patches! and what a strange dress you wear!-why how curious a manner of dressing your hair-is it an affectation, or the mode in some other place?"

"It is the fashion now," said the Primrose, quite conscious that she could meet criticism suc

cessfully at any point of her dressing.

"There has been a great change since my day," said the oldfashioned beauty, with a dim look coming into her blue eyes. "I belong to the past; it is a hundred years since I was a girl in this old house-a young, ingenuous, foolish girl. Do you see that great window at the end of the corridor? I loved that window, because I could see the road, and the pretty fellows who rode in to market in the town would kiss their hands to me as they passed."

"You were rather a flirt, I'm afraid," remarked the Primrose composedly.

"A flirt!" cried the blonde lady, with a thin shriek of horror; "Oh, no-I was sprightly perhaps, but not a flirt. My father would have horsewhipped me if he had seen me lift my eyes to a gentleman in company; but these fine gentlemen they have always eyes for a modish young female, and their attentions are so obtrusive. Dear me! I remember when all this house was shut and barred, and my father and brother sat up all the night with loaded guns because the Duke of Beauville was in love with my sister Susanna. He had only caught one glimpse of her, and it inflamed his passion so that his men were stationed about the house for a week in the hope that they might get her. But my father was a stern man, and would have defended his daughter's virtue with his life."

"But what did these men propose to do?" asked the Primrose in some amazement; "run away with her?"

"Yes, yes. They had a coach and four standing in the lane behind the house; and if she could have been caught, they would have carried her away to the duke. He was a cruel liber

tine, the Duke of Beauville; a most gallant man. The ladies were all afraid of him, for he had stolen several sweet girls from our country side, and ruined them for ever. But he gave up the chase for Susanna after a week. It was no use, for the whole time my father had her under lock and key in her room.”

"Under lock and key in her room!" cried the Primrose ; "what for? Did he suppose she would run away with the duke?"

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'He wouldn't trust her, you know; she was but a giddy pate. 'Tis true, virtue does not consist in wry faces, but still Susanna was so merry a rogue that ill tongues would sometimes speak ill of her, for she could be pretty and familiar with the fashionable men. We had a sort of covey of coquettes in our town then, and my father would not endure that the malicious should touch Susanna's reputation, and class her with them; so he vowed, when he had worn out the duke's patience, that she should marry the first man that asked her hand."

"And I suppose Miss Susanna said she'd do nothing of the kind ?" said the Primrose, with real sympathy in this story of a bygone girlhood.

"No, indeed she did not: she dared not disobey our father. We never sat down in his presence unless he told us we might-"

"What?" interrupted the Primrose with wide-opened eyes, leaning forward in breathless amazement. Are you

"Are you surprised?

not taught in the same way? Our father was not more strict than others."

Miss Primrose had begun to laugh a little at the odd contrast which arose in her mind between the home life she had left in Philadelphia and that now being described to her.

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