the Mill Meadow Charity amounts to one
hundred pounds a year, and this is given in
sums of from two shillings to eight shillings and
ninepence each. On the last distribution, out
of a population of three thousand one hundred
and fifty-eight, one thousand three hundred and
eighty applicants appeared, "among them many
people of substance."

At Lichfield six hundred pounds a year is
given away in gratuities, and during the summer
market gardeners waste high wages "in
expectation of living on charily during the winter."
At Chesterfield, out of a charity producing
fourteen hundred pounds a year, eleven hundred
pounds is disposed of "in small sums, and in a
manner every intelligent person considers
unsatisfactory." There are apprenticeship funds
amounting to fifty thousand pounds a year, yet
the charity inspectors think that the fees are
frequently divided, by an underhand arrangement,
between the parent and the master who
receives the boy. The charity funds in
England, applicable to doles, "cannot amount to
less than one hundred and twenty thousand
pounds a year, wasted as water poured upon
the sand." At Chipping Sodbury, there is an
apprentice fee fund; there have been only
thirty-eight applications in twenty years, and the
accumulations amount to six hundred and sixty
pounds. In the City of London, there are
charities "for the redemption of poor persons
and captives." One fund, amounting to one
thousand seven hundred and forty pounds a
year, has accumulated to upwards of fifteen
thousand pounds, "for which there is little, if
any, use at present." Sir T. White's loan
charities have a capital of one hundred and
twenty-five thousand pounds. There is a loan
fund in Westminster with thirty thousand
pounds, "and very little purpose to which it
can be applied." Persons borrow two hundred
pounds or three hundred pounds from such
charities, at one or two per cent, and place it
in joint stock banks at five or six per cent.
There is in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft,
a sum of thirty thousand pounds and there are
many other funds of a similar kind in the City of
London, devised as aids in the payment of the
ancient and obsolete tax called "The Fifteenth."
The trustees do not know what to do with
these sums. At Melton Mowbray, there is the
Tower estate administered by a tumultuous
"Tower meeting," and as no poll is taken, " the
decision depends on the first one hundred
people who can get into the small town hall."
At Berwick, after the expenses of the corporation
have been defrayed out of an old estate,
producing now ten thousand pounds a year, the
surplus is divided among the freemen under
the name of "Stints and Meadows," the town
clerk receiving ten pounds or eleven pounds
yearly.

Such doles and bequests were possibly suited
to a state of civilization very different from the
present. But society has outrun all the conditions
which the testators contemplated in
their age. This is a utilising epoch; and since
my short visit to Doleshurst, I fancy that something
more suited to our day, and better for the
people, could be effected by charitable bequests
than scattering them in silver florins broadcast
among an idle mob for the special benefit of
beerhouses.

MUSIC AND MISERY.

THE more people love music, when it is good
and comes to their call, the more they usually
hate and abhor it when it is not good, and comes
unbidden. Even the best of music, when it breaks
suddenly upon the ear of one who is engaged in
thoughtful labour or hard study of any kind, is
not agreeable; but when discord, instead of
harmony, bursts upon the outraged silence
of the library, the studio, or the sick-room, then
is music but another name for misery.

Business lately called me to London for a
week; a consideration connected with its facile
transaction led me to take up my residence in
one of the streets branching southwards from
the Strand to the river; a quiet street to all
appearance—a highly respectable street, a
street through which ran no omnibus, and into
which no cab or other vehicle ever penetrated,
unless to set down or take up a fare, or to
deliver the goods duly ordered. I had not been
three hours within these peaceable precincts
before I discovered that the transaction of
business in this respectable street was simply
impossible, that I had been deceived by false
appearances, and that as a residence it was a
very Pandemonium of discords and evil sounds
from daylight until long after dark. The lodgers
in every house—for it is a street of private
hotels and "apartments to let"—appeared to
be, like myself, people who had come from the
country, but who, unlike me, were idle, and
fond of the amusement to be extracted out of
street music and street exhibitions. One
particular day, being detained at home against my
will, the thought struck me to note down from
hour to hour the arrival and the departure of
these nuisances, the nature of the torture they
inflicted, and the encouragement or discouragement
which they received from the lazy, the
silly, or the generous inhabitants. The day
was not an exceptional one, as I was informed
by my landlady, but a fair sample of every day
in the year.

Half-past Eight.—Sitting down to breakfast
and The Times, i hear a sudden and obstreperous
outburst of brazen instruments, which makes
me literally start to my feet and rush to the
window to see what is the matter. It is a
German band of twelve performers, all well
dressed in uniform, and wearing each a semi-
military cap. They set up their music-stands
in the street, and play from printed and manuscript
music. Their performances consist of
overtures and pieces from popular operas, very
excellently rendered. I am told that they are
hired by one family to perform twice a week
before the door, and that they supplement the