laden, and with babies and umbrellas, in wet
weather and dry weather alike, as they pour
in and out of the general shop, where old Mr.
Snuffles stands behind the counter waiting
upon them, and calling them all Ma'am, as
he would his best customers, regardless of old
scores yet unpaid, and of new scores always
running up? And is there nothing interesting
in watching their various faces, variously
expressive of eagerness, patience, sorrow,
happiness, carelessness, thrift, some fresh but
more toil-worn, as they execute their several
little matters of business, and lay in their
scanty stores for weekly consumption?

Unskilled in the art of what is termed
commanding the countenance, the outlines of their
little stories are mostly written in their
faces, and he who knows anything of their
lives may easily fill them up and read
them.

That tall, thin woman, with the blank face
and full basket, has a very long bill with
Snuffles, and a sick child at home; and the
basket-lid won't shut down over the oranges,
groats, tea, sugar, candles, black-lead, matches,
scrub-brush and  soap, that will "all perish
with the using," and can't be made to
accommodate themselves to circumstances.

That flaunting, tawdry, gay-ribboned young
woman, who looks as if she hadn't a care,
has quite as heavy a bill with Snuffles as her
tall thin neighbour; but she makes light of
it, as she does of every trouble in life, and
as, it is to be feared, she does of her toiling
husband, her young baby, and herself.

That trim tidy little body, in high pattens—
for pattens linger still in nooks and corners
of Lightlands—pays up regularly, being a
shepherd's and not a labourer's wife, and is
naturally Mr. Snuffles's favourite customer,
as she was my favourite neighbour among the
poor around me—she is Mrs. Appleby—and
she may be seen any Saturday afternoon,
at four o'clock precisely, trotting down
to shop, either in those highest of pattens,
or the neatest of shoes, according to the
weather.

That bent worn old woman, in the stiff
cardboard covered bonnet, of shape
unconformable to existing or pre-existing fashion
of whatsoever date, is on parish allowance, and
finds it hard work to screw out of it enough
to defray the cost of her weekly half ounce of
snuff: which she takes secretly, as fearful that
the  "House," through the relieving-officer,
may take cognisance thereof, and, not
undertaking to furnish luxuries, may stop her
pay.

That slight pale middle-aged woman, with
a heavy basket on one arm and a heavier
baby on the other, and the next baby to that,
toiling after her under a great green
umbrella, is the careful care-worn mother of
four more children, and the wife of a soured,
sullen, discontented labourer, made so by
constantly adding to his family, and never adding
to his income: which will not stretch to that
desirable point at which the two ends can be
made to meet; consequently, he and his
landlord, or he and the miller, or he and the
shoemaker, are always getting on the reverse
of good terms.

Snuffles alone stands his friend; but Snuffles
is everybody's friend in the parish, and mine
among the number. Quaint, shrewd, but
thoroughly good-natured, I have often
wondered what the poor of Lightlands would do
without him, or without some such another
general shop-keeper in his stead; for the
truth is, that Mr. Snuffles, although scrupulous
to a halfpennyworth of tobacco in making
out the weekly bills of his customers, will
always give trust. Of course he frequently
makes bad debts by so constantly listening to
the necessitous cry of, "Have patience with
me, and I will pay thee all;" but, somehow,
he has always contrived to live at the old
village-shop, and his compassion may one
day help him to live elsewhere.

I have frequently dived into that little old
shop of his, and—sitting in the midst of
a bower of brushes, short and long and
Turks'-heads, diversified with clogs,
pattens, candles, dust-pans, waistcoat-pieces,
kettles, comforters, apron-pieces, children's
shoes, men's hats, and iron spoons, with
other matters too numerous to mention—
have held long and interesting conversations
with Mr. Snuffles.

In reference to Mrs. Hodge, the discontented
labourer's wife, I once said:

"Mr. Snuffles, I am sure Hodge is in debt,
and I am afraid your bill will never get
paid."

"I keep a careful account, ma'am,"
answered Snuffles, "and if ever Hodge can, I
know he will, pay me."

"Hodge's employers—for he has had several
—don't speak well of him, Mr. Snuffles; they
say he is a troublesome, surly fellow, never
content with his wages."

"Mrs. Turnover, ma'am," said Snuffles;
"no labourer with a wife and six children
ever was contented, that I have had any
conversation with; unless he has become so
stupified with trying to do what can't be done,
that he gets past discontent, and gives it up;
or unless he was a man, muddle-headed
from the beginning, with not sufficient ideas
to feel contented or discontented."

"Goodness, Mr. Snuffles!" I exclaimed,
with a smile, " I didn't know you were a
Radical!"

"No more I am, ma'am," replied the old
man, drawing himself up. "' For Queen and
Country,' is all I know about politics, and all
I care. But that don't prevent me from
seeing and knowing that the labourers work
very hard, and don't get paid in proportion."

"They certainly do work hard," I
assented, " nobody will, or can, deny that;
but people say, if they managed better, they
might do very well indeed—might not only
live, but save."