beestly dog, it His Wurse, has Then she is hall
in a figgit hover the Beast, wich can mind
his-self."

As matters now stand, the cab-drivers are
paid no regular wages. The owners assert that
this could not possibly succeed, as there would
be no means of knowing whether the driver
brought home each day the sum he actually
receives. The system adopted is very much like
that which is followed by the organ-grinders
and their padroni—bring home a certain sum
every night, and do as you like with the rest.
This certain sum, however, is only definite for
those who choose to strike a bargain on it. It
may be as low as eight shillings a day, or as high
as eighteen; but the fixed sum the driver must
bring home to his master, according as the cab is
a four-wheeler or a Hansom, as it is in good or
bad condition, as the driver is a dirty reprobate or
a respectable man, as the horse is a mere scrag
or a good-looking animal, as the period of the
year is in the season or out of the season, as
there are or are not any public holidays going
on. On the Derby Day, the owner of a crack
Hansom expects—who can say how much? As
the terms of the bargain may vary from week to
week, or from day to day, and as it really
appears to be no very profitable trade to the
owners, we can easily understand that the
average net incomes or earnings of the drivers are
anything but large. The cabman declares that he
does not get much above a guinea a week,
taking an average of all the weeks in the year.
Whether it be this, or a little more, he certainly
works hard enough for it—out in all weathers,
plodding along in rain and snow, and getting
his meals where he can and when he can.

There is a Street Traffic Bill now under the
consideration of parliament, which contains
provisions for placing the cabs under the control
of the commissioners more stringently than
ever, but letting in improvement to this
extent;—that if a cab-owner wish to introduce
a cab of a superior build or service, to be run at a
higher tariff of fares, he may do so, provided
the cab obtains a good character on examination;
there must, in that case, be a record of
fares, per mile and per hour, on plates both
inside and outside the vehicle. This may possibly
lead to improvement; but it does not touch the
principle which many experienced men wish to
see fairly tried: that is to say, open competition,
leaving the public to pay best those who
serve them best. Police control there must
necessarily be, for our thoroughfares require to
be marshalled more carefully than ever. Cabs
may still be licensed, not for the sake of
revenue, but to give the police a power of curbing
refractory owners and drivers. Nevertheless,
the question of fares might be left an open one.
Cabmen do not regard the Police as their
personal and particular friends; but if the legal
enactments were intelligible and reasonable,
and not too much in quantity, there is no
sufficient reason why the guardians of her Majesty's
peace, and the carriers of her Majesty's subjects,
should not rub on pretty well together.

It appears that, on the other side of the
world, they are not much more free than
ourselves from the worry and perplexity about cab
law. A correspondent of the Melbourne Argus,
in January of the present year, wrote to
complain of the state of matters on this subject.
He said: "There is a charming confusion in the
nomenclature adopted by the City Chamber in
the regulations issued respecting them. We are
told that a cab is to be charged three shillings
an hour, and a carriage six shillings an hour;
but as nobody knows what is a cab and what
a carriage, the differentiation rests with cabby
himself, and, consequently, six shillings is more
frequently charged than three." Our London
cabman's mouth would water at even three
shillings an hour. As a rule, the fraternity is
ill-used by the public. It has been always the
fashion to denounce them as uncivil, and to
commence every discussion about fares as if
incivility could only originate with them; whilst
in a majority of cases it is the fare who casts the
first verbal stone, and that is often a hard one.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

ELIZA FENNING. (THE DANGER OF CONDEMNING
TO DEATH ON CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
ALONE.)

THE background of this simple prosaic yet
touching story is neither a palace nor a battlefield.
The event we record was heralded by no
stormy war-trumpets, and succeeded by no
outburst of national grief. Yet its catastrophe is
that true basis of all tragedy—death, and, moreover,
it is a story that has drawn, and will again
draw, tears from eyes of all generous and warm-
hearted people, who will here see a pure and,
no doubt, entirely guiltless young creature
entangled in a dreadful and irresistible destiny, and
swept ruthlessly into another world without any
further resistance than a piteous scream of
despair, as she is dashed into the dark and pitiless
gulf.

A third-rate London kitchen is perhaps the
most unromantic of all places, the most dismal
and dingy scene possible for any story.
Everywhere it has more or less the same
features—the smoky-faced clock ticking off the
moments, the three rows of blue willow-pattern
plates, the cat dozing on the scrubby
hearth-rug, the ill-used blackbird in the willow
cage in the cavernous area, the splashed and
grimy windows dulling even the brightest
sunbeam, the dusty bonnet on the nail behind the
door, the jack-towel printed with black fingermarks,
the great generous fire—the only joyous
thing in the place, except the cook's reddened
face, and the little square looking-glass hanging
over the dresser, in which the housemaid
reviews with approval her smiling face and bright
eyes every three minutes before her sweetheart,
the baker, raps at the back door. But dreary
as the half-subterranean kitchen is, still more
dismal are generally its subordinate rooms, its
murderous coal-hole, its dark back wash-house,
its sour-smelling, mouldy beer-cellar, its dim