mere desire for a better, must end in barbarism, which would be much worse.

There is a streak of hope on the horizon, Mr. Blatchford. It would please me well to see your generous mind turned in that direction. You guess what I am referring to, and I daresay you give an impatient shrug of disgust. In all these distressing social and political problems I fall back on my Bible, which is one of the "facts" of the situation not to be got rid of. It tells me that these distractions belong to our age; that it is not given to man at present to live in wise and prosperous ways; that "it is of the Lord of Hosts that the people labour in the very fire, and weary themselves for very vanity” (Hab. ii. 13). Christ, to whom you several times respectfully refer as a true teacher, declares that to this time belong "on the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves (social) roaring; men's hearts failing them for fear, looking after the things that are coming on the earth (Luke xxi. 25, 26). This with the stamp of God's authority I take as a sufficient reason for resignation and patience and waiting. "Waiting," do I say? Yes, for there is much reason for it. There is much promise in all the Bible of a better day when the world will be under that one government, when the innumerable social evils which stir your sympathetic heart will be remedied by a King who will realise Hood's ideal: "A despotism in the hands of an angel from heaven." I could refer you to many parts of the Bible where these things are promised, but perhaps I should only weary you.

Do you believe in Christ, Mr. Blatchford? If you do, you ought to take his words into account; if you don't, you turn your back on one whom you place at the very head of mankind in your allusion 'Salt of the earth, the light of the world; " and your Socialism, however eloquently pleaded, must necessarily prove but a part of those temporary sparks kindled in the dark, of which the prophet speaks (Isaiah 1. 11).

Your melancholy friend,

JOHN SMITH.

Condition of the Working
Classes.

I

My Dear Mr. Blatchford,

THOROUGHLY like your fifth letter. It gives a true account of the unhappy state of things now prevailing amongst the working classes of England; it draws a beautiful picture of the state of things that ought to exist; and it makes some enticing suggestions as to how things might be altered for the better. At the same time, it treats some things too lightly, exaggerates some others, and leaves out some considerations that go far to mitigate the evils you bemoan.

It cannot be denied that "large numbers of honest, industrious people are badly fed, clothed, and housed; that thousands die of diseases that would not exist under right conditions, and that the hardest manual labourers are the worst paid and the least respected." This is a bad state of things; but it is not so bad as it looks. We must judge these things not by how they strike those who are better off, but by how they bear on the actual feelings of those who are the subjects of them. Well-to-do children, riding along the street, it may be, in a brightly polished and sumptuously upholstered carriage, see ragged street urchins playing in the gutter with broken crocks and mud pies. They imagine that these urchins must be awfully wretched. They entertain this imagination because they fancy how they- the well-to-do children--would feel if lifted out of the carriage and set to playing with broken crocks and mud pies in the gutter. But in this they make a mistake. The ragged urchins enjoy their broken crocks and mud pies more than the well-dressed children enjoy their expensive toys. Mr. Blatchford, I have been in the gutter, and I know. No keener zest have I

ever experienced than when, as a child, I played in the gloomiest of back yards with the most worthless of playthings. I did not get half the pleasure in after days from finer things. You remember what Solomon says: "The abundance of the rich will not suffer them to sleep," not that I, John Smith, am rich-and "the rest of the labouring man is sweet." It applies all round. Plenty palls upon the appetite in all things. No man eats with the relish of those who know what it is to hunger. The pampered children of wealth are not so happy as the children of the poor in their romps among litter, although the children of the rich look upon the children of the poor as supreme objects of pity.

The same rule applies to the subject you write of. The picture you draw of the circumstances of the poor is a true one; but it does not mean the misery to the poor that it suggests to the rich. They have a satisfaction in their limited and meagre ways, probably greater than the rich experience in their well-kept lawns, fine houses, expensive furniture, and liberally-provided tables. The rich have cares and vexations that the poor know nothing of, and the poor have enjoyments and satisfactions that the rich never taste.

Incidentally you give me a very good illustration of this principle. You say you have known me turn up my nose at the sight of a gipsy. Perhaps so, though I was not aware of it. If so, it was because I made the mistake that you are making with regard to the poor. I must have thought the gipsy a miserable and contemptible object, whom it would be a kindness to put out of his misery. You tell me he lives a life more pleasant and free, and natural than mine. Very well, I made a mistake in failing to realise his feelings, and in judging his case by how I should have felt if suddenly placed in his position. This is the mistake you make in your overdrawn picture of the miseries of the poor.

Take my own case. I work a great many hours in the factory : but through long usage, my work comes natural to me, and I like it. Times when I have been out of work, through strikes and whatnot, I have been like a fish out of water, and have always been glad to get back. If I were not working at the mill, I should have to be doing something, and I don't know that I should be happier. I admit that work can be made toilsome: but there is not much of this now if a man is moderately well and willing. I believe I enjoy my

loom as much as the artist enjoys his easel, or whatever else it is he works with.

So with the other points. I get fair wages. I should not complain if I could have 30 or 40 shillings a-week all the year round. It would get me all I want. As for fresh air, it is capital just outside where I work; and our mill is well ventilated. As to education, I can read the papers, and any books I want I can get out of the library. The time I have when I get home is about as much as I care to have for this kind of thing. In health, I have nothing to complain of. I enjoy things pretty well when there is plenty of work. Perhaps it might not suit you: it suits me all right. Here is where I think you make a mistake about us working folks. We might be better off on some points, but we are not so miserable as we may look to people of leisure.

You have heard of the dog pitying the fish that lived in the water. He thought it must be so cold and suffocating; and the fish wondering how the dog on the bank of the pond could live where fish die. Of course, the case is not quite so strong as that; but it is a fact that things that would disgust and gall the rich give satisfaction and pleasure to the poor, and that the rich make a great mistake in judging of the poor from how the rich would feel in the same circumstances.

The same thing applies to food. You are shocked at what we eat, and you have quite hurt the feelings of Mrs. Smith by what you say about her cookery. I consider her a first-rate cook. I don't think there is a better cook in all Lancashire. When I have been out on a holiday, at Blackpool, say, with other folks, I have been right glad to get back to Mrs. Smith's cooking and my own fireside. Her way of cooking might not suit you, but I want no better. Don't make any mistake. Things might be a bit better no doubt on many points, but they are not so bad as they seem. No doubt I would like a bit of that beefsteak and potato you speak of: but I am well content with what I get as long as there is money enough to buy more; so are all my sort-most of them. You only make people discontented by your way of talking.

You hope God will improve my digestion. Why, man alive, it beats yours hollow, so that I can do with things maybe that would make your stomach turn. This is where it is. The chickens peck stones; the hippopots-or what you call them--eat river reed with their big mouths. And as for the monkeys and bears, it is aston

ishing what they can do with, and be thankful. It would all stick in your throat. And you would ask God to strengthen their digestion! This is the mistake you make. You judge by your own weak digestion. If we could digest nails, it would not be so very dreadful to have nails for dinner, though it might seem awful to those who could not do with them.

Then you have a shy at our clothes. Well, it is all a matter of taste. If we get as much pleasure out of our drabs and glooms as others get out of their scarlets, blues, and yellows, why should you want to take our drabs from us? It pleases us, and it helps trade. You make a mistake, Mr. Blatchford, in not making sufficient allowance for the feelings of other people.

As to what our clothes are made of, what does it matter so long as they keep us warm, look tidy, and last long enough? You say they are adulterated. Well, perhaps they are: but perhaps they are improved by putting something else in. Perhaps they are cheaper if they answer our purpose, it does not matter whether you call them pure or adulterated. Everything depends upon how a thing is liked. A poor girl's rag doll is as much to her—perhaps more-than the wax angel to the princess. Why should you try to make her discontented? It is mistaken kindness.

As to our houses, I would not object to a little more room; but they suit us. I spend many a happy day in them, with none of the stuck-up ways of the big folks, who cannot enjoy their grand places for fear of not doing the thing rightly. I certainly would not change with that Japanese house that you praise up. The house would not be warm enough in our climate: it would not be cosy enough without furniture: they have too many shutters for me: not enough windows: and there is too much danger of fire. I have no fault to find with it as a Japanese house. I have no doubt it suits Japanese very well, as water does a fish. It would not do for me. It is a mistake, Mr. Blatchford, to try and get us British workmen in love with the frail bamboos that suit the people over there.

Then you think Mrs. Smith must be terribly off without a servant, having all the cooking, and cleaning, and mending, and washing to do. You call it "slavery." Mrs. Smith doesn't agree with you. Of course, huddled all of a lump in the way you put it, it looks awful: but you must remember it is only one thing at a time, and none of them very bad. Mrs. Smith enjoys cooking,