public-house amounted to £14,300, and that of the chemist’s business to only £1,000. Of course the publican drives his carriage and pair, while the druggist has to use Shanks’s pony. But this is a digression. It is of lodging-houses I write. It seems that there are lodging-houses of many kinds. Perhaps some of the best were those of which Mr. Plimsoll had experience. The Peabody buildings are, I believe, not inhabited by poor people at all. The worst, perhaps, are those in Flower and Dean Street, Spitalfields, and the adjacent district. One naturally assumes that no good can come out of Flower and Dean Street, just as it was assumed of old that no good could come out of Nazareth. This was illustrated in a curious way the other day. One of the earnest philanthropists connected with Miss Macpherson’s Home of Industry at the corner, was talking with an old woman on the way of salvation. She pleaded that on that head she had nothing to learn. She had led a good life, she had never done anybody any harm, she never used bad language, and, in short, she had lived in the village of Morality, to quote John Bunyan, of which Mr. Worldly Wiseman had so much to say when he met poor Christian, just as he had escaped with his heavy burden on his shoulder out of the Slough of Despond, and that would not do for our young evangelist. “My good woman,” said he sadly, “that is not enough. You may have been all you say, and yet not be a true Christian after all.” “Of course it ain’t,” said a man who had been listening to the conversation. “You’ll never get to heaven that way. You must believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and then you will be saved.” “Ah,” said the evangelist, “you know that, do you? I hope you live accordingly.” “Oh yes; I know it well enough,” was the reply; “but of course I can’t practise it. I am one of the light-fingered gentry, I am, and I live in Flower and Dean Street;” and away he hurried as if he saw a policeman, and as if he knew that he was wanted.