Reports of suffering from poverty in London are harrowing. At a relief meeting on the 31st it was reported that 200,000 people in that city alone are living on the verge of starvation. In the midst of all this suffering there is something shocking, in spite of the evident good intentions of those in attendance, about the self-satisfaction of the luxurious persons constituting the relief meeting at which this report was made. The meeting was held in the house of a duke, whose great income flows unearned into his private coffers from the common inheritance of all Londoners. A duchess, whose family lives in luxury on incomes also wrung unearned from people who work, occupied the chair. Among those participating were other titled personages whose luxurious incomes are enjoyed at the expense of their starving fellows whose sufferings they had assembled to relieve. But all they proposed to do was to spend pennies here and there for sweet charity. Sweet charity! Yes, sweet; so sweet to those who dole it out, and so bitter to those who must humbly take it or starve. Not one word escaped the lips of any of this charitable assemblage in recognition of the element of justice. To know that 200,000 fellow men and women were on the verge of starvation excited their human sympathies; but that the starving horde were starving because privileged drones and titled parasites revel in unearned incomes, clearly manifest as is the relation here of cause and effect, did not concern the relief meeting. It was something like this that Tolstoy had in mind when with characteristic simplicity and directness he said: “The rich are willing to do anything for the poor people but get off their backs.”—_Chicago Public._ * * * * * The Democratic mule is dead. The last echo of his heroic brays has died away. His tail lies limp on the bare ground, like the banner of a defeated army. His ears lop together and lie stiff and lifeless, like fallen flagstaffs from the conquered walls of a dismantled fortress. There is no breath to moisten the lips that gave forth such pleasant music. Around him stand the doctors. The autopsy begins. Dr. Bryan gently, almost lovingly, lifts the tail of the corpse and examines it carefully. “It was Spinal Belmontitis,” he says. “That’s what killed him.” Dr. Gumshoe Stone is down on the ground examining the ears. “I think it was Parkeritis.” “It might be a complication of both,” answered Dr. Bryan. Dr. Tillman gritted his teeth and spit like a cat. “I know a name for it,” he hissed, “but I have no language to express it.” “I pronounce it damphoolishness,” answered Dr. Hogg, of Texas. “That’s a slow disease,” chimed in Dr. Daniel. “He’s had it a long time,” said Dr. Hearst. “But it never affected his voice,” suggested Dr. Williams. Dr. Bryan blushed and dropped the mule’s tail. “Let’s try a reorganization battery on him,” he said. “He’s been organized and reorganized too often now,” grunted Hogg.