pause and reflect that in the end it must come
from his poor old father, with the limited means
and the large family. Or perhaps it is the
altar of love instead of friendship on which he
is to sacrifice. The inevitable Nancy, daughter
of the inevitable farmer in bad circumstances,
appears upon the scene. The model young man
is in love with her. She has nothing. He
has nothing. What does he care? Shall love
give way before mercenary considerations? Is
a girl the worse because she has no money? Is
the daughter of the English yeoman to be
despised because her father is not descended
from the Conqueror, or because she has not
been brought, up at St. James's? Never shall
it be said that Harry Greatheart is the man to
consider pounds, shillings, and pence when the
happiness of Nancy is at stake. Perish the
thought! But, when the young people are at
the end of their tether—-what then? Why then,
sir, they fall back upon the poor old gentleman,
the much misused and much abused Old Square-
toes, who pays for all.

And yet I have heard some of your
contemporaries, my dear father, when griding
against us men of the new generation, complain
that we have no hearts, and try to prove it by
asserting that we never get into these difficulties.
It was only the other day that the colonel himself
said in so many words, "Damme"—-it is the
colonel's habit to garnish his talk with such
expressions "damme," says he, "when I was a
boy, a fellow thought nothing of ruining himself
for a girl; but now they're as cold as ice, the
young milksops, and have no more heart among
the lot of 'em than a Normandy pippin." Think,
sir, which has the most heart. He who refrains
from sacrificing his family, his future, and very
probably the ultimate welfare and happiness of
a young girl, to a selfish fancy, or he who gratifies
that fancy, and in so doing brings misery into his
old home, destroys the career which was before
him, and subjects the object of his short-lived
attachment to a long series of slights and
annoyances for which she has at last nothing to
recompense her—-no, not even the affection about
which her selfish lover used to prate, in the first
transports of his youthful passion?

I must leave off for the present, my excellent
parent; but I have by no means said all that I
have to say about the characteristics of that
new generation to which I have the honour of
belonging.       P. CHESTERFIELD, JUNIOR.

      CHILDREN'S DINNER-PARTIES.

IN a quiet little paved street at the back of
St. Pancras church, looking more like a close in
a staid cathedral town than one of the noisy
dirty ant-hills of London, the words "Sick
Children's Dinner-table," printed across the
white blind of a decent-looking window, informs
the public and the poor, that here, No. 2,
Woburn-buildings, where invalid adults have their
daily rations, sick and puny children may also
be fed.

It is now just five minutes to twelve, the
dinner-hour of the little people. We push open
the door and enter. The place is full. Some
are little children, and some are in the prime of
life, some are tottering and aged; but all look
as if a good dinner of meat and potatoes was a
thing of rare occurrence and great need, and,
sick though they may be, as if the food they are
to have to-day will be of more good to them
than any amount of drugs and doctor's stuff.
These are the diners at the establishment; while
ranged against the wall are groups of girls and
women with jugs and basins in their hands,
waiting to carry home the dinners of such as are
too ill to attend personally. These are the
holders of green tickets; to the fortunate
possessors of the red are allowed extra medical
comforts in the shape of wine, brandy, beef-tea,
or whatever may be thought best for the case
in question. The diners at the establishment
hold white tickets as their cards of admission.

We are received by a dark-eyed, smiling
matron, who, once matron of a reformatory, has
that happy mixture of kindliness and decision
which is just what is wanted for free-going
societies among the poor—-a manner that
influences while it attracts, at once genial and with
authority. And as the success or failure of a
thing of this kind depends very much upon the
cheerful temper and power of organisation of the
conductors and managers, the kindly smile and
prompt decision of the matron here are things
of greater moment than the mere outside
pleasantness involved. The room into which we
enter, and where the adults dine half an hour
after the little ones, is clean, simply furnished,
and cheerful; as devoid of parade as of poverty.
A festoon of coloured paper here and there, a
heartening "Welcome " emblazoned overhead,
popular prints framed in painted cardboard on
the wall itself, and a few cheap ornaments on
the chimney-piece, give a bright and animated
look most valuable to the sickly and
depressed. The tablecloth is clean; the roast
meat smells savoury and appetising; by the
narrow table, which in reality is no table at all,
but the back of the form made so that if
turned one way it is a horizontal table, and if
turned the other, a perpendicular back, sit the
invalids patiently waiting their turn; a cozy
place next the fire is kept for the more aged;
and if the children are in excess of the
accommodation afforded by their own up-stairs room,
the surplus remain below, here in the room of
the adults. The dinner is the same in all
cases—-a good quantity of excellent roast meat,
two or three potatoes, a large slice of bread,
for the adults, half a pint of strong porter, or,
if that is not taken, an extra share of bread;
for the children water, but, in exchange, an
orange or a little bit of cake, &c., by way of
dessert. There is no stint. They may be
helped as often as they like—-the more hungry
ones coming three times; and for this they pay,
the adults twopence, and the children one
penny each. This simply pays the rent, the
matron, and the servant; the food is provided