The Author is troubled concerning his Investments.

Or is our charity but a salve to conscience—an insurance, at decidedly moderate premium, in case, after all, there should happen to be another world?  Is Charity lending to the Lord something we can so easily do without?

I remember a lady tidying up her house, clearing it of rubbish.  She called it “Giving to the Fresh Air Fund.”  Into the heap of lumber one of her daughters flung a pair of crutches that for years had been knocking about the house.  The lady picked them out again.

“We won’t give those away,” she said, “they might come in useful again.  One never knows.”

Another lady, I remember coming downstairs one evening dressed for a fancy ball.  I forget the title of the charity, but I remember that every lady who sold more than ten tickets received an autograph letter of thanks from the Duchess who was the president.  The tickets were twelve and sixpence each and included light refreshments and a very substantial supper.  One presumes the odd sixpence reached the poor—or at least the noisier portion of them.

“A little décolletée, isn’t it, my dear?” suggested a lady friend, as the charitable dancer entered the drawing-room.

“Perhaps it is—a little,” she admitted, “but we all of us ought to do all we can for the Cause.  Don’t you think so, dear?”

Really, seeing the amount we give in charity, the wonder is there are any poor left.  It is a comfort that there are.  What should we do without them?  Our fur-clad little girls! our jolly, red-faced squires! we should never know how good they were, but for the poor?  Without the poor how could we be virtuous?  We should have to go about giving to each other.  And friends expect such expensive presents, while a shilling here and there among the poor brings to us all the sensations of a good Samaritan.  Providence has been very thoughtful in providing us with poor.

Dear Lady Bountiful! does it not ever occur to you to thank God for the poor?  The clean, grateful poor, who bob their heads and curtsey and assure you that heaven is going to repay you a thousandfold.  One does hope you will not be disappointed.

An East-End curate once told me, with a twinkle in his eye, of a smart lady who called upon him in her carriage, and insisted on his going round with her to show her where the poor hid themselves.  They went down many streets, and the lady distributed her parcels.  Then they came to one of the worst, a very narrow street.  The coachman gave it one glance.

“Sorry, my lady,” said the coachman, “but the carriage won’t go down.”

The lady sighed.

“I am afraid we shall have to leave it,” she said.

So the gallant greys dashed past.

Where the real poor creep I fear there is no room for Lady Bountiful’s fine coach.  The ways are very narrow—wide enough only for little Sister Pity, stealing softly.

I put it to my friend, the curate:

“But if all this charity is, as you say, so useless; if it touches but the fringe; if it makes the evil worse, what would you do?”