little parlour, in which two or three men of
the mechanic class were occupied at a little
table with books and papers. At the moment
of my entrance one of the men was taking
money—a few shillings and a few coppers—
from a little, poorly-clad, shrivelled-up old
woman. Thinking that this proceeding might
have something to do with arrears of rates, or
perhaps subscriptions to the Ratepayers'
Association, I waited to see what was expected of
me. When several other old women, a labouring
man, and a boy had handed over their
money—mostly in all sorts of odd coins—
I advanced to the table, ready to contribute any
reasonable sum to what I felt assured could be
nothing but a fund for prosecuting parochial
reform. But, before I could put any questions
on the matter, I was told that I had made a
mistake, that this was the temporary office of
the Working Man's Mutual Sick, Death, and
Burial Fund, and that the place of meeting for
the ratepayers was the next room. Of course
I apologised, and beat a hasty retreat. As I
passed along to the next room, I observed
several members of the Working Man's
Mutual Sick, Death, and Burial Fund Association
preparing themselves for mutual sickness, death,
and burial, by sharing a quartern of gin on the
landing. When I entered the apartment set
apart for the august meeting of the Ratepayers'
Association, only three persons had assembled,
and one of these was the landlord of the house.
Each of the persons had a pint pot before him,
and was smoking a long clay pipe. These
signs of pleasure, where I expected business,
made me think that I had made another
mistake, until I observed a regal chair
(appropriately a Windsor one) elevated on a box, and
surmounted by a canopy with a heavy red
fringe, which at once assured me that I was in
the public assembly-room of the Pig and
Whistle. Its proportions were not noble exactly,
but its appearance was imposing. When I
had sufficiently recovered from the feeling
of awe with which I was inspired by the sight,
of the regal Windsor chair and the canopy, and
found presence of mind to look about me, I
discovered that the assembly-room boasted no
fewer than four regal chairs and canopies—one
at the top of the room, one at the end, and one
at each of the sides. Each chair was backed by
a crimson curtain, to which was attached a
pair of crossed swords, and in front of each
stood two tall brass rods, surmounted by
figures of angels. The cornices of the canopies
were inscribed with mysterious hieroglyphics
and capital letters, such as A.O.F., F.O.L.,
&c., and in the centre of each an eye, with rays
and a "nunquam dormio" expression, looked
watchfully down upon the ratepayers drinking
their beer, as if it had been its mission to see that
they did not take too much. At the end of the
room there was affixed to the wall a wooden
tablet, on which the names of Brown, P.G.M.,
Jones, P.G.M., Robinson, P.G.M., and other
officers of the A.O.F., or the F.O.L., or the
M.U.O., all P.G.M. (whatever that may
mean), inscribed in letters of gold shaded with
red, like the ten commandments on a high
church altar. Another tablet was erected to
refresh the memory of the members of the
A.O.F., &c. with regard to the payment of
subscriptions and the benefits which they would
receive, first, on falling sick; secondly, on
departing this life; and thirdly, on being buried.
Nor did the benefits of the A.O.F., &c. end here;
they pursued the happy members beyond
the grave, and made provision for their sick
widows, their dead widows, and their widows
waiting burial. So far as I could understand
the N.B. at the end of the tablet, it
appeared that children were admitted to the
tomb at half price. There was so much of the
memento mori about these inscriptions, comforting
as they were in other respects, that it struck
me the assembly-room of the Pig and Whistle
would not be a very cheerful place to meditate
in alone, without a good stiff glass of brandy-
and-water to sustain the spirits. It appeared
from all these insignia, including a flag, which
clung to its staff on the top of some hat-pegs,
that the ratepayers of Number One ward of the
parish of St. Piggins were permitted for that
evening to assemble in the hall usually devoted
to the mysteries of the A.O.F. and the
M.U.O., and that the mysteries of those ancient
orders of brotherhood had been performed the
night before, or were going to be performed
the night after.

But where are the ratepayers? It is nine
o'clock, half an hour past the appointed time,
and only six persons have assembled. I express
some impatience, and the landlord says,
"They'll be dropping in now." Slowly, one by
one, they drop in during the next half hour, and
each ratepayer, as he takes his seat, orders a
pint of porter or a pint of cooper, and elaborately
prepares a pipe for smoking, by picking
out the bowl with his little finger, and whistling
through the stem. They all know each other,
and the fashionable form of salutation seems to
be, "How do you find yourself?" to which the
fashionable response is, "Nicely, thank you," or
"Only among the middlings," as the case of the
ratepayer's health may be. Whenever a
ratepayer arrives, John, the waiter (in his shirt-
sleeves), comes in for orders, and except in one
instance, that of a local solicitor, who, being
bound to study his position as a professional man,
calls for a four of gin warm, the orders are
invariably for pints of porter or "cooper."

At half-past nine o'clock the great meeting of
the Ratepayers' Association consisted of twenty-
one persons, most of whom were unmistakably
small tradesmen and mechanics. When John
had served the last pint and the last screw of
tobacco, and not until then, it was proposed
that Mr. Butts "do take the chair." It certainly
was not what I expected, to find that the
chairman of the Ratepayers' Association was the
gentleman who had been helping John to serve
the pints of porter and cooper—the landlord of
the Pig and Whistle. But this is what I did
find. Mr. Butts ascended the regal Windsor