sympathy, are addressed to all whom it may concern.  The same are repeated again and again in the daily and weekly papers.  A public meeting is called, and the names of intending members are enrolled; special meetings follow, held at the large room of the ‘Mother Bunch;’ the enrolled members are summoned; officers and functionaries are balloted for and appointed; rules and regulations are drawn up, considered, adopted, certified, and printed.  Mr Nogoe is confirmed in his double function as secretary and treasurer.  Subscriptions flow in; and, to Bowley’s infinite gratification, beer and spirits begin to flow out.  The Charitable Chums, though eminently provident, are as bibulous as they are benevolent; for every sixpence they invest for the contingencies of the future tense, they imbibe at least half-a-crown for the exigencies of the present.  The society soon rises into a condition of astonishing prosperity.  The terms being liberal beyond all precedent, the Charitable Chums’ becomes wonderfully popular.  A guinea a week during sickness, besides medical attendance, and ten pounds at death, or half as much at the death of a wife, are assured for half the amount of subscription payable at the old clubs.  The thing is as cheap as dirt.  The clerk has as much as he can do to enregister the names of new applicants, and keep accounts of the entrance-money.  By way of keeping the society before the public, special meetings are held twice a month, to report progress, and parade the state of the funds.  Before the new society is a year old, they have nearly one thousand pounds in hand; and Bowley’s house, now known far and wide as the centre and focus of the Charitable Chums, swarms with that provident brotherhood, who meet by hundreds under the auspices of ‘Mother Bunch,’ to cultivate sympathy and brotherly love, and to irrigate those delicate plants with libations of Bowley’s gin and Bowley’s beer.  The Free-and-easy is now every night choke full of wide-mouthed harmonists.  The ‘Concert this Evening’ is no longer a mere mythic pretence, but a very substantial and vociferous fact.  The old grand-piano, and the old, ragged player, have been cashiered, and sent about their business; and a bran-new Broadwood, presided over by a rattling performer, occupies their place.  Bowley’s blooming wife, attended by a brace of alcoholic naiads, blossoms beneath the crimson drapery of the bar, and dispenses ‘nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,’ and ‘noggins of max,’ and ‘three-outers,’ to the votaries of benevolence and ‘Mother Bunch;’ and the landlord is happy, and in his element, because the world goes well with him.