which certain inmates come and carry round.
It consists of three ounces of bread, four ounces
of cooked meat, twelve ounces of potatoes, and
a pint of broth. The meat is not of prime
quality, but such as a hungry man may eat with
relish. The bread is of good seconds flour.
Incidentally it is worth notice that the poor
buy flour, or baker's bread, of the most
expensive quality. The potatoes and other
vegetables are grown in the garden, and are excellent.

The baker and cheeseman's room is adjoining.
It is fitted up with a weighing machine (any
pauper may require his food to be weighed),
and rows of shelves, with drawers beneath, for
crumbs and bits cut to waste. Half loaves with
an allowance of cheese, granted as special
concession, and an additional slice of bread here
and there to make the balance true, are placed
on the shelves, ready for use. The cheese is
Dutch cheese, and certainly better than one
generally finds in cottages. Every person
appears tidy, the food is kept clean, and there is
nothing objectionable in this department.

The infirmary needs no lengthened description.
It is almost empty just now, there being
no infectious illness in the house, excepting
that which, notwithstanding cleanliness rigidly
enforced, never is quite got rid of. Two or
three sick persons are in the respective wards,
very comfortable as far as human aid can avail,
and though they have a dull time of it, they
would be, we tell them, perhaps worse off at
home. Preparations, we see, are being made to
bring patients here out of the old men's ward.
This is always done in hopeless cases.

Next is a court-yard, high walled, enclosing
boys' school and dormitory, and schoolmaster's
residence, with tailor and shoemaker's
shops at the side. The schoolroom is an oblong
apartment, with a stove at one end, fenced
from too close approach. Discipline is strictly
maintained, and the scholars are quiet as we
enter. Forty to fifty boys all dressed alike, and
with their hair combed to one pattern, all with
sallow complexion, are as like each other as so
many shrimps. The vacant stare of this rising
generation of paupers, every boy with wide-open
eyes, and a half-opened mouth, startles
one at first. It constitutes their family likeness.
Are there any sharp boys among them?
Two or three questions in arithmetic are rightly
answered, some of the boys are quick at figures
and able to work vulgar fractions. The writing
is creditable, blots are seldom found, since punishment
is prompt for carelessness. Religious instruction
is given carefully, and surely there is
enough done for them by way of teaching. They
are as painstaking and attentive as boys usually
are; nevertheless, they are like no other boys.
They want development of bodily alertness, they
have none of the life and vivacity which boys in
the outer world would get. Their world is shut
up in the limits of the ward set apart for them
in the Union. The schoolroom, the gaping
dormitory, the dull gravelled court-yard, all repress
animal spirits. When these ghosts of
boys go out for a walk, they stalk funereally, two
and two, like Sunday-school girls going to
church. A scamper across country, cricket (not
once in a way, but commonly), the habit of
observation got in early life, as other boys get
it by peering, as boys only can, into objects
animate or inanimate, the bold free venture
with a thrashing risked, the joy of a lucky
escape— these, and a hundred other boyish
experiences, the young pauper has not, with the
single exception of the thrashing. Courage and
enterprise must be squeezed out of his heart
by poor-law, and the utter dulness that begets
a hopeless manhood takes the vacant space.

Whoever recommended music lessons was a
friend to the boys. Poor-rate money is well
spent on the big and side drums, cymbals,
triangle, and squeaking fifes. We ask for a
tune. In the absence of the instructor, a little
fellow, the smallest in the band, who screws his
fife wry-ways with an air, is to lead. They
start, and keep well together; the leader plays
his part shrilly and clearly, and his eye almost
lights up as he and his fellows repeat the
measure. The drummers drum on in a stolid
sort of a way, the triangle chimes in where it
should, the fifers mind what they are about, and
all come safe to the end of the tune— one of the
negro melodies harmonised for the performers.

The girls' school, which is in the next yard,
is of the same size. The management here is
also efficient. There is less apathy and want of
expression than among the boys. Sampler work,
darning, mending, washing, ironing, and cooking,
form the industrial work. No "accomplishments"
are taught, which is a comfort. The
girls can read, write, and sum pretty well, and are
quicker than the boys. They need less, and have
actually more variety of outlet for the energies
of youth. The singing is not bad, and, like the
drum and fife band, is a source of pleasure.

As we re-pass the entrance on our visit to the
women's ward, we notice that the great doors
are opened, and a spring cart waiting. "Only
a funeral of one of the old ladies," says Cerberus,
cheerfully. "That's her husband a waiting
outside." And he points to a miserable-looking
old man, with no mourning beyond a rusty
black crape hatband, which has done duty before.
"They'll give him a lift, as it's nearly four miles
to the church." So they had out the elm chest
from the dead-house, with initial letters and
date on the top of it, and lifted it into the cart,
and, as predicted, "old Sam" was accommodated
with a seat, the coffin projecting a foot or so
over the back of the cart.

"There they goes," an old crone exclaims
mournfully, as we turn away to the ward, "their
last ride together. It seems but the other day
I see them married." And with a sigh comes
the indirect appeal for a pinch of snuff, or the
wherewithal to buy it.

The apartment, in size and arrangement, is
similar to the old men's ward, but with more of
an air of comfort. The old women also are more
cheerful and contented than the old men. There
are no complaints to make to the committee.
Neither upon these old ladies, nor upon the feebler