wards and the centre for the master's house.
A younger brother of the Millbank
Penitentiary, who has settled down to agricultural
pursuits, with a surly regret for the turnkeys
and warders, the handcuffs and punishment
cells of the metropolitan head of the
family, is what this building suggests most
strongly as we pass it in the train. To ask at
the station, a few miles further, what it is;
to shorten our journey and sacrifice the
remainder of our fare on learning it is a
workhouse; to be seated in a frouzy fly and to be
rolling past vast manufactories, the mere look
of which should act as a powerful tonic, so
full are they of iron; and to be in a large
garden where a couple of labourers are at
work, and where one of the latter, touching
his hat, follows us into the house—all this
is part of the set purpose with which our
investigations commenced. Our route for the
day had been to another workhouse in a
different county; but seeing this one, with its
barrack-prison-penitentiary air, we decided to
inspect it, without at the time knowing its
name, or neighbourhood, or guardian board. Its
physiognomy was enough, and its internal
character was fully in accordance with what we
had seen written on its face.

The red-faced gardener—who is a healthy,
stalwart, loud-voiced, brisk-mannered fellow,
who looks as if he could fell an ox, and who, on
a nearer inspection, might be the foreman or
overlooker of a factory in which manual labour
is severe—turns out to be the master. A
boisterous hearty man of five-and-forty, confident
and strong, nothing will give him greater pleasure
than to show us over the house. "He's
a worker he is, and has been all his days;
and he's been in the service of the Poor
Law Board, man and boy, the best part of
his life. A young-looking man, you think?
Ah, but he was porter a many years before he
was master, that's where it is, you see, and now he
is looking forward to being 'superannuasiated,'
if his employers will be so good. Always given
satisfaction, and never had no complaints either
from his guardians or from the Poor Law
Board; always at it, you see, always busy—
can't bear being idle; and there's always
something to do about a house this size. Much
help from the inmates? Well, he naturally
gets what he can, but it's poor work with the
class he's got to deal with. All got something
the matter with 'em—old, or ill, or infirm, or
imbecile—so that the plain truth is, it ain't
possible to get a good day's work out of one of
'em." "Are there none of them able-bodied?"
we ask. "It would be a positive treat to see
an able-bodied man in this workhouse," the
master assures us, with strong feeling, "for
then there might be a chance of having one's
directions regularly and properly carried out.
As it is, he hopes we'll excuse it, if there's
anything out of order. He tries his best to keep
things straight, and he's always at it himself.
His gentlemen, too, the guardians that is, are
always ready to back him up, always wanting
to do everything for the poor creatures, and to
make 'em happy." If appearances did not belie
this master more than is those faithful tell-tales'
wont, he was a kind-hearted, well-meaning
servant, anxious to do his duty, and with a
wholesome reverence for "his gentlemen," and
his pastors, masters, and superiors generally.
He would have made an admirable boatswain,
or drill-sergeant; an able member of the fire-
brigade, a good gang-master or sub-contractor.
His lungs, his gait, his bustling busy air, his
love of order and discipline, his overflowing
health, his abundant physical energy, marked
him out for these or cognate employments. He
was one of those vigorous creatures who seem
like a tornado in a sick-room, and who, with the
best and kindest intentions, would speak to a
sinking invalid in a stentorian whisper, calculated
to take the roof off St. Paul's, or, stronger
testimony still, to be heard distinctly in St.
Stephen's. That is when the sinking invalid
is not a pauper. What the tone is in the
latter case we shall have the means of
judging presently; for though "our gentlemen"
have hired a paid nurse from Netley,
she confines her attention to the female
infirmary ward, and holds it to be no part of
her duty to attend upon sick or dying men.
Need the master tell us he would prefer to
have her help, though for that matter all the
sick are well looked after, we may take his
word.

The female infirmary contains four patients,
and has a foot-warmer, a bed-pan, a plentiful
supply of water, a sufficiency of towels, and
fairly appointed beds. One of the water-beds
is in London, being mended, but the other is in
use; and from the poor girl who sits reading at
the fire to the poor invalid who is pouting her
life away in bed, these infirmary inmates seem
decently housed and cared for. It is true the
nurse's complaint that the windows could not
be opened without, in wet weather, letting the
rain pour in, nor in cold weather without giving
all the inmates cold, might be avoided by the
simple process of making them movable at the
top; while her statement as to the foul smell
arising from the closet close by, was a
sufficiently grave reflection upon the management;
but this infirmary, with its light cheerful aspect,
its bright fire, and trained nursing, was so superior
to what we saw subsequently, that we are
anxious to look on the bright side, and to give
full credit for the pains taken to supply the
more obvious and pressing wants. We hint
that with but four sick people to look after, the
nurse must lead a somewhat leisurely life; and,
feeling considerably puzzled as to the extent of
the staff under our rigorous friend, the master,
if the remainder of the house is looked after on
the same liberal scale, we pass to the male
infirmary.

Our puzzle is at an end. The female
infirmary, which was built some years since as a
fever hospital, is away from the main building,
and its arrangements are as exceptional as its
architecture. There, the windows admitted