the washing vessel of the establishment, we were
told of increased accommodation looming in
the future; and that upon a board or sub-
committee making up its mind and presenting
a report, a larger basin and a more copious
supply of towels would be granted. The
balloon-car turns out to be a cradle, unoccupied
at present, but in which four pauper babies can
be rocked at once, two at each end—a
comprehensive provision if the total population of the
workhouse, twenty-one, all decrepid or
disabled, be considered. Two women, one weak-
minded and the other subject to fits, a
child, and a bedridden old man, are the only
inmates at home. The other paupers—
including a couple of idiots and a young man of
suicidal tendencies—are with the master at
church, for a great anniversary festival is being
held, and the little knot of male worshippers,
in clean white smock-frocks, seated to the right
of the middle aisle, and the handful of poor
women opposite them, are the workhouse's
contribution to the celebration of the day. The
child smiles upon us, and gazes up wonderingly,
with grave black eyes, in which, by the way,
there is not a trace of fear, as the matron
precedes us into the room. It is another cottage
apartment, with the two women just spoken of
busily at work. They are all scrupulously
clean, despite the size of the tin cup just hinted
at; and here, as elsewhere, during our visit,
we are disposed to declare the little place to be
exceptional, and not to be judged by the rules
it is essential to enforce in other establishments
of its class. That it should, in spite of some
grave defects, rise superior to circumstances,
is doubtless due to the character and
disposition of its governing board and their two
delegates, the master and matron. The latter
is as cheery and kind as a warm heart
and good disposition could make her. The
pauper child's smile of recognition and welcome,
and the way her little hand closed familiarly
upon our guide's gown, spoke volumes as to
habitual kindnesses; while the demeanour of
the two women—familiar and confident, though
not wanting in respect—was a testimonial
infinitely more convincing than a whole wilderness
of votes of thanks and minutes of approval.
After a question from one of the women on a
point of household discipline has been
answered, and the little girl's whispered petition
smilingly granted, we pass to the kitchen,
where boiled bacon, cabbages, and some added
condiment, giving a deliciously appetising
flavour, are swimming in the coppers we are
invited to peer into. A most savoury and
toothsome mixture it seems to be, and our
railway journey from London, and moist
drive subsequently from Barchester, has left us
hungry enough, to envy the paupers for whom it
is preparing.

More cottage apartments, the down-stair
rooms, with flooring of stone or brick; those
up-stairs holding three or four beds, all well
appointed, and each cottage containing two
rooms. Chairs or benches, a rough table, and
a cupboard used in common by the occupants,
comprise the furniture. After traversing the
yard, and going over every room of every
cottage finding— of course, a wonderful uniformity
throughout—we come to the one bedridden old
man. A room has been fitted up for him on
the ground floor, and here he is lying cozily
enough, but quite alone, with his feet to the
door, and his limbs and body stretched out in
an attitude which suggests rather painfully the
time when lameness, and old age, and poverty
will be over, and when he will be carried
from his present resting-place for ever. Not
that there was anything in the man himself, as
distinguished from his attitude, to suggest aught
but the keenest appreciation of life; for he
started up in bed and bobbed his head to the
Commission, as if he guessed the purport of
the visit, and had been waiting these thirteen
years to speak his autobiography. He was a
hale, ruddy, vigorous old fellow, who had lost
an eye, but whose voice showed no sign of
infirmity. Nay, as we had understood before we
visited him that he was very deaf, this vigour
of voice led to a rather boisterous colloquy
between one of our party and himself. "How do
you find yourself, my man?" inquired our friend,
in tones adapted to a patient whose infirmity
aural surgeons had failed to relieve. "Noicely,
thankee, zur, but oise lame, you know, oise
lame!" shouted back the invalid, in accents
fitted for the quarter-deck of a battle-ship in
the heat of action; and so the conversation
went on, each sorry for the other's deafness, and
politely anxious to accommodate himself to it.
For the old pauper was not satisfied with
emulating the bellow of an exceptionally strong-
lunged bull. He made a speaking-trumpet of his
wrinkled hands; and, taking steady aim at his
visitor's ear, repeated every assertion twice.
"Yes, oi'm well enough;" then more slowly,
"Oi'm well enough" (pause), "bar the lameness
—bar the lameness." He had been at full pitch
for some minutes now, and though red in the
face could still have cleared the busiest thoroughfare
for a fire-engine's progress. "It was Mr.
Mullings's horse, it was, yes. It was Mr.
Mullings's horse. Kicked me he did! He kicked
me, yer knaw" (louder). "Oi can stand up
though" (louder still); "oi can stand up."
Then, not quite so loud, but with a slow
distinctness of enunciation, meant to give his
hearer every chance, "Oi can stand up, but
it's walking that bothers me, that bothers me,
just here, yer knaw; just here. Oi'm well
enough, and comfortable enough, thankee, zur.
Now I don't want for nothing, I dawn't,
thankee kindly." A shelf half hidden by a neat
curtain held a couple of bottles and a Bible and
prayer-book, and a convenient stand at the
bed-head served for the veteran's dinner-tray.
"I suppose he's very deaf," said his late
interlocutor, commiseratingly, as we left him bobbing
his head like some huge and bulbous sensitive
plant, after his bed-linen and accessories had
been examined, and found clean: "I suppose he's
very deaf. How old is he?"