and we just put him into the shafts, and he
takes the whole affair to the cemetery without
bother or trouble to any one. Would you like
to look inside? No? Well, it's very roomy
and snug, and is as well finished there as you
can see it is from here. No, sir; we never
refuse 'em permission to follow, if it's their
turn, unless they're too old; and it's wonderful
—downright wonderful—how eager some of
the very oldest of all are to put on one of the
black suits and play at mourners, as you may
say. There was an old inmate now, eighty-
three, and nearly double with rheumatics. He
always insisted on his right to go; and when
some of the others said it weren't fair, for he
was so slow in walking, they always had to
wait for him, and no good either at helping to
carry It when in the cemetery grounds; so
when, on one terribly wet day, we kept him at
home out of kindness, blest if he didn't take
it so to heart that he kept his bed. I don't say
it killed him, because at eighty-three you don't
want to look far for reasons for being carried off;
but he never fairly looked up after he wasn't
allowed to follow the new 'earse. As for the old
man you saw peeling potatoes in the back yard,
and whose cough you asked after, he's been
just a glutton for funerals ever since the carrying
by hand was given up, and I've no
hesitation in saying, from what I've seen, that this
'earse is a real comfort, as it ought to be, to
every inmate in the house. Is there any feeling
of sorrow at losing an old companion, or
wish to show respect to his memory by
following him to the grave? I should say they
don't know what it means. It's just the pleasure
of walking behind what they know is a
handsome thing, and of getting away for a
time from here. For there's not much friendship
in workhouses. Paupers aren't like other
people, paupers aren't; and there's not much
caring for one another when they're once in the
house.

"Casual wards? Yes, certainly; you shall see
them now. But our guardians, I may tell
you, are almost unanimous against tramps, and
we've fewer of 'em than any workhouse in the
neighbourhood. Why? Because"
(triumphantly) "We give 'em nothing to eat! That's
the way, sir, depend on it; and, in my opinion,
if tramps weren't fed, there'd be an end of
vagrancy. We don't work 'em, mind, or give
'em bedding, or let 'em wash. No, sir. We
tried all that sort of newfangled work, and it
didn't answer—not it. They'd eat their
suppers or their breakfasts fast enough; but when
work-time came, they'd rather run away than do
it. System of control—labour-master? Bless
you, no. We tried 'em with stone-breaking, we
tried 'em with oakum-picking, and we tried 'em
with carrying water; but they took to none of
'em, and made off every morning, as regular as
the clock came round. Not likely to take to it,
unless they're made, you say? Give 'em
decent beds and bread and gruel, and take
care to make 'em work it out the next morning,
as is done successfully elsewhere? Why
should we, when our present plan answers as well
as it does? Why, we've fewer tramps in our
wards than any of the workhouses near, and
why? Just because they ain't coddled here,
and don't get fed. Why, sir, if my plan was
adopted, I'd back myself to clear the whole
country of vagrants in three months. What
is my plan? Well, let the unions combine—
for it's no use trying it, mind you, unless all
act alike—and put out a notice saying that,
after a certain date, no tramps will be relieved,
on any pretence whatever. Now, I've had a
good deal of experience—I have; nine-and-
twenty years I've been master here, and I say
that if a good white board were put outside
every workhouse in England, and this notice
written on it in large letters, and acted up to,
there'd soon be an end of vagrancy. There
should be fair notice given 'em—three months,
say; and after that, let 'em look out! What
are vagrants? That's what I want to know.
Nasty good-for-nothing fellows, who leave their
parishes, if they ever had parishes—which is
doubtful—and come for help to people who've
enough to do with their own poor.

"Have I ever heard of 'A Short Way with
Dissenters,' by the man that wrote Robinson
Crusoe? No, sir, I can't say I have; but I'd
make a precious short way with vagrants, if I'd
my will; and I'm certain that, if you don't feed
'em, they won't come. I'm speaking from
experience, mind you. Why is it our neighbours get
more than we do? Just because they give 'em
food, and we don't. However, here we are
at the women's tramp-ward; the men's is
just like it on the other side, and you can see
for yourself how they lie. Straw, sir—good
straw, that's all; and I'd like to see the
man who'd say it wasn't enough for vagrants.
Rugs in cold weather? Clothes to put on, if
their own are wet? No, sir, not a scrap; they've
got a knack of tearing rugs and clothes—
tramps have; and we don't choose to put our
union to expense; so they just lay down as
they are, or naked, if they like it better, and
are got rid of in the morning. Washing-
place? God bless you, they're not a washing
sort—vagrants aren't, and wouldn't care
to use it, if we had. Quarrel or behave
badly among themselves? Well, then they'd
have to make it up again. We shouldn't hear
them, for this ward, as you may see, is a good
way from the house, and they might halloa
and screech their hearts out without annoying
anybody. But we're never troubled in this
way, I assure you; and our vagrants aren't
worth speaking of, they're so few since we've
treated them properly. Does the Poor Law
inspector approve of our sending casuals
supperless to bed, and dismissing them
breakfastless in the morning? I've no reason to
think he doesn't, sir; he's never said so—and
he's a very nice gentleman, is our inspector,
and much liked by the board. No, sir, not old
—about fifty, or thereabouts; but enjoying very
bad health, as I believe."

The reader will have discovered that this