the state of the house now. He tells us that
it is a very different affair now from what it
was. There are not, at present, many more
inmates than the house was built for, and two
out of five auxiliary houses are closed. In
two of the wards, they are still obliged to put
two in a bed; but it will be not be for long.
At one time, when all the auxiliary houses
were open, and the deaths were twenty-five in
a day, it yet was necessary to put three into
a bed ; and, in regard to the children, even
four.

Twenty-five deaths in a day! They took
place in the infirmary, of course ?

Why yes, the greater number did; but it
was no uncommon thing to find corpses among
the sleepers when they were called in the morning;
and several died where we are now standing
—died almost before they had entered the
doors; and several dropped and died on the
gravel walk between this entrance-hall and
the house. Some had waited too long before
applying, hoping that potatoes would rise up
from somewhere or other.

It was observable that these poor
creatures had always kept one article of
property, through their uttermost destitution.
They all had their pot, wherein to boil
their hoped-for potatoes. If evicted, the
peasant goes out with his pot upon his
arm. If the family huddle under a hedge
for warmth, their pot is in the midst. When
they come to the workhouse, they deposit
their pot with their dearest friend, looking
forward to the day when they shall once
more boil potatoes of their own. Some
of those who died thus immediately had
applied a week or two before, and had
received relief while waiting until room could be
made for them; but they were too far
sunk to bear the removal; and a place had
to be made for them in the dead-house,
instead of beside the fire. Too many of them
had fancied that they could not live on the
diet of the house, and had held out until they
sank for want of any kind of food whatever.
Those who thus died, actually within the
walls of the house, were usually adults, and
chiefly elderly people. The children remained,
orphaned at the moment of their delivery
into the care of society at large. In 1849,
there were eight hundred girls in one
workhouse—that at Cavan.

They are the girls and boys that we see
next—the boys on the right hand, and
the girls on the left, as we proceed to the
house. How healthy they look! Their
hair, how glossy; their eyes, how clear and
bright! But there are several who have
lost an eye. That was from the ophthalmia
of last year. Alas! is it even worse this
year.

How comes that? Nobody seems to know
very well; but it spreads most among those
who have lived in a crowded and dirty state,
and have sunk into a bad bodily condition.
Of the girls, as they walk in the sun, or sit
together in the shade of the wall, some are
knitting, but more are doing crochet-work.
That sort of work is a good maintenance for
a woman in Ireland now. It is an excellent
resource, no doubt; but the fashion is hardly
likely to last very long; and it is to be
supposed that the greater number of these
girls will emigrate. Their art will not be of
much use to them in an American wood, or
on an Australian sheep-walk. I hope they
are taught cooking, and washing, and plain-
sewing too. Yes!—and spinning and weaving?
Good!—and the boys? The little ones
are romping, as the younger girls are—and
as both should, at their years. Some of the
lads are gardening; and we shall see others
in the house. There is no pauper appearance
about any of these children. Children could
not be more clean and wholesome .

Mounting the steps of the house, we see on
the right hand a pleasant parlour, with the
remains of dinner on the table. These are
the apartments of the master and mistress.
Their rooms open into the school-rooms—the
lofty, light, spacious apartments, with their
rows of benches, and the platform at one end
for the teacher, and the great black board,
with its bit of chalk lying ready at hand.
These schools are under the system of the
National Board, and here may be seen the
pleasant sight of Catholic and Protestant
children sitting side by side, without any
thought of quarrelling on theological subjects.
However it may be hereafter, one cannot but
suppose that they will be the happier and the
more amiable for having thus sat together
now.

At an angle of the boy's school-room is
the work-room. A steady-looking man is
walking about, from loom to loom, seeing
how his pupils get on. That little fellow,
who is leaning so anxiously over his web, has
learned weaving only four days.

The women and girls bring their crochet-
work up to the likeness of point-lace with
very little teaching; finding out for
themselves how to execute any pattern that may
have met their eye. One of these girls, who
had puzzled over such a pattern, saw in a
dream how to do it, and got up in the night
to put it down, that she might not lose it
again. And these novices are weaving—
rather slowly, perhaps—but without fault, as
far as we can see.

What is this furthest room? Oh! here are
the aged men sitting in a room which is not
a thoroughfare, and where there is no draught.
They cower over the fire, even in warm
weather. But, these are only a few of them;
more are out in the sun, and some are in bed
upstairs. The aged women are in a corresponding
apartment at the other end; and we go
to see them. On our way we find the nursery.
It answers to the boys' work-room.  What
a strange sight it is—such a crowd of infants.
Some can run alone; and they play bo-peep
behind the old women's aprons. Some sit on