the floor sucking their thumbs; two or three
dozens are in cradles, asleep, or staring wide
awake. What is the age of that wonderfully
flexible infant, sitting up, and looking all
red and brown? About eleven hours! Do
children sit up at eleven hours old in Ireland?
We never heard of such a thing before, and we
cannot fancy that it can be right; but it is to
be sure a very fine child. It is a pleasant thing
for the old women to have the infants so near
at hand. The infirm need not be troubled
with them, but the hardier ones seem to enjoy
playing granny, and having a rosy cheek
pillowed on their withered arms, or watching
beside the cradle, or letting bo-peep be played
behind their aprons.

We have now seen the whole width of this
ground-floor. Next, we must see the length.
We pass through a yard, and glance into the
wash-house, where women and girls are busy
and merry among the suds, and managing the
great boilers. In the adjoining laundry, there
are large hot closets, where heaps of clothes
are drying in a trice. Answering to these
places are the kitchen and shed. In the
kitchen, there are large boilers to manage,
and a girl, mounted on a stool, is wielding
—not the washing staff—but a kind of
oar. That is soup she is stirring, with
such an exertion of strength. It is the
soup that the people have every day for
dinner. No—there is no meat in it. They
have never been meat eaters. Milk is their
only animal food—now, as always. The soup
is made of meal, with a variety of vegetables
shredded in, and salt and pepper. This, with
a loaf of bread made of mixed Indian meal
and rye, is their dinner. It is near four
o'clock now; and we may see them at
dinner presently. Four is their dinner hour;
and they have nothing more, unless they
like to keep some of their bread for supper:
but they go to their beds at seven. Their
other meal is breakfast, at nine. For this
they have porridge made of Indian meal,
very thick and nourishing. The delicate ones
certainly grow strong upon this diet, however
they may be prejudiced against it at first.
The Indian meal that came over when it was
first introduced into Ireland was not as good
as what we get now; but, if the people now
had to live on potatoes alone, there is no doubt
they would like to have some meal also. At
least, so it has been found, out of the house.
They are soon to have potatoes again—just
twice a week; and greatly they are reckoning
on this: but they may find themselves more
fond of the meal than they are aware of.
They are now entering the dining-hall. Let
us see them take their places.

This room is the chapel as well as the
dining-hall. It is spacious and lofty, and
the tables and benches standing across the
room instead of lengthwise, give a sociable
appearance to the dining. This arrangement
is necessary for chapel purposes, no doubt;
but it seems an improvement on the old long
board. What a change it must be to most of
these people to sit down to a clean table, on a
clean bench, and with clean hands; instead of
huddling round the pot, on a clay floor, half
full of stinking puddles.

To us there looks something sad in the
uniform meal—the same every day, and
for everybody, and served out like the food
of domestic animals—the soup poured out
from the boiler like wash, and ladled into
hundreds of tin pans, all alike. But, besides
that this is unavoidable, it is so superior
an affair to the former feeding of all this
company, and to what they would have, if
they were not here, that Sentiment on the
subject would be quite misplaced.

This seems a free and easy personage enough;
this girl who runs up to us, crying out, in
the immediate presence of the matron, "Give
me a halfpenny!" She looks uncommonly
merry, I must say. The poor thing is crazy.
The matron takes her by the shoulders, and
makes her sit down to table, where she
munches her bread and drinks her soup with
great satisfaction, calling to us between every
mouthful, "Give me a halfpenny!" That was
probably the first thing she was taught to say,
and the most earnest prayer she was ever
trained to utter. That stout woman of thirty
looks merry, too; is she crazy? No, she has
not that excuse. She is incorrigibly idle.
She has been set up in life many times; last
time she showed such horror of the
workhouse, that this lady at my elbow collected a
little money and set her up with a fruit-stall,
with the necessary baskets and stock, and had
supposed to this moment that she was doing
well. But here she is, stall and stock and
baskets all gone, and she laughing at being
found out.

What a strange company it is!—what odd
infirmities, and what a gradation of ages
brought together! Did you ever see a
clumsier or shorter dwarf than she who is
filling the pans? And the young man without
a coat, who has lost his right arm—he is not
a pauper, surely—seeing his moustache. No,
he is employed in the yards; that is all;
though he looks as if he fancied himself the
master of all and everybody. Looking along
the tables, however, and passing over the
cases of personal injury from disease or
accident, a fine state of health seems to be
the rule.

Let us walk forward, and see the boys at
their meal. While standing there, a stifled,
giggle is heard behind us, and then a clink,
which the matron does not hear while talking
with that boy. Glancing back, we see the
women grinning, the dwarf running as fast as
her little legs will carry her after the long-
limbed gentleman with the moustache, who
is fond of a romp, it seems. She throws a tin
pan after him: the clatter rouses the matron;
the youth escapes into the yard, and the
dwarf is bidden to sit down to her dinner
instantly; in the midst of all which, the crazy