girl stands up, and cries after us incessantly,
"Give me a halfpenny!"

We are to go next to the infirmary—the
women's work-room being empty at dinner
time. The infirmary is at the further end
of this hall, divided from it only by a vestibule,
so that the convalescent may attend
chapel without going out of doors. At first
we see only a sprinkling of sick people; a
room where the extremely aged are in their
comfortable beds; their palsied heads shaking
on their pillows, and their half-closed eyes
looking as if the sleep of death were visibly
creeping over them: and another room where
three or four young mothers are recovering
from their confinement. These, we are told,
are, like many whom we saw below, "deserted
women." Their "desertion," however, turns
out to be a smaller affair than the sad word
would convey. These women are all wives;
and they are, for aught that anybody knows,
loved by their husbands. The husbands
are gone to earn money for them, and
will come back, or send money for their
families to follow them. Some who are
in England for the harvest, will return,
with the funds for winter subsistence: but
more will spend the money in going to
America, from Liverpool or Bristol, where
they will earn more money still, and send for
their wives, after a year or two. Meantime,
the women seem to make very light of their
"desertion." The whole thing was planned
by them and their husbands, no doubt; and
they are looking forward to better days, in a
home beyond the sea.

And now we come to the strangest suite of
rooms of all. At the first glimpse, it is like
entering an arbour. The walls are coloured
green, and all the window-blinds (which are
down, although the windows are open), are
green also. There is a green tinge, from the
reflection, on all the white pillows and sheets,
and on the faces of all the patients, who are
lying in precisely the same posture, and as if
asleep,—all those scores and hundreds of
them, from end to end of all the wards.
They are all "down in the ophthalmy." The
only difference, except in age, in any wardfull
of patients is, that some have wet rag laid
across their eyes, and others have the rag on
the pillow ready to be put on at any moment.
It is a very mournful sight. That little boy
of four years, admitted into the female ward
for convenience—the beautiful child with the
long lashes lying on his blooming cheeks,—is
he to be blind? Or the delicate-looking girl of
twelve, with her bright hair lying all about her
head in thick waves; or those mothers who
listen for their children's voices from the
playground, and will soon have them in their arms,
but may never see their faces again—are these
likely to be blind? The medical officer, who
approaches our party, makes a sign, to intimate
that although all eyes are closed, these people
are not asleep. We are not likely to forget
that. The thoughtful expression of the
patient faces, the hand quietly put up to
shift the rag, the slight uneasy movement
of the head mutely telling of pain, are
all-sufficient signs of wakefulness. As soon
as we are in a white light again, the surgeon
says that he hopes he has turned the corner
now: he is dismissing his patients by fifties
at a time, and fewer are falling into the
disease.

The proportion of those who lose both eyes
is very small. Of the forty-six thousand
cases of ophthalmia which occurred in the
Irish workhouses last year, only two hundred
and sixty-three resulted in total blindness;
and above forty thousand were cured. Six
hundred and fifty-six lost one eye each. These
facts seem to show that there must be a lamentable
amount of disease of the eyes out of the
workhouses; for the large number of one-
eyed persons whom we met in all the towns
makes such a number as the above appear a
mere trifle among the whole population. The
doctor cannot at all explain the prodigious
extent of the disease. Dirt, crowding, and
foul air will account for a good deal of it.
May not the glare of the whitewash in some
of the auxiliary workhouses, and in some
of the better villages, have something to
do with it? This white dazzling glare
may be trying to eyes already weak,
perhaps. And the peat smoke in cabins that
have no windows or chimney? That may
aggravate a tendency. And is it, can it be,
true that the people give themselves the
disease—rub their eyes with irritating matters,
to obtain a berth in the infirmary? Yes: it
is true with regard to some of the slighter
cases. There are always some who would
suffer a good deal to avoid work, or to obtain
the superior diet necessary in ophthalmia. It
is strange and sad; but we are comforted by
hearing from the doctor that the little boy,
and the young girl, and those indispensable
mothers, are likely to be as well as we are,
very soon.

The idiot wards have been taken for these
ophthalmic patients. They can be well
spared. The three or four idiots in the
establishment are quite inoffensive, and may be
allowed to bask in the sun, or to cower over
the fire. At first, when it was proposed to
bring the poor creatures here, the neighbours
were shocked, not only at the cruelty, but
at the impiety of the notion. Regarding the
disease as a sort of sanctity, they could not
endure the thought of any confinement—of
any "prison"—for these helpless beings who
would be sure to pine within stone walls.
There is no pining, however; nothing but
more warmth and cleanliness, and better air,
and greater security of food than elsewhere.
Most of them are now cared for, in lunatic
asylums; but in every workhouse, there may
be found one or more idiots, as if to complete
the character of the place as a refuge.

The Matron produces a key. We are to
see the dormitories, which are kept locked