guardians who are arriving for the weekly
board meeting.

A noise like "charming" of bees by striking
old pans and kettles, and the whistling of
whistles, falls on the ear as we get within range.
It is the drum and fife band, consisting of boys
brought up in the Union. The band is allowed
to play occasionally on board days to enliven
the proceedings, and to cheer up, let us hope,
the poor disconsolate souls who herd together
under the entrance. The guardians will attend
to them by-and-by. Meanwhile, these people,
waiting for judgment, talk over their grievances,
and speculate on the relief likely to be awarded
to them as cases of casual distress.

The outside of the building bears no resemblance
to a prison, nor would it be easy to mistake
it for a lunatic asylum, or county hospital,
or for anything, in short, but the Union. A
long, staring frontage, with a clear contempt of
architectural design and ornament, red brick,
two stories high, low roof, dumpy chimneys,
a few sooty cowls which creak mournfully as
they adjust themselves to the wind, an ugly
additional wing under which the young paupers
are sheltered; this is the outer view.

An arched entrance, with the great doors
shut, and a little wicket ajar, admits us to the
inner mysteries. On the right, are the guardians'
board-room, and other official apartments;
on the left, the master's residence, the matron's,
and porter's lodge. We see also massive iron
gates, with locks and bolts on them, massive
iron railings through which one may observe
how the different wards of the building radiate
from the point where we stand, as from the
centre of a semicircle. The radiation is of high
brick walls, with doors in them carefully shut
and barred. The inner view does certainly suggest
to the mind the notion of a jail.

Cerberus, the lame porter, with his triple
bunch of keys, hobbles up and touches his hat
to the visiting committee, now going round
the house. One of the committee carries a slate,
on which to note down anything requiring the attention
of the board, and we must have Cerberus
to open the doors as we go round the house.

We enter first the old men's ward. Here
they are, merry old gentlemen all of them, relieved
by the new Highways Act from cares of
mending the ways of the parish. Some of them
hobble about on two sticks; some lounge on the
benches in the yard, as it happens to be a sunny
day, and listen to the fifes and drums which
are noisy on the other side of the wall. Fed,
clothed, and housed, they have nothing to do,
and they do it. But all the while they look
as if they were waiting for something. About
a score of iron bedsteads without curtains are
ranged in a row on each side of the long apartment,
which has a fireplace at each end. Some
of our friends prefer lying on their beds, and
scarcely turn their incurious lacklustre eyes
upon us as we pass along, and ask the routine
question, "Is all right?" These look as if they
will not have to wait long.

At one bedside sits a lady reading the Bible
to a man who lies on his back gasping for breath,
and stone-deaf. The old men like to see her
among them, and, for the sake of her kindness,
are quiet as mice, while she vainly endeavours
to force on their attention some passage wholesome
to the spirit, which will soon be set free
from Union regulations, and human distinctions
between rich and poor.

A few of the old men ask a holiday or two,
to go and see their friends. Their applications
are written down, and will doubtless be conceded.
Most of the men are personally known to the
visiting committee, and a few kind words, with
a somewhat cursory examination of the ward,
completes the visitors' duty in this section.

But what do we find in the next ward?
Able-bodied men in the Union? They get into
difficulties sometimes, into Unions and into jails
too, and will say that the prison was the nicer
place of the two. But some are here associated
with them, who have come here through no fault
of their own. A pale-faced cadaverous-looking
man approaches us, and has some application to
make. He has been crushed down by long
sickness leagued with want. Two of his young
ones, he says, were carried off by the fever before
it struck him. Their home was so damp that the
doctor recommended them all "to come in," that
they might have the benefit of the better care
bestowed upon house patients. He is convalescent,
but not yet strong enough to take
wing and fly away, as he could wish, and as he
does wish with all his soul, poor fellow. He is
a respectable man too, we are told.

"How many are you in family?" "Only six
now." "All in here?" "Yes." "Wife
here?" "Yes, she has been very ill," says the
man, in a restless eager sort of way. "I hear
she is getting better," he adds. "When did
you see her last?" "The day before yesterday."
"Children all right, are they?" "I believe so."

Two or three sulky-looking young men pick
oakum in a corner of the room. They are
worthless fellows who have been trying to dodge
the relieving officer, and have got an order for
the house—taken by them "to sarve out the
parish," as the saying is. Apparently the
parish doesn't mind being so served, and, if one
may judge, the effort is costing them dear, and
will not be long persisted in. Meanwhile, if they
won't work, they will be locked up for twelve
hours on bread and water. After which, in case
of continued resistance, there is hope that they
will meet with a reward in the long run which
it is a pity they could not receive at first.

One poor fellow walks up to our party,
giggles, bows, and makes inarticulate noises.
He is a harmless idiot, not bad enough for the
asylum, and his friends can't or won't maintain
him. A word will keep him quiet in daylight,
but in the dead of night he wakes up, sometimes
in terror, and for an hour or more disturbs all
the ward by his lamentations.

Following the plan of the building, we come
next to the kitchen: a lofty spacious apartment,
well ventilated, and with every convenience
requisite. The dinner is being served on plates