see the rosy duke (his orange-coloured ribbon
and silver gridiron, not yet assumed) listening
to one of Captain Morris's sparkling Bacchanalian
songs, rubbing meantime a clean plate
with a fragrant shalot, preparatory to his third
steak, in front of the gridiron-grating through
which the cooks were seen at work behind that
portcullis: over which was inscribed the apt
quotation from Macbeth,

     If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well,
     It were done quickly.

    POOR RELIEF IN AUSTRALIA.

In providing for our poor, we in Australia
have the advantage of being without
tradition. We have no venerable schemes to
abandon, no rare old abuses to get rid of.
Beadledom is unknown. We therefore start
fair. But in this land of gold and plenty,
where we buy a leg of mutton or a dozen of
peaches for a shilling, can there be poverty?
Well, yes. The poor are still in our land.
Doubtless all classes of labourers are much
better off than at home; we always call
England home. But there is poverty, and that,
too, to some considerable extent. In the
unsettled state of our population, men change
continually their places of abode. So it happens
that careless husbands leave their wives and
families without means of support. Again, in
our mining districts accidents are of far too
frequent occurrence. In many different ways
the bread-winner is suddenly cut down. Moreover,
even in this splendid climate men and
women do grow old, and, from some cause or
other, have made no provision for declining
years. They, too, must be supported. Lastly,
there is drunkenness, which here, as everywhere,
adds not a few to the list of those who receive
charitable aid. In the great metropolitan goldfield,
Ballarat and surrounding district, out of a
population of a little over sixty thousand, some
seven hundred per week receive aid from a
public institution.

What that public institution is, and how it
does its work, we propose now to tell.

Poorhouse or workhouse are still names
unknown in Australia. Our institution is
called The Benevolent Asylum, and every true
Australian prays that the time may never come
when our children shall forget the sacred claims
of charity, and put their trust in poor laws and
workhouses.

Before relief can be given, the wherewithal
must of necessity first be got. We have no
poor rates. How, then, is money obtained?
Last year the public gave us in subscriptions two
thousand one hundred and eighty-two pounds,
and the government supplemented it by a grant
of four thousand pounds, so that we have an
income of six thousand one hundred and eighty-two
pounds, besides payment from government
for deserted children and other items, making
altogether about eight thousand pounds. Money
being provided, the next question is, who is to
spend it? Every year a president, treasurer,
and committee of sixteen gentlemen, are selected
by and out of the subscribers of one pound a
year or upward. This is the staff of managers,
and the whole power is placed in their hands.
They are unpaid, and conduct the rather
laborious business of the institution as a work
of love. Our building stands in a reserve of
about six acres; it is built in the Elizabethan
style, and has cost about sixteen thousand
pounds. There is accommodation for nearly
three hundred inmates.

Let us go over it. We enter a spacious
waiting-hall. To the left are apartments for
women and children, master and matron's rooms,
kitchen, laundry, &c. The centre and right are
appropriated to men, including a large sick ward.
The first room we enter in the centre, is the
men's dining-room: scrupulously clean, light,
and pleasant. Used also for religious service.
Down a passage we find the men's sitting-rooms;
the older men in one; the younger in the other.
That tall old man fought at Waterloo, and there,
too, is one of Nelson's heroes. There are
Scotchmen playing draughts, and there is a
Frenchman playing a fiddle. On the table are
the daily papers, several English papers,
magazines, &c. A Chinaman and a New Zealander
are admiring the last number of the Illustrated
London News. Some are reading novels, some
are discussing politics, some are simply enjoying
light, air, cleanliness, and human
companionship.

Sleeping wards are up-stairs. Each inmate
has an iron bedstead, mattrass, blankets, and
white counterpane. At the head of each bed is
a neat wooden chest, serving as a seat and a
receptacle for clothes, and other private
property of the residents. Over some of the beds
you may see photographs of loved but lost or
far-distant friends. The master can be, and
very frequently is, communicated with at all
hours of the night. Go into the grounds; there
we have, first, a flower-garden radiant in this
autumn month of March with fuchsias,
pelargoniums, geraniums, roses, dahlias, gladioli,
liliums, petunias, &c. On each side are
vegetable gardens with all ordinary English
vegetables, magnificent vegetable marrows,
cucumbers, tomatoes, &c. It is very seldom that
the first prize for vegetables at the Horticultural
Society's shows is not taken by the
gardener to the Benevolent Asylum. His
prize vegetables are consumed in soup, and are
in various other ways disposed of by the
inmates. Here may be seen sundry old men and
others who can do a little work, earning extras
in the shape of plugs of tobacco and pats
of butter, by digging, weeding, or generally
making themselves useful. In the centre of
the vegetable garden one cannot fail to see a
good-sized arbour covered with Banksia and
other roses. This—oh, Mr. Bounderby, is not
this turtle soup?—is the smoking-room. Old
men, who have smoked all their lives, must
smoke; hence, all over fifty are allowed a plug
of tobacco weekly; and other tobacco may be