eresting things, which I will return to on
another occasion. But our time was up. We had other places to see.
As we came away, three old Irishwomen leaned against the wall at the
corner of the yard, watching the men at work inside. One of them was
saying, "Thim guardians is the awfullest set o' min in the world! A
man had better be transpoorted than come under 'em. An' thin,
they'll try you, an' try you, as if you was goin' to be hanged." The
poor old soul had evidently only a narrow view of the necessities
and difficulties which beset the labours of the Board of Guardians
at a time like this. On our way back to town one of my friends told
me that he "had met a sexton the day before, and had asked him how
trade was with him. The sexton replied that it was "Varra bad--nowt
doin', hardly." "Well, how's that?" asked the other. "Well, thae
sees," answered the sexton, "Poverty seldom dees. There's far more
kilt wi' o'er-heytin' an' o'er-drinkin' nor there is wi' bein'
pinched."

CHAPTER IV.

Leaving the "Stone Yard," to fulfil an engagement in another part of
the town, we agreed to call upon three or four poor folk, who lived
by the way; and I don't know that I could do better than say
something about what I saw of them. As we walked along, one of my
companions told me of an incident which happened to one of the
visitors in another ward, a few days before. In the course of his
round, this visitor called upon a certain destitute family which was
under his care, and he found the husband sitting alone in the house,
pale and silent. His wife had been "brought to bed" two or three
days before; and the visitor inquired how she was getting on. "Hoo's
very ill," said the husband. "And the child," continued the visitor,
"how is it?" "It's deeod," replied the man; "it dee'd yesterday." He
then rose, and walked slowly into the next room, returning with a
basket in his hands, in which the dead child was decently laid out.

"That's o' that's laft on it neaw," said the poor fellow. Then,
putting the basket upon the floor, he sat down in front of it, with
his head between his hands, looking silently at the corpse. Such
things as these were the theme of our conversation as we went along,
and I found afterwards that every visitor whom it was my privilege
to meet, had some special story of distress to relate, which came
within his own appointed range of action. In my first flying visit
to that great melancholy field, I could only