The picturesque Tourist, in a sunny autumn day, through this bounteous realm of England, describes the Union Workhouse on his path.

'Passing by the Workhouse of St.Ives in Huntingdonshire, on a bright day last autumn,' says the picturesque Tourist, 'I saw sitting on wooden benches, in front of their Bastille and within their ringwall and its railings, some half-hundred or more of these men.

Tall robust figures, young mostly or of middle age; of honest countenance, many of them thoughtful and even intelligent-looking men.

They sat there, near by one another; but in a kind of torpor, especially in a silence, which was very striking.

In silence: for, alas, what word was to be said?
An Earth all lying round, crying, Come and till me, come and reap me;--yet we here sit enchanted! In the eyes and brows of these men hung the gloomiest expression, not of anger, but of grief and shame and manifold inarticulate distress and weariness; they returned my glance with a glance that seemed to say, "Do not look at us.