The Master and the Matron of the workhouse at Stratford-on-Avon have resigned, and the guardians have been "considerably discussing" the appointment of their successors. Eventually it was resolved, not only to reduce the salaries, but also—hear this, ye licensed victuallers!—to cut off the beer-money hitherto paid. What dignity can possibly attach to a workhouse officer who has to pay for his own beer? It is by such insidious attacks as this that the foundations of public confidence are shaken, and the whole fabric of the Constitution is endangered. My mind misgives me when I attempt to forecast the future of Stratford.
At Tetbury there is a lodge of the recently-established Conservative Working Men's Benefit Society. It is called—absit omen—the Trouble House Lodge, and quite recently it held a fête and dinner. 'Tis always fête-day somewhere in the world. Indeed, the amount of fêtes that take place on any given day in provincial England is astounding. Without frequent fêtes no district can be considered respectable.
In the world that we live in our troubles are great;
To add to their number is scarcely the game.
Nay, how can these lodgers delight in their fête,
With perpetual trouble attached to their name?