—King Lear.

One Saturday a little incident fell in my way, which I thought worth taking note of at the time. On that day I went up to Levenshulme, to spend the afternoon with an old friend of mine, a man of studious habits, living in a retired part of that green suburb. The time went pleasantly by whilst I was with the calm old student, conversing upon the state of Lancashire, and the strange events which were upheaving the world in great billows of change,—and drinking in the peaceful charm which pervaded everything about the man, and his house, and the scene which it stood in. After tea, he came with me across the fields to the Midway Inn, on Stockport Road, where the omnibuses call on their way to Manchester. It was a lovely evening, very clear and cool, and twilight was sinking upon the scene. Waiting for the next omnibus, we leaned against the long wooden watering-trough, in front of the inn. The irregular old building looked picturesque in the soft light of declining day; and all around was so still that we could hear the voices of bowlers who were lingering upon the green, off at the north side of the house, and retired from the highway by an intervening garden. The varied tones of animation, and the phrases uttered by the players on different parts of the green, came through the quiet air with a cheery ring. The language of the bowling-green sounds very quaint to people unused to the game.

"Too much land, James!" cries one.

"Bravo, bully-bowl! That's th' first wood! Come again for more!" cries another.

"Th' wrong bias, John!"

"How's that?"

"A good road, but it wants legs!"

"Narrow; narrow, o' to pieces!"

These, and such like phrases of the game, came distinctly from the green into the highway in that quiet evening. And here I am reminded, as I write, that the philosophic Dr. Dalton was a regular bowler upon Tattersall's green, at Old Trafford. These things, however, are all aside from the little story which I wish to tell.

As we stood by the watering-trough, listening to the voices of the bowlers, and to the occasional ringing of bells, mingled with a low buzz of merriment inside the house, there were many travellers walked by. They came, nearly all of them, from the Manchester side; sometimes three or four in company, and sometimes a lonely straggler. Some of them had poor-looking little bundles in their hands; and, with a few exceptions, their dress, their weary gait, and dispirited looks, led me to think that many of them were unemployed factory operatives, who had been wandering away to beg where they would not be known. I have met so many shame-faced, melancholy people in that condition during the last few months, that, perhaps, I may have somewhat overjudged the number of those who belong to that class. But, in two or three cases, little snatches of conversation, uttered by them as they went by, plainly told that, so far as the speakers went, it was so; and at last a little thing befel which, I am sure, represented the condition of many a thousand more in Lancashire just now. Three young women stopped on the footpath in front of the inn, close to the place where we stood, and began to talk together in a very free, open way; quite careless of being overheard. One of them was a stout, handsome young woman, about twenty-three. Her dress was of light printed stuff, clean and good. Her round, ruddy arms, her clear, blonde complexion, and the bright expression of her full, open countenance, all indicated health and good nature. I guessed from her conversation, as well as from her general appearance, that she was a factory operative, in full employ—though that is such a rare thing in these parts now. The other two looked very poor and downhearted. One was a short, thick-set girl, seemingly not twenty years of age; her face was sad, and she had very little to say. The other was a thin, dark-haired, cadaverous woman, about thirty years of age, as I supposed; her shrunk visage was the picture of want; and her frank, childlike talk showed great simplicity of character. The weather had been wet for some days previous; and the clothing of the two looked thin and shower-stained. It had evidently been worn a good while, and the colours were faded. Each of them wore a poor, shivery bit of shawl, in which their hands were folded, as if to keep them warm. The handsome lass, who seemed to be in good employ, knew them both; but she showed an especial kindness towards the eldest of them. As these two stood talking to their friend, we did not take much notice of what they were saying, until two other young women came slowly from townwards, looking poor, and tired, and ill, like the first. These last comers instantly recognised two of those who stood talking together in front of the inn, and one of them said to the other,—

"Eh, sitho; there's Sarah an' Martha here! Eh, lasses; han yo bin a-beggin', too?"

"Aye, lass; we han," replied the thin, dark-complexioned woman. "Aye, lass; we han. Aw've just bin tellin' Ann, here. Aw never did sich a thing i' my life afore,—never! But it's th' first time and th' last, for me,—it is that! Aw'll go whoam; an' aw'll dee theer, afore aw'll go a-beggin' ony moor,—aw will for sure! Mon, it's sich a nasty, dirty job; aw'd as soon clem!... See yo, lasses; we set off this mornin'—Martha an' me—we set eawt this mornin' to go to Gorton Tank, becose we yerd that it wur sich a good place. But one doesn't know wheer to go to these times; an' one doesn't like to go a-beggin' among folk at they known. Well, when we coom to Gorton we geet two-pence-hawpenny theer,—an' that wur o'. There's plenty moor beggin' beside us! Well, at after that twopence-hawpenny, we geet twopence moor; an' that's o' at we'n getten. But, eh, lasses, when aw coom to do it, aw hadn't th' heart to ax for nought,—aw hadn't for sure.... Martha an' me's walked aboon ten mile, if we'n walked a yard; an' we geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we set off, an' so wur Martha, too; aw know hoo wur; though hoo says nought mich abeawt it. Well; we coom back through t' teawn; an' we wur both on us fair stagged up. Aw never wur so done o'er i' my life, wi' one thing an' another. So we co'de a-seem' Ann here; an' hoo made us a good baggin'—th' lass did. See yo; aw wur fit to drop o'th flags afore aw geet that saup o' warm tay into mo,—aw wur for sure! An' neaw hoo's come'd a gate wi' us hitherto, an' hoo would make us have a glass o' warm ale a-piece at yon heawse, lower deawn a bit; an' aw dar' say it'll do mo good, aw getten sich a cowd; but, eh dear, it's made mo as mazy as a tup; an' neaw hoo wants us to have another, afore we starten off whoam. But it's no use; we mun be gooin'. Aw'm noan used to it, an' aw connot ston' it. Aw'm as wake as a kittlin' this minute."

Ann, who had befriended them in this manner, was the handsome young woman, who seemed to be in work; and now the poor woman who had been telling the story laid her hand upon her friend's shoulder and said,—

"Ann, thae's behaved very weel to us, o' roads; an' neaw, lass, go thi ways whoam, an' dunnot fret abeawt us, mon. Aw feel better neaw. We's be reet enough to-morn, lass. Mon, there's awlus some way shap't That tay's done me a deeol o' good.... Go thi ways whoam, Ann! Neaw do; or else aw shan't be yezzy abeawt tho!"

But Ann, who was wiping her eyes with her apron, replied, "Nawe, nawe; aw connot goo yet, Sarah!" ... And then she began to cry, "Eh, lasses, aw dunnot like to see yo o' this shap,—aw dunnot for sure! Besides, yo'n bin far enough to-day. Come back wi' me! Aw connot find reawm for both on yo; but thee come back wi' me, Sarah! Aw'll find thee a good bed; an' thae'rt welcome to a share o' what there is—as welcome as th' flowers i' May—thae knows that.... Thae'rt th' owdest o'th two; an' thae'rt noan fit to trawnce up an' deawn o' this shap. Come back to eawr heawse; an' Martha'll go forrud to Stopput (Stockport)—winnot tho, Martha?... Thae knows, Martha," continued she, "thae knows, thae munnot think nought at me axin' Sarah, an' noan o' thee. Yo should both on yo go back if aw'd reawm,—but aw haven't. Beside, thae'rt younger an' strunger than hoo is."

"Eh, God bless tho, lass," replied Martha, "aw know o' abeawt it. Aw'd rayther Sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. Aw can go forrud by mysel', weel enough. It's noan so fur, neaw."

But here Sarah, the eldest of the three, laid her hand once more upon the shoulder of her friend, and said, in an earnest tone,—

"Ann! It will not do, my lass! Goo, aw mun! Aw never wur away fro whoam o' neet i' my life—never! Aw connot do it, mon! Beside, thae knows, aw've laft yon lad; an' never a wick soul wi' him! He'd fret hissel' to deeoth this neet, mon, if aw didn't go whoam! Aw couldn't sleep a wink for thinkin' abeawt him! Th' child would be fit to start eawt o'th heawse i'th deeod time o'th neet, a-seechin' mo—aw know he would!... Aw mun goo, mon! God bless tho, Ann; aw'm obleeged to thee o'th same! But thae knows heaw it is."

Here the omnibus came up, and I rode back to Manchester. The whole conversation took up very little more time than it will take to read it; but I thought it well worth recording, as characteristic of the people now suffering in Lancashire from no fault of theirs. I know the people well. The greatest number of them would starve themselves to that degree that they would not be of much more physical use in this world, before they would condescend to beg. But starving to death is hard work. What will winter bring them when severe weather begins to tell upon constitutions lowered in tone by a starvation diet—a diet so different to what they have been used to when in work?

What will their eighteen-pence a-head weekly do for them in that hard time? If something more than this is not done for them, when more food, clothing, and fire are necessary to everybody, calamities may arise which will cost England a hundred times more than a sufficient relief—a relief worthy of those who are suffering, and of the nation they belong to—would have cost. In the meantime, the cold wings of winter already begin to overshadow the land; and every day lost involves the lives, or the future usefulness, of thousands of our best population.