they came from, and he said, "Ash'n." In answer to another question,
he said, "We're o' one family. Me an' yon tother's wed. That's his
wife wi' th' chylt in her arms, an' hur wi' th' plod shawl on's
mine." I asked if the old man was his father. "Ay," replied he,
"we're o' here, nobbut two. My mother's ill i' bed, an' one o' my
sisters is lookin' after her." " Well, an' heaw han yo getten on?"
said I. "Oh, we'n done weel; but we's come no moor," replied he.
Another day, there was an instrumental band of these operatives
playing sacred music close to the Exchange lamp. Amongst the crowd
around, I met with a friend of mine. He told me that the players
were from Staleybridge. They played some fine old tunes, by desire,
and, among the rest, they played one called "Warrington. "When they
had played it several times over, my friend turned to me and said,
"That tune was composed by a Rev. Mr Harrison, who was once minister
of Cross Street Unitarian Chapel, in Manchester; and, one day, an
old weaver, who had come down from the hills, many miles, staff in
hand, knocked at the minister's door, and asked if there was 'a
gentleman co'de' Harrison lived theer?' 'Yes.' 'Could aw see him?'
'Yes.' When the minister came to the door, the old weaver looked
hard at him, for a minute, and said, 'Are yo th' mon 'at composed
that tune co'de Worrington?' 'Yes,' replied the minister, 'I believe
I am.' 'Well,' said the old weaver, 'give me your hond! It's a good
un!' He then shook hands with him heartily again, and saying, 'Well,
good day to yo,' he went his way home again, before the old minister
could fairly collect his scattered thoughts."

I do not know how it is that these workless minstrels are gradually
becoming rarer upon the streets than they were a few months ago.
Perhaps it is because the unemployed are more liberally relieved now
than they were at first. I know that now many who have concealed