Old Preston looked fine to me in the clear air of that declining
day. I stood a while at the end of the "Bull" gateway. There was a
comical-looking little knock-kneed fellow in the middle of the
street --a wandering minstrel, well known in Preston by the name of
"Whistling Jack." There he stood, warbling and waving his band, and
looking from side to side,--in vain. At last I got him to whistle
the "Flowers of Edinburgh." He did it, vigorously; and earned his
penny well. But even "Whistling Jack" complained of the times. He
said Preston folk had "no taste for music." But he assured me the
time would come when there would be a monument to him in that town.



CHAPTER VII.



About half-past six I found my friend waiting at the end of the
"Bull" gateway. It was a lovely morning. The air was cool and clear,
and the sky was bright. It was easy to see which was the way to the
soup kitchen, by the stragglers going and coming. We passed the
famous "Orchard," now a kind of fairground, which has been the scene
of so many popular excitements in troubled times. All was quiet in
the "Orchard" that morning, except that, here, a starved-looking
woman, with a bit of old shawl tucked round her head, and a pitcher
in her hand, and there, a bare-footed lass, carrying a tin can,
hurried across the sunny space towards the soup kitchen. We passed a
new inn, called "The Port Admiral." On the top of the building there
were three life-sized statues--Wellington and Nelson, with the Greek