long lines of white cops, twirling so fast that their forms are all blurred together; while the barefooted artisan between draws out the slender threads as from the bowels of a thousand spiders. Then too there are floors crowded with looms all at work, tramping like an army, and busy weaving the shirts and gowns of the entire world, and making the stranger wonder how, with the myriads of bales of cotton that are here spun, and with the myriads of yards of cotton that are here woven, there can be one bare back to be found among the whole human family.
But Manchester, at the time of Mr. Sandboy's visit, was not the Manchester of every-day life.
The black smoke no longer streamed from the tall chimneys of its factories—the sky above was no longer swarthy, as if grimed with the endless labour of the town, but clear, and without a cloud. Not a cart, nor a van, nor a railway wagon, nor a lurry, broke the stillness of the streets, and the tramp of the policeman on his rounds was alone to be heard. The mills were all hushed—the fires were out—the engines were motionless—not a wheel whirred—not a loom clacked—not a cop twirled, within them. The workers, young and old, had all gone to take their share in England's holiday. To walk through the work-rooms that a little while ago had trembled and clattered with the stir of their many machines, impressed the mind with the same sense of desolation as a theatre seen by daylight. The mice, startled at the strange sound of a footstep, scampered from out the heaps of cotton that lay upon the floor, and spiders had already begun to spin their webs in the unused shuttles of the looms. At night, the many windows of the mills and warehouses no longer shimmered, like gold, with the lights within, but glittered, like plates of silver, with the moon-rays shining on them from without. The doors of the huge warehouses were all closed, and the steps grown green from long disuse. Not a cab stood in front of the infirmary—not a vehicle loitered beside the pavement in Market-street.
In the morning, not a factory bell was to be heard; nor a "bus" to be seen bringing from the suburbs its crowds of merchants piled on the roof and packed on the splash-board in front of the coachman. Not a milkman dragged through the streets his huge tin can suspended on wheels; nor was a scavenger, with his long loose blue woollen shirt and round-crowned hat, to be met with.
On Saturday night, the thoroughfares clattered not with the tread of the thousands of heavy-booted operatives on the pavement; not a grocer's shop was brilliant with the ground-glass globes of its many lamps; not a linen draper's window was stuck over with bills telling of another "Tremendous Failure" or "Awful Sacrifice!"
In Smithfield, there was neither light nor sound. The glossy crockery and glittering glass no longer was strewn upon the ground, and no impatient dealer was there jingling his cups and tumblers, and rattling his basins to bring the customers to his stand. The covered sheds, spread with bright-coloured handkerchiefs and muslin, and hung with long streamers of lace, had all disappeared;
