chief mourner of "the establishment," determined to have a few weeks' pleasure, like the rest of the world; while Beddoe, of the opposition depôt for grief, had, "in consequence of the mildness of the season," (coupled with its general healthiness) "not only reduced all his stock of the previous winter's weeds and weepers, but finding the mortality much below the usual average, had put up the black shutters of his shop, and affixed a hatchment, with the motto of "Resurgam," over his door, as a notice that he would turn up again shortly.
Not a shop but had some announcement pasted on the shutters. In the principal thoroughfares chickens scratched at the unremoved dust, while the crowing of rival cocks sounded shrill in the silent streets. Corpulent old ducks waddled along the kerb-stones to bathe themselves, in the gutter. In Market-street the grass was already beginning to sprout between the stones. The cats, left to take care of themselves, wandered about as thin as French pigs, and lay in wait for the birds, that no longer scared by the noise, now began to flock and twitter loudly in every thoroughfare. In the People's Parks, pigs roamed among the flowers, while geese and donkeys nibbled at the grass.
There was, however, one quarter of the deserted town where the people were not holiday-making, but still labouring—for what was to them, indeed, dear life—one district where the toil knew no cessation—where the workmen had no money to spend on pleasure, getting barely enough—slave as they might—to keep soul and body together.
Round about the wretched purlieus of Rochdale-road the clicking of the shuttles of the handloom weavers might still be heard. Early, long before the light, and long after the dark, the weaver's dim lamp might be seen in the attic or cellar, and where some five-and-twenty were styed together under one wretched roof, Mr. Sandboys was led by Inspector Johnny Wren.
At the top of the house he found the rooms crowded with crazy old looms, so that it was scarcely possible to move between—and here, with beds of sacks of straw, and nothing but their own rags to cover them by night, were a band of grim, hollow-cheeked, and half-starved men, toiling away for a crust—and nothing more.
Mr. Sandboys started back in horror as he looked at the pinched faces and gaunt figures of the workers. He asked why they were not, like the rest of the town, at the Exhibition of the Industry of all Nations.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed out one with a week's beard on his chin—"last week I earnt three and ninepence, and this week I shall have got two and a penny. Exhibition of Industry! let them as wants to see the use of industry in this country come and see this here exhibition."
"I warrant it'll beat all nations hollow," cried another.
And then the man laughed again, and so did all his fellow-workers, in a grim, empty-bellied chorus.
Mr. Sandboys grew somewhat alarmed at the man's manner, and
