t the other end of the bridge, we turned off at the
right hand corner into a street of the poorest sort--a narrow old
street, called "Amy Lane." A few yards on the street we came to a
few steps, which led up, on the right hand side, to a little terrace
of poor cottages, overlooking the river Douglas. We called at one of
these cottages. Though rather disorderly just then, it was not an
uncomfortable place. It was evidently looked after by some homely
dame. A clean old cat dosed upon a chair by the fireside. The bits
of cottage furniture, though cheap, and well worn, were all there;
and the simple household gods, in the shape of pictures and
ornaments, were in their places still. A hardy-looking, brown-faced
man, with close-cropped black hair, and a mild countenance, sat on a
table by the window, making artificial flies, for fishing. In the
corner over his head a cheap, dingy picture of the trial of Queen
Catherine, hung against the wall. I could just make out the tall
figure of the indignant queen, in the well-known theatrical
attitude, with her right arm uplifted, and her sad, proud face
turned away from the judgment-seat, where Henry sits, evidently
uncomfortable in mind, as she gushes forth that bold address to her
priestly foes and accusers. The man sitting beneath the picture,
told us that he was a throstle-overlooker by trade; and that he had
been nine months out of work. He said, "There's five on us here when
we're i'th heawse. When th' wark fell off I had a bit o' brass
save't up, so we were forced to start o' usin' that. But month after
month went by, an' th' brass kept gettin' less, do what we would;
an' th' times geet wur, till at last we fund ersels fair stagged up.
At after that, my mother helped us as weel as hoo could,--why, hoo
does neaw, for th' matter o' that, an' then aw've three brothers,
colliers; they've done their best to poo us through. But they're
nobbut wortchin' four days a week, neaw; besides they'n enough to do
for their own. Aw make no acceawnt o' slotchin' up an' deawn o' this
shap, like a foo. It would sicken a dog, it would for sure. Aw go a
fishin' a bit neaw an' then; an' aw cotter abeawt wi' first one
thing an' then another; but it comes to no sense. Its noan like
gradely wark. It makes me maunder up an' deawn, like a gonnor wi' a
nail in it's yed. Aw wish to God yon chaps in Amerikey would play
th' upstroke, an' get done wi' their bother, so as folk could start
o' their wark again." T