that the woman had been grossly
belied." Another (Mr Nowell) told of a house on his list, where they
had no less than one hundred and fifty pawn tickets. He told, also,
of a moulder's family, who had been all out of work and starving so
long, that their poor neighbours came at last and recommended the
committee to relieve them, as they would not apply for relief
themselves. They accepted relief just one week, and then the man
came and said that he had a PROSPECT of work; and he shouldn't need
relief tickets any longer. It was here that I heard so much about
anonymous letters, of which I have given you three samples. Having
said that I should like to see the soup kitchen, one of the
committee offered to go with me thither at six o'clock the next
morning; and so I came away from the meeting in the cool twilight.

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
slave between them--a curious companionship. These statues reminded
me of a certain Englishman riding through Dublin, for the first
time, upon a