THE grave is deep and stilly, Fear round its brink abides; With veil all dark and chilly, An unknown land it hides. Its silence is unbroken By the sweet night-bird's song; Affection's flowery token Fades on the moss erelong. There widowed brides may languish, And wring their hands in vain; The orphan's cries of anguish Pierce not that dark domain. Yet, there alone can mortals Their rest, long wished-for, find; There lies beyond those portals, A home for all mankind. The heart, long vainly pressing, Through storms to reach the shore, Finds peace, that priceless blessing, Where it can beat no more. VILLAGE LYRICS. No. IV. AN ANGLER'S SONG. W. BRAILsford. THE light hath shot athwart the stream Three mortal hours ago, And I have left my morning dream To wander down below; Where trout and perch so deftly glide And blossoms from the orchard side The world may scoff,-Yet what care IP I'll tune my merry melody To the click-clack of the mill. With rod and line I am a king, The bullfinch plumes his dainty wing, Hath paused to note my path, The bittern, in the sedgy brake, Hath stayed his screaming wrath, The world may scoff,-Yet what care IP Let it laugh, and still I'll tune my merry melody To the click-clack of the mill. The birds are singing madrigals "The native wood-notes" swell. 'Neath the blossom o' the lime. The world may scoff,-Yet what care I? Let it laugh, and still I'll tune my merry melody To the click-clack of the mill. The very winds their tributes bear That mingles with the city's chime, The world may scoff,-Yet what care I? I'll tune my merry melody To the click-clack of the mill. Miscellaneous. "I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne. TIME is like a ship which never anchors: while I am on board, I had better do those things that may profit me at my landing, than practise such as shall cause my commitment when I come ashore. Whatsoever I do, I would think what will become of it when it is done. If good, I will go on to finish it; if bad, I will either leave off where I am, or not undertake it at all. Vice, like an unthrift, sells away the inheritance, while it is but in reversion: but virtue, husbanding all things well, is a purchaser.-Feltham. THOSE who place their affections at first on trifles for amusement, will find these trifles become at last their most serious concerns.-Goldsmith. THE passions, like heavy bodies down steep hills, once in motion, move themselves, and know no ground but the bottom.-Fuller. THESE latter ages of the world have declined into a softness above the effeminacy of Asian princes, and have contracted customs which those innocent and healthful days of our ancestors knew not, whose piety was natural, whose charity was operative, whose policy was just and valiant, and whose economy was sincere and proportionable to the disposition and requisites of nature.Jeremy Taylor. TASTE and elegance, though they are reckoned only among the smaller and secondary morals, yet are of no mean importance in the regulation of life. A moral taste is not of force to turn vice into virtue; but it recommends virtue, with something like the blandishments of pleasure.-Burke. HE whose heart is not excited upon the spot which a martyr has sanctified by his sufferings, or at the grave of one who has largely benefited mankind, must be more inferior to the multitude in his moral, than he can possibly be raised above them in his intellectual nature.-Southey. TRUST him little who praises all, him less who censures all, and him least who is indifferent about all.Lavater. London Magazine: A JOURNAL OF ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION No. 104.] FRANK FAIRLEGH; OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES.' CHAP. XV. A CHARADE-NOT ALL ACTING. OCTOBER 23, 1847. LAWLESS'S penitence, when he learned the danger in which Fanny had been placed by his thoughtlessness and impetuosity, was so deep and sincere, that it was impossible to be angry with him; and even Oaklands, who at first declared he considered his conduct unpardonable, was obliged to confess that, when a man had owned his fault frankly, and told you he was really sorry for it, nothing remained but to forgive and forget it. And so every thing fell into its old train once more, and the next few days passed smoothly and uneventfully. I had again received a note from Clara, in answer to one I had written to her. Its tenour was much the same as that of the last she had sent me. Cumberland was still absent, and Mr. Vernon so constantly occupied that she saw very little of him. She begged me not to attempt to visit her at present; a request in the advisability of which reason so fully acquiesced, that although feeling rebelled against it with the greatest obstinacy, I yet felt bound to yield. Harry's strength seemed now so thoroughly re-established, that Sir John, who was never so happy as when he could exercise hospitality, had invited a party of friends for the ensuing week, several of whom were to stay at the Hall for a few days, amongst others, Freddy Coleman, who was to arrive beforehand, and assist in the preparations; for charades were to be enacted, and he was reported skilful in the arrangement of these saturnalia of civilized society, or, as he himself expressed it, he was "up to all the dodges connected with the minor domestic enigmatical melodrama." Harry's recommendation I despatched a letter to Mr. Frampton, claiming his promise of visiting me at Heathfield Cottage, urging as a reason for his now doing so, that he would meet four of his old Helmstone acquaintance, viz. Oaklands, Lawless, Coleman, and myself. The morning after Coleman's arrival, the whole party formed themselves into a committee of taste, to decide on the most appropriate words for the charades, select dresses, and, in short, make all necessary arrangements for realizing a few of the very strong and original, but somewhat vague ideas, which everybody appeared to have conceived on the subject. By "Now, ladies and gentlemen," began Freddy, who had been unanimously elected chairman, stage-manager, and commander-in-chief of the whole affair, "in the first place, who is willing to take a part? Let all those who wish for an engagement at the Theatre Royal, Heathfield, hold up their hands." Lawless, Coleman, and I, were the first who made the required signal, and next the little white palms of Fanny and Lucy Markham (whom Mrs. Coleman had made over to my mother's custody for a few days) were added to the number. 66 Harry, you'll act, will you not ?" asked I. UNSTAMPED, 14d. reply. "I did it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable." Well, as you please, most indolent of men; pray, make yourself quite at home, this is Liberty Hall, isn't it, Lawless ?" returned Coleman, with a glance at the person named, who, seated on the table, with his legs twisted round the back of a chair, was sacrificing etiquette to comfort with the most delightful unconsciousness. "Eh? yes to be sure, no end of liberty," rejoined Lawless; "what are you laughing at 1-my legs?-They are very comfortable, I can tell you, if they're not over ornamental; never mind about attitude, let us get on to business, I want to know what I'm to do." "The first thing is to find out a good word," returned. Coleman. "What do you say to Matchlock?" inquired I. "You might as well have Blunderbuss while you are about it," was the reply. "No, both words are dreadfully hackneyed; let us try and find out something original if possible." do "Eh? yes, something original, by all means; what you say to Steeple-chase ?" suggested Lawless. Original, certainly," returned Freddy; "but there might be difficulties in the way. For instance, how would you set about acting a steeple?" "Eh never thought of that," rejoined Lawless; "I really don't know, unless Oaklands would stand with a fool's cap on his head to look like one." "Much obliged, Lawless; but I'd rather be excused," replied Harry, smiling. I've got an idea!" exclaimed I. "No! you don't say so? you are joking," remarked Freddy, in a tone of affected surprise. 'Stay a minute," continued I, musing. "Certainly, as long as you and Sir John like to keep me," rejoined Coleman, politely. "Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy," added I, and, drawing him on one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which, after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present to add, that Fanny having consented to perform the part of a bar-maid, and it being necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to the part, was fain to yield to his importunity. For the next few days Heathfield Hall presented one Carpenters continual scene of bustle and confusion. were at work converting the library into an extempore theatre. Ladies and ladies'-maids were busily occupied in manufacturing dresses. Lawless spent whole hours in pacing up and down the billiard-room, reciting his "Not if you can contrive to do without me," was the part, which had been remodelled to suit him, and the (1) Continued from p. 860. VOL. IV. acquisition of which appeared a labour analogous to that of Sisyphus, as, by the time he reached the end of his task, he had invariably forgotten the beginning. Every one was in a state of the greatest eagerness and excitement about something-nobody exactly knew what ; and the interest Ellis took in the whole affair was wonderful to behold. The unnecessary number of times people ran up and down stairs was inconceivable, and the pace at which they did so terrific. Sir John spent his time in walking about with a hammer and a bag of nails, one of which he was constantly driving in and clenching beyond all power of extraction, in some totally wrong place, a line of conduct which reduced the head carpenter to the borders of insanity. On the morning of the memorable day when the event was to come off, Mr. Frampton made his appear ance in a high state of preservation, shook my mother by both hands as warmly as if he had known her from childhood, and saluted the young ladies with a hearty kiss, to their extreme astonishment, which a paroxysm of grunting (wound up by the usual soliloquy, "Just like me!") did not tend to diminish. A large party was invited in the evening to witness our performance, and, as some of the guests began to arrive soon after nine, it was considered advisable that the actors and actresses should go and dress, so that they might be in readiness to appear when called upon. The entertainments began with certain tableauxvivans, in which both Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the assurance that nothing would be expected of him but to stand still and be looked at an occupation which even he could not consider very hard work and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of "Kenilworth," the magnificent dress setting off his noble figure to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various tableaux were in turn presented, and passed off with much éclat, and then there was a pause before the charade, the grand event of the evening, commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it, (Fanny having persuaded Mr. Frampton to undertake a short part which I was to have performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she would never forgive him if he refused to fill it,) wished the actors success, and came in front to join the spectators. After about ten minutes of breathless expectation, the curtain drew up, and exhibited Scene 1st, the Bar of a Country Inn--and here I shall adopt the playwright's fashion, and leave the characters to tell their own tale: SCENE I. [Extempore soliloquy by Lawless. Precious odd if he doesn't, for he's not half up in his part, I know.] John. Can't you, really? well, if that's the case, I needn't ask how his temper is? Susan. Bad enough, I can tell you; Missus has plenty to bear, poor thing! John. Indeed she has, and she's too young and pretty to be used in that manner. Ah! that comes of marrying an old man for his money; she's uncommon pretty, to be sure, I only knows one prettier face in the whole village. Susan (with an air of forced unconcern). Aye, John, and whose may that be, pray? Mary Bennett, perhaps, or Lucy Jones? John. No, it ain't either of them. John. Well, if you must needs know, the party's name is Susan. Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh ! one of Darling the blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling! John (rubbing his nose, and looking cunning). Well, 'tis Susan darling, certainly; yes, you're about right there-Susan, darling. Susan (pouting). So you're in love with that girl, are you, Mr. John? A foolish, flirting thing, that cares for nothing but dancing and finery; a nice wife for a poor man she'll make, indeed-charming! John. Now don't go and fluster yourself about nothing, it ain't that girl as I'm in love with; I was only a making fun of you. Susan (crossly). There, I wish you wou'dn't keep teasing of me so; I don't care anything about it—I dare say I've never seen her. John. Oh! if that's all, I'll very soon show her to you come along. (Takes her hand, and leads her up to the looking-glass.) There's the Susan I'm in love with, and hope to marry some day; hasn't she got a pretty face? and isn't she a DARLING? (Susan looks at him for a minute, and then bursts into tears; bell rings violently, and a gruff voice calls impatiently, Susan! Susan!) Susan. Coming, Sir, coming. (Wipes her eyes with her apron.) John. Let the old curmudgeon wait! (Voice behind the scenes, John!-John Ostler, I say!) Coming, Sir; yes, Sir. Sir, indeed— -an old brute; but now, Susan, what do you say? do you love me? and will you have me for a husband? (Takes her hand.) (Voice. John! John! I say. Susan! where are you? And enter MR. FRAMPTON, dressed as the Landlord, on crutches, and with his gouty foot in a sling.) Landlord. John! you idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, why don't you come when you're called?-eh? Susan. Oh, Sir! John was just coming, Sir; and so was I, Sir, if you please. Landlord. You, indeed-ugh! you're just as bad as he is, making love in corners, (aside, Wonder whether she does really,) instead of attending to the customers; nice set of servants I have, to be sure. If this is all one gets by inn-keeping, it's not worth having. I keep the inn, and I expect the inn to keep me. (Aside. Horrid old joke, what made me put that in, I wonder ! just like me-umph!) There's my wife, too-pretty hostess she makes. John. So she does, master, sure-ly. Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool-what do you know about it? (Bell rings.) There, do you hear that? run and see who that is, or I shall lose a customer by your carelessness, next. Oh! the bother of servants, oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan and John before him. Curtain falls.) As the first scene ended, the audience applauded loudly, and then began hazarding various conjectures as to the possible meaning of what they had witnessed. While the confusion of sounds was at the highest, Oaklands drew me on one side, and inquired, in an under tone, what I thought of Lawless's acting. "I was agreeably surprised," returned I, "I had no notion he would have entered into the part so thoroughly, or have acted with so much spirit." "He did it con amore, certainly," replied Oaklands, with bitterness; "I considered his manner objectionable in the highest degree. I wonder you can allow him to act with your sister; that man is in love with her-I feel sure of it he meant every word he said. I hate this kind of thing altogether-I never approved of it; no lady should be subjected to such annoyance." 66 Supposing it really were as you fancy, Harry, how do you know it would be so great an annoyance? It is just possible Fanny may like him," rejoined I. "Oh, certainly! pray let me know when I am to congratulate you," replied Oaklands, with a scornful laugh; and turning away abruptly, he crossed the room, joined a party of young ladies, and began talking and laughing with a recklessness and excitability quite unusual to him. While he was so doing, the curtain drew up, and discovered SCENE II.-BEST ROOM IN THE INN. Enter Susan, showing in Hyacinth Adonis Brown (COLEMAN), dressed as a caricature of the fashion, with lemon-coloured kid gloves, noisy-patterned trow sers, sporting-coat, &c. Susan. This is the settin'-room, if you please, Sir. Hyacinth (fixing his glass in his eye, and scrutinizing the apartment). This is the settin'-woom, is it? to set, to incubate as a hen-can't mean that, I imagine pwovincial idiom, pwobably-aw-ya'as-I dare say I shall be able to exist in it as long as may be necessary -ar-let me have dinnaar, young woman, as soon as it can be got weady. Susan. Yes, Sir. What would you please to like, Sir? Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem! pwetty gal-ar-like, my dear, like?-(vewy pwetty gal!) Susan. Beg pardon, Sir, what did you say you would like? Hyacinth. Chickens tendar here, my dear? Hyacinth (approaching her). What's your name, my dear? Susan. Susan, if you please, Sir. Hyacinth. Vewy pwetty name, indeed-(Aside. Gal's worth cultivating I'll do a little bit of fascination.) Ahem! Chickens, Susan, are not the only things that can be tendar. (Advances, and attempts to take her hand. Enter John hastily, and runs against Hyacinth, apparently by accident.) Hyacinth (angrily). Now, fellar, where are you pushing to, eh? John. Beg parding, Sir, I was a looking for you, Sir, (places himself between Susan and Hyacinth). Hyacinth. Looking for me, fellar? John. I ha' rubbed down your horse, Sir, and I was a wishin' to know when you would like him fed. (Makes sijns to Susan to leave the room). Hyacinth. Fed-aw!-directly, to be su-ar. (To Susan, who is going out.) Ar-don't you go. John. No, Sir, I ain't a-going. When shall I water him, Sir? Hyacinth (Aside. Fellar talks as if the animal were a pot of mignonette). Ar-you'll give him some wataar as soon as he's eaten his dinnaar. John. Werry good, Sir; and how about hay, Sir? Hyacinth (aside. What a bo-ar the fellar is; I wish he'd take himself off.) Weally, I must leave the hay to your discwession. John. Werry well, Sir; couldn't do a better thing, Sir. How about his clothing? shall I keep a cloth on him, Sir? (Winks at Susan, who goes out laughing.) Hyacinth. Yaas! you can keep a cloth on-ar-and -that will do. (Waves his hand towards the door.) John. Do you like his feet stopped at night, Sir? Hyacinth. Är-I leave all these points to my gwoom -ar-would you go? Hyacinth. Howwid fellar-I thought I should nevar get wid of him-it's evident he's jealous-ar, good idea I'll give him something to be jealous of. I'll wing the bell, and finish captivating Susan. (Rings. Re-enter John.) John. Want me, Sir? Here I am, Sir-fed the horse, Sir. Hyacinth (waving his hand angrily towards the door). Ar-go away, fellar, and tell the young woman to answer that bell. (John leaves the room, muttering, "If I do I'm blessed." Hyacinth struts up to the glass, arranges his hair, pulls up his shirt collar, and rings again. Re-enter Susan). Hyacinth. Pray, Susan, are you going to be mawwied? Susan (colouring). No, Sir-a-yes, Sir-I can't tell, Sir. Hyacinth. No, Sir-yes, Sir-ar-I see how it isthe idea has occurred to you-it's that fellar John, I suppose? Susan. Yes, Sir-it's John, Sir, if you please. Hyacinth. Well-ar-I don't exactly please. Now listen to me, Susan. I'm an independent gentleman, vewy wich (aside, Wish I was)-lots of servants and cawwiages, and all that sort of thing. I only want a wife, and, captivated by your beauty, I'm wesolved to mawwy you. (Aside. That will do the business.) Susan. La! Sir, you're joking. Hyacinth. Ar-I never joke-ar-of course you consent? Susan. To marry you, Sir? Hyacinth. Ar-yes-to mawwy me. Susan. What! and give up John? Hyacinth. I fear we cannot dispense with that sacwifice. Susan. And you would have me prove false to my true love,-deceive a poor lad that cares for me; wring his honest heart, and perhaps drive him to take to evil courses, for the sake of your fine carriages and servants? No, Sir, if you was a duke, I would not give up John to marry you. Hyacinth. Vewy fine, you did that little bit of constancy in vewy good style, but now having welieved your feelings, you may as well do a little bit of nature, and own that, woman-like, you have changed your mind. Susan. When I do, Sir, I'll be sure to let you know. (A side. A dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in with your dinner, Sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed with astonishment.] SCENE III.-FRONT OF INN. Enter Susan with black ribbons in her cap. Susan. Heigho! so the gout's carried off poor old master at last. Ah! well, he was always a great plague, and it's one's duty to be resigned-he's been dead more than two months now, and it's above a month since mistress went to Broadstairs for a change, and left John and me to keep house-ah! it was very pleasant-we was so comfortable. Now if in a year or two mistress was to sell the business, and John and me could save money enough to buy it, and was to be married, and live here; la! I should be as happy as the day's long. I've been dull enough the last week though-for last Monday--no, last Saturday-that is, the Saturday before last, John went for a holiday to see his friends in Yorkshire, and there's been nobody at home but me and the John. I suppose there will be no harm in water-cat-I can't think what ailed him before he went away, brushing his mane? Hyacinth (angrily). Ar-weally I-ar-will you go? John. Becos some folks thinks it makes the hair come off. Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar-leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes, Sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care on him, Sir; and if I should think o' any thing else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, Sir. (Goes out grinning.) he seemed to avoid me like-and when he bid me good bye, he told me if I should happen to pick up a sweetheart while he was gone, he would not be jealous-what could he mean by that? I dare say he only said it to tease me-I ought to have a letter soon to say when mistress is coming back. [Enter boy with letter, which he gives to Susan and exit.] Well, that is curious-it is from Broadstairs, I see by the post-mark. Why, bless me, it's in John's hand-writing-he can't be at Broad "JOHN and BETSEY SHORTOATS." [Susan tears the letter, bursts into tears, and sinks back into a chair, fainting-curtain drops.] [When we commenced the third portion of this our veritable history, and induced the reader to accompany his Old Companions through certain New Scenes, we announced our intention of rendering it the conclusion of our adventures, and we were sincere in so doing, fully purporting by the end of the last chapter to have had ourselves comfortably shot, married, or drowned (for we trust we are not reserved for hanging), out of the way. But as we unrolled the volume of our past life, and recalled the shadow of bye-gone days, old recollections crowded upon us, and our story grew upon our hands till it was impossible to compress it into the limits we had originally assigned it. Shall we, then, be asking too much of our gentle Public, if we beg them to grant one more last appearance to their old favourite, Frank Fairlegh?] amenities of southern society invaded the coarse habits and savage bearing of the men of Lancashire. Since that period the change in the character of the people inhabiting the towns, especially, has been truly marvellous-wonderful in its kind, and rapid in the development. stairs, surely-I feel all of a tremble. (Opens the letter and reads.) "My dear Seusan, Hafter i left yeu, i thort i should not ave time to go hall the way to York, so by way of a change i cum down here, where I met poor Mrs. who seemed quite in the dumps and low like, about old master being dead, which is hunan natur cut down The rural districts can still furnish like grass, Seusan, and not having a creetur to speak to, naturally took to me, which was an old tho' humbel specimens worthy of former times, it is true, the very friend, Seusan-and-do not think me guilty of hincon-existence of which, when brought into the populous stancy, which I never felt, but the long and short of it quarters, and placed in juxta-position to the emaciated is, that we was married" (the wretch !) "yesterday, and and shrunken pigmies of the factory-presenting the is comin home to-morrow, where I hopes to remain very very extremes of power and imbecility-show, in a most faithfully your affexionate Master and Mrs. striking manner, the present anomalous condition of the pursuits, habits, and general capabilities of the working population. But to disregard specific changes, and to adhere to our purpose of giving a few remarks respecting Lancashire manners. Surnames are as little used as possible; the people of a whole district, or the hands employed in a large manufactory, distinguishing and addressing each other by their christian names, preferring, when some more special mark may be necessary, to invent an appellation descriptive of some personal or circumstantial peculiarity connected with the party spoken of, to formally making use of his surname. Consistent in their primitive ideas in this respect, the prefix of Mister is seldom given, some of the most wealthy manufacturers in the county being familiarly alluded to by their own workpeople merely by the use of their names, without prefix or appendage; thus the family of the Fieldens, who in wealth may vie with princes, are never spoken of in their own neighbourhood otherwise than as John Fielden, Henry, &c. Formerly, in many parts of the county, surnames were totally disregarded-if they had ever been introduced-one man being distinguished from another of the same name by his particular genealogy, which, indeed, was recounted, whenever, in being spoken of, his simple name was not sufficiently descriptive. Thus, John's father being William, he would be styled Jack o' Bill, to distinguish him from other men of the name of John, who, in like manner, would be known by connecting their own with their father's name. Then John, the son of William, having a son Peter, would by paternity attach his sire's, as well as his own name to the boy's, and so he would be Peter o' Jack o' Bill, and in this manner a string of epithets amounting to perhaps a score would be applied to one individual: this remarkable vestige of Saxon simplicity is not entirely obliterated even at the present day. About fifteen years ago public attention was, in some degree, drawn to this peculiar subject from the following incident. An old man, upwards of eighty years of age, with his son, a powerful man of middle life, occupied a lonely alehouse, situated on a moor in the neighbourhood of Saddleworth; the old man and his son were murdered after a bloody conflict, at noon-day, by five Irish reapers. The circumstances of unusual atrocity which accompanied this deed, together with the audacity of the perpetrators, who made their inhuman attack in the light of day, attracted to the spot numbers of the curious from distant parts of the country, who, in pursuit only of the particulars of the occurrence, gathered astonishing information relative to the manners and customs of the locality. The public-house was called Bill o' Jack's house; Bill was the name of the old man, who inherited it from his ancestor Jack. The younger man, who was butchered with his father Bill, only awaited his parent's demise to add a third name to his A SLIGHT SKETCH OF MEN AND MANNERS THIS county possesses an amount of interest which cannot be surpassed certainly, and most likely is not to be equalled, by any British province. If we regard it as a mart for the fabrication and sale of textures and fabrics suited to the wants of all climes, and necessary to the convenience of every nation, it is full of interest; but when we find-seeing, as we do, social wants known only to people in the most advanced stages of civilization, anticipated by the co-operation of art and science—the traces, nay, the very types, of manners and habits suitable only to the primeval stages of society, a feeling of astonishment is naturally awakened. The natives of Lancashire are by nature hardy and robust; of Saxon origin, they maintained to a recent period, the athletic amusements, the language, the hospitality, and, above all, the democratic, or if it may be so termed, the plebeian character of that people. Indeed, their dialect differed almost as widely from that of their neighbours to the north, as it did from that of the Southerns. Although at the commencement of the present century the manufactures of Lancashire had arrived at such importance as to constitute the leading feature in the commerce of this country, the habits and ideas of the mass of the population yet remained unchanged, or had but slightly degenerated from their pristine simplicity-perhaps we ought to say, from their native barbarism. An unnatural description of labour had not yet reduced the physical power, nor had the |