but it will not stand strain and exertion. You
must not venture to practise gymnastics in a pair
of shoddy trousers. Here is the weakness of
shoddy—the shortness of the staple. You know
now—if you did not know before—why the old
clothesman is so eager and anxious to buy any
garment, however ragged, which is composed
entirely of wool. The old suit goes to the mill
and comes back to you in a new shape. Your
trousers to-day may be your waistcoat tomorrow.
Such is the economy of modern trade.

The cloth-hall at Leeds is a huge shed, a quarter
of a mile long; the area of which is divided
into streets of stalls, at which, on market-days,
the manufacturers exhibit specimens of their
goods. It is a curious place, well worth seeing.
Let me impart to the reader a secret I
picked up here. How to tell if there is cotton
in a piece of cloth. Take a small piece and
tear it both ways, against the warp and against
the woof. The wool in tearing makes a dull
soft sound; the cotton rends with a crackling
noise. Do this when your tailor swears "it is
all wool," and see how foolish he will look
when he hears the rattle of the cotton threads.
The price of broadcloth ranges from a shilling
a yard to twenty shillings! At wholesale prices
you can get cloth enough to make a suit, for five
shillings.

Having seen Leeds at work, I was curious
to see it at play. With this purpose I made the
round of its night amusements. I went to a
theatre. It was poorly attended, as it deserved
to be; for though the house was large and
capable of being made bright and attractive, it was
in an inconceivably dirty state, and the performance
on the stage was dreary in the last degree.
"When will provincial managers be brought to
understand that people do not go to the theatre
as a duty, but to be made cheerful and to be
amused? Why should any one come away from
anywhere to sit in this dingy den, and be witness
to a performance which, in point of art and skill,
is below the mark of the busker who executes
a clog dance on the cellar-flap in the street?

I visited a music-hall. It had evidently
been a floor-cloth factory, or something of
that kind; but, with bright lights and a
lively band of musicians, it was infinitely
more cheerful than the theatre. This Leeds
music-hall has its peculiarities. The people
are admitted to the body of the building gratis,
paying for their entertainment in the price of
the beer they drink. The charge for admission
to the galleries is sixpence, and there is a sort
of pew at the end of the hall set apart for
mothers with children in arms. The entertainment
was of the usual character. Awkward
young ladies in dingy evening costume, showing
a lanky length of red arm, came on with pieces
of music—of which they could not read a note
—and sang sentimental ballads in shrill notes,
which set your teeth on edge. Then the
all-pervading irrepressible comic man, with the
brimless hat and the long-tailed coat, treated us
to Slap-bang and Kafoozlum and Um-doodle-day,
and always when he failed to make an
effect, knocked his hat over his eyes, and by
that triumphant stroke of humour invariably
brought down the house. It was not exactly
an elevating entertainment; but it admitted of
great variety, and the audience seemed amused.
It was at least a lively place, and well ordered
of its kind, which the theatre was not.

In the course of three hours I pretty well
exhausted the night's entertainments of Leeds.
They included an organ performance at the
town-hall, a concert, and a reading at the
Mechanics' Institution.

They are a musical people in Leeds. From
almost every court leading to the public-houses
tuneful voices reached the street, and in some
of the houses fiddles were going. In the bar
of a little beer-shop, which I was curious
enough to visit, I found a handsome piano
jammed up against the beer engine, and a man
playing it for the delectation of half a dozen
yokels, who were drinking their beer at the
counter. It was a mean shabby little beer
shop; but the piano was in a fine rosewood
case, and the performer played remarkably well.
There was nothing to pay for the music. I had
half a pint and a grand fantasia for twopence.
Nay, more: a gentleman at the bar did a little
double-shuffle for the entertainment of the
customers generally. It seemed to me that the
piano was a pleasant mitigation of the mere
drinking and getting drunk purposes of the
ordinary public-house bar; and I have observed
that where music, singing, dancing, and other
amusements are dispensed with liquor, they
have the effect of keeping people sober.

My kind host offered, if I would step over to
Wakefield with him, to show me a curiosity: the
said curiosity being the whole of the original
manuscript of the Pickwick Papers, which, I
was assured, is in the possession of a printer
there. Perhaps this will be news to the
conductor of this journal. I was informed, too,
that a Yorkshire schoolmaster advertises himself
as the proprietor of the real original Dotheboys'
Hall, which is now conducted on principles of
the most boundless liberality. My new old
friend in Leeds—whose hearty hospitality and
kindness I shall never forget—pressed me to
stay a day or two longer; but as I was cured of
my vacuity, I was anxious—selfish person that I
am—to get back to town. I took Hull in my
way, though it was a good deal out of my way,
and took a glance at the lions there. I had shared
in the impression, which, I believe, is the popular
one, that Hull was in the last degree a dull,
smoky, dreary town. I had heard it associated
with another place whose name begins with H
and ends with two l's. But I found that Hull
had been much belied and shamefully traduced.
The Humber, if it were not normally of the
colour of pea-soup, is as fine a river as any in
the kingdom. As to the town, I prefer it to
Leeds. The bricks are of a better colour, the
streets are busy and bustling, and the surrounding
country is really charming. Hull has a
statue, a marvellous statue. It is situated in
the market-street, in the midst of oyster-stalls