reached the enormous extent of nearly
fourteen hundred millions of yards, whilst their
declared value was twenty millions and a
half sterling. So that whilst in quantity the
exports had increased by two hundred per
cent., they had augmented in value not more
than fifty per cent.

Like many other crafts, the art of
cotton-weaving was brought from the East. In the
land of the Pharaohs, spinning and weaving
were arts well understood. Upon the Ninevite
marbles are to be seen representations of
weavers at their looms. In the earliest
records of Hindoo barbaric history, we may
trace the India weaver at his work; and
when, some centuries ago, the stores of
oriental lands were first laid open to the kingdoms
and people of the West, among those
things which were counted rare and valuable,
were calicoes, both plain and printed. As
years rolled on, and fleets sailed where
formerly a single merchantman had tempted
the dangers of the Eastern seas, cotton goods
from Indian made up a formidable total in our
Asiatic trade. But now, all this is changed.
Steam and iron have beaten the plodding
Hindoo from the field. The plain white calico,
the printed handkerchief, the rajah's
many-coloured scarf, the nabob's gorgeous rainbow
shawl, the sultana's head-dress, the gossamer
hangings for the Zenana, all are copied and
reproduced by Lancashire Witchcraft, and
sold at half the cost of their originals to
wondering Hindoos and astounded Mussulmen.

The rapid glance we have here taken at
our English witchcraft, is by far the most
pleasing side of the picture. If we lift the
outer cheerful veil which encircles all these
stirring things, we shall behold dark scenes
behind. It is not alone in Manchester that
the people who work in mills should be seen.
They have other and darker homes within
the hundred villages and towns that lie
scattered about the heart of Lancashire. There,
on a cold, raw, dark December morning,
hundreds and thousands of women, slipshod in
mind and body, may be dimly seen amidst
the murky gloom of fog and smoke, slinking
along toward the many factories where,
hard-worked though they be, they at least find
light and warmth. Many of them are
mothers; and these will be seen hurrying
with their tiny infants, to place them in the
hands of some old crone, who, for the merest
trifle, consents to allow them to lie beneath
her miserable roof until the usual evening
hour returns. There, huddled together like
lower animals, these poor infants sleep, and
cry, and fret away their wretched daily life.

The ordinary pay of weavers is ten or
twelve shillings a week, with occasionally
fifteen for particularly expert hands at certain
kinds of work. At spinning, men are more
commonly employed than women, and by the
aid of a boy they will not unusually earn
from one to two pounds a-week. But
unfortunately, save in exceptional cases, more
education and discretion are required amongst
this class; and ignorance and prejudice work
unknown miseries when following in the train
of poverty. In Manchester, and in one or two
other leading factory towns, very much has
been done in the right direction, by sanitary
regulations, by free libraries, and by cheap
and wholesome houses for the poor.
Employers have nobly shown that they
understand the duties not less than the rights of
captal, and men begin to feel that the best
workpeople are those who can employ their
heads not less than their hands. Still, in
many places, much remains to be done. And
it were well it were done quickly.

ANYBODY'S CHILD.

Anybody's child is a sad little being. You
find him playing at marbles in a London
alley. His feet are bare, his clothes are
ragged, his voice is hard and cracked, his
hair is matted down over his eyes, his hands are
thin and angular, his knees protrude through
his torn trousers, and those rags are kept on
by a piece of cord that passes over his left
shoulder. How keen are the eyes that leer
out at you from under that hair-thatched
brow! They read you off in a minute.
Anybody's child can tell, at a glance of those sharp
eyes, whether you have anything or nothing
in your pocket; whether your heart is hard
or soft; whether you are a parish officer or
a detective policeman. You may deceive
casual observers, but Anybody's child is not
to be done. Admitted.

He has no respect for you; if you freely
offer him money you are a flat; he has a
ready impertinence to throw at you should
you be harsh to him; he hates you if you
be either a parish officer or a detective.
If you be a philanthropist, he listens to you,
only to laugh at you. Anybody's child is
twelve years old, yet has he had great
experience of the world. He is skilled in every
artifice and ready to profit by any. Admitted.

Is it his cue to be penitent, to repent
thoroughly, to cry, and call himself an
abandoned wretch and a miserable sinner, to
declare that there is no good in him, that death
is the best possible thing that could happen
to him, to exhibit a knowledge of religious
observances—he will do all this, you know
he will. Admitted.

First, he cries, then he allows himself to
be soothed; then he describes the terrible
hardships he has suffered; then he strikes
up a psalm, which he sings very fairly.
This performance is well adapted to touch
the feelings and to influence the pockets
of the good ladies who go their rounds
courageously, about the worst byways of
London, doing what they conceive to be their
duty, quietly and firmly; distributing, with
real charity of heart—but often to unworthy
objects—money which they can ill spare.
Anybody's child knows these good ladies