And here I am reminded, as I write, that the philosophic Doctor Dalton was a regular bowler upon Tattersall's green, at Old Trafford.

These things, however, are all aside from the little matters which I wish to tell.
As we stood by the watering-trough, listening to the voices of the bowlers, and to the occasional ringing of bells mingled with a low buzz of merriment inside the house, there were many travellers went by.

They came, nearly all of them, from the Manchester side; sometimes three or four in company, and sometimes a lonely straggler.

Some of them had poor-looking little bundles in their hands; and, with a few exceptions, their dress, their weary gait, and dispirited looks led me to think that many of them were unemployed factory operatives, who had been wandering away to beg where they would not be known.

I have met so many shame-faced, melancholy people in that condition during the last few months, that, perhaps, I may have somewhat over judged the number of these that belongs to that class.