When I was a young man in Lancashire the population of mill-hands was not in a state of “savage enmity” towards the rich, but its sentiments were not in the least deferential, and they were not friendly. We cannot call those sentiments friendly which express themselves in jibes and jeers. It is the simple truth that well-dressed ladies and gentlemen avoided meeting the hands when they came out of the factories to escape personal annoyance. They were not in bodily danger, but they were liable to be openly criticised by the lower classes, whose tongues were both sharp and merciless. The factory hands had unbounded natural impudence and a very aggressive disposition. Some of them had the gifts of wit, humour, and sarcasm, to which the Lancashire dialect is highly favourable; and it was their delight to exercise these gifts at the expense of any unfortunate gentleman or lady who fell in their way. A telling hit at the victim, whom nobody pitied, was hailed with shouts of satisfaction. A lady, who was a neighbour of ours in Lancashire, happened to be walking in a muddy street, so she lifted her skirts a little. This unluckily occurred near a group of factory girls, whose sharp eyes, of course, noticed the lady’s stockings, which were of some unbleached material. Thereupon one factory girl cried out, “Well, afore _Oi’d_ don stockin’s na better weshed nur them theere!”[78] and there was a general explosion of laughter, before which the lady was glad to drop the curtain of her skirts. Nor was this critical disposition confined to the factory operatives. I happened one day to be wearing a new topcoat, and was passing near some houses in course of erection. One of the masons shouted out from his ladder something very coarse and ill-natured about my topcoat; so I stopped to reason with him and said, “Why cannot you let my topcoat alone? I came by it honestly; it is paid for.” “_Paid for, is’t?_” he answered, with a sneer of ineffable contempt. “It woddn’t ’a bin if th’ ad ’ad t’ addle th’ brass.”[79] So I went away defeated, amidst the jeers of the other workmen. I may perhaps trouble the reader with an anecdote about another mason, in which there is more real hostility to wealth and refinement. When I was a boy, an old Lancashire mason was making an alteration in a room that was to be my bedroom. This involved the blocking-up of an old window; and instead of building the wall of the full thickness, the mason contented himself with a thin wall, leaving a recess. “I shall be glad of this recess,” I said, “it will do to put the washing-stand in.” The mention of such a luxury irritated the man’s democratic sentiments, and he swore at the washing-stand and at me with many a bitter oath, although he was working for my uncle, who too kindly employed him. [Sidenote: Sense of Equality in Lancashire.] [Sidenote: A Lancashire Salute.]