not greater plague spots than they actually were, and that honest lives and Tinman affections flourished at all. In a poem, entitled Whisperings to the Unwashed, in the fiercely declamatory style of the Corn Law Rhymer, Thom draws a grim picture of the awakening of the weavers at the call of the town drum, used for that purpose in the smaller burghs, at six o'clock in the bleak and dark Northern mornings. Rubadub, rnbadub, row-dow-dow! Hark how he waukens the Weavers now; Who lie belaired in a dreamy steep-- A mental swither, 'tween death and sleep, Wi' hungry wame and hopeless heart, Their food no feeding, their sleep no rest; Arouse ye, ye sunken, unravel your rags, No coin in your coffers, no meal in your bags. Yet cart, barge, and wagon, with load after load, Creak, mockfully passing your breadless abode. The stately stalk of Ceres bears, But not for you the bursting ears. In vain to you the lark's lov'd note, For you no summer breezes float, Grim winter through your hovel pours-- Dull, dim, and breathless vapour yours. The nobler Spider weaves alone, And feels the little web his own, His home, his fortress, foul or fair, No factory whipper swaggers there. Should ruffian wasp or taunting fly Touch his lov'd lair, 't is touch and die! Supreme in rags, ye weave, in tears, The shining robe your murderer wears, Till worn at last to the very "waste," A hole to die in at the best; And, dead, the session saints begrudge ye The two-three deals in death to lodge ye, And grudge the grave, wherein to drop ye. And grudge the very muck to hap ye. All this bitterness had reason and fact to excuse it, and it is a wonder that such feelings, fermenting in strong minds, did not lead to more serious consequences than taproom talk and the formation of Chartist clubs.