IRMINGHAM is indeed a remarkable place, in the midst of remarkable and interesting scenery-so close to other counties that an hour's walk will carry you into the lovely and luxuriant Worcestershire, or the densely populated Staffordshire, interesting alike from its amazing mineral resources, and for its industrious, patient, ill-paid people.

A mile from our busy town, and we come upon the road to Hales Owen (or Yell's, as it is called by the natives) and in view of the loveliest valley in the world, albeit they are many: as far as the charmed eye can reach, are soft, swelling, green hills, quiet shady lanes, little valleys with the bright sparkling waters of a canal glancing now and then in a blink of sunshine, village spires peeping up from groves of trees, while here and there the curling smoke arises from farm houses so remote, and so secluded, that wandering only a hundred yards from the turnpike road, we can scarcely fancy ourselves in busy England; the startled hare and rabbit dart across our path, the wood-pigeon cooes in the tall trees, while, in the back-ground, giving an exquisite finish to the scene, arise the blue-tinted hills of the Lickey, Clent, and Malvern.

Here Shenstone wrote-here he lived-for here are his far-famed Leasowes, a perfect garden of beautywith every diversity of landscape stretched out to the

admiring eye: in this soft and lovely climate people live, too, to a good old age; and (for there is a reverse to this picture) here, people-too many, alas-live until life is a burden, for here, in the midst of God's bounty and loveliness, stalks the curse of poverty-the whole population of this beauteous region being, without distinction of sex, nailers, a name at once descriptive of all poverty and wretchedness. Everywhere cottages and mud hovels meet the eye in the most picturesque situations, built up of such incongruous materials, and in such dilapidation, as would rejoice the heart of a painter-but to plain prose, appear neither more nor less than utter distress and poverty.

To each of these cottages or hovels is attached a shed for the forge; and here may be seen the maid, the matron, the young, the old, the strong and the weak, working from early dawn till long after "dewy eve,'

perhaps not able to sell their day's work at any price; perhaps, next day, wandering with a bagful to our town, begging at every shop door that we would buy them, or in the majority of cases receiving from fourpence halfpenny to sixpence for their long day's work.

This state of existence, for it cannot be called living, precludes instruction,-that blessing being confined to the inhabitants of this "happy valley" while children; they are, while children, taught at Sunday schools imperfectly to read and write, but there their education

ceases-for from the time that they have strength enough to hold a hammer, their doom is fixed. Many a slight and graceful girl have I seen wielding a hammer, who would have much better become the benches of a day-school, both from her tender age and delicate form, clad in a coarse woollen petticoat, a rough handkerchief covering her bosom as protection from the sparks of red-hot iron, and sufficiently disclosing her stays and shift-sleeves. The only little display of feminine vanity attempted, is in the arrangement of her hair: no time to spare for curling and braiding, she is a gainer in appearance from her smooth unadorned tresses; and the poor nailer girl may be forgiven the bit of coquetry with which she keeps the door half shut to hide her poor attire, while she peeps out on hearing the sound of approaching wheels. Alas! poor girl, well she knows, despite her now graceful and flexible form, before she is thirty years old, she will be bent to the shape of the anvil at which she now works, singing with all the light-heartedness of youth.

She cannot extricate herself-for all the girls round her are nailers, or (until very lately) work in coal-pits. She cannot be a servant-for her hovel never required household work, and she knows nothing of it; while her talents as a cook have never been tested farther than potatoes and bacon. She has no alternative; she exists, and works on, as all the district do, until she becomes a crippled, starved and miserable object, living in the midst of beauty with the slightest appreciation of it, in the midst of plenty without partaking of it, and with no other notion of the power of God than that he is the inflicter of her present hard fate, which if she bears without murmuring, she may, by possibility, obtain some future reward.

And with all the boast of superior intellect, the men are the same ignorant, hardworking, helpless, starved objects as the women; from the constant habit of stooping over their work, they are not above half as tall at fifty as they were at twenty. In the close neighbourhood of some of the finest saline springs in the kingdom, they are dirty and neglectful of their persons. It may be urged in extenuation of this, that the baths being rented of Lord Dudley, a charge is made for admission by the tenant, which, of course, they are totally unable to pay; but, if a disposition were shown by the inhabitants to avail themselves of the boon, his lordship's liberality is too well known to doubt that every facility would be afforded even to the very poorest. Thus they vegetate on, with no instruction, no amusement, no relaxation, no luxury but tobacco, which is used by both sexes and all ages.

Sauntering along one of the lanes, I stopped at a well known smithy, and asked the girl if she had ever heard of Shenstone?

"The ould conjurer, he has made songs and verses, and put up seats under the trees for folks to sit and look at the fields !"

"I suppose you mean the same-do you ever walk through his Leasowes on a Sunday?"

"Not I. I bin so tired, and my arms aching so with my week's work, that I mostly lies abed Sundays, till toward night sometimes I goes to meetin'."

She picked up a short black pipe. I remarked, "I was sorry to see so young a girl smoke."

"Perhaps you'd smoke too, if you hadn't nothing else." God knows, perhaps I should.

"But I thought women's luxury was tea?"

Yes, when they can get it; hereabouts we drinks peppermint tea; real tea is dear, you know, and we earns no money scarce: I sometimes think I'd better hang myself than live to grow old."

"But I heard you were about to be married?"

Well, and it's time: he's but a rough sort of blade, and I dare say I shall have to work as hard then as now, but I shall perhaps get more to eat; for I don't mind telling you-and I'm sure it is no sin, like thieving any thing else-but he often catches hares and them things that swarm about here, and so he gets a little more than always nailing. Do you think it wicked?"

"I can't say I think it wicked; but he might be found out, you know."

Ah, so he might-well, we mun take our luck; we can't go on in this way."

A whole sermon on the sin of poaching would not make me believe it was a sin, if, like this poor girl, I never tasted animal food from one year's end to another.

How easy for wise men to make laws, and how easy for virtuous men to declaim upon the necessity of obeying those laws; but how frail a barrier are they, when hungry desperation stands arrayed against them!

The character of the scenery entirely changes on approaching the confines of South Staffordshire; and with it, also, change the occupation, habits, and manners of the people. Lanes, instead of being pleasant and shady, become mere ravines, as if in some convulsion of the earth the solid rock had been rent asunder; the land becomes broken into little abrupt round hollows, clearly indicating the nature of the subterranean operations going on all round; fields, though all hill and hollow, are exceedingly fruitful-the heat of the soil producing the best and most luxuriant crops; and though now advancing into a manufacturing district, all sounds and signs of bustle are shut out in the calm peacefulness of the scene, until mounting a short hill, or turning a sharp corner, unexpectedly appears one of those hives of human industry and skill for which the whole county is celebrated.

No longer do " hedge-rows green" divide the fields. and fence in the garden plots. Cinders piled one upon the other supply the place; not cinders such as we see in parlour grates-but huge masses of calcine from which the iron ore has been extracted. Instead of mud-built or thatched cottages, the sheds and outhouses are built up of this material, and often roofed with plates of iron; and when the chinks are well filled up, are certainly more comfortable, and are not unsightly to the eye. Here and there are small brick buildings something like beehives, to warn the heedless from approaching, for they indicate the mouth of an exhausted mine, and the earth is always treacherous even after many years.

Similar structures of a larger size are placed near the opening of every coal-pit for the accommodation of the miners; tram-roads intersect the ground in every direction; and in many places, steam issues from fissures and holes in the banks, so hot as to make it painful to hold the hand in it for a moment. Such is the difference in general appearance within four miles, -and in the inhabitants is as great a change. Instead of rude cottage buildings, the houses are decorated with staring colours; window-shutters are painted in the

strongest contrasts of blue and brickdust; iron scrollwork painted green serves for curtain, while a range of garden pots of the brightest red are generally placed on a shelf half way up the window.

Instead of the mild, low accent in which the nailers of the valley speak, the tone is loud and harsh, and the dialect scarcely to be understood except by long acquaintance with the county. I remember, when a child, being electrified by a smart slap on the shoulder, accompanied with "Ou'se na ate, wanch?" which being interpreted meant an hospitable inquiry, why I did not eat more.

"Maither," bawls a damsel from a house door to her mother in the fields opposite, "whae's ma feyther's porridge cup?"

"O'er anunst the steairs," shouts the matron in reply.

The use of nicknames is universal, and the droll applicability of many of them speaks much for the natural humour possessed by the natives, while their honesty is proverbial; so high is the tone of moral feeling (except in one small corner of this region, the limits of which are so clearly defined, that even marriages out of it are rare), that no attempt at palliation or extenuation of it is ever made.

How sorrowful to reflect that such a people should neither receive a fair reward for their labour, nor more instruction than they can gather while children at the Sunday schools!

Heavy indeed is the satire presented by South Staffordshire to that false philanthropy which sends teachers and aids of all kinds to distant lands-forgetting to look at home.

BRANCHING off from one of those wide, leading, evercrowded streets, which are aptly called the arteries of the metropolis, is a certain insignificant turning, which, not even boasting itself as a thoroughfare, is seldom remarked by the hurried pedestrian, unless he have business in one of the half dozen dull, dingy looking houses which rise on each side of the avenue. Yet at one corner, with windows embracing both sides of the house, is a certain shop, which may be called linendraper's, hosier's, glover's, or, if you will, an outfitting warehouse-so varied and crowded does the merchandize seem. Perhaps, however, my readers will better understand the description if I call it a ticketing shop. Yes, there are doubtless at this moment suspended the Brobdignag tickets, expressive of shillings, accompanied by microscopic pence; while ribbons, gloves, and other trifling wares, are placed temptingly forward, decorated with legible inky intimations of pence, which on a nearer inspection one finds incumbered with mystical figures, traced as it appears by an HH. pencil, and signifying three farthings. The shop door faces the great thoroughfare; the private door is in the narrow, unfrequented street. The latter is but little used; and on the step of it, on a certain day, last October, were seated two meanly clad women. Both were apparently in abject poverty-nay, they might be mendicants-for aught the passer-by could tell; yet if he paused a moment, and his eyes had the privilege of direct communication with his understanding, he would feel assured that they were very different beings. Companions, associates, they might be, and were, the strange fellow-labourers which adversity yokes together; but this was all.

The younger of the two, who looked about five and thirty years of age, and whose tattered apparel was black, was weeping bitterly, and rocking to and fro on the cold stone in her anguish. The countenance of the other seemed one that had been distorted by many

a violent passion; and, moreover, was not unused to the debasing influence of intemperance.

'Mary Morris," said the latter, addressing her companion, "I wonder you can be such a fool-to grieve about one of them rich people! Let them sicken, and die; what should we care? For my part, I like to see them suffer, and know they are miserable; it's a comfort, that it is.”

"Oh, Hannah, don't talk so," said the other, through her tears.

"But I shall talk so. Don't they grind us down to what we are? You say, it is the shopkeepers, and that the ladies know nothing about the price we get. I say, they ought to know."

"They don't think."

"But they ought to think."

“Well, Hannah, don't let us quarrel.”

"That is what you always say when you are crying and moping. Only yesterday, said I to myself, she's getting over Nancy's death; and though we may be next door to starving, we sha'n't have crying and wailing from morning to night."

Getting over Nancy's death! Oh, God, have mercy!" And the wretched, childless widow raised her thin hands and streaming eyes to Heaven.-"O God, have mercy!" she continued, "though unworthy am I to ask it."

Well," returned the other, "I think we had better go home-such a home as it is :-two chairs, and an empty cupboard; three sticks and a handful of cinders; two cups and a broken teapot; a kettle without a handle; two forks and one knife;—that's all, isn't it?"

"You forget the bed-her gift."

"Well, it was a bed which we were not used to, that made us oversleep ourselves, and so lose a day's work."

"Cruel!" murmured the widow-"because we were

five minutes beyond the hour. But does it not prove," she continued, in a firmer voice, " that the customers know nothing of the pay we get; because it must be to avoid our seeing them, that they give out the work before eight o'clock."

"If it had not been for our coming this afternoon to see if they'd advance us a shilling on next week's work," muttered the elder woman, "you'd never have known who bought the shawl-I am sure I wish you didn't."

"Oh, Hannah!" said the widow Morris, "be human-be what you were five years ago, when first I knew you, or, when long after that, you and I and my blessed child, first made one room our home." "Now, don't preach."

"I would rather ATONE."

Very different was the scene that might have been witnessed only half a dozen streets distant from that cold damp step, where the shivering women held their strange discourse. A party of three-father, mother, and daughter had just finished dinner; and though twilight was now fast deepening into night, they had not asked for candles, but were content with the cheering rays of a bright fire, which, as almost the first fire of the season, was doubly enjoyable. They were something better than a merry trio-they were a happy one; the clouds of adversity which for three years had darkened the world to them, had lately passed away, and now, with grateful hearts, made better and wiser, they basked once more in the sunshine of prosperity, and tasted its sweets, as those only who have known suffering can do. Mr. Greville was a merchant, who, from the unprincipled conduct of his partner, had been reduced, three years before, from affluence to a penniless condition. Yet he had had enough to pay all claimants, so that his honour was unscathed; and my sketch from life has nothing more to do with the struggles which followed, than to paint their effect upon character. Though there was little probability that he would ever again be a rich man, there was a rational prospect of ease and competence; and one of the invaluable lessons he and his family had learned, was to be more than content with such a lot. His domestic happiness, too, was complete; for Lucy, his only child, was about to wed one every way worthy of her, and who, having been tried by adversity, had not been found wanting.

"It certainly is very delightful," said Lucy, seating herself on a low stool, and leaning her head against her mother's knee, "quite a luxury, once again to have my long mornings to myself, to read, or work, or write, or, best of all, practise myself, instead of counting one, two, three, to dull children, and suffer the torture of wrong notes and faulty time. But all is for the best; I should never have felt it to be a luxury if I had not fagged as a music teacher in the manner I have done. So do not draw a long face, dear papa; I am a great deal wiser and better, and consequently happier, for all that has happened. Though, I suppose, I ought not to be happy to-day, for I have had my first quarrel with Edward."

"Not a very serious one, I think," said Mr. Greville, " or you would not smile about it."

"I hope not," replied the mother, anxiously, "for I always warned you to keep off the first quarrel." "Dear mamma," said Lucy, pressing her hand, "as if we could really quarrel! The truth is, now that

there is no actual necessity for it, Edward disapproves of my walking out by myself; and though I tried to make him understand the sure protection of a shabby dress and old-fashioned bonnet, he only answered, that he disapproved of them also. Now, though I have not quite given in, we have come to a compromise; I have promised never to go out alone, unless there be a real necessity for my doing so, and he has magnanimously left it to my own conscience to decide whether there be such a necessity or not."

"Edward is quite right, my child."

"Perhaps he is; but after having taught myself, and not easily, to feel independent, I seem to have lost my liberty. The worst of it is, this point of conscience is more binding than a fixed rule; for instance, I wished very much to go and see the poor widow Morris, this morning, but I could not prove to my conscience that the visit was one of necessity.'

"I want to know more about this poor woman," said Mrs. Greville. "I hope, my dear Lucy, you have not been wasting your time, and sympathy, and money, upon an impostor."

"Little have I had of the last to bestow, and my sympathy I could not withhold. That she is not one of those faultless heroines of humble life, which are found, I suspect, only in novels, I admit; and if we, dear mother, had never known trouble ourselves, I dare say my heart would have hardened against her, when I found out she was no such pattern of perfection."

"I can hardly fancy," said Mr. Greville, smiling, "that it is my Lucy, not three and twenty till Christmas, talking so like a philosopher."

"Better smile than frown, mio padre; and if you will promise not to call me blue, when I talk from my heart at home, I give you my word I will discourse glibly in society on the last new novel, the favourite dancer, the elegance of Louis Quatorze furniture, Berlin woolwork, and, when the Exhibitions open, of any or all the pictures to be found in the Catalogues."

66

Although you are no artist ?"

Certainly, for these are considered lady-like topics; and though I start, and almost shudder, at hearing the daring and opinionated manner in which the utterly ignorant and inexperienced talk of Art, without their seeming to guess at the subtle genius and tedious labour of the artist, I observe there is a by-law of society, which forbids a lady conversing on many much simpler matters, under the penalty of being called Blue.”

Pray what do you call simpler matters, my little enthusiast?"

"What you call me, papa, a little philosopher for talking about, but which seem to me simple truths, discoverable by almost involuntary observation and reflection. Not, I dare say, that I should ever have observed or thought, had I continued the rich merchant's daughter-or at least have not observed or thought of the same things. For instance, had I not twice a-week, all the spring and summer, left home at eight o'clock, I should not have met each morning the poor widow Morris, and so could not have observed how she grew thinner and thinner, and shabbier and shabbier; and so could not have thought, when I saw her (after missing her for a fortnight) in tattered black, and weeping bitterly, that she was in some sore affliction; and thus could never have spoken to her, and learned her history."

"I always thought her very wrong," said Mrs. Greville,"to suffer you to enter her wretched hovel, only one day after her child, having died of small-pox, had been taken from it."

"It was wrong, mamma," returned Lucy; " and when I discovered of what disease the child had died, though it was not till weeks afterwards, I told her frankly-almost severely-of her error. There was no denial-no defence on her part; but, for the first time, I perceived the marked difference between herself and the woman who shares her wretched room. No change passed over the face of the latter, unless indeed it were not a fancy of mine that she rather smiled than otherwise, as she bent over her work. On the contrary, poor Morris trembled and wept, as if some new feeling were awakened in her heart, or as if a ray of light had streamed upon her dark mind. Since then

Here Miss Greville was interrupted by a servant who entered, saying, "A poor woman, named Morris, begged leave to speak to her."

"How very strange!" cried Lucy,-"I never gave her our address."

"Let her come in," said Mr. Greville,-and in another minute the unhappy widow stood before them. Paler she was than ever, and either she was grown still thinner, and so looked taller; or it might be her tattered mourning hung each day closer and closer, or perhaps some innate consciousness of acting rightly made her figure more erect; and certainly she possessed a composure and dignity of manner which sensibly interested both Mr. and Mrs. Greville. Yet when she began to speak, composure seemed gone, for her words were scarcely articulate.

"Sit down," said Mrs. Greville kindly; "you are, I think, the person for whom my daughter feels very

much interested?" And while the lady spoke, her husband poured out a glass of wine for the now trembling widow. The word and act of kindness loosened the floodgates of her soul-tears came to her relief-and in a few moments she was able to tell her story with some degree of distinctness.

"You, my lady," said Mary Morris, addressing Lucy in the style which the very humble, to lady or no lady, usually adopt-"you have often listened to my complainings till the tears started to your bright eyes; and indeed-indeed-I would not risk calling them there again, were it not that what I have to tell concerns you."

وو

"What can be the matter? You alarm me," interrupted Mrs. Greville.

For

"Under Heaven the danger is over," continued the widow solemnly. "I sometimes wonder if I have done right in telling her a story of such misery and abject want as mine. Yet that is past—she has learnt how I sank from being a respectable servant, step by step, to the wretched, friendless creature I am. give me for saying friendless," she proceeded, turning again to Lucy, "I shall be so again, and feel as if I were already. My marriage ten years ago was against the advice of those who knew better than myself; and when I found out that my husband was worthless, a sort of shame kept me away from all my old associates. But human beings cannot live alone in a great city; and from shrinking from his acquaintances as at first I did, in time I grew to tolerate them. This was my great error. No wonder that when the hour of need came, my early and true friends were disinclined to aid me. They had lost faith in me; and though, thank Heaven, no one deep sin darkens my conscience, a host of circumstances in which I witnessed wrong in others, with scarcely an opposition on my part, crowd