1

of England, half the children die before they reach their fifth year! They die prematurely, poisoned by bad air. Diseases there are much more malignant in their forms, and fatal in their results, than in the better drained and ventilated districts. The moral condition of the population is also seriously deteriorated by foul air. It has been distinctly enough ascertained, that the vice and immorality of our large towns exist in their worst forms in the most impure districts. The depressing effects of breathing exhausted air influence the mind as well as the body. You see this in a crowded school, or in a crowded church; only, in the ill-ventilated homes of the poor, the influence is not temporary but protracted; and we see the result in many aggravated forms of vice, shame, and wretchedness. The lessons which may be drawn from the above brief exposition of the uses of THE AIR WE BREATHE, in the human economy, are not far to seek; and it will afford us a pleasure to point out to our readers, from time to time, their practical application.

JOHN ASHMORE OF BIRMINGHAM.

1849.

BY SILVERPEN.

"Well, as for that'ns Mary Giles, it ain't every body as pleasen every body, as my Ben's reading book say, and I dunna know how t be 'xactly, but I tooken to John ever sin' he give my Ben a lift i' th' shop. But them's a many Mrs. Fenton to be having to beer and poips, and sooper; and cost Caroline's folks and Tummus a deal I reckon."

66

Why, ye see," replies the showy mistress of the Cannock Arms, "they've been moighty civil at th' Bull, and lent two score o' knives and forks, and as many platters as needs be; and then Caroline's grandmother, as keeps general shop at Aston, give a ham, and leg o' mutton, and groceries, and Tummus's uncle, as be a butcher Ketley way, summet. But on course the young'uns i' th' folks 'll an to do th' rest; though the young chaps as be a coming from Manning's shop 'll not be short o' clubbing a gallon or two, if so bet be wanting, I dare say."

Thus satisfying the curiosity of her neighbours, Mrs. Fenton invites them in-doors to see her hospitable preparations, and of which she is not a little proud. This invitation is readily accepted, and leading the way along the newly washed boarded passage strewn with red sand, Mrs. Fenton pushes aside a door to the right, and enters a long, low ceiling room, down the entire centre of which runs a narrow deal table. On this several batches of clay pipes are placed, bunches of paper lights in little japanned trays, and at either end a multitude of drinking glasses, of such different shapes and sizes, as to show with great probability their not only having been borrowed at the Bull, but at other signs of more or less pretension.

"IT is on a far other basis (than that of dependence and pro-
tection) that the well-being and well-doing of the labouring people
must henceforth rest. The poor have come out of leading strings,
and cannot any longer be governed or treated like children. To
their own qualities must now be commended the care of their
destiny. Modern nations will have to learn the lesson, that the
well-being of a people must exist by means of the justice and self-
government of the individual citizens. The theory of dependence
attempts to dispense with the necessity of these qualities in the
dependent classes. But now, when even in position they are
becoming less and less dependent, and their minds less and less
acquiescent in the degree of dependence which remains, the virtues as
of independence are those which they stand in need of. These
virtues it is still in the power of governments, and of the higher
classes greatly to promote; and they can hardly do anything,
which does not by its own effects, or those of its example, either
assist or impede that object. But whatever advice, exhortation, or
guidance is held out to the labouring classes must henceforth be
tendered to them as equals, and accepted with their eyes open.
The prospect of the future depends on the degree in which they
can be made rational beings."-Mill's Political Economy,
vol. ii., p. 318.

"This is stylish loike, ba'int it," speaks Mrs. Fenton, she precedes her friends round the room, and points out severally to their notice the red and yellow cut paper flower-basket with which she has hidden the rust of the unbrushed grate, the gay painted waster jars which she has bought at the door this very morning for the decoration of the mantel-piece, the flaming tea-tray reared on a side-table, and above all, at the attempt she has made to adorn the two narrow windows, by scanty curtains of tawdry chintz; but ye see as how grandmother lived a sight o' years up at a Staffordshire hall, near Eccleshall, and seed how grand folks do'n these things."

"Well, for my part, Sally Fenton," says another looker-on, "if me'd bin Caroline, I'd made it a teamaking. A cup o' tea does a body such a sight o' good,

Round the doorway of the Cannock Arms, a smartly painted and newly built beer-shop, four or five women are lounging on a mild spring afternoon of this year. Most of these are mothers, or else nurse the children of such mothers as are employed in the button, pin, or other shops, for they have either babies in their arms, or else'specially holiday tea." are addressed occasionally by some little voice from out a crowd of very young children, who are playing on the other side of the way. As footsteps within the house approach, and come to the threshold, the most talkative gossip of the matronly party turns eagerly round, and addressing the showily dressed young woman, who has come to the door, asks some question, which is immediately responded to.

"Yes; the Yateses be coming to keep the wedding night, as soon as Caroline and Tummus be back from th grandmother at Aston. For ye see as how the oud folks are mighty fond on Caroline, and wish as how t' be a frolic loike; and as Tum Madeley's bin a asking a lot on th' young chaps out o' shop, and Caroline, Martha, and Betsey Wigley, and the Field's, as she know'd at Soonday school, and there be her father and mother, and Tummus's uncle in the bargain, there 'll just be a score on'em, without'en reck'ning my maister and me, and John Ashmore as is asked."

"Him," speaks the most slatternly woman, with a contemptuous shake of the head, "him's joined tee-total my maister thinks, and so wunna come thee may reckon, unless t'be to preachen Tummus a sarmond, o' some sort or t'other; though Tummus 'll take it koindly I reckon, for he's mighty fond o' John; and that'ns more nor my maister and me be, for we dunna loike them upperish sort o' folks."

"That would'n a do, at any rate, "replies the landlady of the Cannock Arms, somewhat quickly, "folks dunna get sperrit'ted on tea; and it ain't no profit to a public loike beer and poipes. Besid'n it be only Tummus and Caroline has an gotten day-leave; the rest canna be here till shop shuts. But here's a sooper as wun'na clem folks at any rate." So saying, Mrs. Fenton approaches a large old table set against the stencilledpatterned wall, and lifting up a coarse cloth, displays a large ham already boiled, a leg of mutton ready for the bakehouse, and placed over a great brown dishful of peeled potatoes, a loin of stuffed pork the same, the half of a Shropshire cheese, and several thick-crusted applepies, already baked.

"Well t'be noice loike, Sally Fenton," presently remarks one of the women, whose husband is a Willenhall nailer, but who, being out of work, has come to Birmingham to try for a job in a pin-shop; "but clemming days binna then as is when folks first getten married, it is when five or six young 'uns come, and not a bit more to feed 'em on than when there wunna more nor one."

"Well, well, there's up and down for all on us, I reckon," adds Mrs. Fenton, hastily, for she really does not relish any discussion as to the wisdom or economy of her customers; and now hinting that she has "a sight o' things to set straight in the back'us," dismisses her knot

of friends, not, however, before confiding to the charge of one of them a fresh message to Dawkins, the baker opposite, that "he'd better be coming for th' leg and t'other things, as they need a sight o' doing, and folks 'll be clemmed if supper be a minute later than the stroke o' nine."

old bowered Shottery garden some three centuries ago, by the sacred hand of him whose destiny it was to make their fragrance and their pretty tints eternal to the senses of a loving world, in the trim-shearing feast of dear Perdita, and selecting some few of the flowers, hands them to Mrs. Wigley, reserving the remainder, and carefully wrapping up their stalks in her pocket-handkerchief.

By the agency of these thus treated, and the children who are called from their play on purpose, the news has soon spread through the long narrow street and adjacent "But tell Bessy and Martha," says Tom, as he leads courts, that Thomas Madeley and Caroline Yates "as his young wife on and nods gaily, "that though John was," will be coming down the street presently to the mayn't say 'no' when me and Caroline asks him, pressing Cannock Arms, for the wedding supper is to be held loike, as that'n merry toimes dunna come often to poor there. Accordingly every door and window almost has folks, they munna reckon on him, for he bain't for people its watcher; and as soon as the different workshops begin marrying as us, before a getting a house o'stuff, or may to close for the night, and the operatives to flock home-be a bit o'money in savings bank. But there'll be ward, groups of men and young people are seen to cluster more on'em, and so they needn't be down loike." round the door-steps.

"No, no! where God sends mouths he sends meat;" and with this aphorism, which has helped to fill more workhouses and prisons with ruin and despair, than churches with hearers, or English acres with good citizens, Mrs. Wigley goes in-door, with the necklace, and the young pair proceed. Before they reach the Cannock Arms they turn into a street still narrower than the one they leave, and continue along it a little way, till Caroline stops suddenly before a very small huckster's shop.

"I canna read, Tum," she says, "but mother said John's new lodging was at a shop as this'ns, and the name Burnett, Leah Burnett; and there's a B and an L up yander, afore the house, I can see; Soonday school teach as much as that.”

At length, as the waning sun throws its last ruby tints of gorgeous light across the roofs of the smoke-discoloured houses, and here and there burnishes up a narrow casement or strip of window curtain, a youthful couple, arm in arm, and with dusty shoes, come down the street, stopping at almost every door-step or window, for many know them, and most have a kindly word for the girlish bride and boyish bridegroom. They are both so young, that if the husband is nineteen it is his utmost age, though he looks still more a stripling than even this, and the girl cannot be more than between sixteen and seventeen. There is such a visible air of lassitude and fatigue about the young girl, as to have made several already ask her and her husband "to step in and rest As Tom Madeley can read, and the name above the a bit," but without success. "The tea be in the pot," huckster's door is found to agree with Caroline's direction, says some, "and thee and Tummus be welcome;" and they enter and address a decent elderly widow, who, standothers, "Aston be a tidy step; come, come in, there being behind a narrow counter, is serving small quantities of plenty o'bread and cheese i'th' pantry; and Ned, as is in, shall get a pint;" but these invitations are refused, on the plea that it is getting late, and that they have yet to step and say a word to John Ashmore.

my

treacle, tea, and candles to several customers. Answering their question in the affirmative, she points to a door, the frame of which is highly adorned with nails holding balls of string, pounds of candles, scrubbing-brushes, and other miscellanies, and unlatching it, they find themselves in a rather large old-fashioned kitchen, which looks out by a window on one side the fire-place into a sort of yard, which, with some diligence, has been converted into a garden, full of scarlet-runners, nasturtions, and mignonette. All within is scrupulously clean, and tea is set ready on a small round table placed near this window, and close to a somewhat larger one, covered with green baize, at which a gaunt elderly woman sits making bracers.

"Dunna let him gi'thee a sarmond an hour long, though," says a matronly woman, of rather decent appearance, who stands on the step of a cleanly doorway, sewing a clasp on to a little coral necklace, "for Martha and Betsey are a dressing already, and thinking a lot on the night you may be sure, as nothing 'uld do, but the green muslins as Sally Coxly made wi' th' flounces, and there I've bin a starching and ironing the full blessed morning. But it cheers a mother's heart to see her lasses look tidy, and Martha and Betsey ain't so bad, neither, when their best things be on, though "Well, John," says Thomas and Caroline, in a breath, I says it as shouldn't. But you'll be a bringing John" we hanna forgotten old friends, ye see." wunna ye? For he's a tidy'un, and a bit o' favourite saying with hearty good nature, they greet a decent lookwi' my lasses." ing young fellow who, entering from a little back kitchen, shows by his fresh-brushed clothes and shoes, and clean hands and face, what his first business has been on coming from work. He comes towards the table, sets Caroline in the dame's arm-chair, and asks about the wedding.

Cary and me would liken him to coome," says Tom, lifting up still higher on his arm the little white silk gloved hand which rests there, "but I dunna think as how we shall getten him to Fenton's, as when me and Cary told him about the banns at Aston, and how as we had fixed to-day, and would'na set it aside, he said as how we'd better ha'n the frolic at Cary's folks, and only ha'n tea, as saving a lot o'money."

"

Tea," exclaims the little wife, with somewhat of contempt, "as if folks thought'n o' that, or mother's house hold all that be a coming. No! sort o' days o' this 'ns dunna come but once, and that'ns the reason folks should make the merriest on't. But John mean it well, I take it, though it be time 'nough to carry 'numbrella when t'rain. Now, Mrs. Wigley tell Bessy and Martha we shanna be long; and if so be, they'll 'xcept'em, here's a bit o'old man and gil'flower out o'grandmother's garden, and she be mighty known for them sort o'things, to stick for a posy i'their bosoms as grand folks do up o' Lunnun, as Sally Coxly's pattern-book showed me t'other day." As she speaks, the young wife takes from her husband's hand a very fragrant and large old-fashioned posy, just such a one as we can fancy gathered in that

And so

Why Cary cried a bit," says Tom, as he looks at his little wife with pleasure; " and so did some on th' folks, but it was gotten over toidy loike, and grandmother giv' a bit o' dinner, and some on her old damson-wine after, and then wi' seeing a few folks, and gathering Cary a bit o' posy, we coome home as ye see, and hope as you won't forgetten us to-night. Weddings dunna coome any day, John, an ye be an old friend as mother loiked, poor soul, and that 'ns make me stick by thee, though 'afore me o' late in sich a sight o' things."

"It is not that I am against your's and Caroline's wedding," replies John, "that I said 'no' when you came to our shop yesterday. Don't think that, Tom Madeley, for I have a right to wish well to you and yours, for your mother gave me many a helping meal, when master, at Willenhall, would have clemmed me ye see; but you and Cary be over young, and there 'll be little mouths to feed before you reckon on." Cary struggies to hide her

ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.

overwhelming blushes with her now ungloved hands, but Tom meets the thing more boldly.

"Why here John ye be clean again Scriptur; for in'na there a part 'n as say summet about little 'uns being blessed things, 'specially when a lot on 'em coome; and did'na parson say this very day, Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine upon the walls o' thy house; and thy children, like the olive branches, round about thy table.' Parson said this 'n, did 'na he, Cary?" The young wife makes no answer, though the mantling blood does through her little fingers.

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Ay," replies John, who crossing the kitchen as he answers, taps against the glass panes of the door which opens into the shop, and then returning, adds two other cups and saucers to those already on the tidy tea-board; "when folks have lived long enough to work for such means as will give good clothes and food in plenty to the little ones their will gives life to, so as they may really be olive branches round a well-spread table, and not bits o' sad clemmed things, as I was, only brought into this world to suffer and to work. Scripture then, I think, may be made a sign and text, to such as may like, but not till then; and you see you and Caroline (as I should like to see prosperous and comfortable) have not lived long enough for that. But you'll have a cup of tea, the kettle boils, and I hear Mrs. Burnett coming."

Cary may, if she likes," says Tom, pushing aside the cup hospitably set out for him; "but the Fentous have a new broach, and I can get a pint 'afore t'others, as I need'n, for ye see thy talk put me down loike, and makes me be thinking, John Ashmore, if this be all ye getten from Mr. Taverner's lectures to his shop folks, and thy own reading and striving to larn why, a young fellow best be out'n it, as it dunna do to be down in spa'rit in this world; for troubles coome sharp 'nough on working folks, without 'n fancy; and me and Cary 'an got work 'nough in shop to keep the little 'uns as poor folks' are when they do come."

At this instant the widow comes in, and finding that one of Ashmore's visitors will take tea, goes back to the shop, and returns with a small measure of green tea, a new loaf, a quarter of a pound of fresh butter, and some lump sugar, as it is evident that her own, the sempstress's, and John Ashmore's meal is taken too frugally for holiday visitors. She comes back, kindly makes the tea, helps the bride, and carries round to the other table the sempstress's meal, who has never moved or spoken the whole time, but, even whilst she takes her tea, continues her work. At this Cary looks inquiringly. Jenny Tabb is very deaf," says the widow, answering the tacit inquiry, "and don't hear unless you speak But she's a good soul, and mighty taken very close.

with John."

"But," continues Ashmore, still pursuing his conversation with Madeley, "precisely for the reason that I wish your little ones to be better off than those of many working people, I wish you and Cary were a bit older, Tom, and that's what I said when you told me the banns were up at Aston. Little ones come so fast, and it's hard for young mothers to be at shop then."

"We must take the chance on 't," replies Cary, answering for Tom, "and thought it best to get married than do worse, as young shop folks do; and we've gotten a tidy furnished room at Hodgkins, as we go home to tonight, for we ain't gotten nowt to begin house wi', 'xcept it be grandmother's feather bed, two brass candlesticks, and the kettle I bought at Brummage's; but mother's tidyish things, and won't be short on lending."

"What's that, what's that?" asks the deaf woman of Mrs. Burnett, in the sharp querulous tone incident to deaf people. On her way to the shop where she is called, Leah goes round to Jenny's side and explains, that Caroline is a young bride, and is going into a furnished room."

"

"A bride, eh?" says the sempstress, laying down the

bracer at which she is working on her knee, "what
another, and another, and another to the old story; the
cart before the horse, a house without a foundation."
"work too in'na
This is said so parenthetically, that though Cary is a
little discountenanced, she continues,
slack, John, for they rais'n me to seven shillings last
week, and Tum's be twelve, so we shall be sav'n loike
a bit, as wedding 'll cost us a deal, spite o' grandmother,
What do thee pay?"
and the old folk's help. But ye got a noice toidy placo
on this, John Ashmore.

"Four shillings a week," replies John, not at all
offended by this question, as he hospitably places the tea-
pot for the young matron to pour out the tea in the
absence of Mrs. Burnett.

"Mercy me, John," she exclaims, almost forgetting to smile at this tacit compliment to her new position, "why what a sight of money, why we sha'n only gi' th' Hodgkins two-and-sixpence, just what thee give at Blackburn's. Why, John, I thought thee too scrap'n loike (I see thee still keep to no sugar and little butter,) to spend sich a lot on rent."

"A cost one way to save more in another, without reckoning other things," speaks John. "One time the Blackburn's home seemed to my taste. I seemed to have no eye for its untidiness, and the squabbles going on between Mary and her husband. But since I've worked at brass-founding in Taverner's shop, and master been so special kind, I found it hard to go on with their way of living. Besides, Mary couldn't put a patch on, or sew a hole; and as for the waste of many a good bit of meat I brought home, it was dreadful, for Mary hardly knew a fry from a hash; and as for

"I'm sure I dunna," interrupts Caroline, with a merry "and laugh, for John Ashmore's holiday tea has revived her, and her comeliness is a sweet thing, as she glances every minute at Tom, who sits watching her intently, couldn'a make a seed-cake or a thing o' that sort if t'was ever so; girls in'na taught, and shop spoils 'em, and dunna giv' time to know much about house-ways. As for Tum, when he wants a patch i' th' trowsers or coa'te, he mun get Bobbins to do't and pay."

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Besides, it's being a decent sort of place as you see," continues Ashmore, for he likes Cary, and thinks her good-tempered; "Leah Burnett can roast or stew a bit of meat like a duke's cook; and it's something to a young fellow hungry from shop to have a bit of good warm dinner to sit down to, and a quiet hearth. Ay Cary, I hope Tom may never know it, but it's bad dinners and dirty brawling firesides which fill places liko But I hope you'll come some Fenton's with customers. Sunday soon, and take tea with me and Mrs. Burnett." "Thank'ye," answers Tom and Caroline in a breath, "for Sunday's dull loike. But wunna ye come, John, to the Cannock Arms for an hour? We'll take it friendly on ye, and the supper be holiday fare baked at Dawkins'; and ye can go afore Tims coome in with his fiddle, or the bacca smoke too thick for thee?"

Cary having finished her tea, has now risen, and John Ashmore rises too, and takes both hers and Tom's hand, in a way which brings tears into the young husband's "Please forgive my coming; but I dont like eyes. smoke and drink; and more than that, some of the folks you've been forced to ask out of Manning's shop. So don't take it unkindly, Tom, nor think that I do it to get off a share of the reckoning, as I hope to show. But I've got some things to do; though the very first holiday you like we'll have a day together, a bit in the country, and be happy in a quiet way. Now God bless you both; and a happy married life, not taking what I've said unkindly, only as a wish that you were older, for our class needs in this new time many things, which must grow out of their own doing."

"What's that, what's that?" asks Jenny.

"I'm repeating the lesson you teach, Jenny, that our class should do many things it doesn't."