Sheffield, and York. Formerly there were offices at Bristol, Coventry, Lincoln, Norwich, and Salisbury.

to

Of the condition of the workpeople in the brass trades, Mr. Aitken speaks favourably on the whole. He says that Hutton's remark, made in 1780, about the master knowing his way to affluence, and the servant to liquor, is still true as regards the first part of the assertion, but only exceptionally so as to the last. The brassfounders are, as a body, not inferior in sobriety any other class of workmen; they are prudent and careful; many of them have obtained houses of their own by the help of building societies, and not a few have accumulated money. Their dwellings have frequently trim gardens attached, and habits of prudence are encouraged by their factory clubs and sick societies. Where irregularities exist, they are chiefly the result of intemperate habits. On the other side of the account, however, it must be admitted that pulmonary diseases, caused by dust evolved in filing or in moulding brass, or by the fumes of melted zinc, are common amongst the brassfounders. Brass casters are almost unanimously confessed by all observers to be short-lived, although, if more care were taken to secure good ventilation, and to place casting-shops apart, with high roofs and skylights, and nothing above them, much of this might be avoided. As it is, few of the casters past middle life are entirely free from difficulty of breathing, with more or less cough and expectoration; though, as Dr. Greenhow remarks, the large quantity of beer consumed may materially aid the development of the asthma-like form of the disease.' Cases of brass finishers living to the age of sixty are quite exceptional! In one department,-acid finishing,-it is confidently asserted that there are not any dippers, who, practising the operation from their youth, reach that age. To add to the mischief, women are employed in the brass trade; and of these, not only the single, but the married as well. The result is as might be expected. As soon as each confinement is over, the mother goes to the manufactory, and leaves her miserable infant to be fed on artificial food, usually by a child. The natural consequence of this treatment of the child is that it becomes ill, however healthy at birth; it dwindles soon and fast, becomes restless and fractious, is quieted by opiates; nervous disease is thus engendered, and in the majority of cases early death ensues. The population of Birmingham, including Aston, at the census of 1861, amounted to 290,076, and the infantile deaths within the ten years between 1851 and 1861 were 34,517, or nearly one-ninth of the population! Here is infanticide by wholesale, however unintentional. And of the children who survive, what is the history? Badly nourished,

nourished, feeble in constitution from this cause, and from the use of sleeping drugs, uncared for in infancy, uneducated in childhood, they find their way at six or seven years of age into the factories, to act there as male and female helpers; at an early age they become feeble parents of a still feebler offspring; and thus a race of dwindled muscle and dwarfish stature, with an unduly sensitive nervous system and diminished powers of endurance, is being substituted for the stalwart type of original country-born and well-nourished English workman. The exclusion of married women from all employment away from their homes is absolutely demanded by every consideration for the future of this country; and we are glad to find Mr. Aitken devoting much attention, in his sketch of the brass trades, to this momentous necessity.

ART. VI.-LITTLE DEAD MARY; OR, THE CHILD VICTIM.

BOUT two miles from the place in which I write, there stands a pretty little church, with its broad tower embosomed in trees. It is built on the side of a short, steep hill, and is conspicuous all around, from windows of neat villas, and footpaths across grassy meadows, and from the road to a naval hospital in its rear. In the spring, the tender green of the budding foliage, and the sweet music of bird-voices, contrast with the sober grey of the stone walls; in 'leafy June' it is half hidden by the trees, and in autumn and winter it repeats nature's lesson in its little churchyard, for the falling leaves are strewn on the last resting places of the dead.

The picturesque, secluded church of Greybridge has attained a somewhat curious celebrity as the "Gretna Green " of this lovely southern county. Here, at unheard-of hours, runaway marriages have taken place between adventurous sailors and pretty girls; under those trees, in the early morning light, have walked towards the altar young couples whose parents and guardians thought them still asleep in their beds; and deeply interesting scenes in the romance of real life have been enacted while quiet, orderly people were snoring. It was not a ceremony of such furtive kind that was being proceeded with in this spot at the time when our narrative opens, about five years ago, though a glance at the almost childlike face of the bride might well have led to such a conclusion. Susan Johnston was surrounded by mother and father, and brothers and sisters, the eldest of whom, and the Vol. 9.-No. 36.

Y

only

only one older than herself, had not attained his eighteenth year. And Frank Bertrand, the good-tempered boatswain of Her Majesty's ship Terrier, now lying at anchor in the blue ocean beyond Greybridge, thought himself a lucky man indeed to have gained that sweet young girl for his wife. Susan was very pretty, and she knew it extremely well. Her full, red lips pouted not unfrequently when Frank demanded some favour, and her bright blue eyes turned away from his in peevish disdain; and her little head shook daintily and disdainfully whenever Susan had a mind to be displeased. But Frank admired her all the more for every one of these sillinesses. He was over head and ears in love with the child, and it would have been of little use to try to reason him out of his feelings. Assuredly the boatswain would have been wiser to have put off the marriage; wiser not to marry the beauty of sixteen till he had tested her heart more than could be done in a three months' acquaintance; wiser to have made quite sure that the immature woman's nature within her would, by-and-by, be all centred on himself with rich and deep affection.

Frank had captivated Susan by his praise of her good looks, the finery with which he delighted to adorn her, and the easy, luxurious life he promised her. Before her marriage she had been helping her mother to take care of the children, and cows, and poultry, in a small farmhouse several miles away,an uncongenial employment to the wilful child. And when Frank Bertrand had been brought to the farm by a sailorcousin of the Johnstons, and had fallen in love with Susan at first sight, as impulsive sailors are apt to do, she had accepted him joyfully, and overruled all her parents' objections as to age with the remark that Frank's old head would do for both of them.' Frank Bertrand was thirty, and her parents unwisely thought their pretty daughter might be right. At all events, it seemed a comfortable match for the girl, and they gave their consent. After three or four months' courtship, the bridegroom elect pressed hard for the wedding day to be fixed. He had just returned from a long voyage when he first visited the farm, but now he was promoted, and stationed at home, for some months, on the admiral's ship. He might not have such a chance of settling Susan comfortably and remaining with her for a long time; and as Susan was perfectly willing and longing to be mistress of herself, her parents again agreed. Frank intended to have been married at the country village near the farm, but Susan and her mother were extremely anxious for a town wedding, and accordingly came up to Greybridge in the miller's wagon, and took lodgings for a fortnight, that the girl might be married in style. Their own

quiet town could never have supplied the blue silk dress that rivalled the bride's eyes in brilliancy, nor the white mantle trimmed with lace, nor the wedding veil, depending from the artistic bonnet. And Frank was duly dazzled and pleased, and put the ring on Susie's plump finger with many admiring glances at his bride and her costume; and kissed her afterwards before all with a consciousness, for the first time in his heart, how old and worn he must look with his dark, sun-dyed skin, beside her fair sweetness and bloom. They walked down through the church, and up the avenue of trees to the churchyard gate, where the carriages stood waiting; and the sweet, soft, sad bells of Greybridge pealed musically out the while upon the sunny air.

For the first year of their married life Frank Bertrand made up his mind that he was extremely happy, and Susan generally thought so too, though she caused her husband a good deal of trouble by her waywardness. But when at the end of that time she presented him with a fine little girl, Frank's joy was unbounded. He strove to devise new plans for her amusement; he loaded her and the child with every gift that his purse would allow him to buy, and spent each moment of his spare time in looking at a living picture, that was indeed very pretty, and of which he was never tired. Susan and the little, blue-eyed laughing daughter in her arms, were Frank's idols, and he cared not for the laughter of his shipmates, when they begged for an hour of his company, but told them plainly, 'let them laugh that win,' and hurried home to his darlings. It was so funny to see baby Mary's fat, dimpled hands outspread to come to him, and it was so pretty to watch the smile playing around the child-mother's lips as she playfully scolded him for tarrying so long.

A dreadful ending to all this happiness arrived one day. A man-of-war had come into port and been paid off, and Frank had been talking to some of the men, and congratulating them on their arrival ; but when he reached his own ship, he found that he himself was appointed to another vessel just put into commission, under the command of the same admiral with whom he had been so long, and who had conceived a strong regard for the steady boatswain. Poor Frank! The compliment was a sorry one to him. He choked down the sobs that would rise in his throat, and longed to get away to comfort himself in poor little Susan's love for him, though he knew it would almost break her heart. And little baby Mary, too;-how could he leave the innocent darling, and not see her again for three years at least ? And not be near to hear her baby lips first utter his name? The hours went wearily by, and

and then he rushed home to the quiet street, and to the tidy rooms he called home, with an aching head and bursting heart. Susan was out with little Mary, but she presently came in with the jug of supper beer in her hand, and he kissed her passionately as she entered.

'Why, whatever's the matter, Frank?'

I dare not tell you, my darling.'

'Not tell me?' Susan pouted. Whatever do you know that you won't tell me?'

'I will then, Susan; I am going away, dear. The admiral has chosen me as his boatswain again on board a larger ship, and we are going to the West Indies. We shall be off in six

weeks.'

Frank could restrain himself no longer, and he sat down and laid his head between his hands on the table, while the big tears ran through his fingers. Susan's grief was not so great as the poor fellow had thought it would be, and he did not know whether to be glad on her account, or sorry on his own. The latter feeling triumphed. Human love is selfish, and it demands increase, not decrease, in affection. Of course she cried, but more like a child that is disappointed of a trifle than a wife who has to part for three weary years from a tender husband, the beloved father of her child. It is always a miserable thing for a husband and wife when the heart of one of them is disproportionately large in comparison to that of the other! Frank Bertrand felt this now, and felt it bitterly.

'It is a vexing thing, Frank,' sobbed Susan; but then you know you always said you would have to go some time. But where shall you leave me? Isn't it lonesome in this quiet place? I would rather go and lodge in a room at the Anchor; there's more life there.'

'What on earth do you know, Susie, about the life at the Anchor?' exclaimed Frank, almost angrily, with all the horror of a sober man, who lives amongst rollicking companions, and knows their characters.

Why, Frank, you needn't speak so sharp, and going away, too,' said Susan, petulantly: 'I don't know anything wrong, only when I go to fetch the beer for supper it always seems bright and pleasant in there, and I know they let out rooms.'

Frank's tone was very gentle as he replied, 'Yes, my dear, so do I, but I must get you to promise me not to go to any of those houses to live. Come here, Susan.'

Susan had lain little Mary, who had fallen asleep, in her cradle, and came to her husband's side. He drew her on to his knee, and said solemnly, 'I shall never be happy when I am hundreds of miles away from you, my darling, unless you keep