l hunter,
but I have a loving ear for a sweet-toned church bell, and can think of
few belfries whose contents surpass St. Martin's, Birmingham. Although I
have not heard the "Bells of Shandon" immortalised by Father Prout, I
have, however, heard Great Tom of Lincoln. I have listened to the "bonny
Christ Church bells" of Oxford, and my ears have dwelt upon the sweet
jinglings of the Carrillion at Antwerp and in other Flemish cities. I
have also heard the dulcet chimings of many village church bells in
various parts of the land, and I have listened with undelight to the
unmusical tones of Big Ben of Westminster, but so far as mellow tone is
concerned, I rarely hear any ordinary church bells that are more dulcet
and harmonious than the bells of St. Martin's, Birmingham.

Few people heed their beauties I am afraid; indeed, some singularly
insensible residents and traders in the neighbourhood have been known to
protest against the charming chimings of the bells of St. Martin's.
Those, however, who want to hear the true musical quality and tone of
these bells must select a quiet time, as the Bull Ring is not a
particularly peaceful spot in the busy hours of day. Midnight is the
witching hour that should be chosen to listen to the music of St.
Martin's belfry. It may be a late and inconvenient hour for the
experiment, but it is worth it--if the bells still chime at that
"ghostly" hour.

I am afraid I have indulged in a somewhat extensive parenthesis, but my
pen has run away with me, and now it must come back to the old-fashioned
High Street shop where I lingered a few paragraphs back. The adjoining
premises to Mr. Pearsall's, on the east side, are also old and well in
years. They have been altered and provided with a modern "dickey"--I
should say, front--which rather hides their antiquity. There is,
however, still conspicuous a quaint and curious spout-head which bears
the date 1687, showing that these premises have more than passed their
bicentenary.

The only little old-date shop in the heart of Birmingham that, till
recently, rivalled the "silver-smithy" I have described in High Street,
was a saddler's at the top of New Street, which nestled under the shadow
of Christ Church. It had the old-style small bow windows, the low roof,
and the circumscribed area of old-fashioned shops. The ancient saddler
who formerly tenanted it had not enough space to crack a whip, let alone
swing a cat in. In past days, however, business was