I now often visit Moseley, and change, but not decay, in all around I
see. The prevailing colour of the old village green is now red brick,
and the modern colour does not agree so well with my vision as the more
rustic tones of a bygone day; whilst the noise and bustle of tram cars,
the swarms of suburban residents that emerge from the railway station
(especially at certain times in the day), are fast wiping out the
peaceful, pretty Moseley of my youthful days.

These new old villages often present some curious anachronisms. A grey
old church, partly buried by a hoary fat churchyard, is surrounded by
the most modern of shops and stores; and a primitive little bow-windowed
cottage, with a few flower pots in the window, has, perchance, a glaring
gin shop next door. This is more or less the case at Moseley, and it is
pretty much the same at Handsworth.

I remember when old Handsworth Church stood surrounded by fields, and
now it is built up to with villas on nearly every side, and has a
neighbouring liquor vault instead of the old-fashioned inn such as often
keeps old parish churches in countenance and affords a place of refuge
and refreshment for rustic churchwardens, bell-ringers, parish clerks,
and the like.

Old Handsworth--how well I remember it--also Soho, and the remains of
the old mint, associated with the honoured names of Boulton and Watt.
Then there was that long straight stretch of road from the old pike at
the top of Soho Hill, along which were some large and important
residences, occupied by business men of Birmingham, who doubtless
regarded this Handsworth and Soho district as being quite out in the
country. The stretch of road to which I have just referred is now one
long street, or soon will be, reaching from the once Soho toll-gate to