which jump by the simple aid of cobbler's wax!
A right clever old lady was that who, left a
widow with three children and without a penny,
made her living out of a tumbler which she lent
to thirsty wayfarers who frequented the icy pool
near her gate. Fame and plentiful legs of
mutton have been cooked by a persevering artist
before now out of the melodious Jew's-harp.
Body and soul have been kept together, in more
than one man, by the vigorous collection of
cigar ends. The first Thames mudlark was an
ingenious young rascal, in his way. Thousands
of substantial legs of mutton lie in London
gutters. Careful fingers pick up the orange-peel
that lies about Primrose Hill on Monday
mornings, and by the help of apple-sauce this
same peel makes much of that delectable Dundee
marmalade recommended by the faculty. A
sombre genius was that which said to its angry
stomach, "Lay out the dead and eat!"

Our mind runs in this direction before the
master in the art of turning to the purposes of
life the riches of the gutter and the dust-bin,
who had passed us in the orange-box. We had
trudged some miles over breezy downs to meet
him. As we turned the brow of a hill, deafening
barks from some thirty dogs startled us.
Down in the hollow before us, some sharp white
rocks shelved abruptly from the fields, and,
arranged like an advanced guard around the rock,
protecting masses of indescribable rubbish it
appeared to us, were our canine foes, dancing in
the madness of their anger. Still we advanced,
the barking growing fiercer as we neared the
curs. The deep, hoarse note of the Newfoundland
was relieved by the shrill pipes of the very
wiiy terrier. Strange barks, too, from very
strange dogs with irresponsible tails, joined
chorus. We were reminded of a friend's
description of a convivial party at the height of
their festivity, when every man sang the words
he knew best to the air he knew best, and all at
once. A field of early peas, and a velvety meadow
specked with frolicsome lambs beyond
(suggestive combination upon a table-land!), lay
between us and the canine chorus, which fields,
treading gingerly, we crossed, the advanced
guard yelping louder and louder as we
audaciously approached.

Against the steep chalk cliff old Mac had
rested, slanting towards the road the shivered
timbers of ships he had probably found along
the shore, Ragged tarpaulin was matted over
the timbers. Under this airy roof Mac could
turn many an honest penny, as we shall
presently see. Mac had hollowed the rock, and in
the hollow—very like a bear-pit in little—Mac
could rear puppies. Another hole was proceeding
with, which, it was the opinion of Mac,
would make a tidy yard, by the help of an old
hurdle or two, where pigs might disport
themselves. Colossal mounds of old tin and iron
lay at either extremity of Mac's domain. Here
were coffee and tea-pots, spoutless and handleless;
saucepans that had been shamefully
allowed to burn; dust-shovels in every stage of
decay; coal-scuttles that could never have
come to this flattened and oxidised condition
had they been in good hands. Near the warm-red
mounds of superannuated kitchen utensils
(the vessels, which called to our saddened mind
the ghosts of "thirty thousand dinners") lay
lesser heaps of broken bottles—bottles cracked,
possibly, at jovial gatherings, where this
flattened fish-kettle at our feet did its duty to the
salmon. We can hear porkers grunting under
the ragged tarpaulin, young whelps whining in
the little chalk bear-pit. A donkey, tethered to
a long, low, greasy little cart adapted to the
conveyance of dead horses, is drawn up behind
the dogs. Indescribable lumps of flesh lie about
amid the confused rubbish, but all between the
dogs and the cliff.

Mac advances from behind his canine
advanced guard to meet us. Our greetings are so
much dumb-show; the dogs drown the words
with which we would introduce ourselves to
Mac. But we glance kindly at a little terrier,
the obstreperous tenant of a capsized butter-tub,
and our passport is clear to Mac's heart. A
strange little square man is Mac, with his copper
face and sharp black eyes, and his matted hair,
running direct from the crown over his forehead
(in clumps), under his ears and over his ears, in
clumps too. A voluminous red comforter
encompasses Mac's thick throat, whence a sharp,
firm curl, like a very small rhinoceros tusk,
points towards his chin. Mac wears a very
greasy, shining old steward's jacket, a bargain,
clearly. Then a leathern apron—but surely not
to protect those trousers!—completes Mac's
outer man. One moment: Mac has removed
something that, cursorily regarded, conveys the
decided impression that it is a long and somewhat
irregular lump of coke. But, as he takes
a red cotton handkerchief out of it (and which
filled it, leaving us to wonder how Mac
contrived to keep the coke upon his head), we
discovered that it was, in very truth, a hat; a thing
that (like all things belonging to Mac) had seen
infinitely better days, but might now dare destiny
to show it a more napless and disjointed old
age.

As a preparation—and a very necessary
preparation—for a gossip, Mac proceeded to cuff
the terrier, kick the pointer, throw a stone at
the bull-dog, and shout to the spaniel. But as
fast as he quieted one set of barkers, half a dozen,
unseen till that moment, would issue from under
an old boat, that, turned keel upwards, appeared
to be stuffed from stem to stern with every
known variety of man's faithful companion.
Every time we moved our arm or raised our
voice the chorus was renewed.

"It ain't everybody as likes to pass 'em when
I'm not by; things is pretty safe," said Mac,
resting his thumbs upon his hips, and glancing
proudly at the rusty tin and the chaos of glass.
It struck us in the first place that he would be a
very eccentric individual who should covet any
of these the worldly goods of Mac, and, in the
second place, that he would be a very lucky
individual who should pass the advanced guard
without feeling two very sharp canine teeth in