mounts the stairs, and enters the apartment
with the deliberate air of a man who has
nothing whatever to do, but to walk
about in a beautifully brushed hat, a nicely-
fitting coat admirably buttoned, symmetrical
boots, and a stock of amazing satin; to
crush his gloves tightly between his hands,
and to call on his friends, to ask them
—as this gentleman asks our friend—how
he is getting on; and whether he has
been down " yonder " lately (a jerk eastward
of the glossy hat); and, if he hasn't,
whether he intends going down next Sunday,
because if he does, he (the visitor) means to
go too, and will take him down in his "trap."
He then, in a parenthetical, post-scriptum
sort of way, alludes to certain " assorted
Glacés," and indicates the pile of silks he
means by the merest motion of his ring finger.
"The figure is—- " says he.

"Two and seven," replies the vendor;
"How many pieces shall I put aside?"

"Well—fifty. By-the-bye, have you heard?"
—Mr. Broadelle (our friend) has not heard,
and the visitor proceeds to announce, from
unimpeachable authority, that the match between
Mr. Crumpley of Howell's, and Miss Lammy
of Swan's, is to come off at last: in fact, next
Thursday. Cordial " good bye; " graceful
elevation of the polished hat to myself; and
departure of, as Mr. Broadelle informs us, one
of his best customers.

"Customer?"

"Yes? You heard? He has just bought
fifty pieces of silk of various or ' assorted '
colours."

"At two shillings and seven-pence per
yard?"

"Just so. And there are eighty-four yards
in a piece."

Our organs of calculation are instantly
wound up, and set a-going. The result brought
out when these phrenological works have
run down, is, that this short, easy jaunty
gossip began and ended a transaction involving
the sum of five hundred and forty-two
pounds ten shillings. No haggling about
price; no puffing of quality, on one side, or
depreciation of it on the other. The silks are
not even looked at. How is this?

"Our trade," says our friend, in explanation,
"has been reduced to a system that
enables us to transact business with the fewest
possible words, and in the easiest possible
way. The gentleman who has just left, is
Messrs. Treacy and Mclntyre's silk-buyer.
That department of their establishment is
handed over to his management as
unrestrictedly and unreservedly as if the whole
concern were his own. In like manner, the
different branches of large houses—such
as cotton, woollen, hosiery, small wares, &c.
—are placed under the controul of similar
buyers. At the end of every half-year, an
account is taken of the stewardship of each
of these heads of department; and, if his
particular branch has not flourished—should the
stock on hand be large and unsaleable—the
Buyer is called to account, and his situation
jeopardised. The partners, of course, know
the capabilities and peculiarities of their trade,
and can tell, on investigation, how and why
the Buyer has been at fault. If, on the
contrary, the Buyer have narrowly watched the
public taste, and fed it successfully,—if he have
been vigilant in getting early possession of the
most attractive patterns, or in pouncing on
cheap markets, by taking advantage, for
instance, of the embarrassments of a "shaky"
manufacturer or a French revolution (for he
scours the country at home and abroad in all
directions), and if his department come out at
the six-monthly settlement with marked profit
—his salary is possibly raised. Should this
success be repeated, he is usually taken into
the firm as a partner."

"But, no judgment was exercised in the
bargain just made. The Buyer did not even
look at your goods."

"That is the result of previous study
and experience. It is the art that conceals
art. He need not examine the goods. He has
learned the characteristics of our dyes to a
shade, and the qualities of our fabrics to a
thread."

"Then, as to price. I suppose your friend
is lounging about, in various other Spitalfields
warehouses at this moment. Perhaps by this
time he has run his firm into debt for a few
thousand pounds more?"

"Very likely."

"Well; suppose a neighbour of yours were
to offer him the same sort of silks as those
he has just chosen here, for less money,
could he not—as no writing has passed
between you—be off his bargain with you?"

"Too late. The thing is done, and cannot be
undone," answers Mr. Broadelle, made a little
serious by the bare notion of such a breach
of faith. " Our bargain is as tight as if it
had been written on parchment and attested
by a dozen witnesses. His very existence as a
Buyer, and mine as a Manufacturer, depend
upon the scrupulous performance of the
contract. I shall send in the silks this afternoon.
And I feel as certain of a check for the cash,
at our periodical settlement, as I do of death
and quarter-day."

It is difficult to reconcile the immense
amount of capital which flows through such
a house as this—the rich stores of satins,
velvets, lutestrings, brocades, damasks, and
other silk textures, which Mr. Broadelle brings
to light from the quaint cupboards and drawers
—with the poignant and often-repeated cry of
poverty that proceeds from this quarter.

What says Mr. Broadelle to it? He says
this:

"Although most masters make this locality
their head-quarters, and employ the
neighbouring weavers, yet they nearly all have
factories in the provinces: chiefly in Lancashire.
The Spitalfields weaver of plain silks and
velvets, therefore, keeps up a hopeless contest