standing over since he first started in business.
A shop-keeper in nearly any other
country in the world would, at the end of a
certain number of years, clear out his old
stock, and dispose of it as he best could to
make room for new wares. But not so
Number Forty-two; nor indeed any other
number in that bazaar. There lay the old-
fashioned cotton-prints, and silk waistcoat
pieces, and queer-looking ribbons of no colour
at all. Years have rolled past since they
first entered their present abode. The
merchant who imported them died of a liver
attack a dozen years since. They would not
sell in eighteen hundred and twenty, and
therefore are not very likely to move off in
eighteen hundred and fifty; but the same price
is affixed to them now as then, and the only
chance for their disposal appears to be by the
direct interposition of a fire or an earthquake.
Number Forty-two had doubtless heard that
wines are improved by age, and he may
possibly imagine that some mellowing and
enriching process goes on in a lapse of years
with regard to silks and cottons.

This class of Indian shop-keepers have
moreover a very confused and mystified
conception of the real value of some goods. They
can tell you to a trifle the worth of a dinner-
set, or of a dozen Dutch hoes, but in millinery
and other fancy articles they are often
fearfully mistaken. A Moorman buys what
is termed, in technical language, a " Chow-
chow" invoice — in other words, a mixed
assortment of hardware and soft-ware, of
eatables and wearables. He is told the lot is
valued at a hundred pounds sterling; he
offers eighty, and takes them at ninety. He
refers to the invoice on opening out the
goods, and gets on very well in pricing them
until he comes to such things as ribbons,
gloves, lace, &c.; which are the dear and
which the cheap he cannot possibly tell, and
he, therefore, tickets them at so much the
yard or the pair all round, as the case may
be. In this way I often pick up a glorious
bargain at Forty-two, buying kid-gloves for
eighteen-pence, for which in London I should
have to pay at least four shillings; and a
trifle of real Brussels lace for my wife at the
price of the very commonest Nottingham
article.

The fortunes of Forty-two were once
placed in the most imminent jeopardy from
a circumstance which happened in his shop
while I was there, and which became, at the
time, the food of all the hungry gossip-mongers
of the place. My friend had a Moorish
assistant remarkably active, but dissipated
and impertment. He was ugly beyond
measure, and when he grinned, which he
frequently would do in spite of strict injunctions
to the contrary, he distended a cavern of a
mouth that was perfectly repulsive. This
creature had become one day unusually
excited, and it appears in the fervour of his
jollity had laid a wager with a young neighbour

of kindred habits, that he would kiss
the first female customer who should set foot
within his master's shop on that morning, be
she fair or dark. I can imagine the horror
with which poor Forty-two beheld his grinning
deputy fulfil his engagement by saluting
the fair cheek of an English lady, and that
lady — as chance would have it — the wife of
one of the highest civil functionaries of the
place. The affair was hushed up as much
as it could be, but in the end it oozed out;
and people, so far from deserting Number
Forty-two, actually flocked to it to hear the
particulars of the affair. The offender was
dismissed; but not until he had imparted to
that particular shop a celebrity it had never
previously enjoyed.

There are other numbers besides Forty-
two which enjoy a considerable reputation,
all things considered, but they certainly lack
the fashionable repute of the aforesaid. For
instance, there is Number Forty-seven, a
remarkably well-conducted man, very steady,
very civil, and exceedingly punctual in
settling his accounts with the merchants, who
esteem him accordingly. This worthy Moorman
transacts business much on the same
principle as his neighbours, but unlike
Forty-two and one or two other active
numbers, he is given to indulge in certain
siestas during the heat of the day, which no
influx of customers can debar him from
enjoying. As the hour of high noon approaches,
he spreads his variegated mat upon the little,
dirty,ricketty, queer-looking couch, under the
banana tree in the back court-yard by the
side of the well, and there, under the pleasant
banana shade, he dozes off, fanned by
such truant breezes as have the courage to
venture within such a cooped-up, shut-in pit
of a yard, dreaming of customers, accounts,
and promissory-notes. During this slumber,
it is in vain for any one to attempt to coax
a yard of muslin, or a fish-kettle, out of
the inexorable Forty-seven. The somniferous
spell has descended upon his dwarfy
deputy; who, rather than wake his master,
would forfeit his chance of Paradise; and
he, no less drowsy himself, opens one eye
and his mouth only, to assure you that the
article you require is not to be found in their
shop. You insist that it is. You know
where to lay your hand upon it. The deputy
Forty-seven shakes his drowsy head in som
niferous unbelief. You seek it out from its
dusty, murky hiding-place, and produce it
before his unwilling face. He opens another
eye, smiles, nods to you, and is away again
far into the seventh heaven. There is no
help for it, but to appropriate the article and
pay for it on your next visit.

Number Forty-eight is a small bustling
variety of Moorman, making a vast show of
doing a large stroke of business; but, as far as
I could ever perceive, doing next to nothing.
He bought largely, paid as regularly as most
of other numbers, was constantly opening