having stock in the market in the hands
of salesmen; a few drover lads; but, their
occupation having ceased with the tying
up of the cattle, and not recommencing
until, when, later in the day, sales had
become plentiful,—they were not numerous.
Those about were very quiet; with,
for the most part, pale faces, and an awake-
all-night look. Their singularly seedy, often
unctuous, caps contrasted with particularly
stout serviceable boots, a fact of
costume which proved that drovers are well
paid. A working man with good feet
coverings is generally well off. Each
drover carried a long stick, with a blunt
prong at one end, about an eighth of an
inch long; the length being, as the drovers
are, licensed by municipal market authority.
Whatever these drovers were under old
Smithfield education, careful observation enables
me to state that at present they do their
duty without any flesh damaging, banging or
prodding; * they are under the eye of the
butchers now, and such unprofitable cruelty
would not be permitted.

* See the first volume of Household Words, page one
hundred and twenty-one.

The general appearance of the Copenhagen
public is decidedly cold, uncomfortable, and
much needing the moustache movement—
with a full beard accompaniment, to cover
unshaven, half-shaven, or much gashed
cheeks and chins, operated on by the
candlelight of early winter mornings. The
leg-coverings of the market frequenters
are characteristic of their pursuits. Long
boots, leather leggings of various complexity,
worsted hose, gaiters, and primitive
fustian galligaskins, very equally divided the
honours of the field; while turned-up trousers
looked vastly uncomfortable. One luxurious
grazier-salesman, who wore a pair
of woollen-lined Crimean boots, with a
Crimean sheepskin jacket, and a Welsh wig
under his Jim-Crow hat, was taking his
breakfast according to the Copenhagen
fashion, al fresco, off a tray, supported on an
empty sheep-pen; the said breakfast consisting
of one tankard of hot tea, and another of
hot ale, a hissing rumpsteak, and a plate of
hot buttered rolls, brought from the Cattle
Market Tavern by a young waiter who had
very much the air of a butcher's apprentice.
I recommend those unfortunate gourmands
who cannot raise an appetite, to try a course
of Copenhagen market, beginning at six
o'clock on a frosty morning.

Next to the leg-coverings, the distinguishing
mark of the Copenhageners, from the
highest to the lowest, is a long thin ash
plant; a sort of wand of office, sold by
wandering merchants at one penny each, and
borne by every one, from the volunteer
eight-year-old assistant sheep-driver to the
Shropshire squire grazier, with his two
score of fat Herefords. With this wand,
stock are pointed out, tapped on their
primest joints in admiration, and on their
deficiencies in depreciation, turned from side
to side, and finally driven to slaughter.
Therefore, on entering the market, provide
yourself with an ash-stick; it will be your
passport everywhere if discreetly used. The
only other peripatetic trade of any moment
seems to be in penny pies, sold from a deal
box.

The important men of the market are
the salesmen, who fill the place of brokers
on the Stock Exchange and Mincing Lane.
They stand between and sell for the graziers
to the butchers on commission. The most
eminent reside in London, and confine
themselves to special departments; realising
incomes of thousands per annum. The
sheep salesman does not sell cattle, and the
cattle salesman does not sell sheep. Besides
the metropolitan salesmen, there are a certain
number of graziers, like my six-foot friend,
Tom Ashstick, from the fat pasture counties,
who make it a business of coming up once a
week to sell their own and their neighbours'
stock during the six cold months of the year.

The cattle salesmen are, as a class, tall
powerful men; they had need be, for
theirs is a laborious calling; requiring
energy, a good temper, calm judgment,
decision, and a certain knack of ready repartee.
The distinguishing part of the costume of
a salesman is an apron, of mackintosh with
the swells; or blue serge, much needed to
protect him from the dirt and grease while
placing his arms round the beasts, or handling
the sheep, to show their perfection. The
cattle salesman always carries the before-
mentioned ash-stick.

All preconceived notions of the noise and
riot of a cattle-market are upset at Copenhagen,
where one of the principal brokers has
—in style of face and figure, in the cut of his
inevitably greasy clothes, in his neat though
muddy boots, and his measured West-end
accent and subdued manner, while praising
a half-score of Scots—very much the idea
of a guardsman in disguise, selling cattle for
a wager. Nevertheless the greater number
of these gentlemen are known as Bob this
or Tom that; a fact which the observant
reader will know how to appreciate. The
most celebrated have a certain jolly independent
air, tempered by a dash of the capitalist.
They ride neat hacks when off duty, are to
be found with their families in season in
Brighton or Paris, and altogether occupy a
happy intermediate position between the slow
agriculturist and the fast gents of Capel
Court. They are obliged, in order to succeed,
to understand both beasts and men.

The business of Copenhagen market is
done with few words, a good deal of quiet
pantomine, and a total absence of those
shrieks and furious gesticulations without
which no Irishman, Welshman, or French
Celt can conclude a public bargain. For
instance, as I came up to my grazier friend,