an excited butcher asked the price of a pair
of Herefords out of a score under his
charge. Tom began by gently tapping one
beast, to make him stand apart, at the same
time saying, "Forty pounds." Then he went
through the pantomine of showing a "level
back," a "deep girth," pin bones well
covered, "round, even barrel," "mellow
touch." Butcher makes an offer in a whisper,
"Can't do it, Mr. Suet," replies Tom. Butcher
handles the beast himself in a depreciatory
style, walks away a few yards, and then
returns briskly, extending a remarkably red,
ruddy, greasy hand, like the claw of a huge
roc, crying, "Shake hands, Mister Ashstick,
on thirty-nine pounds." "Can't do it, Mr.
Suet." Suet throws up both hands in disgust,
and walks off, lingering and exclaiming,
"Well, Mr. A., to turn off an old customer
for a pound! Well! I'll tell every one you
are a gentleman—except to me!" "Very
sorry, Mr. Suet, but I'm a man of business,
and that pays better." So Suet, pathetically
deploring, departs; but, when I return in a
quarter of an hour he has bought—not two
but four bullocks, and is cheerfully engaged
in cutting his mark with a pair of scissors on
the beast's hair, while an assistant, with a
not too sharp knife, shaves off the flowing
honours of each tail, reducing them to rats,
and consigning the hair to a market bag
provided for the purpose.

The next step is the payment. No money
passes. The butcher, having ascertained
where the salesman banks, proceeds there,
and pays in the price agreed. In olden time,
those who are now bankers were called
"money takers." They merely received the
money from each butcher, counted it over to
see that the amount was correct, the gold and
notes genuine, and delivered it up in separate
packets at the end of the day to the salesman.
But, in the course of time, they have grown
into a sort of cattle brokers; transacting all
the business connected with the disposal of
the cattle, except the sale. For instance, the
farmers or graziers, who for six or nine months
of the year send up cattle and sheep every
week to the market, have a regular account
with one of the market bankers, although
they also employ a salesman for their beasts,
and another for their sheep. The grazier who
is despatching from—say, Norfolk, by rail, for
the Christmas market, a score of bullocks,
and five score sheep, writes a sort of letter
of advice, with an invoice to the salesman,
and, also, to the banker. The stock on arriving
at the London station, are received by
an agent of the salesman, called, technically,
an "upholder;" who, for a fee of so much per
head (sixpence for bullocks), sees them
properly driven and tied up in the market. On
the morning of the sale, the upholder waits
until each bargain is concluded. When a
butcher has purchased anything, he says,
"Where do you bank?" The salesman
answers, perhaps, "with Challis." The butcher
proceeds to Challis's bank, accompanied, or
followed by the upholder, and says, "I want to
pay for two Hereford bullocks bought from Bob
Moxon (the salesman). Eighty-two pounds."
The upholder having satisfied himself that
the money has been paid, permits the butcher
to cut his hieroglyphics on the beasts, to shave
the tufts from their tails, and to drive them
away.

In the evening, the salesman calls over
and checks his list and his sales for the day,
with one of the bank clerks; after which the
bankers make out the account of the salesman,
including every item of his sales, for,
perhaps, a dozen consignees, and the total of
his commission. Also a separate account
for each country customer, with the deductions
for commissions, market-fees, &c. This
is sent by post, generally the same night,
to the countryman, with either a cheque for the
balance due to him, or advice that the amount
has been paid in to the London agents of the
grazier's country bankers.

Thus, it will be seen that the bankers save
the salesmen almost all the trouble of accounts
and correspondence. In Scotland, banking
is extended to fairs of lean stock, and most
purchases are paid in cheques on banks; which
open peripatetic branches for the accommodation
of their agricultural customers.

The next stage of the beasts sold, is either
to the suburbs and villages round London,
under charge of the licensed drovers, or to
the slaughter-house attached to the market,
and thence to Newgate or Leadenhall or to
the slaughter-house of the butcher,

My morning concluded with a visit to one of
the market taverns, which I found crowded
with butcher lads and drovers, in the bar and
the tap; graziers and topping butchers
upstairs; below, chiefly beer and gin; above,
tea, coffee, and furious assaults on cold meat,
In one room a skin merchant sat, with bowls
of sovereigns, rolls of notes, and a huge
cheque book, before him; while three assistants,
in blue short smocks, were busy counting
some square yards of silver into heaps,
The skin merchant was accommodating those
of his butcher clients who had no banking
account, with gold, or notes, or cheques for
their heaps of silver. It was a droll contrast
to the bars and cages of a French money-
changer. The room, was not private, pipes
were smoked, pots were drained by strangers,
looking on at financial transactions that would
have astonished a French city.

In conclusion, I can only say, if any one,
alderman or other man, wants a proof of the
civilising influences of space, light, and order,
let him remember old Smithfield, and then
go and look at the Copenhagen Market.