material for the greater part of the iron skewers of London; while some of the buyers, on the other hand, have come to look after the old linen shirts, which they sell again to the paper-mills, to be converted, by the alchemy of science, into the newspaper, the best “Bath post,” or even the bank-note. As the purchasers go pacing up and down the narrow pathways, and pick their way, now among the old bottles, bonnets, boots, rags, and now among the bones, the old metal, the stays, the gowns, the hats and coats, a thick-lipped Jew-boy spouts from his high stage in the centre of the market, “Hot vine a ha’penny a clarsh! a ha’penny a clarsh!” Between the seats, too, women worm their way along, carrying baskets of “trotters” and screaming, as they go, “Legs of mutton two for a penny! two for a penny! Who’ll give me a handsell?—who’ll give me a handsell?” After them comes a man with a large tin can under his arm, and roaring, “Hot peas, oh! hot peas, oh!” In the middle of the market is another vender of street luxuries, with a smoking can of “hot eels” before him, and next to him is a sweetmeat stall, with a crowd of young Hebrews gathered round the keeper of it, gambling eagerly, with marbles, for “Albert rock” and “hardbake;” while at one end of the market stands a coffee and beer-shop, and inside this are Jews playing at draughts, or settling and wrangling about the goods they have bought of one another. In no other part of London—and, perhaps, in no other part of the entire world—is such a scene of riot, rags, and filth to be witnessed. Every one there is dressed in his _worst_—for none who know the nature of the place would think of venturing thither in even decent apparel. Mr. Sandboys was the universal object of observation. What _he_ could have to do in such a place, every one was puzzling his brains to think; and as Cursty hurried up and down between the seats, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his lost inexpressibles, the buyers and sellers, one and all delighted, as he passed, to crack some rude jest upon him. The women wished to know whether he wasn’t hunting after a “nice pair of stays” for his “missus;” the men would hold up some faded livery, and request to be informed whether he was looking for “an ’andsome suit for his Johnny.” But, regardless of their gibes, round and round, like the hyena at the Surrey Gardens, Mr. Sandboys went, in the hope of eventually lighting on his precious nether garments. Not a flower-seller entered the place but Cursty watched him intently, until he had seen every article turned out of his bag, and satisfied himself that the anonymous part of his apparel formed no portion of the man’s left-off stores. Nor did he think of moving from the place until all the buyers and sellers had quitted it; and when the hour arrived for closing the gates, Cursty hardly knew what course of action to adopt.