Being at the time engaged in arranging the materials for THE LITERATURE OF THE STREETS, we ventured upon a conversation with the “street patterer” in the following form: “Well, governor, _how does the cock fight_?” “Oh, pretty well, sir; but it ain’t a ‘cock,’ it’s a genuine thing--the days of cocks is gone bye--cheap newspapers ’as done ’em up.” “Yes; we see this is a Brighton newspaper of to-day.” “Oh, yes, that’s right enough--but it’s all true.” “Yes; we are aware of that; but you are vending them after the old form.” “That’s all right enough--you see, sir, I can sell ’em better in that style than as a newspaper: I’ve sold ten or twelve dozen of ’em to-day.” “Yes; but how about them to-morrow?” “Oh, then it will be all bottled-up--and I must look for a new game. I’m on my way to London, but hearing of this suicide job, I thought I’d work ’em.” To our question of “Have you got any old _real_ ‘cocks’ by you?” he replied, “No, not a bit of a one; I’ve worked ’em for a good many years, but it ain’t no go now. Oh, yes, I know’d ‘Old Jemmy Catnach’ fast enough--bought many hundreds, if not thousands of quires of him.--Not old enough? Oh, ain’t I though; why I’m turned fifty, and I’ve been a ‘street paper’ seller nearly all my life. I knows Muster Fortey too very well; him as is got the business now in the Dials--he knows his way about, let him alone for that.” Having rewarded the man with a few half-pence to make him some recompense for having detained him during his business progress, we parted. On a perusal of the newspaper “Particulars” of the case, of which we subjoin a condensed copy, it will be found to contain all the necessary material for a clever and experienced “Patterer” to work upon, and that-- “’Tis strange--but true; for truth is always strange, stranger than fiction!” The Determined Suicide of an Aged Artist. REMARKABLE LETTERS OF THE DECEASED. Yesterday, at noon, an inquest was opened at the Race Hill Inn, Lewes Road, before J. A. Freeman, Esq. (deputy coroner), and a highly respectable jury, on the body of Mr. John Baldey, an aged artist, who committed suicide in a most determined manner early on the morning of the previous day. During the inquiry, which was a lengthy one, some remarkable letters, proved to be in the handwriting of the deceased, were read. They were written in a clear, and rather bold round hand, the caligraphy particularly, for so old a man, being exceptionally good.