BUYING DONKEYS AT SMITHFIELD.
One of the brothers Mayhew is publishing in London, (and the Harpers are reprinting it in New-York) a serial work under the title of London Labor and London Poor, similar in design to the sketches of trades and occupations a year or two ago printed in the Tribune. It is in as lively a vein as may be, but such an anatomy is unavoidably sometimes repulsive. The authors perhaps endanger the designed effect of their performance by attempting to invest it with the attractions of quaintness and humor. We quote from the second part the following description of coster-mongers in the Smithfield market:
"The donkeys standing for sale are ranged in a long line on both sides of the race course, their white velvety noses resting on the wooden rail they are tied to. Many of them wear their blinkers and head-harness, and others are ornamented with ribands fastened in their halters. The lookers-on lean against this railing, and chat with the boys at the donkeys' heads, or with the men who stand behind them, and keep continually hitting and shouting at the poor still beasts, to make them prance. Sometimes a party of two or three will be seen closely examining one of these 'Jerusalem ponies,' passing their hands down his legs or quietly looking on, while the proprietor's ash stick descends on the patient brute's back, making a dull hollow sound. As you walk in front of a long line of donkeys, the lads seize the animals by their nostrils and show their large teeth, asking if you 'want a hass, sir,' and all warranting the creature to be 'five years old next buff-day.' Dealers are quarrelling among themselves, down-crying each other's goods. 'A hearty man,' shouted one proprietor, pointing to his rival's stock, 'could eat three sich donkeys as yourn at a meal!' One fellow, standing behind his steed, shouts as he strikes, 'Here's the real Britannia metal;' whilst another asks, 'Who's for the pride of the market?' and then proceeds to flip 'the pride' with the whip till she clears away the mob with her kickings. Here, standing by its mother, will be a shaggy little colt, with a group of ragged boys fondling it and lifting it in their arms from the ground.
"During all this the shouts of the drivers and runners fill the air, as they rush past each other on the race course. Now a tall fellow, dragging a donkey after him, runs by, crying, as he charges in amongst the mob, 'Hulloa! hulloa! Hi! hi!' his mate, with his long coat-tails flying in the wind, hurrying after him and roaring, between his blows, 'Keem up!'"