“Ha’ you cot any preaking?” asked one who bought old coats to cut up into cloth caps—“cot any fushtian—old cordsh—or old pootsh?”
“I’m shure you’ve shometing vot will shoot me,” cried another.
“You know me,” said a third—“I’m little Ikey, the pest of puyersh, and always give a cood prishe.”
Such was the anxiety and eagerness of the Israelites, that it was more than Mr. Sandboys could do to force his way through them, and it was not until a new-comer entered with a sack at his back, that they left him to hurry off and feel the old clothes-bag, as they clamoured for first peep at its contents.
Once in the body of the Market, Cursty had time to look well about him, and a curious sight it was—perhaps one of the most curious in all London. He had never heard, never dreamt of there being such a place. A greater bustle and eagerness appear to rage among the buyers of the refuse of London, than among the traders in its most valuable commodities.
Here, ranged on long narrow wooden benches, which extended from one side of the market to the other, and over which sloped a narrow, eaves-like roofing, that projected sufficiently forward only to shelter the sitter from the rain, were to be seen the many merchants of the streets—the buyers of hareskins—the bone-grubbers, and the rag-gatherers—the “bluey-hunters,” or juvenile purloiners of lead—the bottle collectors—the barterers of crockery-ware for old clothes—the flower-swoppers—the umbrella menders—and all the motley fraternity of petty dealers and chapmen. Each had his store of old clothes—or metal—or boots—or rags—or bonnets—or hats—or bottles—or hareskins—or umbrellas, spread out in a heap before him.
There sat a barterer of crockery and china, in a bright red plush waistcoat and knee breeches, with legs like balustrades, beside his half-emptied basket of “stone-ware,” while at his feet lay piled the apparently worthless heap of rags and tatters, for which he had exchanged his jugs, and cups, and basins. A few yards from him was a woman done up in a coachman’s drab and many-caped box-coat, with a pair of men’s cloth boots on her feet, and her limp-looking straw-bonnet flattened down on her head, as if with repeated loads, while the ground near her was strewn with hareskins, some old and so stiff that they seemed frozen, and the fresher ones looking shiny and crimson as tinsel. Before this man was a small mound of old cracked boots, dappled with specks of mildew—beside that one lay a hillock of washed-out light waistcoats, and yellow stays, and straw bonnets half in shreds. Farther on was a black-chinned and lantern-jawed bone-grubber, clad in dirty greasy rags, with his wallet emptied on the stones, and the bones and bits of old iron and pieces of rags that he had gathered in his day’s search, each sorted into different piles before him; and as he sat waiting anxiously for a purchaser, he chewed a piece of mouldy pie-crust, that he had picked up or had given him on his rounds. In one part of the Exchange was to be perceived some well-known tinker behind a heap of old battered saucepans or metal tea-pots, side by side with an umbrella mender, in front of whom lay a store of whalebone ribs and sticks. In another quarter might be seen the familiar face of some popular peep-showman, with his “back-show” on the form on one side of him, while on the other were ranged the physic phials and wine bottles and glass pickle jars that he had taken of the children for a sight at his exhibition; and next to him was located a flower-seller, with his basket emptied of all its blooming and fragrant contents, with the exception of one or two of the more expensive plants, and the places of the missing flowers filled with coats, waistcoats, boots, and hats.
To walk down the various passages between the seats, and run the eye over the several heaps of refuse, piled on the ground like treasure, was to set the mind wondering as to what could possibly be the uses of each and every of them. Everything there seemed to have fulfilled to the very utmost the office for which it was made; and now that its functions were finished, and it seemed to be utterly worthless, the novice to such scenes could not refrain from marvelling what remaining purpose could possibly give value to “the rubbish.”
The buyers, too, were as picturesque and motley a group almost as were the sellers—for the purchasers were of all nations, and habited in every description of costume. Some were Greeks, others were Swiss, while others were Germans. Some had come there to buy up the old rough charity clothing, and the army grey great-coats, for the “Irish” market; others had come to purchase the hareskins or old furs, or to give “the best price” for old tea-pots and tea-urns. One man, with a long flowing beard and greasy tattered gaberdine, was said to be worth thousands; thither he had come to add another sixpence to his hoard, by dabbling in the rags and refuse, strewn about the ground in heaps, for sale: others were there to purchase the old Wellingtons, and to have them new-fronted or their cracks heel-balled over, and then vended to clerks, who are “expected to appear respectable” on the smallest salaries. That Jewess is intent on buying up the left-off wardrobes “of the nobility,” so as to dispose of the faded finery to the actresses of the minor theatres, or the “gay” ladies of the upper boxes. Yonder old Israelite, who goes prowling between the seats, is looking out for such black garments as will admit of being “clobbered” up, or “turned” into “genteel suits” for poor curates, or half-paid ushers of classical academies. Nor does he reject those which are worn even threadbare in parts, for he well knows they will admit of being transformed into the “best boys’ tunics;” while such as are too far gone for that, he buys to be torn to pieces by the “devil,” and made up again into new cloth, or “shoddy,” as it is termed; and others, which his practised eye tells him have already done that duty, he bids for, knowing that they will still fetch him a good price, even as manure for the ground. Some of the buyers have come principally to purchase the old silk hats—and as they wander among the heaps of old clothes, and rags, and metal, they stop every now and then, and crumple up the shapes in their hands to try whether they have been—as they call it—“through the fire or not,” and those which will stand the test of their experienced touch, they buy for the shops, to have converted into the “best new hats” for the country. Some, again, are there chiefly to “pick up” the old umbrellas, which they value not only for the whalebone ribs but the metal supporters—the latter articles furnishing the 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.