butcher had been so ground down and tyrannised
over by that cook, and had had so much extorted
from him in the way of "small considerations,"
that he was obliged at last to turn at bay, and
appeal to the noble individual above mentioned,
who then and there discharged the wicked one
of the kitchen, and took the butcher — having
previously put on an old and grease-proof coat
— to his manly bosom. Now, here are two
cases; that of the grocer and the lady, and that
of the butcher and the noble individual, both
pointing in the same direction. How many
grocers are there and how many butchers, who
put up with the cook's extortions, and then
indemnify themselves by sticking it on to the
bill in "dips" and "stock-meat!"

Is the British tradesman honest? What
are the notions of that intensely respectable-
looking man with the bald head, on the subject
of business? What shy proceedings does he
look upon as coming within the limits of fair
trade? He is a dairyman; what is that
ridiculous composition which he sends me morning
and evening? Even the man who brings
it has not the impudence to call it milk, but
shrieks out "Mi-ew," as he sets his deceitful
cans down with a clatter. He may well utter
that dismal cry over the weak contemptible
liquor which spoils my tea and my temper at
the same time. It is perjury in the proprietor
of that establishment to call it by the beautiful
name of "dairy." It is falsehood in him
to have a plaster cast of a cow in his window.
What has he got to do with cows? Is there
any one connected with his establishment who
knows how to milk a cow? Is there any one
connected with his establishment who would
milk a cow into my milk-pot, if he did know
how? Look, too, at the lovely little nests of
moss in which the eggs are displayed in that
man's fallacious window. How innocent those
eggs look; they are of a rich cream colour, or
of a deep nankeen tint. Go in and buy
sixpenn'orth of them and give me news of their
interiors.

Or suppose our friend with the respectable
exterior is a butcher, how do we know what he
is up to? He is the man who, when I order
three pounds of loin of mutton, sends me — or
puts it down as such — four pounds, five ounces.
He is the man who, every now and then, but not
too often, supplies me with meat of an inferior
quality, and who, when I complain, is astounded,
and says, "Well, sir, it's very extraordinary, the
other leg was sent to General Baines, and he
was praising the flavour of it to me this very
morning."Every now and then let me repeat
the expression— the British tradesman sends you
a bad article. He does not do so too often, lest
you should be utterly outraged, and should go
over to the enemy. He does it just often enough
to get rid of his inferior goods. They must be
distributed, somehow or other, among his
customers, and so "every now and then" your
turn comes round. The answer is ready when
you expostulate. "Very extraordinary; don't
know now it could have happened; no
complaints from any one else — take care it shan't
occur again." We don't know what these
tradespeople are up to. Their emissaries come
round to our back doors and plot with our
servants. We don't know but that the masters
make it the interest of those emissaries to get
"orders" out of the cook. They have a hundred
ways of being agreeable to her. It is
enough to make one hate one's species to hear
the mean slavering wretches calling her ma'am
at every second word, and cringing to her as to
one great in authority.

We have much cause to complain of tradespeople.
They charge prices that are fearfully
exorbitant, and the things they send you are not
good after all. They are all in league together,
and they know that if outraged by the butter
supplied by Mr. Jones, you go over to his
neighbour, Mr. Smith, you will get as bad an
article, and pay as dearly for it. You are at
the mercy of these people. They have arranged
the terms on which they will supply you, you
must have the supply, and, as they are all
agreed, there is much less competition for you
to get the benefit of, than you suppose.
I feel strongly on this subject— I hate the
sight of those prosperous-looking tradesmen's
carts whisking about my street. "What right,"
I feel inclined to say to the hilarious miscreants
who conduct those vehicles, "what right have
you to look so brisk, and to be in such good
spirits— why does Destiny allow you to prosper?
Those carts are full of shams, and shams
preposterously dear— ruffians, you might at least
wear an air of compunction, as you inflict those
detestable compositions upon us."

We don't know what our tradespeople are up
to, and we don't know what our servants are
up to. It is but a short time ago that I met the
female who presides over my dinners (to their
destruction), advancing, in the dusk of the
evening, upon the little district of shops which
is nearest to the residence in which these
chronicles are written. That woman, who is
naturally a little woman and a skinny, was
distended in all directions, in a manner so remarkable
and fearful, that I scarcely recognised her.
Abnormal humps bulged out beneath her ample
shawl, and even her petticoats were distorted
by so much unhallowed and bulbous matter
secreted beneath them, that she could only move
at a very slow pace, and by balancing herself with
great ingenuity, as the weighty substances on
either side alternately got the better of her.
What had that female got secreted in that manner
underneath her clothing? Was she taking a week's
"kitchen-stuff " to the marine-store dealer, with
a view to turning it into lucre? If so, I should
like to know the exact nature of that "kitchenstuff,"
and how far, had I the opportunity of
examining it, it would have met with my approbation.

It would not surprise me in the slightest
degree— so firm is my belief in the league
between servants and tradespeople— to discover
that the latter received at Christmas-time regular
bills from the former, making distinct charges