courts and pestilential
cul-de-sacs that continually communicated with the streets by narrow
archways, like the entrance of hives, so low that you were obliged to
stoop for admission: while ascending to these same streets, from their
dank and dismal dwellings by narrow flights of steps the subterraneous
nation of the cellars poured forth to enjoy the coolness of the summer
night, and market for the day of rest. The bright and lively shops were
crowded; and groups of purchasers were gathered round the stalls, that
by the aid of glaring lamps and flaunting lanthorns, displayed their
wares.

"Come, come, it's a prime piece," said a jolly looking woman, who was
presiding at a stall which, though considerably thinned by previous
purchasers, still offered many temptations to many who could not
purchase.

"And so it is widow," said a little pale man, wistfully.

"Come, come, it's getting late, and your wife's ill; you're a good soul,
we'll say fi'pence a pound, and I'll throw you the scrag end in for
love."

"No butcher's meat to-morrow for us, widow," said the man.

"And why not, neighbour? With your wages, you ought to live like a
prize-fighter, or the mayor of Mowbray at least."

"Wages!" said the man, "I wish you may get 'em. Those villains, Shuffle
and Screw, have sarved me with another bate ticket: and a pretty figure
too."

"Oh! the carnal monsters!" exclaimed the widow. "If their day don't
come, the bloody-minded knaves!"

"And for small cops, too! Small cops be hanged! Am I the man to send up
a bad-bottomed cop, Widow Carey?"

"You sent up for snicks! I have known you man and boy John Hill these
twenty summers, and never heard a word against you till you got into
Shuffle and Screw's mill. Oh! they are a bad yarn, John."

"They do us all, widow. They pretends to give the same wages as the
rest, and works it out in fines. You can't come, and you can't go, but
there's a fine; you're never paid wages, but there's a bate ticket. I've
heard they keep their whole establishment on factory fines."

"Soul alive, but those Shuffle and Screw are rotten, snickey, bad
yarns," said Mistress Carey. "Now ma'am, if you please; fi'pence
ha'penny; no, ma'am, we've no weal left. Weal, indeed! you look very
like a soul as feeds on weal," continued Mrs Carey in an under tone as
her declining customer moved away. "Well, it gets late," said the widow,
"and if you like to take this scrag end home to your wife neighbour
Hill, we