SMITHFIELD-market will soon be numbered with the things that “have been;” the defenders of dirt must give way, and the foul and musty corners of the City be purified. Should the present work turn up in “a lot” some century hence, our description of Smithfield may be as great a curiosity to the reader then, as Ned Ward’s picture of a Lord Mayor’s show one hundred and fifty years ago was to us, when we chanced to stumble upon the remains of the tattered old quarto volume in which it has been so long preserved.

There is something about this busy market unlike any other that we have ever seen in England—in the mixture of cunning costermongers, and ruddy-faced countrymen; for in it buyers and sellers congregate from every corner of our sea-girt shores, and you hear the language of the provinces, and see costumes from the “nooks and corners” of England, which call up sweet green far-away places, where innocence and simplicity still reside, ignorant of the “fast” life we in this huge city are compelled to live.

But we will begin with the eating-houses in and around Smithfield. Nowhere beside in London will you see such immense fat joints as they here cook, or behold such rich marrow puddings; for the eating-house keepers seem to understand the palates of their customers. They know that they have to feed men who put a pound upon their plates at a time; that they have come many a hungry mile through the open and breezy country, and brought ostrich-like stomachs, which are capable of digesting every heavy and solid thing they devour.

But watch one of those drovers, after his cattle are safely penned, blow off the foam from a full pot of porter and drink. You can fairly trace the current outside his ruddy throat, as gulp after gulp goes down, long, deep, and vast; you wonder how ever the fellow can hold his breath. If he does not empty the whole pot at a draught, he will not leave enough in the bottom to drown a fly. He brought in his throat the dust of many a weary mile; and, when you recal the shouting and hallooing which is so necessary in driving his cattle, you marvel not that he feels as thirsty as a lime-burner. Nor does his dog lose a moment before he visits the adjoining cab-stand, where he makes friends with the waterman, and, like his master, quenches his thirst. No dogs are more sagacious than those which have been well trained by a Smithfield drover—a look or a motion is sufficient to direct them: they need no telling to drive the sheep aside when a vehicle is passing; a runaway needs no pointing out to them, they are up and over the backs of the whole flock in a moment; and, having placed the deserter again in marching order, the side of the master is once more their post. As they look into his face, you might, from their actions, fancy that they read his very thoughts, and foresaw his wishes. Many of these men love their dogs as dearly as their children; and well do the faithful animals return such affection. We have seen a drover asleep on the pavement in summer, with his dog coiled up beside him, and ready to spring upon the first assailant who could be found bold enough to disturb his owner’s slumber. The watchfulness of the dog and the attitude of the sleeper would have delighted the eye of Landseer.

To our ears there is something in the lowing and bleating sounds that fill Smithfield on a market-day that carries us away into the green quietude of the country; and we cannot look upon the flocks and herds without conjuring up the sloping hills and pastoral valleys from whence they have been driven. They call up images of homesteads and thatched granges, far off amid the dreamy murmur of open fields, where even the smell of the smoke has a pleasant aroma, and the dust on the road-side a clean look. Somehow, we seem to dislike seeing the little white lambs imprisoned in those strong and crowded pens; there is a pitiable plaintiveness about their bleat, which tells that they are not kindly used—as if they felt it hard to be driven away from the young round daisies which were just beginning to peep forth—that they missed their merry gambols on the breezy upland, and pined for their range over the wide and open fields. With an old or middle-aged sheep we have no such sympathy—it has lived until it has grown into mutton, to become as great an ornament to the table as it once was to the field. What a beautiful expression may sometimes be found in the face of an heifer, with its large mild eyes and finely-moulded head! Let any one walk down the foot-way on a Monday, between the posts to which they are secured, and he will be struck by the calm and patient countenances of many of the cattle; for they are prisoners that awaken our pity. Nor is their colour less admirable. What a rich glossiness do we find about the red and black patches! while the white portions look clean and spotless as untrodden snow.

In no city in the world can there be found such a splendid assemblage of cattle as Smithfield produces on a full market-day. A foreigner wonders no longer at the thews and sinews of Englishmen after he has seen the substantial material on which they feed. A drover with his sharp clasp-knife in his hand, and a mountain of beef before him, is no bad emblem of one of John Bull’s bulwarks.

We have often wondered if the inhabitants around Smithfield ever sleep on a Sunday night; to us it has seemed impossible to close the eyes amid such an uproar as is then heard. Babel was never shaken by a greater confusion of sounds: the barking of a hundred dogs blend with the hallooing of a hundred drovers; sheep, whose number is legion, join in the chorus; then comes the deep bass of the bullocks, mingled with the shrill squealing of swine—a sound which sets the very teeth on edge; and this loud concert is kept up without ceasing until day opens its broad eyes in the east. Should the unwilling listener—worn out—begin to doze about the dawn, up comes the thunder of scores of butchers’ carts, making the old casements chatter again, and causing the houses to jar to their very foundations. Night is not a season of rest in this ancient neighbourhood.

Many of those Smithfield butchers can tell to a few pounds what a bullock will weigh by only looking at it: you will see them walk once leisurely round, muse for a few brief seconds, then make an offer; should the salesman argue that it will weigh so much to the quarter, they are ready in an instant to back their own judgment with a five-pound note. They seem to carry their scales in their eyes, to lift up the bullock and weigh him by only raising their eye-lids; as to sheep and pigs, we believe some of them would be ready to bet that they guessed the weight to a few ounces.

But Friday is the great day to see Smithfield, if a stranger wishes to peep at a few of our real London characters. Such a motley group as is there congregated can never be found together in any other spot in the metropolis. There the costermonger shews the paces of his donkey, and the dustman forces his broken-kneed jade into a trot, while the knacker looks on with eye intent, selecting out such as he feels confident will have to be carried home. What riding, and running, and trotting to and fro, is there to be seen! You wonder what secret the men possess to get such poor and broken-down horses to go at the speed they do. True, one or two fall now and then; but that, of course, is always the fault of the pavement, as they say. It puzzles you to see them dispose of animals that possess so many excellent qualities. Only to listen, you might fancy that the poor horse, which seems to stand with so much difficulty, could draw St. Paul’s if it were loose; that “Eclipse” was hardly to be named beside it for speed; and as for eating (the most wonderful of all), its keep costs less than nothing. Should the horse have swollen legs, they assign a reason, and swear it is a proof of its great strength; should the bones shew through the skin, it is tough and wiry; if broken-winded, it has only caught a slight cold. In short, they have a good for every evil, and would beat your practised horse-dealers hollow—even if they came from Yorkshire.

One, whose hair peeps through his cap, has thrown an old bridle around his neck, and this he recommends as better than new, because it has got seasoned. A second, whose ragged suit would not fetch a crown, were he to try all Petticoat-lane, has an old saddle to dispose of; you see the hay it is stuffed with peeping out at a dozen openings. Another, having got rid of his donkey, wants a purchaser for his cart, which you fancy, from the look of the wheels, he must have brought thither on his head. Some are trying to recommend their whips by the loud cracking they are ever making within a few inches of your ear; while others gather in little knots around a celebrated trotter, and listen with delight at the distance he has “done” in his day. And over every bargain that is made, the huge pewter pot is filled and emptied, or the fiery gin chucked down at a single swallow.

Some we have seen—driven doubtless by hard necessity to sell—part with their favourite animal, with a full heart and a tearful eye: and on one occasion we saw a poor sweep kiss the forehead of his donkey, and when it was led away he heaved such a sigh as would have caused Sterne to have hugged his “innocent blackness.”

We have often wondered into what sort of holes and corners these poor over-worked and ill-fed horses are thrust by their owners. We have peeped about into all kinds of strange places where we have seen the carts of the costermongers standing; but, for the life of us, we have never been able to discover their “whereabout” clearly. True, we have occasionally seen them enter doors, and go into houses; but whether they were occupiers of the ground-floor, or the ground in the back-yard, we have only in a few cases arrived at a satisfactory conclusion. Once we were bold enough to ask a rough-looking fellow, with a most awful squint, what he did with his donkey when he got it inside, and he answered, “Make a pillow of it, to be sure.”

Besides its cattle, Smithfield has its hay-market; and we have many a time wondered, while reading the names of the places on the carts and wagons, at the great distance from which they have come. Sometimes, overpowering every other poisonous smell, we have caught a sniff as if from a hay-field, telling us a sad tale of some poor farmer who had been compelled to bring the produce of his little field to market before the smell of the sweet grasses had died away. Nor less melancholy is it to witness some old countryman driving his cow and calf before him, and looking around with astonishment, in the cold grey of the early morning, on the high houses and the busy scene. Oh, how different from the calm repose of his own humble cottage! You see care in his very countenance, and know that there is some unwritten history of poverty and trouble that compels him to make such a sacrifice.

It was once our lot to meet such a character in the open area of Smithfield. Time had silvered his hair, but left a ruddy and youthful bloom upon his patriarchal countenance. He had driven his beautiful cow and calf into their allotted place, and stood with a short clean pipe in his hand, as if wondering how he should obtain a light: no doubt his morning pipe had long been to him a comfort. He glanced a moment at the cigar we were smoking, but was too diffident to ask for a light; it was not needed: an extra draw, the ash shaken off, and we offered him the fiery end, which glowed like charcoal. He “louted not low,” but made a bow that would have done honour to a herald. It required but little trouble to get him to enter into conversation: He had set out long before midnight; had driven his cow and calf above twenty miles, from a beautiful village in Surrey, and was about to sell them to purchase the discharge of his son, who was a soldier at Chatham. We turned away with a sad heart, for a tear gathered in the old man’s eye as he ended his simple narrative; and we thought that Smithfield still contained its martyrs. Once also we saw a young Gipsy mother and her dusky child standing silently beside her ass: she had brought it to market to sell, to release her husband from the prison, into which he was committed for poaching. But many a market in England is attended by such sufferers as these, besides Smithfield.

This great market, like Bartholomew-fair, is doomed to be swept away, and Smithfield to be shorn of its glory, and the old houses left to mourn in silence. A horned and angry bullock is not the most fitting object to rush through our crowded thoroughfares, to the terror of pretty nursery-maids and little children. But, as the inimitable Matthews said, “We cannot take a hackney-coach for it;” nor can such a danger be got rid of without great injury to many of the old inhabitants, whose very bread depends upon the market. It is a

question of “pitch and toss,” whether the few are to be tossed up, or the many thrown down;—whether it is better for a few Joneses and Smiths to be thrown occasionally over the battlements of Blackfriars-bridge, or the eatinghouse-keepers and tavern-keepers about Smithfield to give up boiling, baking, and brewing. It is fat joints, marrow puddings, and everybody’s entire, with no end of etceteras in the form of tollage, against the lives and limbs of her gracious Majesty’s liege subjects. As the boys say, “If heads, I win; if tails, you lose.” Whichever way it ends, the poetry of old Smithfield will still remain.

Fat Ursula, who sold roasted pig, still lives in the pages of Rare Old Ben; and while his works exist, the memory of Bartholomew-fair will never be forgotten. Its old mummings, and masques, and mysteries, are numbered amongst the things that were. The merry din of ancient days will never resound again through the bars of Smithfield. The archers, who made it their great mustering-ground, have ages ago shot their last shaft. Death stept in and struck through the target, and they never again appeared. What visions of the past float before us while wandering around the old borders of Smithfield! What pictures have perished for ever that once glowed in all the colours of life upon that wide-spread canvass! Kings and heroes and martyrs; processions of solemn monks hymning along as they moved beneath the archway that leads to Bartholomew’s ancient church; and figures of brutal and bearded men, who fed the reddening fires—of shrieks and groans that pierced through the star-paved floors of heaven—and curses that went deep and hollow into the nethermost depths of dark perdition.

In the early morning have we traversed that solemn neighbourhood, when neither the stir of trade nor traffic disturbed the silence. And at such times the past has seemed again to open its silent doors, and the phantoms of the departed dead to glide before us. Battle and banner have again been displayed: pale and bleeding we have in fancy seen Wat Tyler fall, struck down by the arm of the powerful Mayor of London. Then came the shadow of the king, who had broken faith with the brave rebel, flying before his murderers. The Bastard of Burgundy and Earl Rivers next passed with their visors down, and paused on the spot where the lists were erected, when all London rushed into the open square to gaze upon the single combat they there fought. We saw pale faces upraised amid the flames, lips silent, yet moving with inward prayer. The ancient watch passed by half-buried in the smoke of the burning cressets. A dark funeral swept slowly along under the dusky archway, and was lost in the shadow of the old church. Then the morning sun fell upon a gay bridal party: they entered the low porch, and the door that opened into the gable-ended overhanging mansion was closed upon them for ever.

The high-piled City stands upon the dust of her millions of sons and daughters, who have ages ago sunk into the earth from whence they sprung. Even into the ancient church of Bartholomew itself we have now to descend as we enter—the remains of the forgotten dead have risen high above the antique floor; the youth and beauty of departed years are but a portion of the dark mould which rises around the hoary edifice.