leaving a pack at some public house near where they mean to ply, to which they invite the unwary passenger.
The chief haunt for the buffers has been for some years at the back of Saint Olave's church near Union Hall; for the packmen in London, though they are not numerous, yet in my night travels, I have frequently seen five or six at a time turn in at the Falcon, Falcon Square.
Now these chaps are not rogues, in the strict meaning of the word—they only sell to the best advantage. If they can persuade you an article is better than it actually is, you have nothing to complain of—every tradesman will do the same. The chief objection to them lies in their mode of operations, and in their overstrained recommendation of their goods. As in every other species of cheatery, they look out for the unknowing, or silly, to whom, walking up with a demure phiz, and interesting air, they announce the pleasing intelligence that they have on sale (as may suit your appearance) "an excellent piece of corduroy, just sufficient for a breeches piece,"—or "some real India muslin, just brought home by a relation, enough for two gowns, at the price of one;" or "what would you think of some beautiful French silk stockings as cheap as cotton,
