London Labour and the London Poor, Vol. 3 (part 4 of 5)

London Labour and the London Poor, Vol. 3 (part 4 of 5)

The West India Docks are about a mile and a-half from the London Docks. The entire ground that they cover is 295 acres, so that they are nearly three times larger than the London Docks, and more than twelve times more extensive than those of St. Katherine’s. Hence they are the most capacious of all the great warehousing establishments in the port of London. The export dock is about 870 yards, or very nearly half-a-mile in length by 135 yards in width; its area, therefore, is about 25 acres. The import dock is the same length as the export dock, and 166 yards wide. The south dock, which is appropriated both to import and export vessels, is 1,183 yards, or upwards of two-thirds of a mile long, with an entrance to the river at each end; both the locks, as well as that into the Blackwall basin, being forty feet wide, and large enough to admit ships of 1,200 tons burden. The warehouses for imported goods are on the four quays of the import dock. They are well contrived and of great extent, being calculated to contain 180,000 tons of merchandise; and there has been at one time on the quays, and in the sheds, vaults, and warehouses, colonial produce worth 20,000,000_l._ sterling. The East India Docks are likewise the property of the West India Dock Company, having been purchased by them of the East India Company at the time of the opening of the trade to India. The import dock here has an area of 18 acres, and the export dock about 9 acres. The depth of water in these docks is greater, and they can consequently accommodate ships of greater burden than any other establishment on the river. The capital of both establishments, or of the united company, amounts to upwards of 2,000,000 of money. The West India import dock can accommodate 300 ships, and the export dock 200 ships of 300 tons each; and the East India import dock 84 ships, and the export dock 40 ships, of 800 tons each. The number of ships that entered the West India Dock to load and unload last year was 3008, and the number that entered the East India Dock 298. I owe the above information, as well as that which follows, to the kindness of the secretary and superintendent of the docks in question. To the politeness and intelligence of the latter gentleman I am specially indebted. Indeed his readiness to afford me all the assistance that lay in his power, as well as his courtesy and gentlemanly demeanour, formed a marked contrast to that of the deputy-superintendent of the London Docks, the one appearing as anxious for the welfare and comfort of the labouring men as the other seemed indifferent to it.

The transition from the London to the West India Docks is of a very peculiar character. The labourers at the latter place seem to be more civilised. The scrambling and scuffling for the day’s hire, which is the striking feature of the one establishment, is scarcely distinguishable at the other. It is true there is the same crowd of labourers in quest of a day’s work, but the struggle to obtain it is neither so fierce nor so disorderly in its character. And yet, here the casual labourers are men from whom no character is demanded as well as there. The amount of wages for the summer months is the same as at the London Docks. Unlike the London Docks, however, no reduction is made at the East and West India Docks during the winter.

The labour is as precarious at one establishment as at the other. The greatest number of hands employed for any one day at the East and West India Docks in the course of last year was nearly 4000, and the smallest number about 1300. The lowest number of ships that entered the docks during any one week in the present year was 28, and the highest number 209, being a difference of 181 vessels, of an average burden of 300 tons each. The positive amount of variation, however, which occurred in the labour during the briskest and slackest weeks of last year was a difference of upwards of 2500 in the number of extra workmen employed, and of about 2000_l._ in the amount of wages paid for the six days’ labour. I have been favoured with a return of the number of vessels that entered the East and West India Docks for each week in the present year, and I subjoin a statement of the number arriving in each of the first fourteen of those weeks. In the 1st week of all there were 86, the 2d 47, the 3d 43, the 4th 48, the 5th 28, the 6th 49, the 7th 46, the 8th 37, the 9th 42, the 10th 47, the 11th 42, the 12th 131, the 13th 209, and the 14th 85. Hence it appears, that in the second week the number of ships coming into dock decreased nearly one-half; in the fifth week they were again diminished in a like proportion, while in the sixth week they were increased in a similar ratio; in the twelfth week they were more than three times what they were in the eleventh, in the thirteenth the number was half as much again as it was in the twelfth, and in the fourteenth it was down below half the number of the thirteenth, so that it is clear that the subsistence derived from dock labour must be of the most fickle and doubtful kind.

THE ST. KATHERINE’S DOCK.

Nor are the returns from St. Katherine’s Dock of a more cheerful character. Here it should be observed that no labourer is employed without a previous recommendation; and, indeed, it is curious to notice the difference in the appearance of the men applying for work at this establishment. They not only have a more decent look, but seem to be better behaved than any other dock-labourers I have yet seen. The “ticket” system is here adopted--that is to say, the plan of allowing only such persons to labour within the docks as have been satisfactorily recommended to the company, and furnished with a ticket by them in return--this ticket system, says the statement which has been kindly drawn up expressly for me by the superintendent of the docks, may be worth notice, at a time when such efforts are making to improve the condition of the labourers. It gives an identity and locus standi to the men which casual labourers cannot otherwise possess, it connects them with the various grades of officers under whose eyes they labour, prevents favouritism, and leads to their qualifications being noted and recorded. It also holds before them a reward for activity, intelligence, and good conduct; because the vacancies in the list of preferable labourers, which occur during the year, are invariably filled in the succeeding January by selecting, upon strict inquiry, the best of the extra-ticket labourers, the vacancies among the permanent men being supplied in like manner from the list of preferable labourers, while from the permanent men are appointed the subordinate officers, as markers, samplers, &c.

Let us, however, before entering into a description of the class and number of labourers employed at St. Katherine’s give a brief description of the docks themselves. The lofty walls, which constitute it in the language of the Custom-house a place of special security, enclose an area of 23 acres, of which 11 are water, capable of accommodating 120 ships, besides barges and other craft; cargoes are raised into the warehouses out of the hold of a ship, without the goods being deposited on the quay. The cargoes can be raised out of the ship’s hold into the warehouses of St. Katherine’s in one-fifth of the usual time. Before the existence of docks, a month or six weeks was taken up in discharging the cargo of an East-Indiaman of from 800 to 1200 tons burden, while 8 days were necessary in the summer and 14 in the winter to unload a ship of 350 tons. At St. Katherine’s, however, the average time now occupied in discharging a ship of 250 tons is twelve hours, and one of 500 tons two or three days, the goods being placed at the same time in the warehouse: there have been occasions when even greater despatch has been used, and a cargo of 1100 casks of tallow, averaging from 9 to 10 cwt. each, has been discharged in seven hours. This would have been considered little short of a miracle on the legal quays less than fifty years ago. In 1841, about 1000 vessels and 10,000 lighters were accommodated at St. Katherine’s Dock. The capital expended by the dock company exceeds 2,000,000 of money.

The business of this establishment is carried on by 35 officers, 105 clerks and apprentices, 135 markers, samplers, and foremen, 250 permanent labourers, 150 preferable ticket-labourers, proportioned to the amount of work to be done. The average number of labourers employed, permanent, preferable, and extras, is 1096; the highest number employed on any one day last year was 1713, and the lowest number 515, so that the extreme fluctuation in the labour appears to be very nearly 1200 hands. The lowest sum of money that was paid in 1848 for the day’s work of the entire body of labourers employed was 64_l._ 7_s._ 6_d._, and the highest sum 214_l._ 2_s._ 6_d._, being a difference of very nearly 150_l._ in one day, or 900_l._ in the course of the week. The average number of ships that enter the dock every week is 17, the highest number that entered in any one week last year was 36, and the lowest 5, being a difference of 31. Assuming these to have been of an average burden of 300 tons, and that every such vessel would require 100 labourers to discharge its cargo in three days, then 1500 extra hands ought to have been engaged to discharge the cargoes of the entire number in a week. This, it will be observed, is very nearly equal to the highest number of the labourers employed by the company in the year 1848.

The remaining docks are the Commercial Docks and timber ponds, the Grand Surrey Canal Dock at Rotherhithe, and the East Country Dock. The Commercial Docks occupy an area of about 49 acres, of which four-fifths are water. There is accommodation for 350 ships, and in the warehouses for 50,000 tons of merchandise. They are appropriated to vessels engaged in the European timber and corn trades, and the surrounding warehouses are used chiefly as granaries--the timber remaining afloat in the dock until it is conveyed to the yard of the wholesale dealer and builder. The Surrey Dock is merely an entrance basin to a canal, and can accommodate 300 vessels. The East Country Dock, which adjoins the Commercial Docks on the South, is capable of receiving 28 timber-ships. It has an area of 6-1/2 acres, and warehouse-room for 3700 tons.

In addition to these there is the Regent’s Canal Dock, between Shadwell and Limehouse, and though it is a place for bonding timber and deals only, it nevertheless affords great accommodation to the trade of the port by withdrawing shipping from the river.

The number of labourers, casual and permanent, employed at these various establishments is so limited, that, taken altogether, the fluctuations occurring at their briskest and slackest periods may be reckoned as equal to that of St. Katherine’s. Hence the account of the variation in the total number of hands employed, and the sum of money paid as wages to them, by the different dock companies, when the business is brisk or slack, may be stated as follows:--

At the London Dock the difference } between the greatest } 2000 hands and smallest number is } At the East and West India Dock 2500 „ At the St. Katherine’s Dock 1200 „ At the remaining docks say 1300 „ Total number of dock labourers } ---- thrown out of employ by the } 7000 prevalence of easterly winds }

The difference between the highest } £. and lowest amount of wages paid } 1500 at the London Dock is } At the East and West India Dock 1875 At the St. Katherine Dock 900 At the remaining docks 975 ----- £5250

From the above statement then it appears, that by the prevalence of an easterly wind no less than 7000 out of the aggregate number of persons living by dock labour may be deprived of their regular income, and the entire body may have as much as 5250_l._ a week abstracted from the amount of their collective earnings, at a period of active employment. But the number of individuals who depend upon the quantity of shipping entering the port of London for their daily subsistence is far beyond this amount. Indeed we are assured by a gentleman filling a high situation in St. Katherine’s Dock, and who, from his sympathy with the labouring poor, has evidently given no slight attention to the subject, that taking into consideration the number of wharf-labourers, dock-labourers, lightermen, riggers and lumpers, shipwrights, caulkers, ships’ carpenters, anchor-smiths, corn-porters, fruit and coal-meters, and indeed all the multifarious arts and callings connected with shipping, there are no less than from 25,000 to 30,000 individuals who are thrown wholly out of employ by a long continuance of easterly winds. Estimating then the gains of this large body of individuals at 2_s._ 6_d._ per day, or 15_s._ per week, when fully employed, we shall find that the loss to those who depend upon the London shipping for their subsistence amounts to 20,000_l._ per week, and, considering that such winds are often known to prevail for a fortnight to three weeks at a time, it follows that the entire loss to this large class will amount to from 40,000_l._ to 60,000_l._ within a month,--an amount of privation to the labouring poor which it is positively awful to contemplate. Nor is this the only evil connected with an enduring easterly wind. Directly a change takes place a glut of vessels enters the metropolitan port, and labourers flock from all quarters; indeed they flock from every part where the workmen exist in a greater quantity than the work. From 500 to 800 vessels frequently arrive at one time in London after the duration of a contrary wind, and then such is the demand for workmen, and so great the press of business, owing to the rivalry among merchants, and the desire of each owner to have his cargo the first in the market, that a sufficient number of hands is scarcely to be found. Hundreds of extra labourers, who can find labour nowhere else, are thus led to seek work in the docks. But, to use the words of our informant, two or three weeks are sufficient to break the neck of an ordinary glut, and then the vast amount of extra hands that the excess of business has brought to the neighbourhood are thrown out of employment, and left to increase either the vagabondism of the neighbourhood or to swell the number of paupers and heighten the rates of the adjacent parishes.

CHEAP LODGING-HOUSES.

I now come to the class of cheap lodging-houses usually frequented by the casual labourers at the docks. It will be remembered, perhaps, that I described one of these places, as well as the kind of characters to be found there. Since then I have directed my attention particularly to this subject; not because it came first in order according to the course of investigation I had marked out for myself, but because it presented so many peculiar features that I thought it better, even at the risk of being unmethodical, to avail myself of the channels of information opened to me rather than defer the matter to its proper place, and so lose the freshness of the impression it had made upon my mind.

On my first visit, the want and misery that I saw were such, that, in consulting with the gentleman who led me to the spot, it was arranged that a dinner should be given on the following Sunday to all those who were present on the evening of my first interview; and, accordingly, enough beef, potatoes, and materials for a suet-pudding, were sent in from the neighbouring market to feed them every one. I parted with my guide, arranging to be with him the next Sunday at half-past one. We met at the time appointed, and set out on our way to the cheap lodging-house. The streets were alive with sailors, and bonnetless and capless women. The Jews’ shops and public-houses were all open, and parties of “jolly tars” reeled past us, singing and bawling on their way. Had it not been that here and there a stray shop was closed, it would have been impossible to have guessed it was Sunday. We dived down a narrow court, at the entrance of which lolled Irish labourers smoking short pipes. Across the court hung lines, from which dangled dirty-white clothes to dry; and as we walked on, ragged, unwashed, shoeless children scampered past us, chasing one another. At length we reached a large open yard. In the centre of it stood several empty costermongers’ trucks and turned-up carts, with their shafts high in the air. At the bottom of these lay two young girls huddled together, asleep. Their bare heads told their mode of life, while it was evident, from their muddy Adelaide boots, that they had walked the streets all night. My companion tried to see if he knew them, but they slept too soundly to be roused by gentle means. We passed on, and a few paces further on there sat grouped on a door-step four women, of the same character as the last two. One had her head covered up in an old brown shawl, and was sleeping in the lap of the one next to her. The other two were eating walnuts; and a coarse-featured man in knee-breeches and “ankle-jacks” was stretched on the ground close beside them.

At length we reached the lodging-house. It was night when I had first visited the place, and all now was new to me. The entrance was through a pair of large green gates, which gave it somewhat the appearance of a stable-yard. Over the kitchen door there hung a clothes-line, on which were a wet shirt and a pair of ragged canvas trousers, brown with tar. Entering the kitchen, we found it so full of smoke that the sun’s rays, which shot slanting down through a broken tile in the roof, looked like a shaft of light cut through the fog. The flue of the chimney stood out from the bare brick wall like a buttress, and was black all the way up with the smoke; the beams, which hung down from the roof, and ran from wall to wall, were of the same colour; and in the centre, to light the room, was a rude iron gas-pipe, such as are used at night when the streets are turned up. The floor was unboarded, and a wooden seat projected from the wall all round the room. In front of this was ranged a series of tables, on which lolled dozing men. A number of the inmates were grouped around the fire; some kneeling toasting herrings, of which the place smelt strongly; others, without shirts, seated on the ground close beside it for warmth; and others drying the ends of cigars they had picked up in the streets. As we entered the men rose, and never was so motley and so ragged an assemblage seen. Their hair was matted like flocks of wool, and their chins were grimy with their unshorn beards. Some were in dirty smock-frocks; others in old red plush waistcoats, with long sleeves. One was dressed in an old shooting-jacket, with large wooden buttons; a second in a blue flannel sailor’s shirt; and a third, a mere boy, wore a long camlet coat reaching to his heels, and with the ends of the sleeves hanging over his hands. The features of the lodgers wore every kind of expression: one lad was positively handsome, and there was a frankness in his face and a straightforward look in his eye that strongly impressed me with a sense of his honesty, even although I was assured he was a confirmed pickpocket. The young thief who had brought back the 11-1/2_d._ change out of the shilling that had been entrusted to him on the preceding evening, was far from prepossessing, now that I could see him better. His cheek-bones were high, while his hair, cut close on the top, with a valance of locks, as it were, left hanging in front, made me look upon him with no slight suspicion. On the form at the end of the kitchen was one whose squalor and wretchedness produced a feeling approaching to awe. His eyes were sunk deep in his head, his cheeks were drawn in, and his nostrils pinched with evident want, while his dark stubbly beard gave a grimness to his appearance that was almost demoniac; and yet there was a patience in his look that was almost pitiable. His clothes were black and shiny at every fold with grease, and his coarse shirt was so brown with long wearing, that it was only with close inspection you could see that it had once been a checked one: on his feet he had a pair of lady’s side-laced boots, the toes of which had been cut off so that he might get them on. I never beheld so gaunt a picture of famine. To this day the figure of the man haunts me.

The dinner had been provided for thirty, but the news of the treat had spread, and there was a muster of fifty. We hardly knew how to act. It was, however, left to those whose names had been taken down as being present on the previous evening to say what should be done; and the answer from one and all was that the new-comers were to share the feast with them. The dinner was then half-portioned out in an adjoining outhouse into twenty-five platefuls--the entire stock of crockery belonging to the establishment numbering no more--and afterwards handed into the kitchen through a small window to each party, as his name was called out. As he hurried to the seat behind the bare table, he commenced tearing the meat asunder with his fingers, for knives and forks were unknown there. Some, it is true, used bits of wood like skewers, but this seemed almost like affectation in such a place: others sat on the ground with the plate of meat and pudding on their laps; while the beggar-boy, immediately on receiving his portion, danced along the room, whirling the plate round on his thumb as he went, and then, dipping his nose in the plate, seized a potato in his mouth. I must confess the sight of the hungry crowd gnawing their food was far from pleasant to contemplate; so, while the dinner was being discussed, I sought to learn from those who remained to be helped, how they had fallen to so degraded a state. A sailor lad assured me he had been robbed of his mariner’s ticket; that he could not procure another under 13_s._; and not having as many pence, he was unable to obtain another ship. What could he do? he said. He knew no trade: he could only get employment occasionally as a labourer at the docks; and this was so seldom, that if it had not been for the few things he had, he must have starved outright. The good-looking youth I have before spoken of wanted but 3_l._ 10_s._ to get back to America. He had worked his passage over here; had fallen into bad company; been imprisoned three times for picking pockets; and was heartily wearied of his present course. He could get no work. In America he would be happy, and among his friends again. I spoke to the gentleman who had brought me to the spot, and who knew them all well. His answers, however, gave me little hope. The boy, whose face seemed beaming with innate frankness and honesty, had been apprenticed by him to a shoe-stitcher. But, no! he preferred vagrancy to work. I could have sworn he was a trustworthy lad, and shall never believe in “looks” again.

The dinner finished, I told the men assembled there that I should come some evening in the course of the week, and endeavour to ascertain from them some definite information concerning the persons usually frequenting such houses as theirs. On our way home, my friend recognised, among the females we had before seen huddled on the step outside the lodging-house, a young woman whom he had striven to get back to her parents. Her father had been written to, and would gladly receive her. Again the girl was exhorted to leave her present companions and return home. The tears streamed from her eyes at mention of her mother’s name; but she would not stir. Her excuse was, that she had no clothes proper to go in. Her father and mother were very respectable, she said, and she could not go back to them as she was. It was evident, by her language, she had at least been well educated. She would not listen, however, to my friend’s exhortations; so, seeing that his entreaties were wasted upon her, we left her, and wended our way home.

Knowing that this lodging-house might be taken as a fair sample of the class now abounding in London, and, moreover, having been informed by those who had made the subject their peculiar study, that the characters generally congregated there constituted a fair average of the callings and habits of those who resort to the low lodging-houses of London, I was determined to avail myself of the acquaintances I made in this quarter, in order to arrive at some more definite information upon those places than had yet been made public. The only positive knowledge the public have hitherto had of the people assembling in the cheap lodging-houses of London is derived chiefly from the Report of the Constabulary Commissioners, and partly from the Report upon Vagrancy. But this information, having been procured through others, was so faulty, that having now obtained the privilege of personal inspection and communication, I was desirous of turning it to good account. Consequently I gave notice that I wished all that had dined there on last Sunday to attend me yesterday evening, so that I might obtain from them generally an account of their past and present career. I found them all ready to meet me, and I was assured that, by adopting certain precautions, I should be in a fair way to procure information upon the subject of the cheap lodging-houses of London that few have the means of getting. However, so as to be able to check the one account with another, I put myself in communication with a person who had lived for upwards of four months in the house. Strange to say, he was a man of good education and superior attainments--further than this I am not at liberty to state. I deal with the class of houses, and not with any particular house, be it understood.

The lodging-house to which I more particularly allude makes up as many as 84 “bunks,” or beds, for which 2_d._ per night is charged. For this sum the parties lodging there for the night are entitled to the use of the kitchen for the following day. In this a fire is kept all day long, at which they are allowed to cook their food. The kitchen opens at 5 in the morning, and closes at about 11 at night, after which hour no fresh lodger is taken in, and all those who slept in the house the night before, but who have not sufficient money to pay for their bed at that time, are turned out. Strangers who arrive in the course of the day must procure a tin ticket, by paying 2_d._ at the wicket in the office, previously to being allowed to enter the kitchen. The kitchen is about 40 feet long by about 40 wide. The “bunks” are each about 7 feet long, and 1 foot 10 inches wide, and the grating on which the straw mattrass is placed is about 12 inches from the ground. The wooden partitions between the “bunks” are about 4 feet high. The coverings are a leather or a rug, but leathers are generally preferred. Of these “bunks” there are five rows, of about 24 deep; two rows being placed head to head, with a gangway between each of such two rows, and the other row against the wall. The average number of persons sleeping in this house of a night is 60. Of these there are generally about 30 pickpockets, 10 street-beggars, a few infirm old people who subsist occasionally upon parish relief and occasionally upon charity, 10 or 15 dock-labourers, about the same number of low and precarious callings, such as the neighbourhood affords, and a few persons who have been in good circumstances, but who have been reduced from a variety of causes. At one time there were as many as 9 persons lodging in this house who subsisted by picking up dogs’ dung out of the streets, getting about 5_s._ for every basketful. The earnings of one of these men were known to average 9_s._ per week. There are generally lodging in the house a few bone-grubbers, who pick up bones, rags, iron, &c., out of the streets. Their average earnings are about 1_s._ per day. There are several mud-larks, or youths who go down to the water-side when the tide is out, to see whether any article of value has been left upon the bank of the river. The person supplying this information to me, who was for some time resident in the house, has seen brought home by these persons a drum of figs at one time, and a Dutch cheese at another. These were sold in small lots or slices to the other lodgers.

The pickpockets generally lodging in the house consist of handkerchief-stealers, shop-lifters--including those who rob the till as well as steal articles from the doors of shops. Legs and breasts of mutton are frequently brought in by this class of persons. There are seldom any housebreakers lodging in such places, because they require a room of their own, and mostly live with prostitutes. Besides pickpockets, there are also lodging in the house speculators in stolen goods. These may be dock-labourers or Billingsgate porters, having a few shillings in their pockets. With these they purchase the booty of the juvenile thieves. “I have known,” says my informant, “these speculators wait in the kitchen, walking about with their hands in their pockets, till a little fellow would come in with such a thing as a cap, a piece of bacon, or a piece of mutton. They would purchase it, and then either retail it amongst the other lodgers in the kitchen or take it to some ‘fence,’ where they would receive a profit upon it.” The general feeling of the kitchen--excepting with four or five individuals--is to encourage theft. The encouragement to the “gonaff,” (a Hebrew word signifying a young thief, probably learnt from the Jew “fences” in the neighbourhood) consists in laughing at and applauding his dexterity in thieving; and whenever anything is brought in, the “gonaff” is greeted for his good luck, and a general rush is made towards him to see the produce of his thievery. The “gonaffs” are generally young boys; about 20 out of 30 of these lads are under 21 years of age. They almost all of them love idleness, and will only work for one or two days together, but then they will work very hard. It is a singular fact that, as a body, the pickpockets are generally very sparing of drink. They are mostly libidinous, indeed universally so, and spend whatever money they can spare upon the low prostitutes round about the neighbourhood. Burglars and smashers generally rank above this class of thieves. A burglar would not condescend to sit among pickpockets. My informant has known a housebreaker to say with a sneer, when requested to sit down with the “gonaffs,” “No, no! I may be a thief, sir; but, thank God, at least I’m a respectable one.” The beggars who frequent these houses go about different markets and streets asking charity of the people that pass by. They generally go out in couples; the business of one of the two being to look out and give warning when the policeman is approaching, and of the other to stand “shallow;” that is to say, to stand with very little clothing on, shivering and shaking, sometimes with bandages round his legs, and sometimes with his arm in a sling. Others beg “scran” (broken victuals) of the servants at respectable houses, and bring it home to the lodging-house, where they sell it. You may see, I am told, the men who lodge in the place, and obtain an honest living, watch for these beggars coming in, as if they were the best victuals in the City. My informant knew an instance of a lad who seemed to be a very fine little fellow, and promised to have been possessed of excellent mental capabilities if properly directed, who came to the lodging-house when out of a situation as an errand-boy. He stayed there a month or six weeks, during which time he was tampered with by the others, and ultimately became a confirmed “gonaff.” The conversation among the lodgers relates chiefly to thieving and the best manner of stealing. By way of practice, a boy will often pick the pocket of one of the lodgers walking about the room, and if detected declare he did not mean it.

The sanitary state of these houses is very bad. Not only do the lodgers generally swarm with vermin, but there is little or no ventilation to the sleeping-rooms, in which 60 persons, of the foulest habits, usually sleep every night. There are no proper washing utensils, neither towels nor basins, nor wooden bowls. There are one or two buckets, but these are not meant for the use of the lodgers, but for cleaning the rooms. The lodgers never think of washing themselves. The cleanliest among them will do so in the bucket, and then wipe themselves with their pocket-handkerchiefs, or the tails of their shirts.

A large sum to be made by two beggars in one week is 20_s._; or 10_s._ a-piece, one for looking out, and the other for “standing shallow.” The average earnings of such persons are certainly below 8_s._ per week. If the Report of the Constabulary Force Commissioners states that 20_s._ per week is the average sum earned, I am told the statement must have been furnished by parties who had either some object in overrating the amount, or else who had no means of obtaining correct information on the subject. From all my informant has seen as to the earnings of those who make a trade of picking pockets and begging, he is convinced that the amount is far below what is generally believed to be the case. Indeed, nothing but the idle, roving life that is connected with the business, could compensate the thieves or beggars for the privations they frequently undergo.

After obtaining this information, I attended the lodging-house in pursuance of the notice I had given, in order to ascertain from the lodgers themselves what were the callings and earnings of the different parties there assembled. I found that from 50 to 60 had mustered purposely to meet me, although it was early in the evening, and they all expressed themselves ready to furnish me with any information I might require. The gentleman who accompanied me assured me that the answers they would give to my questionings would be likely to be correct, from the fact of the number assembled, as each would check the other. Having read to them the account (in the Morning Chronicle) of my previous interview with them, they were much delighted at finding themselves in print, and immediately arranged themselves on a seat all round the room. My first question was as to the age of those present. Out of 55 assembled, I found that there were; 1 from 60 to 70 years old, 4 from 50 to 60, 1 from 40 to 50, 15 from 30 to 40, 16 from 20 to 30, and 18 from 10 to 20. Hence it will be seen that the younger members constituted by far the greater portion of the assembly. The 18 between 10 and 20 were made up as follows:--There were 3 of 20 years, 8 of 19 years, 3 of 18 years, 4 of 17 years, 1 of 16 years, and 2 of 15 years. Hence there were more of the age of 19 than of any other age present.

My next inquiry was as to the place of birth. I found that there were 16 belonging to London, 9 to Ireland, 3 to Bristol, 3 to Liverpool, 2 were from Norfolk, 2 from Yorkshire, 2 from Essex, 2 from Germany, and 2 from North America. The remaining 14 were born respectively in Macclesfield, Bolton, Aylesbury, Seacomb, Deal, Epping, Hull, Nottinghamshire, Plumstead, Huntingdonshire, Plymouth, Shropshire, Northamptonshire, and Windsor. After this I sought to obtain information as to the occupations of their parents, with a view of discovering whether their delinquencies arose from the depraved character of their early associations. I found among the number, 13 whose fathers had been labouring men, 5 had been carpenters, 4 millers and farmers, 2 dyers, 2 cabinet-makers, a tallow-chandler, a wood-turner, a calico-glazer, a silversmith, a compositor, a cotton-spinner, a hatter, a grocer, a whip-maker, a sweep, a glover, a watchmaker, a madhouse-keeper, a bricklayer, a shipbuilder, a cow-keeper, a fishmonger, a mill-wright, a coast-guard, a ropemaker, a gunsmith, a collier, an undertaker, a leather-cutter, a clerk, an engineer, a schoolmaster, a captain in the army, and a physician.

I now sought to learn from them the trades that they themselves were brought up to. There were 17 labourers, 7 mariners, 3 weavers, 2 bricklayers, and 2 shoemakers. The rest were respectively silversmiths, dyers, blacksmiths, wood-turners, tailors, farriers, caulkers, French polishers, shopmen, brickmakers, sweeps, ivory-turners, cowboys, stereotype-founders, fishmongers, tallow-chandlers, rope-makers, miners, bone-grubbers, engineers, coal-porters, errand-boys, beggars, and one called himself “a prig.”

I next found that 40 out of the 55 could read and write, 4 could read, and only 11 could do neither.

My next point was to ascertain how long they had been out of regular employment, or to use their own phrase, “had been knocking about.” One had been 10 years idle; one, 9; three, 8; two, 7; four, 6; five, 5; six, 4; nine, 3; ten, 2; five, 1; three, 6 months, and one, 2 months out of employment. A bricklayer told me he had been eight summers in, and eight winters out of work; and a dock-labourer assured me that he had been 11 years working at the dock, and that for full three-fourths of his time he could obtain no employment there.

After this, I questioned them concerning their earnings for the past week. One had gained nothing, another had gained 1_s._, eleven had earned 2_s._; eight, 3_s._; nine, 4_s._; five, 5_s._; four, 6_s._; four, 7_s._; six, 8_s._; one, 10_s._; one, 11_s._; and one, 18_s._ From three I received no answers. The average earnings of the 52 above enumerated are 4_s._ 11_d._ per week.

Respecting their clothing, 14 had no shirts to their backs, 5 had no shoes, and 42 had shoes that scarcely held together.

I now desired to be informed how many out of the number had been confined in prison; and learnt that no less than 34 among the 55 present had been in gaol once, or oftener. Eleven had been in once; five had been in twice; five, in 3 times; three, 4 times; four, 6 times; one, 7 times; one, 8 times; one, 9 times; one, 10 times; one, 14 times; and one confessed to having been there at least 20 times. So that the 34 individuals had been imprisoned altogether 140 times; thus averaging four imprisonments to each person. I was anxious to distinguish between imprisonment for vagrancy and imprisonment for theft. Upon inquiry I discovered that seven had each been imprisoned once for vagrancy; one, twice; one, 3 times; two, 4 times; one, 5 times; two, 6 times; two, 8 times; and one, 10 times; making in all 63 imprisonments under the Vagrant Act. Of those who had been confined in gaol for theft, there were eleven who had been in once; seven, who had been in twice; two, 3 times; three, 6 times; one, 8 times, and two, 10 times; making a total of 77 imprisonments for thieving. Hence, out of 140 incarcerations, 63 of those had been for vagrancy, and 77 for theft; and this was among 34 individuals in an assemblage of 55.

The question that I put to them after this was, how long they had been engaged in thieving? and the following were the answers: one had been 15 years at it; one, 14 years; two, 12 years; three, 10 years; one, 9 years; one, 8 years; two, 7 years; one, 6 years; two, 5 years; three, 4 years; and one, 3 years; one, 18 months; one, 7 months; two, 6 months; and one, 2 months. Consequently, there were, of the half-hundred and odd individuals there assembled, thieves of the oldest standing and the most recent beginning.

Their greatest gains by theft, in a single day, were thus classified. The most that one had gained was 3_d._, the greatest sum another had gained was 7_d._; another, 1_s._ 6_d._; another, 2_s._ 6_d._; another, 6_s._; five had made from 10_s._ to 15_s._; three from 1_l._ to 2_l._; one from 2_l._ to 3_l._; six from 3_l._ to 4_l._; one from 4_l._ to 5_l._; two from 20_l._ to 30_l._; and two from 30_l._ to 40_l._ Of the latter two sums, one was stolen from the father of the thief, and the other from the till of a counter when the shop was left unoccupied, the boy vaulting over the counter and abstracting from the till no less than seven 5_l._ notes, all of which were immediately disposed of to a Jew in the immediate neighbourhood for 3_l._ 10_s._ each.

The greatest earnings by begging had been 7_s._ 6_d._, 10_s._ 6_d._, and 1_l._; but the average amount of earnings was apparently of so precarious a nature, that it was difficult to get the men to state a definite sum. From their condition, however, as well as their mode of living whilst I remained among them, I can safely say begging did not seem to be a very lucrative or attractive calling, and the lodgers were certainly under no restraint in my presence.

I wanted to learn from them what had been their motive for stealing in the first instance, and I found upon questioning them, that ten did so on running away from home; five confessed to have done so from keeping flash company, and wanting money to defray their expenses; six had first stolen to go to theatres; nine, because they had been imprisoned for vagrants, and found that the thief was better treated than they; one because he had got no tools to work with; one because he was “hard up;” one because he could not get work; and one more because he was put in prison for begging.

The following is the list of articles that they first stole: six rabbits, silk shawl from home, a pair of shoes, a Dutch cheese, a few shillings from home, a coat and trousers, a bullock’s heart, four “tiles” of copper, fifteen and sixpence from master, two handkerchiefs, half a quartern loaf, a set of tools worth 3_l._, clothes from a warehouse, worth 22_l._, a Cheshire cheese, a pair of carriage lamps, some handkerchiefs, five shillings, some turnips, watch-chain and seals, a sheep, three and sixpence, and an invalid’s chair. This latter article, the boy assured me he had taken about the country with him, and amused himself by riding down hill.

Their places of amusement consisted, they told me, of the following: The Britannia Saloon, the City Theatre, the Albert Saloon, the Standard Saloon, the Surrey and Victoria Theatres when they could afford it, the Penny Negroes, and the Earl of Effingham concerts.

Four frequenters of that room had been transported, and yet the house had been open only as many years, and of the associates and companions of those present, no less than 40 had left the country in the same manner. The names of some of these were curious. I subjoin a few of them. The Banger, The Slasher, The Spider, Flash Jim, White-coat Mushe, Lankey Thompson, Tom Sales [he was hung], and Jack Sheppard.

Of the fifty-five congregated, two had signed the temperance pledge, and kept it. The rest confessed to getting drunk occasionally, but not making a practice of it. Indeed, it is generally allowed that, as a class, the young pickpockets are rather temperate than otherwise; so that here, at least, we cannot assert that drink is the cause of the crime. Nor can their various propensities be ascribed to ignorance, for we have seen that out of 55 individuals 40 could read and write, while 4 could read. It should be remembered, at the same time, that out of the 55 men only 34 were thieves. Neither can the depravity of their early associations be named as the cause of their delinquencies, for we have seen that, as a class, their fathers are men rather well to do in the world. Indeed their errors seem to have rather a physical than either an intellectual or a moral cause. They seem to be naturally of an erratic and self-willed temperament, objecting to the restraints of home, and incapable of continuous application to any one occupation whatsoever. They are essentially the idle and the vagabond; and they seem generally to attribute the commencement of their career to harsh government at home.

According to the Report of the Constabulary Force Commissioners, there were in the metropolis in 1839, 221 of such houses as the one at present described, and each of these houses harboured daily, upon an average, no less than eleven of such characters as the foregoing, making in all a total of 2431 vagrants and pickpockets sheltered by the proprietors of the low lodging-houses of London. The above twopenny lodging-house has, on an average, from fifty to sixty persons sleeping in it nightly, yielding an income of nearly 3_l._ per week. The three-penny lodging-houses in the same neighbourhood average from fifteen to twenty persons per night, and produce a weekly total of from 20_s._ to 25_s._ profit, the rent of the houses at the same time being only from 5_s._ to 6_s._ per week.

There is still one question worthy of consideration. Does the uncertainty of dock labour generate thieves and vagabonds, or do the thieves and vagabonds crowd round the docks so as to be able to gain a day’s work when unable to thieve? According to returns of the metropolitan police force, the value of the property stolen in this district in the year 1848 was 2007_l._, of which only 365_l._ were recovered. The number of robberies was 521, the average amount of each robbery being 3_l._ 17_s._ 0-1/2_d._ The amount recovered averaged 14_s._ on each robbery.

ON THE TRANSIT OF GREAT BRITAIN AND THE METROPOLIS.

As the entire transit system of Great Britain, with all its railroads, turnpike-roads, canals, and navigable rivers, converges on London, I propose to make it the subject of the present section, by way of introduction to my inquiry into the condition of the metropolitan labourers connected therewith.

“There is a very great amount of labour employed,” says Mr. Stewart Mill, “not only in bringing a product into existence, but in rendering it, when in existence, accessible to those for whose use it is intended. Many important classes of labourers find their sole employment in some functions of this kind. There is the whole class of carriers by land and water--waggoners, bargemen, sailors, wharfmen, porters, railway officials, and the like. Good roads,” continues the same eminent authority, “are equivalent to good tools, and railways and canals are virtually a diminution of the cost of production of all things sent to market by them.”

In order to give the public as comprehensive an idea of this subject as possible, and to show its vastness and importance to the community, I shall, before entering upon the details of that part of it which more immediately concerns me; viz. the transit from and to the different parts of the metropolis, and the condition and earnings of the people connected therewith--I shall, I say, furnish an account of the extent of the external and internal transit of this country generally. Of the provisions for the internal transit I shall speak in due course--first speaking of the grand medium for carrying on the traffic of Great Britain with the world, and showing how, within the capital of an island which is a mere speck on the map of the earth, is centered and originated, planned and executed, so vast a portion of the trade of all nations. I shall confine my observations to the latest returns and the latest results.

THE MERCANTILE MARINE.

The number of vessels belonging to the United Kingdom was, in 1848, nearly 25,000, having an aggregate burden of upwards of 3000 tons, and being manned by 180,000 hands. To give the reader, however, a more vivid idea of the magnitude of the “mercantile marine” of this kingdom, it may be safely asserted, that in order to accommodate the whole of our merchant vessels, a dock of 15,000 square acres would be necessary; or, in other words, there would be required to float them an extent of water sufficient to cover four times the area of the city of London, while the whole population of Birmingham would be needed to man them. But, besides the 20,000 and odd British, with their 180,000 men, that are thus engaged in conveying the treasures of other lands to our own, there are upwards of 13,000 foreign vessels, manned by 100,000 hands, that annually visit the shores of this country.

Of the steam-vessels belonging to the United Kingdom in 1848, there were 1100. Their aggregate length was 125,283 feet; their aggregate breadth, 19,748 feet; their aggregate tonnage, 255,371; and their aggregate of horse-power, 92,862. It may be added, that they are collectively of such dimensions, that by placing them stem to stern, one after the other, they would reach to a distance of 23-1/2 miles, or form one continuous line from Dover to Calais; while, by placing them abreast, or alongside each other, they would occupy a space of 3-1/2 miles wide.

According to the calculations of Mr. G. F. Young, the eminent shipbuilder, the entire value of the vessels belonging to the mercantile marine of the British empire is upward of 38,000,000_l._ sterling. The annual cost of the provisions and wages of the seamen employed in navigating them, 9,500,000_l._ The sum annually expended in the building and outfitting of new ships, as well as the repairing of the old ones, is 10,500,000_l._, while the amount annually received for freight is 28,500_l._

The value of the merchandise thus imported or exported has still to be set forth. By this we learn not only the vast extent of the international trade of Great Britain, but the immense amount of property entrusted annually to the merchant-seaman. It would, perhaps, hardly be credited, that the value of the articles which our mercantile marine is engaged in transporting to and from the shores of this kingdom, amounts to upwards of one hundred million pounds sterling.

Such, then, is the extent of the external transit of this country. There is scarcely a corner of the earth that is not visited by our vessels, and the special gifts and benefits conferred upon the most distant countries thus diffused and shared among even the humblest members of our own. To show the connexion of the metropolis with this vast amount of trade, involving so many industrial interests, I shall conclude with stating, that the returns prove that one-fourth of the entire maritime commerce of this country is carried on at the port of London.

As a sad contrast, however, to all this splendour, I may here add, that the annual loss of property in British shipping wrecked or foundered at sea may be assumed as amounting to nearly three million pounds sterling per annum. The annual loss of life occasioned by the wreck or foundering of British vessels may be fairly estimated at not less than one thousand souls in each year; so that it would appear, that the annual loss by shipwreck amongst the vessels belonging to the United Kingdom is, on an average, 1 ship in every 42; and the annual loss of property engaged therein 1_l._ in every 42_l._; while the average number of sailors drowned amounts to 1 in every 203 persons engaged in navigation.

I now come to speak of the means by which the vast amount of wealth thus brought to our shores is distributed throughout the country. I have already said that there are three different modes of internal communication:--1, to convey the several articles coastwise from one port to another; 2, to carry them inland from town to town; and 3, to remove them from and to the different parts of the same town. I shall deal first with the communication along the coast.

In 1849, the coasting vessels employed in the intercourse between Great Britain and Ireland made upwards of 26,000 voyages, and the gross burden of the vessels thus engaged amounted to more than 3,500,000 tons. The “coasters” engaged in the carrying trade between the different ports of Great Britain in 1849, made no less than 255,000 voyages, and possessed collectively a capacity for carrying upwards of 20,000,000 tons of goods. Of the steam-vessels employed coastwise in the United Kingdom, the number that entered inwards, including their repeated voyages, was 17,800, having an aggregate burden of upwards of 4,000,000 tons, while 14,500 and odd steam-vessels, of not quite the same amount of tonnage, were cleared outwards. This expresses the entire amount of the coasting trade in connexion with the several ports of Great Britain. London, as I have before shown, has four times the number of sailing vessels, and ten times the amount of tonnage, over and above any port in the kingdom, whilst of steam-impelled coasting vessels it has but little more than one-third, compared with Liverpool.

TURNPIKE-ROADS AND STAGE-COACHES.

The next branch of my subject that presents itself in due order is the means by which the goods thus brought to the several ports of the kingdom are carried to the interior of the country. There are two means of effecting this; that is to say, either by land or water-carriage. Land-carriage consists of transit by rail and transit by turnpike-roads; the water-carriage of transit by canals and navigable rivers. I shall begin with the first-mentioned of these, viz. turnpike-roads, and then proceed in due order to the others.

The turnpike-roads of England present a perfect network of communication, connecting town with town, and hamlet with hamlet. It was only within the present century, however, that these important means of increasing commerce and civilization were constructed according to scientific data. Before that, portions of what were known as the great coaching roads were repaired with more than usual care: but until Mr. M‘Adam’s system was generally adopted, about forty years back, all were more or less defective. It would be wearisome were I to add to the number of familiar instances of the difficulties and dilatoriness of travelling in the old days, and to tell how the ancient “heavy coaches” were merged in the “fast light coaches,” which, in their turn, yielded to the greater speed of the railways.

In 1818, according to the Government Report on the turnpike-roads and the railways of England and Wales, there existed--

Miles. In England and Wales, paved streets and turnpike-roads to the extent of 19,725 Other public highways 95,104 ------- Total 114,829

Other parliamentary returns show, that in 1829 the length of only the turnpike-roads in England and Wales was 20,875 miles, or upwards of 1000 miles more than they (together with the paved streets) extended to 10 years before. In 1839, the length of the turnpike-roads and paved streets throughout England and Wales amounted to 22,534 miles, while all other highways were 96,993 miles long; making in all, 119,527 miles of road. By this it appears, that in the course of 20 years upwards of 4500 miles of highway had been added to the resources of the country. As these are the latest returns on the subject, and it is probable that, owing to the establishment of railways, there has been no great addition since that period to the aggregate extent of mileage above given, it may be as well to set forth the manner in which these facilities for intercommunication were distributed among the different parts of the country at that time. The counties containing the greatest length of turnpike-road, according to their size, were Derby, Worcester, Flint, Gloucester, Somerset, Monmouth, Stafford, Hereford, Southampton, &c., which severally contained one mile of turnpike-road to about each thousand statute acres, the average for the entire country being nearly double that amount of acres to each mile of road. Those counties, on the other hand, which contained the shortest length of turnpike-roads in relation to their size, were Anglesey (in which there were only five miles of road to 173,000 statute acres, being in the proportion of one mile to 34,688 acres); then Westmoreland, Suffolk, Essex, Norfolk, Pembroke, and Cumberland. The counties containing the greatest length of paved streets at the above period were, first, Middlesex, where there was one mile of street to every 774 acres; second, Suffolk; third, Lancaster; fourth, Warwick; fifth, Surrey; and sixth, Chester. The average number of acres to each mile of paved street was 12,734, and in the districts above specified the number of acres to the mile ranged from 3600 to 6900. Those counties, on the contrary, which contained the shortest length of streets, were Radnor and Anglesey, in which there were no paved streets whatever; Brecon, which has only one mile, and Carnarvon which has only two; whereas Middlesex, the county of the capital, has as many as 232 miles of streets extending through it. The cost of the repairs of the roads and streets in the different counties is equally curious. In Merioneth, the rate of the expenditure is 12_s._ 11-3/4_d._ per mile; in Montgomery, 1_l._ 14_s._ 2-1/2_d._; in Radnor, 1_l._ 18_s._ 1_d._; in Brecon, 2_l._ 6_s._ 6-1/2_d._; in Carnarvon, 2_l._ 10_s._ 1-3/4_d._; in Anglesey, 3_l._ 8_s._; in Cardigan, 3_l._ 3_s._ 0-1/2_d._; whereas in Middlesex the cost amounts to no less than 87_l._ 1_s._ 6-1/2_d._ per mile; in Lancashire, the next most expensive county, it is 32_l._ 2_s._ 6_d._; in the West Riding of Yorkshire it comes to 23_l._ 4_s._ 3_d._; and in Surrey, the other metropolitan county, to 19_l._ 1_s._ 1-1/2_d._; the average for the whole country being 10_l._ 12_s._ 1-1/2_d._ per mile, or, 1,267,848_l._ for the maintenance of 119,527 miles of public highways throughout England and Wales.

These roads were used for a threefold purpose,--the conveyance of passengers, letters, and goods. The passengers, letters, and parcels, were conveyed chiefly by the mail and stage-coaches, the goods by waggons and vans. Of the number of passengers who travelled by the mail and stage-coaches no return was ever made. I am indebted, however, to Mr. Porter, for the following calculation as to the number of stage-coach travellers before their vehicles (to adopt their own mode of expression) were run off the roads by the steam-engine:--

“In order to obtain some approximation to the extent of travelling by means of stage-coaches in England, a careful calculation has been made upon the whole of the returns to the Stamp Office, and the licenses for which coaches were in operation at the end of the year 1834. The method followed in making the application has been to ascertain the performance of each vehicle, supposing that performance to have been equal to the full amount of the permission conveyed by the license, reducing the power so given to a number equal to the number of miles which one passenger might be conveyed in the course of the year. For example: a coach is licensed to convey 15 passengers daily from London to Birmingham, a distance of 112 miles. In order to ascertain the possible performance of this carriage during the year, if the number of miles is multiplied by the number of journeys, and that product multiplied again by the number of passengers, we shall obtain, as an element, a number equal to the number of miles along which one person might have been conveyed; viz. 112 × 365 × 15 = 613,200. In this case the number of miles travelled is 40,880, along which distance 15 persons might have been carried during the year: but for the simplification of the calculation, the further calculation is made, which shows that amount of travelling to be equal to the conveyance of one person through the distance of 613,200 miles. Upon making this calculation for the whole number of stage-coaches that possessed licenses at the end of the year 1834, it appears that the means of conveyance thus provided for travelling were equivalent to the conveyance during the year of one person for the distance of 597,159,420 miles, or more than six times between the earth and the sun. Observation has shown, that the degree in which the public avail themselves of the accommodation thus provided is in the proportion of 9 to 15, or three-fifths of its utmost extent. Following this proportion, the sum of all the travelling by stage-coaches in Great Britain may be represented by 385,295,652 miles. We shall probably go the utmost extent in assuming that not more than two millions of persons travel in that manner. It affords a good measure of the relative importance of the metropolis to the remainder of the country, that of the above number of 597,159,420, the large proportion of 409,052,644 is the product of stage-coaches which are licensed to run from London to various parts of the kingdom.”

In this calculation the stage-coach travelling of Ireland is not included, nor is that of Scotland, when confined to that kingdom; but when part of the communication is with England it is included. Of course, only public conveyances are spoken of: all the travelling in private carriages, or post-chaises, or hired gigs, is additional.

The number of stage-coachmen and guards in 1839 were 2619; in 1840, 2507; in 1841, 2239; in 1842, 2107; in 1843, 146.

The expenditure on account of these roads in 1841 amounted to 1,551,000_l._; the revenue derived from them for the same year having been 1,574,000_l._

A great change has been induced in the character of the turnpike-roads of England. The liveliness imparted to many of the lines of road by the scarlet coats of the drivers and guards, and by the sound of the guard’s bugle as it announced to all the idlers of the country place that “the London coach was coming in,” these things exist no longer. Now, on very few portions of the 1448 miles of the turnpike-road in Yorkshire, or the 840 of Gloucestershire, is a stage-coach-and-four to be seen: and the great coaching inns by the wayside, with the tribes of ostlers and helpers “changing horses” with a facility almost marvellous, have become farmhouses or mere wayside taverns.

The greatest rate of speed attained by any of the mail-coaches was eleven miles an hour, including stoppages; that is, eleven miles notwithstanding the delay incurred in changing horses, which was the work of from one minute to three, depending upon whether any passenger was “taken up” or set down at that stage (the word “station” is peculiar to railways). If there was merely a change of horses, about a minute was consumed. The horses were not unfrequently unsuccessful racehorses, and they were generally of “good blood.” Some would run daily on the same stages 8 and 10 years. About 10-5/8 miles was an average rate for the mail, and 8-1/2 to 9 miles for the stage-coaches. They often advertised 10 miles an hour, but that was only an advertisement.

So rapid, so systematic, and so commended was the style of stage-coach travelling, that some of the great coach proprietors dreaded little from the competitive results of railway travelling. One of these proprietors on “the Great North Road” used to say, “Railways are just a bounce--all speculation. People will find it out in time, and there’ll be more coaching than ever; railways can never answer!”

So punctual, too, were these carriages, that one gentleman used to say he set his watch by the Glasgow mail, as “she passed his door by the roadside, at three minutes to ten.”

Nor is it only in the discontinuance of stage-coaches that the roads of the kingdom have experienced a change in character. Until the prevalence of railways, “posting” was common. A wealthy person travelled to London in his own carriage, which was drawn by four horses, almost as quickly as by the mail. The horses were changed at the several stages; the ostler’s cry of “first turn out,” summoning the stablemen and the postilions with a readiness second only to that in the case of the passengers’ coaches. The horses, however, were ridden by postilions in red or light blue jackets, with white buttons, light-coloured breeches, and brown top-boots, instead of being driven four-in-hand. This was the aristocratic style of travelling, and its indulgence was costly. For a pair of good horses 1_s._ 6_d._ a-mile was an average charge, and 3_d._ a-mile had to be given in the compulsory gratuities of those days to the postilion; 3_s._ a-mile was the charge for four horses, but sometimes rather less. Thus, supposing that 500 noblemen and gentlemen “posted” to London on the opening of Parliament, each, as was common, with two carriages-and-four, and each posting 200 miles, the aggregate expenditure, without any sum for meals or for beds--and to “sleep on the road” was common when ladies were travelling--would be 35,000_l._, and to this add five per cent for the turnpike-tolls, and the whole cost would be 36,750_l._; an average of 73_l._ 10_s._ for each nobleman and gentleman, with his family and the customary members of his household. The calculation refers merely to a portion of the members of the two houses of legislature, and is unquestionably within the mark; for though many travelled shorter distances and by cheaper modes, many travelled 400 miles, and with more carriages than three. No “lady” condescended to enter a stage-coach at the period concerning which I write. As the same expense was incurred in returning to the castle, hall, park, abbey, wood, or manor, the annual outlay for this one purpose of merely a fraction of the posters to London was 73,500_l._ It might not be extravagant to assert, that more than five times this outlay was annually incurred, including “pairs” and “fours,” or a total of 367,500_l._ This mode of travelling I believe is now almost wholly extinct, if indeed it be not impossible, since there are no horses now kept on the road for the purpose. I have been informed that the late Duke of Northumberland was the last, or one of the last, who, in dislike or dread of railways, regularly “posted” to and from Alnwick Castle to London.

THE RAILWAYS.

The next branch of the transit by land appertains to the conveyance of persons and goods per rail. The railways of the United Kingdom open, in course of construction, or authorised to be constructed, extend over upwards of 12,000 miles, or four times the distance across the Atlantic. The following is the latest return on the subject, in a Report printed by order of the House of Commons, the 22nd of March last:--

| | |Persons |Miles. |Chains. |employed. | | | Total length of railway open on June 30, 1849, | | | and persons employed thereon | 5447 |10-3/4 | 55,968 | | | Total length of railway in course of construction | | | on June 30, 1849, and persons employed thereon | 1504 |20-1/2 }| | | }| 103,846 | | }| Total length of railway neither open nor in | | }| course of construction on June 30, 1849 | 5132 |38-3/4 }| | | | Total length of railway authorised to be used for |------ |------ | ------- the conveyance of passengers on June 30, 1849, | | | and the total number of persons employed thereon|12,083 |70 | 159,784

There are now upwards of 6000 miles of railroad open for traffic in the three kingdoms, 549 miles having been opened in the course of the half-year following the date of the above return. At that date 111 miles of railroad were open for traffic, irrespective of their several branches. 266 railways, including branches, were authorised to be constructed, but had not been commenced.

The growth of railways was slow, and not gradual. They were unknown as modes of public conveyance before the present century, but roads on a similar principle, irrespective of steam, were in use in the Northumberland and Durham collieries, somewhere about the year 1700. The rails were not made of iron but of wood, and, with a facility previously unknown, a small cart, or a series of small carts, was dragged along them by a pony or a horse, to any given point where the coal had to be deposited. In the lead mines of the North Riding of Yorkshire the same system was adopted, the more rapidly and with the less fatigue, to convey the ore to the mouth of the mine. Some of these “tramways,” as they are called, were and are a mile and more in length; and visitors who penetrate into the very bowels of the mine are conveyed along those tramways in carts, drawn generally by a pony, and driven by a boy (who has to duck his head every here and there to avoid collision) into the galleries and open spaces where the miners are at work.

In the year 1801, the first Act of Parliament authorising the construction of a railway was passed. This was the Surrey, between Wandsworth and Croydon, nine miles in length, and constructed at a cost, in round numbers, of 60,000_l._ In the following twenty years, sixteen such Acts were passed, authorising the construction of 124-3/4 miles of railway, the cost of which was 971,232_l._, or upwards of 7500_l._ a-mile. In 1822 no such Act was passed. In 1823, Parliament authorised the construction of the Stockton and Darlington; and on that short railway, originated and completed in a great measure through the exertions of the wealthy Quakers of the neighbourhood, and opened on the 27th of December, 1825, steam-power was first used as a means of propulsion and locomotion on a railway. It was some little time before this that grave senators and learned journalists laughed to scorn Mr. Stephenson’s assertion, that steam “could be made to do twenty miles an hour on a railway.” In the following ten years, thirty railway bills were passed by the legislature; and among these, in 1826, was the Liverpool and Manchester, which was opened on the 16th September, 1830--an opening rendered as lamentable as it is memorable by the death of Mr. Huskisson. In 1834, seven railway bills were passed; ten in 1835; twenty-six in 1836; eleven in 1837; one in 1838; three in 1839; none again till 1843, and then only one--the Northampton and Peterborough, which extends along 44-1/2 miles, and which cost 429,409_l._ The mass of the other railways have been constructed, or authorised, and the Acts of Parliament authorising their construction shelved, since the close of 1843. I find no official returns of the dates of the several enactments.

The following statement, in averages of four years, shows the amount of the sums which Parliament authorised the various companies to raise from 1822 to 1845. Upwards of one-half of the amount of the aggregate sum expended in 1822-6 was spent on the Manchester and Liverpool Railway, 1,832,375_l._ The cost of the Stockton and Darlington, (450,000_l._), is also included:

From 1822 to 1825 inclusive £451,465 „ 1826 „ 1829 „ 816,846 „ 1830 „ 1833 „ 2,157,136 „ 1834 „ 1837 „ 10,880,431 „ 1838 „ 1841 „ 3,614,428 „ 1842 „ 1845 „ 20,895,128

Of these years, 1845 presents the era when the rage for railway speculation was most strongly manifested, as in that year the legislature sanctioned the raising, by new railway companies, of no less than 59,613,536_l._ more than the imperial taxes levied in the United Kingdom, while in 1844 the amount so sanctioned was 14,793,994_l._ The total sum to be raised for railway purposes for the last twenty years of the above dates was 153,455,837_l._, with a yearly average of 7,672,792_l._ For the four years preceding the yearly average was but 112,866_l._

The parliamentary expenses attending the incorporation of sixteen of the principal railway companies were 683,498_l._, or an average per railway of 42,718_l._ It will be seen from the following table, that the greatest amount thus expended was on the incorporation of the Great Western. On that undertaking an outlay not much short of 90,000_l._ was incurred, before a foot of sod could be raised by the spade of the “navvy.”

Birmingham and Gloucester £22,618 Bristol and Gloucester 25,589 Bristol and Exeter 18,592 Eastern Counties 39,171 Great Western 89,197 Great North of England 20,526 Grand Junction 22,757 Glasgow, Paisley, and Greenock 23,481 London and Birmingham 72,868 London and South-Western 41,467 Manchester and Leeds 49,166 Midland Counties 28,776 North Midland 41,349 Northern and Eastern 74,166 Sheffield, Ashton, and Manchester 31,473 South-Eastern 82,292

It must be borne in mind that these large sums were all for parliamentary expenses alone, and were merely the disbursements of the railway proprietors, whose applications to Parliament were successful. Probably as large an amount was expended in opposition to the several bills, and in the fruitless advocacy of rival companies. Thus above a million and a-quarter of pounds sterling was spent as a preliminary outlay.

Of the railway lines, the construction of the Great Western, 117-1/2 miles in length, was the most costly, entailing an expenditure of nearly eight millions; the London and Birmingham, 112-1/2 miles, cost 6,073,114_l._; the South-Eastern, 66 miles, 4,306,478_l._; the Manchester and Leeds, 53 miles, 3,372,240_l._; the Eastern Counties, 51 miles, 2,821,790_l._; the Glasgow, Paisley, Kilmarnock, and Ayr, 57-1/2 miles, 1,071,263_l._; an amount which was exceeded by the outlay on only the 3-1/2 miles of the London and Blackwall, first opened, which cost 1,078,851_l._ I ought to mention, that the lengths in miles are those of the portions first opened to the public in the respective lines, and first authorised by parliamentary enactments. “Junctions,” “continuations,” and the blending of companies, have been subsequent measures, entailing, of course, proportionate outlay. The length of line of the Great Western, for instance, with its immediate branches, opened on the 30th of June, 1849, was 225 miles; that of the South-Eastern, 144 miles; and that of the Eastern Counties, 309 miles. It is stated in Mr. Knight’s “British Almanac” for the current year, that the “London and North-Western is almost the only company which has maintained in 1849 the same dividend even as in the preceding year, viz. seven per cent. The Great Western, the Midland, the Lancashire and Yorkshire, the York and Newcastle, the York and North Midland, the Eastern Counties, the South-Eastern, the South-Western, Brighton, the Manchester and Lincolnshire, all have suffered a decided diminution of dividend. These ten great companies, whose works up to the present time have cost over one hundred millions sterling, have on an average declared for the half year ending in the summer of 1849, a dividend on the regular non-guaranteed shares of between three and four per cent per annum. The remaining companies, about sixty in number, can hardly have reached an average of two per cent per annum in the same half year.”

The following Table gives the latest returns of railway traffic from 1845. Previous to that date no such returns were published in parliamentary papers:--

COMPARATIVE STATEMENT OF THE TRAFFIC ON ALL THE RAILWAYS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM FOR THE FIVE YEARS ENDING JUNE 30, 1845, 1846, 1847, 1848, 1849, TOGETHER WITH THE LENGTH OF RAILWAY OPEN ON DECEMBER 31 AND JUNE 30 IN EACH YEAR.

------------------------------------------------------------- | Length | | | | open on | Total | | | June 30 | Number of | Total Receipts from | | in each | Passengers.| Passengers. | | year. | | | --------------|---------|------------|----------------------| Year ending | Miles. | | £ s. d. | June 30, 1845 | 2343 | 33,791,253 | 3,976,341 0 0 | „ 1846 | 2765 | 43,790,983 | 4,725,215 11 8-1/2 | „ 1847 | 3603 | 51,352,163 | 5,148,002 5 0-1/2 | „ 1848 | 4478 | 57,965,070 | 5,720,382 9 1-3/4 | „ 1849 | 5447 | 60,398,159 | 6,105,975 7 7-3/4 | -------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------- | | | Receipts from Goods, | | Cattle, Parcels, | TOTAL RECEIPTS. | Mails, &c. | | | |----------------------|---------------------- | £ s. d. | £ s. d. | 2,233,373 0 0 | 6,209,714 0 0 | 2,840,353 16 6-1/4 | 7,565,569 8 2-3/4 | 3,362,883 19 6-3/4 | 1,510,886 4 7-1/4 | 4,213,169 14 5-1/2 | 9,933,552 3 7-1/4 | 5,094,025 18 11 | 11,200,901 6 6-3/4 ----------------------------------------------

This official table shows a conveyance for the year ending June, 1849, of 60,398,159 passengers. It may be as well to mention that every distinct trip is reckoned. Thus a gentleman travelling from and returning to Greenwich daily, figures in the return as 730 passengers. Of the number of individuals who travel in the United Kingdom I have no information. Thousands of the labouring classes travel very rarely, perhaps not more than once on some holiday trip in the course of a twelvemonth. But assuming every one to travel, and the population to be thirty millions, then we have two railway trips made by every man, woman, and child in the kingdom every year.

There are no data from which to deduce a precisely accurate calculation of the number of miles travelled by the 60,398,159 passengers who availed themselves of railway facilities in the year cited. Official lists show that seventy-eight railways comprise the extent of mileage given, but these railways vary in extent. The shortest of them open for the conveyance of passengers is the Belfast and County Down, which is only 4 miles 35 chains in length, and the number of passengers travelling on it 81,441. The Midland and the London and North-Western, on the other hand, are respectively 465 and 477 miles in length, and their complement of passengers is respectively 2,252,984 and 2,750,541-1/2. The average length of the 78 railways is 70 miles, but as the stream of travel flows more from intermediate station to station along the course of the line, than from one extremity to the other, it may be reasonable to compute that each individual passenger has travelled one-fourth of the entire distance, or 17-1/2 miles--a calculation confirmed by the amount paid by each individual, which is something short of 2_s._, or rather more than 1-1/4_d._ per mile.

Thus we may conclude that each passenger has journeyed 17-1/2 miles, and that the grand aggregate of travel by all the railway passengers of the kingdom will be 1,052,327,632-1/2 miles, or nearly eleven times the distance between the earth and the sun every year.

The Government returns present some curious results. The passengers by the second-class carriages have been more numerous every year than those by any other class, and for the year last returned were more than three times the number of those who indulged in the comforts of first-class vehicles. Notwithstanding nearly 1000 new miles of railway were opened for the public transit and traffic between June 1848-9, still the number of first-class passengers decreased no fewer than 112,000 and odd, while those who resorted to the humbler accommodation of the second class increased upwards of 170,000. The numerical majority of the second-class passengers over the first was:--

Year ending June, 1845 8,851,662 „ „ 1846 10,770,712 „ „ 1847 12,126,574 „ „ 1848 14,499,730 „ „ 1849 16,313,760

These figures afford some criterion as to the class or character of the travelling millions who are the supporters of the railways.

The official table presents another curious characteristic. The originators of railways, prior to the era of the opening of the Manchester and Liverpool, depended for their dividends far more upon the profits they might receive in the capacity of common carriers, upon the conveyance of manufactured goods, minerals, or merchandise, than upon the transit of passengers. It was the property in canals and in heavy carriage that would be depreciated, it was believed, rather than that in the stage-coaches. Even on the Manchester and Liverpool, the projectors did not expect to realise more than 20,000_l._ a-year by the conveyance of passengers. The result shows the fallacy of these computations, as the receipts for passengers for the year ending June, 1849, exceeded the receipts from “cattle, goods, parcels, and mails,” by 1,011,050_l._ In districts, however, which are at once agricultural and mineral, the amount realised from passengers falls short of that derived from other sources. Two instances will suffice to show this: The Stockton and Darlington is in immediate connexion with the district where the famous short-horn cattle were first bred by Mr. Collins, and where they are still bred in high perfection by eminent agriculturists. It is in connexion, moreover, with the coal and lead-mining districts of South Durham and North Yorkshire, the produce being conveyed to Stockton to be shipped. For the last year, the receipts from passengers were 8000_l._ and odd, while for the conveyance of cattle, coal, &c., no less than 62,000_l._ was paid. From their passengers the Taff Vale, including the Aberdale Railway Company, derived, for the same period, in round numbers, an increase of 6500_l._, and from their “goods” conveyance, 45,941_l._ In neither instance did the passengers pay one-seventh as much as the “goods.”

I now present the reader with two “summaries” from returns made to Parliament. The first relates to the number and description of persons employed on railways in the United Kingdom, and the second to the number and character of railway accidents.

Concerning the individuals employed upon the railways, the Table on the opposite page contains the latest official information.

Of the railways in full operation, the London and North-Western employs the greatest number of persons, in its long and branching extent of 477 miles, 35-1/4 chains, with 153 stations. The total number employed is 6194, and they are thus classified:--

Secretaries or managers 8 Engineers 5 Superintendents 40 Storekeepers 8 Accountants or cashiers 4 Inspectors or timekeepers 83 Draughtsmen 11 Clerks 775 Foremen 130 Engine-drivers 334 Assistant-drivers or firemen 318 Guards or breaksmen 207 Artificers 1891 Switchmen 363 Gatekeepers 76 Policemen or watchmen 241 Porters or messengers 1456 Platelayers 14 Labourers 30

On the Midland there were employed 4898 persons; on the Lancashire and Yorkshire, 3971; Great Western, 2997; Eastern Counties, 2939; Caledonian, 2409; York, Newcastle, and Berwick, 2731; London and South-Western, 2118; London, Brighton, and South-Coast, 2053; York and North Midland, 1614; North British, 1535; and South-Eastern, 1527. Thus the twelve leading companies retain permanently in their service 35,735 men, supplying the means of maintenance, (reckoning that a family of three is supported by each man employed) to 122,940 individuals. Pursuing the same calculation, as 159,784 men were employed on all the railways “open and unopen,” we may conclude that 739,136 individuals were dependent, more or less, upon railway traffic for their subsistence.

TOTAL NUMBER AND DESCRIPTION OF PERSONS EMPLOYED ON RAILWAYS.

----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- | | | Total number | | | and description | | | of persons | Total number | Total number | employed on all | of persons | of persons | railways (open | employed upon | employed upon | and unopen) | railways open | railways not | authorised to be | for traffic | open for traffic | used for the | on the 30th | on the 30th | conveyance of | June, 1849 | June, 1849 | passengers ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Secretaries and | | | Managers. | 156 | 142 | 298 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Treasurers. | 32 | 7 | 39 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Engineers. | 107 | 269 | 376 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Superintendents. | 314 | 419 | 733 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Storekeepers. | 120 | 182 | 302 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Accountants and | | | Cashiers. | 138 | 144 | 282 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Inspectors and | | | Timekeepers. | 490 | 821 | 1311 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Station Masters. | 1300 | --- | 1300 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Draughtsmen. | 103 | 153 | 256 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Clerks. | 4021 | 421 | 4442 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Foremen. | 709 | 1421 | 2130 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Engine Drivers. | 1839 | --- | 1839 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Assistant Engine | | | Drivers and Firemen. | 1871 | --- | 1871 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Guardsmen and | | | Breaksmen. | 1631 | --- | 1631 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Switchmen. | 1540 | --- | 1540 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Gatekeepers. | 1361 | --- | 1361 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Policemen or | | | Watchmen. | 1508 | 481 | 1989 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Porters and | | | Messengers. | 8238 | 118 | 8356 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Platelayers. | 5508 | --- | 5508 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Artificers. | 10,809 | 16,144 | 26,953 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Labourers. | 14,829 | 83,052 | 97,081 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Miscellaneous | | | employment. | 144 | 42 | 186 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+----------------- Total. | 55,968 | 103,816 | 159,784 ----------------------+---------------+------------------+-----------------

The other summary to which I have alluded is one derived from a return which the House of Commons ordered to be printed on the 8th of April last. It is relative to the railway accidents that occurred in the United Kingdom during the half-year ending the 31st December, 1849, and supplies the following analysis:--

“54 passengers injured from causes beyond their own control.

11 passengers killed and 10 injured, owing to their own misconduct or want of caution.

2 servants of companies or of contractors killed, and 3 injured, from causes beyond their own control.

62 servants of companies or of contractors killed, and 37 injured, owing to their own misconduct or want of caution.

28 trespassers and other persons, neither passengers nor servants of the company, killed, and 7 injured, by improperly crossing or standing on the railway.

1 child killed and 1 injured, by an engine running off the rails and entering a house.

2 suicide.

Total, 106 killed and 112 injured.

The total number of passengers conveyed during the half-year amounted to 34,924,469.”

The greatest number of accidents was on the Lancashire and Yorkshire: 2,793,764 passengers were conveyed in the term specified, and 17 individuals were killed and 24 injured. On the York, Newcastle, and Berwick, 15 were killed and injured, 1,613,123 passengers having been conveyed. On the Midland, 2,658,903 having been the number of passengers, 9 persons were killed and 7 injured. On the Great Western, conveying 1,220,507-1/2 passengers, 2 individuals were killed and 1 injured. On the London and Blackwall, with 1,200,514 passengers, there was 1 man killed and 16 injured. The London and Greenwich supplied the means of locomotion to 1,126,237 persons, and none were killed and none were injured. These deaths on the railway, for the half-year cited above, are in the proportion of 106 to 34,924,469, or 1 person killed to every 329,476; and the 106 killed include 2 suicides and the deaths of 28 trespassers and others. The total number of persons who suffered from accidents was 218, which is in the proportion of 1 accident to every 160,203 persons travelling; and when the injuries arising from this mode of conveyance are contrasted with the loss of life by shipwreck, which, as before stated, amounts to 1 in every 203 individuals, the comparative safety of railway over marine travelling must appear most extraordinary. Mr. Porter’s calculation as to the number of stage-coach travellers (which I cite under that head) shows that my estimates are far from extravagant.

INLAND NAVIGATION.

The next part of my subject is the “water-carriage,” carried on by means of canals and rivers. The means of inland navigation in England and Wales are computed to comprise more than 4000 miles, of which 2200 miles are in navigable canals and 1800 in navigable rivers. In Ireland, such modes of communication extend about 500 miles, and in Scotland about 350. As railways have been the growth of the present half-century, so did canals owe their increase, if not their establishment, in England, to the half-century preceding--from 1750 to 1800; three-fourths of those now in existence having been established during that period. Previously to the works perfected by the Duke of Bridgewater and his famous and self-taught engineer, James Brindley, the efforts made to improve our means of water-transit were mainly confined to attempts to improve the navigation of rivers. These attempts were not attended with any great success. The current of the river was often too impetuous to be restrained in the artificial channels prepared for the desired improvements, and the forms and depths of the channels were gradually changed by the current, so that labour and expense were very heavily and continuously entailed. “Difficulties in the way of river navigation,” says Mr. M‘Culloch, “seem to have suggested the expediency of abandoning the channels of most rivers, and of digging parallel to them artificial channels, in which the water may be kept at the proper level by means of locks. The Act passed by the legislature in 1755 for improving the navigation of Sankey Brook on the Mersey, gave rise to a lateral canal of this description about 11-1/4 miles in length, which deserves to be mentioned as the earliest effort of the sort in England. But before this canal had been completed, the Duke of Bridgewater and James Brindley had conceived a plan of canalisation independent altogether of natural channels, and intended to afford the greatest facilities to commerce by carrying canals across rivers and through mountains, wherever it was practicable to construct them.”

The difficulties which Brindley overcame were considered insurmountable until he did overcome them. In the construction of a canal from Worsley to Manchester it was necessary to cross the river Irwell, where it is navigable at Barton. Brindley proposed to accomplish this by carrying an aqueduct 39 feet above the surface of the Irwell. This was considered so extravagant a proposition that there was a pause, and a gentleman eminent for engineering knowledge was consulted. He treated Brindley’s scheme as the scheme of a visionary, declaring that he had often heard of castles in the air, but never before heard where one was to be erected. The duke, however, had confidence in his engineer; and a successful, serviceable, and profitable aqueduct, instead of a castle in the air, was the speedy and successful result. The success of Brindley’s plans and the spirited munificence of the Duke of Bridgewater, who, that he might have ample means to complete his projects, at one time confined his mere personal expenses to 400_l._ a-year--laid the foundations of the large fortunes enjoyed by the Duke of Sutherland and his brother the late Earl of Ellesmere.

The canals which have been commenced and completed in the United Kingdom since the year 1800 are 30 in number, and extend 582-3/4 miles in length.

Mr. M‘Culloch gives a list of British canals, with the number of shareholders in the proprietary of each, the amount and cost of shares, and the price on the 27th June, 1843. The Erewash, with 231 shares, each 100_l._ returned a dividend of 40_l._, each share being then worth 675_l._ The Loughborough, with only 70 100_l._ shares, the average cost of each share having been 142_l._ 17_s._, had a dividend of 80_l._ and a selling price per share of 1400_l._ The Stroudwater, with 200 shares of 150_l._, returned a dividend of 24_l._, with a price in the market of 490_l._ On the other hand, the 50_l._ shares of the Crinau were then selling at 2_l._ The 50_l._ shares of the North Walsham and Dillon were of the same almost nominal value in the market; and the shares of the Thames and Medway, with an average cost of 30_l._ 4_s._ 3_d._, were worth but 1_l._ Of the cost expended in construction of the canals of England, I have no means of giving a precise account; but the following calculation seems sufficiently accurate for my present purpose. I find that, if in round numbers the 250,000 shares of the 40 principal canals averaged an expenditure of 100_l._ per share--the result would be 25,000,000_l._, and perhaps we may estimate the canals of the United Kingdom to have cost 35,000,000_l._, or one-tenth as much as the railways.

The foregoing inquiries present the following gigantic results:--There are employed in the yearly transit of Great Britain, abroad and along her own shores, 33,672 sailing-vessels and 1110 steam-vessels, employing 236,000 seamen. Calculating the value of each ship and cargo as the value has been estimated before Parliament, at 5000_l._, we have an aggregate value--sailing-vessels, steamers, and their cargoes included--of 173,910,000_l._ Further, supposing the yearly wages of the seamen, including officers, to be 20_l._ per head, the amount paid in wages would be 4,720,000_l._

The railways now in operation in the United Kingdom extend 6000 miles, the cost of their construction (paid and to be paid) having been estimated at upwards of 350,000,000_l._ Last year they supplied the means of rapid travel to above 63,000,000 of passengers, who traversed above a billion of miles. Their receipts for the year approached 11,250,000_l._ of money, and nearly three-quarters of a million of persons are dependent upon them for subsistence.

The turnpike and other roads of Great Britain alone (independently of Ireland) present a surface 120,000 miles in length, for the various purposes of interchange, commerce, and recreation. They are maintained by the yearly expenditure of a million and a half.

For similar purposes the navigable canals and rivers of Great Britain and Ireland furnish an extent of 4850 miles, formed at a cost of probably 35,000,000_l._ Adding all these together, we have of turnpike-roads, railways, and canals, no less than 130,000 and odd miles, formed at an aggregate cost of upwards of 386,000,000_l._ If we add to this the 54,250,000_l._ capital expended in the mercantile marine, we have the gross total of more than 440,000,000 of money sunk in the transit of the country. If the number of miles traversed by the natives of this country in the course of the year by sea, road, rail, river, and canal, were summed up, it would reach to a distance greater than to the remotest planet yet discovered.

LONDON WATERMEN, LIGHTERMEN, AND STEAMBOAT-MEN.

Of all the great capitals, London has least the appearance of antiquity, and the Thames has a peculiarly modern aspect. It is no longer the “silent highway,” for its silence is continually broken by the clatter of steamboats. This change has materially affected the position and diminished the number of the London watermen, into whose condition and earnings I am now about to examine.

The character of the transit on the river has, moreover, undergone a great change, apart from the alteration produced by the use of steam-power. Until the more general use of coaches, in the reign of Charles II., the Thames supplied the only mode of conveyance, except horseback, by which men could avoid the fatigue of walking; and that it was made largely available, all our older London chroniclers show. From the termination of the wars of the Roses, until the end of the 17th century, for about 200 years, all the magnates of the metropolis, the king, the members of the royal family, the great officers of state, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the noblemen whose mansions had sprung up amidst trees and gardens on the north bank of the Thames, the Lord Mayor, the City authorities, the City Companies, and the Inns of Court, all kept their own or their state barges, rowed by their own servants, attired in their respective liveries. In addition to the river conveyances of these functionaries, private boats or barges were maintained by all whose wealth permitted, or whose convenience required their use, in the same way as carriages and horses are kept by them in our day. The Thames, too, was then the principal arena for the display of pageants. These pageants, however, are now reduced to one--the Lord Mayor’s show. The remaining state barges are but a few, viz. the Queen’s, the Lord Mayor’s, and such as are maintained by the City Companies, and even some of these are rotting to decay.

Mr. Charles Knight says in his “London:”--“In the time of Elizabeth and the first James, and onward to very recent days, the north bank of the Thames was studded with the palaces of the nobles; and each palace had its landing-place, and its private retinue of barges and wherries; and many a freight of the brave and beautiful has been borne, amidst song and merriment, from house to house, to join the masque and the dance; and many a wily statesman, muffled in his cloak, has glided along unseen in his boat, to some dark conference with his ambitious neighbour. Upon the river itself, busy as it was, fleets of swans were ever sailing; and they ventured unmolested into that channel which is now narrowed by vessels from every region. Paulus Jovius, who died in 1552, describing the Thames, says: ‘This river abounds in swans, swimming in flocks, the sight of whom, and their noise, are vastly agreeable to the fleets that meet them in their course.’ The only relics of the palatial ‘landing-places’ above alluded to, which is now to be seen, is the fine arch, or water-gate, the work of Inigo Jones, at the foot of Buckingham-street. This was an adornment of the landing-place from York House, once the town abode of the arch-bishops of that see, but afterwards the property of George Villiers, duke of Buckingham. In front of this gate, or nearly so, the Hungerford steam-boat piers are now stationed; and in place of stately barges, directed by half-a-dozen robust oarsmen, in gorgeous liveries, approaching the palace, or lying silently in wait there, we have halfpenny, penny, twopenny, and other steam-boats, hissing, spluttering, panting, and smoking.”

Moreover, in addition to the state and private barges of the olden times, there were multitudes of boats and watermen always on hire. Stow, who was born in 1525, and died at eighty years of age, says that in his time 40,000 watermen were employed on the Thames. This, however, is a manifest exaggeration, when we consider the population of London at that time; still it is an over-estimate common to old chroniclers, by whom precise statistical knowledge was unattainable. That Stow represents the number of these men at 40,000, shows plainly that they were very numerous; and one proof of their great number, down to the middle of the last century, is, that until one hundred years ago, the cities of London and Westminster had but one bridge--the old London-bridge--which was commenced in 1176, completed in thirty-one years, and after standing 625 years, was pulled down in 1832. The want of bridges to keep pace with the increase of the population caused the establishment of numerous ferries. It has been computed, that in 1760 the ferries across the Thames, taking in its course from Richmond to Greenwich, were twenty-five times as numerous as they are at present. Westminster-bridge was not finished until 1750; Blackfriars was built in 1769; Battersea in 1771; Vauxhall in 1816; Waterloo in 1817; Southwark in 1819; the present London-bridge in 1831; and Hungerford in 1844.

THE THAMES WATERMEN.

The character of the Thames watermen in the last century was what might have been expected from slightly-informed, or uninformed, and not unprosperous men. They were hospitable and hearty one to another, and to their neighbours on shore; civil to such fares as were civil to them, especially if they hoped for an extra sixpence; but often saucy, abusive, and even sarcastic. Their interchange of abuse with one another, as they rode on the Thames, down to the commencement of the present century, if not later, was remarkable for its slang. In this sort of contest their fares not unfrequently joined; and even Dr. Johnson, when on the river, exercised his powers of objurgation to overwhelm some astonished Londoner in a passing boat. During the greater part of the last century the Thames watermen were employed in a service now unknown to them. They were the carriers, when the tide and the weather availed, of the garden-stuff and the fruit grown in the neighbourhood of the river from Woolwich and Hampton to the London markets. The green and firmly-packed pyramids of cabbages that now load the waggons were then piled in boats: and it was the same with fruit. One of the most picturesque sights Sir Richard Steele ever enjoyed was when he encountered, at the early dawn of a summer’s day, “a fleet of Richmond gardeners,” of which “ten sail of apricot-boats” formed a prominent and fragrant part. Turnpike-roads and railways have superseded this means of conveyance, which could only be made available when the tide served.

The observances on the Thames customary in the olden time still continue, though on a very reduced scale. The Queen has her watermen, but they have only been employed as the rowers of her barge twice since her accession to the throne; once when Her Majesty and Prince Albert visited the Thames Tunnel; and again when Prince Albert took water at Whitehall, and was rowed to the city to open the Coal-exchange. Besides the Queen’s watermen, there are still extant the dukes’ and lords’ watermen; the Lord Mayor’s and the City Companies’, as well as those belonging to the Admiralty. The above constitute what are called the privileged watermen, having certain rights and emoluments appertaining to them which do not fall to the lot of the class generally.

The Queen’s watermen are now only eighteen in number. They have no payment except when actually employed, and then they have 10_s._ for such employment. They have, however, a suit of clothes; a red jacket, with the royal arms on the buttons, and dark trousers, presented to them once every two years. They have also the privileges of the servants of the household, such as exemption from taxes, &c. Most of them are proprietors of lighters, and are prosperous men.

The privileges of the retainers of the nobles in the Stuart days linger still among the lords’ and dukes’ watermen, but only as a mere shadow of a fading substance. There are five or six men now who wear a kind of livery. I heard of no particular fashion in this livery being observed, either now or within the memory of the waterman. Their only privilege is that they are free from impressment. In the war time these men were more than twenty-five times as numerous as they are at present; in fact they are dying out, and the last “dukes,” and the last “lord’s” privileged watermen are now, as I was told, “on their last legs.”

The Lord Mayor’s watermen are still undiminished in number, the complement being thirty-six. Of these, eight are water-bailiffs, who, in any procession, row in a boat before the Lord Mayor’s state-barge. The other twenty-eight are the rowers of the chief magistrate’s barge on his aquatic excursions. They are all free from impressment, and are supplied with a red jacket and dark trousers every two years, the city arms being on the buttons.

One of these men told me that he had been a Lord Mayor’s man for some years, and made about eight journeys a-year, “swan-hopping and such-like,” the show being, as he said, a regular thing: 10_s._ a voyage was paid each man. It was jolly work, my informant stated, sometimes, was swan-hopping, though it depended on the Lord Mayor for the time being whether it was jolly or not. He had heard say, that in the old times the Lord Mayor’s bargemen had spiced wine regularly when out. But now they had no wine of any sort--but sometimes, when a Lord Mayor pleased; and he did not always please. My informant was a lighterman as well as a Lord Mayor’s waterman, and was doing well.

Among other privileged classes are the “hog-grubbers” (as they are called by the other watermen), but their number is now only four. These hog-grubbers ply only at the Pelican stairs; they have been old sailors in the navy, and are licensed by the Trinity house. No apprenticeship or freedom of the Waterman’s Company in that case being necessary. “There was from forty to fifty of them, sir,” said a waterman to me, “when I was a lad, and I am not fifty-three, and fine old fellows they were. But they’re all going to nothing now.”

The Admiralty watermen are another privileged class. They have a suit of clothes once every two years, a dark-blue jacket and trousers, with an anchor on the buttons. They also wear badges, and are exempt from impressment. Their business is to row the officials of the Admiralty when they visit Deptford on Trinity Monday, and on all occasions of business or recreation. They are now about eighteen in number. They receive no salary, but are paid per voyage at the same rate as the Lord Mayor’s watermen. There was also a class known as “the navy watermen,” who enjoyed the same privileges as the others, but they are now extinct. Such of the city companies as retain their barges have also their own watermen, whose services are rarely put into requisition above twice a-year. The Stationers’ Company have lately relinquished keeping their barge.

The present number of Thames watermen (privileged and unprivileged) is, I am informed by an officer of the Waterman’s Hall, about 1600. The Occupation Abstract of 1841 gives the number of London boat, barge, and watermen as 1654. The men themselves have very loose notions as to their number. One man computed it to me at 12,000; another at 14,000. This is evidently a traditional computation, handed down from the days when watermen were in greater requisition. To entitle any one to ply for hire on the river, or to work about for payment, it is provided by the laws of the City that he shall have duly and truly served a seven-years’ apprenticeship to a licensed waterman, and shall have taken up his freedom at Waterman’s Hall. I heard many complaints of this regulation being infringed. There were now, I was told, about 120 men employed by the Custom-house and in the Thames Police, who were not free watermen. “There’s a good many from Rochester way, sir,” one waterman said, “and down that way. They’ve got in through the interest of members of Parliament, and such-like, while there’s many free watermen, that’s gone to the expense of taking up their freedom, just starving. But we are going to see about it, and it’s high time. Either give us back the money we’ve paid for our rights, or let us have our proper rights--that’s what I say. Why, only yesterday, there was two accidents on the river, though no lives were lost. Both was owing to unlicensed men.”

“It’s neither this nor that,” said an old waterman to me, alluding to the decrease in their number and their earnings, “people may talk as they like about what’s been the ruin of us--it’s nothing but new London Bridge. When my old father heard that the old bridge was to come down, ‘Bill,’ says he, ‘it’ll be up with the watermen in no time.’ If the old bridge had stood, how would all these steamers have shot her? Some of them could never have got through at all. At some tides, it was so hard to shoot London Bridge (to go clear through the arches), that people wouldn’t trust themselves to any but watermen. Now any fool might manage. London-bridge, sir, depend on it, has ruined us.”

The places where the watermen now ply, are, on the Middlesex shore, beginning from London Bridge, down the river, Somers Quay, Upper Custom-house Quay, Lower Custom-house Quay, Tower Stairs, Irongate Stairs, St. Katharine’s, Alderman’s Stairs, Hermitage Stairs, Union Stairs, Wapping Old Stairs, Wapping New Stairs, Execution Dock, Wapping Dock, New Crane Stairs, Shadwell Dock Stairs, King James’s Stairs, Cold Stairs, Stone Stairs, Hanover Stairs, Duke’s Shore, Limehouse Hole, Chalk Stones, Masthouse, and Horseferry. On the Surrey side, beginning from Greenwich, are Greenwich, Lower Water-gate, Upper Water-gate, George’s Stairs, Deptford Stairs, Dog-and-Duck Stairs, Cuckold’s Point, Horseferry Road, Globe Stairs, King-and-Queen Stairs, Surrey Canal Stairs, Hanover Row, Church Stairs, Rotherhithe Stairs, Prince’s Stairs, Cherry Garden, Fountain High Stairs, East Lane, Mill Stairs, Horse and Groom New Stairs, George’s Stairs, Horse and Groom Old Stairs, Pickle Herring Stairs, Battle Bridge Stairs, and London Bridge Stairs.

Above London Bridge, the watermen’s stairs or stations on the Middlesex shore are, London Bridge, All Hallows, Southwark Bridge, Paul’s Wharf, Blackfriars, Fox-under-the-Hill, Adelphi, Hungerford, Whitehall-Stairs, Westminster Bridge, Horseferry, Vauxhall, and Hammersmith. On the opposite shore are London Bridge, Horseshoe Alley, Bankside, Southwark Bridge, Blackfriars Hodges, Waterloo Bridge, Westminster Bridge, Stangate Stairs, Lambeth Stairs, Vauxhall Bridge, Nine Elms, and the Red House, Battersea. Beyond, at Putney, and on both sides of the river up to Richmond, boats are to be had on hire, but the watermen who work them are known to their London brethren as “up-country watermen”--men who do not regularly ply for hire, and who are not in regular attendance at the river side, though duly licensed. They convey passengers or luggage, or packages of any kind adapted to the burden of a boat of a light draught of water. When they are not employed, their boats are kept chained to piles driven into the water’s edge. These men occasionally work in the market gardens, or undertake any job within their power; but, though they are civil and honest, they are only partially employed either on or off the river, and are very poor. Sometimes, when no better employment is in prospect, they stand at the toll-bridges of Putney, Hammersmith, or Kew, and offer to carry passengers across for the price of the toll. Since the prevalence of steam-packets as a means of locomotion along the Thames, the “stairs,” (if so they may be called), above bridge, are for the most part almost nominal stations for the watermen. At London Bridge stairs (Middlesex side), there now lie but three boats, while, before the steam era, or rather before the removal of the old London Bridge, ten times that number of boats were to be “hailed” there. At Waterloo and Southwark bridges, a man stands near the toll-gate offering a water conveyance no dearer than the toll; but it is hopeless to make this proposition when the tide is low, and these men, I am assured, hardly make eightpence a-day when offering this futile opposition. The stairs above bridge most frequented by the watermen, are at the Red House, Battersea, where there are many visitors to witness or take part in shooting-matches, or for dinner or picnic parties.

Down the river, the Greenwich stairs are the most numerously stocked with boats. Ordinarily about thirty boats are to be engaged there, but the business of the watermen is not one-twentieth so much to convey passengers as to board any sailing vessels beating up for London, and to inquire with an offer of their services (many of them being pilots) if they can be of any use, either aboard or ashore.

The number of “stairs” which may be considered as the recognised stations of watermen plying for hire, are, as I have shown by the foregoing enumeration, 75. The watermen plying at these places, I am told, by the best-informed men, average seventy a “stairs.” This gives 525 men and boats, but that, however, as we shall presently see, presents no criterion of the actual number of persons authorised to act as watermen.

Near the stairs below bridge the watermen stand looking out for customers, or they sit on an adjacent form, protected from the weather, some smoking and some dozing. They are weather-beaten, strong-looking men, and most of them are of, or above, the middle age. Those who are not privileged work in the same way as the privileged, wear all kinds of dresses, but generally something in the nature of a sailor’s garb, such as a strong pilot-jacket and thin canvas trousers. The present race of watermen have, I am assured, lost the sauciness (with occasional smartness) that distinguished their predecessors. They are mostly patient, plodding men, enduring poverty heroically, and shrinking far more than many other classes from any application for parish relief. “There is not a more independent lot that way in London,” said a waterman to me, “and God knows it isn’t for want of all the claims which being poor can give us, that we don’t apply to the workhouse.” Some, however, are obliged to spend their old age, when incapable of labour, in the union. Half or more than one-half of the Thames watermen, I am credibly informed, can read and write. They used to drink quantities of beer, but now, from the stress of altered circumstances, they are generally temperate men. The watermen are nearly all married, and have families. Some of their wives work for the slop-tailors. They all reside in the small streets near the river, usually in single rooms, rented at from 1_s._ 6_d._ to 2_s._ a-week. At least three-fourths of the watermen have apprentices, and they nearly all are sons or relatives of the watermen. For this I heard two reasons assigned. One was, that lads whose childhood was passed among boats and on the water contracted a taste for a waterman’s life, and were unwilling to be apprenticed to any other calling. The other reason was, that the poverty of the watermen compelled them to bring up their sons in this manner, as the readiest mode of giving them a trade; and many thus apprenticed become seamen in the merchant service, and occasionally in the royal navy, or get employment as working-lightermen, or on board the river steamers.

At each stairs there is what is called a “turnway and causeway club,” to which the men contribute each 2_s._ per quarter. One of the regulations of these clubs is, that the oldest men have the first turn on Monday, and the next oldest on Tuesday, and so on, through the several days of the week, until Saturday, which is the apprentices’ day. The fund raised by the 2_s._ subscription is for keeping the causeway clean and in repair. There is also a society in connexion with the whole body of watermen, called the “Protection Society,” to proceed against any parties who infringe upon their privileges. To this society they pay 1_d._ per week each. The Greenwich watermen are engaged generally as pilots to colliers, and other small crafts.

From one of the watermen, plying near the Tower, I had the following statement:--

“I have been a waterman eight-and-twenty years. I served my seven years duly and truly to my father. I had nothing but my keep and clothes, and that’s the regular custom. We must serve seven years to be free of the river. It’s the same now in our apprenticeship. No pay; and some masters will neither wash, nor clothe, nor mend a boy: and all that ought to be done by the master, by rights. Times and masters is harder than ever. After my time was out I went to sea, and was pretty lucky in my voyages. I was at sea in the merchant service five years. When I came back I bought a boat. My father helped me to start as a waterman on the Thames. The boat cost me twenty guineas, it would carry eight fares. It cost 2_l._ 15_s._ to be made an apprentice, and about 4_l._ to have a license to start for myself. In my father’s time--from what I know when I was his apprentice, and what I’ve heard him say--a waterman’s was a jolly life. He earned 15_s._ to 18_s._ a-day, and spent it accordingly. When I first started for myself, twenty-eight years ago, I made 12_s._ to 14_s._ a-day, more than I make in a week now, but that was before steamers. Many of us watermen saved money then, but now we’re starving. These good times lasted for me nine or ten years, and in the middle of the good times I got married. I was justified, my earnings was good. But steamers came in, and we were wrecked. My father was in the River Fencibles, which was a body of men that agreed to volunteer to serve on board ships that went on convoys in the war times. The watermen was bound to supply so many men for that and for the fleet. I can’t call to mind the year, but the full number wasn’t supplied, and there was a press. Some of my neighbours, watermen now, was of the press-gang. When the press was on there was a terrible to do, and all sorts of shifts among the watermen. The young ones ran away to their mothers, and kept in hiding. I was too young then,--I was an apprentice, too,--to be pressed. But a lieutenant once put his hand on my poll, and said, ‘My fine red-headed fellow, you’ll be the very man for me when you’re old enough.’ Mine’s a very bad trade--I make from 10_s._ to 12_s._ a-week, and that’s all my wife and me has to live on. I’ve no children--thank the Lord for it: for I see that several of the watermen’s children run about without shoes or stockings. On Monday I earned 1_s._ 9_d._, on Tuesday, 1_s._ 7_d._, on Wednesday, which was a very wet day, 1_s._, and yesterday, Thursday, 1_s._ 6_d._, and up to this day, Friday noon, I’ve earned nothing as yet. We work Sundays and all. My expenses when I’m out isn’t much. My wife puts me up a bit of meat, or bacon and bread, if we have any in the house, and if I’ve earned anything I eat it with half-a-pint of beer, or a pint at times. Ours is hard work, and we requires support if we can only get it. If I bring no meat with me to the stairs, I bring some bread, and get half-a-pint of coffee with it, which is 1_d._ We have to slave hard in some weathers when we’re at work, and indeed we’re always either slaving or sitting quite idle. Our principal customers are people that want to go across in a hurry. At night--and we take night work two and two about, two dozen of us, in turn--we have double fares. There’s very few country visitors take boats now to see sights upon the river. The swell of the steamers frightens them. Last Friday a lady and gentleman engaged me for 2_s._ to go to the Thames Tunnel, but a steamer passed, and the lady said, ‘Oh, look what a surf! I don’t like to venture;’ and so she wouldn’t, and I sat five hours after that before I’d earned a farthing. I remember the first steamer on the river; it was from Gravesend, I think. It was good for us men at first, as the passengers came ashore in boats. There was no steam-piers then, but now the big foreign steamers can come alongside, and ladies and cattle and all can step ashore on platforms. The good times is over, and we are ready now to snap at one another for 3_d._, when once we didn’t care about 1_s._ We’re beaten by engines and steamings that nobody can well understand, and wheels.”

“Rare John Taylor,” the water-poet in the days of James I. and Charles I., with whose name I found most of the watermen familiar (at least they had heard of him), complained of the decay of his trade as a waterman, inasmuch as in his latter days “every Gill Turntripe, Mistress Tumkins, Madame Polecat, my Lady Trash, Froth the tapster, Bill the tailor, Lavender the broker, Whiff the tobacco-seller, with their companion trulls, must be coached.” He complained that wheeled conveyances ashore, although they made the casements shatter, totter, and clatter, were preferred to boats, and were the ruin of the watermen. And it is somewhat remarkable that the watermen of our day complain of the same detriment from wheeled conveyances on the water.

THE LIGHTERMEN AND BARGEMEN.

These are also licensed watermen. The London watermen rarely apply the term bargemen to any persons working on the river; they confine the appellation to those who work in the barges in the canals, and who need not be free of the river, though some of them are so, many of them being also seamen or old men-of-war’s men. The river lightermen (as the watermen style them all, no matter what the craft) are, however, so far a distinct class, that they convey goods only, and not passengers: while the watermen convey only passengers, or such light goods as passengers may take with them in the way of luggage. The lighters are the large boats used to carry the goods which form the cargo to the vessels in the river or the docks, or from the vessels to the shore. The barge is a kind of larger lighter, built deeper and stronger, and is confined principally to the conveyance of coal. Two men are generally employed in the management of a barge. The lighters are adapted for the conveyance of corn, timber, stone, groceries and general merchandise: and the several vessels are usually confined to such purposes--a corn lighter being seldom used, for instance, to carry sugar. The lighters and barges in present use are built to carry from 6 to 120 tons, the greater weight being that of the huge coal barges. A lighter carrying fourteen tons of merchandise costs, when new, 120_l._--and this is an average size and price. Some of these lighters are the property of the men who drive them, and who are a prosperous class compared with the poor watermen. The lightermen cannot be said to apply for hire in the way of the watermen, but they are always what they call “on the look out.” If a vessel arrives, some of them go on board and offer their services to the captain in case he be concerned in having his cargo transported ashore; or they ascertain to what merchant or grocer goods may be consigned, and apply to them for employment in lighterage, unless they know that some particular lighterman is regularly employed by the consignee. There are no settled charges--each tradesman has his regular scale, or drives his own bargains for lighterage, as he does for the supply of any other commodity. I heard no complaints of underselling among the lightermen, but the men who drive their own boats themselves sometimes submit to very hard bargains. Laden lighters, I was told on all hands, ought not, in “anything like weather,” to be worked by fewer than two men; but the hard bargains I have spoken of induce some working lightermen to attempt feats beyond their strength, in driving a laden lighter unassisted. Sometimes the watermen have to put off to render assistance, when they see a lighter unmanageable. Lighters can only proceed with the tide, and are often moored in the middle of the river, waiting the turn of the tide, more especially when their load consists of heavy articles. The lighters, when not employed, are moored alongshore, often close to a waterman’s stairs. Most master-lightermen have offices by the waterside, and all have places where “they may always be heard of.” Many lightermen are capitalists, and employ a number of hands. The “London Post Office Directory” gives the names of 175 master-lightermen. If a ship has to be laden or unladen in a hurry, one of them is usually employed, and he sets a series of lighters “on the job,” so that there is no cessation in the work. Most lightermen are occasionally employers; sometimes engaging watermen to assist them, sometimes hiring a lighter, in addition to their own, from some lighterman. A man employed occasionally by one of the greater masters made the following statement:--

“I work for Mr. ----, and drive a lighter that cost above 100_l._, mostly at merchandise. I have 28_s._ a-week, and 2_s._ extra every night when there’s nightwork. I should be right well off if that lasted all the year through, but it don’t. On a Saturday night, when we’ve waited for our money till ten or eleven perhaps, master will say, ‘I have nothing for you on Monday, but you can look in.’ He’ll say that to a dozen of us, and we may not have a job till the week’s half over, or not one at all. That’s the mischief of our trade. I haven’t means to get a lighter of my own, though I can’t say I’m badly off, and I’m a single man; and if I had a lighter I’ve no connexion. There’s very few of the great lightermen that one has a regular berth under. I suppose I make 14_s._ or 15_s._ the year through, lumping it all like.”

The lightermen who are employed in the conveyance of goods chargeable with duty are licensed by the Excise Office, as a check against the conveyance of contraband articles. Both the proprietors of the lighter and the persons he employs must be licensed for this conveyance, the cost being 5_s._ yearly. A licensed man thus employed casually by the master-lighterman is known as a jobber, and has 6_s._ a-day; the average payment of the regular labourers of the lighterman is 25_s._ a-week; but some employers, whom I heard warmly extolled as the old masters, give 30_s._ a-week. In addition to this 25_s._ or 30_s._, as the case may be, nightwork ensures 2_s._ or 2_s._ 6_d._ extra. Thus the permanent labourers under the lightermen appear to be fairly paid.

The master-lightermen, as I said before, are, according to the “Post Office Directory,” 175 in number. I am told that the number may be taken (as the Directory gives only those that have offices) at 200 at the least, and that of this number one half employ, on an average, one man each. The proprietors of the lighters who average ten hands in their employ cannot be reckoned among men working on the river, except perhaps one-fourth of their number, but of the other class all work themselves. The annual number of actual labourers in this department of metropolitan industry will thus be 125 proprietors to 1100 non-proprietors, or 1225 in all, driving 1100 lighters at the least. The bargemen, who are also employed, when convenience requires, as lightermen, are 400 or 500, driving more than half that number of barges; but in these are not included many coal-barges, which are the property of the coal-merchants having wharfs. The number of London boat-bargemen and lightermen given in the Occupation Abstract of 1841 was 1503, which, allowing for the increase of population, will be found to differ but slightly from the numbers above given.

The lightermen differ little in character from the watermen, but, as far as their better circumstances have permitted them, they have more comfortable homes. I speak of the working lightermen, who are also proprietors; and they can all, with very few exceptions, read and write. They all reside near the river, and generally near the Docks--the great majority of them live on the Middlesex side. They are a sober class of men, both the working masters and the men they employ. A drunken lighterman, I was told, would hardly be trusted twice. The watermen and lightermen are licensed by the by-laws of the City, passed for the regulation of the freemen of the Company of Master, Wardens, and Commonalty of Watermen and Lightermen of the River Thames, their widows and apprentices, to row or work boats, vessels, and other craft, in all parts of the river, from New Windsor, Berks, to Yantlet Creek (below Gravesend), Kent, and in all docks, canals, creeks, and harbours, of or out of the said river, so far as the tide flows therein. A rule of the corporation, in 1836, specifies the construction and dimensions of the boats to be built, after that date, for the use of the watermen. A wherry to carry eight persons, was to be 20-1/2 feet in length of keel, 4-1/2 feet breadth in the midships, and of the burden of 21 cwt. A skiff to carry four persons was to be 14 feet length of keel, 5 feet breadth in the midships, and 1 ton burden. The necessity of improved construction in the watermen’s boats, since the introduction of steamers caused swells on the river, was strongly insisted on by several of the witnesses before Parliament, who produced plans for improved craft, but the poverty of the watermen has made the regulations of the authorities all but a dead letter. These river labourers are unable to procure new boats, and they patch up the old craft.

The census of 1841 gives the following result as to the number of those employed in boatwork in the metropolis:--

Boat and barge-men and women 2516 Lightermen 1503 Watermen 1654 ---- 5673

The boat and barge-men and women thus enumerated are, I presume, those employed on the canals which centre in the metropolis; so that, deducting these from the 5673 labourers above given, we have 3157, the total number of boat, bargemen, lightermen, and watermen, belong to the Thames.

STEAM NAVIGATION.

I have now to speak of the last great change in river transit--the introduction of steam navigation on the river Thames. The first steamboat used in river navigation, or, indeed, in any navigation, was one built and launched by Fulton, on the river Hudson, New York, in 1807. It was not until eleven years later, or in 1818, that the first English river steamboat challenged the notice of the citizens as she commenced her voyage on the Thames, running daily from the Dundee Arms, Wapping, to Gravesend and back. She was called “Margery,” and was the property of a company, who started her as an experiment. She was about the burden of the present Gravesend steamers, but she did not possess covered paddle-wheels, being propelled by uncovered wheels (which were at the time compared to ducks’ feet,) projecting from the extremity of the stern. The splashing made by the strokes of the wheels was extreme, and afforded a subject for all the ridicule and wit the watermen were masters of. Occasionally, too, the steamer came into contact with a barge, and broke one or more of her duck feet, which might cause a delay of an hour or so (as it was worded to me) before a jury duck-foot could be fitted, and perhaps, before another mile was done, there was another break and another stoppage. These delays, which would now be intolerable, were less regarded at that period, when the average duration of a voyage from Wapping to Gravesend by the “Margery” was about 5-1/2 hours, while at present, with favouring wind and tide, the distance from London-bridge to Gravesend, thirty-one miles by water, is done in less than one hour and a half. The fares by the first river steamer were 3_s._ for the best, and 2_s._ 6_d._ for the fore cabin. Sailing-packets, at that time, ran from the Dundee Arms to Gravesend, the fare being 1_s._ 6_d._; and these vessels were sometimes a day, and sometimes a day and a-half in accomplishing the distance. The first river steamboat, after running less than three months of the summer, was abandoned as a failure. A favourite nickname, given by the watermen and the river-side idlers to the unfortunate “Margery” was “the Yankee Torpedo.” About that time there had been an explosion of an American steamer, named the “Torpedo,” with loss of life, and the epithet, doubtless, had an influence in deterring the timid from venturing on a voyage down the Thames in so dangerous a vessel. The construction of the “Margery” was, moreover, greatly inferior to the steamers of the present day, as when she shot off her steam she frequently shot off boiling water along with it. One waterman told me that he had his right hand so scalded by the hot water, as he was near the “Margery,” in his boat, that it was disabled for a week.

In the following summer another steamer was started by another company--the “Old Thames.” The “Old Thames” had paddle-wheels, as in the present build, her speed was better by about one mile in ten than that of her predecessor, and her success was greater. She ran the same route, at the same prices, until the “Majestic,” the third river steamer, was started in the same year by a rival company, and the fares were reduced to 2_s._ 6_d._ and 2_s._ The “Majestic” ran from the Tower to Gravesend. At this time, and twenty years afterwards, the watermen had to convey passengers in boats to and from the steamers, as one of the watermen has stated in the narrative I have given. This was an additional source of employment to them, and led to frequent quarrels among them as to their terms in conveying passengers and luggage; and these quarrels led to frequent complaints from the captains of the steamers, owing to their passengers being subject to annoyances and occasional extortions from the watermen. In 1820, two smaller boats, the “Favourite” and the “Sons of Commerce” were started, and the distance was accomplished in half the time. It was not until 1830, however, that steam navigation became at all general above bridge.

The increase of the river steamboats from 1820 is evinced by the following Table:--

Number of Number Years. River Steamers. of Voyages. 1820 4 227 1830 20 2344 1835 43 8843

Thus we have an increase in the ten years from 1820 to 1830 of 16 steamers; and in the five years from 1830 to 1835, of 23 over the number employed in 1830; and of 39 over the number of 1820.

During the next thirty years--that is from 1820 to 1850,--there was an increase of 65 steamers.

The diminution in the time occupied by the river steamboats in executing their voyages, is quite as remarkable as the increase in their numbers. In 1820, four boats performed 227 voyages; or presuming that they ran, at that period, 26 weeks in the year, 56-3/4 voyages each, or about two a-week. In 1830, following the same calculation, 20 steamers accomplished 2344 voyages, being 117 each, or between 4 and 5 voyages a-week. In 1835, 43 steamers made 8843 voyages, being 205 voyages each, or about 8 a-week. During this time some of the steamers going the longer distances, such as to Richmond, Gravesend, &c. ran only one, two, or three days in the week, which accounts for the paucity of voyages compared with the number of vessels.

In 1820, only 227 voyages were accomplished during the season of twenty-six weeks; in 1850, half that number of voyages were accomplished daily during a similar term, and during the whole of that term the river steamboats conveyed 27,955,200 passengers. The amount expended in this mode of transit exceeds a quarter of a million sterling, or upwards of half-a-crown a-head for the entire metropolitan population.

The consequences of the increase of steam-navigation commanded the attention of Parliament in the year 1831, when voluminous evidence was taken before a Committee of the House of Commons, but no legislative enactments followed, the management of the steam traffic, as well as that of all other river traffic, being left in the hands of the Navigation Committee of the Corporation of London, of the composition of which body I have already spoken. “Collisions have taken place,” said Sir John Hall, in 1836; “barges, boats, and craft, have been swamped, and valuable property destroyed, from the crowded and narrow space of the passage through the Pool; and human life has, in some instances, also fallen a sacrifice from such collisions, and in others, from the effect of the undulations of the water produced by the action of the paddle-wheels of the steamboats,--circumstances which have been aggravated by the unnecessary velocity with which some of those vessels have been occasionally propelled.” The returns laid before Parliament show three deaths, in 1834, attributable to steam craft. In the year 1835, the number of deaths from the same causes was no less than ten. In all these cases inquests were held. In 1834, the number of deaths, from all causes, whether of accident or suicide on the river, as investigated by the coroner, was fifty-four; the deaths caused by steamboats being one-eighteenth that number; while, in 1835, the deaths from all causes were forty-one, the steamboats having occasioned loss of life to nearly one-fourth of that number.

To obviate the danger and risk to boats, it was suggested to the committee that the steamers should not be propelled beyond a certain rate, and that an indicator should be placed on board, which, by recording the number of revolutions of the paddle-wheels, should show the speed of the steam-vessel, while excessive speed, when thus detected, was to entail punishment. It was shown, however, that the number of times the wheel revolves affords no criterion of the speed of the vessel, as regards the space traversed in a given period. Her speed is affected by depth of water, weight of cargo, number of passengers, by her superior or inferior construction and handling, and most especially by her going with or against the tide; while, in all these circumstances of varying speed, as regards rates of progress, the revolutions of the paddle-wheels might, in every fifteen minutes, vary little in number. The tide moves, ebb and flow, on the average, three miles an hour. Mr. Rowland, the harbour-master, has said, touching the proper speed of steam-vessels on the river:--“Four miles an hour through the water against the tide, and seven with the tide, would give ample speed for the steamboats. An opportunity would thus be afforded of travelling over the ground against the tide at the rate of about four miles an hour, and with the tide they would positively pass over the ground at the rate of about seven miles.” The rate at which the better class of river steamers progress, when fairly in motion, is now from eight to nine miles an hour.

Although no legislative enactments for the better regulation of the river steam navigation took place after the Report of the Committee, accidents from the cause referred to are now unfrequent. In the present year, I am informed, there has been no loss of life on the Thames occasioned by steamboats. This is attributable to a better and clearer “water way” being kept, and to a greater efficiency on the part of the captains and helmsmen of the river steam fleet.

It is common for people proceeding from London-bridge to Gravesend to exclaim about the “crowds of shipping!” The fact is, however, that notwithstanding the great increase in the commerce and traffic of the capital, the Thames is less crowded with shipping than it was at the beginning of the century. Mr. Banyon, clerk to the Waterman’s Company, in his evidence before a Committee of the House of Commons, described himself as a “practical man twenty-two years before 1811.” He says, “There is a wonderful difference since my time. I was on the river previous to any docks being made, when all the trade of the country was laying out in the river.... The river was then so crowded that the tiers used to overlap one another, and we used to be obliged to bring up so as to prevent getting athwart hawse.” I mention this fact to show that, without the relief afforded by the docks, steam navigation would be utterly impracticable.

The average tonnage of a steam-vessel, of a build adapted to run between London and Greenwich, or Woolwich, is 70 or 80 tons; one adapted to run to Gravesend or beyond is about 180 tons; and those merely suitable for plying between London-bridge and Westminster, 40 or 50 tons. What is the number of persons, per ton, which may safely be entrusted to the conveyance of steamboats, authorities are not agreed upon. Mr. W. Cunningham, the captain of a Woolwich steamer, represented it to the committee as four or five to the ton, though he admits that five to the ton inconvenienced the passengers by crowding them. The tonnage of Mr. Cunningham’s vessel was 77; his average number of passengers, “on extreme freights,” was 200; yet he once carried 500 persons, though, by his own admission, 385 would involve crowding.

The changes wrought in the appearance of the river, and in the condition of the waterman, by the introduction of steamers, have been rapid and marked. Not only since the steam era have new boats and new companies gradually made their appearance, but new piers have sprung up in the course of the Thames from Gravesend to Richmond. Of these piers, that at Hungerford is the most remarkable, as it is erected fairly in the river; and on a fine summer’s day, when filled with well-dressed persons, waiting “for their boat,” it has a very animated appearance. A long, wooden framework, which rises into a kind of staircase at high water, and is a sloping platform at low water, connects the pier with Hungerford-bridge. At Southwark and Vauxhall bridges the piers are constructed on the abutments of an arch, and a staircase conducts the passenger to the bridge. On the north side of the river are, three at London-bridge, one at Southwark-bridge, at Paul’s-wharf (Blackfriars), Temple, Arundel-street, Waterloo-bridge, Fox-under-the-hill, George-street, Adelphi, Hungerford, Pimlico, Cadogan-pier, Chelsea, Battersea-bridge, Hammersmith, and Kew. On the other side are, two at Richmond, one at Putney, Red House, Battersea, Nine Elms, Lambeth, Westminster-bridge, and London-bridge. Below bridge, on the Middlesex side, the piers are, the Tunnel, Limehouse-hole, Brunswick, North Woolwich, and Purfleet. On the Surrey side there are two piers at Gravesend, one at Rosherville, Erith, Woolwich, East Greenwich, Greenwich, and the Commercial-docks, Rotherhithe.

The piermen at the pier belonging to the Gravesend Diamond Company (the oldest company now flourishing, as it was started in June 1828), and to others of similar character, are seven in number. At Hungerford, however, there are eleven piermen; and taking the steamboat-piers altogether, it may be safely said there are four men to each on an average, or 168 men to 42 such piers. The piermen are of three classes as regards the rates of remuneration.

The piermaster, who is the general superintendent of the station, has 35_s._ a-week; the others have 25_s._ and 21_s._ These men are not confined to any one duty; as the man who takes the tickets from the passengers one day may assist merely in mooring, or in “touting” the next--though a good touter is not often changed. The colour of the tickets is changed daily, unless a colour is “run out,” in which case another colour must be substituted until a supply can be obtained. The majority of the piermen have been watermen, or seamen, or in some way connected with river work. They are, for the most part, married men, supporting families in the best manner that their means will admit.

From a gentleman connected with a Steam-packet Company I had the pleasure of hearing a very good character of these men, while by the men themselves I was informed that they were, as a body, fairly treated, never being dismissed without reasons assigned and due inquiry. The directors of such vessels as are in the hands of companies meet weekly, and among their general business they then investigate any complaints by or against the men, who are sometimes suspended as a punishment, though such cases are unfrequent. All the men employed on board the river-steamers are free watermen, excepting those working in the engine-room. In the winter some of them return to the avocation of watermen--hiring a boat by the month or week, if they do not possess, as many do, boats of their own. In the course of my inquiries among the merchant seamen, I heard not a few contemptuous opinions expressed of the men on board the river-craft. There is no doubt, however, that the captain of a river-steamer, who is also the pilot, must have a quick and correct eye to direct his vessel out of the crowd of others about London-bridge, for instance, without collision. The helmsman is frequently the mate of the steamer--sometimes, but rarely, one of the crew--while sometimes the captain himself relieves the mate at the helm, and then the mate undertakes the piloting of the vessel. During the season, when a steam-boat is “made safe” for the night, one of the crew usually sleeps on board to protect what property may be kept there, and to guard against fire. The crew go on board about two hours before the vessel starts, to clean her thoroughly; the engineer and his people must be in attendance about that time to get the steam up; and the captain about half-an-hour or an hour before the boat leaves her mooring, to see that everything is in order.

The river-steamers generally commence running on Good Friday or Easter Monday, and continue until the 1st of October, or a little later if the weather be fine. Each steamer carries a captain, a mate, and three men as crew, with an engineer, a stoker, and a call-boy--or eight hands altogether on board. The number daily at work on the river-steamers is thus 552; so that including the piermen, the clerks, and the “odd men,” between 700 and 800 persons are employed in the steam navigation of the Thames. Calculating each voyage to average six miles, the extent of steam navigation on the Thames, performed daily in the season, is no less than 8280 miles. The captains receive from 2_l._ to 3_l._ per week; the mates, from 30_s._ to 35_s._; the crew, 25_s._ each; the call-boy, 7_s._; the engineer, from 2_l._ to 3_l._; and the stokers, 30_s._

The class of persons travelling by these steamboats is mixed. The wealthier not unfrequently use them for their excursions up or down the river; but the great support of the boats is from the middle and working classes, more especially such of the working class (including the artisans) as reside in the suburbs, and proceed by this means of conveyance to their accustomed places of business: in all, or nearly all, the larger steamers, a band of music adds to the enjoyment of the passengers; but with this the directors of the vessel have nothing to do beyond giving their consent to gratuitous conveyance of the musicians who go upon speculation, their remuneration being what they can collect from the passengers.

LONDON OMNIBUS DRIVERS AND CONDUCTORS.

The subject of omnibus conveyance is one to the importance of which the aspect of every thoroughfare in London bears witness. Yet the dweller in the Strand, or even in a greater thoroughfare, Cheapside, can only form a partial notion of the magnitude of this mode of transit, for he has but a partial view of it; he sees, as it were, only one of its details.

The routes of the several omnibuses are manifold. Widely apart as are their starting-points, it will be seen how their courses tend to common centres, and how generally what may be called the great trunk-lines of the streets are resorted to.

The principal routes lie north and south, east and west, through the central parts of London, to and from the extreme suburbs. The majority of them commence running at eight in the morning, and continue till twelve at night, succeeding each other during the busy part of the day every five minutes. Most of them have two charges--3_d._ for part of the distance, and 6_d._ for the whole distance.

The omnibuses proceeding on the northern and southern routes are principally the following:--

The Atlases run from the Eyre Arms, St. John’s Wood, by way of Baker-street, Oxford-street, Regent-street, Charing-cross, Westminster-bridge and road, and past the Elephant and Castle, by the Walworth-road, to Camberwell-gate. Some turn off from the Elephant (as all the omnibus people call it) and go down the New Kent-road to the Dover railway-station; while others run the same route, but to and from the Nightingale, Lisson-grove, instead of the Eyre Arms. The Waterloos journey from the York and Albany, Regent’s-park, by way of Albany-street, Portland-road, Regent-street, and so over Waterloo-bridge, by the Waterloo, London, and Walworth-roads, to Camberwell-gate. The Waterloo Association have also a branch to Holloway, viâ the Camden Villas. There are likewise others which run from the terminus of the South-Western Railway in the Waterloo-road, viâ Stamford-street, to the railway termini on the Surrey side of London-bridge, and thence to that of the Eastern Counties in Shoreditch.

The Hungerford-markets pursue the route from Camden Town along Tottenham Court-road, &c. to Hungerford; and many run from this spot to Paddington.

The Kentish Town run from the Eastern Counties station, and from Whitechapel to Kentish Town, by way of Tottenham Court-road, &c.

The Hampsteads observe the like course to Camden Town, and then run straight on to Hampstead.

The King’s-crosses run from Kennington-gate by the Blackfriar’s-road and bridge, Fleet-street, Chancery-lane, Gray’s-inn-lane, and the New-road, to Euston-square, while some go on to Camden Town.

The Great Northerns, the latest route started, travel from the railway terminus, Maiden-lane, King’s-cross, to the Bank and the railway-stations, both in the city and across the Thames; also to Paddington, and some to Kennington.

The Favourites’ route is from Westminster Abbey, along the Strand, Chancery-lane, Gray’s-inn-lane, and Coldbath-fields to the Angel, Islington, and thence to Holloway; while some of them run down Fleet-street, and so past the General Post-Office, and thence by the City-road to the Angel and to Holloway. The Favourites also run from Holloway to the Bank.

The Islington and Kennington line is from Barnsbury-park, by the Post-office and Blackfriars-bridge, to Kennington-gate.

The Camberwells go from Gracechurch-street, over London-bridge, to Camberwell, while a very few start from the west end of the town, and some two or three from Fleet-street; the former crossing Westminster and the latter Blackfriars-bridge, while some Nelsons run from Oxford-street to Camberwell or to Brixton.

The Brixtons and Claphams go, some from the Regent-circus, Oxford-street, by way of Regent-street, over Westminster-bridge; and some from Gracechurch-street, over London-bridge, to Brixton or Clapham, as the case may be.

The Paragons observe the same route, and some of these conveyances go over Blackfriar’s-bridge to Brixton.

The Carshaltons follow the track of the Mitchams, Tootings, and Claphams, and go over London-bridge to the Bank.

The Paddingtons go from the Royal Oak, Westbourne-Green, and from the Pine-apple-gate by way of Oxford-street and Holborn to the Bank, the London-bridge, Eastern Counties, or Blackwall railway termini; while some reach the same destination by the route of the New-road, City-road, and Finsbury. These routes are also pursued by the vehicles lettered “New-road Conveyance Association,” and “London Conveyance Company;” while some of the vehicles belonging to the same proprietors run to Notting-hill, and some have branches to St. John’s Wood and elsewhere.

The Wellingtons and Marlboroughs pursue the same track as the Paddingtons, but some of them diverge to St. John’s Wood.

The Kensall-greens go from the Regent-circus, Oxford-street, to the Cemetery.

The course of the Bayswaters is from Bayswater viâ Oxford-street, Regent-street, and the Strand, to the Bank.

The Bayswaters and Kensingtons run from the Bank viâ Finsbury, and then by the City-road and New-road, down Portland-road, and by Oxford-street and Piccadilly to Bayswater and Kensington.

The Hammersmith and Kensingtons convey their passengers from Hammersmith, by way of Kensington, Knightsbridge, Piccadilly, &c. to the Bank.

The Richmond and Hampton Courts, from St. Paul’s-churchyard to the two places indicated.

The Putneys and Bromptons run from Putney-bridge viâ Brompton, &c. to the Bank and the London-bridge railway station.

The Chelseas proceed from the Man in the Moon to the Bank, Mile-end-road, and City railway stations.

The Chelsea and Islingtons observe the route from Sloane-square to the Angel, Islington, travelling along Piccadilly, Regent-street, Portland-road, and the New-road.

The Royal Blues go from Pimlico viâ Grosvenor-gate, Piccadilly, the Strand, &c. to the Blackwall railway station.

The direction of the Pimlicos is through Westminster, Whitehall, Strand, &c. to Whitechapel.

The Marquess of Westminsters follow the route from the Vauxhall-bridge viâ Millbank, Westminster Abbey, the Strand, &c. to the Bank.

The Deptfords go from Gracechurch-street, and over London-bridge, and some from Charing-cross, over Westminster-bridge, to Deptford.

The route of the Nelsons is from Charing-cross, over Westminster-bridge, and by the New and Old Kent-roads to Deptford, Greenwich, and Woolwich; some go from Gracechurch-street, over London-bridge.

The Shoreditches pursue the direction of Chelsea, Piccadilly, the Strand, &c. to Shoreditch, their starting-place being Battersea-bridge.

The Hackneys and Claptons run from Oxford-street to Clapton-square.

Barber’s run from the Bank, and some from Oxford-street, to Clapton.

The Blackwalls run some from Sloane-street to the Docks, and the Bow and Stratfords from different parts of the West-end to their respective destinations.

I have enumerated these several conveyances from the information of persons connected with the trade, using the terms they used, which better distinguish the respective routes than the names lettered on the carriages, which would but puzzle the reader, the principal appellation giving no intimation of the destination of the omnibus.

The routes above specified are pursued by a series of vehicles belonging to one company or to one firm, or one individual, the number of their vehicles varying from twelve to fifty. One omnibus, however, continues to run from the Bank to Finchley, and one from the Angel to Hampton Court.

The total number of omnibuses traversing the streets of London is about 3000, paying duty including mileage, averaging 9_l._ per month each, or 324,000_l._ per annum. The number of conductors and drivers is about 7000 (including a thousand “odd men,”--a term that will be explained hereafter), paying annually 5_s._ each for their licenses, or 1750_l._ collectively. The receipts of each vehicle vary from 2_l._ to 4_l._ per day. Estimating the whole 3000 at 3_l._, it follows that the entire sum expended annually in omnibus hire by the people of London amounts to no less than 3,285,000_l._, which is more than 30_s._ a-head for every man, woman, and child, in the metropolis. The average journey as regards length of each omnibus is six miles, and that distance is in some cases travelled twelve times a-day by each omnibus, or, as it is called, “six there and six back.” Some perform the journey only ten times a-day (each omnibus), and some, but a minority, a less number of times. Now taking the average as between forty-five and fifty miles a-day, travelled by each omnibus, and that I am assured on the best authority is within the mark, while sixty miles a-day might exceed it, and computing the omnibuses running daily at 3000, we find “a travel,” as it was worded to me, upwards of 140,000 miles a-day, or a yearly travel of more than 50,000,000 of miles: an extent that almost defies a parallel among any distances popularly familiar. And that this estimate in no way exceeds the truth is proved by the sum annually paid to the Excise for “mileage,” which, as before stated, amounts on an average to 9_l._ each “bus,” per month, or, collectively, to 324,000_l._ per annum, and this at 1-1/2_d._ per mile (the rate of duty charged) gives 51,840,000 miles as the distance travelled by the entire number of omnibuses every year.

On each of its journeys experienced persons have assured me an omnibus carries on the average fifteen persons. Nearly all are licensed to carry twenty-two (thirteen inside and nine out), and that number perhaps is sometimes exceeded, while fifteen is a fair computation; for as every omnibus has now the two fares, 3_d._ and 6_d._, or, as the busmen call them, “long uns and short uns,” there are two sets of passengers, and the number of fifteen through the whole distance on each journey of the omnibus is, as I have said, a fair computation: for sometimes the vehicle is almost empty, as a set-off to its being crammed at other times. This computation shows the daily “travel,” reckoning ten journeys a-day, of 450,000 passengers. Thus we might be led to believe that about one-fourth the entire population of the metropolis and its suburbs, men, women, and children, the inmates of hospitals, gaols, and workhouses, paupers, peers, and their families all included, were daily travelling in omnibuses. But it must be borne in mind, that as most omnibus travellers use that convenient mode of conveyance at least twice a-day, we may compute the number of individuals at 225,000, or, allowing three journeys as an average daily travel, at 150,000. Calculating the payment of each passenger at 4-1/2_d._, and so allowing for the set-off of the “short uns” to the “long uns,” we have a daily receipt for omnibus fares of 8,439_l._, a weekly receipt of 58,073_l._, and a yearly receipt of 2,903,650_l._; which it will be seen is several thousands less than the former estimate: so that it may be safely assured, that at least three millions of money is annually expended on omnibus fares in London.

The extent of individual travel performed by some of the omnibus drivers is enormous. One man told me that he had driven his “bus” seventy-two miles (twelve stages of six miles) every day for six years, with the exception of twelve miles less every second Sunday, so that this man had driven in six years 179,568 miles.

ORIGIN OF OMNIBUSES.

This vast extent of omnibus transit has been the growth of twenty years, as it was not until the 4th July, 1829, that Mr. Shillibeer, now the proprietor of the patent mourning coaches, started the first omnibus. Some works of authority as books of reference, have represented that Mr. Shillibeer’s first omnibus ran from Charing-cross to Greenwich, and that the charge for outside and inside places was the same. Such was not the case; the first omnibus, or rather, the first pair of those vehicles (for Mr. Shillibeer started two), ran from the Bank to the Yorkshire Stingo. Neither could the charge out and in be the same, as there were no outside passengers. Mr. Shillibeer was a naval officer, and in his youth stepped from a midshipman’s duties into the business of a coach-builder, he learning that business from the late Mr. Hatchett, of Long Acre. Mr. Shillibeer then established himself in Paris as a builder of English carriages, a demand for which had sprung up after the peace, when the current of English travel was directed strongly to France. In this speculation Mr. Shillibeer was eminently successful. He built carriages for Prince Polignac, and others of the most influential men under the dynasty of the elder branch of the Bourbons, and had a bazaar for the sale of his vehicles. He was thus occupied in Paris in 1819, when M. Lafitte first started the omnibuses which are now so common and so well managed in the French capital. Lafitte was the banker (afterwards the minister) of Louis Philippe, and the most active man in establishing the Messageries Royales. Five or six years after the omnibuses had been successfully introduced into Paris, Mr. Shillibeer was employed by M. Lafitte to build two in a superior style. In executing this order, Mr. Shillibeer thought that so comfortable and economical a mode of conveyance might be advantageously introduced in London. He accordingly disposed of his Parisian establishment, and came to London, and started his omnibus as I have narrated. In order that the introduction might have every chance of success, and have the full prestige of respectability, Mr. Shillibeer brought over with him from Paris two youths, both the sons of British naval officers; and these young gentlemen were for a few weeks his “conductors.” They were smartly dressed in “blue cloth and togs,” to use the words of my informant, after the fashion of Lafitte’s conductors, each dress costing 5_l._ Their addressing any foreign passenger in French, and the French style of the affair, gave rise to an opinion that Mr. Shillibeer was a Frenchman, and that the English were indebted to a foreigner for the improvement of their vehicular transit, whereas Mr. Shillibeer had served in the British navy, and was born in Tottenham-court-road. His speculation was particularly and at once successful. His two vehicles carried each twenty-two, and were filled every journey. The form was that of the present omnibus, but larger and roomier, as the twenty-two were all accommodated inside, nobody being outside but the driver. Three horses yoked abreast were used to draw these carriages.

There were for many days, until the novelty wore off, crowds assembled to see the omnibuses start, and many ladies and gentlemen took their places in them to the Yorkshire Stingo, in order that they might have the pleasure of riding back again. The fare was one shilling for the whole and sixpence for half the distance, and each omnibus made twelve journeys to and fro every day. Thus Mr. Shillibeer established a diversity of fares, regulated by distance; a regulation which was afterwards in a great measure abandoned by omnibus proprietors, and then re-established on our present threepenny and sixpenny payments, the “long uns” and the “short uns.” Mr. Shillibeer’s receipts were 100_l._ a-week. At first he provided a few books, chiefly magazines, for the perusal of his customers; but this peripatetic library was discontinued, for the customers (I give the words of my informant) “boned the books.” When the young-gentlemen conductors retired from their posts, they were succeeded by persons hired by Mr. Shillibeer, and liberally paid, who were attired in a sort of velvet livery. Many weeks had not elapsed before Mr. Shillibeer found a falling off in his receipts, although he ascertained that there was no falling off in the public support of his omnibuses. He obtained information, however, that the persons in his employ robbed him of at least 20_l._ a-week, retaining that sum out of the receipts of the two omnibuses, and that they had boasted of their cleverness and their lucrative situations at a champagne supper at the Yorkshire Stingo. This necessitated a change, which Mr. Shillibeer effected, in his men, but without prosecuting the offenders, and still it seemed that defalcations continued. That they continued was soon shown, and in “a striking manner,” as I was told. As an experiment, Mr. Shillibeer expended 300_l._ in the construction of a machine fitted to the steps of an omnibus which should record the number of passengers as they trod on a plate in entering and leaving the vehicle, arranged on a similar principle to the tell-tales in use on our toll-bridges. The inventor, Mr. ----, now of Woolwich, himself worked the omnibus containing it for a fortnight, and it supplied a correct index of the number of passengers: but at the fortnight’s end, one evening after dark, the inventor was hustled aside while waiting at the Yorkshire Stingo, and in a minute or two the machine was smashed by some unknown men with sledge-hammers. Mr. Shillibeer then had recourse to the use of such clocks as were used in the French omnibuses as a check. It was publicly notified that it was the business of the conductor to move the hand of the clock a given distance when a passenger entered the vehicle, but this plan did not succeed. It is common in France for a passenger to inform the proprietor of any neglect on the part of his servant, but Mr. Shillibeer never received any such intimation in London.

In the meantime Mr. Shillibeer’s success continued, for he insured punctuality and civility; and the cheapness, cleanliness, and smartness of his omnibuses, were in most advantageous contrast with the high charges, dirt, dinginess, and rudeness of the drivers of many of the “short stages.” The short-stage proprietors were loud in their railings against what they were pleased to describe as a French innovation. In the course of from six to nine months Mr. Shillibeer had twelve omnibuses at work. The new omnibuses ran from the Bank to Paddington, both by the route of Holborn and Oxford-street, as well as by Finsbury and the New-road. Mr. Shillibeer feels convinced, that had he started fifty omnibuses instead of two in the first instance, a fortune might have been realised. In 1831-2, his omnibuses became general in the great street thoroughfares; and as the short stages were run off the road, the proprietors started omnibuses in opposition to Mr. Shillibeer. The first omnibuses, however, started after Mr. Shillibeer’s were not in opposition. They were the Caledonians, and were the property of Mr. Shillibeer’s brother-in-law. The third started, which were two-horse vehicles, were foolishly enough called “Les Dames Blanches;” but as the name gave rise to much low wit in équivoques it was abandoned. The original omnibuses were called “Shillibeers” on the panels, from the name of their originator; and the name is still prevalent on those conveyances in New York, which affords us another proof that not in his own country is a benefactor honoured, until perhaps his death makes honour as little worth as an epitaph.

The opposition omnibuses, however, continued to increase as more and more short stages were abandoned; and one oppositionist called his omnibuses “Shillibeers,” so that the real and the sham Shillibeers were known in the streets. The opposition became fiercer. The “busses,” as they came to be called in a year or two, crossed each other and raced or drove their poles recklessly into the back of one another; and accidents and squabbles and loitering grew so frequent, and the time of the police magistrates was so much occupied with “omnibus business,” that in 1832 the matter was mentioned in Parliament as a nuisance requiring a remedy, and in 1833 a Bill was brought in by the Government and passed for the “Regulation of Omnibuses (as well as other conveyances) in and near the metropolis.” Two sessions after, Mr. Alderman Wood brought in a bill for the better regulation of omnibuses, which was also passed, and one of the provisions of the bill was that the drivers and conductors of omnibuses should be licensed. The office of Registrar of Licenses was promised by a noble lord in office to Mr. Shillibeer (as I am informed on good authority), but the appointment was given to the present Commissioner of the City Police, and the office next to the principal was offered to Mr. Shillibeer, which that gentleman declined to accept. The reason assigned for not appointing him to the registrarship was that he was connected with omnibuses. At the beginning of 1834, Mr. Shillibeer abandoned his metropolitan trade, and began running omnibuses from London to Greenwich and Woolwich, employing 20 carriages and 120 horses; but the increase of steamers and the opening of the Greenwich Railway in 1835 affected his trade so materially, that Mr. Shillibeer fell into arrear with his payments to the Stamp Office, and seizures of his property and re-seizures after money was paid, entailed such heavy expenses, and such a hindrance to Mr. Shillibeer’s business, that his failure ensued.

I have been thus somewhat full in my detail of Mr. Shillibeer’s career, as his procedures are, in truth, the history of the transit of the metropolis as regards omnibuses. I conclude this portion of the subject with the following extracts from a parliamentary paper, “Supplement to the Votes and Proceedings, Veneris, 7º die Julii, 1843,” containing the petition of George Shillibeer.

“That in 1840, and after several years of incessant application, the Lords of the Treasury caused Mr. Gordon, their then financial secretary, to enquire into your petitioner’s case; and so fully satisfied was that gentleman with the hardships and cruel wrongs which the department of Stamps and Taxes had inflicted upon your petitioner, that he (Mr. Gordon) promised, on behalf of the Lords of the Treasury, early redress should be granted to your petitioner, either by a Government appointment adequate to the loss he had sustained, or pecuniary compensation for the injustice which, upon a thorough investigation of the facts, Mr. Gordon assured your petitioner he had fully established, to the satisfaction of the Lords of the Treasury.

“That in proof of the sincerity of Mr. Gordon, he, in his then official capacity of secretary to the said Lords of her Majesty’s Treasury, applied, in April 1841, to the then heads of two Government departments, viz. the Marquess of Normanby and the Right Hon. Henry Labouchere, to appoint your petitioner ‘Inspector General of Public Carriages,’ or some appointment in the Railway department at the Board of Trade; but these applications being unsuccessful, Mr. Gordon applied and obtained for your petitioner the promise of one of the twenty-five appointments of Receiver-General of County Courts (testimonials of your petitioner’s fitness being at the Treasury), the bill for establishing which was then in progress through Parliament.

“That shortly after your petitioner’s claims had been admitted, and redress promised by the Lords of the Treasury, Mr. Gordon resigned his situation of secretary, and on the 6th May, 1841, your petitioner again saw Mr. Gordon, who assured your petitioner that but for the fact of the miscellaneous estimates being made up and passed for that year, your petitioner’s name should have been placed in them for a grant of 5000_l._, further observing that your petitioner’s was a case of very great hardship and injustice, and assuring your petitioner that he (Mr. Gordon) would not quit the Treasury without stating to his successor that your petitioner’s case was one of peculiar severity, and deserved immediate attention and redress.”

And so the matter remains virtually at an end.

I will now give the regulations and statistics of the French omnibuses, which I am enabled to do through the kindness of a gentleman to whom I am indebted for much valuable information.

As the regulations of the French public conveyances (des voitures faisant le transport en commun) are generally considered to have worked admirably well, I present a digest of them. The earlier enactments provide for the numbering of the conveyances and for the licensing of all connected with them.

The laws which provide the regulations are of the following dates: I enumerate them to show how closely the French Government has attended to the management of hired vehicles. Dec. 14, 1789; Aug. 14, 1790; 9 Vendemiaire, An VI. (Sep. 30, 1797); 11 Frimaire, An VII. (Dec. 1, 1798); 12 Messidor, An VIII. (July 1, 1800); 3 Brumaire, An IX. (Oct. 29, 1800); Dec. 30, 1818; July 22, 1829; Aug. 1, 1829; March 29, 1836; Sep. 15, 1838, and Jan. 5, 1846. The 471st, 474th, 479th, and 484th Articles of the Penal Code also relate to this subject.

The principal regulations now in force are the following:--

The proprietors of all public conveyances (for hire) shall be numbered, licensed, and find such security as shall be satisfactory to the authorities. Every proprietor, before he can change the locality of his establishment, is bound to give forty-eight hours’ notice of his intention to remove. The sale of such establishments can only be effected by undertakers (entrepreneurs), duly authorised for the purpose; and the privilege of the undertaker is not transferable, either wholly or partially, without the sanction of the authorities. The proprietors cannot employ any conductors, drivers, or porters, but such as have a license or permit (permis de conduire, &c.). Neither can a master retain or transfer any such permit if the holder of it have left his service; it must be given up within twenty-four hours at the prefecture (chief office) of police, and the date of the man’s entering and leaving his employ must be inscribed by his late master on the back of the document. Proprietors must keep a register of the names and abodes of their drivers and conductors, and of their numbers as entered in the books of the prefecture; also a daily entry of the numbers of the vehicles in use, as engraved on the plates affixed to them, and a record of the conduct of the men to whom they have been entrusted. No proprietor to be allowed to employ a driver or conductor whose permit through ill-conduct or any cause has been withdrawn. In case of the contravention of this regulation by any one, the plying (la circulation) of his carriage is to be stopped, either temporarily or definitely. No carriage shall be entrusted to either driver or conductor, if either be in a state of evident uncleanliness (malpropreté). No horse known to be vicious, diseased, or incapable of work, is to be employed.

The conductors are to maintain order in their vehicles, and to observe that the passengers place themselves so as not to incommode one another. They are not to take more persons than they are authorised to convey, which number must be notified in the interior and on the exterior of the omnibus. They are also forbidden to admit individuals who may be drunk, or clad in a manner to disgust or annoy the other passengers; neither must they admit dogs, or suffer persons who may drink, sing, or smoke to remain in the carriages; neither must they carry parcels which, from their size, or the nature of their contents, may incommode the passengers. Conductors must not give the coachman the word to go on until each passenger leaving the omnibus shall have quitted the footstep, or until each passenger entering the omnibus shall have been seated. Every person so entering is to be asked where he wishes to be set down. All property left in the omnibus to be conveyed to the prefecture of police. It is, moreover, the conductor’s business to light the carriage lamps after night-fall.

The drivers, before they can be allowed to exercise their profession, must produce testimonials as to their possessing the necessary skill. They are not to gallop their horses under any circumstances whatever. They are required, moreover, to drive slowly, or at a walk (au pas), in the markets and in the narrow streets where only two carriages can pass abreast, at the descent of the bridges, and in all parts of the public ways where there may be a stoppage or a rapid slope. Wherever the width of the streets permits it, the omnibus must be driven at least three feet from the houses, where there is no footpath (trottoir); and where there is a footpath, two feet from it. They must, as much as possible, keep the wheels of their vehicle out of the gutters.

No driver or conductor can exercise his profession under the age of eighteen; and before being authorised to do so, he must show that his morals and trustworthiness are such as to justify his appointment. (The ordonnance then provides for the licensing, at the cost of 70c., of these officers, by the police, in the way I have already described.) They are not permitted to smoke while at their work, nor to take off their coats, even during the sultriest weather. The omnibuses are to pull up on the right-hand side of the street; but if there be any hindrance, then on the left.

The foregoing regulations (the infractions of which are punishable through the ordinary tribunals) do not materially differ from those of our own country, though they may be more stringently enforced. The other provisions, however, are materially different. The French Government fixes the amount of fare, prescribes the precise route to be observed and the time to be kept, and limits the number of omnibuses. On the 12th August, 1846, they were 387 in number, running along 36 lines, which are classed under the head of 12 routes (entreprises), in the following order:--

+------------------------+-------------+-----------+----------------+ | | | No. of | Nos. according | | Routes. |No. of Lines.|Carriages. |to the Licenses.| +------------------------+-------------+-----------+----------------+ | 1 Omnibus Orléanaises |} | | | | and Diligentes |} 13 | 151 | 1 to 151 | | 2 Dames réunies | 3 | 29 | 152 to 180 | | 3 Tricycles | 1 | 11 | 181 to 191 | | 4 Favorites | 4 | 47 | 192 to 238 | | 5 Béarnaises | 2 | 19 | 239 to 257 | | 6 Citadines | 2 | 13 | 258 to 270 | | 7 Batignolles--gazelles| 2 | 19 | 271 to 289 | | 8 Hirondelles | 2 | 30 | 290 to 319 | | 9 Parisiennes | 3 | 33 | 320 to 352 | |10 Constantines | 1 | 12 | 353 to 364 | |11 Excellentes | 2 | 15 | 365 to 379 | |12 Gauloises | 1 | 8 | 380 to 387 | +------------------------+-------------+-----------+----------------+ | | 36 | 387 | | +------------------------+-------------+-----------+----------------+

In order to prevent the inconvenience of too rigidly defined routes, a system of intercommunication has been established. At a given point (bureau des correspondances), a passenger may always be transferred to another omnibus, the conductor giving him a free ticket; and so may reach his destination, or the nearest point to it, from any of the starting-places. This system now exists, but very partially, on some of the London lines.

The number conveyed by a Parisian omnibus is fixed at 16; each vehicle is to be drawn by two horses, and is to unite “all the conditions of solidity, commodiousness, and elegance that may be desirable.” In order to ensure these conditions, the French Government directs in what manner every omnibus shall be built. Those built prior to the promulgation of the ordonnance (Aug. 12, 1846), regulating the construction of these vehicles, are still allowed to be “in circulation;” but after the 1st of January, 1852, no omnibus not constructed in exact accordance with the details laid down will be allowed “to circulate.” The height of the omnibus is fixed, as well as the length and the width; the circumference of the wheels, the adjustment of the springs, the hanging of the body, the formation of the ventilators, the lining and cushioning of the interior, the dimensions of the footsteps, and the disposition of the lamps, which are three in number.

The arrangements, where a footpath is not known in the streets of Paris, and a gutter is in existence, are tolerably significant of distinctions between the streets of the French and English capitals.

I shall now pass to the consideration of the English vehicles as they are at present conducted.

OMNIBUS PROPRIETORS.

The “labourers” immediately connected with the trade in omnibuses are the proprietors, drivers, conductors, and time-keepers. Those less immediately but still in connexion with the trade are the “odd men” and the horsekeepers.

The earlier history of omnibus proprietors presents but a series of struggles and ruinous lawsuits, one proprietor with another, until many were ruined; and then several opposed companies or individuals coalesced or agreed; and these proprietaries now present a united, and, I believe, a prosperous body. They possess in reality a monopoly in omnibus conveyance; but I am assured it would not be easy under any other plan to serve the public better. All the proprietors of omnibuses may be said to be in union, as they act systematically and by arrangement, one proprietary with another. Their profits are, of course, apportioned, like those of other joint-stock companies, according to the number of shares held by individual members. On each route one member of the proprietary is appointed (“directed”) by his co-proprietors. The directory may be classed as the “executive department” of the body. The director can displace a driver on a week’s notice: but by some directors, who pride themselves on dealing summarily, it seems that the week’s notice is now and then dispensed with. The conductor he can displace at a day’s notice. The “odd men” sometimes supply the places of the officials so discharged until a meeting of the proprietary, held monthly for the most part, when new officers are appointed; there being always an abundance of applicants, who send or carry in testimonials of their fitness from persons known to the proprietors, or known to reside on the line of the route. The director may indeed appoint either driver or conductor at his discretion, if he see good reason to do so. The driver, however, is generally appointed and paid by the proprietor, while the conductor is more particularly the servant of the association. The proprietaries have so far a monopoly of the road, that they allow no new omnibuses to be started upon it. If a speculator should be bold enough to start new conveyances, the pre-existing proprietaries put a greater number of conveyances on the route, so that none are well filled; and one of the old proprietaries’ vehicles immediately precedes the omnibus of the speculator, and another immediately follows it; and thus three vehicles are on the ground, which may yield only customers for one: hence, as the whole number on the route has been largely increased, not one omnibus is well filled, and the speculator must in all probability be ruined, while the associated proprietors suffer but a temporary loss. So well is this now understood, that no one seems to think of embarking his money in the omnibus trade unless he “buys his times,” that is to say, unless he arranges by purchase; and a “new man” will often pay 400_l._ or 500_l._ for his “times,” to have the privilege of running his vehicles on a given route, and at given periods; in other words, for the privilege of becoming a recognised proprietor.

The proprietors pay their servants fairly, as a general rule; while, as a universal rule, they rigidly exact sobriety, punctuality, and cleanliness. Their great difficulty, all of them concur in stating, is to ensure honesty. Every proprietor insists upon the excessive difficulty of trusting men with uncounted money, if the men feel there is no efficient check to ensure to their employers a knowledge of the exact amount of their daily receipts. Several plans have been resorted to in order to obtain the desired check. Mr. Shillibeer’s I have already given. One plan now in practice is to engage a well-dressed woman, sometimes accompanied by a child, and she travels by the omnibus; and immediately on leaving it, fills up a paper for the proprietor, showing the number of insides and outs, of short and long fares. This method, however, does not ensure a thorough accuracy. It is difficult for a woman, who must take such a place in the vehicle as she can get, to ascertain the precise number of outsides and their respective fares. So difficult, that I am assured such a person has returned a smaller number than was actually conveyed. One gentleman who was formerly an omnibus proprietor, told me he employed a “ladylike,” and, as he believed, trusty woman, as a “check;” but by some means the conductors found out the calling of the “ladylike” woman, treated her, and she made very favourable returns for the conductors. Another lady was observed by a conductor, who bears an excellent character, and who mentioned the circumstance to me, to carry a small bag, from which, whenever a passenger got out, she drew, not very deftly it would seem, a bean, and placed it in one glove, as ladies carry their sixpences for the fare, or a pea, and placed it in the other. This process, the conductor felt assured, was “a check;” that the beans indicated the “long uns,” and the peas the “short uns:” so, when the unhappy woman desired to be put down at the bottom of Cheapside on a wintry evening, he contrived to land her in the very thickest of the mud, handing her out with great politeness. I may here observe, before I enter upon the subject, that the men who have maintained a character for integrity regard the checks with great bitterness, as they naturally feel more annoyed at being suspected than men who may be dishonestly inclined. Another conductor once found a memorandum-book in his omnibus, in which were regularly entered the “longs” and “shorts.”

One proprietor told me he had once employed religious men as conductors; “but,” said he, “they grew into thieves. A Methodist parson engaged one of his sons to me--it’s a good while ago--and was quite indignant that I ever made any question about the young man’s honesty, as he was strictly and religiously brought up; but he turned out one of the worst of the whole batch of them.” One check resorted to, as a conductor informed me, was found out by them. A lady entered the omnibus carrying a brown-paper parcel, loosely tied, and making a tear on the edge of the paper for every “short” passenger, and a deeper tear for every “long.” This difficulty in finding a check where an indefinite amount of money passes through a man’s hands--and I am by no means disposed to undervalue the difficulty--has led to a summary course of procedure, not unattended by serious evils. It appears that men are now discharged suddenly, at a moment’s notice, and with no reason assigned. If a reason be demanded, the answer is, “You are not wanted any longer.” Probably, the discharge is on account of the man’s honesty being suspected. But whether the suspicion be well founded or unfounded, the consequences are equally serious to the individual discharged; for it is a rule observed by the proprietors not to employ any man discharged from another line. He will not be employed, I am assured, if he can produce a good character; and even if the “’bus he worked” had been discontinued as no longer required on that route. New men, who are considered unconnected with all versed in omnibus tricks, are appointed; and this course, it was intimated to me very strongly, was agreeable to the proprietors for two reasons--as widely extending their patronage, and as always placing at their command a large body of unemployed men, whose services can at any time be called into requisition at reduced wages, should “slop-drivers” be desirable. It is next to impossible, I was further assured, for a man discharged from an omnibus to obtain other employ. If the director goes so far as to admit that he has nothing to allege against the man’s character, he will yet give no reason for his discharge; and an inquirer naturally imputes the withholding of a reason to the mercy of the director.

OMNIBUS DRIVERS.

The driver is paid by the week. His remuneration is 34_s._ a-week on most of the lines. On others he receives 21_s._ and his box--that is, the allowance of a fare each journey for a seat outside, if a seat be so occupied. In fine weather this box plan is more remunerative to the driver than the fixed payment of 34_s._; but in wet weather he may receive nothing from the box. The average then the year through is only 34_s._ a-week; or, perhaps, rather more, as on some days in sultry weather the driver may make 6_s._, “if the ’bus do twelve journeys,” from his box.

The omnibus drivers have been butchers, farmers, horsebreakers, cheesemongers, old stage-coachmen, broken-down gentlemen, turfmen, gentlemen’s servants, grooms, and a very small sprinkling of mechanics. Nearly all can read and write, the exception being described to me as a singularity; but there are such exceptions, and all must have produced good characters before their appointment. The majority of them are married men with families; their residences being in all parts, and on both sides of the Thames. I did not hear of any of the wives of coachmen in regular employ working for the slop-tailors. “We can keep our wives too respectable for that,” one of them said, in answer to my inquiry. Their children, too, are generally sent to school; frequently to the national schools. Their work is exceedingly hard, their lives being almost literally spent on the coach-box. The most of them must enter “the yard” at a quarter to eight in the morning, and must see that the horses and carriages are in a proper condition for work; and at half-past eight they start on their long day’s labour. They perform (I speak of the most frequented lines), twelve journeys during the day, and are so engaged until a quarter-past eleven at night. Some are on their box till past midnight. During these hours of labour they have twelve “stops;” half of ten and half of fifteen minutes’ duration. They generally breakfast at home, or at a coffee-shop, if unmarried men, before they start; and dine at the inn, where the omnibus almost invariably stops, at one or other of its destinations. If the driver be distant from his home at his dinner hour, or be unmarried, he arranges to dine at the public-house; if near, his wife, or one of his children, brings him his dinner in a covered basin, some of them being provided with hot-water plates to keep the contents properly warm, and that is usually eaten at the public-house, with a pint of beer for the accompanying beverage. The relish with which a man who has been employed several hours in the open air enjoys his dinner can easily be understood. But if his dinner is brought to him on one of his shorter trips, he often hears the cry before he has completed his meal, “Time’s up!” and he carries the remains of his repast to be consumed at his next resting-place. His tea, if brought to him by his family, he often drinks within the omnibus, if there be an opportunity. Some carry their dinners with them, and eat them cold. All these men live “well;” that is, they have sufficient dinners of animal food every day, with beer. They are strong and healthy men, for their calling requires both strength and health. Each driver, (as well as the time-keeper and conductor), is licensed, at a yearly cost to him of 5_s._ From a driver I had the following statement:--

“I have been a driver fourteen years. I was brought up as a builder, but had friends that was using horses, and I sometimes assisted them in driving and grooming when I was out of work. I got to like that sort of work, and thought it would be better than my own business if I could get to be connected with a ’bus; and I had friends, and first got employed as a time-keeper; but I’ve been a driver for fourteen years. I’m now paid by the week, and not by the box. It’s a fair payment, but we must live well. It’s hard work is mine; for I never have any rest but a few minutes, except every other Sunday, and then only two hours; that’s the time of a journey there and back. If I was to ask leave to go to church, and then go to work again, I know what answer there would be--‘You can go to church as often as you like, and we can get a man who doesn’t want to go there.’ The cattle I drive are equal to gentlemen’s carriage-horses. One I’ve driven five years, and I believe she was worked five years before I drove her. It’s very hard work for the horses, but I don’t know that they are overworked in ’busses. The starting after stopping is the hardest work for them; it’s such a terrible strain. I’ve felt for the poor things on a wet night, with a ’bus full of big people. I think that it’s a pity that anybody uses a bearing rein. There’s not many uses it now. It bears up a horse’s head, and he can only go on pulling, pulling up a hill, one way. Take off his bearing rein, and he’ll relieve the strain on him by bearing down his head, and flinging his weight on the collar to help him pull. If a man had to carry a weight up a hill on his back, how would he like to have his head tied back? Perhaps you may have noticed Mr. ----’s horses pull the ’bus up Holborn Hill. They’re tightly borne up; but then they are very fine animals, fat and fine: there’s no such cattle, perhaps, in a London ’bus--leastways there’s none better--and they’re borne up for show. Now, a jib-horse won’t go in a bearing rein, and will without it. I’ve seen that myself; so what can be the use of it? It’s just teasing the poor things for a sort of fashion. I must keep exact time at every place where a time-keeper’s stationed. Not a minute’s excused--there’s a fine for the least delay. I can’t say that it’s often levied; but still we are liable to it. If I’ve been blocked, I must make up for the block by galloping; and if I’m seen to gallop, and anybody tells our people, I’m called over the coals. I must drive as quick with a thunder-rain pelting in my face, and the roads in a muddle, and the horses starting--I can’t call it shying, I have ’em too well in hand,--at every flash, just as quick as if it was a fine hard road, and fine weather. It’s not easy to drive a ’bus; but I can drive, and must drive, to an inch: yes, sir, to half an inch. I know if I can get my horses’ heads through a space, I can get my splinter-bar through. I drive by my pole, making it my centre. If I keep it fair in the centre, a carriage must follow, unless it’s slippery weather, and then there’s no calculating. I saw the first ’bus start in 1829. I heard the first ’bus called a Punch-and-Judy carriage, ’cause you could see the people inside without a frame. The shape was about the same as it is now, but bigger and heavier. A ’bus changes horses four or five times a-day, according to the distance. There’s no cruelty to the horses, not a bit, it wouldn’t be allowed. I fancy that ’busses now pay the proprietors well. The duty was 2-1/2_d._ a-mile, and now it’s 1-1/2_d._ Some companies save twelve guineas a-week by the doing away of toll-gates. The ’stablishing the threepennies--the short uns--has put money in their pockets. I’m an unmarried man. A ’bus driver never has time to look out for a wife. Every horse in our stables has one day’s rest in every four; but it’s no rest for the driver.”

OMNIBUS CONDUCTORS.

The conductor, who is vulgarly known as the “cad,” stands on a small projection at the end of the omnibus; and it is his office to admit and set down every passenger, and to receive the amount of fare, for which amount he is, of course, responsible to his employers. He is paid 4_s._ a-day, which he is allowed to stop out of the monies he receives. He fills up a waybill each journey, with the number of passengers. I find that nearly all classes have given a quota of their number to the list of conductors. Among them are grocers, drapers, shopmen, barmen, printers, tailors, shoemakers, clerks, joiners, saddlers, coach-builders, porters, town-travellers, carriers, and fishmongers. Unlike the drivers, the majority of the conductors are unmarried men; but, perhaps, only a mere majority. As a matter of necessity, every conductor must be able to read and write. They are discharged more frequently than the drivers; but they require good characters before their appointment. From one of them, a very intelligent man, I had the following statement:--

“I am 35 or 36, and have been a conductor for six years. Before that I was a lawyer’s clerk, and then a picture-dealer; but didn’t get on, though I maintained a good character. I’m a conductor now, but wouldn’t be long behind a ’bus if it wasn’t from necessity. It’s hard to get anything else to do that you can keep a wife and family on, for people won’t have you from off a ’bus. The worst part of my business is its uncertainty, I may be discharged any day, and not know for what. If I did, and I was accused unjustly, I might bring my action; but it’s merely, ‘You’re not wanted.’ I think I’ve done better as a conductor in hot weather, or fine weather, than in wet; though I’ve got a good journey when it’s come on showery, as people was starting for or starting from the City. I had one master, who, when his ’bus came in full in the wet, used to say, ‘This is prime. Them’s God Almighty’s customers; he sent them.’ I’ve heard him say so many a time. We get far more ladies and children, too, on a fine day; they go more a-shopping then, and of an evening they go more to public places. I pay over my money every night. It runs from 40_s._ to 4_l._ 4_s._, or a little more on extraordinary occasions. I have taken more money since the short uns were established. One day before that I took only 18_s._ There’s three riders and more now, where there was two formerly at the higher rate. I never get to a public place, whether it’s a chapel or a play-house, unless, indeed, I get a holiday, and that is once in two years. I’ve asked for a day’s holiday and been refused. I was told I might take a week’s holiday, if I liked, or as long as I lived. I’m quite ignorant of what’s passing in the world, my time’s so taken up. We only know what’s going on from hearing people talk in the ’bus. I never care to read the paper now, though I used to like it. If I have two minutes to spare, I’d rather take a nap than anything else. We know no more politics than the backwoodsmen of America, because we haven’t time to care about it. I’ve fallen asleep on my step as the ’bus was going on, and almost fallen off. I have often to put up with insolence from vulgar fellows, who think it fun to chaff a cad, as they call it. There’s no help for it. Our masters won’t listen to complaints: if we are not satisfied we can go. Conductors are a sober set of men. We must be sober. It takes every farthing of our wages to live well enough, and keep a wife and family. I never knew but one teetotaller on the road. He’s gone off it now, and he looked as if he was going off altogether. The other day a teetotaller on the ’bus saw me take a drink of beer, and he began to talk to me about its being wrong; but I drove him mad with argument, and the passengers took part with me. I live one and a half mile off the place I start from. In summer I sometimes breakfast before I start. In winter, I never see my three children, only as they’re in bed; and I never hear their voices, if they don’t wake up early. If they cry at night it don’t disturb me; I sleep so heavy after fifteen hours’ work out in the air. My wife doesn’t do anything but mind the family, and that’s plenty to do with young children. My business is so uncertain. Why, I knew a conductor who found he had paid 6_d._ short--he had left it in a corner of his pocket; and he handed it over next morning, and was discharged for that--he was reckoned a fool. They say the sharper the man the better the ’busman. There’s a great deal in understanding the business, in keeping a sharp look-out for people’s hailing, and in working the time properly. If the conductor’s slow the driver can’t get along; and if the driver isn’t up to the mark the conductor’s bothered. I’ve always kept time except once, and that was in such a fog, that I had to walk by the horses’ heads with a link, and could hardly see my hand that held the link; and after all I lost my ’bus, but it was all safe and right in the end. We’re licensed now in Scotland-yard. They’re far civiller there than in Lancaster-place. I hope, too, they’ll be more particular in granting licenses. They used to grant them day after day, and I believe made no inquiry. It’ll be better now. I’ve never been fined: if I had I should have to pay it out of my own pocket. If you plead guilty it’s 5_s._ If not, and it’s very hard to prove that you did display your badge properly if the City policeman--there’s always one on the look-out for us--swears you didn’t, and summons you for that: or, if you plead not guilty, because you weren’t guilty, you may pay 1_l._ I don’t know of the checks now; but I know there are such people. A man was discharged the other day because he was accused of having returned three out of thirteen short. He offered to make oath he was correct; but it was of no use--he went.”

OMNIBUS TIMEKEEPERS.

Another class employed in the omnibus trade are the timekeepers. On some routes there are five of these men, on others four. The timekeeper’s duty is to start the omnibus at the exact moment appointed by the proprietors, and to report any delay or irregularity in the arrival of the vehicle. His hours are the same as those of the drivers and conductors, but as he is stationary his work is not so fatiguing. His remuneration is generally 21_s._ a week, but on some stations more. He must never leave the spot. A timekeeper on Kennington Common has 28_s._ a week. He is employed 16 hours daily, and has a box to shelter him from the weather when it is foul. He has to keep time for forty ’busses. The men who may be seen in the great thoroughfares noting every omnibus that passes, are not timekeepers; they are employed by Government, so that no omnibus may run on the line without paying the duty.

A timekeeper made the following statement to me:--

“I was a grocer’s assistant, but was out of place and had a friend who got me a timekeeper’s office. I have 21_s._ a week. Mine’s not hard work, but it’s very tiring. You hardly ever have a moment to call your own. If we only had our Sundays, like other working-men, it would be a grand relief. It would be very easy to get an odd man to work every other Sunday, but masters care nothing about Sundays. Some ’busses do stop running from 11 to 1, but plenty keep running. Sometimes I am so tired of a night that I dare hardly sit down, for fear I should fall asleep and lose my own time, and that would be to lose my place. I think timekeepers continue longer in their places than the others. We have nothing to do with money-taking. I’m a single man, and get all my meals at the ---- Inn. I dress my own dinners in the tap-room. I have my tea brought to me from a coffee-shop. I can’t be said to have any home--just a bed to sleep in, as I’m never ten minutes awake in the house where I lodge.”

The “odd men” are, as their name imports, the men who are employed occasionally, or, as they term it, “get odd jobs.” These form a considerable portion of the unemployed. If a driver be ill, or absent to attend a summons, or on any temporary occasion, the odd man is called upon to do the work. For this the odd man receives 10_d._ a journey, to and fro. One of them gave me the following account:--“I was brought up to a stable life, and had to shift for myself when I was 17, as my parents died then. It’s nine years ago. For two or three years, till this few months, I drove a ’bus. I was discharged with a week’s notice, and don’t know for what--it’s no use asking for a reason: I wasn’t wanted. I’ve been put to shifts since then, and almost everything’s pledged that could be pledged. I had a decent stock of clothes, but they’re all at my uncle’s. Last week I earned 3_s._ 4_d._, the week before 1_s._ 8_d._, but this week I shall do better, say 5_s._ I have to pay 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for my garret. I’m a single man, and have nothing but a bed left in it now. I did live in a better place. If I didn’t get a bite and sup now and then with some of my old mates I think I couldn’t live at all. Mine’s a wretched life, and a very bad trade.”

HACKNEY-COACH AND CABMEN.

I have now described the earnings and conditions of the drivers and conductors of the London omnibuses, and I proceed, in due order, to treat of the Metropolitan Hackney-coach and Cabmen. In official language, an omnibus is “a Metropolitan Stage-carriage,” and a “cab” a “Metropolitan Hackney” one: the legal distinction being that the stage-carriages pursue a given route, and the passengers are mixed, while the fare is fixed by the proprietor; whereas the hackney-carriage plies for hire at an appointed “stand,” carries no one but the party hiring it, and the fare for so doing is regulated by law. It is an offence for the omnibus to stand still and ply for hire, whereas the driver of the cab is liable to be punished if he ply for hire while his vehicle is moving.

According to the Occupation Abstract of 1841, the number of “Coachmen, Coach-guards, and Postboys” in Great Britain at that time was 14,469, of whom 13,013 were located in England, 1123 in Scotland, 295 in Wales, and only 138 in the whole of the British Isles. The returns for the metropolis were as follows:--

Coach, cab, and omnibus owners 650 Coachmen, coach and omnibus guards, and postboys 5428 Grooms and ostlers 2780 Horse-dealers and trainers 246 ---- Total 9104

In 1831 the number of “coachowners, drivers, grooms, &c.,” was only 1322, and the “horse-dealers, stable, hackney-coach, or fly-keepers,” 655, or 2047 in all; so that, assuming these returns to be correct, it follows that this class must have increased 7027, or more than quadrupled itself in ten years.

The returns since the above-mentioned periods, however, show a still more rapid extension of the class. For these I am again indebted to the courtesy of the Commissioners of Police, for whose consideration and assistance I have again to tender my warmest thanks.

A RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF PERSONS LICENSED AS HACKNEY-DRIVERS, STAGE-DRIVERS, CONDUCTORS, AND WATERMEN, FROM THE YEARS 1843 TO 1850.

---------+----------+----------+-------------+-----------+--------- | Hackney | Stage | | | Year. | Drivers. | Drivers. | Conductors. | Watermen. | Total. ---------+----------+----------+-------------+-----------+--------- 1843 | 4,627 | 1,740 | 1,854 | 371 | 8,592 1844 | 4,927 | 1,833 | 1,961 | 390 | 9,111 1845 | 5,199 | 1,825 | 1,930 | 363 | 9,317 1846 | 5,356 | 1,865 | 2,051 | 354 | 9,626 1847 | 5,109 | 1,830 | 2,009 | 342 | 9,290 1848 | 5,231 | 1,736 | 2,017 | 352 | 9,836 1849 | 5,487 | 1,731 | 2,026 | 375 | 9,619 1850[34]| 5,114 | 1,463 | 1,484 | 352 | 8,413 ---------+----------+----------+-------------+-----------+--------- Totals | 41,050 | 14,023 | 17,332 | 2,899 | 73,804 ---------+----------+----------+-------------+-----------+---------

[34] From 1st May to 4th September, inclusive.

By this it will be seen that the drivers and conductors of the metropolitan stage and hackney carriages were in 1849 no less than 9619, whereas in 1841, including coachmen of all kinds, guards and postboys, there were only 5428 in the metropolis; so that within the last ten years the class, at the very least, must have more than doubled itself.

HACKNEY-COACHES AND CABS.

I shall now proceed to give an account of the rise and progress of the London hackney-cabs, as well as the decline and fall of the London hackney-coaches.

Nearly all the writers on the subject state that hackney-coaches were first established in London in 1625; that they were not then stationed in the streets, but at the principal inns, and that their number grew to be considerable after the Restoration. There seems to be no doubt that these conveyances were first kept at the inns, and sent out when required--as post-chaises were, and are still, in country towns. It may very well be doubted, however, whether the year 1625 has been correctly fixed upon as that in which hackney-carriages were established in London. It is so asserted in Macpherson’s “Annals of Commerce,” but it is thus loosely and vaguely stated: “Our historiographers of the city of London relate that it was in this year (1625) that hackney-coaches first began to ply in London streets, or rather at the inns, to be called for as they are wanted; and they were, at this time, only twenty in number.” One of the City “historiographers,” however, if so he may be called, makes a very different statement. John Taylor, the waterman and the water-poet, says in 1623 (two years before the era usually assigned), “I do not inveigh against any coaches that belong to persons of worth and quality, but only against the caterpillar swarm of hirelings. They have undone my poor trade, whereof I am a member; and though I look for no reformation, yet I expect the benefit of an old proverb, ‘Give the losers leave to speak.’... This infernal swarm of tradespellers (hackney-coachmen) have so overrun the land that we can get no living upon the water; for I dare truly affirm that in every day in any term, especially if the Court be at Whitehall, they do rob us of our livings, and carry 500 fares daily from us.”

Of the establishment of hackney-coach “stands,” we have a more precise account. The Rev. Mr. Garrard, writing to Lord Stafford in 1638, says, “Here is one Captain Baily, he hath been a sea-captain but now lives on land, about this city, where he tries experiments. He hath erected, according to his ability, some four hackney-coaches, put his men in livery, and appointed them to stand at the Maypole in the Strand, giving them instructions at what rate to carry men into several parts of the town, where all day they may be had. Other hackney-men, seeing this way, they flocked to the same place, and perform the journeys at the same rate. So that sometimes there is twenty of them together, which disperse up and down, that they and others are to be had everywhere, as watermen are to be had at the water-side. Everybody is much pleased with it.” The site of the Maypole that once “o’erlooked the Strand,” is now occupied by St. Mary’s church.

There were after this many regulations passed for the better management of hackney-coaches. In 1652 their number was ordered to be limited to 200; in 1654, to 300; in 1661, to 400; in 1694, to 700. These limitations, however, seem to have been but little regarded. Garrard, writing in 1638, says, “Here is a proclamation coming forth about the reformation of hackney-coaches, and ordering of other coaches about London. One thousand nine hundred was the number of hackney-coaches of London, bare lean jades, unworthy to be seen in so brave a city, or to stand about a king’s court.” As within the last twenty-seven years, when cabs and omnibuses were unknown, the number of hackney-carriages was strictly limited to 1200, it seems little likely that nearly two centuries earlier there should have been so many as 1900. It is probable that “glass” and “hackney-coaches” had been confounded somehow in the enumeration.

It was not until the ninth year of Queen Anne’s reign that an Act was passed appointing Commissioners for the licensing and superintending of hackney-coachmen. Prior to that they seem to have been regulated and licensed by the magistracy. The Act of Anne authorised the number of hackney-coaches to be increased to 800, but not until the expiration of the existing licenses in 1715. In 1771 there was again an additional number of hackney-coach licenses granted--1000; which was made 1200 in 1799. In the last-mentioned year a duty was for the first time placed on hired carriages of all descriptions. It was at first 5_s._ a-week, but that sum was not long after raised to 10_s._ a-week, to be paid in advance; while the license was raised from 2_l._ 10_s._ to 5_l._ The duties upon all hackney-carriages is still maintained at the advanced rate.

The hackney-carriages, when their number became considerable after the Restoration, were necessarily small, though drawn by two horses. The narrowness of the streets before the great fire, and the wretched condition of the pavement, rendered the use of large and commodious vehicles impossible. Davenant says of hackney-carriages, “They are unusually hung, and so narrow that I took them for sedans on wheels.” The hackney-coachman then rode one of his horses, postilion-fashion; but when the streets were widened, he drove from his seat on the box. In the latter days of London hackney-coaches they were large enough without being commodious. They were nearly all noblemen’s and gentlemen’s disused family coaches, which had been handed over to the coachmaker when a new carriage was made. But it was not long that these coaches retained the comfort and cleanliness that might distinguish them when first introduced into the stand. The horses were, as in the Rev. Mr. Garrard’s time, sorry jades, sometimes cripples, and the harness looked as frail as the carriages. The exceptions to this description were few, for the hackney-coachmen possessed a monopoly and thought it unchangeable. They were of the same class of men--nearly all gentlemen’s servants or their sons. The obtaining of a license for a hackney-coach was generally done through interest. It was one way in which many peers and members of Parliament provided for any favourite servant, or for the servant of a friend. These “patrons,” whether peers or commoners, were not uncommonly called “lords;” a man was said to be sure of a license if he had “a great lord for his friend.”

The “takings” of the London hackney-coachmen, as I have ascertained from some who were members of the body, were 10_l._ 10_s._ a-week the year through, the months of May, June, and July, being the best, when their earnings were from 15_l._ to 18_l._ a-week. Out of this three horses had to be maintained. During the war times the quality of oats which are now 18_s._ a quarter were 60_s._, while hay and the other articles of the horses’ consumption were proportionately dear. The expense of repair to the coach or harness was but trifling, as they were generally done by the hackney-man himself, or by some hanger-on at the public-houses frequented by the fraternity.

Of the personal expenditure of hackney-coachmen when “out for the day” I had the following statement from one of them:--“We spent regular 7_s._ a-day when we was out. It was before coffee-shops and new-fangled ways came in as the regular thing that I’m speaking of; breakfast 1_s._, good tea and good bread-and-butter, as much as you liked always, with a glass of rum in the last cup for the ‘lacing’ of it--always rum, gin weren’t so much run after then. Dinner was 1_s._ 6_d._, a cut off some good joint; beer was included at some places and not at others. Any extras to follow was extras to pay. Two glasses of rum-and-water after dinner 1_s._, pipes found, and most of us carried our own ’baccy-boxes. Tea the same as breakfast, and ‘laced’ ditto. Supper the same as dinner, or 6_d._ less; and the rest to make up the 7_s._ went for odd glasses of ale, or stout, or ‘short’--but ‘short’ (neat spirits) was far less drunk then than now--when we was waiting, or to treat a friend, or such-like. We did some good in those days, sir. Take day and night, and 1200 of us was out, and perhaps every man spent his 7_s._, and that’s 1200 times 7_s._” Following out this calculation we have 420_l._ per day (and night), 2940_l._ a-week, and 152,880_l._ a-year for hackney-coachmen’s personal expenses, merely as regards their board.

The old hackney-coachmen seem to have been a self-indulgent, improvident, rather than a vicious class; neither do they seem to have been a drunken class. They acted as ignorant men would naturally act who found themselves in the enjoyment of a good income, with the protection of a legal monopoly. They had the sole right of conveyance within the bills of mortality, and as that important district comprised all the places of public resort, and contained the great mass of the population, they may be said to have had a monopoly of the metropolis. Even when the cabs were first established these men exhibited no fear of their earnings being affected. “But,” said an intelligent man, who had been a hackney-coachman in his younger days, and who managed to avoid the general ruin of his brethren, “but when the cabs got to the 100 then they found it out. The cabs was all in gentlemen’s hands at first. I know that. Some of them was government-clerks too: they had their foremen, to be sure, but they was the real proprietors, the gentlemen was; they got the licenses. Well, it’s easy to understand how 100 cabs was earning money fast, and people couldn’t get them fast enough, and how some hundreds of hackney-coachmen was waiting and starving till the trade was thrown open, and then the hackney-coachmen was clean beat down. They fell off by degrees. I’m sure I hardly know what became of most of them, but I do know that a many of them died in the workhouses. They hadn’t nothing aforehand. They dropped away gradual. You see they weren’t allowed to transfer their plates and licenses to a cab, or they’d have done it--plenty would. They were a far better set of men than there’s on the cabs now. There was none of your fancy-men, that’s in with women of the town, among the old hackney-coachmen. If you remember what they was, sir, you’ll say they hadn’t the cut of it.”

The hackney-coachmen drove very deliberately, rarely exceeding five, and still more rarely achieving six miles an hour, unless incited by the hope or the promise of an extra fare. These men resided very commonly in mews, and many of them I am assured had comfortable homes, and were hospitable fellows in their way, smoking their pipes with one another when “off the stones,” treating their poorer neighbours to a glass, and talking over the price of oats, hay, and horses, as well as the product of the past season, or the promise of the next. The majority of them could neither read nor write, or very imperfectly, and, as is not uncommon with uninformed men who had thriven tolerably well without education, they cared little about providing education for their children. Politics they cared nothing about, but they prided themselves on being “John-Bull Englishmen.” For public amusements they seem to have cared nothing. “Our business,” said one of them, “was with the outside of play-houses. I never saw a play in my life.”

As my informant said, “they dropped away gradual.” Eight or ten years ago a few old men, with old horses and old coaches, might be seen at street stands, but each year saw their numbers reduced, and now there is not one; that is to say, not one in the streets, though there are four hackney-coaches at the railway-stations.

One of the old fraternity of hackney-coachmen, who had, since the decline of his class, prospered by devoting his exertions to another department of business, gave me the following account:--

“My father,” said he, “was an hackney-coachman before me, and gave me what was then reckoned a good education. I could write middling and could read the newspaper. I’ve driven my father’s coach for him when I was fourteen. When I was old enough, seventeen I think I was, I had a hackney-coach and horses of my own, provided for me by my father, and so was started in the world. The first time I plied with my own coach was when Sir Francis Burdett was sent to the Tower from his house in Piccadilly. Sir Francis was all the go then. I heard a hackney-coachman say he would be glad to drive him for nothing. The hackney-coachmen didn’t like Pitt. I’ve heard my father and his mates say many a time ‘D----n Pitt!’ that was for doubling of the duty on hackney-carriages. Ah, the old times was the rackety times! I’ve often laughed and said that I could say what perhaps nobody, or almost nobody in England can say now, that I’d been driven by a king. He grew to be a king afterwards, George IV. One night you see, sir, I was called off the stand, and told to take up at the British Coffee-house in Cockspur Street. I was a lad then, and when I pulled up at the door, the waiter ran out and said, ‘You jump down and get inside, the Prince is a-going to drive hisself.’ I didn’t much like the notion on it, but I didn’t exactly know what to do, and was getting off my seat to see if the waiter had put anything inside, for he let down the glass, and just as I was getting down, and had my foot on the wheel, out came the Prince of Wales, and four or five rattlebrained fellows like himself. I think Major Hanger was one, but I had hardly time to see them, for the Prince gripped me by the ankle and the waistband of my breeches, and lifted me off the wheel and flung me right into the coach, through the window, and it was opened, as it happened luckily. I was little then, but he must have been a strong man. He didn’t seem so very drunk either. The Prince wasn’t such a bad driver. Indeed, he drove very well for a prince, but he didn’t take the corners or the crossings careful enough for a regular jarvey. Well, sir, the Prince drove that night to a house in King Street, Saint James’s. There was another gentleman on the box with him. It was a gaming-house he went to that night, but I have driven him to other sorts of houses in that there neighbourhood. He hadn’t no pride to such as me, hadn’t the Prince of Wales. Then one season I used to drive Lord Barrymore in his rounds to the brothels--twice or thrice a-week sometimes. He used always to take his own wine with him. After waiting till near daylight, or till daylight, I’ve carried my lord, girls and all--fine dressed-up madams--to Billingsgate, and there I’ve left them to breakfast at some queer place, or to slang with the fishwives. What times them was, to be sure! One night I drove Lord Barrymore to Mother Cummins’s in Lisle Street, and when she saw who it was she swore out of the window that she wouldn’t let him in--he and some such rackety fellows had broken so many things the last time they were there, and had disgraced her, as she called it, to the neighbourhood. So my lord said, ‘Knock at the door, tiger; and knock till they open it.’ He knocked and knocked till every drop of water in the house was emptied over us, out of the windows, but my lord didn’t like to be beaten, so he stayed and stayed, but Mother Cummins wouldn’t give way, and at last he went home. A wet opera-night was the chance for us when Madame--I forget her name--Catalini?--yes, I think that was it, was performing. Many a time I’ve heard it sung out--‘A guinea to Portman Square’--and I’ve had it myself. At the time I’m speaking of hackney-coachmen took 30_s._ a-day, all the year round. Why, I myself have taken 16_l._ and 18_l._ a-week through May, June, and July. But then you see, sir, we had a monopoly. It was in the old Tory times. Our number was limited to 1200. And no stage-carriage could then take up or set down on the stones, not within the bills as it was called--that’s the bills of mortality, three miles round the Royal Exchange, if I remember right. It’s a monopoly that shouldn’t have been allowed, I know that, but there was grand earnings under it; no glass-coaches could take people to the play then. Glass coaches is what’s now called flies. They couldn’t set down in the mortality, it was fine and imprisonment to do it. We hadn’t such good horses in our coaches then, as is now in the streets, certainly not. It was war-time, and horses was bought up for the cavalry, and it’s the want of horses for the army, and for the mails and stages arter’ards, that’s the reason of such good horses being in the ’busses and cabs. We drove always noblemen or gentlemen’s old carriages, family coaches they was sometimes called. There was mostly arms and coronets on them. We got them of the coachmakers in Long Acre, who took the noblemen’s old carriages, when they made new. The Duke of ---- complained once that his old carriage, with his arms painted beautiful on the panels, was plying in the streets at 1_s._ a mile; his arms ought not to be degraded that way, he said, so the coachmaker had the coach new painted. When the cabs first came in we didn’t think much about it; we thought, that is, most of us did, that things was to go on in the old way for ever; but it was found out in time that it was not. When the clarences, the cabs that carry four, come in, they cooked the hackney-coachmen in no time.”

INTRODUCTION OF CABS.

For the introduction of hackney-cabriolets (a word which it now seems almost pedantic to use) we are indebted--as for the introduction of the omnibuses--to the example of the Parisians. In 1813 there were 1150 cabriolets de place upon the hackney-stands of Paris: in 1823, ten years later, there were twelve upon the hackney-stands of London, but the vested right of the hackney-coachmen was an obstacle. Messrs. Bradshaw and Rotch, however, did manage in 1823 to obtain licenses for twelve cabriolets, starting them at 8_d._ a mile. The number was subsequently increased to 50, and then to 100, and in less than nine years after the first cab plied in the streets of London all restriction as to their number was abolished.

The form of cab first in use was that of a hooded chaise, the leather head or hood being raised or lowered at pleasure. In wet, windy weather, however, it was found, when raised, to present so great a resistance to the progress of the horse that the head was abandoned. In these cabs the driver sat inside, the vehicle being made large enough to hold two persons and the cabman. The next kind had a detached seat for the driver alongside his fare. On the third sort the driver occupied the roof, the door opening at the back. These were called “back-door cabs.” The “covered cab,” carrying two inside with the driver on a box in front, was next introduced, and it was a safer conveyance, having four wheels--the preceding cabs had but two. The clarences, carrying four inside, came next; and almost at the same time with them the Hansom’s, which are always called “showfulls” by the cabmen. “Showfull,” in slang, means counterfeit, and the “showfull” cabs are an infringement on Hansom’s patent. There are now no cabs in use but the two last-mentioned. A clarence built in the best manner costs from 40_l._ to 50_l._, a good horse to draw it is worth 18_l._ to 20_l._, and the harness 4_l._ 10_s._ to 5_l._ This is the fair price of the carriage and harness when new, and from a good shop. But second-hand cabs and harness are sold and re-sold, and are repaired or fitted up by jobbing coachmakers. Nearly all the greater cab proprietors employ a coachbuilder on their premises. A cab-horse has been purchased in Smithfield for 40_s._

Some of the cabmen have their own horse and vehicle, while others, and the great majority, rent a cab and horse from the proprietor, and pay him so much a day or night, having for their remuneration all they can obtain for the amount of rent. The rent required by the most respectable masters is 14_s._ in the season--out of the season, the best masters expect the drivers to bring home about 9_s._ a-day. For this sum two good horses are found to each cab. Some of the cab proprietors, especially a class known as “contractors,” or “Westminster masters,” of whom a large number are Jews, make the men hiring their cabs “sign” for 16_s._ a-day in the season, and 12_s._ out of it. This system is called signing instead of agreeing, or any similar term, because the 6th & 7th Victoria provides that no sum shall be recovered from drivers “on account of the earnings of any hackney-carriage, unless under an agreement in writing, signed in presence of a competent witness.” The steadiest and most trusty men in the cabdriving trade, however, refuse to sign for a stipulated sum, as in case of their not earning so much they may be compelled summarily, and with the penalties of fine and imprisonment, to pay that stipulated sum. I was informed by a highly respectable cab proprietor, that in the season 12_s._ 6_d._ a-day would be a fair sum to sign for, and 9_s._, or even less, out of the season. In this my informant cannot be mistaken, for he has practical experience of cab-driving, he himself often driving on an emergency. There are plenty, however, who will sign for 16_s._, and the consequence of this branch of the contract system is, that the men so contracting resort to any means to make their guinea. They drive swell-mobsmen, they are connected with women of the town, they pick up and prey upon drunken fellows, in collusion with these women, and resort to any knavery to make up the necessary sum. On this subject I give below the statement of an experienced proprietor.

CHARACTER OF CABDRIVERS.

Among the present cabdrivers are to be found, as I learned from trustworthy persons, quondam greengrocers, costermongers, jewellers, clerks, broken-down gentlemen, especially turf gentlemen, carpenters, joiners, saddlers, coach-builders, grooms, stable-helpers, footmen, shopkeepers, pickpockets, swell-mobsmen, housebreakers, innkeepers, musicians, musical-instrument makers, ostlers, some good scholars, a good number of broken-down pawnbrokers, several ex-policemen, draper’s assistants, barmen, scene-shifters, one baronet, and as my informant expressed it, “such an uncommon sight of folks that it would be uncommon hard to say what they was.” Of the truthfulness of the list of callings said to have contributed to swell the numbers of the cabmen there can be no doubt, but I am not so sure of “the baronet.” I was told his name, but I met with no one who could positively say that he knew Sir V---- C---- as a cab-driver. This baronet seems a tradition among them. Others tell me that the party alluded to is merely nicknamed the Baron, owing to his being a person of good birth, and having had a college education. The “flashiest” cabman, as he is termed, is the son of a fashionable master-tailor. He is known among cabdrivers as the “Numpareil,” and drives one of the Hansom cabs. I am informed on excellent authority, a tenth, or, to speak beyond the possibility of cavil, a twelfth of the whole number of cabdrivers are “fancy men.” These fellows are known in the cab trade by a very gross appellation. They are the men who live with women of the town, and are supported, wholly or partially, on the wages of the women’s prostitution.

These are the fellows who, for the most part, are ready to pay the highest price for the hire of their cabs. One swell-mobsman, I was told, had risen from “signing” for cabs to become a cab proprietor, but was now a prisoner in France for picking pockets.

The worse class of cabmen which, as I have before said, are but a twelfth of the whole, live in Granby Street, St. Andrew’s Place, and similar localities of the Waterloo Road; in Union Street, Pearl Row, &c., of the Borough Road; in Princes Street, and others, of the London Road; in some unpaved streets that stretch from the New Kent Road to Lock’s Fields; in the worst parts of Westminster, in the vicinity of Drury Lane, Whitechapel, and of Lisson Grove, and wherever low depravity flourishes. “To get on a cab,” I was told, and that is the regular phrase, “is the ambition of more loose fellows than for anything else, as it’s reckoned both an idle life and an exciting one.” Whetstone Park is full of cabmen, but not wholly of the fancy-man class. The better sort of cabmen usually reside in the neighbourhood of the cab-proprietors’ yards, which are in all directions. Some of the best of these men are, or rather have been mechanics, and have left a sedentary employment, which affected their health, for the open air of the cab business. Others of the best description have been connected with country inns, but the majority of them are London men. They are most of them married, and bringing up families decently on earnings of from 15_s._ to 25_s._ a-week. Some few of their wives work with their needles for the tailors.

Some of the cab-yards are situated in what were old inn-yards, or the stable-yards attached to great houses, when great houses flourished in parts of the town that are now accounted vulgar. One of those I saw in a very curious place. I was informed that the yard was once Oliver Cromwell’s stable-yard; it is now a receptacle for cabs. There are now two long ranges of wooden erections, black with age, each carriage-house opening with large folding-doors, fastened in front with padlocks, bolts, and hasps. In the old carriage-houses are the modern cabs, and mixed with them are superannuated cabs, and the disjointed or worn-out bodies and wheels of cabs. Above one range of the buildings, the red-tiled roofs of which project a yard and more beyond the exterior, are apartments occupied by the stable-keepers and others. Nasturtiums with their light green leaves and bright orange flowers were trained along light trellis-work in front of the windows, and presented a striking contrast to the dinginess around.

Of the cabdrivers there are several classes, according to the times at which they are employed. These are known in the trade by the names of the “long-day men,” “the morning-men,” the “long-night men,” and the “short-night men,” and “the bucks.” The long-day man is the driver who is supposed to be driving his cab the whole day. He usually fetches his cab out between 9 and 10 in the morning, and returns at 4 or 5, or even 7 or 8, the next morning; indeed it is no matter at what hour he comes in so long as he brings the money that he signs for; the long-day men are mostly employed for the contractors, though some of the respectable masters work their cabs with long-day men, but then they leave the yard between 8 and 9 and are expected to return between 12 and 1. These drivers when working for the contractors sign for 16_s._ a-day in the season, as before stated, and 12_s._ out of the season; and when employed by the respectable masters, they are expected to bring home 14_s._ or 9_s._, according to the season of the year. The long-day men are the parties who mostly employ the “bucks,” or unlicensed drivers. They are mostly out with their cabs from 16 to 20 hours, so that their work becomes more than they can constantly endure, and they are consequently glad to avail themselves of the services of a buck for some hours at the end of the day, or rather night. The morning man generally goes out about 7 in the morning and returns to the yard at 6 in the evening. Those who contract sign to bring home from 10_s._ to 11_s._ per day in the season, and 7_s._ for the rest of the year, while those working for the better class of masters are expected to give the proprietor 8_s._ a-day, and 5_s._ or 6_s._ according to the time of the year. The morning man has only one horse found him, whereas the long-day man has two, and returns to the yard to change horses between three and six in the afternoon. The long-night man goes out at 6 in the evening and returns at 10 in the morning. He signs when working for contractors for 7_s._ or 8_s._ per night, at the best time of the year, and 5_s._ or 6_s._ at the bad. The rent required by the good masters differs scarcely from these sums. He has only one horse found him. The short-night man fetches his cab out at 6 in the evening and returns at 6 in the morning, bringing with him 6_s._ in the season and 4_s._ or 5_s._ out of it. The contractors employ scarcely any short-night men, while the better masters have but few long-day or long-night men working for them. It is only such persons as the Westminster masters who like the horses or the men to be out so many hours together, and they, as my informant said, “don’t care what becomes of either, so long as the day’s money is brought to them.” The bucks are unlicensed cabdrivers, who are employed by those who have a license to take charge of the cab while the regular drivers are at their meals or enjoying themselves. These bucks are generally cabmen who have been deprived of their license through bad conduct, and who now pick up a living by “rubbing up” (that is, polishing the brass of the cabs) on the rank, and “giving out buck” as it is called amongst the men. They usually loiter about the watering-houses (the public-houses) of the cab-stands, and pass most of their time in the tap-rooms. They are mostly of intemperate habits, being generally “confirmed sots.” Very few of them are married men. They have been fancy-men in their prime, but, to use the words of one of the craft, “got turned up.” They seldom sleep in a bed. Some few have a bedroom in some obscure part of the town, but the most of them loll about and doze in the tap-rooms by day, and sleep in the cabs by night. When the watering-houses close they resort to the night coffee-shops, and pass the time there till they are wanted as bucks. When they take a job for a man they have no regular agreement with the driver, but the rule is that they shall do the best they can. If they take 2_s._ they give the driver one and keep the other for themselves. If 1_s._ 6_d._ they usually keep only 6_d._ The Westminster men have generally got their regular bucks, and these mostly take to the cab with the second horse and do all the night-work. At three or four in the morning they meet the driver at some appointed stand or watering-place. Burleigh Street in the Strand, or Palace Yard, are the favourite places of rendezvous of the Westminster men, and then they hand over to the long-day man “the stuff” as they call it. The regular driver has no check upon these men, but unless they do well they never employ them again. For “rubbing up” the cabs on the stand these bucks generally get 6_d._ in the season, and for this they are expected to dish-clout the whole of the panels, clean the glasses, and polish the harness and brasses, the cabdriver having to do these things himself or having to pay for it. Some of the bucks in the season will make from 2_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ a-day by rubbing up alone, and it is difficult to say what they make by driving. They are the most extortionate of all cab-drivers. For a shilling fare they will generally demand 2_s._ and for a 3_s._ fare they will get 5_s._ or 6_s._, according to the character of the party driven. Having no licenses, they do not care what they charge. If the number of the cab is taken, and the regular driver of it summoned, the party overcharged is unable to swear that the regular driver was the individual who defrauded him, and so the case is dismissed. It is supposed that the bucks make quite as much money as the drivers, for they are not at all particular as to how they get their money. The great majority, indeed 99 out of 100, have been in prison, and many more than once, and they consequently do not care about revisiting gaol. It is calculated that there are at least 800 or 1000 bucks, hanging about the London cab-stands, and these are mostly regular thieves. If they catch any person asleep or drunk in a cab, they are sure to have a dive into his pockets; nor are they particular if the party belong to their own class, for I am assured that they steal from one another while dozing in the cabs or tap-rooms. Very few of the respectable masters work their cabs at night, except those who do so merely because they have not stable-room for the whole of their horses and vehicles at the same time. Some of the cabdrivers are the owners of the vehicles they drive. It is supposed that out of the 5000 drivers in London, at least 2000, or very nearly half, are small masters, and they are amongst the most respectable men of the ranks. Of the other half of the cabdrivers about 1500 are long-day men, and about 150 long-night men (there are only a few yards, and they are principally at Islington, that employ long-night men). Of the morning-men and the short-night men there are, as near as I can learn, about 500 belonging to each class, in addition to the small masters.

THE WATERMEN.

The Waterman is an important officer at the cab-stand. He is indeed the master of the rank. At some of the larger stands, such as that at the London and Birmingham Railway terminus, there are four watermen, two being always on duty day and night, fifteen hours by day and nine by night, the day-waterman becoming the night-waterman the following week. On the smaller stands two men do this work, changing their day and night labour in the same way. The waterman must see that there is no “fouling” in the rank, that there is no straggling or crowding, but that each cab maintains its proper place. He is also bound to keep the best order he can among the cabmen, and to restrain any ill-usage of the horses. The waterman’s remuneration consists in the receipt of 1_d._ from every cabman who joins his rank, for which the cabman is supplied with water for his horse, and 1/2_d._ for every cabman who is hired off the rank. There are now 350 odd watermen, and they must be known as trusty men, a rigid inquiry being instituted, and unexceptional references demanded before an appointment to the office takes place. At some stands the supply of water costs these officers 4_l._ a-year, at others the trustees of the waterworks, or the parishes, supply it gratuitously. All the watermen, I am informed, on good authority, have been connected with the working part of it. They must all be able to read and write, for as one of them said to me, “We’re expected to understand Acts of Parliament.” They are generally strong, big-boned, red-faced men, civil and honest, married (with very few exceptions), and bringing up families. They are great readers of newspapers, and in these they devote themselves first of all to the police reports.

One of the body said, “I have been a good many years a waterman, but was brought up a coachbuilder in a London firm. I then got into the cab-trade, and am now a waterman. I make my 24_s._ a-week the year through: but there’s stands to my knowledge where the waterman doesn’t make more than half as much; and that for a man that’s expected to be respectable. He can give his children a good schooling--can’t he, sir?--on 12_s._ a-week, and the best of keep, to be sure. Why, my comings-in--it’s a hard fight for me to do as much. I have eight children, sir. I pay 16_l._ a year for three tidy rooms in a mews--that’s rather more than 6_s._ a-week; but I have the carriage place below, and that brings me in a little. Six of my children don’t earn a halfpenny now. My eldest daughter, she’s 17, earns 6_d._ a-day from a slop-tailor. I hate to see her work, work, work away, poor lass! but it’s a help, and it gets them bits of clothes. Another boy earns 6_d._ a-day from a coach-builder, and lives with me. Another daughter would try her hand at shirtmaking, and got work from a shirtmaker near Tabernacle Square; and in four days and a half she made five bodies, and they came to 1_s._ 10-1/2_d._; and out of that she had to pay 7-1/2_d._ for her thread and that, and so there was 1_s._ 3_d._ for her hard work; but they gave satisfaction, her employer said, as if that was a grand comfort to her mother and me. But I soon put a stop to that. I said, ‘Come, come, I’ll keep you at home, and manage somehow or anyhow, rather than you shall pull your eyes out of your head for 3-1/2_d._ a-day, and less; so it’s no more shirts.’ Why, sir, the last time bread was dear--1847, was it?--I paid 19_s._ and 20_s._ a-week for bread: it’s now about half what it was then; rather more, though. But there’s one thing’s a grand thing for poor men, and that’s such prime and such cheap fish. The railways have done that. In Tottenham-court-road my wife can buy good soles, as many pairs for 6_d._ of a night, as would have been 3_s._ 6_d._ before railways. That’s a great luxury for a poor man like me, that’s fonder of fish than meat. They are a queer set we have to do with in the ranks. The ‘pounceys,’ (the class I have alluded to as fancy-men, called ‘pounceys’ by my present informant), are far the worst. They sometimes try to bilk me, and it’s always hard to get your dues from contractors. That’s the men what sign for heavy figures. Credit them once, and you’re never paid--never. None signs for so much as the pounceys. They’d sign for 18_s._ Why, if a pouncey’s girl, or a girl he knows, seems in luck, as they call it--that is, if she picks up a gentleman, partickler if he’s drunk, the pouncey--I’ve seen it many a time--jumps out of the ranks, for he keeps a look-out for the spoil, and he drives to her. It’s the pounceys, too, that mostly go gagging where the girls walk. It’s such a set we have to deal with. Only yesterday an out-and-out pouncey called me such names about nothing. Why, it’s shocking for any female that may be passing. Aye, and of a busy night in the Market (Haymarket), when it’s an opera-night and a play-night, the gentlemen’s coachmen’s as bad for bad language as the cabmen; and some gentlemen’s very clever at that sort of language, too. It’s not as it was in Lord ----’s days. Swells now think as much of one shilling as they did of twenty then. But there’s some swells left still. One young swell brings four quarts of gin out of a public-house in a pail, and the cabmen must drink it out of pint pots. He’s quite master of bad language if they don’t drink fairly. Another swell gets a gallon of gin always from Carter’s, and cabmen must drink it out of quart pots--no other way. It makes some of them mad drunk, and makes them drive like mad; for they might be half drunk to begin with. Thank God, no man can say he’s seen me incapable from liquor for four-and-twenty years. There’s no racketier place in the world than the Market. Houses open all night, and people going there after Vauxhall and them places. After a masquerade at Vauxhall I’ve seen cabmen drinking with lords and gentlemen--but such lords get fewer every day; and cockney tars that was handy with their fists wanting to fight Highlanders that wasn’t; and the girls in all sorts of dresses here and there and everywhere among them, the paint off and their dresses torn. Sometimes cabmen assaults us. My mates have been twice whipped lately. I haven’t, because I know how to humour their liquor. I give them fair play; and more than that, perhaps, as I get my living out of them. Any customer can pick his own cab; but if I’m told to call one, or none’s picked, the first on the rank, that’s the rule, gets the fare. I take my meals at a coffee-shop; and my mate takes a turn for me when I’m at dinner, and so do I for him. My coffee-shop cuts up 150lbs. a-meat a-day, chiefly for cabmen. A dinner is 6-1/2_d._ without beer: meat 4_d._, bread 1_d._, vegetables 1_d._, and waiter 1/2_d._; at least I give him a halfpenny. At ----’s public-house I can dine capitally for 8-1/2_d._, and that includes a pint of beer. On Sundays there’s a dessert of puddings, and then it’s 1_s._ A waterman’s berth when it’s one of the best isn’t so good, I fancy, as a privileged cabman’s.”

SUGGESTIONS FOR REGULATING THE TRADE.

I shall now conclude with some statements of sundry evils connected with the cab business, under the old and also under the new system, and shall then offer suggestions for their rectification.

One cab proprietor, after expressing his opinion that the new police arrangements for the regulation of the trade would be a decided improvement, suggested it would be an excellent plan to make policemen of the watermen; for then, he said, the cabmen thieves would be reluctant to approach the ranks. He also gave me the following statement of what he considered would be greater improvements. “I think,” he said, “it would do well for those in the cab-trade if licenses were made 10_l._ instead of 5_l._, with a regulation that 5_l._ should be returned to any one on bringing his plates in previous to leaving the trade, and so not wanting his license any longer. This would, I believe, be a check to any illegal transfer, as men wouldn’t be so ready to hand over their plates to other parties when they disposed of their cabs, if they were sure of 5_l._ in a regular and legal way. I would also,” he said, “reduce the duty from 10_s._ a-week to 5_s._, and that would allow cabs to ply for 6_d._ a-mile. As everything is cheaper, I wonder people don’t want cheaper cabs. ’Busses don’t at all answer the purpose; for if it’s a wet day, almost every one has to walk some way to his ’bus, and some way to the house he’s going to. Sunday visitors particularly; and they like the wet least of all. Now, if cabs ran at 6_d._, they could take a man and his wife and two children, and more, two miles for 1_s._, or four miles for 2_s._, about what the ’busses would charge four persons for those distances: and the persons could go from door to door as cheap; or, if not quite so cheap, they’d save it in not having their clothes spoiled by the weather, and go far more comfortably than in a ’bus full of wet people and dripping umbrellas. I know most cabmen don’t like to hear of this plan; and why? Because, by the present system they reckon upon getting a shilling a mile; and they almost always do get it for an 8_d._ fare, and for longer distances oft enough. But it wouldn’t be so easy to overcharge when there’s a fixed coin a-mile for the fare. It would be one, two, three, four, five, or as many sixpences as miles. Now it’s 1_s._ 4_d._ for two miles, and that’s 1_s._ 6_d._--1_s._ 8_d._ for over two miles, and that means 2_s._--of course cabmen don’t carry change unless for an even sum; 2_s._ 4_d._ for over three miles and a half, and that’s 2_s._ 6_d._ if not 3_s._, and so on. The odd coppers make cabmen like the present way.”

I now give a statement concerning “foul plates” and informers. It may, however, be necessary to state first, that every cab proprietor must be licensed, at a cost to him of 5_l._, and that he must affix a plate, with his number, &c., to his cab, to show that he is duly licensed: while every driver and waterman is licensed at a cost to each of 5_s._ a-year, and is bound to wear a metal ticket showing his number. The law then provides, that in case of unavoidable necessity, which must be proved to the satisfaction of the magistrate, a proprietor may be allowed to employ an unlicensed person for twenty-four hours; with this exception, every unlicensed person acting as driver, and every licensed person lending his license, or permitting any other person to use or wear his ticket, is to be fined 5_l._ The same provision applies to any proprietor “lending his license,” but with a penalty of 10_l._ I now give the statement:--

“You see, sir, if a man wants to dispose of his cab, why he must dispose of it as a cab. Well, if it ain’t answered for him, he’ll get somebody or other willing to try it on. And the new hand will say, ‘I’ll give you so much, and work your plates for you;’ and so he does when a bargain’s made. Well, this thing’s gone on till there’s 1000 or 1200 ‘foul plates’ in the trade; and then government says, ‘What a lot of foul plates! There must be a check to this.’ And a nice check they found. Mister ---- (continued my informant, laying a peculiar emphasis on the mister), the informer, was set to work, and he soon ferreted out the foul plates, and there was a few summonses about them at first; but it’s managed different now. Suppose I had a foul plate in my place here, though in course I wouldn’t, but suppose I had, Mister ---- would drop in some day and look about him, and say little or nothing, but it’s known what he’s up to. In a day or two comes Mister ---- No. 2, he’s Mister ---- No. 1’s friend; and he’ll look about and say, ‘Oh, Mister ----, I see you’ve got so-and-so--it’s a foul plate. I’ll call on you for 2_s._ in a day or two.’ He calls sure enough; and he calls for the same money, perhaps, every three months. Some pays him 5_s._ a-year regular; and if he only gets that on 1000 plates, he makes a good living of it--only 250_l._ a-year, 5_l._ a-week, that’s all. In course Mister ---- No. 1 has nothing to do with Mister ---- No. 2, not he: it’s always Mister ---- No. 2 what’s paid, and never Mister ---- No. 1. But if Mister ---- No. 2 ain’t paid, then Mister ---- No. 1 looks in, and lets you know there may be a hearing about the foul plate; and so he goes on.”

This same Mister ---- No. 1, I am informed by another cab proprietor, is employed by the Excise to see after the duty, which has to be paid every month. Should the proprietor be behind with the 10_s._ a-week, the informer is furnished with a warrant for the month’s money; and this he requires a fee of from 10_s._ to 1_l._ (according to the circumstances of the proprietor), to hold over for a short time. It is difficult to estimate how many fees are obtained in this way every month; but I am assured that they must amount to something considerable in the course of the year.

It is proper that I should add that my informants in this and other matters refer to the systems with which they had been long familiar. The new regulations when I was engaged in this inquiry, had been so recently in force, that the cab proprietors said they could not yet judge of their effect; but it was believed that they would be beneficial. An experienced man complained to me that the clashing of the magistrates’ decisions, especially when the police were mixed up with the complaints against cabmen, was an evil. My informant also pointed out a clause in the 2d and 3d Victoria, cap. 71, enacting that magistrates should meet once a quarter, each furnishing a report of his proceedings as respects the “Act for regulating the Police Courts in the Metropolis.” Such a meeting, and a comparison of the reports, might tend to a uniformity in decisions; but the clause, I am told, is a dead letter, no such meeting taking place. Another cab proprietor said it would be a great improvement if an authorised officer of the police, or a government officer, had the fixing of plates on carriages, together with the inspection and superintendence of them afterwards. These plates, it was further suggested to me, should be metallic seals, and easily perceptible inside or out. Some of the cab proprietors complain of the stands in Oxford-street (the best in all London, they say), being removed to out-of-the-way places.

Among the matters I heard complained of, that of privileged cabs was much dwelt upon. These are the cabs which are privileged to stand within a railway terminus, waiting to be hired on the arrival of the trains. For this privilege 2_s._ a-week is paid by the cabmen to some of the railway companies, and as much as 5_s._ a-week to others. The cabmen complain of this as a monopoly established to their disadvantage, and with no benefit to the public, but merely to the railway companies; for there are cab-stands adjacent to all the railway stations, at which the public would be supplied with conveyances in the ordinary way. The horses in the cabs at the railway stations are, I am informed, amongst the hardest-worked of any in London; the following case being put to me:--“Suppose a man takes a fare of four persons and heavy luggage from the Great Western Terminus to Mile End, which is near upon seven miles, he must then hurry back again all the way, because he plies only at the railway. Now, if he didn’t, he would go to the nighest cab-stand, and his horse would be far sooner relieved. Then, perhaps, he gets another fare to Finsbury, and must hurry back again; and then another below Brompton; and he may live at Whitechapel, and have to go home after all; so that his poor horse gets ‘bashed’ to bits.”

Another cab proprietor furnished me with the following statement in writing of his personal experience and observation concerning the working of the 23d clause in the Hackney Carriage Act, or that concerning the signing before alluded to. “A master is in want of drivers. A, B, and C apply. The only questions asked are, ‘Are you a driver? Where is your license? Well! here, sign this paper; my money is so much.’ In very few large establishments is more caution used as to real character of the driver than this; the effect of which is, that a man with a really good character has no better claim to employment than one of the worst. Then, as to the feeling of a man who has placed himself under such a contract. ‘I must get my money,’ he says, ‘I will do anything to obtain it; and as a gaol hangs over my head, what matters about my breaking the law?’ and so every unfair trick is resorted to: and the means used are ‘gagging,’ that is to say, driving about and loitering in the thoroughfares for jobs. It is known that some men very seldom put on the ranks at all. Some masters have told their drivers not to go on the stand, as they well know that the money is not to be obtained by what is termed ‘ranking it.’ Now, the effect of this is, that the thoroughfares are troubled with empty cabs. It has also this effect: it causes great cruelty and overdriving to the horses; and drivers under such circumstances frequently agree to go for very much less than the fare, and then, as they term it, take it out by insulting and bullying their customers. It may be said that the law in force is sufficient to counteract this; but it may not be known that a great many protection-clubs exist, by contributions from cabmen, and which clubs are, in fact, premiums for breaking the law; for by them a man is borne harmless of the consequences of being fined. Now, these clubs exist sometimes at public-houses, but in many cases in the proprietors’ yards, the proprietors themselves being treasurers, and so becoming agents to induce their servants to infringe the law, for the purpose of obtaining for themselves a large return. The moral consequence of all this is, that men being dealt with and made to suffer as criminals, that is to say, being sent to gaol to experience the same treatment, save indignity, as convicted felons, and all this for what they after all believe to be a debt, a simple contract between man and man; the consequence, I repeat, is, that the driver having served his time, as it is called, in prison, returns to the trade a degraded character and a far worse man. Be it observed, also, that the fact of a driver having been imprisoned is no barrier to his being employed again if he will but sign--that’s the test.”

ACCOUNT OF CRIME AMONGST CABMEN.

I have now but to add a comparative statement of the criminality of the London coach and cabmen in relation to that of other callings.

The metropolitan criminal returns show us that crime among this class has been on the decline since 1840. In that year the number taken into custody by the London police was 1319; from which time until 1843 there was a gradual decrease, when the number of coach and cabmen taken into custody was 820. After this the numbers fluctuated slightly; till, in 1848, there were 972 individuals arrested for various infractions of the law.

For the chief offences given in the police returns, I find, upon taking the average for the last ten years, that the criminality of the London coach and cabmen stands as follows: For murder there has been annually 1 individual in every 29,710 of this body taken into custody; for manslaughter, 1 in every 2829; for rape, 1 in 8488; for common assaults, 1 in 40; for simple larceny, 1 in 92; for wilful damage, 1 in 285; for uttering counterfeit coin, 1 in 612; for drunkenness, 1 in 46; for vagrancy, 1 in 278; for the whole of the offences mentioned in the returns, 1 in every 5 of their number. On comparing these results with the criminality of other classes, we arrive at the following conclusions:--The tendency of the metropolitan coach and cabmen for murder is less than that of the weavers (who appear to have the greatest propensity of all classes to commit this crime), as well as sailors (who are the next criminal in this respect), and labourers, sawyers, and carpenters. On the other hand, however, the coach and cabmen would seem to be more inclined to this species of atrocity than the turners, coachmakers, shoemakers, and tailors; the latter, according to the metropolitan police returns for the last ten years, being the least murderous of all classes. For manslaughter, the coach and cabmen have a stronger predisposition than any other class that I have yet estimated. The average crime in this respect for ten years is 1 in 20,000 individuals of the entire population of London; whereas the average for the same period among the London coach and cabmen has been as high as 1 in every 2800 of their trade. In rape they rank less criminal than the labourers, carpenters, and weavers, but still much higher than the general average, and considerably above the tailors, sawyers, turners, shoemakers, or coachmakers. In the matter of common assaults they stand the highest of all; even the labourers being less pugnacious than they. Their honesty seems, nevertheless, to be greater than common report gives them credit for; they being, according to the same returns, less disposed to commit simple larceny than either labourers, sailors, or weavers, though far more dishonest than the generality of the London population. Nor are they so intemperate as, from the nature of their calling, we should be led to imagine. The sailors (who seem to form the most drunken of all trades, there being 1 in every 13 of that body arrested for this offence), and the labourers (who come next), are both much more addicted to intoxication than the coach and cabmen; although the latter class appear to be nearly twice as intemperate as the rest of the people, the general average being 1 drunkard in every 81 of the entire residents of the metropolis, and 1 in every 46 of the London coach and cabmen. Hence it may be said, that the great vices of the class at present under consideration are a tendency to manslaughter and assault.

The cause of this predisposition to violence against the person on the part of the London coach and cabmen I leave others to explain.

CARMEN AND PORTERS.

Having dealt with the social condition of the conductors and drivers of the London omnibuses and cabs, I now, in due order, proceed to treat of the number, state, and income of the men connected with the job and glass-coaches, as well as the flies for the conveyance of persons, and the waggons, carts, vans, drays, &c., for the conveyance of goods from one part of the metropolis to another; also of the porters engaged in conveyance by hand.

The metropolitan carriages engaged in the conveyance of passengers are of two classes,--ticketed and unticketed; that is to say, those who ply for passengers in the public streets, carry a plate inscribed with a certain number, by which the drivers and owners of them may be readily known. Whereas those who do not ply in public, but are let out at certain yards or stables, have no badge affixed to them, and are, in many cases, scarcely distinguishable from private vehicles. The ticketed carriages include the stage and hackney-coaches, or, in modern parlance, the ’busses and cabs of London. The unticketed carriages, on the other hand, comprise the glass-coaches and flies that, for a small premium, may be converted into one’s own carriage for the time being. But besides these there is another large class of hired conveyances, such as the job-carriages, which differ from the glass-coaches principally in the length of time for which they are engaged. The term of lease for the glass-coach rarely exceeds a day; while the fly is often taken by the hour; the job-carriage, however, is more commonly engaged by the month, and not unfrequently by the year. Hence the latter class of conveyances may be said to partake of the attributes of both public and private carriages. They are public, in so far as they are let to hire for a certain term; and private, inasmuch as they are often used by the same party, and by them only, for several years.

The tradesmen who supply carriage-horses (and occasionally carriages) by the day, week, month, or year, to all requiring such temporary or continuous accommodation, are termed job-masters, of whom, according to the Post-office Directory, there are 154 located in London; 51 being also cab proprietors, and 28 the owners of omnibuses. They boast, and doubtlessly with perfect truth, that in their stables are the major part of the finest carriage horses in the world. The powerful animals which are seen to dash proudly along the streets, a pair of them drawing a large carriage with the most manifest ease, are, in nine cases out of ten, not the property of the nobleman whose silver crest may adorn the glittering harness, but of the job-master. One of those masters has now 400 horses, some of which are worth 120 guineas, and the value is not less than 60_l._ per horse, or 24,000_l._ in all. The premises of some of the job-masters are remarkable for their extent, their ventilation, and their scrupulous cleanliness. All those in a large way of business have establishments in the country as well as in town, and at the latter are received the horses that are lame, that require rest, or that are turned out to grass. The young horses that are brought up from the country fairs, or have been purchased of the country breeders (for job-masters or their agents attend at Horncastle, Northallerton, and all the great horse-fairs in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire), are generally conducted in the first instance to the country establishment of the town master, which may be at Barnet or any place of a like distance. These agents have what is called the pick of the market, not unfrequently visiting the premises of the country horse dealer and there completing purchases without subjecting the farmer (for country horse-breeders and dealers are nearly all farmers) to the trouble and expense of sending his cattle to the fair; and it is thus that the London dealers secure the best stock in the kingdom. Until within twenty or thirty years ago some of the wealthier of the nobility or gentry, as I have previously intimated, would vie with each other during the London season in the display of their most perfect Cleveland bays, or other description of carriage-horses. The animals were at that period walked to London under the care of the coachman and his subordinates, the family travelling post to town. Such a procedure is now never resorted to. Very few noblemen at present bring their carriage-horses to town, even if within a short railway distance; they nearly all job, as it is invariably called: that is, they hire carriage-horses by the month at from twenty to thirty guineas a pair, the job-master keeping the animals by sending the quantity of provender to his customer’s premises, and they are groomed by his own servants. “Why sir,” said a job-master to me, “everybody jobs now. A few bishops do, and lords, and dukes, and judges. Lord D---- jobs, and lots of parsons and physicians; yes lots, sir. The royal family job, all but the Queen herself. The Duchess of Kent jobs. The late Duke of C---- jobbed, and no doubt the present duke will. The Queen Dowager jobbed regularly. It’s a cheaper and better plan for those that must have good horses and handsome carriages. I dare say all the gentlemen in the Albany job, for I know a many that do. By jobbing, rich people can always secure the best horses in the world.” I may add, that any of the masters of whom I have spoken will job a carriage duly emblazoned (if ordered to provide one); he will job harness, too, with the proper armorial bearings about it, and job coachmen and grooms as well. For the use of a first-class carriage 80 guineas a year is paid. A brougham with one horse and a driver is jobbed at 16_s._ a-day. But these vehicles are usually supplied by jobbing coach-masters: but the jobbing in carriages is not so common as in horses, gentlemen preferring to have their own chariots or broughams, while the jobbing in servants is confined principally to bachelors or gentlemen keeping no establishments.

The job trade I am assured has increased fivefold since the general establishment of railways. In this trade there is no “slop” supply. Even the smaller masters supply horses worth the money; for to furnish bad horses would be at once to lose custom. “Gentlemen are too good judges of horse-flesh,” a small job-master said to me, “to put up with poor cattle, even though they may wear slop coats themselves, and rig their servants out in slop liveries. Nothing shows a gentleman more than his horse; and they can’t get first-rate horses in the country as they can in London, because they’re bought up for the metropolis.”

The men employed in the job-masters’ yards do not live in the yards, except a few of the higher servants, to whom can be entrusted the care of the premises and of the costly animals kept there. Nearly all the men in these yards have been brought up as grooms, and must, in stable phraseology, “know a horse well.” None of them in the better yards receive less than 20_s._ a-week in wages; nor will any master permit his horses to be abused in any manner. Cruelty to a horse is certain dismissal if detected, and is now, I am glad to be informed on good authority, very rare. I may here mention the rather amusing reply of a rough old groom out of place to my remark that Mr. ---- would not allow any of his horses to be in any way abused. “Abused!” said my respondent, confining the meaning of the word to one signification: “Abused! you mayn’t so much as swear at them.” Another rough-spoken person, who was for a time a foreman to a job-master, told me that he had never, or rarely, any difficulty in making a bargain with gentlemen who were judges of horses; “but,” said he, “ladies who set up for judges are dreadful hard to please, and talk dreadful nonsense. What do they know about the points of a horse? But of all of ’em, a ---- is the worst to please in a horse or a carriage; she is the very devil, sir.”

The people employed by the job-masters are strong, healthy-looking men, with no lack of grey hairs--always a good sign among them. Their amusements, I am told, are confined to an odd visit to the play, more especially to Astley’s, and to skittle-playing. These enjoyments, however, are rare, as the groom cannot leave his labours for a day and then return to it as a mechanic may. Horses must be tended day and night, Sunday and work-day, so that it is only “by leave” that they can enjoy any recreation. Nearly all of them, however, take great interest in horse-races, steeple-chases, and trotting-matches. Many of them dabble in the Derby and St. Leger lotteries, and some “make a book,” risking from two or three half-crowns to 5_l._, and sometimes more than they can pay. These parties, however, belong as much to the class of servants as they do to the labourers engaged in connexion with the transit of the metropolis.

I am informed that each of the 150 job-masters resident in London may be said to employ six or seven men in their yards or stables, some having at least double that number in their service, and others, again, only two or three; the latter, however, is the exception rather than the rule. According to this estimate there must be from 900 to 1000 individuals engaged in the job business of London. Their number is made up of stablemen, washers, ostlers, job-coachmen, and glass-coachmen or flymen, besides a few grooms for the job cabriolets. The stableman attends only to the horses in the stables, and gets 2_s._ 6_d._ a-day, or 17_s._ 6_d._ a-week, standing wages. The washer has from 18_s._ to 1_l._ a week, and is employed to clean the carriages only in the best yards, for those of a second-rate character the stableman washes the carriages himself. The ostler attends to the yard, and seldom or never works in the stables. He answers all the rings at the yard bell, and takes the horses and gigs, &c. round to the door. He is, as it were, the foreman or superintendent of the establishment. He usually receives 1_l._ 1_s._ a-week standing wages at the best yards, while at those of a lower character only 15_s._ is given. The job-coachman is distinct from the glass-coachman or flyman. “He often goes away from the yard on a job,” to use the words of my informant, “for three or six months at a stretch.” He is paid by the job-master, and gets 30_s._ a-week standing wages. He has to drive and attend to his horses in the stable. The glass-coachman or flyman goes out merely by the day or by the hour. He gets 9_s._ a-week from the job-master, and whatever the customers think proper to give him. Some persons give 6_d._ an hour to the glass-coachman, and others 5_s._ a-day for a pair of horses, and from 3_s._ to 3_s._ 6_d._ a-day for one horse. A glass coach, it may be as well to observe, is a carriage and pair hired by the day, and a fly a one-horse carriage hired in a similar manner. The job-coachman and the glass-coachman have for the most part been gentlemen’s servants, and have come to the yard while seeking for another situation. They are mostly married men, having generally wedded either the housemaid, nurse, or cook, in some family in which they have lived. “The lady’s maid,” to quote from my informant, “is a touch above them. The cooks are in general the coachman’s favourite, in regard of getting a little bit of lunch out of her.”

The job-coachman’s is usually a much better berth than that of the glass-coachman or flyman. The gentlefolks who engage the glass-coaches and flies are, I am told, very near, and the flies still nearer than the glass-coaches. The fly people, as the customers were termed to me, generally live about Gower-street and Burton-crescent, Woburn-place, Tavistock-square, Upper Baker-street, and other “shabby-genteel” districts. The great majority of the persons using flies, however, live in the suburbs, and are mostly citizens and lawyers. The chief occasions for the engagement of a fly are visits to the theatre, opera, or parties at night, or else when the wives of the above-named gentry are going out a-shopping; and then the directions, I am told, are generally to draw two or three doors away from the shops, so that the shopmen may not see them drive up in a carriage and charge accordingly. A number of flies are engaged to carry the religious gentry in the suburbs to Exeter Hall during the May meetings; and it is they, I am assured, who are celebrated for over-crowding the vehicles. “Bless you,” said one man whom I saw, “them folks never think there can be too many behind a hoss--six is nothing for them,--and it is them who is the meanest of all to the coachman; for he never, by no chance, receives a glass at their door.” The great treat of the glass-coachman or flyman, however, is a wedding; then they mostly look for 5_s._; “but,” said my informant, “brides and bridegrooms is getting so stingy that now they seldom gets more than three.” Formerly, I am assured, they used to get a glass of wine to drink the health of the happy pair; but now the wine has declined to gin, “and even this,” said one man to me, “we has to bow and scrape for before we gits it out of ’em.” There is but little call for glass-coaches compared with flies now. Since the introduction of the broughams and clarences, the glass-coaches have been almost all put on one side, and they are now seldom used for anything but taking a party with a quantity of luggage from the suburbs to the railway. They were continued at weddings till a short time back, but now the people don’t like them. “They have got out of date,” said a flyman; “besides, a clarence or brougham, even with a pair of horses, is one-third cheaper.” There are no glass-coaches now kept in the yards, if they are wanted they are hired at the coachmaker’s. Take one job-master with another, I am informed that they keep on an average six flies each, so that the total number of hack clarences and broughams in the metropolis may be said to be near upon 1000. Postboys are almost entirely discontinued. The majority of them, I am told, have become cabmen. The number of job-horses kept for chance-work in the metropolis may be estimated at about 1000, in addition to the cab and omnibus horses, many of which frequently go out in flies. One lady omnibus proprietor at Islington keeps, I am told, a large number of flies, and so do many of the large cab-proprietors.

According to the Government returns, the total number of carriages throughout Great Britain, in 1848, was 149,000 and odd, which is in the proportion of 1 carriage to every 33 males of the entire population above twenty years of age. Of these carriages upwards of 97,000 were charged with duty, and yielded a revenue of more than 434,000_l._ while 52,000 were exempt from taxation. Those charged with duty consisted of 67,000 four-wheeled carriages, (of which 26,000 were private conveyances, and 41,000 let to hire,) and 30,000 two-wheeled carriages, of which 24,500 were for private use, and 5,500 for the use of the public:--

The 41,000 four-wheeled carriages let to hire were subdivided in round numbers as follows:--

Four-wheeled carriages, let to hire without horses 500 Pony-phaetons, &c. drawn by a pair 2,000 Broughams, flies, &c. drawn by one horse 30,000 Hearses 1,700 Post-chaises 5,550 Carriers’ conveyances 1,250 ------ 41,000

Of the 52,000 carriages exempt from taxation there was the following distribution:--

Private pony-phaetons 7,000 Ditto pony-chaises 4,500 Chaise-carts 39,000 Conveyances for paupers and criminals 1,500 ------ 52,000

The owners of four-wheeled private carriages were, it appears from the same returns, 20,739: of whom,

16,349 persons kept 1 carriage. 3,685 „ 2 „ 495 „ 3 „ 116 „ 4 „ 58 „ 5 „ 19 „ 6 „ 6 „ 7 „ 11 „ 8 and upwards.

Now the total number of persons returned as of independent means, at the time of taking the last census, was 500,000 and odd: of these very nearly 490,000 were twenty years of age and upwards. Hence it would appear that only 1 person in every 23 of those who are independent keep their carriage.

Such are the statistics of carriages, both public and private, of Great Britain. What proportion of the vehicles above enumerated belong to the metropolis I have no means of ascertaining with any accuracy.

The number of horses throughout the country is equally curious. In 1847 there were no less than 800,000 horses in Great Britain, which is in the proportion of five horses to each carriage, and of one horse to every six males of the entire population of twenty years of age and upwards. Of these 800,000 horses, upwards of 320,000 were charged with duty, while nearly 500,000 were exempt from it. Among the 320,000 horses charged with duty were comprised--

Private riding and carriage-horses 143,000 Draught-horses used in trade 147,000 Ponies 22,000 Butchers’ horses 4,750 Job horses 1,750 Race-horses 1,500 ------- 320,000

The horses not charged with duty were in round numbers as under:--

Horses used in husbandry 330,500 „ belonging to small farmers 61,000 „ belonging to poor clergymen 1,250 „ belonging to poor traders 10,500 „ belonging to volunteers 13,000 „ used in untaxed carriages 15,000 „ used by waggoners for their own riding 2,000 „ used by bailiffs, shepherds, &c. 1,060 „ used by masters, ditto 3,700 „ used by market-gardeners 2,000 „ in conveying paupers and criminals 250 „ kept for sale 7,000 „ kept for breeding 4,500 Colts not used 16,000 Post-horses 8,500 Stage-coach horses 9,600 London hackney-coach horses 3,600 ------- 496,000

The owners of the 140,000 private riding and carriage-horses were 100,000 in number, and of these,

78,335 persons kept 1 17,358 „ 2 4,080 „ 3 1,624 „ 4 622 „ 5 380 „ 6 328 „ 7 to 8 81 „ 9 107 „ 10 to 12 54 „ 13 to 16 6 „ 17 8 „ 18 6 „ 19 67 „ 20 And upwards.

From this it will appear, that two persons in every seven of those who are of independent means keep a riding or carriage-horse. The increase and decrease in the number of carriages and horses, within the last ten years, is a remarkable sign of the times. Since 1840, the number of all kinds of horses throughout Great Britain has decreased 43,000. But while some have declined, others have increased in number. Of private riding and carriage-horses (where only one is kept) there has been a decrease of 12,000, and of ponies, 700. Stage-coach horses have declined 4000; post-horses, 2500; horses used in husbandry, 57,000; breeding mares, 1300; colts, 7000; and horses kept for sale, 500. The London hackney-coach horses, on the other hand, have increased in the same space of time no less than 2000, and so have the draught-horses used in trade, to the extent of 17,000; while those kept by small farmers are 13,000 more, and the race-horses 400 more, than they were in 1840.

Of carriages, those having two wheels, and drawn by one horse (gigs, &c.), have decreased 15,000, and the post-chaises 700; whereas the four-wheel carriages, drawn by one horse, and let to hire (broughams, clarences, &c.), have increased 6000, the pony-phaetons 3000, pony-chaises 2000, and the chaise-carts 19,000.

The total revenue derived from the transit of this country, by means of carriages and horses, amounted in 1848 to upwards of 1,190,000_l._ This sum is made up of the following items:--

Duty on carriages £434,334 „ horses 395,041 „ horses let to hire 155,721 „ stage-carriages 96,218 „ hackney-coaches 28,926 Licenses to let horses to hire 6,968 „ stage-coaches 9,606 „ hackney-carriages 435 ---------- £1,127,249

From the foregoing accounts, then, it would appear, that the number of carriages and horses for the use of the public throughout Great Britain, two years ago, was as follows:

Job carriages 500 Broughams, clarences, flies, &c. drawn by one horse 30,000 Pony-phaetons and pair 2,000 Post-chaises 5,500 ------ Total carriages let to hire 38,000

Job horses 1,750 Post horses 8,500 Stage-coach horses 9,600 London hackney-coach horses 3,600 ------ Total horses for public carriages 23,450

THE CARRYING TRADE.

The next part of the subject that presents itself is the conveyance of goods from one part of the metropolis to another. This, as I have before said, is chiefly effected by vans, waggons, carts, drays, &c. It has already been shown that the number of carriers’ waggons, throughout Great Britain, in 1848, was 1,250, while the carriers’ carts were no less than 1,700 odd, or very nearly 3000 in all. This was 800 more than they were in 1840.

Of the number of horses engaged in the “carrying trade,” or rather that particular branch of it which concerns the removal of goods, there are no returns, unless it be that there were 2000 horses under 13 hands high ridden by the waggoners of this kingdom.

The number of carriers, carters, and waggoners throughout Great Britain, at the time of taking the last census, was 34,296, of whom 25,411 were located in England, 7802 in Scotland, 940 in Wales, and 143 in the British Isles. Of the 34,296 carriers, carters, and waggoners, throughout Great Britain, in 1841, 30,972 were males of 20 years of age and upwards, while, in 1831, the number was only 18,859, or upwards of 10,000 less; so that between these two periods the trade must have increased at the rate of 1000 per annum at least. I am informed, however, that the next returns will show quite as large a decrease in the trade, owing to the conveyance of goods having been mainly transferred from the road to the rail since the last-mentioned period. The number of carriers, carters, and waggoners engaged in the metropolis in 1841 was 3899, of whom 3667 were males of twenty years of age and upwards. In 1831 there were but 871 individuals of the same age pursuing the same occupation; and I am assured, that owing to the increased facilities for the conveyance of goods from the country to London, the trade has increased at even a greater rate since the last enumeration of the people. The London carriers, carters, and waggoners, may safely be said to be now nearer 8000 than 4000 in number.

THE LONDON CARMEN

Are of two kinds, public and private. The private carmen approximate so closely to the character of servants, that I purpose dealing at present more particularly with the public conveyers of goods from one part of the metropolis to another. The metropolitan public master-carmen are 207 in number, of whom fifteen are licensed to ply on the stands in the city. The carmen here enumerated must be considered more in the light of the owners of vans and other vehicles for the removing of goods than working men. It is true that some drive their own vehicles; but many are large proprietors, and belong to the class of employers rather than operatives.

I shall begin my account of the London carmen with those appertaining to the unlicensed class, or those not resident in the city. The modern spring van is, as it were, the landau, or travelling carriage of the working classes. These carriages came into general use between twenty and thirty years ago, but were then chiefly employed by the great carriers for the more rapid delivery of the lighter bales of goods, especially of drapery and glass goods and of parcels. They came into more general use for the removal of furniture in 1830, or thereabouts; and a year or two after were fitted up for the conveyance of pleasure-parties. The van is usually painted yellow, but some are a light brown or a dark blue picked out with red. They are fourteen feet in length on the average, and four and a half feet in breadth, and usually made so as, by the adjustment of the shafts, to be suitable for the employment of one, two, three, or four horses,--the third horse, when three are used, being yoked in advance of the pair in the shafts. The seats are generally removable, and are ranged along the sides of the vehicle, across the top, and at the two corners at the end, as the extremity of the van from the horses is called, the entrance being at the end, usually by means of iron steps, and through a kind of gate which is secured by a strong latch. The driver sits on a box in front, and on some vans seems perched fearfully high. A wooden framework surmounts the body of the carriage, and over it is spread an awning, sometimes of strong chintz patterned, sometimes of plain whity-brown calico--the side portions being made to draw like curtains, so as to admit the air and exclude the sun and rain at pleasure. If there be a man in attendance besides the driver, he usually sits at the end of the vehicle close to the gate, or rides on the step or on a projection fixed behind. A new van costs from 50_l._ to 80_l._ The average price of a good van-horse is from 16_l._ to 18_l._ The harness, new and good, costs from 5_l._ to 5_l._ 10_s._ for two horses. The furniture-van of the latter end of the week is the pleasure-van of the Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday--those being the days devoted to excursions, unless in the case of a club or society making their “annual excursion,” and then any day of the week is selected except Sunday; but Sunday on the whole is the principal day. The removal of the seats and of the apparatus for the awning converts the pleasure into the furniture-van. The uses to which the same vehicle is put are thus many a time sadly in contrast. On the Saturday the van may have been used to convey to the brokers or the auctioneers the furniture seized in some wretched man’s dwelling, leaving behind bare walls and a wailing family; and on the Sunday it rings with the merriment of pleasure-seekers, who loudly proclaim that they have left their cares behind them.

The owners usually, perhaps, I might say always, unite some other calling along with the business of van-proprietorship; they are for the most part greengrocers, hay and corn-dealers, brokers, beershop-keepers, chandlers, rag-and-bottle shopkeepers, or dairymen. Five-sixths of them, however, are greengrocers, or connected with that trade. It is not unusual for these persons to announce that, besides their immediate calling of a greengrocer, they keep a furniture-van, go pleasure-excursions, beat carpets (if in the suburbs), and attend evening parties. Many of them have been gentlemen’s servants. They are nearly all married men or widowers with families, and are as a body not unprosperous. Their tastes are inexpensive, though some drink pretty freely; and their early rising necessitates early going to bed, so there is little evening expenditure. I am told their chief enjoyments are a visit to Astley’s, and to the neighbouring horse-races. Their enjoyment of the turf, however, is generally made conducive to their profits, as they convey vans full to Hampton, Egham, and Epsom races. A few van-men, however, go rather further in turf-business, and bet a little; but these, I am assured, are the exceptions. The excursions are more frequently to Hampton Court than to any other place. The other favourite resorts are High Beach, Epping Forest, and Rye House, Hertfordshire. Windsor is but occasionally visited; and the shorter distances, such as Richmond, are hardly ever visited in pleasure-vans. Indeed the superior cheapness of the railway or the steamboat has confined the pleasure-excursions I am speaking of to the longer distances, and to places not so easily accessible by other means.

The van will hold from twenty to thirty grown persons. “Twenty, you see, sir,” I was told, “is a very comfortable number, not reckoning a few little ’uns over; but thirty, oh, thirty’s quite the other way.” The usual charge per head for “a comfortable conveyance to Hampton Court and back,” including all charges connected with the conveyance, is 2_s._ (children going for nothing, unless they are too big for knees, and then sometimes half price). Instead of 2_s._ perhaps the weekly-payment speculator receives 2_s._ 6_d._ or 2_s._ 3_d._; and if he can engage a low-priced van he may clear 9_d._ or 1_s._ per head, or about 1_l._ in all. On this subject and on that of under-selling, as it was described to me, I give the statement of a very intelligent man, a prosperous van-proprietor, who had the excellent characteristic of being proud of the kindly treatment, good feeding, and continued care of his horses, which are among the best employed in vans.

The behaviour of these excursionists is, from the concurrent testimony of the many van-proprietors and drivers whom I saw, most exemplary, and perhaps I shall best show this by at once giving the following statement from a very trustworthy man:--

“I have been in the van-trade for twenty years, and have gone excursions for sixteen years. Hampton Court has the call for excursions in vans, because of free-trade in the palace: there’s nothing to pay for admission. A party makes up an excursion, and one of them bargains with me, say for 2_l._ It shouldn’t be a farthing less with such cattle as mine, and everything in agreement with it. Since I’ve known the trade, vans have increased greatly. I should say there’s five now where there was one sixteen years ago, and more. There’s a recommendable and a respectable behaviour amongst those that goes excursions. But now on an excursion there’s hardly any drunkenness, or if there is, it’s through the accident of a bad stomach, or something that way. The excursionists generally carry a fiddler with them, sometimes a trumpeter, or else some of them is master of an instrument as goes down. They generally sings, too, such songs as, ‘There’s a Good Time coming,’ and, ‘The Brave Old Oak.’ Sometimes a nigger-thing, but not so often. They carry always, I think, their own eatables and drinkables; and they take them on the grass very often. Last Whit-Monday I counted fifty vans at Hampton, and didn’t see anybody drunk there. I reckoned them earlyish, and perhaps ten came after, at least; and every van would have twenty and more.” Sixty vans would, at this moderate computation, convey 1200 persons. “They walk through the Palace at Hampton, and sometimes dance on the grass after that, but not for long. It soon tires, dancing on the grass. A school often goes, or a club, or a society, or any party. I generally do Hampton Court in three hours with two horses. I reckon it’s fourteen miles, or near that, from my place. If I go to High Beach there’s the swings for the young ones, and the other merry-makings. At Rye House it’s country enjoyment--mere looking about the real country. The Derby day’s a great van-day. I’m sure I couldn’t guess to one hundred--not, perhaps, to twice that--how many pleasure-vans go to the Derby. It’s extra charge--3_l._ 10_s._ for the van to Epsom and back. It’s a long distance; but the Derby has a wonderful draw. I’ve taken all sorts of excursions, but it’s working-people that’s our great support. They often smoke as they come back, though it’s against my rules. They often takes a barrel of beer with them.”

It is not easy to ascertain the number of vans used for pleasure-excursions, but the following is the best information to be obtained on the subject. There is not more than one-sixth of the greengrocers who have their own vans: some keep two vans and carts, besides two or three trucks; others, three vans and carts and trucks. These vans, carts, and trucks are principally used in the private transactions of their business. Sometimes they are employed in the removal of furniture. The number of vans employed in the metropolis is as follows:--

Those kept by greengrocers, about 450 By others for excursions 1000 ---- Total 1450

The season for the excursion trips commences on Whit-Monday, and continues till the latter end of September.

Table showing the average number of pleasure-vans hired each week throughout the season, and the decrease since railway excursions.

Before the Since the Railway, Railway, Excursion Excursion trips. trips. Hampton Court, Sunday 50 10 „ Monday 80 30 „ Tuesday 20 10 Rye House, weekly 35 12 High Beach „ 40 20 --- -- 225 82

From this it appears that before the railway trips there were 225 pleasure-excursions by vans every week during five months of the year (or 4500 such excursions in the course of the twelve months), and only 1640 since that time. This is exclusive of those to Epsom-races, at which there were nearly 200 more.

When employed in the removal of furniture the average weight carried by these vans is about two tons, and they usually obtain about two loads on an average per week. The party engaged to take charge of the van is generally a man employed by the owner, in the capacity of a servant. The average weekly salary of these servants is about 18_s._ Some van-proprietors will employ one man, and some as many as nine or ten. These men look after the horses and stables of their employers. A van proprietor takes out a post-horse license, which is 7_s._ 6_d._ a-year; and for excursions he is also obliged to take out a stage-carriage license for each van that goes out with pleasure-parties. Such license costs 3_l._ 3_s._ per year; and besides this they have to pay to the excise 1-1/2_d._ per mile for each excursion they take. The van-horses number about three to each van, so that for the whole 1450 vans as many as 4350 horses are kept.

Calculating the pleasure-excursions by van in the course of the year at from 1500 to 2000--and that twenty persons is the complement carried on each occasion--we have a pleasure-excursion party of between 30,000 and 40,000 persons annually: and supposing that each excursionist spends 3_s._ 6_d._, the sum spent every year by the working-classes in pleasure-excursions by spring-vans alone will amount to very nearly 7000_l._

The above account relates only to the conveyance of persons by means of the London vans. Concerning the removal of goods by the same means, I obtained the following information from the most trustworthy and experienced members of the trade.

“The charge for the use of spring-vans for the conveyance of furniture and other damageable commodities is 1_s._ 6_d._ an hour, when one man is employed assisting in packing, unpacking, conveying the furniture into its place of destination, and sometimes helping to fix it. If two men are employed in this labour, 2_s._ an hour is the charge. If the furniture is conveyed a considerable distance the carman’s employer may at his option pay 6_d._ a mile instead of 1_s._ 6_d._ an hour, but the engagement by the hour ensues in nine cases out of ten.”

The conveyance of people on pleasure excursions and the removal of furniture constitute the principal business of the west-end and suburb carmen. The city carmen, however, constitute a distinct class. They are the licensed carmen, and none others are allowed by the city authorities to take up in the precincts of the city of London, though any one can put down therein; that is to say, the unlicensed carman may convey a houseful of furniture from the Strand to Fleet-street, but he may not legally carry an empty box from Fleet-street to the Strand. The city carmen, as I have said, must be licensed, and the law sanctions the following rates of payment for carriage:

“By order of Quarter Sessions, held at Guildhall, Midsummer, 49th George III., all goods, wares, and merchandise whatsoever, weighing 14 cwt. or under, shall be deemed half a load; and from 14 cwt. to 26 cwt. shall be deemed a load; from any part of the city of London the rates for carrying thereof shall be as follow. For any place within and to the extension of half a mile, for half a load and under, 2_s._ 7_d._; above half a load and not exceeding a load, 4_s._ 2_d._; from half a mile to a mile, for half a load or under, 3_s._ 4_d._; for above half a load and not exceeding a load, 5_s._ 2_d._; a mile, to one mile and a half, for half a load or under, 4_s._ 2_d._; for above half a load and not exceeding a load, 5_s._ 11_d._; and so on, according to distance.”

The other distances and weights are in relative proportion. These regulations, however, are altogether disregarded; as are those which limit the cartage for hire within the city to the carmen licensed by the city, who must be freemen of the Carmen’s Company, the only company in London whose members are all of the trade incorporated. Instead of the prices I have cited, the matter is now one of bargain. Average charges are 1_s._ 6_d._ an hour for vans, and 1_s._ for carts, or 4_s._ and 4_s._ 6_d._ per ton from the West India Docks to any part of the city; and in like proportion from the other docks and localities. The infringers of the city carmen’s privileges are sometimes called pirates; but within these three or four years no strenuous attempts have been made to check them. One carman told me that he had complained to the City Chamberlain, who told him to punish the offenders; but as it was left to individual efforts nothing was done, and the privileges, except as regards standings, are almost or altogether a dead letter. Fourteen years ago it cost 100_l._ to become free of the Carmen’s Company. Ten years ago it cost 32_l._ odd; and within these five years the cost has been reduced to 11_l._ The carmen who resort to the stands pay 5_s._ yearly for that privilege. The others are not required to do so; but every year they have to register the names of their servants, with a bond of security, who are employed on goods “under bond;” and it is customary on these occasions to give the toll-keeper 5_s._, which is equal to a renewal of the license. Until ten years ago there were only 400 of these conveyances licensed in the city. The figures called “carroons” ran from 1 to 400; and were sold by their possessors, on a disposal of their property and privilege, as if freehold property, being worth about 100_l._ a carroon. No compensation was accorded when the restriction as to numbers was abolished. The principal standings are in Coleman-street, Bread-street, Bishopsgate-street, Dowgate-hill, Thames-street, and St. Mary Axe. The charges do not differ from those I have given; but some of the employers of these carmen drive very hard bargains. A car of the best build costs from 60_l._ to 70_l._ The best horses cost 40_l._; the average price being 20_l._ at the least. The wages of the carmen’s servants vary from 16_s._ to 21_s._ a-week, under the best masters; and from 12_s._ to 14_s._ under the inferior. These men are for the most part from the country.

THE PORTERS, &C.

I now approach the only remaining part of this subject, viz. the conveyance of goods and communications by means of the porters, messengers, and errand-boys of the metropolis. The number of individuals belonging to this class throughout Great Britain in 1841 amounted to 27,552, of whom 24,092 were located in England; 3,296 in Scotland; 113 in Wales; and 51 in the British isles. Of the 27,500 porters, messengers, and errand-boys in Great Britain, very nearly one-fifth, or 4,965, were lads under 20 years of age. The number of individuals engaged in the same occupation in the metropolis was, in 1841, no less than 13,103, or very nearly half the number of porters, &c. throughout Great Britain. Of this number 2,726, or more than a fifth of the class, may be considered to represent the errand-boys, these being lads under 20 years of age.

At present, however, I purpose dealing solely with the public porters of the metropolis. Those belonging to private individuals appear to partake (as I said of the carmen’s assistants) more of the character of servants paid out of the profits of the trade than labourers whose wages form an integral portion of the prime cost of a commodity.

The metropolitan porters are, like the carmen, of two classes; the ticketed, and unticketed. I shall begin with the former.

The privileged porters of the city of London were at one period, and until within these twenty years, a numerous, important, and tolerably prosperous class. Prescriptive right, and the laws and by-laws of the corporation of the city of London, have given to them the sole privilege of porterage of every description, provided it be carried on in the precincts of the city. The only exception to this exclusive right is, that any freeman may employ his own servants in the porterage of his own goods, and even that has been disputed. The first mention of the privileged porters is in the early part of the 16th century.

It is almost impossible to classify the especial functions of the different classes of porters; for they seem to have become especial functions through custom and prescriptive right, and they are not defined precisely in any legitimate or municipal enactment. Even at the present time, what constitutes the business of a fellowship-porter, what of a ticket-porter, and on what an unprivileged porter (known as a foreigner, because a non-freeman) may be employed, are matters of dispute.

A reference to city enactments, and the aid of a highly intelligent member of the fraternity of ticket-porters, enables me to give the following account, which is the more interesting, as it relates to a class of labourers whose numbers, with the exception of the fellowship-porters, have been limited since 1838, and who must necessarily die out from want of renewal. In the earliest common council enactments (June 27, 1606) on the subject of porterage, the distinctions given, or rather intimated incidentally, are--“Tackle-house porter, porter-packer of the gooddes of English merchants, streete-porter, or porter to the packer for the said citie for strangers’ goods.” As regards the term ticket porter, not mentioned in this enumeration, I have to observe that all porters are necessarily ticket-porters, which means that they can produce a ticket or a document, showing that they are duly qualified, and have been “admitted and allowed to use the feate of a porter,” by being freemen of the city and members of a porter’s company or fellowship. In some of the older city documents tackle and ticket-porters are mentioned as if constituting one class; and they did constitute one class when their labour was identical, as to a great extent it was. In 1712 they are mentioned or indicated as one body, although the first clause of the common council enactment sets out that several controversies and quarrels have lately arisen between the tackle-house porters and the ticket-porters touching the labour or work to them respectively belonging, notwithstanding the several acts of this court heretofore made. As these acts were vague and contradictory, the controversies were a natural consequence.

The tackle-porters were employed in the weighing of goods for any purpose of shipping, duty, or sale, which was formerly carried on in public in the city. But there was a city officer known as the master-weigher, styled “Mr. Weigher,” in the old acts, and the profits of the weighing thus carried on publicly in the city went to the hospitals. In 1607 it was enacted (I give the old orthography, with its many contractions), “that no p’son or p’sons usinge the feate of a porter, or being a forreynor, inholder, wharfinger, or keye-keeper, where any merchaunts’ gooddes are to bee landed or laidd, or such-like, shall at any time after the making and publishing of this acte, have, use, keepe, or use within the said citie or l’b’ties thereof, any manner triangle, with beams, scales, and weightes, or any other balance, in any sorte, to weigh any the goods, wares, or merchandize, of any merchant or merchants, p’son or p’sons whatsoever, within the said citie or lib’ties thereof, whereby the proffyte cominge and growinge to the hospitals of the said cytie, by weighinge at the yron beams or at the great beame at the weigh-house, or the proffytes of the Mr. Weigher and porters of the same weigh-house, may in anywise be impeached, hindered, or diminished.” The privilege of “weighinge” fell gradually into desuetude; but there is no record of the precise periods. However, a vestige of it still remains; as I shall show in my account of the markets, as it properly comes under that head. There were 24 tackle-porters appointed; each of the 12 great city companies appointing two. These 12 companies are--the Mercers’, Grocers’, Drapers’, Fishmongers’, Gold-smiths’, Skinners’, Ironmongers’, Vintners’, and Clothworkers’. The 24 appointed porters were known, it appears, as “maister-porters;” but as it was impossible that they could do all the work required, they called to them the aid of “fellowes,” freemen of the city, and members of their society, who in time seem to have been known simply as ticket-porters. If a sufficiency of these fellows, or ticket-porters, could not be made available on any emergency, the maisters could employ any “foreign porter not free of this cyttie, using the feate of a porter-packer of the goods of English merchants, or the feate of a streete-porter, at the tyme of the making of this acte (1607), and which at this present is commemorante in the same citye or suburbes thereof, charged with familye, or, being a single man, bringing a good certificate in the wryting, under the handes of the churchwardens of the parish where he is resident, or other substantiall neighbours, to the number of fower, of his good conversacon and demeanor.” This employment, however, was not to be to the prejudice of the privileged porters; and that the employment of foreigners was resorted to jealously, and only through actual necessity, is sufficiently shown by the whole tenor of the enactments on the subject. The very act which I have just cited, as permitting the employment of foreigners, contains a complaint in its preamble that the toleration of these men caused many “of badd and lewde condition daylie to resorte from the most parte of this realme to the said cytie, suburbs and places adjoining, procuring themselves small habytacons, namely, one chamber-roome for a poor foreignere and his familye in a small cottage, with some other as poore as himself, to the great increase and pestringe of this cyttie with poor people; many of them provinge shifters, lyvinge by cozeninge, stealinge and imbeazellinge men’s goods, as opportunity may serve them.” A somewhat curious precedent as regards the character of the dwellings, being in “one chamber-roome,” &c., for the abodes of the workmen, for the slop-tailors and others in our day, as I have shown in my previous letters.

The ticket-porters in 1846 are described as 3000 persons and upwards, which sufficiently shows their importance; and in 1712 a Common Council enactment provides that they shall have and enjoy the work or labour of unshipping, landing, carrying and housing of pitch, tar, soap, ashes, clapboards, wainscot, fir-poles, masts, deals, oars, chests, tables, flax and hemp, brought hither from Dantzic, Melvyn, or any other part or place of the countries commonly called the east countries. Also of the imports from Ireland, “from any of the plantations belonging to Great Britain, and of all manner of coast-goods, (except lead).” The tackle-house porters were, by the same enactment, to “have and enjoy the work and labour of the shipping and all goods imported and belonging to the South Sea Company, or to the Company of Merchants trading to the East Indies, and of all other goods and merchandizes coming from other ports not before mentioned.” The functions of the tackle-house and ticket-porters are by this regulation in 1712 made identical as to labour, with merely the distinction as to the place from which the goods were received: and as the number of tackle-house porters was properly 24, with them must be included, I presume, all such ticket-porters, but not to the full number; nor is it likely that they will be renewed in case of death. The tackle-house porters that are still in existence, I was told, are gentlemen. One is a wharfinger, and claims and enjoys the monopoly of labour on his own wharf. “The tackle-house porters, or most of them, were labourers within these twenty years.” The tackle-house and ticket-porters still enjoy, by law, the right to man the work, wherever porterage is required; or, in other words, to execute the labour themselves, or to engage men to do it, no matter whether the work relate to shipping, to the markets, or to mere street-porterage, such as the conveyance of parcels for hire by men’s labour. The number of the ticket-porters was, 20 years ago, about 600. At that time to become free of the company, which has no hall but assembles at Guildhall, cost upwards of 40_l._, but soon afterwards the expense was reduced to 6_l._ 3_s._ 4_d._ By a resolution of the Common Council, no new ticket-porters have been appointed since 1838. Previously to becoming a ticket-porter a man must have taken up his freedom, no matter in what character, and must produce certificates of good character and security of two freemen, householders of good credit, each in 100_l._, so that the owner of any articles entrusted to the ticket-porter may be indemnified in case of loss. The ticket-porters are not the mere labourers people generally imagine they are, but are, or were, for their number does now not exceed 100, decayed tradesmen, who resorted to this means of livelihood when others had failed. They are also the sons of ticket-porters. Any freeman of the city, by becoming a member of the Tackle-House and Ticket-Porters’ Company, was entitled to act as a ticket-porter. They are still recognised at the markets and the wharfs, but their privileges are constantly, and more and more infringed. From a highly intelligent member of their body I had the following statement:--

“It may be true, or it may not, that ticket-porters are not wanted now; but 15 or 16 years ago a committee of the Common Council, the Market Committee I believe it was, resolved that the ticket-porters ought to be upheld, and that 50_l._ should be awarded to us; but we never got it, it was stopped by some after-resolution. Put it this way, sir. To get bread for myself and my children I became a ticket-porter, having incurred great expense in taking up my freedom and all that. Well, for this expense I enjoyed certain privileges, and enjoy them still to some extent; but that’s only because I’m well known, and have had great experience in porterage, and quickness, as it is as much art as strength. But, supposing that railways have changed the whole business of the times, are the privileges I have secured with my own money, and under the sanction of all the old laws of the city, to be taken from me? If the privileges, though they may not be many, of the rich city companies are not to be touched, why are mine? Every day they are infringed. A railway-waggon, for instance, carries a load of meat to Newgate Market. Ticket-porters have the undoubted right to unload the meat and carry it to its place of sale; but the railway servants do that, though only freemen employ their own servants in porterage, and that only with their own goods, or goods they are concerned in. I fancy that railway companies are not freemen, and don’t carry their own property to market for sale. If we complain to the authorities, we are recommended to take the law of the offenders, and we can only take it of the person committing the actual offence. And so we may sue a beggar, whom his employers may send down their line an hour after to Hull or Halifax, as the saying is. If we are of no further use, don’t sacrifice, but compensate us, and let us make the best of it, though we are none of us so young as we were; some are very old, and none are under 40, because no new members have been made for some years. If a man’s house be a hindrance to public business, he must be paid a proper price for it before it can be removed, and so ought we. The Palace Court people were compensated, and ought not we, who work hard for an honest living, and have bought the right to work in our portering, according to the laws of the city, that secure the goldsmiths in their right of assaying, and all the rich companies in possession of their lands and possessions? and so it ought to be with our labour.”

The porter-packers have been unknown in the business of the city for some years; their avocation “in the packinge and shippinge of strangers’ gooddes,” having barely survived the expiring of the East India Company’s charter in 1834.

The street porters, or men who occupy, or rather did occupy (for they are not now always to be found there,) the principal business parts of the city, are of course ticket-porters, and by the law have exclusive right of all porterage by hire from “aliens or foreigners” in the streets, (a freeman may employ his own servant), even to the carrying of a parcel of the burden of which any one may wish to relieve himself. They usually, but not always, wear white aprons, and display their tickets as badges. They do not confine themselves to the streets, but resort to the wharfs in the fruit or any busy season, and to the meat and fish-markets, whenever they think there is the chance of a job, and the preference, as is not unfrequently the case, likely to fall to them, for they are known to be trusty and experienced men. This shifting of labour from one place to another renders it impossible to give the number of ticket-porters working in any particular locality.

The fellowship-porters seem to have sprung into existence in consequence of the misunderstandings of the tackle and ticket-porters, and in this way, fellowships, or gangs of porters, were confined, or confined themselves, to the porterage of coal, corn, malt and indeed, all grain, salt, fruit, and wet fish (conceded to them after many disputes by the ticket-porters of Billingsgate), and their privileges are not infringed to any such extent as those of the ticket-porters.

The payments of ticket-porters were settled in 1799.

To or from any of the quays, wharfs, stairs, lanes, or alleys at the waterside, between the Tower and London Bridge to any part of Lower Thames-street, Beer-lane, Water-lane, Harp-lane, St. Dunstan’s-hill, St. Mary-hill, Love-lane, Botolph-lane, Pudding-lane, and Fish-street-hill:

For any load or parcel by knot or hand--

Not exceeding 1/2 cwt. 0_s._ 4_d._ „ 1 „ 0 6 „ 1-1/2 „ 0 9 „ 2 „ 1 0

For the like weights, and not exceeding Poplar, Bow-church, Bishop Bonner’s Farm, Kingsland-turnpike, Highbury-place, (Old) Pancras-church, Portman-square, Grosvenor-square, Hyde-park-corner, Buckingham-gate, Westminster Infirmary, Tothill-fields Bridewell, Strutton-ground, Horseferry, Vauxhall, Walworth-turnpike, and places of the like distance--

Not exceeding 1/2 cwt. 2_s._ 9_d._ „ 1 „ 3 3 „ 1-1/2 „ 3 9 „ 2 „ 5 0

I cite these regulations to show the distances to which porters were sent half a century ago, and the charges. These charges, however, were not always paid, as the persons employing parties often made bargains with them, and some twenty years ago the legalised charges were reduced 1_d._ in every 3_d._ The street-porters complain that any one may now, or at all events does now, ply for hire in the city, and get higher prices than them.

All ticket-porters pay 8_s._ yearly towards the funds of their society, which is called quarterage. Out of this a few small pensions are granted to old women, the widows of ticket-porters.

The difference of the functions of the ticket and fellowship-porters seems to be this--that the ticket-porters carry dry goods, or those classed by weight or bulk, the fellowship-porters carry measured goods.

LONDON VAGRANTS.

The evils consequent upon the uncertainty of labour I have already been at considerable pains to point out. There is still one other mischief attendant upon it that remains to be exposed, and which, if possible, is greater than any other yet adduced. Many classes of labour are necessarily uncertain or fitful in their character. Some work can be pursued only at certain seasons; some depends upon the winds, as, for instance, dock labour; some on fashion; and nearly all on the general prosperity of the country. Now, the labourer who is deprived of his usual employment by any of the above causes, must, unless he has laid by a portion of his earnings while engaged, become a burden to his parish, or the state, or else he must seek work, either of another kind or in another place. The mere fact of a man’s seeking work in different parts of the country, may be taken as evidence that he is indisposed to live on the charity or labour of others; and this feeling should be encouraged in every rational manner. Hence the greatest facility should be afforded to all labourers who may be unable to obtain work in one locality, to pass to another part of the country where there may be a demand for their labour. In fine, it is expedient that every means should be given for extending the labour-market for the working classes; that is to say, for allowing them as wide a field for the exercise of their calling as possible. To do this involves the establishment of what are called the “casual wards” of the different unions throughout the country. These are, strictly speaking, the free hostelries of the unemployed workpeople, where they may be lodged and fed, on their way to find work in some more active district. But the establishment of these gratuitous hotels has called into existence a large class of wayfarers, for whom they were never contemplated. They have been the means of affording great encouragement to those vagabond or erratic spirits who find continuity of application to any task specially irksome to them, and who are physically unable or mentally unwilling to remain for any length of time in the same place, or at the same work--creatures who are vagrants in disposition and principle; the wandering tribe of this country; the nomads of the present day.

“The right which every person apparently destitute possesses, to demand food and shelter, affords,” says Mr. Pigott, in the Report on Vagrancy, “great facilities and encouragement to idle and dissolute persons to avoid labour, and pass their lives in idleness and pillage. There can be no doubt that of the wayfarers who, in summer especially, demand admission into workhouses, the number of those whom the law contemplates under the titles of ‘idle and disorderly,’ and ‘rogues and vagabonds,’ greatly exceeds that of those who are honestly and bonâ fide travelling in search of employment, and that it is the former class whose numbers have recently so increased as to require a remedy.”

It becomes almost a necessary result of any system which seeks to give shelter and food to the industrious operative in his way to look for work, that it should be the means of harbouring and fostering the idle and the vagabond.

To refuse an asylum to the vagrant is to shut out the traveller; so hard is it to tell the one from the other.

The prime cause of vagabondism is essentially the non-inculcation of a habit of industry; that is to say, the faculty of continuous application at a particular form of work, has not been engendered in the individual’s mind, and he has naturally an aversion to any regular occupation, and becomes erratic, wandering from this thing to that, without any settled or determined object. Hence we find, that the vagrant disposition begins to exhibit itself precisely at that age when the first attempts are made to inculcate the habit of continuous labour among youths. This will be seen by the table in the opposite page (taken from the Returns of the Houseless Poor), which shows the greatest number of inmates to be between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five.

The cause of the greater amount of vagrancy being found among individuals between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five (and it is not by the table alone that this fact is borne out), appears to be the irksomeness of any kind of sustained labour when first performed. This is especially the case with youth; and hence a certain kind of compulsion is necessary, in order that the habit of doing the particular work may be engendered. Unfortunately, however, at this age the self-will of the individual begins also to be developed, and any compulsion or restraint becomes doubly irksome. Hence, without judicious treatment, the restraint may be entirely thrown off by the youth, and the labour be discarded by him, before any steadiness of application has been produced by constancy of practice. The cause of vagrancy then resolves itself, to a great extent, into the harshness of either parents or employers; and this it will be found is generally the account given by the vagrants themselves. They have been treated with severity, and being generally remarkable for their self-will, have run away from their home or master to live while yet mere lads in some of the low lodging-houses. Here they find companions of the same age and character as themselves, with whom they ultimately set out on a vagabond excursion through the country, begging or plundering on their way.

Another class of vagrants consists of those who, having been thrown out of employment, have travelled through the country, seeking work without avail, and who, consequently, have lived on charity so long, that the habits of wandering and mendicancy have eradicated their former habits of industry, and the industrious workman has become changed into the habitual beggar.

THE AGES OF APPLICANTS FOR SHELTER AT THE CENTRAL ASYLUM, PLAYHOUSE-YARD, WHITECROSS-STREET, IN THE YEAR 1849.

Age. No. of Months. Applicants.

Children under 1 17 Children of 1 4 „ 2 42 „ 3 21 „ 4 14 „ 5 14 „ 6 26 „ 7 30 „ 8 7 „ 9 14 „ 10 7 „ 11 5 --- 201

Age. No. of Years. Applicants. 1 28 2 22 3 28 4 30 5 36 6 39 7 56 8 38 9 92 10 108 11 104 12 107 13 177 14 102 15 268 16 259 17 380 18 336 19 385 20 296 21 335 22 386 23 295 24 399 25 122 26 238 27 219 28 238 29 84 30 294 31 56 32 91 33 105 34 98 35 186 36 98 37 63 38 56 39 42 40 117 41 63 42 91 43 49 44 42 45 91 46 28 47 35 48 56 49 84 50 108 51 28 52 46 53 44 54 21 55 49 56 35 57 27 58 35 59 27 60 35 61 7 62 14 63 7 64 14 65 12 66 6 67 10 68 7 69 4 70 7 71 4 72 6 73 7 74 6 75 7 76 6 77 2 78 4 79 0 80 2

“Having investigated the general causes of depredation, of vagrancy, and mendicancy,” say the Constabulary Commissioners, in the Government Reports of 1839 (p. 181), “as developed by examinations of the previous lives of criminals or vagrants in the gaols, we find that scarcely in any cases is it ascribable to the pressure of unavoidable want or destitution, and that in the great mass of cases it arises from the temptation of obtaining property with a less degree of labour than by regular industry.” Again, in p. 63 of the same Report, we are told that “the inquiries made by the most experienced officers into the causes of vagrancy manifest, that in all but three or four per cent the prevalent cause was the impatience of steady labour.” My investigations into this most important subject lead me, I may add, to the same conclusions. In order to understand the question of vagrancy thoroughly, however, we must not stop here; we must find out what, in its turn, is the cause of this impatience of steady labour; or, in other words, we must ascertain whence comes the desire to obtain property with a less degree of labour than by regular industry. Now, all “steady labour”--that is to say, the continuance of any labour for any length of time--is naturally irksome to us. We are all innately erratic--prone to wander both in thought and action; and it is only by a vigorous effort, which is more or less painful to us at first, that we can keep ourselves to the steady prosecution of the same object, to the repeated performance of the same acts, or even to continuous attention to the same subject. Labour and effort are more or less irksome to us all. There are, however, two means by which this irksomeness may be not only removed, but transformed into a positive pleasure. One is, by the excitement of some impulse or purpose in the mind of the workman; and the other, by the inculcation of a habit of working. Purpose and habit are the only two modes by which labour can be rendered easy to us; and it is precisely because the vagrant is deficient in both that he has an aversion to work for his living, and wanders through the country without an object, or, indeed, a destination. A love of industry is not a gift, but a habit; it is an accomplishment rather than an endowment; and our purposes and principles do not arise spontaneously from the promptings of our own instincts and affections, but are the mature result of education, example, and deliberation. A vagrant, therefore, is an individual applying himself continuously to no one thing, nor pursuing any one aim for any length of time, but wandering from this subject to that, as well as from one place to another, because in him no industrial habits have been formed, nor any principle or purpose impressed upon his nature.

Pursuing the subject still further, we shall find that the cause of the vagrant’s wandering through the country--and indeed through life--purposeless, objectless, and unprincipled, in the literal and strict meaning of the term, lies mainly in the defective state of our educational institutions; for the vagrants, as a class, it should be remembered, are not “educated.” We teach a lad reading, writing, and arithmetic, and believe that in so doing we are developing the moral functions of his nature; whereas it is often this ability to read merely--that is to say, to read without the least moral perception--which becomes the instrument of the youth’s moral depravity. The “Jack Sheppard” of Mr. Harrison Ainsworth is borrowed from the circulating library, and read aloud in the low lodging-houses in the evening by those who have a little education, to their companions who have none; and because the thief is there furbished up into the hero--because the author has tricked him out with a sort of brute insensibility to danger, made “noble blood flow in his veins,” and tinselled him over with all kinds of showy sentimentality--the poor boys who listen, unable to see through the trumpery deception, are led to look up to the paltry thief as an object of admiration, and to make his conduct the beau idéal of their lives. Of all books, perhaps none has ever had so baneful an effect upon the young mind, taste, and principles as this. None has ever done more to degrade literature to the level of the lowest licentiousness, or to stamp the author and the teacher as guilty of pandering to the most depraved propensities. Had Mr. Ainsworth been with me, and seen how he had vitiated the thoughts and pursuits of hundreds of mere boys--had he heard the names of the creatures of his morbid fancy given to youths at an age when they needed the best and truest counsellors--had he seen these poor little wretches, as I have seen them, grin with delight at receiving the degrading titles of “Blue skin,” “Dick Turpin,” and “Jack Sheppard,” he would, I am sure, ever rue the day which led him to paint the most degraded and abandoned of our race as the most noble of human beings. What wonder, then, that--taught either in no school at all, or else in that meretricious one which makes crime a glory, and dresses up vice as virtue--these poor lads should be unprincipled in every act they do--that they should be either literally actuated by no principles at all, or else fired with the basest motives and purposes, gathered from books which distort highway robbery into an act of noble enterprise, and dignify murder as justifiable homicide?

Nor are the habits of the young vagrant less cultivated than his motives. The formation of that particular habit which we term industry, and by which the youth is fitted to obtain his living as a man, is perhaps the most difficult part of all education. It commences at an age when the will of the individual is beginning to develope itself, and when the docile boy is changed into the impatient young man. Too great lenity, or too strict severity of government, therefore, becomes at this period of life dangerous. If the rule be too lax, the restless youth, disgusted with the monotony of pursuing the same task, or performing the same acts, day by day, neglects his work--till habits of indolence, rather than industry, are formed, and he is ultimately thrust upon the world, without either the means or the disposition of labouring for his living. If, on the other hand, the authority of the parent or master be too rigidly exercised, and the lad’s power of endurance be taxed too severely, then the self-will of the youth is called into action; and growing restless and rebellious under the tyranny of his teachers, he throws off their restraint, and leaves them--with a hatred, instead of a love of labour engendered within him. That these are two of the primary causes of vagrancy, all my inquiries have tended to show. The proximate cause certainly lies in the impatience of steady labour; but the cause of this impatience is referable to the non-formation of any habit of industry in the vagrant, and the absence of this habit of industry is usually due to the neglect or the tyranny of the lad’s parent or master. This is no theory, be it remembered. Whether it be the master of the workhouse, where the vagrants congregate every night--whether it be the young vagrant himself, or the more experienced tramp--that speaks upon the subject, all agree in ascribing the vagabondism of youth to the same cause. There is, however, another phase of vagrancy still to be explained; viz. the transition of the working man into the regular tramp and beggar. This is the result of a habit of dependence, produced in the operative by repeated visits to the casual wards of the unions. A labouring man, or mechanic, deprived of employment in a particular town, sets out on a journey to seek work in some other part of the country. The mere fact of his so journeying to seek work shows that he has a natural aversion to become a burden to the parish. He is no sooner, however, become an inmate of the casual wards, and breakfasts and sups off the bounty of the workhouse, than he learns a most dangerous lesson--he learns how to live by the labour of others. His sense of independence may be shocked at first, but repeated visits to the same places soon deaden his feelings on this score; and he gradually, from continual disuse, loses his habit of labouring, and ultimately, by long custom, acquires a habit of “tramping” through the country, and putting up at the casual wards of the unions by the way. Thus, what was originally designed as a means of enabling the labouring man to obtain work, becomes the instrument of depriving him of employment, by rendering it no longer a necessity for him to seek it; and the independent workman is transformed after a time into the habitual tramper, and finally into the professional beggar and petty thief. Such characters, however, form but a small proportion of the great body of vagabonds continually traversing the country.

The vagrants are essentially the non-working, as distinguished from the hard-working, men of England. They are the very opposite to the industrious classes, with whom they are too often confounded. Of the really destitute working-men, among the vagrants seeking relief at the casual wards, the proportion is very small; the respectable mechanics being deterred by disgust from herding with the filth, infamy, disease, and vermin congregated in the tramp-wards of the unions, and preferring the endurance of the greatest privations before subjecting themselves to it. “I have had this view confirmed by several unfortunate persons,” says Mr. Boase, in the Poor-law Report on Vagrancy: “they were apparently mechanics out of employment, who spoke of the horrors passed in a tramp-ward, and of their utter repugnance at visiting such places again.” “The poor mechanic,” says the porter at the Holborn workhouse, “will sit in the casual wards like a lost man--scared. It’s shocking to think a decent mechanic’s houseless,” he adds; “when he’s beat out, he’s like a bird out of a cage: he doesn’t know where to go, or how to get a bit.” But the highest tribute ever paid to the sterling honesty and worth of the working men of this country, is to be found in the testimony of the master of the Wandsworth and Clapham Union. “The destitute mechanics,” he says, “are entirely a different class from the regular vagrant; they have different habits, and, indeed, different features. They are strictly honest. During the whole of my experience, I never knew a distressed artisan who applied for a night’s shelter commit an act of theft; and I have seen them,” he adds, “in the last stage of destitution. Occasionally they have sold the shirt and waistcoat off their backs, before they applied for admittance into the workhouse; while some of them have been so weak from long starvation, that they could scarcely reach the gate, and, indeed, had to be kept for several days in the infirmary, before their strength was recruited sufficiently to continue their journey.” For myself, I can safely say, that my own experience fully bears out this honourable declaration of the virtues of our working men. Their extreme patience under the keenest privations is a thing that the wisest philosophers might envy; their sympathy and charity for their poorer brethren far exceeds, in its humble way, the benevolence and bounty of the rich; while their intelligence, considering the little time they have for study and reflection, is almost marvellous. In a word, their virtues are the spontaneous expressions of their simple natures; and their vices are the comparatively pardonable excesses, consequent upon the intensity of their toil. I say thus much in this place, because I am anxious that the public should no longer confound the honest, independent working men, with the vagrant beggars and pilferers of the country; and that they should see that the one class is as respectable and worthy, as the other is degraded and vicious.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE VARIOUS CLASSES OF VAGRANTS.

I now come to the characteristics of vagrant life, as seen in the casual wards of the metropolitan unions. The subject is one of the most important with which I have yet had to deal, and the facts I have collected are sufficiently startling to give the public an idea of the great social bearings of the question; for the young vagrant is the budding criminal.

Previously to entering upon my inquiry into this subject, I consulted with a gentleman who had long paid considerable attention to the question, and who was, moreover, in a position peculiarly fitted for gaining the greatest experience, and arriving at the correctest notions upon the matter. I consulted, I say, with the gentleman referred to, as to the Poor-law officers, from whom I should be likely to obtain the best information; and I was referred by him to Mr. Knapp, the master of the Wandsworth and Clapham Union, as one of the most intelligent and best-informed upon the subject of vagrancy. I found that gentleman all that he had been represented to me as being, and obtained from him the following statement, which, as an analysis of the vagrant character, and a description of the habits and propensities of the young vagabond, has, perhaps, never been surpassed.

He had filled the office of master of the Wandsworth and Clapham Union for three years, and immediately before that he was the relieving officer for the same union for upwards of two years. He was guardian of Clapham parish for four years previously to his being elected relieving officer. He was a member of the first board of guardians that was formed under the new Poor-law Act, and he has long given much attention to the habits of the vagrants that have come under his notice or care. He told me that he considered a casual ward necessary in every union, because there is always a migratory population, consisting of labourers seeking employment in other localities, and destitute women travelling to their husbands or friends. He thinks a casual ward is necessary for the shelter and relief of such parties, since the law will not permit them to beg. These, however, are by far the smaller proportion of those who demand admittance into the casual ward. Formerly, they were not five per cent of the total number of casuals. The remainder consisted of youths, prostitutes, Irish families, and a few professional beggars. The youths formed more than one-half of the entire number, and their ages were from twelve to twenty. The largest number were seventeen years old--indeed, he adds, just that age when youth becomes disengaged from parental control. These lads had generally run away, either from their parents or masters, and many had been reared to a life of vagrancy. They were mostly shrewd and acute youths; some had been very well educated. Ignorance, to use the gentleman’s own words, is certainly not the prevailing characteristic of the class; indeed, with a few exceptions, he would say it is the reverse. These lads are mostly distinguished by their aversion to continuous labour of any kind. He never knew them to work--they are, indeed, essentially the idle and the vagabond. Their great inclination is to be on the move, and wandering from place to place; and they appear, he says, to receive a great deal of pleasure from the assembly and conversation of the casual ward. They are physically stout, healthy lads, and certainly not emaciated or sickly. They belong especially to the able-bodied class, being, as he says, full of health and mischief. When in London, they live in the day-time by holding horses, and carrying parcels from the steam-piers and railway termini. Some loiter about the markets in the hope of a job, and others may be seen in the streets picking up bones and rags, or along the water-side searching for pieces of old metal, or anything that may be sold at the marine-store shops. They have nearly all been in prison more than once, and several a greater number of times than they are years old. They are the most dishonest of all thieves, having not the least respect for the property of even the members of their own class. He tells me he has frequently known them to rob one another. They are very stubborn and self-willed. They have often broken every window in the oakum-room, rather than do the required work. They are a most difficult class to govern, and are especially restive under the least restraint; they can ill brook control, and they find great delight in thwarting the authorities of the workhouse. They are particularly fond of amusements of all kinds. My informant has often heard them discuss the merits of the different actors at the minor theatres and saloons. Sometimes they will elect a chairman, and get up a regular debate, and make speeches from one end of the ward to the other. Many of them will make very clever comic orations; others delight in singing comic songs, especially those upon the workhouse and gaols. He never knew them love reading. They mostly pass under fictitious names. Some will give the name of “John Russell,” or “Robert Peel,” or “Richard Cobden.” They often come down to the casual wards in large bodies of twenty or thirty, with sticks hidden down the legs of their trousers, and with these they rob and beat those who do not belong to their own gang. The gang will often consist of a hundred lads, all under twenty, one-fourth of whom regularly come together in a body; and in the casual ward they generally arrange where to meet again on the following night. In the winter of 1846, the guardians of Wandsworth and Clapham, sympathising with their ragged and wretched appearance, and desirous of affording them the means of obtaining an honest livelihood, gave my informant instructions to offer an asylum to any who might choose to remain in the workhouse. Under this arrangement, about fifty were admitted. The majority were under seventeen years of age. Some of them remained a few days--others a few weeks--none stopped longer than three months; and the generality of them decamped over the wall, taking with them the clothes of the union. The confinement, restraint, and order of the workhouse were especially irksome to them. This is the character of the true vagrant, for whom my informant considers no provision whatsoever should be made at the unions, believing as he does that most of them have settlements in or around London. The casual wards, he tells me, he knows to have been a great encouragement to the increase of these characters. Several of the lads that have come under his care had sought shelter and concealment in the casual wards, after having absconded from their parents. In one instance, the father and mother of a lad had unavailingly sought their son in every direction: he discovered that the youth had ran away, and he sent him home in the custody of one of the inmates; but when the boy got to within two or three doors of his father’s residence, he turned round and scampered off. The mother afterwards came to the union in a state of frantic grief, and said that he had disappeared two years before. My informant believes that the boy has never been heard of by his parents since. Others he has restored to their parents, and some of the young vagrants who have died in the union have, on their death-beds, disclosed the names and particulars of their families, who have been always of a highly respectable character. To these he has sent, and on their visits to their children scenes of indescribable grief and anguish have taken place. He tells me he is convinced that it is the low lodging-houses and the casual wards of the unions that offer a ready means for youths absconding from their homes, immediately on the least disagreement or restraint. In most of the cases that he has investigated, he has found that the boys have left home after some rebuke or quarrel with their parents. On restoring one boy to his father, the latter said that, though the lad was not ten years old, he had been in almost every workhouse in London; and the father bitterly complained of the casual wards for offering shelter to a youth of such tender years. But my informant is convinced that, even if the casual wards throughout the country were entirely closed--the low lodging-houses being allowed to remain in their present condition--the evil would not be remedied, if at all abated. A boy after running away from home, generally seeks shelter in one of the cheap lodging-houses, and there he makes acquaintance with the most depraved of both sexes. The boys at the house become his regular companions, and he is soon a confirmed vagrant and thief like the rest. The youths of the vagrant class are particularly distinguished for their libidinous propensities. They frequently come to the gate with a young prostitute, and with her they go off in the morning. With this girl, they will tramp through the whole of the country. They are not remarkable for a love of drink,--indeed, my informant never saw a regular vagrant in a state of intoxication, nor has he known them to exhibit any craving for liquor. He has had many drunkards under his charge, but the vagrant is totally distinct, having propensities not less vicious, but of a very different kind. He considers the young tramps to be generally a class of lads possessing the keenest intellect, and of a highly enterprising character. They seem to have no sense of danger, and to be especially delighted with such acts as involve any peril. They are likewise characterised by their exceeding love of mischief. The property destroyed in the union of which my informant is the master has been of considerable value, consisting of windows broken, sash-frames demolished, beds and bedding torn to pieces, and rags burnt. They will frequently come down in large gangs, on purpose to destroy the property in the union. They generally are of a most restless and volatile disposition. They have great quickness of perception, but little power of continuous attention or perseverance. They have a keen sense of the ridiculous, and are not devoid of deep feeling. He has often known them to be dissolved to tears on his remonstrating with them on the course they were following--and then they promise amendment; but in a few days, and sometimes hours, they would forget all, and return to their old habits. In the summer they make regular tours through the country, visiting all places that they have not seen, so that there is scarcely one that is not acquainted with every part within 100 miles of London, and many with all England. They are perfectly organised, so that any regulation affecting their comforts or interests becomes known among the whole body in a remarkably short space of time. As an instance, he informs me that on putting out a notice that no able-bodied man or youth would be received in the casual ward after a certain day, there was not a single application made by any such party, the regular vagrants having doubtless informed each other that it was useless seeking admission at this union. In the winter the young vagrants come to London, and find shelter in the asylums for the houseless poor. At this season of the year, the number of vagrants in the casual wards would generally be diminished one-half. The juvenile vagrants constitute one of the main sources from which the criminals of the country are continually recruited and augmented. Being repeatedly committed to prison for disorderly conduct and misdemeanour, the gaol soon loses all terrors for them; and, indeed, they will frequently destroy their own clothes, or the property of the union, in order to be sent there. Hence they soon become practised and dexterous thieves, and my informant has detected several burglaries by the property found upon them. The number of this class is stated, in the Poor-law Report on Vagrancy, to have been, in 1848, no less than 16,086, and they form one of the most restless, discontented, vicious, and dangerous elements of society. At the period of any social commotion, they are sure to be drawn towards the scene of excitement in a vast concourse. During the Chartist agitation, in the June quarter of the year 1848, the number of male casuals admitted into the Wandsworth and Clapham Union rose from 2501 to 3968, while the females (their companions) increased from 579 to 1388.

Of the other classes of persons admitted into the casual wards, the Irish generally form a large proportion. At the time when juvenile vagrancy prevailed to an alarming extent, the Irish hardly dared to show themselves in the casual wards, for the lads would beat them and plunder them of whatever they might have--either the produce of their begging, or the ragged kit they carried with them. Often my informant has had to quell violent disturbances in the night among these characters. The Irish tramp generally makes his appearance with a large family, and frequently with three or four generations together--grandfather, grandmother, father, and mother, and children--all coming at the same time. In the year ending June, 1848, the Irish vagrants increased to so great an extent that, of the entire number of casuals relieved, more than one-third in the first three quarters, and more than two-thirds in the last quarter, were from the sister island. Of the Irish vagrants, the worst class--that is the poorest and most abject--came over to this country by way of Newport, in Wales. The expense of the passage to that port was only 2_s._ 6_d._; whereas the cost of the voyage to Liverpool and London was considerably more, and consequently the class brought over by that way were less destitute. The Irish vagrants were far more orderly than the English. Out of the vast number received into the casual ward of this union during the distress in Ireland, it is remarkable that not one ever committed an act of insubordination. They were generally very grateful for the relief afforded, and appeared to subsist entirely by begging. Some of them were not particularly fond of work, but they were invariably honest, says my informant--at least so far as his knowledge went. They were exceedingly filthy in their habits, and many diseased.

These constitute the two large and principal classes of vagrants. The remainder generally consist of persons temporarily destitute, whereas the others are habitually so. The temporarily destitute are chiefly railway and agricultural labourers, and a few mechanics travelling in search of employment. These are easily distinguishable from the regular vagrant; indeed, a glance is sufficient to the practised eye. They are the better class of casuals, and those for whom the wards are expressly designed, but they only form a very small proportion of the vagrants applying for shelter. In the height of vagrancy, they formed not one per cent of the entire number admitted. Indeed, such was the state of the casual wards, that the destitute mechanics and labourers preferred walking through the night to availing themselves of the accommodation. Lately, the artisans and labourers have increased greatly in proportion, owing to the system adopted for the exclusion of the habitual vagrant, and the consequent decline of their number. The working man travelling in search of employment is now generally admitted into what are called the receiving wards of the workhouse, instead of the tramp-room, and he is usually exceedingly grateful for the accommodation. My informant tells me that persons of this class seldom return to the workhouse after one night’s shelter, and this is a conclusive proof that the regular working-man seldom passes into an habitual beggar. They are an entirely distinct class, having different habits, and, indeed, different features, and I am assured that they are strictly honest. During the whole experience of my informant, he never knew one who applied for a night’s shelter commit one act of dishonesty, and he has seen them in the last stage of destitution. Occasionally they have sold the shirt and waistcoat off their backs before they applied for admittance into the workhouse, while some of them have been so weak from long starvation, that they could scarcely reach the gate. Such persons are always allowed to remain several days to recruit their strength. It is for such as these that my informant considers the casual wards indispensable to every well-conducted union--whereas it is his opinion that the habitual vagrant, as contradistinguished from the casual vagrant or wayfaring poor, should be placed under the management of the police, at the charge of the union.

Let me, however, first run over, as briefly as possible, the several classes of vagrants falling under the notice of the parish authorities. The different kinds of vagrants or tramps to be found in the casual wards of the unions throughout the country, may be described as follows:--“The more important class, from its increasing numbers,” says Mr. Boase, in the Poor-law Report upon Vagrancy, “is that of the regular young English vagabond, generally the native of a large town. He is either a runaway apprentice, or he has been driven from home by the cruelty of his parents, or allowed by them to go wild in the streets: in some cases he is an orphan, and has lost his father and mother in early life. Having no ties to bind him, he travels about the country, being sure of a meal, and a roof to shelter him at night. The youths of this class are principally of from fifteen to twenty-five years of age. They often travel in parties of two or three--frequently in large bodies, with young women, as abandoned as themselves, in company.”

Approaching these in character are the young countrymen who have absconded--perhaps for some petty poaching offence--and to whom the facility for leading an idle vagabond life has proved too great a temptation.

The next class of vagrants is the sturdy English mendicant. He, though not a constant occupant of the tramp-ward in the workhouse, frequently makes his appearance there to partake of the shelter, when he has spent his last shilling in dissipation.

Besides these, there are a few calling themselves agricultural labourers, who are really such, and who are to be readily distinguished. There are also a few mechanics--chiefly tailors, shoemakers, and masons, who are occasionally destitute. The amount of those really destitute, however, is very small in proportion to the numbers relieved.

Of the age and sex of tramps, the general proportion seems to be four-fifths male and one-fifth female.

Of the female English tramps, little can be said, but that they are in great part prostitutes of the lowest class. The proportion of really destitute women in the tramp-wards (generally widows with young children) is greater than that of men--probably from the ability to brave the cold night wind being less in the female, and the love of the children getting the shelter, above dread of vile association. Girls of thirteen or fourteen years old, who run away from masters or factory employment, often find shelter in the tramp-ward.

The Irish, who, till very recently, formed the majority of the applicants for casual relief, remain to be described. These can scarcely be classified in any other way than as those who come to England to labour, and those who come to beg. The former class, however, yield readily to their disposition to idleness--the difficulties of providing supper, breakfast, and lodging for themselves being removed by the workhouse. This class are physically superior to the mass of Irish vagrants. It appears that for very many years considerable numbers of these have annually come to England in the spring to work at hay-harvest, remaining for corn-harvest and hop-picking, and then have carried home their earnings in the autumn, seldom resorting to begging. Since the failure of the potato crop greater numbers have come to England, and the tramp-ward has been their principal refuge, and an inducement to many to remain in the country. A great many harvest men land at Newport and the Welsh ports; but by far the greater proportion of the Irish in Wales are, or were, women with small children, old men apparently feeble, pregnant women, and boys about ten years old. They are brought over by coal-vessels as a return cargo (living ballast) at very low fares, (2_s._ 6_d._ is the highest sum), huddled together like pigs, and communicating disease and vermin on their passage.

Harriet Huxtable, the manager of the tramp-house at Newport, says:--“There is hardly an Irish family that came over and applied to me, but we have found a member or two of it ill, some in a shocking filthy state. They don’t live long, diseased as they are. They are very remarkable; they will eat salt by basins’ full, and drink a great quantity of water after. I have frequently known those who could not have been hungry, eat cabbage-leaves and other refuse from the ash-heap. I really believe they would eat almost anything.”

“A remarkable fact is, that all the Irish whom I met on my route between Wales and London,” says Mr. Boase, “said they came from Cork county. Mr. John, the relieving officer at Cardiff, on his examination, says, ‘that not 1 out of every 100 of the Irish come from any other county than Cork.’”

In the township of Warrington, the number of tramps relieved between the 25th of March, 1847, and the 25th of March, 1848, was:--

Irish 12,038 English 4,701 Scotch 427 Natives of other places 156 ------ Making a total of 17,322

Of the original occupations or trades of the vagrants applying for relief at the different unions throughout the country, there are no returns. As, however, a considerable portion of these were attracted to London on the opening of the Metropolitan Asylums for the Houseless Poor, we may, by consulting the Society’s yearly Reports, where an account of the callings of those receiving shelter in such establishments is always given, be enabled to arrive at some rough estimate as to the state of destitution and vagrancy existing among the several classes of labourers and artisans for several years.

The following table, being an average drawn from the returns for seventeen years of the occupation of the persons admitted into the Asylums for the Houseless Poor, which I have been at considerable trouble in forming, exhibits the only available information upon this subject, synoptically arranged:--

Factory employment 1 in every 3 Hawkers 4 Labourers (agricultural) 12 Seamen 12 Charwomen and washerwomen 13 Labourers (general) 17 Waddingmakers 35 Smiths and ironfounders 36 Weavers 38 Brickmakers 39 Ropemakers 41 Braziers 55 Papermakers and stainers 58 Skindressers 58 Basketmakers 62 Bricklayers, plasterers, and slaters 62 Gardeners 67 Filecutters 70 Sawyers 73 Turners 74 Wireworkers 75 Cutlers 77 Harnessmakers and saddlers 80 Stonemasons 88 Dyers 94 Chimneysweeps 97 Errand boys 99 Porters 99 Painters, plumbers, and glaziers 119 Cabinetmakers and upholsterers 128 Shoemakers 130 Compositors and printers 142 Brushmakers 145 Carpenters, joiners, and wheelwrights 150 Bakers 167 Brassfounders 177 Tailors 177 Combmakers 178 Coopers 178 Surveyors 198 Fellmongers 203 Glasscutters 229 Bedsteadmakers 235 Average for all London 219 Butchers 248 Bookbinders 255 Mendicants 256 Engineers 265 Miners 267 Lacemakers 273 Poulterers 273 Furriers 274 Straw-bonnetmakers 277 Trimming and buttonmakers 277 Ostlers and grooms 286 Drovers 297 Hairdressers 329 Pipemakers 340 Clerks and shopmen 346 Hatters 350 Tinmen 354 Tallowchandlers 364 Servants 377 Corkcutters 380 Jewellers and watchmakers 411 Umbrella-makers 415 Sailmakers 455 Carvers and gilders 500 Gunsmiths 554 Trunkmakers 569 Chairmakers 586 Fishmongers 643 Tanners 643 Musicians 730 Leatherdressers and curriers 802 Coachmakers 989 Engravers 1,133 Shipwrights 1,358 Artists 1,374 Drapers 2,047 Milliners and dressmakers 10,390

Of the disease and fever which mark the course of the vagrants wheresoever they go, I have before spoken. The “tramp-fever,” as the most dangerous infection of the casual wards is significantly termed, is of a typhoid character, and seems to be communicated particularly to those who wash the clothes of the parties suffering from it. This was likewise one of the characteristics of cholera. That the habitual vagrants should be the means of spreading a pestilence over the country in their wanderings will not be wondered at, when we find it stated in the Poor-law Report on Vagrancy, that “in very few workhouses do means exist of drying the clothes of these paupers when they come in wet, and it often happens that a considerable number are, of necessity, placed together wet, filthy, infested with vermin, and diseased, in a small, unventilated space.” “The majority of tramps, again,” we are told, “have a great aversion to being washed and cleaned. A regular tramper cannot bear it; but a distressed man would be thankful for it.”

The cost incurred for the cure of the vagrant sick in 1848, was considerably more than the expense of the food dispensed to them. Out of 13,406 vagrants relieved at the Wandsworth and Clapham Union in 1848, there were 332 diseased, or ill with the fever.

The number of vagrants relieved throughout England and Wales in the same year was 1,647,975; and supposing that the sickness among these prevailed to the same extent as it did among the casuals at Wandsworth (according to the Vagrancy Report, it appears to have been much more severe in many places), there would have been as many as 40,812 sick in the several unions throughout the country in 1848. The cost of relieving the 332 sick at Wandsworth was 300_l._; at the same rate, the expense of the 40,812 sick throughout the country unions would amount to 36,878_l._ According to the above proportion, the number of sick relieved in the metropolitan unions would have been 7678, and the cost for their relief would amount to 6931_l._

Of the tide of crime which, like that of pestilence, accompanies the stream of vagrants, there are equally strong and conclusive proofs. “The most prominent body of delinquents in the rural districts,” says the Report of the Constabulary Commissioners, “are vagrants, and these vagrants appear to consist of two classes: first, the habitual depredators, housebreakers, horse-stealers, and common thieves; secondly, of vagrants, properly so called, who seek alms as mendicants. Besides those classes who travel from fair to fair, and from town to town, in quest of dishonest gains, there are numerous classes who make incursions from the provincial towns upon the adjacent rural districts.”

“The classes of depredators who perambulate the country (says the same Report) are the vagrants, properly so called. Upwards of 18,000 commitments per annum of persons for the offence of vagrancy, mark the extent of the body from which they are taken.

“It will be seen that vagrancy, or the habit of wandering abroad, under colour either of distress, or of some ostensible, though illegal occupation, having claims on the sympathies of the uninformed, constitutes one great source of delinquency, and especially of juvenile delinquency. The returns show that the vagrant classes pervade every part of the country, rendering property insecure, propagating pernicious habits, and afflicting the minds of the sensitive with false pictures of suffering, and levying upon them an offensive impost for the relief of that destitution for which a heavy tax is legally levied in the shape of poor’s rates.

“Mr. Thomas Harril, a sergeant of the Bristol police, was asked--‘What proportion of the vagrants do you think are thieves, that make it a point to take anything for which they find a convenient opportunity?’ ‘We have found it so invariably.’ ‘Have you ever seen the children who go about as vagrants turn afterwards from vagrancy to common thieving,--thieving wholly or chiefly?’ ‘We have found it several times.’ ‘Therefore the suppression of vagrancy or mendicity would be to that extent the suppression of juvenile delinquency?’ ‘Yes, of course.’

“Mr. J. Perry, another witness, states:--‘I believe vagrancy to be the first step towards the committal of felony, and I am supported in that belief by the number of juvenile vagrants who are brought before the magistrates as thieves.’

“An officer, appointed specially to take measures against vagrancy in Manchester, was asked,--‘Does your experience enable you to state that the large proportion of vagrants are thieves too, whenever they come in the way of thieving?’ ‘Yes, and I should call the larger proportion there thieves.’ ‘Then, from what you have observed of them, would you say that the suppression of vagrancy would go a great way to the suppression of a great quantity of depredation?’ ‘I am sure of it.’”

The same valuable Report furnishes us with a table of the numbers and character of the known depredators and suspected persons frequenting five of the principal towns; from which it appears that in these towns alone there are 28,706 persons of known bad character. According to the average proportion of these to the population, there will be in the other large towns nearly 32,000 persons of a similar character, and upwards of 69,000 of such persons dispersed throughout the rest of the country. Adding these together, we shall have as many as 130,000 persons of known bad character living in England and Wales, without the walls of the prisons. To form an accurate notion of the total number of the criminal population, we must add to the above amount the number of persons resident within the walls of the prisons. These, according to the last census, are 19,888, which, added to the 130,000 above enumerated, gives within a fraction of 150,000 individuals for the entire criminal population of the country.

In order to arrive at an estimate of the number of known depredators, or suspected persons, continually tramping through the country, we must deduct from the number of persons of bad character without the walls of the prisons, such as are not of migratory habits; and it will be seen on reference to the table above given, that a large proportion of the classes there specified have usually some fixed residence (those with an asterisk set before them may be said to be non-migratory). As many as 10,000 individuals out of the 20,000 and odd above given certainly do not belong to the tramping tribe; and we may safely say that there must be as many as 35,000 more in the country, who, though of known bad character, are not tramps like the rest. Hence, in order to ascertain the number of depredators and suspected persons belonging to the tramping or vagrant class, we must deduct 10,000 + 35,000 from 85,000, which gives us 40,000 for the number of known bad characters continually traversing the country.

This sum, though arrived at in a very different manner from the estimate given in my last letter, agrees very nearly with the amount there stated. We may therefore, I think, without fear of erring greatly upon the matter, assert that our criminal population, within and without the walls of the prisons, consists of 150,000 individuals, of whom nearly one-third belong to the vagrant class; while, of those without the prison walls, upwards of one half are persons who are continually tramping through the country.

The number of commitments for vagrancy throughout the country is stated, in the Constabulary Report, at upwards of 18,000 per annum. This amount, large as it is, will not surprise when we learn from Mr. Pigott’s Report on Vagrancy to the Poor-law Commissioners, that “it is becoming a system with the vagrants to pass away the cold months by fortnightly halts in different gaols. As soon as their fourteen days have expired they make their way to some other union-house, and commit the same depredation there, in order to be sent to gaol again.”

“There are some characters,” say the officers of the Derby Union, in the same Report, “who come on purpose to be committed, avowedly. These have generally itch, venereal disease, and lice, all together. Then there are some who tear their clothes for the purpose of being committed.”

I shall now give as full an account as lies in my power of the character and consequences of vagrancy. That it spreads a moral pestilence through the country, as terrible and as devastating as the physical pest which accompanies it wherever it is found, all the evidence goes to prove. Nevertheless, the facts which I have still to adduce in connexion with that class of vagrancy which does not necessarily come under the notice of the parish authorities, are of so overpowering a character, that I hope and trust they may be the means of rousing every earnest man in the kingdom to a sense of the enormous evils that are daily going on around him.

The number of vagrants taken into custody by the police, according to the Metropolitan Criminal Returns for 1848, was 5598; they belonged to the trades cited in the subjoined table, where I have calculated the proportionate number of vagrants furnished by each of the occupations, according to the total number of individuals belonging to the class.

Toolmakers 1 in every 33·9 Labourers 45·9 Weavers 75·6 Cutlers 82·1 French polishers 109·7 Glovers, &c. 112·8 Corkcutters 114·2 Brassfounders 119·1 Smiths 129·1 Bricklayers 143·4 Papermakers, stainers, &c. 188·1 Fishmongers 207·3 Curriers 211·6 Masons 231·4 Tinkers and tinmen 236·3 Sawyers 248·1 Carvers and gilders 250·3 Hatters and trimmers 250·4 Musicians 292·0 Turners, &c. 308·8 Shoemakers 310·5 Surveyors 326·5 Average for all London 334·7 Gardeners 341·8 Tobacconists 344·6 Painters 359·5 Bakers 364·4 Tailors 373·2 Milliners 451·7 Clerks 453·7 Printers 461·6 Sweeps 516·5 Opticians 536·0 Saddlers 542·7 Coach and cabmen 542·8 Glassmakers, &c. 580·5 Butchers 608·0 Laundresses 623·8 Coachmakers 709·3 Grocers 712·2 General and marine storedealers 721·2 Jewellers 922·7 Artificial flowermakers 1025·0 Brushmakers 1077·5 Ironmongers 1177·0 Watchmakers 1430·0 Engineers 1433·3 Dyers 1930·0 Servants 2444·9 Drapers 2456·5 Bookbinders 2749·5

The causes and encouragements of vagrancy are two-fold,--direct and indirect. The roving disposition to which, as I have shown, vagrancy is directly ascribable, proceeds (as I have said) partly from a certain physical conformation or temperament, but mainly from a non-inculcation of industrial habits and moral purposes in youth. The causes from which the vagabondism of the young indirectly proceeds are:--

1. The neglect or tyranny of parents or masters. (This appears to be a most prolific source.)

2. Bad companions.

3. Bad books, which act like the bad companions in depraving the taste, and teaching the youth to consider that approvable which to all rightly constituted minds is morally loathsome.

4. Bad amusements--as penny-theatres, where the scenes and characters described in the bad books are represented in a still more attractive form. Mr. Ainsworth’s “Rookwood,” with Dick Turpin “in his habit as he lived in,” is now in the course of being performed nightly at one of the East-end saloons.

5. Bad institutions--as, for instance, the different refuges scattered throughout the country, and which, enabling persons to live without labour, are the means of attracting large numbers of the most idle and dissolute classes to the several cities where the charities are dispensed. Captain Carroll, C.B., R.N., chief of police, speaking of the Refuges for the Destitute in Bath, and of a kindred institution which distributes bread and soup, says,--“I consider those institutions an attraction to this city for vagrants.” At Liverpool, Mr. Henry Simpson said of a Night Asylum, supported by voluntary contributions, and established for several years in this town--“This charity was used by quite a different class of persons from those for whom it was designed. A vast number of abandoned characters, known thieves and prostitutes, found nightly shelter there.” “The chief inducement to vagrancy in the town,” says another Report, speaking of a certain part of the North Riding of York, “is the relief given by mistaken but benevolent individuals, more particularly by the poorer class. Instances have occurred where the names of such benevolent persons have been found in the possession of vagrants, obtained, no doubt, from their fellow-travellers.”

6. Vagrancy is largely due to, and, indeed, chiefly maintained by the low lodging-houses.

STATEMENTS OF VAGRANTS.

The first vagrant was one who had the thorough look of a “professional.” He was literally a mass of rags and filth. He was, indeed, exactly what in the Act of Henry VIII. is denominated a “valiant beggar.” He stood near upon six feet high, was not more than twenty five, and had altogether the frame and constitution of a stalwart labouring man. His clothes, which were of fustian and corduroy, tied close to his body with pieces of string, were black and shiny with filth, which looked more like pitch than grease. He had no shirt, as was plain from the fact that, where his clothes were torn, his bare skin was seen. The ragged sleeves of his fustian jacket were tied like the other parts of his dress, close to his wrists, with string. This was clearly to keep the bleak air from his body. His cap was an old, brimless “wide-awake,” and when on his head gave the man a most unprepossessing appearance. His story was as follows:--

“I am a carpet-weaver by trade. I served my time to it. My father was a clerk in a shoe-thread manufactory at ----. He got 35_s._ a-week, and his house, coals, and candles found him. He lived very comfortably; indeed, I was very happy. Before I left home, I knew none of the cares of the world that I have known since I left him. My father and mother are living still. He is still as well off as when I was at home. I know this, because I have heard from him twice, and seen him once. He won’t do anything to assist me. I have transgressed so many times, that he won’t take me in hand any more. I will tell you the truth, you may depend upon it; yes, indeed, I would, even if it were to injure myself. He has tried me many times, but now he has given me up. At the age of twenty-one he told me to go from home and seek a living for myself. He said he had given me a home ever since I was a child, but now I had come to manhood I was able to provide for myself. He gave me a good education, and I might have been a better scholar at the present time, had I not neglected my studies. He put me to a day-school in the town when I was eight years old, and I continued there till I was between twelve and thirteen. I learnt reading, writing, and ciphering. I was taught the catechism, the history of England, geography, and drawing. My father was a very harsh man when he was put out of his way. He was a very violent temper when he was vexed, but kind to us all when he was pleased. I have five brothers and six sisters. He never beat me more than twice, to my remembrance. The first time he thrashed me with a cane, and the last with a horsewhip. I had stopped out late at night. I was then just rising sixteen, and had left school. I am sure those thrashings did me no good, but made me rather worse than before. I was a self-willed lad, and determined, if I couldn’t get my will in one way, I would have it another. After the last thrashing he told me he would give me some trade, and after that he would set me off and get rid of me. Then I was bound apprentice as a carpet-weaver for three years. My master was a very kind one. I runned away once. The cause of my going off was a quarrel with one of the workmen that was put over me. He was very harsh, and I scarce could do anything to please him; so I made up my mind to leave. The first place I went when I bolted was to Crewkerne, in Somersetshire. There I asked for employment at carpet-weaving. I got some, and remained there three days, when my father found out where I was, and sent my brother and a special constable after me. They took me from the shop where I was at work, and brought me back to ----, and would have sent me to prison had I not promised to behave myself, and serve my time out as I ought. I went to work again; and when the expiration of my apprenticeship occurred, my father said to me, ‘Sam, you have a trade at your fingers’ ends: you are able to provide for yourself.’ So then I left home. I was twenty-one years of age. He gave me money, 3_l._ 10_s._, to take me into Wales, where I told him I should go. I was up for going about through the country. I made my father believe I was going into Wales to get work; but all I wanted was, to go and see the place. After I had runned away once from my apprenticeship, I found it very hard to stop at home. I couldn’t bring myself to work somehow. While I sat at the work, I thought I should like to be away in the country: work seemed a burden to me. I found it very difficult to stick to anything for a long time; so I made up my mind, when my time was out, that I’d be off roving, and see a little of life. I went by the packet from Bristol to Newport. After being there three weeks, I had spent all the money that I had brought from home. I spent it in drinking--most of it, and idling about. After that I was obliged to sell my clothes, &c. The first thing I sold was my watch; I got 2_l._ 5_s._ for that. Then I was obliged to part with my suit of clothes. For these I got 1_l._ 5_s._ With this I started from Newport to go farther up over the hills. I liked this kind of life much better than working, while the money lasted. I was in the public-house three parts of my time out of four. I was a great slave to drink. I began to like drink when I was between thirteen and fourteen. At that time my uncle was keeping a public-house, and I used to go there, backwards and forward, more or less every week. Whenever I went to see my uncle he gave me some beer. I very soon got to like it so much, that, while an apprentice, I would spend all I could get in liquor. This was the cause of my quarrels with my father, and when I went away to Newport I did so to be my own master, and drink as much as I pleased, without anybody saying anything to me about it. I got up to Nant-y-glô, and there I sought for work at the iron-foundry, but I could not get it. I stopped at this place three weeks, still drinking. The last day of the three weeks I sold the boots off my feet to get food, for all my money and clothes were now gone. I was sorry then that I had ever left my father’s house; but, alas! I found it too late. I didn’t write home to tell them how I was off; my stubborn temper would not allow me. I then started off barefoot, begging my way from Nant-y-glô to Monmouth. I told the people that I was a carpet-weaver by trade, who could not get any employment, and that I was obliged to travel the country against my own wish. I didn’t say a word about the drink--that would never have done. I only took 2-1/2_d._ on the road, 19 miles long; and I’m sure I must have asked assistance from more than a hundred people. They said, some of them, that they had ‘nout’ for me; and others did give me a bit of ‘bara caws,’ or ‘bara minny’ (that is, bread and cheese, or bread and butter). Money is very scarce among the Welsh, and what they have they are very fond of. They don’t mind giving food; if you wanted a bagful you might have it there of the working people. I inquired for a night’s lodging at the union in Monmouth. That was the first time I ever asked for shelter in a workhouse in my life. I was admitted into the tramp-room. Oh, I felt then that I would much rather be in prison than in such a place, though I never knew what the inside of a prison was--no, not then. I thought of the kindness of my father and mother. I would have been better, but I knew that, as I had been carrying on, I never could expect shelter under my father’s roof any more; I knew he would not have taken me in had I gone back, or I would have returned. Oh, I was off from home, and I didn’t much trouble my head about it after a few minutes; I plucked up my spirits and soon forgot where I was. I made no male friends in the union; I was savage that I had so hard a bed to lie upon; it was nothing more than the bare boards, and a rug to cover me. I knew very well it wasn’t my bed, but still I thought I ought to have a better. I merely felt annoyed at its being so bad a place, and didn’t think much about the rights of it. In the morning I was turned out, and after I had left I picked up with a young woman, who had slept in the union over-night. I said I was going on the road across country to Birmingham, and I axed her to go with me. I had never seen her before. She consented, and we went along together, begging our way. We passed as man and wife, and I was a carpet-weaver out of employment. We slept in unions and lodging-houses by the way. In the lodging-houses we lived together as man and wife, and in the unions we were separated. I never stole anything during all this time. After I got to Birmingham I made my way to Wolverhampton. My reason for going to Wolverhampton was, that there was a good many weavers there, and I thought I should make a good bit of money by begging of them. Oh, yes, I have found that I could always get more money out of my own trade than any other people. I did so well at Wolverhampton, begging, that I stopped there three weeks. I never troubled my head whether I was doing right or wrong by asking my brother-weavers for a portion of their hard earnings to keep me in idleness. Many a time I have given part of my wages to others myself. I can’t say that I would have given it to them if I had known they wouldn’t work like me. I wouldn’t have worked sometimes if I could have got it. I can’t tell why, but somehow it was painful to me to stick long at anything. To tell the truth, I loved a roving, idle life. I would much rather have been on the road than at my home. I drank away all I got, and feared and cared for nothing. When I got drunk over-night, it would have been impossible for me to have gone to work in the morning, even if I could have got it. The drink seemed to take all the work out of me. This oftentimes led me to think of what my father used to tell me, that ‘the bird that can sing and won’t sing ought to be made to sing.’ During my stay in Wolverhampton I lived at a tramper’s house, and there I fell in with two men well acquainted with the town, and they asked me to join them in breaking open a shop. No, sir, no, I didn’t give a thought whether I was doing right or wrong at it. I didn’t think my father would ever know anything at all about it, so I didn’t care. I liked my mother best, much the best. She had always been a kind, good soul to me, often kept me from my father’s blows, and helped me to things unknown to my father. But when I was away on the road I gave no heed to her. I didn’t think of either father or mother till after I was taken into custody for that same job. Well, I agreed to go with the other two; they were old hands at the business--regular housebreakers. We went away between twelve and one at night. It was pitch dark. My two pals broke into the back part of the house, and I stopped outside to keep watch. After watching for about a quarter of an hour, a policeman came up to me and asked what I was stopping there for. I told him I was waiting for a man that was in a public-house at the corner. This led him to suspect me, it being so late at night. He went to the public-house to see whether it was open, and found it shut, and then came back to me. As he was returning he saw my two comrades coming through the back window (that was the way they had got in). He took us all three in custody; some of the passers-by assisted him in seizing us. The other two had six months’ imprisonment each, and I, being a stranger, had only fourteen days. When I was sent to prison, I thought of my mother. I would have written to her, but couldn’t get leave. Being the first time I ever was nailed, I was very downhearted at it. I didn’t say I’d give it up. While I was locked up, I thought I’d go to work again, and be a sober man, when I got out. These thoughts used to come over me when I was ‘on the stepper,’ that is, on the wheel. But I concealed all them thoughts in my breast. I said nothing to no one. My mother was the only one that I ever thought upon. When I got out of prison, all these thoughts went away from me, and I went again at my old tricks. From Wolverhampton I went to Manchester, and from Manchester I came to London, begging and stealing wherever I had a chance. This is not my first year in London. I tell you the truth, because I am known here; and if I tell you a lie, you’ll say ‘You spoke an untruth in one thing, and you’ll do so in another.’ The first time I was in London, I was put in prison fourteen days for begging, and after I had a month at Westminster Bridewell, for begging and abusing the policeman. Sometimes I’d think I’d rather go anywhere, and do anything, than continue as I was; but then I had no clothes, no friends, no house, no home, no means of doing better. I had made myself what I was. I had made my father and mother turn their backs upon me, and what could I do, but go on? I was as bad off then as I am now, and I couldn’t have got work then if I would. I should have spent all I got in drink then, I know. I wrote home twice. I told my mother I was hard up; had neither a shoe to my foot, a coat to my back, nor a roof over my head. I had no answer to my first letter, because it fell into the hands of my brother, and he tore it up, fearing that my mother might see it. To the second letter that I sent home my mother sent me an answer herself. She sent me a sovereign. She told me that my father was the same as when I first left home, and it was no use my coming back. She sent me the money, bidding me get some clothes and seek for work. I didn’t do as she bade. I spent the money--most part in drink. I didn’t give any heed whether it was wrong or right. Soon got, soon gone; and I know they could have sent me much more than that if they had pleased. It was last June twelvemonth when I first came to London, and I stopped till the 10th of last March. I lost the young woman when I was put in prison in Manchester. She never came to see me in quod. She cared nothing for me. She only kept company with me to have some one on the road along with her; and I didn’t care for her, not I. One half of my time last winter I stopped at the ‘Straw-yards,’ that is, in the asylums for the houseless poor here and at Glasshouse. When I could get money I had a lodging. After March I started off through Somersetshire. I went to my father’s house then. I didn’t go in. I saw my father at the door, and he wouldn’t let me in. I was a little better dressed than I am now. He said he had enough children at home without me, and gave me 10_s._ to go. He could not have been kind to me, or else he would not have turned me from his roof. My mother came out to the garden in front of the house, after my father had gone to his work, and spoke to me. She wished me to reform my character. I could not make any rash promises then. I had but very little to say to her. I felt myself at that same time, for the very first time in my life, that I was doing wrong. I thought, if I could hurt my mother so, it must be wrong to go on as I did. I had never had such thoughts before. My father’s harsh words always drove such thoughts out of my head; but when I saw my mother’s tears, it was more than I could stand. I was wanting to get away as fast as I could from the house. After that I stopped knocking about the country, sleeping in unions, up to November. Then I came to London again, and remained up to this time. Since I have been in town I have sought for work at the floor-cloth and carpet manufactory in the Borough, and they wouldn’t even look at me in my present state. I am heartily tired of my life now altogether, and would like to get out of it if I could. I hope at least I have given up my love of drink, and I am sure, if I could once again lay my hand on some work, I should be quite a reformed character. Well, I am altogether tired of carrying on like this. I haven’t made 6_d._ a-day ever since I have been in London this time. I go tramping it across the country just to pass the time, and see a little of new places. When the summer comes I want to be off. I am sure I have seen enough of this country now, and I should like to have a look at some foreign land. Old England has nothing new in it now for me. I think a beggar’s life is the worst kind of life that a man can lead. A beggar is no more thought upon than a dog in the street, and there are too many at the trade. I wasn’t brought up to a bad life. You can see that by little things--by my handwriting; and, indeed, I should like to have a chance at something else. I have had the feelings of a vagabond for full ten years. I know, and now I am sure, I’m getting a different man. I begin to have thoughts and ideas I never had before. Once I never feared nor cared for anything, and I wouldn’t have altered if I could; but now I’m tired out, and if I haven’t a chance of going right, why I must go wrong.”

The next was a short, thick-set man, with a frequent grin on his countenance, which was rather expressive of humour. He wore a very dirty smock-frock, dirtier trousers, shirt, and neckerchief, and broken shoes. He answered readily, and as if he enjoyed his story.

“I never was at school, and was brought up as a farm labourer at Devizes,” he said, “where my parents were labourers. I worked that way three or four years, and then ran away. My master wouldn’t give me money enough--only 3_s._ 6_d._ a-week,--and my parents were very harsh; so I ran away, rather than be licked for ever. I’d heard people say, ‘Go to Bath,’ and I went there; and I was only about eleven then. I’m now twenty-three. I tried to get work on the railway there, and I did. I next got into prison for stealing three shovels. I was hard-up, having lost my work, and so I stole them. I was ten weeks in prison. I came out worse than I went in, for I mixed with the old hands, and they put me up to a few capers. When I got out I thought I could live as well that way as by hard work; so I took to the country. I began to beg. At first I took ‘No’ for an answer, when I asked for ‘Charity to a poor boy;’ but I found that wouldn’t do, so I learned to stick to them. I was forced, or I must have starved, and that wouldn’t do at all. I did middling; plenty to eat, and sometimes a drop to drink, but not often. I was forced to be merry, because it’s no good being down-hearted. I begged for two years,--that is, steal and beg together: I couldn’t starve. I did best in country villages in Somersetshire; there’s always odds and ends to be picked up there. I got into scrapes now and then. Once, in Devonshire, me and another slopt at a farm-house, and in the morning we went egg-hunting. I must have stowed three dozen of eggs about me, when a dog barked, and we were alarmed and ran away, and in getting over a gate I fell, and there I lay among the smashed eggs. I can’t help laughing at it still: but I got away. I was too sharp for them. I have been twenty or thirty times in prison. I have been in for stealing bread, and a side of bacon, and cheese, and shovels, and other things; generally provisions. I generally learn something new in prison. I shall do no good while I stop in England. It’s not possible a man like me can get work, so I’m forced to go on this way. Sometimes I haven’t a bit to eat all day. At night I may pick up something. An uncle of mine once told me he would like to see me transported, or come to the gallows. I told him I had no fear about the gallows; I should never come to that end: but if I were transported I should be better off than I am now. I can’t starve, and I won’t; and I can’t ’list, I’m too short. I came to London the other day, but could do no good. The London hands are quite a different set to us. We seldom do business together. My way’s simple. If I see a thing, and I’m hungry, I take it if I can, in London or anywhere. I once had a turn with two Londoners, and we got two coats and two pair of trousers; but the police got them back again. I was only locked up one night for it. The country’s the best place to get away with anything, because there’s not so many policemen. There’s lots live as I live, because there’s no work. I can do a country policeman, generally. I’ve had sprees at the country lodging-houses--larking, and drinking, and carrying on, and playing cards and dominoes all night for a farthing a game; sometimes fighting about it. I can play at dominoes, but I don’t know the cards. They try to cheat one another. Honour among thieves! why there’s no such thing; they take from one another. Sometimes we dance all night--Christmas time, and such times. Young women dance with us, and sometimes old women. We’re all merry; some’s lying on the floor drunk; some’s jumping about, smoking; some’s dancing; and so we enjoy ourselves. That’s the best part of the life. We are seldom stopped in our merry-makings in the country. It’s no good the policemen coming among us; give them beer, and you may knock the house down. We have good meat sometimes; sometimes very rough. Some are very particular about their cookery, as nice as anybody is. They must have their pickles, and their peppers, and their fish-sauces (I’ve had them myself), to their dishes. Chops, in the country, has the call; or ham and eggs--that’s relished. Some’s very particular about their drink, too; won’t touch bad beer; same way with the gin. It’s chiefly gin (I’m talking about the country), very little rum; no brandy: but sometimes, after a good day’s work, a drop of wine. We help one another when we are sick, where we’re knowed. Some’s very good that way. Some lodging-house keepers get rid of anybody that’s sick, by taking them to the relieving-officer at once.”

A really fine-looking lad of eighteen gave me the following statement. He wore a sort of frock-coat, very thin, buttoned about him, old cloth trousers, and bad shoes. His shirt was tolerably good and clean, and altogether he had a tidy look and an air of quickness, but not of cunning:--

“My father,” he said, “was a bricklayer in Shoreditch parish, and my mother took in washing. They did pretty well; but they’re dead and buried two years and a half ago. I used to work in brick-fields at Ball’s-pond, living with my parents, and taking home every farthing I earned. I earned 18_s._ a-week, working from five in the morning until sunset. They had only me. I can read and write middling; when my parents died, I had to look out for myself. I was off work, attending to my father and mother when they were sick. They died within about three weeks of each other, and I lost my work, and I had to part with my clothes; before that I tried to work in brick-fields, and couldn’t get it, and work grew slack. When my parents died I was thirteen; and I sometimes got to sleep in the unions; but that was stopped, and then I took to the lodging-houses, and there I met with lads who were enjoying themselves at push-halfpenny and cards; and they were thieves, and they tempted me to join them, and I did for once--but only once. I then went begging about the streets and thieving, as I knew the others do. I used to pick pockets. I worked for myself, because I thought that would be best. I had no fence at all--no pals at first, nor anything. I worked by myself for a time. I sold the handkerchiefs I got to Jews in the streets, chiefly in Field-lane, for 1_s._ 6_d._, but I have got as much as 3_s._ 6_d._ for your real fancy ones. One of these buyers wanted to cheat me out of 6_d._, so I would have no more dealings with him. The others paid me. The ‘Kingsmen’ they call the best handkerchiefs--those that have the pretty-looking flowers on them. Some are only worth 4_d._ or 5_d._, some’s not worth taking. Those I gave away to strangers, boys like myself, or wore them myself, round my neck. I only threw one away, but it was all rags, though he looked quite like a gentleman that had it. Lord-mayor’s day and such times is the best for us. Last Lord-mayor’s day I got four handkerchiefs, and I made 11_s._ There was a 6_d._ tied up in the corner of one handkerchief; another was pinned to the pocket, but I got it out, and after that another chap had him, and cut his pocket clean away, but there was nothing in it. I generally picked my men--regular swells, or good-humoured looking men. I’ve often followed them a mile. I once got a purse with 3_s._ 6_d._ in it from a lady when the Coal Exchange was opened. I made 8_s._ 6_d._ that day--the purse and handkerchiefs. That’s the only lady I ever robbed. I was in the crowd when Manning and his wife were hanged. I wanted to see if they died game, as I heard them talk so much about them at our house. I was there all night. I did four good handkerchiefs and a rotten one not worth picking up. I saw them hung. I was right under the drop. I was a bit startled when they brought him up and put the rope round his neck and the cap on, and then they brought her out. All said he was hung innocently; it was she that should have been hung by herself. They both dropped together, and I felt faintified, but I soon felt all right again. The police drove us away as soon as it was over, so that I couldn’t do any more business; besides, I was knocked down in the crowd and jumped upon, and I won’t go to see another hung in a hurry. He didn’t deserve it, but she did, every inch of her. I can’t say I thought, while I was seeing the execution, that the life I was leading would ever bring me to the gallows. After I’d worked by myself a bit, I got to live in a house where lads like me, big and little, were accommodated. We paid 3_d._ a-night. It was always full; there was twenty or twenty-one of us. We enjoyed ourselves middling. I was happy enough: we drank sometimes, chiefly beer, and sometimes a drop of gin. One would say, ‘I’ve done so much,’ and another, ‘I’ve done so much;’ and stand a drop. The best I ever heard done was 2_l._ for two coats from a tailor’s, near Bow-church, Cheapside. That was by one of my pals. We used to share our money with those who did nothing for a day, and they shared with us when we rested. There never was any blabbing. We wouldn’t do one another out of a farthing. Of a night some one would now and then read hymns, out of books they sold about the streets--I’m sure they were hymns; or else we’d read stories about Jack Sheppard and Dick Turpin, and all through that set. They were large thick books, borrowed from the library. They told how they used to break open the houses, and get out of Newgate, and how Dick got away to York. We used to think Jack and them very fine fellows. I wished I could be like Jack (I did then), about the blankets in his escape, and that old house in West-street--it is a ruin still. We played cards and dominoes sometimes at our house, and at pushing a halfpenny over the table along five lines. We struck the halfpenny from the edge of the table, and according to what line it settled on was the game--like as they play at the Glasshouse--that’s the ‘model lodging-house’ they calls it. Cribbage was always played at cards. I can only play cribbage. We have played for a shilling a game, but oftener a penny. It was always fair play. That was the way we passed the time when we were not out. We used to keep quiet, or the police would have been down upon us. They knew of the place. They took one boy there. I wondered what they wanted. They catched him at the very door. We lived pretty well; anything we liked to get, when we’d money: we cooked it ourselves. The master of the house was always on the look-out to keep out those who had no business there. No girls were admitted. The master of the house had nothing to do with what we got. I don’t know of any other such house in London; I don’t think there are any. The master would sometimes drink with us--a larking like. He used us pretty kindly at times. I have been three times in prison, three months each time; the Compter, Brixton, and Maidstone. I went down to Maidstone fair, and was caught by a London policeman down there. He was dressed as a bricklayer. Prison always made me worse, and as I had nothing given me when I came out, I had to look out again. I generally got hold of something before I had been an hour out of prison. I’m now heartily sick of this life. I wish I’d been transported with some others from Maidstone, where I was tried.”

A cotton-spinner (who had subsequently been a soldier), whose appearance was utterly abject, was the next person questioned. He was tall, and had been florid-looking (judging by his present complexion). His coat--very old and worn, and once black--would not button, and would have hardly held together if buttoned. He was out at elbows, and some parts of the collar were pinned together. His waistcoat was of a match with his coat, and his trousers were rags. He had some shirt, as was evident by his waistcoat, held together by one button. A very dirty handkerchief was tied carelessly round his neck. He was tall and erect, and told his adventures with heartiness.

“I am thirty-eight,” he said, “and have been a cotton-spinner, working at Chorlton-upon-Medlock. I can neither read nor write. When I was a young man, twenty years ago, I could earn 2_l._ 10_s._, clear money, every week, after paying two piecers and a scavenger. Each piecer had 7_s._ 6_d._ a-week--they are girls; the scavenger--a boy to clean the wheels of the cotton-spinning machine--had 2_s._ 6_d._ I was master of them wheels in the factory. This state of things continued until about the year 1837. I lived well and enjoyed myself, being a hearty man, noways a drunkard, working every day from half-past five in the morning till half-past seven at night--long hours, that time, master. I didn’t care about money as long as I was decent and respectable. I had a turn for sporting at the wakes down there. In 1837, the ‘self-actors’ (machines with steam power) had come into common use. One girl can mind three pairs--that used to be three men’s work--getting 15_s._ for the work which gave three men 7_l._ 10_s._ Out of one factory 400 hands were flung in one week, men and women together. We had a meeting of the union, but nothing could be done, and we were told to go and mind the three pairs, as the girls did, for 15_s._ a-week. We wouldn’t do that. Some went for soldiers, some to sea, some to Stopport (Stockport), to get work in factories where the ‘self-actors’ wern’t agait. The masters there wouldn’t have them--at least, some of them. Manchester was full of them; but one gentleman in Hulme still won’t have them, for he says he won’t turn the men out of bread. I ’listed for a soldier in the 48th. I liked a soldier’s life very well until I got flogged--100 lashes for selling my kit (for a spree), and 150 for striking a corporal, who called me an English robber. He was an Irishman. I was confined five days in the hospital after each punishment. It was terrible. It was like a bunch of razors cutting at your back. Your flesh was dragged off by the cats. Flogging was then very common in the regiment. I was flogged in 1840. To this day I feel a pain in the chest from the triangles. I was discharged from the army about two years ago, when the reduction took place. I was only flogged the times I’ve told you. I had no pension and no friends. I was discharged in Dublin. I turned to, and looked for work. I couldn’t get any, and made my way for Manchester. I stole myself aboard of a steamer, and hid myself till she got out to sea, on her way from Dublin to Liverpool. When the captain found me there, he gave me a kick and some bread, and told me to work, so I worked for my passage twenty-four hours. He put me ashore at Liverpool. I slept in the union that night--nothing to eat and nothing to cover me--no fire; it was winter. I walked to Manchester, but could get nothing to do there, though I was twelve months knocking about. It wants a friend and a character to get work. I slept in unions in Manchester, and had oatmeal porridge for breakfast, work at grinding logwood in the mill, from six to twelve, and then turn out. That was the way I lived chiefly; but I got a job sometimes in driving cattle, and 3_d._ for it,--or 2_d._ for carrying baskets in the vegetable markets; and went to Shoedale Union at night. I would get a pint of coffee and half-a-pound of bread, and half-a-pound of bread in the morning, and no work. I took to travelling up to London, half-hungered on the road--that was last winter--eating turnips out of this field, and carrots out of that, and sleeping under hedges and haystacks. I slept under one haystack, and pulled out the hay to cover me, and the snow lay on it a foot deep in the morning. I slept for all that, but wasn’t I froze when I woke? An old farmer came up with his cart and pitchfork to load hay. He said: ‘Poor fellow! have you been here all night?’ I answered, ‘Yes.’ He gave me some coffee and bread, and one shilling. That was the only good friend I met with on the road. I got fourteen days of it for asking a gentleman for a penny; that was in Stafford. I got to London after that, sleeping in unions sometimes, and begging a bite here and there. Sometimes I had to walk all night. I was once forty-eight hours without a bite, until I got hold at last of a Swede turnip, and so at last I got to London. Here I’ve tried up and down everywhere for work as a labouring man, or in a foundry. I tried London Docks, and Blackwall, and every place; but no job. At one foundry, the boiler-makers made a collection of 4_s._ for me. I’ve walked the streets for three nights together. Here, in this fine London, I was refused a night’s lodging in Shoreditch and in Gray’s-inn-lane. A policeman, the fourth night, at twelve o’clock, procured me a lodging, and gave me 2_d._ I couldn’t drag on any longer. I was taken to a doctor’s in the city. I fell in the street from hunger and tiredness. The doctor ordered me brandy and water, 2_s._ 6_d._, and a quartern loaf, and some coffee, sugar, and butter. He said, what I ailed was hunger. I made that run out as long as I could, but I was then as bad off as ever. It’s hard to hunger for nights together. I was once in ‘Steel’ (Coldbath-fields) for begging. I was in Tothill-fields for going into a chandler’s shop, asking for a quartern loaf and half a pound of cheese, and walking out with it. I got a month for that. I have been in Brixton for taking a loaf out of a baker’s basket, all through hunger. Better a prison than to starve. I was well treated because I behaved well in prison. I have slept in coaches when I had a chance. One night on a dunghill, covering the stable straw about me to keep myself warm. This place is a relief. I shave the poor people and cut their hair, on a Sunday. I was handy at that when I was a soldier. I have shaved in public-houses for halfpennies. Some landlords kicks me out. Now, in the days, I may pick up a penny or two that way, and get here of a night. I met two Manchester men in Hyde Park on Saturday, skating. They asked me what I was. I said, ‘A beggar.’ They gave me 2_s._ 6_d._, and I spent part of it for warm coffee and other things. They knew all about Manchester, and knew I was a Manchester man by my talk.”

The statement I then took was that of a female vagrant--a young girl with eyes and hair of remarkable blackness. Her complexion was of the deepest brunette, her cheeks were full of colour, and her lips very thick. This was accounted for. She told me that her father was a mulatto from Philadelphia. She was short, and dressed in a torn old cotton gown, the pattern of which was hardly discernible from wear. A kind of half-shawl, patched and mended in several places, and of very thin woollen texture, was pinned around her neck; her arms, which, with her hands, were full and large, were bare. She wore very old broken boots and ragged stockings. Her demeanour was modest.

“I am now eighteen,” she stated. “My father was a coloured man. He came over here as a sailor, I have heard, but I never saw him; for my mother, who was a white woman, was not married to him, but met him at Oxford; and she married afterwards a box-maker, a white man, and has two other children. They are living, I believe, but I don’t know where they are. I have heard my mother say that my father--that’s my own father--had become a missionary, and had been sent out to America from England as a missionary, by Mr. ----. I believe that was fifteen years ago. I don’t know who Mr. ---- was, but he was a gentleman, I’ve heard my mother say. She told me, too, that my father was a good scholar, and that he could speak seven different languages, and was a very religious man. He was sent out to Boston, but I never heard whether he was to stay or not, and I don’t know what he was to missionary about. He behaved very well to my mother, I have heard her say, until she took up with the other man (the box-maker), and then he left her, and gave her up, and came to London. It was at Oxford that they all three were then; and when my father got away, or came away to London, my mother followed him (she told me so, but she didn’t like to talk about it), as she was then in the family way. She didn’t find him; but my father heard of her, and left some money with Mr. ---- for her, and she got into Poland-street workhouse through Mr. ---- I’ve heard. While there, she received 1_s._ 6_d._ a-week, but my father never came to see her or me. At one time, my father used to live by teaching languages. He had been in Spain, and France, and Morocco. I’ve heard, at any rate, that he could speak the Moors’ language, but I know nothing more. All this is what I’ve heard from my mother and my grandmother--that’s my mother’s mother. My grandfather and grandmother are dead. He was a sawyer. I have a great grandmother living in Oxford, now ninety-two, supported by her parish. I lived with my grandmother at Oxford, who took me out of pity, as my mother never cared about me, when I was four months old. I remained with her until I was ten, and then my mother came from Reading, where she was living, and took me away with her. I lived with her and my stepfather, but they were badly off. He couldn’t get much to do at his trade as a box-maker, and he drank a great deal. I was with them about nine months, when I ran away. He beat me so; he never liked me. I couldn’t bear it. I went to Pangbourne, but there I was stopped by a man my stepfather had sent--at least I suppose so--and I was forced to walk back to Reading--ten miles, perhaps. My father applied to the overseer for support for me, and the overseer was rather harsh, and my father struck him, and for that he was sent to prison for three months. My mother and her children then got into the workhouse, but not until after my stepfather had been some time in prison. Before that she had an allowance, which was stopped; I don’t know how much. I was in the workhouse twenty-one days. I wasn’t badly treated. My mother sweared my parish, and I was removed to St. James’s, Poland-street, London. I was there three weeks, and then I was sent to New Brentford--it was called the Juvenile Establishment--and I went to school. There was about 150 boys and girls; the boys were sent to Norwood when they were fifteen. Some of the girls were eighteen, kept there until they could get a place. I don’t know whether they all belonged to St. James’s, or to different parishes, or how. I stayed there about two years. I was very well treated, sufficient to eat; but we worked hard at scrubbing, cleaning, and making shirts. We made all the boys’ clothes as well, jackets and trousers, and all. I was then apprenticed a maid-of-all-work, in Duke-street, Grosvenor-square, for three years. I was there two years and a half, when my master failed in business, and had to part with me. They had no servant but me. My mistress was sometimes kind, pretty well. I had to work very hard. She sometimes beat me if I stopped long on my errands. My master beat me once for bringing things wrong from a grocer’s. I made a mistake. Once my mistress knocked me down-stairs for being long on an errand to Pimlico, and I’m sure I couldn’t help it, and my eye was cut. It was three weeks before I could see well. [There is a slight mark under the girl’s eye still.] They beat me with their fists. After I left my master, I tried hard to get a place; I’m sure I did, but I really couldn’t; so to live, I got watercresses to sell up and down Oxford-street. I stayed at lodging-houses. I tried that two or three months, but couldn’t live. My mother had been ‘through the country,’ and I knew other people that had, through meeting them at the lodging-houses. I first went to Croydon, begging my way. I slept in the workhouse. After that I went to Brighton, begging my way, but couldn’t get much, not enough to pay my lodgings. I was constantly insulted, both in the lodging-houses and in the streets. I sung in the streets at Brighton, and got enough to pay my lodgings, and a little for food. I was there a week, and then I went to the Mendicity, and they gave me a piece of bread (morning and night) and a night’s lodging. I then went to Lewes and other places, begging, and got into prison at Tunbridge Wells for fourteen days, for begging. I only used to say I was a poor girl out of place, could they relieve me? I told no lies. I didn’t pick my oakum one day, it was such hard stuff; three and a half pounds of it to do from nine to half-past three: so I was put into solitary for three days and three nights, having half a pound of bread and a pint of cold water morning and night; nothing else, and no bed to sleep on. I’m sure I tell you the truth. Some had irons on their hands if they were obstropolous. That’s about two months ago. I’m sorry to say that during this time I couldn’t be virtuous. I know very well what it means, for I can read and write, but no girl can be so circumstanced as I was. I seldom got money for being wicked; I hated being wicked, but I was tricked and cheated. I am truly sorry for it, but what could a poor girl do? I begged my way from London to Hastings, and got here on Saturday last, and having no money, came here. I heard of this asylum from a girl in Whitechapel, who had been here. I met her in a lodging-house, where I called to rest in the daytime. They let us rest sometimes in lodging-houses in the daytime. I never was in any prison but Tunbridge Wells, and in Gravesend lock-up for being out after twelve at night, when I had no money to get a lodging. I was there one Saturday night, and got out on Sunday morning, but had nothing given me to eat--I was in by myself. It’s a bad place--just straw to sleep on, and very cold. I told you I could read and write. I learnt that partly at Oxford, and finished my learning at the Juvenile Establishment at Brentford. There I was taught, reading, writing, sums, marking, sewing, and scrubbing. Once I could say all the multiplication table, but I’ve forgot most of it. I know how to make lace, too, because I was taught by a cousin in Oxford, another grandchild of my grandmother’s. I can make it with knitting-needles. I could make cushion-lace with pins, but I’m afraid I’ve forgot how now. I should like, if I could to get into service again, here or abroad. I have heard of Australia, where I have a cousin. I am sure I could and would conduct myself well in service, I have suffered so much out of it. I am sure of it. I never stole anything in my life, and have told all I have done wrong.”

STATEMENT OF A RETURNED CONVICT.

I shall now give the statement of a man who was selected at random from amongst a number such as himself, congregated in one of the most respectable lodging-houses. He proved, on examination, to be a returned convict, and one who had gone through the severest bodily and mental agony. He had lived in the bush, and been tried for his life. He was an elderly-looking man, whose hair was just turning grey, and in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, except that his cheek-bones were unusually high, and that his face presented that collected and composed expression which is common to men exposed to habitual watchfulness from constant danger. He gave me the following statement. His dress was bad, but differed in nothing from that of a long-distressed mechanic. He said:--

“I am now 43 (he looked much older), and had respectable parents, and a respectable education. I am a native of London. When I was young I was fond of a roving life, but cared nothing about drink. I liked to see ‘life,’ as it was called, and was fond of the company of women. Money was no object in those days; it was like picking up dirt in the streets. I ran away from home. My parents were very kind to me; indeed, I think I was used too well, I was petted so, when I was between 12 and 13. I got acquainted with some boys at Bartlemy-fair a little before that, and saw them spending lots of money and throwing at cock-shies, and such-like; and one of them said, ‘Why don’t you come out like us?’ So afterwards I ran away and joined them. I was not kept shorter of money than other boys like me, but I couldn’t settle. I couldn’t fix my mind to any regular business but a waterman’s, and my friends wouldn’t hear of that. There was nine boys of us among the lot that I joined, but we didn’t all work together. All of ’em came to be sent to Van Dieman’s Land as transports except one, and he was sent to Sydney. While we were in London it was a merry life, with change of scene, for we travelled about. We were successful in nearly all our plans for several months. I worked in Fleet Street, and could make 3_l._ a-week at handkerchiefs alone, sometimes falling across a pocket-book. The best handkerchiefs then brought 4_s._ in Field-lane. Our chief enjoyments were at the ‘Free and Easy,’ where all the thieves and young women went, and sang and danced. I had a young woman for a partner then; she went out to Van Dieman’s Land. She went on the lift in London (shopping and stealing from the counter). She was clever at it. I carried on in this way for about 15 months, when I was grabbed for an attempt on a gentleman’s pocket by St. Paul’s Cathedral, on a grand charity procession day. I had two months in the Old Horse (Bridewell). I never thought of my parents at this time--I wouldn’t. I was two years and a half at this same trade. One week was very like another,--successes and escapes, and free-and-easies, and games of all sorts, made up the life. At the end of the two years and a half I got into the way of forged Bank-of-England notes. A man I knew in the course of business, said, ‘I would cut that game of ‘smatter-hauling,’ (stealing handkerchiefs), and do a little soft,’ (pass bad notes). So I did, and was very successful at first. I had a mate. He afterwards went out to Sydney, too, for 14 years. I went stylishly dressed as a gentleman, with a watch in my pocket, to pass my notes. I passed a good many in drapers’ shops, also at tailors’ shops. I never tried jewellers, they’re reckoned too good judges. The notes were all finnies, (5_l._ notes), and a good imitation. I made more money at this game, but lived as before, and had my partner still. I was fond of her; she was a nice girl, and I never found that she wronged me in any way. I thought at four months’ end of retiring into the country with gambling-tables, as the risk was becoming considerable. They hung them for it in them days, but that never daunted me the least in life. I saw Cashman hung for that gunsmith’s shop on Snow-hill, and I saw Fauntleroy hung, and a good many others, but it gave me no uneasiness and no fear. The gallows had no terror for people in my way of life. I started into the country with another man and his wife--his lawful wife--for I had a few words with my own young woman, or I shouldn’t have left her behind me, or, indeed, have started at all. We carried gambling on in different parts of the country for six months. We made most at the E. O. tables,--not those played with a ball, they weren’t in vogue then, but throwing dice for prizes marked on a table. The highest prize was ten guineas, but the dice were so made that no prize could be thrown; the numbers were not regular as in good dice, and they were loaded as well. If anybody asked to see them, we had good dice ready to show. All sorts played with us. London men and all were taken in. We made most at the races. My mate and his wife told me that at the last Newmarket meeting we attended, 65_l._ was made, but they rowed in the same boat. I know they got a deal more. The 65_l._ was shared in three equal portions, but I had to maintain the horse and cart out of my own share. We used to go out into the roads (highway robbery) between races, and if we met an ‘old bloke’ (man) we ‘propped him’ (knocked him down), and robbed him. We did good stakes that way, and were never found out. We lived as well as any gentleman in the land. Our E. O. table was in a tilted cart. I stayed with this man and his wife two months. She was good-looking, so as to attract people. I thought they didn’t use me altogether right, so at Braintree I gave another man in the same way of business 25_l._ for his kit--horse, harness, tilted-cart, and table. I gave him two good 5_l._ notes and three bad ones, for I worked that way still, not throwing much of a chance away. I came to London for a hawker’s stock, braces and such-like, to sell on the road, just to take the down off (remove suspicion). In the meantime, the man that I bought the horse, &c., of, had been nailed passing a bad note, and he stated who he got it from, and I was traced. He was in a terrible rage to find himself done, particularly as he used to do the same to other people himself. He got acquitted for that there note after he had me ‘pinched’ (arrested). I got ‘fullied’ (fully committed). I was tried at the ‘Start’ (Old Bailey), and pleaded guilty to the minor offence, (that of utterance, not knowing the note to be forged), or I should have been hanged for it then. It was a favourable sessions when I was tried. Thirty-six were cast for death, and only one was ‘topped’ (hanged), the very one that expected to be ‘turned up’ (acquitted) for highway robbery. I was sentenced to 14 years’ transportation. I was ten weeks in the Bellerophon hulk at Sheerness, and was then taken to Hobart Town, Van Dieman’s Land, in the Sir Godfrey Webster. At Hobart Town sixty of us were picked out to go to Launceston. There (at Launceston) we lay for four days in an old church, guarded by constables; and then the settlers came there from all parts, and picked their men out. I got a very bad master. He put me to harvest work that I had never even seen done before, and I had the care of pigs as wild as wild boars. After that I was sent to Launceston with two letters from my master to the superintendent, and the other servants thought I had luck to get away from Red Barks to Launceston, which was 16 miles off. I then worked in a Government potato-field; in the Government charcoal-works for about 11 months; and then was in the Marine department, going by water from Launceston to George Town, taking Government officers down in gigs, provisions in boats, and such-like. There was a crew of six (convicts) in the gigs, and four in the watering-boats. All the time I consider I was very hardly treated. I hadn’t clothes half the time, being allowed only two slop-suits in a year, and no bed to lie on when we had to stay out all night with the boats by the river Tamar. With 12 years’ service at this my time was up, but I had incurred several punishments before it was up. The first was 25 lashes, because a bag of flour had been burst, and I picked up a capfull. The flogging is dreadfully severe, a soldier’s is nothing to it. I once had 50 lashes, for taking a hat in a joke when I was tipsy; and a soldier had 300 the same morning. I was flogged as a convict, and he as a soldier; and when we were both at the same hospital after the flogging, and saw each other’s backs, the other convicts said to me, ‘D---- it, you’ve got it this time;’ and the soldier said, when he saw my back, ‘You’ve got it twice as bad I have.’ ‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘ten times as bad--he’s been flogged; but you, in comparison, have only had a child’s whipping.’ The cats the convicts were then flogged with were each six feet long, made out of the log-line of a ship of 500 tons burden; nine over-end knots were in each tail, and nine tails whipped at each end with wax-end. With this we had half-minute lashes; a quick lashing would have been certain death. One convict who had 75 lashes was taken from the triangles to the watch-house in Launceston, and was asked if he would have some tea,--he was found to be dead. The military surgeon kept on saying in this case, ‘Go on, do your duty.’ I was mustered there, as was every hand belonging to the Government, and saw it, and heard the doctor. When I was first flogged, there was inquiry among my fellow-convicts, as to ‘How did D---- (meaning me) stand it--did he sing?’ The answer was, ‘He was a pebble;’ that is, I never once said, ‘Oh!’ or gave out any expression of the pain I suffered. I took my flogging like a stone. If I had sung, some of the convicts would have given me some lush with a locust in it (laudanum hocussing), and when I was asleep would have given me a crack on the head that would have laid me straight. That first flogging made me ripe. I said to myself, ‘I can take it like a bullock.’ I could have taken the flogger’s life at the time, I felt such revenge. Flogging always gives that feeling; I know it does, from what I’ve heard others say who had been flogged like myself. In all I had 875 lashes at my different punishments. I used to boast of it at last. I would say, ‘I don’t care, I can take it till they see my backbone.’ After a flogging, I’ve rubbed my back against a wall, just to show my bravery like, and squeezed the congealed blood out of it. Once I would not let them dress my back after a flogging, and I had 25 additional for that. At last I bolted to Hobart Town, 120 miles off. There I was taken before Mr. H----, the magistrate, himself a convict formerly, I believe from the Irish Rebellion; but he was a good man to a prisoner. He ordered me 50, and sent me back to Launceston. At Launceston I was ‘fullied’ by a bench of magistrates, and had 100. Seven years before my time was up I took to the bush. I could stand it no longer, of course not. In the bush I met men with whom, if I had been seen associating, I should have been hanged on any slight charge, such as Brittan was and his pals.”

I am not at liberty to continue this man’s statement at present: it would be a breach of the trust reposed in me. Suffice it, he was in after days tried for his life. Altogether it was a most extraordinary statement; and, from confirmations I received, was altogether truthful. He declared that he was so sick of the life he was now leading, that he would, as a probation, work on any kind of land anywhere for nothing, just to get out of it. He pronounced the lodging-houses the grand encouragements and concealments of crime, though he might be speaking against himself, he said, as he had always hidden safely there during the hottest search. A policeman once walked through the ward in search of him, and he was in bed. He knew the policeman well, and was as well known to the officer, but he was not recognised. He attributed his escape to the thick, bad atmosphere of the place giving his features a different look, and to his having shaved off his whiskers, and pulled his nightcap over his head. The officer, too, seemed half-sick, he said.

It ought also to be added, that this man stated that the severity of the Government in this penal colony was so extreme, that men thought little of giving others a knock on the head with an axe, to get hanged out of the way. Under the discipline of Captain Macconochie, however, who introduced better order with a kindlier system, there wasn’t a man but what would have laid down his life for him.

LIVES OF THE BOY INMATES OF THE CASUAL WARDS OF THE LONDON WORKHOUSES.

An intelligent-looking boy, of sixteen years of age, whose dress was a series of ragged coats, three in number--as if one was to obviate the deficiency of another, since one would not button, and another was almost sleeveless--gave me the following statement. He had long and rather fair hair, and spoke quietly. He said:--

“I’m a native of Wisbeach, in Cambridgeshire, and am sixteen. My father was a shoemaker, and my mother died when I was five years old, and my father married again. I was sent to school, and can read and write well. My father and step-mother were kind enough to me. I was apprenticed to a tailor three years ago, but I wasn’t long with him; I runned away. I think it was three months I was with him when I first runned away. It was in August--I got as far as Boston in Lincolnshire, and was away a fortnight. I had 4_s._ 6_d._ of my own money when I started, and that lasted two or three days. I stopped in lodging-houses until my money was gone, and then I slept anywhere--under the hedges, or anywhere. I didn’t see so much of life then, but I’ve seen plenty of it since. I had to beg my way back from Boston, but was very awkward at first. I lived on turnips mainly. My reason for running off was because my master ill-used me so; he beat me, and kept me from my meals, and made me sit up working late at nights for a punishment: but it was more to his good than to punish me. I hated to be confined to a tailor’s shopboard, but I would rather do that sort of work now then hunger about like this. But you see, sir, God punishes you when you don’t think of it. When I went back my father was glad to see me, and he wouldn’t have me go back again to my master, and my indentures were cancelled. I stayed at home seven months, doing odd jobs, in driving sheep, or any country work, but I always wanted to be off to sea. I liked the thoughts of going to sea far better than tailoring. I determined to go to sea if I could. When a dog’s determined to have a bone, it’s not easy to hinder him. I didn’t read stories about the sea then, not even ‘Robinson Crusoe,’--indeed I haven’t read that still, but I know very well there is such a book. My father had no books but religious books; they were all of a religious turn, and what people might think dull, but they never made me dull. I read Wesley’s and Watts’s hymns, and religious magazines of different connexions. I had a natural inclination for the sea, and would like to get to it now. I’ve read a good deal about it since--Clark’s ‘Lives of Pirates,’ ‘Tales of Shipwrecks,’ and other things in penny numbers (Clark’s I got out of a library though). I was what people called a deep boy for a book; and am still. Whenever I had a penny, after I got a bellyful of victuals, it went for a book, but I haven’t bought many lately. I did buy one yesterday--the ‘Family Herald’--one I often read when I can get it. There’s good reading in it; it elevates your mind--anybody that has a mind for studying. It has good tales in it. I never read ‘Jack Sheppard,’--that is, I haven’t read the big book that’s written about him; but I’ve often heard the boys and men talk about it at the lodging-houses and other places. When they haven’t their bellies and money to think about they sometimes talk about books; but for such books as them--that’s as ‘Jack’--I haven’t a partiality. I’ve read ‘Windsor Castle,’ and ‘The Tower,’--they’re by the same man. I liked ‘Windsor Castle,’ and all about Henry VIII. and Herne the hunter. It’s a book that’s connected with history, and that’s a good thing in it. I like adventurous tales. I know very little about theatres, as I was never in one.

“Well, after that seven months--I was kindly treated all the time--I runned away again to get to sea; and hearing so much talk about this big London, I comed to it. I couldn’t settle down to anything but the sea. I often watched the ships at Wisbeach. I had no particular motive, but a sort of pleasure in it. I was aboard some ships, too; just looking about, as lads will. I started without a farthing, but I couldn’t help it. I felt I must come. I forgot all I suffered before--at least, the impression had died off my mind. I came up by the unions when they would take me in. When I started, I didn’t know where to sleep any more than the dead; I learned it from other travellers on the road. It was two winters ago, and very cold weather. Sometimes I slept in barns, and I begged my way as well as I could. I never stole anything then or since, except turnips; but I’ve been often tempted. At last I got to London, and was by myself. I travelled sometimes with others as I came up, but not as mates--not as friends. I came to London for one purpose just by myself. I was a week in London before I knew where I was. I didn’t know where to go. I slept on door-steps, or anywhere. I used often to stand on London-bridge, but I didn’t know where to go to get to sea, or anything of that kind. I was sadly hungered, regularly starved; and I saw so many policemen, I durstn’t beg--and I dare not now, in London. I got crusts, but I can hardly tell how I lived. One night I was sleeping under a railway-arch, somewhere about Bishopsgate-street, and a policeman came and asked me what I was up to? I told him I had no place to go to, so he said I must go along with him. In the morning he took me and four or five others to a house in a big street. I don’t know where; and a man--a magistrate, I suppose he was--heard what the policeman had to say, and he said there was always a lot of lads there about the arches, young thieves, that gave him a great deal of trouble, and I was one associated with them. I declare I didn’t know any of the other boys, nor any boys in London--not a soul; and I was under the arch by myself, and only that night. I never saw the policeman himself before that, as I know of. I got fourteen days of it, and they took me in an omnibus, but I don’t know to what prison. I was committed for being a rogue and something else. I didn’t very well hear what other things I was, but ‘rogue’ I know was one. They were very strict in prison, and I wasn’t allowed to speak. I was put to oakum some days, and others on a wheel. That’s the only time I was ever in prison, and I hope it will always be the only time. Something may turn up--there’s nobody knows. When I was turned out I hadn’t a farthing given to me. And so I was again in the streets, without knowing a creature, and without a farthing in my pocket, and nothing to get one with but my tongue. I set off that day for the country. I didn’t try to get a ship, because I didn’t know where to go to ask, and I had got ragged, and they wouldn’t hear me out if I asked any people about the bridges. I took the first road that offered, and got to Greenwich. I couldn’t still think of going back home. I would if I had had clothes, but they were rags, and I had no shoes but a pair of old slippers. I was sometimes sorry I left home, but then I began to get used to travelling, and to beg a bit in the villages. I had no regular mate to travel with, and no sweetheart. I slept in the unions whenever I could get in--that’s in the country. I didn’t never sleep in the London workhouses till afterwards. In some country places there were as many as forty in the casual wards, men, women, and children; in some, only two or three. There used to be part boys, like myself, but far more bigger than I was; they were generally from eighteen to twenty-three: London chaps, chiefly, I believe. They were a regularly jolly set. They used to sing and dance a part of the nights and mornings in the wards, and I got to sing and dance with them. We were all in a mess; there was no better or no worse among us. We used to sing comic and sentimental songs, both. I used to sing ‘Tom Elliott,’ that’s a sea song, for I hankered about the sea, and ‘I’m Afloat.’ I hardly know any but sea-songs. Many used to sing indecent songs; they’re impudent blackguards. They used to sell these songs among the others, but I never sold any of them, and I never had any, though I know some, from hearing them often. We told stories sometimes; romantic tales, some; others blackguard kind of tales, about bad women; and others about thieving and roguery; not so much about what they’d done themselves, as about some big thief that was very clever at stealing, and could trick anybody. Not stories such as Dick Turpin or Jack Sheppard, or things that’s in history, but inventions. I used to say when I was telling a story--for I’ve told one story that I invented till I learnt it,--

[I give this story to show what are the objects of admiration with these vagrants.]

“‘You see, mates, there was once upon a time, and a very good time it was, a young man, and he runned away, and got along with a gang of thieves, and he went to a gentleman’s house, and got in, because one of his mates sweethearted the servant, and got her away, and she left the door open.’ [“But don’t,” he expostulated, “take it all down that way; it’s foolishness. I’m ashamed of it--it’s just what we say to amuse ourselves.”] ‘And the door being left open, the young man got in and robbed the house of a lot of money, 1000_l._, and he took it to their gang at the cave. Next day there was a reward out to find the robber. Nobody found him. So the gentleman put out two men and a horse in a field, and the men were hidden in the field, and the gentleman put out a notice that anybody that could catch the horse should have him for his cleverness, and a reward as well; for he thought the man that got the 1000_l._ was sure to try to catch that there horse, because he was so bold and clever, and then the two men hid would nab him. This here Jack (that’s the young man) was watching, and he saw the two men, and he went and caught two live hares. Then he hid himself behind a hedge, and let one hare go, and one man said to the other, ‘There goes a hare,’ and they both run after it, not thinking Jack’s there. And while they were running he let go the t’other one, and they said, ‘There’s another hare,’ and they ran different ways, and so Jack went and got the horse, and took it to the man that offered the reward, and got the reward; it was 100_l._; and the gentleman said ‘D----n it, Jack’s done me this time.’ The gentleman then wanted to serve out the parson, and he said to Jack, ‘I’ll give you another 100_l._ if you’ll do something to the parson as bad as you’ve done to me.’ Jack said, ‘Well, I will;’ and Jack went to the church and lighted up the lamps, and rang the bells, and the parson he got up to see what was up. Jack was standing in one of the pews like an angel, when the parson got to the church. Jack said, ‘Go and put your plate in a bag; I’m an angel come to take you up to heaven.’ And the parson did so, and it was as much as he could drag to church from his house in a bag; for he was very rich. And when he got to the church Jack put the parson in one bag, and the money stayed in the other; and he tied them both together, and put them across his horse, and took them up hills and through water to the gentleman’s, and then he took the parson out of the bag, and the parson was wringing wet. Jack fetched the gentleman, and the gentleman gave the parson a horsewhipping, and the parson cut away, and Jack got all the parson’s money and the second 100_l._, and gave it all to the poor. And the parson brought an action against the gentleman for horsewhipping him, and they both were ruined. That’s the end of it.’ That’s the sort of story that’s liked best, sir. Sometimes there was fighting in the casual-wards. Sometimes I was in it, I was like the rest. We jawed each other often, calling names, and coming to fight at last. At Romsey a lot of young fellows broke all the windows they could get at, because they were too late to be admitted. They broke them from the outside. We couldn’t get at them from inside. I’ve carried on begging, and going from union to union to sleep, until now. Once I got work in Northampton with a drover. I kept working when he’d a job, from August last to the week before Christmas. I always tried to get a ship in a seaport, but couldn’t. I’ve been to Portsmouth, Plymouth, Bristol, Southampton, Ipswich, Liverpool, Brighton, Dover, Shoreham, Hastings, and all through Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, Cambridgeshire, and Suffolk--not in Norfolk--they won’t let you go there. I don’t know why. All this time I used to meet boys like myself, but mostly bigger and older; plenty of them could read and write, some were gentlemen’s sons, they said. Some had their young women with them that they’d taken up with, but I never was much with them. I often wished I was at home again, and do now, but I can’t think of going back in these rags; and I don’t know if my father’s dead or alive (his voice trembled), but I’d like to be there and have it over. I can’t face meeting them in these rags, and I’ve seldom had better, I make so little money. I’m unhappy at times, but I get over it better than I used, as I get accustomed to this life. I never heard anything about home since I left. I have applied at the Marine Society here, but it’s no use. If I could only get to sea, I’d be happy; and I’d be happy if I could get home, and would, but for the reasons I’ve told you.”

The next was a boy with a quiet look, rather better dressed than most of the vagrant boys, and far more clean in his dress. He made the following statement:--

“I am now seventeen. My father was a cotton-spinner in Manchester, but has been dead ten years; and soon after that my mother went into the workhouse, leaving me with an aunt; and I had work in a cotton factory. As young as I was, I earned 2_s._ 2_d._ a-week at first. I can read well, and can write a little. I worked at the factory two years, and was then earning 7_s._ a-week. I then ran away, for I had always a roving mind; but I should have stayed if my master hadn’t knocked me about so. I thought I should make my fortune in London--I’d heard it was such a grand place. I had read in novels and romances,--halfpenny and penny books,--about such things, but I’ve met with nothing of the kind. I started without money, and begged my way from Manchester to London, saying I was going up to look for work. I wanted to see the place more than anything else. I suffered very much on the road, having to be out all night often; and the nights were cold, though it was summer. When I got to London all my hopes were blighted. I could get no further. I never tried for work in London, for I believe there are no cotton factories in it; besides, I wanted to see life. I begged, and slept in the unions. I got acquainted with plenty of boys like myself. We met at the casual wards, both in London and the country. I have now been five years at this life. We were merry enough in the wards, we boys, singing and telling stories. Songs such as ‘Paul Jones’ was liked, while some sung very blackguard songs; but I never got hold of such songs, though I have sold lots of songs in Essex. Some told long stories, very interesting; some were not fit to be heard; but they made one laugh sometimes. I’ve read ‘Jack Sheppard’ through, in three volumes; and I used to tell stories out of that sometimes. We all told in our turns. We generally began,--‘Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it was neither in your time, nor my time, nor nobody else’s time.’ The best man in the story is always called Jack.”

At my request, this youth told me a long story, and told it very readily, as if by rote. I give it for its peculiarity, as it is extravagant enough, without humour.

“A farmer hired Jack, and instructed him over-night. Jack was to do what he was required, or lose his head. ‘Now, Jack,’ said the farmer, [I give the conclusion in the boy’s words,] ‘what’s my name?’ ‘Master, to be sure,’ says Jack. ‘No,’ said he, ‘you must call me Tom Per Cent.’ He showed his bed next, and asked, ‘What’s this, Jack?’ ‘Why, the bed,’ said Jack. ‘No, you must call that, He’s of Degree.’ And so he bid Jack call his leather breeches ‘forty cracks;’ the cat, ‘white-faced Simeon;’ the fire, ‘hot coleman;’ the pump, the ‘resurrection;’ and the haystack, the ‘little cock-a-mountain.’ Jack was to remember these names or lose his head. At night the cat got under the grate, and burned herself, and a hot cinder struck her fur, and she ran under the haystack and set it on fire. Jack ran up-stairs to his master, and said:--

‘Tom Per Cent, arise out of he’s of degree, Put on your forty cracks, come down and see; For the little white-faced Simeon Has run away with hot coleman Under the little cock-a-mountain, And without the aid of the resurrection We shall be damned and burnt to death.’

So Jack remembered his lesson, and saved his head. That’s the end. Blackguard stories were often told about women. There was plenty told, too, about Dick Turpin, Sixteen-string Jack, Oxford Blue, and such as them; as well as about Jack Sheppard; about Bamfylde Moore Carew, too, and his disguises. We very often had fighting and quarrelling among ourselves. Once, at Birmingham, we smashed all the windows, and did all the damage we could. I can’t tell exactly why it was done, but we must all take part in it, or we should be marked. I believe some did it to get into prison, they were so badly off. They piled up the rugs; there was no straw; and some put their clothes on the rugs, and then the heap was set fire to. There was no fire, and no light, but somebody had a box of lucifers. We were all nearly suffocated before the people of the place could get to us. Seventeen of us had a month a-piece for it: I was one. The rugs were dirty and filthy, and not fit for any Christian to sleep under, and so I took part in the burning, as I thought it would cause something better. I’ve known wild Irishmen get into the wards with knives and sticks hidden about their persons, to be ready for a fight. I met two young men in Essex who had been well off--very well,--but they liked a tramper’s life. Each had his young woman with him, living as man and wife. They often change their young women; but I never did travel with one, or keep company with any more than twelve hours or so. There used to be great numbers of girls in the casual wards in London. Any young man travelling the country could get a mate among them, and can get mates--partners they’re often called,--still. Some of them are very pretty indeed; but among them are some horrid ugly--the most are ugly; bad expressions and coarse faces, and lame, and disgusting to the eye. It was disgusting, too, to hear them in their own company; that is, among such as themselves;--beggars, you know. Almost every word was an oath, and every blackguard word was said plain out. I think the pretty ones were worst. Very few have children. I knew two who had. One was seventeen, and her child was nine months old; the other was twenty-one, and her child was eighteen months. They were very good to their children. I’ve heard of some having children, and saying they couldn’t guess at the fathers of them, but I never met with any such myself. I didn’t often hear them quarrel,--I mean the young men and young women that went out as partners,--in the lodging-houses. Some boys of fifteen have their young women as partners, but with young boys older women are generally partners--women about twenty. They always pass as man and wife. All beggar-girls are bad, I believe. I never heard but of one that was considered virtuous, and she was always reading a prayer-book and a testament in her lodging-house. The last time I saw her was at Cambridge. She is about thirty, and has traces of beauty left. The boys used to laugh at her, and say, ‘Oh! how virtuous and righteous we are! but you get your living by it.’ I never knew her to get anything by it. I don’t see how she could, for she said nothing about her being righteous when she was begging about, I believe. If it wasn’t for the casual wards, I couldn’t get about. If two partners goes to the same union, they have to be parted at night, and join again the morning. Some of the young women are very dirty, but some’s as clean. A few, I think, can read and write. Some boasts of their wickedness, and others tell them in derision it’s wrong to do that, and then a quarrel rages in the lodging-house. I liked a roving life, at first, being my own master. I was fond of going to plays, and such-like, when I got money; but now I’m getting tired of it, and wish for something else. I have tried for work at cotton factories in Lancashire and Yorkshire, but never could get any. I’ve been all over the country. I’m sure I could settle now. I couldn’t have done that two years ago, the roving spirit was so strong upon me, and the company I kept got a strong hold on me. Two winters back, there was a regular gang of us boys in London. After sleeping at a union, we would fix where to meet at night to get into another union to sleep. There were thirty of us that way, all boys; besides forty young men, and thirty young women. Sometimes we walked the streets all night. We didn’t rob, at least I never saw any robbing. We had pleasure in chaffing the policemen, and some of us got taken up. I always escaped. We got broken up in time,--some’s dead, some’s gone to sea, some into the country, some home, and some lagged. Among them were many lads very expert in reading, writing, and arithmetic. One young man--he was only twenty-five,--could speak several languages: he had been to sea. He was then begging, though a strong young man. I suppose he liked that life: some soon got tired of it. I often have suffered from cold and hunger. I never made more than 3_d._ a-day in money, take the year round, by begging; some make more than 6_d._: but then, I’ve had meat and bread given besides. I say nothing when I beg, but that I am a poor boy out of work and starving. I never stole anything in my life. I’ve often been asked to do so by my mates. I never would. The young women steal the most. I know, least, I did know, two that kept young men, their partners, going about the country with them, chiefly by their stealing. Some do so by their prostitution. Those that go as partners are all prostitutes. There is a great deal of sickness among the young men and women, but I never was ill these last seven years. Fevers, colds, and venereal diseases, are very common.”

The last statement I took was that of a boy of thirteen. I can hardly say that he was clothed at all. He had no shirt, and no waistcoat; all his neck and a great part of his chest being bare. A ragged cloth jacket hung about him, and was tied, so as to keep it together, with bits of tape. What he had wrapped round for trousers did not cover one of his legs, while one of his thighs was bare. He wore two old shoes; one tied to his foot with an old ribbon, the other a woman’s old boot. He had an old cloth cap. His features were distorted somewhat, through being swollen with the cold. “I was born,” he said, “at a place called Hadley, in Kent. My father died when I was three days old, I’ve heard my mother say. He was married to her, I believe, but I don’t know what he was. She had only me. My mother went about begging, sometimes taking me with her; at other times she left me at the lodging-house in Hadley. She went in the country, round about Tunbridge and there, begging. Sometimes she had a day’s work. We had plenty to eat then, but I haven’t had much lately. My mother died at Hadley a year ago. I didn’t know how she was buried. She was ill a long time, and I was out begging; for she sent me out to beg for myself a good while before that, and when I got back to the lodging-house they told me she was dead. I had sixpence in my pocket, but I couldn’t help crying to think I’d lost my mother. I cry about it still. I didn’t wait to see her buried, but I started on my own account. I met two navvies in Bromley, and they paid my first night’s lodging; and there was a man passing, going to London with potatoes, and the navvies gave the man a pot of beer to take me up to London in the van, and they went that way with me. I came to London to beg, thinking I could get more there than anywhere else, hearing that London was such a good place. I begged; but sometimes wouldn’t get a farthing in a day; often walking about the streets all night. I have been begging about all the time till now. I am very weak--starving to death. I never stole anything: I always kept my hands to myself. A boy wanted me to go with him to pick a gentleman’s pocket. We was mates for two days, and then he asked me to go picking pockets; but I wouldn’t. I know it’s wrong, though I can neither read nor write. The boy asked me to do it to get into prison, as that would be better than the streets. He picked pockets to get into prison. He was starving about the streets like me. I never slept in a bed since I’ve been in London: I am sure I haven’t: I generally slept under the dry arches in West-street, where they’re building houses--I mean the arches for the cellars. I begged chiefly from the Jews about Petticoat-lane, for they all give away bread that their children leave--pieces of crust, and such-like. I would do anything to be out of this misery.”

INCREASE AND DECREASE OF NUMBER OF APPLICANTS TO CASUAL WARDS OF LONDON WORKHOUSES.

The vagrant applying for shelter is admitted at all times of the day and night. He applies at the gate, he has his name entered in the vagrant book, and he is then supplied with six ounces of bread and one ounce of cheese. As the admission generally takes place in the evening, no work is required of them until the following morning. At one time every vagrant was searched and bathed, but in the cold season of the year the bathing is discontinued; neither are they searched unless there are grounds for suspecting that they have property secreted upon them. The males are conducted to the ward allotted to them, and the females to their ward. These wards consist each of a large chamber, in which are arranged two large guard-beds, or inclined boards, similar to those used in soldiers’ guard-rooms; between these there is a passage from one end of the chamber to the other. The boards are strewn with straw, so that, on entering the place in the daytime, it has the appearance of a well-kept stable. All persons are supplied with two, and in the cold season with three, rugs to cover them. These rugs are daily placed in a fumigating oven, so as to decompose all infectious matter. Formerly beds were supplied in place of the straw, but the habitual vagrants used to amuse themselves with cutting up the mattresses, and strewing the flock all over the place; the blankets and rugs they tore into shreds, and wound them round their legs, under their trousers. The windows of the casual ward are protected on the inside with a strong guard, similar to those seen in the neighbourhood of racket-grounds. No lights are allowed in the casual ward, so that they are expected to retire to rest immediately on their entrance, and this they invariably are glad to do. In the morning they are let out at eight in the winter, and seven in the summer. And then another six ounces of bread and one ounce of cheese is given to them, and they are discharged. In return for this, three hours’ labour at the hand corn-mill was formerly exacted; but now the numbers are so few, and the out-door paupers so numerous, and so different from the class of vagrants, that the latter are allowed to go on their road immediately the doors of the casual ward are opened. The labour formerly exacted was not in any way remunerative. In the three hours that they were at work, it is supposed that the value of each man’s labour could not be expressed in any coin of the realm. The work was demanded as a test of destitution and industry, and not as a matter of compensation. If the vagrants were very young, they were put to oakum-picking instead of the hand-mill. The women were very rarely employed at any time, because there was no suitable place in the union for them to pick oakum, and the master was unwilling to allow them, on account of their bad and immoral characters, as well as their filthy habits, to communicate with the other inmates. The female vagrants generally consist of prostitutes of the lowest and most miserable kind. They are mostly young girls, who have sunk into a state of dirt, disease, and almost nudity. There are few of them above twenty years of age, and they appear to have commenced their career of vice frequently as early as ten or twelve years old. They mostly are found in the company of mere boys.

The above descriptions apply rather to the state of the vagrants some two or three years back, than to things as they exist at present. In the year 1837, a correspondence took place between the Commissioners of Police and the Commissioners of the Poor-law, in which the latter declare that “if a person state that he has no food, and that he is destitute, or otherwise express or signify that he is in danger of perishing unless relief be given to him, then any officer charged with the administration of relief is bound, unless he have presented to him some reasonable evidence to rebut such statement, to give relief to such destitute person in the mode prescribed by law.” The Poor-law Commissioners further declare in the same document, that they will feel it their duty to make the officers responsible in their situations for any serious neglect to give prompt and adequate relief in any case of real destitution and emergency. The consequence of this declaration was, that Poor-law officers appeared to feel themselves bound to admit all vagrants upon their mere statement of destitution, whereas before that time parties were admitted into the casual wards either by tickets from the ratepayers, or else according to the discretion of the master. Whether or not the masters imagined that they were compelled to admit every applicant from that period my informant cannot say, but it is certain that after the date of that letter vagrancy began to increase throughout the country; at first gradually, but after a few years with a most enormous rapidity; so that in 1848, it appeared from the Poor-law Report on Vagrancy (presented to both Houses of Parliament in that year) that the number of vagrants had increased to upwards of 16,000. The rate of increase for the three years previous to that period is exhibited in the following table:--

I.--Summary of the Number of Vagrants in Unions and Places under Local Acts, in England and Wales, at different periods, as appears from the Returns which follow:--

Average number relieved in one night } in 603 Unions, &c., in the week } 1,791 ending 20th December, 1845 }

Average number relieved in one night } in 603 Unions, &c., in the week } 2,224 ending 19th December, 1846 }

Average number relieved in one night } in 596 Unions, &c., in the week } 4,508 ending 18th December, 1847 }

Total number relieved, whether in or } out of the workhouse in 626 Unions, } 16,086 &c., on the 25th March, 1848 }

Matters had reached this crisis, when the late Mr. C. Buller, President of the Poor-law Board, issued, in August 1848, a minute, in which--after stating that the Board had received representations from every part of England and Wales respecting the continual and rapid increase of vagrancy--he gives the following instructions to the officers employed in the administration of the Poor-law:--

“With respect to the applicants that will thus come before him, the relieving officer will have to exercise his judgment as to the truth of their assertions of destitution, and to ascertain by searching them whether they possess any means of supplying their own necessities. He will not be likely to err in judging from their appearance whether they are suffering from want of food. He will take care that women and children, the old and infirm, and those who, without absolutely serious disease, present an enfeebled or sickly appearance, are supplied with necessary food and shelter. As a general rule, he would be right in refusing relief to able-bodied and healthy men; though in inclement weather he might afford them shelter, if really destitute of the means of procuring it for themselves. His duties would necessarily make him acquainted with the persons of the habitual vagrants; and to these it would be his duty to refuse relief, except in case of evident and urgent necessity.

“It was found necessary by the late Poor-law Commissioners at one time to remind the various unions and their officers of the responsibility which would be incurred by refusing relief where it was required. The present state of things renders it necessary that this Board should now impress on them the grievous mischiefs that must arise, and the responsibilities that may be incurred, by a too ready distribution of relief to tramps and vagrants not entitled to it. Boards of guardians and their officers may, in their attempts to restore a more wise and just system, be subjected to some obloquy from prejudices that confound poverty with profligacy. They will, however, be supported by the consciousness of discharging their duty to those whose funds they have to administer, as well as to the deserving poor, and of resisting the extension of a most pernicious and formidable abuse. They may confidently reckon on the support of public opinion, which the present state of things has aroused and enlightened; and those who are responsible to the Poor-law Board may feel assured that, while no instance of neglect or hardship to the poor will be tolerated, they may look to the Board for a candid construction of their acts and motives, and for a hearty and steadfast support of those who shall exert themselves to guard from the grasp of imposture that fund which should be sacred to the necessities of the poor.”

Thus authorised and instructed to exercise their own discretion, rather than trust to the mere statements of the vagrants themselves, the officers immediately proceeded to act upon the suggestions given in the minute above quoted, and the consequence was, that the number of vagrants diminished more rapidly even than they had increased throughout the country. In the case of one union alone--the Wandsworth and Clapham--the following returns will show both how vagrancy was fostered under the one system, and how it has declined under the other:--

The number of vagrants admitted into the casual ward of Wandsworth and Clapham was,

In 1846 6,759 1847 11,322 1848 14,675 1849 3,900

In the quarter ending June 1848, previously to the issuing of the minute, the number admitted was 7325, whereas, in the quarter ending December, after the minute had been issued, the number fell to 1035.

The cost of relief for casuals at the same union in the year 1848 was 94_l._ 2_s._ 9-1/2_d._; in 1849 it was 24_l._ 10_s._ 1-1/2_d._

The decrease throughout all London has been equally striking. From the returns of the Poor-law Commissioners, as subjoined, I find that the total number of vagrants relieved in the metropolitan unions in 1847-48 was no less than 310,058, whereas, in the year 1848-49, it had decreased to the extent of 166,000 and odd, the number relieved for that year being only 143,064.

During the great prevalence of vagrancy, the cost of the sick was far greater than the expense of relief. In the quarter ending June 1848, no less than 322 casuals were under medical treatment, either in the workhouse of the Wandsworth and Clapham union or at the London Fever Hospital. The whole cost of curing the casual sick in 1848 was near upon 300_l._, whereas, during 1849 it is computed not to have exceeded 30_l._

Another curious fact, illustrative of the effect of an alteration in the administration of the law respecting vagrancy, is to be found in the proportion of vagrants committed for acts of insubordination in the workhouses. In the year 1846, when those who broke the law were committed to Brixton, where the diet was better than that allowed at the workhouse--the cocoa and soup given at the treadmill being especial objects of attraction, and indeed the allowance of food being considerably higher there--the vagrants generally broke the windows, or tore their clothes, or burnt their beds, or refused to work, in order to be committed to the treadmill; and this got to such a height in that year, that no less than 467 persons were charged and convicted with disorderly conduct in the workhouse. In the year following, however, an alteration was made in the diet of prisoners sentenced to not more than fourteen days, and the prison of Kingston, of which they had a greater terror, was substituted for that of Brixton, and then the number of committals decreased from 467 to 57; while in 1848, when the number of vagrants was more than double what it had been in 1846, the committals again fell to 37; and in 1849, out of 3900 admissions, there were only 10 committed for insubordination.

VAGRANTS, OR TRAMPS, ADMITTED INTO THE WORKHOUSES OF THE METROPOLITAN DISTRICTS DURING THE YEARS 1847-8 AND 1848-9.

---------------------------+-----------+-------------+-------------+ | | First | Second | | | Quarter, | Quarter, | | | ending | ending | WORKHOUSES. |Population.| Christmas. | Lady-day. | ---------------------------+-----------+------+------+------+------+ | | 1847 | 1848 | 1848 | 1849 | | +------+------+------+------+ Kensington | 26,830 | 3,502| 2,667| 1,369| 1,233| Chelsea | 40,177 | 2,480| 4,507| 1,985| 4,146| Fulham | 22,772 | 2,014| 162| 805| 157| St. George, Hanover-square | 66,453 | 50| ... | 10| ... | St. Margaret’s, Westminster| 56,481 | 1,514| 2,575| 2,973| 1,809| St. Martin-in-the-Fields | 25,195 | 3,875| 847| 3,637| 428| St. James, Westminster | 37,398 | 96| 139| 127| 86| Marylebone | 138,164 | ... | ...| ... | ...| Paddington | 25,173 | 48| 1,450| 566| 1,455| Hampstead | 10,093 | ... | ...| ... | ...| St. Pancras | 128,479 | 3,762| 7,427| 2,982| 4,439| Islington | 55,690 | 944| 944| 823| 374| Hackney | 42,274 | 89| 210| 76| 123| St. Giles | 54,292 | 106| 174| 106| 132| Strand | 43,894 | 663| 62| 1,063| 6| Holborn | 53,045 | 4,309| 1,808| 3,346| 2,234| Clerkenwell | 56,756 | 115| 43| 42| 5| St. Luke’s | 49,829 | 691| 575| 841| 1,086| East London | 39,655 | 1,720| 962| 1,116| 1,390| West London | 33,629 | 3,915| 2,481| 2,873| 2,279| London City | 55,967 | 8,703| 5,709| 8,181| 1,476| Shoreditch | 83,432 | 959| 1,585| 721| 1,274| Bethnal-green | 74,087 | 291| 441| 315| 227| Whitechapel | 71,758 | 4,654| 1,074| 4,454| 612| St. George-in-the-East | 41,351 | 5,228| 31| 4,572| ... | Stepney | 90,657 | 4,229| 4,801| 4,318| 3,428| Poplar | 31,091 | 2,838| 835| 3,463| 474| St. Saviour, Southwark | 32,980 | 30| 7| 7| 8| St. Olave | 18,427 | ... | ...| ... | ...| Bermondsey | 34,947 | ... | ...| ... | ...| St. George, Southwark | 46,622 | 272| 2,673| 1,176| 2,316| Newington | 54,606 | 2,196| 3,796| 4,022| 1,841| Lambeth | 115,883 |10,221| 483| 7,530| 674| Wandsworth | 39,853 | 2,444| 784| 3,374| 1,257| Camberwell | 39,867 | 907| 768| 706| 463| Rotherhithe | 13,916 | 375| 445| 161| 439| Greenwich | 80,811 | 2,977| 283| 2,436| 384| Lewisham | 23,013 | 13| 2| 4| ... | +-----------+------+------+------+------+ Total | |76,230|51,700|70,180|35,255| ---------------------------+-----------+------+------+------+------+

+-------------+-------------+--------------- | Third | Fourth | | Quarter, | Quarter, | | ending | ending | TOTAL. | Midsummer. | Michaelmas. | +------+------+------+------+-------+------- | 1848 | 1849 | 1848 | 1849 | 1848 | 1849 +------+------+------+------+-------+------- | 5,580| 7| 4,125| 10| 14,866| 3,917 | 2,604| 5,189| 2,849| 1,357| 9,918| 15,199 | 1,352| 452| 1,137| 246| 5,308| 9,017 | ...| ... | ...| ... | 60| ... | 2,100| 1,815| 2,339| 1,211| 8,926| 7,410 | 2,718| 536| ... | 12| 10,230| 1,823 | 104| 86| 79| 61| 416| 371 | ... | ...| ... | ... | ... | ... | 1,438| 1,525| 1,176| 948| 3,228| 5,378 | ... | ...| ... | ... | ... | ... | 6,097| 3,911| 7,422| 4,082| 20,263| 19,859 | 2,439| 2,518| 1,148| 725| 6,079| 4,561 | 280| 308| 245| 192| 690| 833 | 100| 86| 244| 189| 556| 581 | 3,040| ... | 63| ... | 4,829| 68 | 4,302| 2,708| 3,072| 1,197| 15,029| 7,947 | 115| 26| 25| 14| 297| 88 | 1,258| 1,251| 1,293| 497| 4,083| 3,409 | 1,863| 1,975| 1,176| 585| 5,875| 4,912 | 3,966| 2,914| 3,264| 2,103| 14,018| 9,777 |11,090| 384| 9,732| 256| 36,706| 6,825 | 1,121| 1,954| 1,399| 1,108| 4,200| 5,921 | 454| 538| 501| 415| 1,561| 1,620 | 4,552| 1,123| 3,744| 495| 17,404| 3,304 | 7,977| ... | 5,713| ... | 23,290| 31 | 6,564| 3,984| 6,243| 1,656| 21,354| 12,869 | 5,019| 278| 2,516| 150| 13,836| 1,737 | ... | ...| ... | ... | 37| 15 | ... | ...| ... | ... | ... | ... | ... | ...| ... | ... | ... | ... | 1,240| 1,810| 1,484| 919| 4,172| 6,918 | 5,025| 132| 4,217| 206| 15,460| 5,975 | 4,917| 873| 3,358| 486| 26,026| 2,516 | 5,730| 1,344| 1,858| 463| 13,406| 3,848 | 1,625| 793| 1,122| 80| 4,360| 2,104 | 309| 917| 353| 826| 1,288| 2,627 | 4,761| 481| 4,908| 256| 15,082| 1,404 | 18| 7| 43| 3| 78| 12 +------+------+------+------+-------+------- |99,846|38,325|77,198|20,748|310,058|143,064 +------+------+------+------+-------+-------

Of the character of the vagrants frequenting the unions in the centre of the metropolis, and the system pursued there, one description will serve as a type of the whole.

At the Holborn workhouse (St. Andrew’s) there are two casual wards, established just after the passing of the Poor-law Amendment Act in 1834. The men’s ward will contain 40, and the women’s 20. The wards are underground, but dry, clean, and comfortable. When there was a “severe pressure from without,” as a porter described it to me, as many as 106 men and women have been received on one night, but some were disposed in other parts of the workhouse away from the casual wards.

“Two years and a half ago, ‘a glut of Irish’” (I give the words of my informant) “came over and besieged the doors incessantly; and when above a hundred were admitted, as many were remaining outside, and when locked out they lay in the streets stretched along by the almshouse close to the workhouse in Gray’s-inn-lane.” I again give the statement (which afterwards was verified) verbatim:--“They lay in camps,” he said, “in their old cloaks, some having brought blankets and rugs with them for the purpose of sleeping out; pots, and kettles, and vessels for cooking when they camp; for in many parts of Ireland they do nothing--I’ve heard from people that have been there--but wander about; and these visitors to the workhouse behaved just like gipsies, combing their hair and dressing themselves. The girls’ heads, some of them, looked as if they were full of caraway seeds--vermin, sir--shocking! I had to sit up all night; and the young women from Ireland--fine-looking young women; some of them finer-looking women than the English, well made and well formed, but uncultivated--seemed happy enough in the casual wards, singing songs all night long, but not too loud. Some would sit up all night washing their clothes, coming to me for water. They had a cup of tea, if they were poorly. They made themselves at home, the children did, as soon as they got inside; they ran about like kittens used to a place. The young women were often full of joke; but I never heard an indecent word from any of them, nor an oath, and I have no doubt, not in the least, that they were chaste and modest. Fine young women, too, sir. I have said, ‘Pity young women like you should be carrying on this way’ (for I felt for them), and they would say, ‘What can we do? It’s better than starving in Ireland, this workhouse is.’ I used to ask them how they got over, and they often told me their passages were paid, chiefly to Bristol, Liverpool, and Newport, in Monmouthshire. They told me that was done to get rid of them. They told me that they didn’t know by whom; but some said, they believed the landlord paid the captain. Some declared they knew it, and that it was done just to get rid of them. Others told me the captain would bring them over for any trifle they had; for he would say, ‘I shall have to take you back again, and I can charge my price then.’ The men were uncultivated fellows compared to the younger women. We have had old men with children who could speak English, and the old man and his wife could not speak a word of it. When asked the age of their children (the children were the interpreters), they would open the young creatures’ mouths and count their teeth, just as horse-dealers do, and then they would tell the children in Irish what to answer, and the children would answer in English. The old people could never tell their own age. The man would give his name, but his wife would give her maiden name. I would say to an elderly man, ‘Give me your name.’ ‘Dennis Murphy, your honour.’ Then to his wife, ‘And your name?’ ‘The widdy Mooney, your honour.’ ‘But you’re married?’ ‘Sure, then, yes, by Father ----.’ This is the case with them still. Last night we took in a family, and I asked the mother--there was only a woman and three children--her name. ‘The widdy Callaghan, indeed, then, sir.’ ‘But your Christian name?’ ‘The widdy,’ (widow,) was the only answer. It’s shocking, sir, what ignorance is, and what their sufferings is. My heart used to ache for the poor creatures, and yet they seemed happy. Habit’s a great thing--second nature, even when people’s shook. The Irishmen behaved well among themselves; but the English cadgers were jealous of the Irish, and chaffed them, as spoiling their trade--that’s what the cadging fellows did. The Irish were quiet, poor things, but they were provoked to quarrel, and many a time I’ve had to turn the English rips out. The Irish were always very thankful for what they had, if it was only a morsel; the English cadger is never satisfied. I don’t mean the decent beat-out man, but the regular cadger, that won’t work, and isn’t a good beggar, and won’t starve, so they steal. Once, now and then, there was some suspicion about the Irish admitted, that they had money, but that was never but in those that had families. It was taken from them, and given back in the morning. They wouldn’t have been admitted again if they had any amount. It was a kindness to take their money, or the English rascals would have robbed them. I’m an Englishman, but I speak the truth of my own countrymen, as I do of the Irish. The English we had in the casual wards were generally a bad cadging set, as saucy as could be, particularly men that I knew, from their accent, came from Nottinghamshire. I’d tell one directly. I’ve heard them, of a night, brag of their dodges--how they’d done through the day--and the best places to get money. They would talk of gentlemen in London. I’ve often heard them say, ----, in Piccadilly, was good; but they seldom mentioned names, only described the houses, especially club-houses in St. James’s-street. They would tell just where it was in the street, and how many windows there was in it, and the best time to go, and ‘you’re sure of grub,’ they’d say. Then they’d tell of gentlemen’s seats in the country--sure cards. They seldom give names, and, I believe, don’t know them, but described the houses and the gentlemen. Some were good for bread and money, some for bread and ale. As to the decent people, we had but few, and I used to be sorry for them when they had to mix with the cadgers; but when the cadgers saw a stranger, they used their slang. I was up to it. I’ve heard it many a night when I sat up, and they thought I was asleep. I wasn’t to be had like the likes o’ them. The poor mechanic would sit like a lost man--scared, sir. There might be one deserving character to thirty cadgers. We have had gipsies in the casual wards; but they’re not admitted a second time, they steal so. We haven’t one Scotch person in a month, or a Welshman, or perhaps two Welshmen, in a month, among the casuals. They come from all counties in England. I’ve been told by inmates of ‘the casual,’ that they had got 2_s._ 6_d._ from the relieving officers, particularly in Essex and Suffolk--different unions--to start them to London when the ‘straw-yards’ (the asylums for the houseless) were opened; but there’s a many very decent people. How they suffer before they come to that! you can’t fancy how much; and so there should be straw-yards in a Christian land--we’ll call it a Christian land, sir. There’s far more good people in the straw-yards than the casuals; the dodgers is less frequent there, considering the numbers. It’s shocking to think a decent mechanic’s houseless. When he’s beat out, he’s like a bird out of a cage; he doesn’t know where to go, or how to get a bit--but don’t the cadgers!” The expense of relieving the people in the casual ward was twopence per head, and the numbers admitted for the last twelve months averaged only twelve nightly.

* * * * *

I will now give the statements of some of the inmates of the casual wards themselves. I chose only those at first who were habitual vagrants.

ESTIMATE OF NUMBERS AND COST OF VAGRANTS.

Let me first endeavour to arrive at some estimate as to the number and cost of the vagrant population.

There were, according to the returns of the Poor-law Commissioners, 13,547 vagrants relieved in and out of the workhouses of England and Wales, on the 1st of July, 1848. In addition to these, the Occupation Abstract informs us that, on the night of the 6th of June, 1841, when the last census was taken, 20,348 individuals were living in barns and tents. But in order to arrive at a correct estimate of the total number of vagrants throughout the country, we must add to the above numbers the inmates of the trampers’ houses. Now, according to the Report of the Constabulary Commissioners, there were in 1839 a nightly average of very nearly 5000 vagrants infesting some 700 mendicants’ lodging-houses in London and six other of the principal towns of England and Wales. (See “London Labour,” Vol. I. p. 408.) Further, it will be seen by the calculations given at the same, that there are in the 3823 postal towns throughout the country (averaging two trampers’ houses to each town, and ten trampers nightly to each house), 76,400 other vagrants distributed throughout England and Wales.

Hence the calculation as to the total number of vagrants would stand thus:--

In the workhouses 13,547

In barns and tents (according to census) 20,348

In the mendicants’ houses of London, } and six other principal } towns of England and Wales, } 4,813 according to Constabulary } Commissioners’ Report }

Ditto in 3820 other postal towns, } averaging each two mendicants’ } 76,400 houses, and ten lodgers to each } house } ------- 115,108

Deduct five per cent for characters } really destitute and deserving } 5,755 ------- Total number of habitual vagrants } in England and Wales } 109,353

The cost of relieving these vagrants may be computed as follows:--On the night of the 1st of July, 1848, there were 13,547 vagrants relieved throughout England and Wales; but I am informed by the best authorities on the subject, that one-third of this number only can be fairly estimated as receiving relief every night throughout the year at the different unions. Now, the third of 13,547 is 4515, and this, multiplied by 365, gives 1,647,975 as the total number of cases of vagrancy relieved throughout England and Wales during the year 1848. The cost of each of these is estimated at twopence per head per night for food, and this makes the sum expended in their relief amount to 13,733_l._ 7_s._ 8_d._

In addition to this, we must estimate the sum given in charity to the mendicants, or carried off surreptitiously by the petty thieves frequenting the tramping-houses. The sums thus abstracted from the public may be said to amount at the lowest to 6_d._ per day for each of the trampers not applying for relief at the workhouses. In the Constabulary Report, p. 11, the earnings of the petty thieves are estimated at 10_s._ per week, and those of the beggars at 3_s._ 6_d._ per day (p. 24). Hence we have the following account of the total cost of the vagrants of England and Wales:--

Sum given in relief to the } vagrants at the workhouses } £13,733 7 8

Sum abstracted by them, } either by begging or } 138,888 11 8 pilfering on the road } -------------- £152,621 19 4

As five per cent must be } taken off this for the truly } 7,631 1 8 deserving } -------------- The total cost will be £144,990 17 8

By this it appears that the total number of professional vagrants dispersed throughout England and Wales amounts to 47,669. These live at the expense of the industrious classes, and cost the country no less than 144,990_l._ 17_s._ 8_d._ per annum. And if the 13,000 and odd vagrants relieved in the workhouses constitute merely the twentieth dispersed throughout the country, we have in round numbers nearly 3,000,000_l._ for the cost of the whole.

There are, then, no less than 100,000 individuals of the lowest, the filthiest, and most demoralised classes, continually wandering through the country; in other words, there is a stream of vice and disease--a tide of iniquity and fever, continually flowing from town to town, from one end of the land to the other.

“One of the worst concomitants of vagrant mendicancy,” says the Poor-law Report, “is the fever of a dangerous typhoid character, which has universally marked the path of the mendicants. There is scarcely a workhouse in which this pestilence does not prevail in a greater or less degree, and numerous union officers have fallen victims to it.” Those who are acquainted with the exceeding filth of the persons frequenting the casual wards, will not wonder at the fever which follows in the wake of the vagrants. “Many have the itch. I have seen,” says Mr. Boase, “a party of twenty almost all scratching themselves at once, before settling into their rest in the straw. Lice exist in great numbers upon them.”

That vagrancy is the nursery of crime, and that the habitual tramps are first the beggars, then the thieves, and, finally, the convicts of the country, the evidence of all parties goes to prove. There is, however, a curious corroboration of the fact to be found, by referring to the period of life at which both crime and vagrancy seem to be in their youth. The ages of the vagrants frequenting the asylums for the houseless poor, are chiefly between fifteen and twenty-five years old; and the tables of the ages of the criminals, given in the Government Returns, show that the majority of persons convicted of crime are equally young.

The total number of vagrants in the metropolis may be calculated as follows:--There were 310,058 vagrants relieved at the metropolitan unions during the year 1848. (I take the metropolitan returns of 1848, because those for England and Wales published as yet only extend to that year.) As the vagrants never remain two days in the same place, we must divide this number by 365, in order to ascertain the number of vagrants resident at one and the same time in London. This gives us 849 for the average number relieved each night in the whole of the metropolitan unions. To this we must add the 2431 tramps residing in the 221 metropolitan mendicants’ lodging-houses (averaging 11 inmates each); and the sum of these must be further increased by the 750 individuals relieved nightly at the asylums for the houseless poor (including that of Market-street, Edgeware-road), for the majority of these seldom or never make their appearance in the casual wards of the metropolis, but are attracted to London solely by the opening of the asylums. Hence the account will stand as follows:--

Average number of vagrants relieved } night in the metropolitan unions } 849

Average number of vagrants resident in } the mendicants’ lodging-houses in } 2431 London }

Average number of individuals relieved } at the metropolitan asylums for the } 750 houseless poor } ---- 4030

Now, as 5 per cent of this amount is said to consist of characters really destitute and deserving, we arrive at the conclusion that there are 3829 vagrants in London, living either by mendicancy or theft.

The cost of the vagrants in London in the year 1848 may be estimated as follows:--

£ s. d. 310,058 vagrants relieved at } the metropolitan unions, at } 2,584 13 0 the cost of 2_d._ per head }

67,500 nights’ lodgings afforded } to the houseless poor at the } metropolitan asylums, including } 3,134 1 4-1/2 the West-end Asylum, } Market-street, Edgeware road }

2,431 inmates of the mendicants’ } lodging-houses in London, } 44,365 15 0 gaining upon an average 1_s._ } per day, or altogether per year } ------------------- £59,084 9 4-1/2 Deduct 5 per cent for the cost } of the relief of the truly } 2,504 4 5 deserving } ------------------- The total will then be £47,580 4 11-1/2

It appears, then, that there are 3829 habitual vagrants in the metropolis, and the cost for their support annually amounts to 47,580_l._ 4_s._ 11-1/2_d._

The number of metropolitan beggars is considerably increased on the eve of any threatened disturbances, or any large open-air meeting in London. For several days previous to the Chartist display in 1848, there was an influx of 100 tramps over and above the ordinary quantity, each day, at one union alone in the suburbs of London; and the master assured me that on the night of the meeting on Kennington Common, he overheard the inmates of the casual ward boasting how they had assisted in pillaging the pawnbroker’s house that had been broken into that afternoon.

Well might the master of the Wandsworth and Clapham Union say, therefore, that the vagrants form one of the most restless, discontented, vicious, and dangerous elements of society. Of these we have seen that there are about 100,000 dispersed throughout the country, 4000 of whom, in round numbers, are generally located in London. These constitute, in the words of the same gentleman, the main source from which the criminals are continually recruited and augmented.

ROUTES OF THE VAGRANTS.

I was desirous of ascertaining some information concerning the routes of the vagrants, and the reason why they frequent one district or county more than another. It will be seen from the following table, computed from the Poor-Law Returns for the 1st July, 1848, that the vagrants were far from equally distributed over the country at that period.

NUMBER OF VAGRANTS RELIEVED IN THE DIFFERENT COUNTIES OF ENGLAND AND WALES ON THE 1ST OF JULY, 1848.

Durham 1425 Middlesex 1393 Lincolnshire 1355 West Riding 1197 Cumberland 1087 Lancashire 673 Southampton 648 Derbyshire 541 Warwickshire 509 Monmouthshire 475 Staffordshire 351 Surrey 319 Glamorganshire 244 Worcestershire 227 Kent 179 Berkshire 175 Northumberland 172 East Riding 152 Sussex 150 Essex 147 Northamptonshire 136 Wiltshire 135 Westmoreland 130 Nottinghamshire 129 Norfolk 128 North Riding 105 Bedfordshire 102 Hertfordshire 100 Devonshire 94 Cheshire 92 Somersetshire 88 Shropshire 80 Huntingdonshire 75 Leicestershire 72 Cornwall 63 Merionethshire 54 Gloucestershire 52 Herefordshire 48 Oxfordshire 46 Carmarthenshire 46 Radnorshire 46 Denbighshire 45 Dorsetshire 43 Cardiganshire 39 Carnarvonshire 38 Buckinghamshire 28 Suffolk 21 Cambridgeshire 20 Brecknockshire 17 Pembrokeshire 15 Montgomeryshire 14 Anglesea 11 Flintshire 10 Rutlandshire 6 ------ Total 13,547

In order to discover the cause of this unequal distribution, I sought out a person, whom I knew to be an experienced tramper, and who had offered to give any information that I might require upon the subject. There was a strange mystery about the man. It was evident, both from his manner and his features, that he had once been well to do in the world. He was plainly not of the common order of vagrants, though his dress was as filthy and ragged as that of the generality of the class.

“I have been right through the country on the tramp,” he said, “about six or seven summers. What I was formerly I do not wish to state. I have been much better off. I was, indeed, in receipt of a very large income at one time; but it matters not how I lost it. I would rather that remained a secret. You may say that I lost it through those follies and extravagancies that are incident both to the higher and the lower classes; but let it pass. You want to know about the habits and characters of the vagrants generally, and there is no necessity for my going into my private history, further than saying, I was a gentleman once, and I am a vagrant now. I have been so for the last six years. I generally start off into the country about April or May. I stay, after the refuges are closed, until such time as I have tired out all the unions in and around London. I go into the country because I am known at all the casual wards in the metropolis, and they will not let a tramper in a second time if they know it, except at the City of London, and there I have been allowed to stay a month together. The best of the casual wards used to be in Bermondsey, but they are closed there now, I believe, as well as many of the others; however, the vagrants seldom think of going to the London unions until after the refuges are closed, because at the refuges the accommodation is better, and no work is required. I know that the vagrants come purposely to London in large bodies about the end of December, on purpose to sleep at the refuges for the winter. I myself always make it a point to come up to town every winter, so as to have my lodgings for nothing at the refuge, not being able to get it by any other means. There are at the refuges, of course, many worthy objects of charity. I have met with men who have become destitute, certainly not through any fault of their own; a good many of such persons I have found. But still the greater number at such places are persons who are habitual vagabonds and beggars, and many thieves. As the refuges are managed at present, I consider they do more harm than good. If there were no such places in London in the winter, of course I, and such as are like me, would have been driven to find shelter at our parishes; whereas the facilities they afford for obtaining a night’s shelter--to the vagabond as well as to the destitute--are such that a large number of the most depraved and idle classes are attracted to London by them. I believe some such places to be necessary, in order to prevent persons dying of cold and starvation in the streets, but they should be conducted on a different plan. You see I tell you the truth, although it may be against my own interest. After these refuges are closed, and the unions round the suburbs are shut against me, as far as Richmond, Kingston, Bromley, Romford, Stratford, Greenwich, and similar distances from the metropolis, I generally proceed upon my travels for the summer. Those who make a practice of sleeping at the casual wards are vagrants either by nature, by habit, or by force of circumstances. They generally support themselves by begging or thieving, and often by both. They are mostly boys, from about nine up to twenty years of age. The others are principally Irish beggars, and a very few are labourers and mechanics out of work. The youths I believe to be, with some exceptions, naturally bad, and almost irreclaimable. I know that many of them have been made vagrants by harsh treatment at home; they have run away. They have been threatened to be punished, generally for going to some place of amusement, as Greenwich fair, or ‘penny gaffs,’--that is, to the low theatres; and, being afraid to return, they have sought shelter, first at the low lodging-houses, and when they have had no money left, they have gone to the casual wards of the unions. Other boys have contracted bad habits from being allowed by their parents to run about the streets and pick up vagabond companions. These soon initiate them into their mode of life, and they then leave their homes in order to follow it. This is the way that most of the lads are depraved. I am sure that the fault lies more with the parents than with the boys themselves. The lads are either neglected or ill-treated in their youth. Some of the lads are left destitute; they are left orphans--probably to the care of some distant relation or friend--and the lads very soon find that they are not treated or cared for like the other members of the family, and they take to the streets. The majority of the vagrants are very sharp, intelligent lads, and I believe they are induced to take to a vagabond life by the low lodging-houses, the casual wards, and the refuges. These make shelter and provision so easy to them, that they soon throw off the restraint of their parents or guardians. Were there a greater difficulty of obtaining food and lodging, I am sure that there would certainly not be the number of juvenile vagrants that there are. The Irish people who resort to the casual wards are beggars at heart and soul. Many of them I know have lodgings of their own, and they will give them up at the time the refuges are open. Some I have known to go into the refuge with the whole of their family on the Saturday night, and stop all Sunday, till the Monday morning, for the express purpose of obtaining the bread and cheese which is given away there on the Sunday. The children have the same allowance as the parents, and the mother and father take all the young ones they can into the place, to get the greater quantity. This they take back home with them, and it serves to keep them the greater part of the week. The Irish, I think, do not make a point of travelling the country so much as the English vagrants. When they go into the provinces, it is generally to get work at harvesting, or ’tato getting, or hop-picking; not like the English, for the mere sake of vagabondising.

“The low Irish do better in London. They are the best beggars we have. They have more impudence and more blarney, and therefore they do much better than we can at it. A very large portion of the Irish beggars in London are in possession of money, which they have secreted about them in some way or other. I recollect seeing one Irishman have 8_s._ taken from him by the vagrant boys in the casual ward of St. George’s Workhouse, in the Borough. The boys generally suspect the Irish vagrants of having money on their persons; and I have often seen a number of them hold, or, as they call it, ‘small-gang,’ an Irish beggar in the darkness of the casual wards, while some of the other boys rifled the Irishman’s pockets. The labourers and mechanics are generally the only parties to be found in the casual wards who are driven there through destitution. I have known many an honest, industrious, working man, however, made a regular beggar and vagrant by continued use of the casual wards. They are driven there first by necessity, and then they learn that they can live in such places throughout the year without working for their livelihood. Many a hard-working man, I am convinced, is made idle and dishonest by such means: yes, that is the case. There are some that I know now, who have been going the round of the different refuges for not less than seven--ay, you may say for nine years. They were originally labouring men, or mechanics, and had given over all thoughts of working, finding that there was no necessity to do so in order to live.

“The regular vagrant leaves town every year about April, or the beginning of May. A very large portion of the wandering beggars and thieves would remain in town if they were allowed to remain longer in their nightly haunts; but after the closing of the refuges, the system of not permitting them more than one night in the same union forces them to be continually on the move: so they set off immediately they have made themselves known at all the workhouses. The boys will mostly go in small gangs of twos and threes. Before they start, they generally pick up from some other gang whom they meet in the London wards, the kind of treatment and relief they will receive at the country unions, and they regulate their journey accordingly; and they will very often go one or two days’ march out of their way, in order to avoid some union that has a bad character among them, or to get to some other union where the accommodation is good, and the work required of them very slight. Often they will go miles round to get to some gentleman’s seat or hall where provisions are known to be distributed. I have heard boys not twelve years of age tell every union between London and Newcastle. The majority of them seldom go further than there; some will go on to Edinburgh, but not many. They would know what kind of treatment and provision would be obtained at each union, and what form of application was necessary in order to gain admittance. Very many of them will go from London, first into Essex (the unions are good there, and the stages not long); then perhaps through Suffolk, keeping tolerably near the coast, because the shipping is attractive to most boys of their age; thence they will proceed, by long or short stages, according to the distance of the unions, through Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. Few of the vagrants miss Leeds, there being a Mendicity Asylum in the town, where a good night’s lodging is given to them, and threepence or fourpence, and in some cases sixpence (according to the apparent worthiness of the applicant) is bestowed upon each. I believe the habitual vagrants will go three or four stages out of the direct road to make Leeds in their way. From here they will go in different directions towards Durham and Northumberland, or, perhaps, to Manchester, where there is a society of the same kind as at Leeds, supported by the Quakers, where similar relief is afforded. At Northumberland, the body of vagrants generally turn back and begin to steer southwards. Some, indeed, will go as far as Berwick; but as the relief afforded in Scotland is not obtained so readily as in England, they seldom, as I have said, proceed northward beyond that point. The Scotch are ‘too far north’ for the regular English tramps. It is true they sometimes give them a little barley-cake, but, from all I have heard, the vagrants fare very poorly beyond Berwick. From Northumberland, they turn off towards Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire; and then many will go off through Cheshire into North Wales, and thence come round again into Shropshire. Others will wander through Staffordshire and Derbyshire, but most of them centre in Birmingham; that is a favourite meeting-place for the young vagrants. Here they make a point of tearing up their clothes, because for this offence they are committed to Warwick gaol for a month, and have a shilling on being discharged from the prison. It is not the diet of Warwick gaol that induces them to do this, but the shilling. Frequently they tear up their clothes in order to get a fresh supply. You see, sir, from continually sleeping in their clothes, and never washing their bodies, or changing their shirts--even if they have such things to change--they get to swarm with vermin, to such an extent that they cannot bear them upon their bodies. Oh! I have seen such sights sometimes--such sights as any decent, cleanly person would not credit. I have seen the lice on their clothes in the sunshine, as thick as blight on the leaves of trees. When their garments, from this cause, get very uncomfortable to them, they will tear them up, for the purpose of forcing the parish officers to give them some fresh ones. From Birmingham they will come up, generally through Northampton and Hertford, to London; for by this time either the refuges will be about opening, or the lads will have been forgotten at the unions in and around the metropolis. They say that London is fresh to them, when, owing either to long absence, or some alteration in their appearance, they are looked upon as strangers by the masters or porters of the workhouses. London, on the other hand, they say, is dead to them, when they have become too well known at such places. Some will make only a short turn out of London, going across the country through Sussex, Hampshire, or Wiltshire. Hampshire they are attracted to in large numbers, in consequence of the charity distributed at Winchester.” [It will be seen by the table above given, that Southampton stands very high among the places upon the vagrant list.] “In these parts the vagrants keep crossing the country to various ‘reliefs,’ as they call it, and so manage to spin out nearly two months in the autumn. The vagrants mostly go down with the fashionables to the sea-side in the latter part of the year--the practised beggars in particular. In the spring they generally make for the north of England. I believe there are more beggars and tramps in Durham, Lincolnshire, and Yorkshire, than in half of the other parts of England put together.”... “Begging is more profitable there than in any other quarter of the kingdom. A man may pick up more provisions in the day-time in those counties than anywhere else. The farmers are more liberal in those parts, which are great places for pudding, pies, and cakes; and of these the young tramps are remarkably fond. Round about these parts the tramps pass the summer. If the weather is fine and mild, they prefer ‘skippering it,’ that is, sleeping in an outhouse or hay-field, to going to a union. They have no trouble in getting ‘scran,’ or provisions there, and they object to the work connected with the casual wards. In the autumn, they are mostly in Sussex or Kent; for they like the hop-picking. It is not hard work, and there are a great many loose girls to be found there. I believe many a boy and man goes hop-picking who never does anything else during the year but beg. The female tramps mostly go down to Kent to pick up their ‘young chaps,’ as they call them; and with them they travel through the country as long as they can agree, or until either party meets with some one they are better pleased with, and then they leave the other, or bury them, as they term it.

“The Irish vagrants are mostly to be found on the roads from Liverpool or from Bristol to London. I should think that at the end of June the roads must be literally covered with the Irish families tramping to London. They come over in boatsful, without a penny in their pockets, to get a little work during the harvesting and hop-picking. Such of them as make up their minds to return to their country after the autumn, contrive, by some means, to send their money to Ireland, and then they apply to the English parishes to send them home. It is very rare indeed that the low Irish go to the expense of paying for their lodging, even when they have money. They make a point of going to the unions, where they not only get a nightly shelter, but a pound of bread for nothing. Whatever money they have, they generally give to some countryman, who is their banker, and he sleeps in another place, for fear he should be searched or robbed at the casual wards. The Irish are mostly very filthy and diseased. They live upon little or nothing, and upon the worst kind of provision that can be bought, even though it be not fit for human food. They will eat anything. The Irish tramp lives solely by begging. It has often astonished me, sir, that there are scarcely any Welsh tramps. I suppose this comes from the industry of the people. The English tramp lives by begging and stealing,--I think, mostly by stealing; a thorough tramp gets more that way than the other. If he goes to the back-door of a house on the pretence of begging, and sees any linen, or brushes, or shoes, or, indeed, even a bit of soap, he will be off with it, and sell it, mostly to the keeper of some low lodging-house where he may put up for the night. They seldom commit highway robberies, and are generally the very lowest and meanest of thieves. No one can imagine, but those who have gone through it, the horror of a casual ward of a union; what with the filth, the vermin, the stench, the heat, and the noise of the place, it is intolerable. The usual conversation is upon the adventures of the day. One recounts how he stole this thing, and another that. Some tell what police are stationed in the different towns; others, what places to go to either to beg, rob, or sleep; and others, what places to beware of. I have passed seven years of my life in this way, and I have been so used to tramping about, that when the spring comes round I must be on the move. In the winter there is more food to be picked up in London than in the country, and the beggars seldom fail to make a good thing of it in the cold weather. I have met with beggars in Carnarvon who had come all the way from London for the express purpose of begging from the visitors to the Snowdon mountains. There are very few houses round about, but a good deal is picked up from the company coming to the hotels.”

I shall now conclude this account of the numbers, cost, and character of the country and the metropolis, with the narratives of two female tramps.

The first--a young woman 20 years of age--gave me the following statement. Her face was what the vulgar would call “good-looking,” as her cheeks were full and deep-coloured, and her eyes tolerably bright, and her teeth good. She was very stout, too. Her dress was tolerably clean and good, but sat close about her, as if she had no under-clothing. She said:--

“I am a native of ----, where my father was a woolcomber. I was an only child. I can’t remember my mother, she died when I was so young. My father died more than four years ago. I’ve heard as much since I left home. I was sent to the National School. I can read, but can’t write. My father went to work at Wellington, in Somersetshire, taking me with him, when I was quite a little girl. He was a good father and very kind, and we had plenty to eat. I think of him sometimes: it makes me sorrowful. He would have been sadly distressed if he had seen me in this state. My father married again when I was 12, I suppose. He married a factory-woman. She was about 30. She wasn’t good to me. She led me a dreadful life, always telling my father stories of me,--that I was away when I wasn’t, and he grumbled at me. He never beat me, but my stepmother often beat me. She was very bad-tempered, and I am very bad-tempered, too--very passionate; but if I’m well treated my passion doesn’t come out. She beat me with anything that came first to hand, as the hearth-brush, and she flung things at me. She disliked me, because she knew I hated my father marrying again. I was very happy before that, living with my father. I could cook dinner for him, young as I was, make his bed, and do all those sort of things, all but his washing. I had a bed to myself. My father was a good man. He came home drunk sometimes, but not often. It never made any difference in him, he was always kind. He seemed comfortable with my stepmother, but I wasn’t. I used to tell my father how she used me, but he said it was nonsense. This went on till I was 15, when I ran away. I’m sure I had been a good girl till then. I never slept out of my father’s house up to that time, and didn’t keep company with any young men. I could stand my stepmother’s treatment no longer. If she had been kind I wouldn’t have run away. I was almost as big then as I am now. I had 4_s._ or 5_s._ with me, I don’t remember just how much, I started in such a passion; but it was money I had saved up from what my father had given me. I took no clothes with me but what I had on. I was tidily dressed. It was in the haymaking time, and I made straight away to London. I was so young and in such a rage, I couldn’t think of nothing but getting away. When I cooled I began to think of my father, but at home I had heard of young girls being sent out to Australia and having done well, and I thought I could easily get sent out from London, and so I went on. I slept in lodging-houses. I was shocked the first night I got into Bridgewater, men, women, and boys, all sleeping in the same room. I slept with another young woman, a travelling-woman, but married. I couldn’t think of going back. I couldn’t humble myself before that stepmother. I thought anything would be better than that. I couldn’t sleep at all the first night I was out. I never was in such a bed before. A young man who saw me there wanted me to live with him; he was a beggar, and I didn’t like a beggar, and I wouldn’t have nothing to say to him. He wasn’t impudent; but he followed me to Bristol, all the time, whenever I met with him, teasing me to live with him. I lived on my money as long as I could, and then had to go and sleep in a union. I don’t know where. It was a dreadful place. The rats ran over my head while I slept; and I prayed for daylight--for I used to pray then. I don’t now. I don’t like the thoughts of it. At last I got to London. I was sitting in Hyde-park thinking where I should go--I know it was in Hyde-park, for I was taken up from it since. The park-keeper took me up for making a noise--that’s a disturbance--in the park; me and some other young women: we were only washing ourselves where the horses drink, near the canteen. In Hyde-park, while I was sitting, as I’ve told you, some girls and some young men, and some older men, passed me, carrying rakes. I was sitting with three other girls I’d got acquainted with on the road, all Irish girls. The people that passed me said, ‘We are going half-way to Watford a-haymaking. Go with us?’ We all went. Each of those Irish girls soon took up with a mate. I think they had known each other before. I had a fortnight at haymaking. I had a mate at haymaking, and in a few days he ruined me. He told the master that I belonged to him. He didn’t say I was his wife. They don’t call us their wives. I continued with him a long time, living with him as his wife. We next went into Kent harvesting, then a-hopping, and I’ve been every summer since. He was kind to me, but we were both passionate--fire against fire--and we fought sometimes. He never beat me but once, for contradicting him. He wasn’t jealous, and he had no reason to be so. I don’t know that he was fond of me, or he wouldn’t have run away. I liked him, and would have gone through trouble for him. I like him still. We never talked about marrying. I didn’t care, for I didn’t think about it. I lived with him, and was true to him, until he ran away in haymaking time in 1848. He ran away from me in Kent, where we were hopping. We hadn’t quarrelled for some days before he started. I didn’t think he was going, for he was kind to me just before. I left him once for a fortnight myself, through some quarrel, but he got me back again. I came up to London in a boat from Gravesend, with other hoppers. I lived on fifteen shillings I had saved up. I lived on that as long as it lasted--more than a week. I lodged near the Dials, and used to go drinking with other women I met with there, as I was fond of drink then. I don’t like it so much now. We drank gin and beer. I kept to myself until my money was gone, and then I looked out for myself. I had no particular friends. The women I drank with were some bad and some good. I got acquainted with a young girl as I was walking along the Strand looking out for my living by prostitution--I couldn’t starve. We walked together. We couldn’t stay in the Strand, where the girls were well-dressed, and so we kept about the Dials. I didn’t think much about the life I was leading, because I got hardened. I didn’t like it, though. Still I thought I should never like to go home. I lodged in a back-street near the Dials. I couldn’t take anybody there. I didn’t do well. I often wanted money to pay my lodgings, and food to eat, and had often to stay out all night perishing. Many a night out in the streets I never got a farthing, and had to walk about all day because I durstn’t go back to my room without money. I never had a fancy man. There was all sorts in the lodging-house--thirty of them--pickpockets, and beggars, and cadgers, and fancy men, and some that wanted to be fancy men, but I never saw one that I liked. I never picked pockets as other girls did; I was not nimble enough with my hands. Sometimes I had a sovereign in my pocket, but it was never there a day. I used to go out a-drinking, treating other women, and they would treat me. We helped one another now and then. I was badly off for clothes. I had no illness except colds. The common fellows in the streets were always jeering at me. Sometimes missionaries, I think they’re called, talked to me about the life I was leading, but I told them, ‘You mind yourself, and I’ll mind myself. What is it to you where I go when I die?’ I don’t steal anything. I swear sometimes now. When I was at home and good, I was shocked to hear such a thing. Me and the other girls used to think it clever to swear hard, and say bad words one to another or to anybody--we’re not particular. If I went into the Magdalen, I know I couldn’t stay there. I have not been there, but I know I couldn’t, from what I’ve heard of it from the other girls, some of whom said they’d been; and I suppose they had, as there was no motive at all for them to tell lies about it. I have been in the casual wards at Holborn and Kensington when I was beat out. It was better than walking the streets. I think, by the life I lead--and without help I must lead it still, or starve--I sometimes get twenty shillings a-week, sometimes not more than five shillings. I would like best to go to Australia, where nobody would know me. I’m sure I could behave myself there. There’s no hope for me here: everybody that knows me despises me. I could take a service in Sydney. I could get rid of my swearing. I only swear now when I’m vexed--it comes out natural-like then. I could get rid of my love of drink. No one--no girl can carry on the life I do without drink. No girl’s feelings would let her. I never met one but what said so, and I know they all told the truth in that. I am strong and healthy, and could take a hard place with country work. That about Australia is the best wish I have. I’m sure I’m sick of this life. It has only drink and excitement to recommend it. I haven’t a friend in the world. I have been told I was a fool not to pick pockets like other girls. I never begged but once, and that was as I was coming to London, and a woman said, ‘You look better than I do!’ so I never begged again--that checked me at once. But I’ve got tickets for the ‘straw-yards,’ or the ‘leather-houses,’ as some call them (asylums for the houseless). The old women all say it was far better when they were young. I think what a change it is from my country life; but when I get sad, I go and get a glass of gin, if I have the money. I can get a pennyworth in some houses. I can’t do much at my needle. The idleness of the life I lead is terrible. There is nothing to interest me.”

The next was a mere girl, who had lost all traces of feminine beauty. There was an impudence in her expression that was utterly repulsive; and even in her most serious moments it was evident that she had the greatest difficulty to restrain her inward levity. Her dress consisted principally of a ragged red and green plaid shawl, pinned tight over her neck, and a torn straw-bonnet, worn back upon her head.

“I have a father alive,” she said; “I have got no mother. I have been away these three years. I came away with a chap. I was living, sir, when I was at home, with my father in Maidstone. My father was a gardener, and I used to work at shirt-making when I was at home with my father. My mother has been dead eight years, I think. I can’t say how old I was then. I am twenty now. My father, after my mother’s death, married again. She was dead seven years before he got another wife. He didn’t marry again while I was at home. My mother was a very good mother. I was very fond of my mother, for she was a very good mother; but not of my father, for he was a bad father. Why, sir, he used to treat us three girls so ill, my biggest sister was obliged to go to Australia from him. My next sister was younger than me, and I don’t know whether she is at home now; but I don’t believe that she can stop at home, because I have been down as far as Maidstone since I went away with my young man, and I’ve heard that she’s almost dead between the pair of them. By the pair of them, I mean my father and stepmother. My mother-in-law is the worst to my sister. My father was bad before she came; he was such a drunkard. We went to school, where we paid nothing a-week, in Maidstone; it’s a free school. I can read. I can’t write. All the money my father used to earn he used to drink, and leave us without any food. I went to the shirt-making when I was twelve years of age, and that used to bring me about 4_d._ a-day, and with that I used to buy bread, for we never got a halfpenny from my father to keep us. My father used to work for a gentleman, and got pretty good wages. The young chap that I first took up with was a carpenter. He was apprenticed to the trade. He enticed me away. He told me if I’d come to London with him he’d do anything for me. I used to tell him how badly my father treated me, and he used to tell me not to stop at home. I have been knocking about three years, and I’m twenty now, so I leave you to say how old I was then. No, I can’t say. I’m twenty now, and I’ve been away these three years, and I don’t know how old that would make me. I never learnt any ciphering. My father used to beat us and knock us about when he came home drunk. I liked the young man that came a-courting on me very well. I thought all he said was true, and I thought he would make me much happier than I was at home.” [Here she shook her head with apparent regret.] “Yes, sir, he promised he would marry me; but when I came over to London he ruined me, and then ran away and left me. I knew it was wrong to go away and live with him without being married; but I was wretched at home, and he told me he would make me his wife, and I believed him. He brought me up to London with him, into the Borough. He took me to a low lodging-house there. The charge was 6_d._ a-night for the two of us. There were six sleeping in the same room beside us two. They were men and women. Some of ’em were married, and some were not. He had 4_s._ 6_d._ when he came up to London with me, and I had none. He stopped with me. He stopped with me in the same house a week. He was 22 years of age, or 23, I can’t say which. While he was with me he was very kind to me: oh, yes, sir, much kinder than my father, and I loved him a great deal more, I’m sure. I hadn’t many clothes when I left my father’s home. I had nothing but what I stood upright in. I had no more clothes when I was at home. When my young man left me there was another young girl in the same lodging-house, who advised me to turn out upon the streets. I went and took her advice. I did like the life for a bit, because I see’d there was money getting by it. Sometimes I got 4_s._ or 5_s._ a-day, and sometimes more than that. I still kept at the same house. There were a lot of girls like me at the same place. It was not a bad house, but they encouraged us like. No tramps used to come there, only young chaps and gals that used to go out thieving. No, my young man didn’t thieve, not while he was with me, but I did afterwards. I’ve seen young chaps brought in there by the girls merely to pay their lodging-money. The landlady told us to do that; she said I could do better than knocking about with a man. If I hadn’t had enough to pay for my lodging, I couldn’t have had a bed to lie on. We used to be all in the same room, chaps and girls, sometimes nine or ten couples in the same room--only little bits of girls and chaps. I have seen girls there 12 years of age. The boys was about 15 or 16. They used to swear dreadful. I fell out with the gal as first told me to go on the streets, and then I got with another at another house. I moved to Paddington. I lived at a little public-house there--a bad house; and I used to go out shoplifting with my pal. I used to take everything I could lay my hands on. We went one night, and I stole two dresses, at a linendraper’s shop, and had two months a-piece for it. Yes, sir, I liked prison very well, because I had such bad clothes; and was glad to be out of the way. Some days we hardly had a bit to put in our mouths. Sometimes we used to get nothing shoplifting; the men, perhaps, would notice--the fly-men, as we called them. They used to be too wide-awake for us. Sometimes we used to make 5_s._ in the day; but then we used to spend it all in waste--why, spending it in anything. We’d buy fish, and meat, and baked potatoes, and pudding. No, sir, very little drink we had. We didn’t care for gin, nor any liquor at all. There was none among us but one that cared for drink, and she used to pawn all her clothes for it. I dare say there was upwards of twelve or thirteen gals; the kitchen used to be full. The mistress used to treat us well if we paid her; but she used to holler at us if we didn’t. The chaps used to serve her out so. They used to take the sheets, and blankets, and everything away from her. She was deaf. They was mostly all prigs that used to come to see us. They used to go out nailing--that’s thieving. There was one that they used to call Fogerty was transported: another got seven months; and another got a twelvemonth. I had one fancy-man. He was a shoplifter and a pickpocket: he has got two years now. I went to see him once in quod; some calls it ‘the Steel.’ I cried a good deal when he got nailed, sir: I loved him. A little time after he went away, I went down into the country; down into Essex. I saw I couldn’t get him off, ’cause it was for a watch, and the gentleman went so hard against him. I was with him at the time he stole it, but I didn’t know he’d got it till I saw him run. I got the man down by a saw-mill; he was tipsy. He was a gentleman, and said he would give me five shillings if I would come along with him. My fancy-man always kept near to me whenever I went out of a night. I usen’t to go out to take the men home; it was only to pick them up. My young man used to tell me how to rob the men. I’d get them up in a corner, and then I used to take out of their pockets whatever I could lay my hands on; and then I used to hand it over to him, and he used to take the things home and ‘fence’ them. We used to do a good deal this way sometimes: often we’d get enough to keep us two or three days. At last he got caught for the watch; and when I see’d I couldn’t get him off, I went down into the country--down into Essex, sir. I travelled all parts, and slept at the unions on the road. I met a young girl down in Town Malling, in Kent. I met her, and then we used to go begging together, and tramp it from one union to another. At last we got so ragged and dirty, and our things all got so bad, that we made up our minds to go in for three months into prison, at Battle, down in Sussex. We used to meet a great many on the road boiling their kettle, and sometimes we used to stop and skipper with them of a night. Skippering is sleeping in barns or under hedges, if it’s warm weather. They weren’t gipsies. We usen’t to stop to speak to the gipsies--not much--unless we went to fairs or horse-races. Then we used to sit with them for a little while, if they had their tent. We generally used to steal on the way. If we could see anything, we used to take it. At last, when our clothes got bad, I and the other girl--she still kept with me--determined to break the parson’s windows at Battle. We broke one because the house was good for a cant--that’s some food--bread or meat, and they wouldn’t give it us, so we got savage, and broke all the glass in the windows. For that we got three months. After we got out, the parson sent word for us to come to his house, and he gave us half-a-crown a-piece to take us on our road. He would have given us some clothes--we had no shoes and stockings: we was very bad off; but his wife was in London. So we went on the road tramping again, and I have been tramping it about the country ever since. I was all last winter in Town Malling union with the fever, and when I got well I set off tramping again. I didn’t have no more chaps since I left my fancy-man--I mean, I never took up with no others, not to keep their company. I have been about two years tramping altogether; out of that I had five months in prison for stealing and breaking windows. I like the tramping life well enough in the summer, ’cause there’s plenty of victuals to be had then, but it’s the winter that we can’t stand. Then we generally come to London, but we can’t call at house to house here as we do in the country, so we make but a poor thing of it. I never was so bad off as I am now, excepting when I was at Battle, for I had no shoes or stockings then. The police is too sharp for us in London. I’m very fond of going through the country in fine weather. Sometimes we don’t make much freedom with the chaps in the union, and sometimes we do. They tells us to go along with them, for they knows good houses to call at. What you make is all according to whether you’re in a lonesome road. I’ve travelled a day, and not seen a house that I could get anything at. Some days I’ve got a shilling given to me, and some days as much as half-a-crown. We can always get plenty of bread and meat, for countryfolks is very good. If I had some good things--that is, good boots--I should like to go into the country again. Sometimes we gets so much scran we sells it among ourselves. I should sell my lot to some travellers on the road. They gives us 3_d._ or 4_d._, but we must give them a good lot for that. I can’t say which is the best of the unions now, for they are all shut up. They used to be good at one time, but the Irish ruined them; they came in such swarms, the people, I knew, would never stand it. We used often to say of a night that them Irish Greeks would ruin the business. They are much better beggars than we are, though they don’t get as much as the English, because they go in such swarms up to the door. Now, down in Hawkhurst, there used to be a twopenny loaf allowed to everybody that called at the parson’s house, little and big; it was allowed by a lady, till the pigs of Irish came in such lots, that they spoilt all the game. The parson won’t give it to no one now, except eight travelling-men in the morning. I know all the good houses, and the tidy grubbikens,--that’s the unions where there’s little or nothing to do for the food we gets. We walk mostly eleven miles a-day. If it’s hot we walk only six miles, and turn in under a hedge if we’ve got our things with us to make a tent. We go all right round the country, up to Yorkshire, and as far as Northumberland. We don’t try Warwick gaol, because the shilling they used to give on being discharged is stopped, excepting to those that’s not been there before, and there’s very few of the trampers, boys or girls, that hasn’t. Then there’s the twopenny-house down in Highfield, in Kent. I’m blowed if they ain’t been and stopped that! I can’t tell what’s come to the country of late. It’s got very bad and scaly, there’s no hospitality going on. I’ve been two years at the business, and I’ve seen it grow worse and worse, meaner and meaner, every day before my very eyes. I don’t know, I’m sure, what poor trampers will do if it gets any worse. Some do talk of the good old times, when there was plenty of money-getting in them days. I shouldn’t like to give it up just yet. I do like to be in the country in the summer-time. I like haymaking and hopping, because that’s a good bit of fun. Still, I’m sick and tired of what I’m doing now. It’s the winter that sickens me. I’m worn out now, and I often sits and thinks of the life that I’ve led. I think of my kind, dear mother, and how good I would have been if my father had taught me better. Still, if I’d clothes I’d not give up my present life. I’d be down in the country now. I do love roving about, and I’m wretched when I’m not at it. After my mother died I never liked to be at home. I’ve seen many an unhappy day since I’ve been away; still, I wouldn’t go back to my home, because it’s no home to me.”

LONDON VAGRANTS’ ASYLUMS FOR THE HOUSELESS.

To give the reader an idea of the motley assemblage to be found in these places, I subjoin the following table (taken from the Report), by which it will be seen that almost every quarter of the globe contributes its quota of wretchedness:--

PLACES TO WHICH THE INDIVIDUALS SHELTERED BY THE HOUSELESS POOR SOCIETY DURING THE WINTER 1848-49 APPEARED TO BELONG.

Africa 12 America 78 Bedfordshire 55 Berkshire 267 Buckinghamshire 88 Cambridgeshire 88 Cheshire 40 Cornwall 32 Cumberland 12 Derbyshire 48 Denmark 6 Devonshire 209 Dorsetshire 46 Durham 54 East Indies 19 Essex 392 France 14 Germany 53 Gibraltar 3 Gloucestershire 163 Guernsey 32 Hampshire 414 Herefordshire 45 Hertfordshire 181 Huntingdonshire 25 Ireland 8068 Italy 7 Jersey 15 Kent 523 Lancashire 811 Leicestershire 75 Lincolnshire 85 London 343 Middlesex 214 Norfolk 163 Northamptonshire 67 Northumberland 72 Nottinghamshire 68 Oxfordshire 100 Poland 4 Portugal 5 Russia 7 Rutlandshire 24 Scotland 230 Shropshire 42 Somersetshire 246 Spain 10 St. Helena 8 Staffordshire 129 Suffolk 133 Surrey 204 Sussex 147 Wales 122 Warwickshire 160 West Indies 25 Westmoreland 6 Wiltshire 87 Worcestershire 36 Yorkshire 126 Unknown 29 Born at sea 5

These places of shelter for the houseless are only open at certain periods of the year; and at this season a large proportion of the country labourers who are out of employ flock to London, either to seek for work in the wintertime, or to avail themselves of the food and lodging afforded by these charitable institutions. Others, again, who are professional vagrants, tramping through the country, and sleeping at the different unions on their road, come to town as regularly as noblemen every winter, and make their appearance annually in these quarters. Moreover, it is at this season of the year that the sufferings and privations of the really poor and destitute are rendered tenfold more severe than at any other period; and it is at the houses of refuge that the great mass of London, or rather English and Irish, poverty and misery, is to be met with.

The congregation at the Refuges for the Destitute is, indeed, a sort of ragged congress of nations--a convocation of squalor and misery--a synopsis of destitution, degradation, and suffering, to be seen, perhaps, nowhere else.

Nor are the returns of the bodily ailments of the wretched inmates of these abodes less instructive as to their miserable modes of life, their continual exposure to the weather, and their want of proper nutriment. The subjoined medical report of the diseases and bodily afflictions to which these poor creatures are liable, tells a tale of suffering which, to persons with even the smallest amount of pathological knowledge, must need no comment. The catarrh and influenza, the rheumatism, bronchitis, ague, asthma, lumbago--all speak of many long nights’ exposure to the wet and cold; whereas the abscesses, ulcers, the diarrhœa, and the excessive debility from starvation, tell, in a manner that precludes all doubt, of the want of proper sustenance and extreme privation of these, the very poorest of all the poor.

Medical Report for 1848-49. Of the persons who applied at the general asylum, there were afflicted with--

Catarrh and influenza 149 Incipient fever 52 Rheumatism 50 Atrophy 3 Dropsy 3 Incised wounds 3 Diarrhœa 60 Cholera 2 Bronchitis 13 Abscess 15 Ulcers 11 Affections of the head 12 Ague 13 Excessive debility from starvation 17 Inflammation of lungs 2 Asthma 10 Epilepsy 4 Diseased joints 4 Erysipelas 3 Rupture 3 Cramps and pains in bowels 2 Spitting of blood 4 Lumbago 1 Rheumatic ophthalmia 2 Strumous disease 2 Sprains 1 Fractures 4 Pregnant 30

The returns of the different callings of the individuals seeking for the shelter of the refuges are equally curious and worthy of study. These, however, I shall reserve for my next letter, as, by comparing the returns for each year since the opening of the institution, now thirty years ago, we shall be enabled to arrive at almost an historical account of the distress of the different trades since the year 1820. These tables I am now preparing from the valuable yearly reports of the Society, one of the most deserving among all our charitable institutions, and one which, especially at this bitter season, calls for the support of all those who would give a meal and a bed to such as are too poor to have either.

I will now proceed to a description of the Refuge itself.

The only refuge for the houseless now open which is really a home for the homeless, is that in Playhouse-yard, Cripplegate. The doors open into a narrow by-street, and the neighbourhood needs no other announcement that the establishment is open for the reception of the houseless, than the assembly of a crowd of ragged shivering people, certain to be seen on the night of opening, as if they knew by instinct where they might be housed under a warm and comfortable roof. The crowd gathers in Playhouse-yard, and many among them look sad and weary enough. Many of the women carry infants at the breast, and have children by their sides holding by their gowns. The cries of these, and the wrangling of the hungry crowds for their places, is indeed disheartening to hear. The only sounds of merriment come from the errand-boys, as they call themselves, whom even starvation cannot make sorrowful for two hours together. The little struggle that there usually is among the applicants is not for a rush when the doors are opened, but for what they call the “front rank.” They are made to stand clear of the footpath; and when five o’clock--the hour of admission--comes, an officer of the Refuge steps out, and quietly, by a motion of his hand, or a touch on the shoulder, sends in about 150 men and boys, and about 50 women and girls. He knows the great majority of those who have tickets which entitle them to one or two nights’ further lodging (the tickets are generally for three nights), and these are commonly in the foremost rank. The number thus admitted show themselves more or less at home. Some are quiet and abashed; but some proceed briskly, and in a business-like way, to the first process, to wash themselves. This is done in two large vessels, in what may be called the hall or vestibule of the building. A man keeps pumping fresh water into the vessels as fast as that used is drained off, and soap and clean towels are supplied when thought necessary; the clean towels, which are long, and attached to rollers, soon becoming, in truth, exceedingly dirty. I noticed some little contention--whether to show an anxiety to conform to the rules of the Refuge, or to hurry through a disagreeable but inevitable task, or really for the comfort of ablution, I will not pretend to determine--but there was some little contention for the first turn among the young men at the washing. To look down upon them from the main staircase, as I did, was to survey a very motley scene. There they were--the shirtless, the shoeless, the coatless, the unshaven, the uncouth, ay, and the decent and respectable. There were men from every part of the United Kingdom, with a coloured man or two, a few seamen, navigators, agricultural labourers, and artizans. There were no foreigners on the nights that I was there; and in the returns of those admitted there will not be found one Jew. It is possible that Jews may be entered under the heads of “Germans” or “Poles”--I mean, foreign Jews; but on my visits I did not see so much as any near approach to the Hebrew physiognomy. To attempt to give an account of anything like a prevailing garb among these men is impossible, unless I described it as rags. As they were washing, or waiting for a wash, there was some stir, and a loud buzz of talk, in which “the brogue” strongly predominated. There was some little fun, too, as there must be where a crowd of many youths is assembled. One in a ragged, coarse, striped shirt, exclaimed as he shoved along, “By your leave, gentlemen!” with a significant emphasis of his “gentlemen.” Another man said to his neighbour, “The bread’s fine, Joe; but the sleep, isn’t that plummy?” Some few, I say, seemed merry enough, but that is easily accounted for. Their present object was attained, and your real professional vagabond is always happy by that--for a forgetfulness of the past, or an indifference to it, and a recklessness as to the future, are the primary elements of a vagrant’s enjoyment. Those who had tickets were of course subjected to no further examination, unless by the surgeon subsequently; but all the new candidates for admission--and the officers kept admitting fresh batches as they were instructed--were not passed before a rigid examination, when a ticket for three nights was given to each fresh applicant. On the right hand, as you enter the building, is the office. The assistant-superintendant sits before a large ledger, in which he enters every name and description. His questions to every fresh candidate are:--“Your name?” “How old are you?” “What trade?” “How do you live (if no trade)?” “Where did you sleep last night?” “To what parish do you belong?” In order to answer these questions, each fresh applicant for admission stands before the door of the office, a portion of the upper division of the door being thrown open. Whilst I was present, there was among a portion of the male applicants but little hesitation in answering the inquiries glibly and promptly. Others answered reluctantly. The answers of some of the boys, especially the Irish boys, were curious. “Where did you sleep last night?” “Well, then, sir, I sleep walking about the streets all night, and very cowld it was, sir.” Another lad was asked, after he had stated his name and age, how he lived? “I beg, or do anything,” he answered. “What’s your parish?” “Ireland.” (Several pronounced their parish to be the “county Corruk.”) “Have you a father here?” “He died before we left Ireland.” “How did you get here, then?” “I came with my mother.” “Well, and where’s she?” “She died after we came to England.” So the child had the streets for a stepmother.

Some of the women were as glib and systematic in their answers as the men and boys. Others were much abashed. Among the glib-tongued women, there seemed no shamefacedness. Some of the women admitted here, however, have acquitted themselves well when provided (through charitable institutions) with situations. The absence of shame which I have remarked upon is the more notable, because these women were questioned by men, with other men standing by. Some of the women were good-looking; and when asked how old they were, they answered at once, and, judging by their appearance, never understated their years. Many I should have pronounced younger than they stated. Vanity, even with silliness and prettiness, does not seem to exist in their utter destitution.

All the regular processes having been observed (and the women have a place for their ablutions after the same fashion as the men), the applicants admitted enter their several wards. The women’s ward is at the top of the building. It supplies accommodation, or berths, for 95 women in an apartment 35 yards in length and 6 in width. At one corner of this long chamber, a few steps lead down to what is called “the nursery,” which has 30 berths. Most of these berths may be described as double, and are large enough to accommodate a mother and her children. The children, when I saw them, were gambolling about in some of the berths as merry as children elsewhere, or perhaps merrier, for they were experiencing the unwonted luxuries of warmth and food. The matron can supply these women and their children with gruel at her discretion; and it appeared to be freely given. Some who had children seemed to be the best of all there in point of physiognomy. They had not, generally, the stolid, stupid, indifferent, or shameless look of many of the other women; it was as though the motherly feeling had somewhat humanized them. Some of the better sort of women spoke so low as to be hardly audible. Among them were, indeed, many decent-looking females.

The men’s wards are the Chapel Ward (for the better sort of persons), containing 90 berths, one line being ranged 2 berths deep; the Lower Ward, containing 120 berths; the Boys’ Ward, containing 60 berths; and the Straw Loft, 40. There is a walk alongside the berths in each ward. What is called the Boys’ Ward is not confined to boys: it used to be so, but they were found so noisy that they could no longer be allowed a separate apartment. They are now scattered through the several wards with the men, the officers arranging them, and varying the arrangements as they consider best. Before there can be any retirement to rest, each man, woman, and child must be examined by a surgeon. Whilst I was present, a young assistant conducted the investigation in a careful, yet kindly and gentlemanly manner. Indeed, I was much struck with the sympathy and gentleness he displayed; and it was evident from the respect of the people, that kindness and consideration are the very qualities to impress and control the class he has to deal with. All afflicted with cutaneous disorders (and there were but five men so afflicted) were lodged apart from the others. Bronchitis and rheumatism are the prevalent disorders, occasioned by their exposure to the weather, and their frequent insufficiency of food. Ninety per cent of them, I was told by Mr. Gay, the intelligent surgeon of the establishment, might have coughs at some periods, but of that they thought nothing. Women advanced in pregnancy, and men with any serious (especially any infectious) ailment, are not permitted to sleep in the Refuge; but the institution, if they have been admitted, finds them lodgings elsewhere.

Each person admitted receives in the evening half-a-pound of the best bread. Every child has the same allowance. If a woman be admitted with four children, she receives two half-pounds of bread--a half-pound for every one, no matter if one be at the breast, as is not unfrequently the case. The same quantity of bread is given in the mornings. In the night that I was present, 430 were admitted, and consequently (including the evening and morning allowances), 430 lbs. of bread were disposed of. On Sundays, when Divine Service is celebrated by a clergyman of the Church of England, three half-pounds of bread and three ounces of cheese are distributed to each inmate, children and babies included. I witnessed a number of young men eating the bread administered to them. They took it with a keen appetite; nothing was heard among them but the champing of the teeth, as they chewed large mouthfuls of the food.

The berths, both in the men’s and women’s wards, are on the ground, and divided one from another only by a wooden partition about a foot high; a similar partition is at the head and feet; so that in all the wards it looks as if there were a series of coffins arranged in long catacombs. This burial-like aspect is the more striking when the inmates are all asleep, as they were, with the rarest exceptions, when I walked round at ten o’clock at night. Each sleeper has for covering a large basil (dressed sheep-skin), such as cobblers use for aprons. As they lie in long rows, in the most profound repose, with these dark brown wrappers about them, they present the uniform look and arrangement of a long line of mummies. Each bed in the coffin, or trough-like division, is made of waterproof cloth, stuffed with hay, made so as to be easily cleaned. It is soft and pleasant to the touch. Formerly the beds were plain straw, but the present plan has been in use for seven years. In this Refuge only three men have died since it was established, thirty years ago. One fell dead at the sink-stone while washing himself; the other two were found dead in their berths during the prevalence of the cholera.

Every part of the building was scrupulously clean. On the first night of the opening, the matron selects from the women who have sought an asylum there, three, who are engaged for the season to do the household work. This is done during the day when the inmates are absent. All must leave by eight in the morning, the doors being open for their departure at five, in case any wish to quit early--as some do for the chance of a job at Covent-garden, Farringdon, or any of the early markets. The three women-helpers receive 7_s._ a-week each, the half of that sum being paid them in money every Saturday, and the other half being retained and given to each of them, in a round sum, at the closing of the Refuge. The premises in which this accommodation to the houseless is now supplied were formerly a hat manufactory on a large scale; but the lath and plaster of the ceilings, and the partitions, have been removed, so that what was a suite of apartments on one floor is now a long ward. The rafters of the ceilings are minutely whitewashed, as are the upright beams used in the construction of the several rooms before the place was applied to its present charitable end. Those now are in the nature of pillars, and add to the catacomb-like aspect that I have spoken of. In different parts of each ward are very large grates, in which bright fires are kept glowing and crackling; and as these are lighted some time before the hour of opening, the place has a warmth and cosiness which must be very grateful to those who have encountered the cold air all the day, and perhaps all the night before.

In order to arrive at a correct estimate as to the number of the really poor and houseless who availed themselves of the establishment (to afford nightly shelter to whom the refuge was originally instituted by the benevolent founder, Mr. Hick, the City mace-bearer) I consulted with the superintendent as to the class of persons he found most generally seeking refuge there. These were--among the men--mostly labourers out of work--agricultural, railway, and dock; discharged artisans, chiefly carpenters and painters; sailors, either cast away or without their registry tickets; broken-down tradesmen, clerks, shopmen, and errand-boys, who either through illness or misfortune had been deprived of their situations; and, above all, Irish immigrants, who had been starved out of their own country. These he considered the really deserving portion of the inmates for whom the institution was designed. Among the females, the better and largest class of poor were needlewomen, servants, charwomen, gardenwomen, sellers of laces in the street, and occasionally a beggar-woman. Under his guidance I selected such as appeared the most meritorious among the classes he had enumerated, and now subjoin the statements of a portion of the number.

The first of the houseless that I saw was a railway navigator. He was a fine, stoutly-built fellow, with a fresh-coloured open countenance, and flaxen hair--indeed, altogether a splendid specimen of the Saxon labourer. He was habited in a short blue smockfrock, yellow in parts with clay, and he wore the heavy high lace-up boots, so characteristic of the tribe. These were burst, and almost soleless with long wear.

The poor fellow told the old story of the labourer compelled to squander the earnings at the public-house of his master:--

“I have been a navvy for about eighteen years. The first work that I done was on the Manchester and Liverpool. I was a lad then. I used to grease the railway waggons, and got about 1_s._ 6_d._ a-day. There we had a tommy-shop, and we had to go there to get our bit of victuals, and they used to charge us an extra price. The next place I had after that was on the London and Brummagem. There I went as horse-driver, and had 2_s._ 6_d._ a-day. Things was dear then, and at the tommy-shop they was much dearer; for there was tommy-shops on every line then; and indeed every contractor and sub-contractor had his shop that he forced his men to deal at, or else he wouldn’t have them in his employ. At the tommy-shop we was charged half as much again as we should have had to pay elsewhere; and it’s the same now, wherever these tommy-shops is. What the contractors, you see, can’t make out of the company, they fleeces out of the men. Well, sir, I worked on that line through all the different contracts till it was finished: sometimes I was digging, sometimes shovelling. I was mostly at work at open cuttings. All this time I was getting from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 3_s._ and 3_s._ 6_d._ a-day; that was the top price; and if I’d had the ready-money to lay out myself, I could have done pretty well, and maybe have put a penny or two by against a rainy day: but the tommy-shop and the lodging-house took it all out of us. You see, the tommy-shop found us in beer, and they would let us drink away all our earnings there if we pleased, and when pay-time came we should have nothing to take. If we didn’t eat and drink at the tommy-shop we should have no work. Of an evening, we went to the tommy-shop after the drink, and they’d keep drawing beer for us there as long as we’d have anything coming to us next pay-day (we were paid every fortnight, and sometimes every month), and when we had drunk away all that would be coming to us, why they’d turn us out. The contractor, who keeps these tommy-shops, is generally a gentleman, a man of great property, who takes some four, five, or seven lengths to do. Well, with such goings on, in course there wasn’t no chance in the world for us to save a halfpenny. We had a sick fund among ourselves, but our masters never cared nothing about us further than what they could get out of us at their tommy-shops. They were never satisfied if a man didn’t spend all his money with them; if we had a penny to take at the month’s end, they didn’t like it; and now the half of us has to walk about and starve, or beg, or go to the union. After I left the Brummagem line, I went on to the Great Western. I went to work at Maidenhead. There it was on the same system, and on the same rules--the poor man being fleeced and made drunk by his master. Sometimes the contractor would lot the work out to some sub-contractor, and he, after the men had worked for a month, would run away, and we should never see the colour of his money. After the Great Western, I went into Lancashire, on the Manchester and Oldham branch. I started there to work at nights, and there I worked a month for the contractors, when they went bankrupt, and we never received a farthing but what we had got out of the tommy-shop. Well, I came away from there, and got on to the London and Brighton, and I worked all up and down that, saving the tunnels; and it was the same there--the tommy-shop and imposition was wherever we went. Well, from there I went on to the London and Dover. It was monthly payments on that. There, too, I worked for a month, when the sub-contractor runned away with all the men’s money--900_l._, sir, it were calculated. After that another party took it, and it was the same all the way up and down--the tommy-shop and beer as much as we liked, on credit. Then I went on to the London and Cambridge, and there it was the same story over and over again. Just about this time, railway work began to get slack, and then farmers’ work was slack too; and you see that made things worse for the navvies, for all came to look for employment on the railroads. This is about seven years ago. After that some more fresh lines started throughout Lancashire and Yorkshire, and trade being bad in them parts, all the weavers applied for work on the railways, and the regular navvies had a hard time of it then. But we managed to get on somehow--kept lingering on--till about three years agone, when trade got a little bit better. That was about the time when things was very dear, and our wages was rose to 3_s._ 6_d._ a-day: they’d been only 2_s._ 6_d._ and 3_s._ before that; and we did much better when our pay was increased, because we had the ready-money then, and there was no tommy-shops that summer, for the company wouldn’t have them on that line. At the end of that year the work was all stopped, on account of the Chartist rising, and then there was hundreds of men walking about begging their bread from door to door, with nothing to do. After this, (that’s two years ago, the back end of this year,) I went to work on the London and York. Here we had only 2_s._ 9_d._ a-day, and we had only four days’ work in the week to do besides; and then there was a tommy-shop, where we were forced to get our victuals and drink: so you see we were very bad off then. I stopped on this line (for work was very scarce, and I thought myself lucky to have any) till last spring. Then all the work on it stopped, and I dare say 2000 men were thrown out of employ in one day. They were all starving, the heap of them, or next door to it. I went away from there over to the Brummagem and Beechley branch line. But there I found things almost as bad as what I left before. Big, strong, able-bodied men were working for 1_s._ 8_d._ a-day, and from that to 2_s._: that was the top price; for wages had come down, you see, about one-half, and little or no work to do at that price; and tommy-shop and beer, sir, as before, out of the little we did get. The great cause of our wages being cut down was through the work being so slack in the country; everybody was flocking to them parts for employment, and the contractors, seeing a quantity of men walking backwards and forwards, dropped the wages: if one man wouldn’t work at the price, there was hundreds ready to do it. Besides, provisions was very cheap, and the contractors knew we could live on less, and do their work quite as well. Whenever provisions goes down our wages does, too; but when they goes up, the contractors is very slow in rising them. You see, when they find so many men walking about without work, the masters have got the chance of the poor man. Three year agone this last winter--I think it was ’46--provisions was high and wages was good; and in the summer of the very same year, food got cheap again, and our wages dropped from 3_s._ 6_d._ to 3_s._ and 2_s._ 9_d._ The fall in our wages took place immediately the food got cheaper. The contractors said, as we could live for less, we must do the work for less. I left the Brummagem and Beechley line, about two months before the Christmas before last, and then I came to Copenhagen-fields, on the London and York--the London end, sir; and there I was till last March, when we were all paid off, about 600 on us; and I went back to Barnet, and there I worked till the last seven weeks, and had 2_s._ 9_d._ a-day for what, four years ago, I had 3_s._ 6_d._ for; and I could only have three or four days’ work in the week then. Whilst I was there, I hurted my leg, and was laid up a month. I lived all that time on charity; on what the chaps would come and give me. One would give a shilling, another sixpence, another a shilling, just as they could spare it; and poorly they could do that, God knows! I couldn’t declare on to the sick fund, because I hadn’t no bones broken. Well, when I come to look for work, and that’s three weeks agone, when I could get about again, the work was all stopped, and I couldn’t get none to do. Then I come to London, and I’ve looked all about for a job, and I can’t find nothing to do. I went to a lodging-house in the Borough, and I sold all my things--shovel and grafting-tool and all, to have a meal of food. When all my things was gone, I didn’t know where to go. One of my mates told me of this Refuge, and I have been here two nights. All that I have had to eat since then is the bread night and morning they gives us here. This will be the last night I shall have to stop here, and after that I don’t know what I shall do. There’s no railway work--that is, there’s none to speak of, seeing the thousands of men that’s walking about with nothing to do, and not knowing where to lay their heads. If I could get any interest, I should like to go away as an emigrant. I shouldn’t like to be sent out of my native country as a rogue and a vagabone; but I’m tired of stopping here, and if I can’t get away, why I must go home and go to the parish, and it’s hard for a young man that’s willing and able like me to work, and be forced to want because he can’t get it. I know there is thousands--thousands, sir, like I am--I know there is, in the very same condition as I am at this moment: yes, I know there is.” [This he said with very great feeling and emphasis.] “We are all starving. We are all willing to work, but it ain’t to be had. This country is getting very bad for labour; it’s so overrun with Irish that the Englishman hasn’t a chance in his own land to live. Ever since I was nine years old I’ve got my own living, but now I’m dead beat, though I’m only twenty-eight next August.”

The next man to whom I spoke was tall and hale-looking, except that his features were pinched, and his eyes had a dull lack-lustre look, common to men suffering from cold and hunger. His dress was a coarse jacket, fustian trousers, and coarse, hard-worn shoes. He spoke without any very provincial accent.

“I am now forty-eight, and have been a farm-labourer all my life. I am a single man. When I was a boy of twelve, I was put to dig, or see after the birds, or break clods, or anything, on a farm at Croland, in Lancashire. I had very little school before that, and can neither read nor write. I was then living with my parents, poor people, who worked on the land whenever they could get a day’s work. We had to live very hard, but at hay and harvest times we had meat, and lived better. I had 3_s._ a-week as a boy. When I grew up to fourteen I left home. I thought my father didn’t use me well: perhaps it was my own fault. I might have been a bad boy; but he was severe when he did begin with me, though he was generally quiet. When his passion was up, there was no bearing it. Anyhow, I started into the world at fourteen to do the best I could for myself--to make my fortune if I could. Since then, I have had work in all sorts of counties; Midland counties, principally. When a boy, I got employment readily enough at bird-scaring, or hay-making; but I soon grew up, and took a man’s place very early, and I could then do any kind of farmer’s work, except ploughing or seeding. They have men on purpose for that. Farm work was far better in my younger days than it is now. For a week, when hired by the day, I never get more than 15_s._, regular work. For taken work (by the job), I have made as much as 42_s._ in a week; that is, in reaping and mowing, when I could drop on such jobs in a difficult season, when the weather was uncertain. I talk of good times. The last good job I had was three years ago, come next summer. Now I should be glad to get 9_s._ a-week, constant work: anything but what I’m doing now. As I went about from place to place, working for farmers, I generally lodged at the shepherds’ houses, or at some labourer’s. I never was in a lodging-house when I was in work, only when money runs low one must have shelter. At some lodging-houses I’ve had a good feather-bed; others of them are bad enough: the best, I think, are in Norfolk. I have saved a bit of money several times--indeed, year after year, until the last three or four years; but what I saved in the summer, went in the winter. In some summers, I could save nothing. It’s how the season comes. I never cared for drink. I’ve done middling till these last two seasons. My health was good, to be sure; but when a man’s in health his appetite is good also; and when I’m at regular work I don’t eat half so much as when I’m knocking about idle, and get hold of a meal. I often have to make up for three or four days then. The last job I had was six weeks before Christmas, at Boston, in Lincolnshire. I couldn’t make 1_s._ 6_d._ a-day on account of the weather. I had 13_s._, however, to start with, and I went on the road, not standing for a straight road, but going where I heard there was a chance of a job, up or down anywhere, here or there, but there was always the same answer, ‘Nobody wanted--no work for their own constant men.’ I was so beat out as soon as my money was done--and it lasted ten days--that I parted with my things one by one. First my waistcoat, then my stockings (three pair of them), then three shirts. I got 2_s._ 4_d._ for three shirts, and 6_d._ a pair for my stockings. My clothes were done, and I parted with my pocket-knife for 2_d._, and with my ’bacco-box for 1-1/2_d._ After I left Boston, I got into Leicestershire, and was at Cambridge, and Wisbeach, and Lynn, and Norwich; and I heard of a job among brickmakers at Low Easthrop, in Suffolk, but it was no go. The weather was against it, too. It was when the snow set in. And then I thought I would come to London, as God in his goodness might send me something to do. I never meant anything slinking. I’m only happy when I’m at work, but here I am destitute. Some days as I walked up I had nothing to eat. At others I got halfpennies or pennies from men like myself that I saw at work. I’ve given shillings away that way myself at times. Sometimes I had to take to the road, but I’m a very poor beggar. When I got to London I was a stranger, and lodged here the first night--that’s a week ago. A policeman sent me here. I’ve tried every day to get work--labouring-work for builders, or about manure-carts, or anything like that, as there’s no farming in London, but got none; so but for this place I had starved. When this place is closed I must tramp into the country. There are very many farm-labourers now going from farm to farm, and town to town, to seek work, more than ever I saw before. I don’t know that the regular farm-workmen come so much to London. As I travelled up from Suffolk I lay rough often enough. I got into stables, or any places. Such places as this save many a man’s life. It’s saved mine, for I might have been found dead in the street, as I didn’t know where to go.”

This man appeared to me to be a very decent character.

The large number of Irish found among the inmates of these establishments is one of the peculiar features of the Refuges. By the returns above given, it will be seen that they constitute more than one-half of the total applicants. Such being the fact, I selected two from the more decent, as types of the better class of immigrants, and subjoin their narratives.

One of these men had a half-shrewd, half-stolid look, and was clad in very dirty fustian. His beard was some days old, and he looked ill-fed and wretched. His children--for he had two boys with him, ten and twelve years old--were shoeless, their white skins being a contrast to their dirty dress, as the former appeared through the holes in their jackets. They looked on with a sort of vacant wonder, motionless, and without a word. The father said:--

“I’ve been knocking about in England these four years from place to place. I’m telling you the truth, sir. [This he often repeated.] I came here to betther myself, to knock out something betther; but I wish to God I’d been buried before I buried my wife and children. I do, indeed, sir. I was a labourer in Ireland, working in farms and gardens for anybody. My wages warn’t much, only 3_s._ a-week, and my datal house (that is, a house rent-free), and two meals of victuals a-day, sometimes ’taties and milk for meals, and sometimes ’taties and fish, and sometimes--aye, often--’taties and nothing. My wife and me, and four children, came from Cork--it was in the county Cork I lived--to Wales. I don’t know the name of the part; they’ve such queer names there; sure, then, they have, sir. It cost me half-a-crown a-piece for the six of us. I raised the money partly by digging up a garden I had, and selling what stuff there was, and the rest was made up by the farmers in the neighbourhood giving their 3_d._ or 6_d._ a-piece to me, so that I might lave. I wasn’t on the poor-law rate, but I soon might. When I got to Wales, I had only 6_d._ left. I went to the workhouse for a night’s lodging, to be sure--what else? I started next day for London with my wife and children, begging as we came, and going from workhouse to workhouse; and very badly we got along. It finished a fortnight to get to London. When we got to London (that’s about four years agone) we got work at peas-picking, my wife and me, in the gardens about. That is for the summer. In the winter we sold oranges in the streets while she lived, and we had nothing from the parishes. I can’t complain of the living till this time, sir; it was better than I knew in Ireland. I don’t know what we got, she managed all. Last autumn we went into the hop county, to Ellis’s farm. I don’t know the town nearest; and there my wife and two children died of the cholera at the farm. The three of them wern’t a week ill. The parish kept them and buried them. Since that I’ve been worse off than ever, and will always be worse off than ever, for I’ve lost a good wife. Since her death I jobbed about in the country, living very bare, me and the children, till the frost came, and then we came to London. I was knocking about for a fortnight, and begged a little; but sorrow a much I got by that. How did I know of this place? Musha, all the neighbours know about it.”

The younger man, who was tall and gaunt, more intelligent than the other, and less squalid in his appearance, said:--“I have been in England two years in August. I came to better my living. I tilled a portion of land in Ireland. It was 30_l._ a-year rent, and forty acres. That was in the county Cork, parish of Kilmeen. I rented the land of a middleman, and he was very severe. My family and I couldn’t live under him. I had a wife and three children. We all came to England, from Cork to Bristol. I kept a little substance back to pay my way to England. The voyage cost 25_s._ From Bristol I went to Cardiff, as I got no work at Bristol. At Cardiff I worked on the railway at 2_s._ 6_d._ a-day. I did well for a couple of months. I would like to continue at that, or at 1_s._ a-day here, better than in Ireland these times. I worked in Cardiff town with a bricklayer, after I’d done on the railway, at 12_s._ a-week. I next year had a twelvemonth’s work, on and off, with a farmer near Bristol, at 10_s._ a-week, and was still plenty comfortable. I made for London at the hay-harvest. I had a little money to start with, but I got no hay-work, only a trifle of work at the Docks. In corn-harvest, near Brighton, I worked for six weeks, making 10_s._ an acre for cutting wheat by piece-work, and 7_s._ for oats, and 2_s._ for any day’s work. I made 4_l._ altogether. I got back to London with 40_s._ I could get no work at all, but five days’ work at a stone-yard, at 1_s._ a-day. I sold a few things in the streets, oranges and apples; so did my wife. It helped to keep us. All was gone at last, so I got in here with one child (a fine boy). My wife’s got three with her. She’s in a lodging in Gray’s-inn-lane. She’s starving, I’m afraid; but she wished me to come in here with the child, as I could do nothing at night-time. I don’t know how many came over about the time I did. The gentry give poor men money, or did give it to them, to send them over here, to free the land from its expenses.”

To complete the picture of this Irish destitution, I add the following.

One wretched creature had come to the Refuge with her four children. She herself was habited in a large blue cloth cloak, her toes were through the end of her shoes, and her gown clung tight to her limbs, telling that she was utterly destitute of under-clothing. In her arms she carried an infant, round which were wound some old woollen rags. As the little thing sucked at its mother’s breast, it breathed so hard that it needed no words to tell of its long exposure to the cold. Though the mother was half-clad, still there was the little bit of clean net inside the old rusty straw bonnet. The children were respectively eleven, six, and three years old. The eldest (a good-looking grey-eyed girl, who stood with her forefinger in her mouth, half simple) was covered with a tattered plaid shawl. This, at her mother’s bidding, she drew from her shoulder with an ostentation of poverty, to show that what had before appeared a gown beneath was nothing more than a bombazine petticoat. On her feet were a pair of women’s old fashionable shoes, tied on with string. These had been given in charity to her by a servant a week back. The next child--a boy--laughed as I looked at him, and seemed, though only six years old, to have been made prematurely “knowing” by his early street education. He put out his foot as he saw my eye glance downward to his shoes, to show me that he had one boot and one shoe on. He was clad in all kinds of rags, and held in his hand a faded velvet cap. The youngest boy was almost a dwarf. He was three years old, but so stunted that he seemed scarce half that age.

“I come from the county of Corruk, the worst and the poorest part of it--yes, indeed, sir, it is,” said the woman; “and the gintlemen know that I do. When I had it to do, I manufactured at flax and wool. I knit and sewed, to be sure I did; but God Almighty was plazed to deprive me of it. It was there I was married. My husband was a miner. Distress and want, and hunger and poverty--nothing else--druv us to this counthry. It was the will of God--glory be to his holy and blessed name!--to fail the ’taties. To be sure, I couldn’t dig one out of the ground not fit to ate. We lived on ’taties, and milk, and fish, and eggs. We used to have hins then. And the mining failed, too; and the captains came over here. Yes, to be sure; for here they lived, sir. Yes, sir, indeed; and I could tell you that I used to be eight days--yes, that I did--before I could get one ha’porth to ate--barring the wather I boiled and drank to keep the life in myself and children. It was Doctor O’Donovan that paid for our passage. When he see all the hunger, and distress, and want--yes, indeed, sir--that I went through, he gave a letther to the stame-packet office, and then they brought me and my three childer over. It was here that this baby was borrun. My husband was here before me, he was, about seven or eight months. He hadn’t sent me any money, for he couldn’t a penny. He wrote home to see if I lived, for he didn’t think I lived; and then I showed the letther to Dr. O’Donovan. My husband niver got a day’s work since he came over; indeed, he couldn’t give the childer their breakfast the next morning after they came. I came to London-bridge, and met my husband there. Well, indeed, that is nearly three years agone. Oh, thin, I had nothing to do since but what little we done at the harvest. It was tin weeks before Christmas that I came over, and I don’t know what month it was, for I don’t read or write, you know. Oh, thin, indeed, we had to live by begging from that up to harvest time. I had to beg for him sooner than let him die with the hunger. He didn’t do any work, but he’d be glad of a sixpence he’d earn. He’d rather have it that way than if he’d begged tin pound--it would be more plisure. Never a day’s work could he get; and many beside him. Oh, Lord, there is many, sir. He never does anything but at the harvest-time, and then he works at raping the corrun. I know nothing else that he does; and I bind the shaves afther him. Why, indeed, we get work then for about a fortnight or three weeks--it don’t howld a month. Oh no, sir, no; how could my children do anything, but as fast as we’d earn it to ate it? I declare I don’t know how much we’d make a-week then. They got only eight shillings an acre last year for it. I declare I don’t know what we made; but whatever we had, we hadn’t two shillings laving it. Ah, indeed, I had to beg all the rest of my time. My husband doesn’t beg--I’ll tell you the thruth. The thruth is the best. When he has e’er a penny, he tries to sell a handful of oranges; and, indeed, he had to lave off silling, for he couldn’t buy half a hundred of ’em to sill back. He done pritty well when the onions were in season, he did, sir; but there’s so many silling oranges, he can’t sill one of ’em. Now he does nothing, for he has nothing to reach half a hundred of limons with, and that isn’t much. When I gets a pinny to pay for the lodgings, then we lodges and sleeps together; but when I can’t, I must go about this way with my children. When I go out begging, he remains at home in the lodging-house; he has nothing else to do, sir. I always go out with my childer; sure I couldn’t look at ’em die with hunger. Where’s the use of laving them with the husband; what has he to give them? Indeed, if I had left them last night with him, he couldn’t have give them as much as they’d put in their mouths onced. Indeed, I take them out in the cowld to big with me to get a bit of victuals for ’em. Sure God knows I can’t hilp it--he knows I can’t--glory be to his holy name! Indeed, I have a part of the brid I got here last night to carry to my poor husband, for I know he wanted it. Oh, if I’m to go to the gallows, I’m telling you the thruth. Oh, to be sure, yes, sir; there’s many a one would give a bit to the childer when they wouldn’t to me--sure the world knows that; and maybe the childer will get ha’pence, and that will pay my lodging or buy a loaf of brid for ’em. Oh, sir, to be sure, you know I’d get more with all my little childer out than I would with one, and that’s the rason indeed. Yes, indeed, that’s why I take them out! Oh, then, that’s what you want to know! Why, there’s some people wouldn’t believe I’d have so many. Maybe, some days I wouldn’t get a pinny, and maybe I’d git a shilling. I met a gintleman the other day that gave me a shilling together. I’d all my childer out with me then. The sister carries the little fellow on her back, no more would he stop afther me nayther. Only twice I’ve left him at home. Oh thin, indeed, he do cry with the cowld, and often again with the hunger; and some of the people says to me it’s myself that makes him cry; but thin, indeed, it ain’t. Maybe I’ve no home to give my husband, maybe it’s at some union he slept last night. My husband niver goes bigging, he didn’t, sir--I won’t tell a lie--he didn’t, indeed; but he sinds me out in the cowld, and in the wit, and in the hate, too: but thin he can’t help it. He’s the best man that iver put a hat on his hid, and the kindest.”

She persisted in asseverating this, being apparently totally incapable of perceiving the inhumanity of her husband’s conduct.

“He don’t force me--he don’t, indeed--but he sits idle at home while I go out. Ah, if you knew what I suffers! Oh, yes, he’d rather work, if I’d got a guinea in gowld for him to-night; and yesterday morning he prayed to God Almighty to put something in his way to give him a day’s work. I was in prison onced for bigging. My children was taken away from me, and sint to some union. I don’t know the name of it. That was the time my husband was silling the limons. He niver came to spake for me when I was going to prison, and he doesn’t know whether I’m in prisin to-night. Ah, I beg your honour’s pardon, he would care, but he can’t help me. I thought I’d ind my life in the prisin, for I wouldn’t be allowed to spake a word. The poor man, my husband, can’t help it. He was niver counted lazy in his counthry; but God Almighty plazed to deprive him of his work, and what can he do?”

The next was a rather tall and well-spoken woman of fifty-eight.

“When I was young,” she said, “I used to go out to day’s works, or charing, and sometimes as a laundress. I went charing till five years ago, sometimes doing middling, often very badly, when I burst a blood-vessel in lifting a weight--a pail of water to fill a copper. I fell down all at once, and bled at the ears and nose. I was taken to St. Bartholomew’s, and was there four months. When I came out, I took to sell things in the street. I could do nothing else. I have no friends in London--none in the world. Sometimes I picked up a living by selling laces, and iron-holders, and memorandum-books, in the City. I made the memorandum-books myself--penny books. The pincushions I made myself. I never had anything from my parish, or rather my husband’s--that’s Bristol. He was a bricklayer, but I chared when he was out of work. He died eighteen years ago. I was known by ladies and others in the City, who would sometimes give me a sixpence for a lace. I was working two months back--it was the general thanksgiving-day--when I was working at a fishmonger’s in Gresham-street, and fell down the cellar stairs and broke my arm. I was again three weeks in Bartholomew’s hospital. I have been destitute ever since. I have made away with everything. A little quilt is all I have left, and that would have gone last night if I hadn’t got in here.”

The poor woman whom I next accosted was a widow (her husband having died only a few months before). She had altogether what I may call a faded look; even her widow’s cap was limp and flat, and her look was miserably subdued. She said:--

“My husband was a journeyman shoemaker. Sometimes he would earn 20_s._ a-week; but we were badly off, for he drank; but he did not ill-use me--not much. During his last illness we raised 5_l._ on a raffle for a silk handkerchief among the shoemakers, and 10_s._ from the Mendicity Society, and a few shillings from the clergyman of the parish. The trade buried him. I didn’t get 1_s._ as his widow--only 5_l._ to bury him; but there was arrears of rent to pay, and about a month after his death I hadn’t a farthing, and I took the cholera, and was eight days in St. Bartholomew’s, the parish officers sending me there in a cab. I lived in furnished lodgings before that, and had nothing to call my own, when I had pawned my black for my husband. When I got out I helped a neighbour at shoe-binding. One time I have earned 15_s._ a-week at shoe-binding for ----, Regent-street. Now I can only earn 5_s._ with full work. I have seldom earned 3_s._ of late weeks. I had to leave my neighbour, because I felt that I was a burden, and was imposing upon her. I then had a shelter with a young woman I once lodged with, but I couldn’t stay there any longer. She was poor, and had nothing for me to do. So, on Saturday last, I had no work, no money, no friends, and I thought I would try and get in here, as another poor woman had done. Here I’ve had a shelter.”

A pretty, pleasant-spoken young woman, very tidy in her poor attire, which was an old cloak wrapped close round her, to cover her scanty dress, gave me the following statement very modestly:--

“I am twenty-two; my mother died six years ago; my father I never knew, for I’m an unlawful child. My mother had a small income from my father, and kept me at school. I can’t even guess who my father was. I am an only child. I was taken from school to wait upon my mother; very kind indeed she was to me, but she died in three weeks after I came from school. She’d been in a consumption for six years; she fretted sadly about me. She never told me I was an unlawful child. My aunt, my mother’s sister, told me one day afterwards. My mother always said my father lived in the country. I loved my mother, so I seldom spoke of my father, for she would say, ‘I don’t wish to hear about him.’ There was nothing for me at my mother’s death, so I put myself to learn fancy-box-making for grocers and pastrycooks, for their sweetmeats, and for scents. My aunt assisted me. She is now poor, and a widow. I could never earn more than 3_s._ or 4_s._ a-week at box-making, the pay is so bad. I lived this way for four or five years, lodging with my aunt, and giving her all I earned, and she kept me for it. I then went to learn the Macintosh-coat-making. I went into lodgings, my aunt being unable to help me any longer, as at my uncle’s death she could only keep a room for herself and children. She makes pill-boxes. I could earn at the Macintoshes only 4_s._ a-week and my tea, when in full work, and when work was bad, I earned only 2_s._ 6_d._ It was 8_d._ a-day and my tea. I parted with a good box of clothes to keep myself; first one bit of dress went, and another. I was exposed to many a temptation, but I have kept my character, I am happy to say. On Monday night I was in the streets all night--I hardly knew in what part, I was so miserable--having no place to put my head in, and frightened to death almost. I couldn’t pay my lodgings, and so lost them--I was locked out. I went to the station-house, and asked to sit there for a shelter, but the policeman said it was no place for me, as I was not guilty of any offence; they could do nothing for me: they were all very civil. I walked the streets all that cold night; I feel the cold of that night in my limbs still. I thought it never would be over. I wasn’t exposed to any insults. I had to walk about all Tuesday, without a bite either Monday or Tuesday. On Tuesday evening I got admitted into this place, and was very thankful. Next day I tried for work, but got none. I had a cup of tea from my aunt to live on that day.”

This girl wished to get into the parish, in order to be sent out as an emigrant, or anything of that kind; but her illegitimacy was a bar, as no settlement could be proved.

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