London Labour and the London Poor (part 3 of 6)

London Labour and the London Poor (part 3 of 6)

It is the custom with the inhabitants of these courts and alleys to assemble at the entrance with their baskets, and chat and smoke away the morning. Every court entrance has its little group of girls and women, lolling listlessly against the sides, with their heads uncovered, and their luxuriant hair fuzzy as oakum. It is peculiar with the Irish women that--after having been accustomed to their hoods--they seldom wear bonnets, unless on a long journey. Nearly all of them, too, have a thick plaid shawl, which they keep on all the day through, with their hands covered under it. At the mouth of the only thoroughfare deserving of the name of street--for a cart could just go through it--were congregated about thirty men and women, who rented rooms in the houses on each side of the road. Six women, with baskets of dried herrings, were crouching in a line on the kerb-stone with the fish before them; their legs were drawn up so closely to their bodies that the shawl covered the entire figure, and they looked very like the podgy “tombolers” sold by the Italian boys. As all their wares were alike, it was puzzling work to imagine how, without the strongest opposition, they could each obtain a living. The men were dressed in long-tail coats, with one or two brass buttons. One old dame, with a face wrinkled like a dried plum, had her cloak placed over her head like a hood, and the grisly hair hung down in matted hanks about her face, her black eyes shining between the locks like those of a Skye terrier; beside her was another old woman smoking a pipe so short that her nose reached over the bowl.

After looking at the low foreheads and long bulging upper lips of some of the group, it was pleasant to gaze upon the pretty faces of the one or two girls that lolled against the wall. Their black hair, smoothed with grease, and shining almost as if “japanned,” and their large gray eyes with the thick dark fringe of lash, seemed out of place among the hard features of their companions. It was only by looking at the short petticoats and large feet you could assure yourself that they belonged to the same class.

In all the houses that I entered were traces of household care and neatness that I had little expected to have seen. The cupboard fastened in the corner of the room, and stocked with mugs and cups, the mantelpiece with its images, and the walls covered with showy-coloured prints of saints and martyrs, gave an air of comfort that strangely disagreed with the reports of the cabins in “ould Ireland.” As the doors to the houses were nearly all of them kept open, I could, even whilst walking along, gain some notion of the furniture of the homes. In one house that I visited there was a family of five persons, living on the ground floor and occupying two rooms. The boards were strewn with red sand, and the front apartment had three beds in it, with the printed curtains drawn closely round. In a dark room, at the back, lived the family itself. It was fitted up as a parlour, and crowded to excess with chairs and tables, the very staircase having pictures fastened against the wooden partition. The fire, although it was midday, and a warm autumn morning, served as much for light as for heat, and round it crouched the mother, children, and visitors, bending over the flame as if in the severest winter time. In a room above this were a man and woman lately arrived in England. The woman sat huddled up in a corner smoking, with the husband standing over her in, what appeared at first, a menacing attitude; I was informed, however, that they were only planning for the future. This room was perfectly empty of furniture, and the once white-washed walls were black, excepting the little square patches which showed where the pictures of the former tenants had hung. In another room, I found a home so small and full of furniture, that it was almost a curiosity for domestic management. The bed, with its chintz curtains looped up, filled one end of the apartment, but the mattress of it served as a long bench for the visitors to sit on. The table was so large that it divided the room in two, and if there was one picture there must have been thirty--all of “holy men,” with yellow glories round their heads. The window-ledge was dressed out with crockery, and in a tumbler were placed the beads. The old dame herself was as curious as her room. Her shawl was fastened over her large frilled cap. She had a little “button” of a nose, with the nostrils entering her face like bullet holes. She wore over her gown an old pilot coat, well-stained with fish slime, and her petticoats being short, she had very much the appearance of a Dutch fisherman or stage smuggler.

Her story was affecting--made more so, perhaps, by the emotional manner in which she related it. Nine years ago “the father” of the district--“the Blissed Lady guard him!”--had found her late at night, rolling in the gutter, and the boys pelting her with orange-peel and mud. She was drunk--“the Lorrud pass by her”--and when she came to, she found herself in the chapel, lying before the sanctuary, “under the shadow of the holy cross.” Watching over her was the “good father,” trying to bring back her consciousness. He spoke to her of her wickedness, and before she left she took the pledge of temperance. From that time she prospered, and the 1_s._ 6_d._ the “father” gave her “had God’s blissin’ in it,” for she became the best dressed woman in the court, and in less than three years had 15_l._ in the savings’ bank, “the father--Heaven chirish him”--keeping her book for her, as he did for other poor people. She also joined “the Association of the Blissed Lady,” (and bought herself the dress of the order “a beautiful grane vilvit, which she had now, and which same cost her 30_s._”), and then she was secure against want in old age and sickness. But after nine years prudence and comfort, a brother of hers returned home from the army, with a pension of 1_s._ a day. He was wild, and persuaded her to break her pledge, and in a short time he got all her savings from her and spent every penny. She could’nt shake him off, “for he was the only kin she had on airth,” and “she must love her own flish and bones.” Then began her misery. “It plased God to visit her ould limbs with aches and throubles, and her hips swole with the cowld,” so that she was at last forced into a hospital, and all that was left of her store was “aten up by sufferin’s.” This, she assured me, all came about by the “good father’s” leaving that parish for another one, but now he had returned to them again, and, with his help and God’s blessing, she would yet prosper once more.

Whilst I was in the room, the father entered, and “old Norah,” half-divided between joy at seeing him and shame at “being again a beggar,” laughed and wept at the same time. She stood wiping her eyes with the shawl, and groaning out blessings on “his rivirince’s hid,” begging of him not “to scould her for she was a wake woman.” The renegade brother was had in to receive a lecture from “his rivirince.” A more sottish idiotic face it would be difficult to imagine. He stood with his hands hanging down like the paws of a dog begging, and his two small eyes stared in the face of the priest, as he censured him, without the least expression even of consciousness. Old Norah stood by, groaning like a bagpipe, and writhing while the father spoke to her “own brother,” as though every reproach were meant for her.

The one thing that struck me during my visit to this neighbourhood, was the apparent listlessness and lazy appearance of the people. The boys at play were the only beings who seemed to have any life in their actions. The women in their plaid shawls strolled along the pavements, stopping each friend for a chat, or joining some circle, and leaning against the wall as though utterly deficient in energy. The men smoked, with their hands in their pockets, listening to the old crones talking, and only now and then grunting out a reply when a question was directly put to them. And yet it is curious that these people, who here seemed as inactive as negroes, will perform the severest bodily labour, undertaking tasks that the English are almost unfitted for.

To complete this account, I subjoin a brief description of the lodging-houses resorted to by the Irish immigrants on their arrival in this country.

IRISH LODGING-HOUSES FOR IMMIGRANTS.

Often an Irish immigrant, whose object is to settle in London, arrives by the Cork steamer without knowing a single friend to whom he can apply for house-room or assistance of any kind. Sometimes a whole family is landed late at night, worn out by sickness and the terrible fatigues of a three days’ deck passage, almost paralysed by exhaustion, and scarcely able to speak English enough to inquire for shelter till morning.

If the immigrants, however, are bound for America, their lot is very different. Then they are consigned to some agent in London, who is always on the wharf at the time the steamer arrives, and takes the strangers to the homes he has prepared for them until the New York packet starts. During the two or three days’ necessary stay in London, they are provided for at the agent’s expense, and no trouble is experienced by the travellers. A large provision-merchant in the city told me that he often, during the season, had as many as 500 Irish consigned to him by one vessel, so that to lead them to their lodgings was like walking at the head of a regiment of recruits.

The necessities of the immigrants in London have caused several of their countrymen to open lodging-houses in the courts about Rosemary-lane; these men attend the coming in of the Cork steamer, and seek for customers among the poorest of the poor, after the manner of touters to a sea-side hotel.

The immigrants’-houses are of two kinds--clean and dirty. The better class of Irish lodging-houses almost startle one by the comfort and cleanliness of the rooms; for after the descriptions you hear of the state in which the deck passengers are landed from the Irish boats, their clothes stained with the manure of the pigs, and drenched with the spray, you somehow expect to find all the accommodations disgusting and unwholesome. But one in particular, that I visited, had the floor clean, and sprinkled with red sand, while the windows were sound, bright, and transparent. The hobs of the large fire-place were piled up with bright tin pots, and the chimney piece was white and red with the china images ranged upon it. In one corner of the principal apartment there stood two or three boxes still corded up, and with bundles strung to the sides, and against the wall was hung a bunch of blue cloaks, such as the Irishwomen wear. The proprietor of the house, who was dressed in a gray tail-coat and knee-breeches, that had somewhat the effect of a footman’s livery, told me that he had received seven lodgers the day before, but six were men, and they were all out seeking for work. In front of the fire sat a woman, bending over it so close that the bright cotton gown she had on smelt of scorching. Her feet were bare, and she held the soles of them near to the bars, curling her toes about with the heat. She was a short, thick-set woman, with a pair of wonderfully muscular arms crossed over her bosom, and her loose rusty hair streaming over her neck. It was in vain that I spoke to her about her journey, for she wouldn’t answer me, but kept her round, open eyes fixed on my face with a wild, nervous look, following me about with them everywhere.

Across the room hung a line, with the newly-washed and well-patched clothes of the immigrants hanging to it, and on a side-table were the six yellow basins that had been used for the men’s breakfasts. During my visit, the neighbours, having observed a strange gentleman enter, came pouring in, each proffering some fresh bit of news about their newly-arrived countrymen. I was nearly stunned by half-a-dozen voices speaking together, and telling me how the poor people had been four days “at say,” so that they were glad to get near the pigs for “warrumth,” and instructing me as to the best manner of laying out the sum of money that it was supposed I was about to shower down upon the immigrants.

In one of the worst class of lodging-houses I found ten human beings living together in a small room. The apartment was entirely devoid of all furniture, excepting an old mattrass rolled up against the wall, and a dirty piece of cloth hung across one corner, to screen the women whilst dressing. An old man, the father of five out of the ten, was seated on a tea-chest, mending shoes, and the other men were looking on with their hands in their pockets. Two girls and a woman were huddled together on the floor in front of the fire, talking in Irish. All these people seemed to be utterly devoid of energy, and the men moved about so lazily that I couldn’t help asking some of them if they had tried to obtain work. Every one turned to a good-looking young fellow lolling against the wall, as if they expected him to answer for them. “Ah, sure, and that they have,” was the reply; “it’s the docks they have tried, worrus luck.” The others appeared struck with the truthfulness of the answer, for they all shook their heads, and said, “Sure an’ that’s thruth, anyhow.” Here my Irish guide ventured an observation, by remarking solemnly, “It’s no use tilling a lie;” to which the whole room assented, by exclaiming altogether, “Thrue for you, Norah.” The chosen spokesman then told me, “They paid half-a-crown a week for the room, and that was as much as they could earrun, and it was starruve they should if the neighbours didn’t hilp them a bit.” I asked them if they were better off over here than when in Ireland, but could get no direct answer, for my question only gave rise to a political discussion. “There’s plenty of food over here,” said the spokesman, addressing his companions as much as myself, “plenty of ’taties--plenty of mate--plenty of porruk.” “But where the use,” observed my guide, “if there’s no money to buy ’em wid?” to which the audience muttered, “Thrue for you again, Norah;” and so it went on, each one pleading poverty in the most eloquent style.

After I had left, the young fellow who had acted as spokesman followed me into the street, and taking me into a corner, told me that he was a “sailor by thrade, but had lost his ‘rigisthration-ticket,’ or he’d have got a berruth long since, and that it was all for 3_s._ 6_d._ he wasn’t at say.”

Concerning the number of Irish immigrants, I have obtained the following information:

The great influx of the Irish into London was in the year of the famine, 1847-8. This cannot be better shown than by citing the returns of the number of persons admitted into the Asylum for the Houseless Poor, in Playhouse-yard, Cripplegate. These returns I obtained for fourteen years, and the average number of admissions of the applicants from all parts during that time was 8,794 yearly. Of these, the Irish averaged 2,455 yearly, or considerably more than a fourth of the whole number received. The total number of applicants thus sheltered in the fourteen years was 130,625, of which the Irish numbered 34,378. The smallest number of Irish (men, women, and children) admitted, was in 1834-5, about 300; in 1846-7, it was as many as 7,576, while in 1847-8, it was 10,756, and in 1848-9, 5,068.

But it was into Liverpool that the tide of immigration flowed the strongest, in the calamitous year of the famine. “Between the 13th Jan., and the 13th Dec., both inclusive,” writes Mr. Rushton, the Liverpool magistrate, to Sir G. Grey, on the 21st April last, “296,231 persons landed in this port (Liverpool) from Ireland. Of this vast number, about 130,000 emigrated to the United States; some 50,000 were passengers on business; and the remainder (161,231), mere paupers, half-naked and starving, landed, for the most part, during the winter, and became, immediately on landing, applicants for parochial relief. You already know the immediate results of this accumulation of misery in the crowded town of Liverpool; of the cost of relief at once rendered necessary to prevent the thousands of hungry and naked Irish perishing in our streets; and also of the cost of the pestilence which generally follows in the train of famine and misery such as we then had to encounter.... Hundreds of patients perished, notwithstanding all efforts made to save them; and ten Roman Catholic and one Protestant clergyman, many parochial officers, and many medical men, who devoted themselves to the task of alleviating the sufferings of the wretched, died in the discharge of these high duties.”

Great numbers of these people were, at the same time, also conveyed from Ireland to Wales, especially to Newport. They were brought over by coal-vessels as a return cargo--a living ballast--2_s._ 6_d._ being the highest fare, and were huddled together like pigs. The manager of the Newport tramp-house has stated concerning these people, “They don’t live long, diseased as they are. They are very remarkable; they will eat salt by basons-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.”

It is necessary that I should thus briefly allude to this matter, as there is no doubt that some of these people, making their way to London, soon became street-sellers there, and many of them took to the business subsequently, when there was no employment in harvesting, hop-picking, &c. Of the poor wretches landed at Liverpool, many (Mr. Rushton states) became beggars, and many thieves. Many, there is no doubt, tramped their way to London, sleeping at the “casual wards” of the Unions on their way; but I believe that of those who had become habituated to the practice of beggary or theft, few or none would follow the occupation of street-selling, as even the half-passive industry of such a calling would be irksome to the apathetic and dishonest.

Of the immigration, direct by the vessels trading from Ireland to London, there are no returns such has have been collected by Mr. Rushton for Liverpool, but the influx is comparatively small, on account of the greater length and cost of the voyage. During the last year I am informed that 15,000 or 16,000 passengers were brought from Ireland to London direct, and, in addition to these, 500 more were brought over from Cork in connection with the arrangements for emigration to the United States, and consigned to the emigration agent here. Of the 15,500 (taking the mean between the two numbers above given) 1,000 emigrated to the United States. It appears, on the authority of Mr. Rushton, that even in the great year of the immigration, more than one-sixth of the passengers from Ireland to Dublin came on business. It may, then, be reasonable to calculate that during last year one-fourth at least of the passengers to London had the same object in view, leaving about 10,000 persons who have either emigrated to British North America, Australia, &c., or have resorted to some mode of subsistence in the metropolis or the adjacent parts. Besides these there are the numbers who make their way up to London, tramping it from the several provincial ports--namely, Liverpool, Bristol, Newport, and Glasgow. Of these I have no means of forming any estimate, or of the proportion who adopt street-selling on their arrival here--all that can be said is, that the influx of Irish into the street-trade every year must be very considerable. I believe, however, that only those who “have friends in the line” resort to street-selling on their arrival in London, though all may make it a resource when other endeavours fail. The great immigration into London is from Cork, the average cost of a deck passage being 5_s._ The immigrants direct to London from Cork are rarely of the poorest class.

OF THE DIET, DRINK, AND EXPENSE OF LIVING OF THE STREET-IRISH.

The diet of the Irish men, women, and children, who obtain a livelihood (or what is so designated) by street-sale in London, has, I am told, on good authority, experienced a change. In the lodging-houses that they resorted to, their breakfast, two or three years ago, was a dish of potatoes--two, three, or four lbs., or more, in weight--for a family. Now half an ounce of coffee (half chicory) costs 1/2_d._, and that, with the half or quarter of a loaf, according to the number in family, is almost always their breakfast at the present time. When their constant diet was potatoes, there were frequent squabbles at the lodging-houses--to which many of the poor Irish on their first arrival resort--as to whether the potato-pot or the tea-kettle should have the preference on the fire. A man of superior intelligence, who had been driven to sleep and eat occasionally in lodging-houses, told me of some dialogues he had heard on these occasions:--“It’s about three years ago,” he said, “since I heard a bitter old Englishwoman say, ‘To ---- with your ’taty-pot; they’re only meat for pigs.’ ‘Sure, thin,’ said a young Irishman--he was a nice ’cute fellow--‘sure, thin, ma’am, I should be afther offering you a taste.’ I heard that myself, sir. You may have noticed, that when an Irishman doesn’t get out of temper, he never loses his politeness, or rather his blarney.”

The dinner, or second meal of the day--assuming that there has been a breakfast--ordinarily consists of cheap fish and potatoes. Of the diet of the poor street-Irish I had an account from a little Irishman, then keeping an oyster-stall, though he generally sold fruit. In all such details I have found the Irish far more communicative than the English. Many a poor untaught Englishman will shrink from speaking of his spare diet, and his trouble to procure that; a reserve, too, much more noticeable among the men than the women. My Irish informant told me he usually had his breakfast at a lodging-house--he preferred a lodging-house, he said, on account of the warmth and the society. Here he boiled half an ounce of coffee, costing a 1/2_d._ He purchased of his landlady the fourth of a quartern loaf (1-1/4_d._ or 1-1/2_d._), for she generally cut a quartern loaf into four for her single men lodgers, such as himself, clearing sometimes a farthing or two thereby. For dinner, my informant boiled at the lodging-house two or three lbs. of potatoes, costing usually 1_d._ or 1-1/4_d._, and fried three, or four herrings, or as many as cost a penny. He sometimes mashed his potatoes, and spread over them the herrings, the fatty portion of which flavoured the potatoes, which were further flavoured by the roes of the herrings being crushed into them. He drank water to this meal, and the cost of the whole was 2_d._ or 2-1/2_d._ A neighbouring stall-keeper attended to this man’s stock in his absence at dinner, and my informant did the same for him in his turn. For “tea” he expended 1_d._ on coffee, or 1-1/2_d._ on tea, being a “cup” of tea, or “half-pint of coffee,” at a coffee-shop. Sometimes he had a halfpenny-worth of butter, and with his tea he ate the bread he had saved from his breakfast, and which he had carried in his pocket. He had no butter to his breakfast, he said, for he could not buy less than a pennyworth about where he lodged, and this was too dear for one meal. On a Sunday morning however he generally had butter, sometimes joining with a fellow-lodger for a pennyworth; for his Sunday dinner he had a piece of meat, which cost him 2_d._ on the Saturday night. Supper he dispensed with, but if he felt much tired he had a half-pint of beer, which was three farthings “in his own jug,” before he went to bed, about nine or ten, as he did little or nothing late at night, except on Saturday. He thus spent 4-1/2_d._ a day for food, and reckoning 2-1/2_d._ extra for somewhat better fare on a Sunday, his board was 2_s._ 10_d._ a week. His earnings he computed at 5_s._, and thus he had 2_s._ 2_d._ weekly for other expenses. Of these there was 1_s._ for lodging; 2_d._ or 3_d._ for washing (but this not every week); 1/2_d._ for a Sunday morning’s shave; 1_d._ “for his religion” (as he worded it); and 6_d._ for “odds and ends,” such as thread to mend his clothes, a piece of leather to patch his shoes, worsted to darn his stockings, &c. He was subject to rheumatism, or “he might have saved a trifle of money.” Judging by his methodical habits, it was probable he had done so. He had nothing of the eloquence of his countrymen, and seemed indeed of rather a morose turn.

A family boarding together live even cheaper than this man, for more potatoes and less fish fall to the share of the children. A meal too is not unfrequently saved in this manner:--If a man, his wife, and two children, all go out in the streets selling, they breakfast before starting, and perhaps agree to re-assemble at four o’clock. Then the wife prepares the dinner of fish and potatoes, and so tea is dispensed with. In that case the husband’s and wife’s board would be 4_d._ or 4-1/2_d._ a day each, the children’s 3_d._ or 3-1/2_d._ each, and giving 1-1/2_d._ extra to each for Sunday, the weekly cost is 10_s._ 3_d._ Supposing the husband and wife cleared 5_s._ a week each, and the children each 3_s._, their earnings would be 16_s._ The balance is the surplus left to pay rent, washing, firing, and clothing.

From what I can ascertain, the Irish street-seller can always live at about half the cost of the English costermonger; the Englishman must have butter for his bread, and meat at no long intervals, for he “hates fish more than once a week.” It is by this spareness of living, as well as by frequently importunate and mendacious begging, that the street-Irish manage to save money.

The diet I have spoken of is generally, but not universally, that of the poor street-Irish; those who live differently, do not, as a rule, incur greater expense.

It is difficult to ascertain in what proportion the Irish street-sellers consume strong drink, when compared with the consumption of the English costers; as a poor Irishman, if questioned on that or any subject, will far more frequently shape his reply to what he thinks will please his querist and induce a trifle for himself, than answer according to the truth. The landlord of a large public-house, after inquiring of his assistants, that his opinions might be checked by theirs, told me that in one respect there was a marked difference between the beer-drinking of the two people. He considered that in the poor streets near his house there were residing quite as many Irish street-sellers and labourers as English, but the instances in which the Irish conveyed beer to their own rooms, as a portion of their meals, was not as 1 in 20 compared with the English: “I have read your work, sir,” he said, “and I know that you are quite right in saying that the costermongers go for a good Sunday dinner. I don’t know what my customers are except by their appearance, but I do know that many are costermongers, and by the best of all proofs, for I have bought fish, fruit, and vegetables of them. Well, now, we’ll take a fine Sunday in spring or summer, when times are pretty good with them; and, perhaps, in the ten minutes after my doors are opened at one on the Sunday, there are 100 customers for their dinner-beer. Nearly three-quarters of these are working men and their wives, working either in the streets, or at their indoor trades, such as tailoring. But among the number, I’m satisfied, there are not more than two Irishmen. There may be three or four Irishwomen, but one of my barmen tells me he knows that two of them--very well-behaved and good-looking women--are married to Englishmen. In my opinion the proportion, as to Sunday dinner-beer, between English and Irish, may be two or three in 70.”

An Irish gentleman and his wife, who are both well acquainted with the habits and condition of the people in their own country, informed me, that among the classes who, though earning only scant incomes, could not well be called “impoverished,” the use of beer, or even of small ale--known, now or recently--as “Thunder’s thruppeny,” was very unfrequent. Even in many “independent” families, only water is drunk at dinner, with punch to follow. This shows the accuracy of the information I derived from Mr. ---- (the innkeeper), for persons unused to the drinking of malt liquor in their own country are not likely to resort to it afterwards, when their means are limited. I was further informed, that reckoning the teetotallers among the English street-sellers at 300, there are 600 among the Irish,--teetotallers too, who, having taken the pledge, under the sanction of their priests, and looking upon it as a religious obligation, keep it rigidly.

The Irish street-sellers who frequent the gin-palaces or public-houses, drink a pot of beer, in a company of three or four, but far more frequently, a quartern of gin (very seldom whisky) oftener than do the English. Indeed, from all I could ascertain, the Irish street-sellers, whether from inferior earnings, their early training, or the restraints of their priests, drink less beer, by one-fourth, than their English brethren, but a larger proportion of gin. “And you must bear this in mind, sir,” I was told by an innkeeper, “I had rather have twenty poor Englishmen drunk in my tap-room than a couple of poor Irishmen. They’ll quarrel with anybody--the Irish will--and sometimes clear the room by swearing they’ll ‘use their knives, by Jasus;’ and if there’s a scuffle they’ll kick like devils, and scratch, and bite, like women or cats, instead of using their fists. I wish all the drunkards were teetotallers, if it were only to be rid of them.”

Whiskey, I was told, would be drunk by the Irish, in preference to gin, were it not that gin was about half the price. One old Irish fruit-seller--who admitted that he was fond of a glass of gin--told me that he had not tasted whiskey for fourteen years, “becase of the price.” The Irish, moreover, as I have shown, live on stronger and coarser food than the English, buying all the rough (bad) fish, for, to use the words of one of my informants, they look to quantity more than quality; this may account for their preferring a stronger and fiercer stimulant by way of drink.

OF THE RESOURCES OF THE STREET-IRISH AS REGARDS “STOCK-MONEY,” SICKNESS, BURIALS, &C.

It is not easy to ascertain from the poor Irish themselves how they raise their stock-money, for their command of money is a subject on which they are not communicative, or, if communicative, not truthful. “My opinion is,” said an Irish gentleman to me, “that some of these poor fellows would declare to God that they hadn’t the value of a halfpenny, even if you heard the silver chink in their pockets.” It is certain that they never, or very rarely, borrow of the usurers like their English brethren.

The more usual custom is, that if a poor Irish street-seller be in want of 5_s._, it is lent to him by the more prosperous people of his court--bricklayers’ labourers, or other working-men--who club 1_s._ a piece. This is always repaid. An Irish bricklayer, when in full work, will trust a needy countryman with some article to pledge, on the understanding that it is to be redeemed and returned when the borrower is able. Sometimes, if a poor Irishwoman need 1_s._ to buy oranges, four others--only less poor than herself, because not utterly penniless--will readily advance 3_d._ each. Money is also advanced to the deserving Irish through the agency of the Roman Catholic priests, who are the medium through whom charitable persons of their own faith exercise good offices. Money, too, there is no doubt, is often advanced out of the priest’s own pocket.

On all the kinds of loans with which the poor Irish are aided by their countrymen no interest is ever charged. “I don’t like the Irish,” said an English costermonger to me; “but they do stick to one another far more than we do.”

The Irish costers hire barrows and shallows like the English, but, if they “get on” at all, they will possess themselves of their own vehicles much sooner than an English costermonger. A quick-witted Irishman will begin to ponder on his paying 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for the hire of a barrow worth 20_s._, and he will save and hoard until a pound is at his command to purchase one for himself; while an obtuse English coster (who will yet buy cheaper than an Irishman) will probably pride himself on his cleverness in having got the charge for his barrow reduced, in the third year of its hire, to 1_s._ a week the twelvemonth round!

In cases of sickness the mode of relief adopted is similar to that of the English. A raffle is got up for the benefit of the Irish sufferer, and, if it be a bad case, the subscribers pay their money without caring what trifle they throw for, or whether they throw at all. If sickness continue and such means as raffles cannot be persevered in, there is one resource from which a poor Irishman never shrinks--the parish. He will apply for and accept parochial relief without the least sense of shame, a sense which rarely deserts an Englishman who has been reared apart from paupers. The English costers appear to have a horror of the Union. If the Irishman be taken into the workhouse, his friends do not lose sight of him. In case of his death, they apply for, and generally receive his body, from the parochial authorities, undertaking the expence of the funeral, when the body is duly “waked.” “I think there’s a family contract among the Irish,” said a costermonger to me; “that’s where it is.”

The Irish street-folk are, generally speaking, a far more provident body of people than the English street-sellers. To save, the Irish will often sacrifice what many Englishmen consider a necessary, and undergo many a hardship.

From all I could ascertain, the saving of an Irish street-seller does not arise from any wish to establish himself more prosperously in his business, but for the attainment of some cherished project, such as emigration. Some of the objects, however, for which these struggling men hoard money, are of the most praiseworthy character. They will treasure up halfpenny after halfpenny, and continue to do so for years, in order to send money to enable their wives and children, and even their brothers and sisters, when in the depth of distress in Ireland, to take shipping for England. They will save to be able to remit money for the relief of their aged parents in Ireland. They will save to defray the expense of their marriage, an expense the English costermonger so frequently dispenses with--but they will not save to preserve either themselves or their children from the degradation of a workhouse; indeed they often, with the means of independence secreted on their persons, apply for parish relief, and that principally to save the expenditure of their own money. Even when detected in such an attempt at extortion an Irishman betrays no passion, and hardly manifests any emotion--he has speculated and failed. Not one of them but has a positive genius for begging--both the taste and the faculty for alms-seeking developed to an extraordinary extent.

Of the amount “saved” by the patience of the poor Irishmen, I can form no conjecture.

OF THE HISTORY OF SOME IRISH STREET-SELLERS.

In order that the following statements might be as truthful as possible, I obtained permission to use the name of a Roman Catholic clergyman, to whom I am indebted for much valuable information touching this part of my subject.

A young woman, of whose age it was not easy to form a conjecture, her features were so embrowned by exposure to the weather, and perhaps when I saw her a little swollen from cold, gave me the following account as to her living. Her tone and manner betrayed indifference to the future, caused perhaps by ignorance,--for uneducated persons I find are apt to look on the future as if it must needs be but a repetition of the present, while the past in many instances is little more than a blank to them. This young woman said, her brogue being little perceptible, though she spoke thickly:

“I live by keepin’ this fruit stall. It’s a poor livin’ when I see how others live. Yes, in thruth, sir, but it’s thankful I am for to be able to live at all, at all; troth is it, in these sore times. My father and mother are both did. God be gracious to their sowls! They was evicted. The family of us was. The thatch of the bit o’ home was tuk off above our hids, and we were lift to the wide worruld--yis, indeed, sir, and in the open air too. The rint wasn’t paid and it couldn’t be paid, and so we had to face the wither. It was a sorrowful time. But God was good, and so was the neighbours. And when we saw the praste, he was a frind to us. And we came to this counthry, though I’d always heard it called a black counthry. Sure, an’ there’s much in it to indhure. There’s goin’s on it, sir, that the praste, God rewarrud him! wouldn’t like to see. There’s bad ways. I won’t talk about thim, and I’m sure you are too much of a gintlemin to ask me; for if you know Father ----, that shows you are the best of gintlemin, sure. It was the eviction that brought us here. I don’t know about where we was just; not in what county; nor parish. I was so young whin we lift the land. I belave I’m now 19, perhaps only 18” (she certainly looked much older, but I have often noticed that of her class). “I can’t be more, I think, for sure an’ its only 5 or 6 years since we left Watherford and come to Bristol. I’m sure it was Watherford, and a beautiful place it is, and I know it was Bristol we come to. We walked all the long way to London. My parints died of the cholera, and I live with mysilf, but my aunt lodges me and sees to me. She sills in the sthreets too. I don’t make 7_d._ a day. I may make 6_d._ There’s a good many young payple I know is now sillin’ in the streets becase they was evicted in their own counthry. I suppose they had no where ilse to come to. I’m nivir out of a night. I sleep with my aunt, and we keep to oursilves sure. I very sildom taste mate, but perhaps I do oftener than before we was evicted--glory be to God.”

One Irish street-seller I saw informed me that she was a “widdy wid three childer.” Her husband died about four years since. She had then five children, and was near her confinement with another. Since the death of her husband she had lost three of her children; a boy about twelve years died of stoppage on his lungs, brought on, she said, through being in the streets, and shouting so loud “to get sale of the fruit.” She has been in Clare-street, Clare-market, seven years with a fruit stall. In the summer she sells green fruit, which she purchases at Covent-garden. When the nuts, oranges, &c., come in season, she furnishes her stall with that kind of fruit, and continues to sell them until the spring salad comes in. During the spring and summer her weekly average income is about 5_s._, but the remaining portion of the year her income is not more than 3_s._ 6_d._ weekly, so that taking the year through, her average weekly income is about 4_s._ 3_d._; out of this she pays 1_s._ 6_d._ a week rent, leaving only 2_s._ 9_d._ a week to find necessary comforts for herself and family. For fuel the children go to the market and gather up the waste walnuts, bring them home and dry them, and these, with a pennyworth of coal and coke, serve to warm their chilled feet and hands. They have no bedstead, but in one corner of a room is a flock bed upon the floor, with an old sheet, blanket, and quilt to cover them at this inclement season. There is neither chair nor table; a stool serves for the chair, and two pieces of board upon some baskets do duty for a table, and an old penny tea-canister for a candlestick. She had parted with every article of furniture to get food for her family. She received nothing from the parish, but depended upon the sale of her fruit for her living.

The Irishmen who are in this trade are also very poor; and I learned that both Irishmen and Irishwomen left the occupation now and then, and took to begging, as a more profitable calling, often going begging this month and fruit-selling the next. This is one of the causes which prompt the London costermongers’ dislike of the Irish. “They’ll beg themselves into a meal, and work us out of one,” said an English coster to me. Some of them are, however, less “poverty-struck” (a word in common use among the costermongers); but these for the most part are men who have been in the trade for some years, and have got regular “pitches.”

The woman who gave me the following statement seemed about twenty-two or twenty-three. She was large-boned, and of heavy figure and deportment. Her complexion and features were both coarse, but her voice had a softness, even in its broadest brogue, which is not very frequent among poor Irishwomen. The first sentence she uttered seems to me tersely to embody a deplorable history of the poverty of a day. It was between six and seven in the evening when I saw the poor creature:--

“Sure, thin, sir, it’s thrippince I’ve taken to-day, and tuppince is to pay for my night’s lodgin’. I shall do no more good to-night, and shall only stay in the cowld, if I stay in it, for nothing. I’m an orphand, sir,” (she three or four times alluded to this circumstance,) “and there’s nobody to care for me but God, glory be to his name! I came to London to join my brother, that had come over and did will, and he sint for me, but whin I got here I couldn’t find him in it anyhow. I don’t know how long that’s ago. It may be five years; it may be tin; but” (she added, with the true eloquence of beggary,) “sure, thin, sir, I had no harrut to keep count, if I knew how. My father and mother wasn’t able to keep me, nor to keep thimsilves in Ireland, and so I was sint over here. They was counthry payple. I don’t know about their landlorrud. They died not long afther I came here. I don’t know what they died of, but sure it was of the will of God, and they hadn’t much to make them love this worruld; no more have I. Would I like to go back to my own counthry? Will, thin, what would be the use? I sleep at a lodging-house, and it’s a dacint place. It’s mostly my own counthrywomen that’s in it; that is, in the women’s part. I pay 1_s._ a week, that’s 2_d._ a night, for I’m not charged for Sundays. I live on brid, and ’taties and salt, and a herrin’ sometimes. I niver taste beer, and not often tay, but I sit here all day, and I feel the hunger this day and that day. It goes off though, if I have nothin’ to ate. I don’t know why, but I won’t deny the goodness of God to bring such a thing about. I have lived for a day on a pinny, sir: a ha’pinny for brid, and a ha’pinny for a herrin’, or two herrin’s for a ha’pinny, and ’taties for the place of brid. I’ve changed apples for a herrin’ with a poor man, God rewarrud him. Sometimes I make on to 6_d._ a day, and sometimes I have made 1_s._ 6_d._, but I think that I don’t make 5_d._ a day--arrah, no, thin, sir! one day with the other, and I don’t worruk on Sunday, not often. If I’ve no mate to ate, I’d rather rist. I never miss mass on a Sunday. A lady gives me a rag sometimes, but the bitther time’s comin’. If I was sick I don’t know what I’d do, but I would sind for the praste, and he’d counsil me. I could read a little oncte, but I can’t now.”

OF THE IRISH “REFUSE”-SELLERS.

There still remains to be described one branch of the Irish street-trade which is peculiar to the class--viz., the sale of “refuse,” or such fruit and vegetables as are damaged, and suited only to the very poorest purchasers.

In assorting his goods, a fruit-salesman in the markets generally throws to one side the shrivelled, dwarfish, or damaged fruit--called by the street-traders the “specks.” If the supply to the markets be large, as in the pride of the season, he will put his several kinds of specks in separate baskets. At other times all kinds are tossed together, and sometimes with an admixture of nuts and walnuts. The Irish women purchase these at a quarter, or within a quarter, of the regular price, paying from 6_d._ to 1_s._ a bushel for apples; 9_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ for pears; 1_s._ 6_d._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ for plums. They are then sorted into halfpenny-worths for sale on the stalls. Among the refuse is always a portion of what is called “tidy” fruit, and this occupies the prominent place in the “halfpenny lots”--for they are usually sold at a halfpenny. Sometimes, too, a salesman will throw in among the refuse a little good fruit, if he happen to have it over, either gratuitously or at the refuse price; and this, of course, is always made the most conspicuous on the stalls. Of other fruits, perhaps, only a small portion is damaged, from over-ripeness, or by the aggression of wasps and insects, the remainder being very fine, so that the retail “lots” are generally cheap. The sellers aim at “half profits,” or cent. per cent.

The “refuse” trade in fruit--and the refuse-trade is mainly confined to fruit--is principally in the hands of the Irish. The persons carrying it on are nearly all middle-aged and elderly women. I once or twice saw a delicate and pretty-looking girl sitting with the old “refuse” women; but I found that she was not a “regular hand,” and only now and then “minded the stall” in her mother’s absence. She worked with her needle, I was told.

Of the women who confine themselves to this trade there are never less than twenty, and frequently thirty. Sometimes, when the refuse is very cheap and very abundant, as many as 100 fruit-sellers, women and girls, will sell it in halfpenny-worths, along with better articles. These women also sell refuse dry-fruit, purchased in Duke’s-place, but only when they cannot obtain green-fruit, or cannot obtain it sufficiently. All is sold at stalls; as these dealers seem to think that if it were hawked, the police might look too inquisitively at a barrow stocked with refuse. The “refuse-sellers” buy at all the markets. The poorer street-sellers, whose more staple trade is in oranges or nuts, are occasional dealers in it.

Perhaps the regular refuse-buyers are not among the very poorest class, as their sale is tolerably quick and certain, but with the usual drawbacks of wet weather. They make, I was told, from 4_d._ to 1_s._ a day the year round, or perhaps 7_d._ or 8_d._ a day, Sunday included. They are all Roman Catholics, and resort to the street-sale after mass. They are mostly widows, or women who have reached middle-age, unmarried. Some are the wives of street-sellers. Two of their best pitches are on Saffron-hill and in Petticoat-lane. It is somewhat curious to witness these women sitting in a line of five or six, and notwithstanding their natural garrulity, hardly exchanging a word one with another. Some of them derive an evident solace from deliberate puffs at a short black pipe.

A stout, healthy-looking woman of this class said:--“Sure thin, sir, I’ve sat and sould my bit of fruit in this place, or near it, for twinty year and more, as is very well known indeed, is it. I could make twice the money twinty year ago that I can now, for the boys had the ha’pinnies more thin than they has now, more’s the pity. The childer is my custhomers, very few beyant--such as has only a ha’pinny now and thin, God hilp them. They’ll come a mile from any parrut, to spind it with such as me, for they know it’s chape we sill! Yis, indeed, or they’ll come with a fardin either, for it’s a ha’pinny lot we’ll split for them any time. The boys buys most, but they’re dridful tazes. It’s the patience of the divil must be had to dale wid the likes of thim. They was dridful about the Pope, but they’ve tired of it now. O, no, it wasn’t the boys of my counthry that demaned themselves that way. Well, I make 4_d._ some days, and 6_d._ some, and 1_s._ 6_d._ some, and I have made 3_s._ 6_d._, and I have made nothing. Perhaps I make 5_s._ or 6_s._ a week rigular, but I’m established and well-known you see.”

The quantity of refuse at the metropolitan “green” markets varies with the different descriptions of fruit. Of apples it averages one-twentieth, and of plums and greengages one-fifteenth, of the entire supply. With pears, cherries, gooseberries, and currants, however, the damaged amounts to one-twelfth, while of strawberries and mulberries it reaches as high as one-tenth of the aggregate quantity sent to market.

The Irish street-sellers, I am informed, buy full two-thirds of all the refuse, the other third being purchased by the lower class of English costermongers--“the illegitimates,”--as they are called. We must not consider the sale of the damaged fruit so great an evil as it would, at the first blush, appear, for it constitutes perhaps the sole luxury of poor children, as well as of the poor themselves, who, were it not for the halfpenny and farthing lots of the refuse-sellers, would doubtlessly never know the taste of such things.

* * * * *

Before leaving this part of the subject, it may be as well to say a few words concerning the curious revelations made by the returns from Billingsgate, Covent-garden, and the other London markets, as to the diet of the poor. In the first place, then, it appears that in the matter of fish, herrings constitute the chief article of consumption--no less than 210,000,000 lbs. weight of this fish in a “fresh” state, and 60,000,000 lbs. in a “dried” state, being annually eaten by the humbler classes of the metropolis and the suburbs. Of sprats there are 3,000,000 lbs. weight consumed--and these, with the addition of plaice, are the staple comestibles at the dinners and suppers of the ichthyophagous part of the labouring population of London. One of the reasons for this is doubtless the extraordinary cheapness of these kinds of fish. The sprats are sold at a penny per pound; the herrings at the same rate; and the plaice at a fraction less, perhaps; whereas a pound of butcher’s meat, even “pieces,” or the “block ornaments,” as they are sometimes called, cannot be got for less than twopence-halfpenny or threepence. But the relative cheapness of these two kinds of food can only be tested by the proportionate quantity of nutrition in each. According to Liebig, butcher’s meat contains 26 per cent. of solid matter, and 74 per cent. of water; whereas, according to Brande, fish consists of 20 parts of solid matter, and 80 parts water in every 100. Hence it would appear that butcher’s meat is five per cent. more nutritive than fish--or, in other words, that if the two were equally cheap, the prices, according to the quantity of nutrition in each, should be for fish one penny per pound, and butcher’s meat not five farthings; so that even at twopence-halfpenny the pound, meat is more than twice as dear an article of diet as fish.

But it is not only on account of their cheapness that herrings and sprats are consumed in such vast quantities by the labouring people of London. Salmon, eels, herrings, pilchards, and sprats, Dr. Pereira tells us, abound in oil; and oleaginous food, according to Leibig, is an “element of respiration,” consisting of nearly 80 per cent. charcoal, which burns away in the lungs, and so contributes to the warmth of the system. Fat, indeed, may be said to act as fuel to the vital fire; and we now know, from observations made upon the average daily consumption of food by 28 soldiers of the Grand Duke of Hesse Darmstadt, in barracks, for a month--which is the same as 840 men for one day--that an adult taking moderate exercise consumes, in the act of respiration, very nearly a pound of charcoal every day, which of course must be supplied in his food. “But persons who take much exercise, or labour hard,” says Dr. Pereira, “require more frequent and copious meals than the indolent or sedentary. In the active man the number of respirations is greater than in the inactive, and therefore a more frequent supply of food is required to furnish the increased quantity of carbon and hydrogen to be consumed in the lungs.” “A bird deprived of food,” says Liebig, “dies on the third day; while a serpent, with its sluggish respiration, can live without food three months, or longer.”

Captain Parry, in his account of one of the Polar expeditions (1827), states, that both himself and Mr. Beverley, the surgeon, were of opinion, that, in order to maintain the strength of the men during their harassing journey across the ice, living constantly in the open air, and exposed to the wet and cold for twelve hours a day, an addition was requisite of at least one-third to the quantity of provisions daily issued. So, in the gaol dietaries, the allowance to prisoners sentenced to hard labour for three months is one-third more than the scale for those sentenced to hard labour for three days--the former having 254 ounces, and the latter only 168 ounces of solid food served out to them every week.

But the hard-working poor not only require more food than the non-working rich, but it is mainly because the rich are better fed that they are more lethargic than the poor; for the greater the supply of nutriment to the body, the more inactive does the system become. From experiments made a few years ago at the Zoological Gardens, it was found, that, by feeding the animals twice, instead of once, in the twenty-four hours, their habits, as regards exercise, were altered--a fact which readily explains how the fat and overfed are always the least energetic; fat being at once the cause and consequence of inaction. It is well to hear an obese citizen tell a hollow-cheeked man, who begs a penny of him, “to go and work--a lazy scoundrel;” but physiology assures us that the fat tradesman is naturally the laziest of the two. In a word, he is fat because he is lazy, and lazy because he is fat.

The industrious poor, however, not only require more food than the indolent rich, but, getting less, they become more susceptible of cold, and, therefore, more eager for all that tends to promote warmth. I have often had occasion to remark the sacrifices that the ill-fed will make to have “a bit of fire.” “He who is well fed,” observes Sir John Ross, “resists cold better than the man who is stinted, while starvation from cold follows but too soon a starvation in food. This doubtlessly explains in a great measure the resisting powers of the natives of frozen climates, their consumption of food being enormous, and often incredible.” Captain Cochrane, in his “Journey through Russia and Siberian Tartary,” tells us that he has repeatedly seen a Yakut or Tongouse devour forty pounds of meat in a day; and one of the Yakuti he speaks of as having consumed, in twenty-four hours, “the hind-quarter of a large ox, twenty pounds of fat, and a proportionate quantity of melted butter for his drink.” (Vol. i. p. 255). Much less heat is evolved, physiologists tell us, where there is a deficiency of food. “During the whole of our march,” says Sir John Franklin, “we experienced that no quantity of clothing could keep us warm while we fasted; but, on those occasions on which we were enabled to go to bed with full stomachs, we passed the night in a warm and comfortable manner.” Hence, it is evident, that in summer a smaller quantity of food suffices to keep up the temperature of the body. I know of no experiments to show the different proportions of aliment required at different seasons of the year. In winter, however, when a greater supply is certainly needed, the labouring man, unfortunately, has less means of obtaining it--nearly all trades slacken as the cold weather comes on, and some, as brick-making, market-gardening, building, &c., then almost entirely cease--so that, were it not for the cheapness of fish, and, moreover, the oleaginous quality of those kinds which are most plentiful in the winter time, the metropolitan poor would be very likely to suffer that “starvation from cold which,” in the words of Sir John Ross, “follows but too soon a starvation in food.” Hence we can readily understand the remark of the enthusiastic street-seller--“Sprats is a blessing to the poor.”

The returns as to the other articles of food sold in the streets are equally curious. The 1,500,000_l._ spent yearly in fish, and the comparatively small amount expended on vegetables, viz., 290,000_l._, is a circumstance which seems to show that the labouring population of London have a greater relish for animal than vegetable diet. “It is quite certain,” says Dr. Carpenter, “that the most perfect physical development and the greatest intellectual vigour are to be found among those races in which a mixed diet of animal and vegetable food is the prevalent habit.” And yet, in apparent contradiction to the proposition asserted with so much confidence by Dr. Carpenter, we have the following curious fact cited by Mr. Jacob Bentley:--

“It is, indeed, a fact worthy of remark, and one that seems never to have been noticed, that throughout the whole animal creation, in every country and clime of the earth the most useful animals cost nature the least waste to sustain them with food. For instance, all animals that work, live on vegetable or fruit food; and no animal that eats flesh, works. The all-powerful elephant, and the patient, untiring camel in the torrid zone; the horse, the ox, or the donkey in the temperate, and the rein-deer in the frigid zone; obtain all their muscular power for enduring labour, from Nature’s simplest productions,--the vegetable kingdom.

“But all the flesh-eating animals, keep the rest of the animated creation in constant dread of them. They seldom eat vegetable food till some other animal has eaten it first, and made it into flesh. Their only use seems to be, to destroy life; their own flesh is unfit for other animals to eat, having been itself made out of flesh, and is most foul and offensive. Great strength, fleetness of foot, usefulness, cleanliness and docility, are then always characteristic of vegetable-eating animals, while all the world dreads flesh-eaters.”

Of vegetables we have seen that the greatest quantity consumed by the poor consists of potatoes, of which 60,500,000 lbs. are annually sold in the streets; but ten pounds of potatoes are only equal in nutritive power to one pound of butcher’s meat, which contains one-fifth more solid food than fish,--so that a pound of fish may be said to equal eight pounds of potatoes, and thus the 60,000,000 lbs. of vegetable is dietetically equivalent to nearly 7,000,000 lbs. of fish diet. The cost of the potatoes, at five pounds for 2_d._, is, as we have seen, 100,000_l._; whereas the cost of the same amount of nutritive matter in the form of fish, at 1_d._ per pound, would have been only 30,000_l._, or upwards of two-thirds less. The vegetable of which there is the next greatest street sale is onions, upon which 90,000_l._ are annually expended. This has been before accounted for, by saying, that a piece of bread and an onion are to the English labourer what bread and grapes are to the Frenchman--oftentimes a meal. The relish for onions by the poorer classes is not difficult to explain. Onions are strongly stimulating substances, and they owe their peculiar odour and flavour, as well as their pungent and stimulating qualities, to an acrid volatile oil which contains sulphur. This oil becomes absorbed, quickens the circulation, and occasions thirst. The same result takes place with the oil of fish. It not only proves a stimulant to the general system, but we are told that the thirst and uneasy feeling at the stomach, frequently experienced after the use of the richer species of fish, have led to the employment of spirit to this kind of food. Hence, says Dr. Pereira, the vulgar proverb, “Brandy is Latin for Fish.” Moreover, the two classes of food are similar in their comparative indigestibility, for the uneducated palates of the poor not only require a more pungent kind of diet, but their stronger stomachs need something that will resist the action of the gastric juice for a considerable time. Hence their love of shell-fish.

The small quantity of fruit, too, sold to the poor is a further proof of what is here stated. The amount of the street sale of this luxury is no criterion as to the quantity purchased by the London labourers; for according to all accounts the fruit-buyers in the streets consist mostly of clerks, shopmen, small tradesmen, and the children of mechanics or the lower grade of middle class people. Those who may be said strictly to belong to the poor,--viz. those whose incomes are barely sufficient for their support--seldom purchase fruit. In the first place they have no money to spend on such a mere toothsome extravagance; and, secondly, they require a stronger and more stimulating, and “staying” kind of food. The delights of the palate, we should remember, are studied only when the cravings of the stomach are satisfied, so that those who have strong stomachs have necessarily dull palates, and, therefore, prefer something that “bites in the mouth,”--to use the words of one of my informants--like gin, onions, sprats, or pickled whelks. What the poor term “relishes” are very different things from what the rich style the “delicacies of the season.”

I have no means of ascertaining the average number of ounces of solid food consumed by the poorer class of the metropolis. The whole of the fish, fruit, and vegetables, sold to the London costermongers, is not disposed of in the London streets--many of the street-sellers going, as we have seen, country excursions with their goods. According to the result of the Government Commissioners of Inquiry, the labourers in the country are unable to procure for themselves and families an average allowance of more than 122 ounces of solid food--principally bread--every week; hence it has been justly said we may infer that the man consumes, as his share, 140 ounces (134 bread and 6 meat). The gaol dietaries allow 254 ounces, or nearly twice as much to all prisoners, who undergo continuous hard labour. In the construction of these dietaries Sir James Graham--the then Secretary of State--says, in his “Letter to the Chairman of Quarter Sessions” (January 27th, 1843), “I have consulted not only the Prison Inspectors, but medical men of the greatest eminence possessing the advantage of long experience.” They are proposed, he adds, “as the minimum amount which can be safely afforded to prisoners without the risk of inflicting a punishment not contemplated by law and which it is unjust and cruel to inflict; namely, loss of health and strength through the inadequacy of the food supplied.” Hence it appears not that the thief gets too much, but the honest working man too little--or, in other words, that the labourer of this country is able to procure, by his industry, only half the quantity of food that is considered by “medical men of the greatest eminence” to be “the minimum amount” that can be safely afforded for the support of the criminals--a fact which it would be out of place to comment upon here.

One word concerning the incomes of the London costermongers, and I have done. It has been before shown that the gross sum of money taken yearly, in the streets, by the sale of fish, fruit, and vegetables, amounts, in round numbers, to two million pounds--a million and a half being expended in fish, and a quarter of a million upon fruit and vegetables respectively. In estimating the yearly receipts of the costermongers, from their average gains, the gross “takings” of the entire body were concluded to be between a million and a quarter and a million and a half sterling--that is to say, each one of the 10,000 street-sellers of fish, fruit, and vegetables, was supposed to clear ten shillings a week all the year through, and to take fifty shillings. But, according to the returns furnished me by the salesmen, at the several metropolitan markets, the weekly “takings” of the ten thousand men and their families--for often both wife and children sell--cannot be less than four pounds per week all the year round, out of which it would seem that the clear weekly gains are about fifteen shillings. (Some costers we have seen take pounds in a day, others--as the nut and orange-women and children--only a few shillings a week; some, again, make cent. per cent. profit, whilst others are obliged to sell at a loss.) This, from all I can gather, as well as from a comparison of the coster’s style of living with other classes whose weekly income is nearly the same, appears to be very close upon the truth.

We may then, I think, safely assert, that the gross yearly receipts of the London costermongers are two millions of money; that their clear annual gain, or income, is 425,000_l._; and that the capital invested in their business, in the form of donkey-carts, barrows, baskets, weights, and stock-money, is 25,000_l._;--half of this being borrowed, for which they pay upwards of 20,000_l._ interest per annum.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF GAME, POULTRY (LIVE AND DEAD), RABBITS, BUTTER, CHEESE, AND EGGS.

The class who sell game and poultry in the public thoroughfares of the metropolis are styled hawkers, both in Leadenhall and Newgate-market. The number of these dealers in London is computed at between 200 and 300. Of course, legally to sell game, a license, which costs 2_l._ 2_s._ yearly, is required; but the street-seller laughs at the notion of being subjected to a direct tax; which, indeed, it might be impossible to levy on so “slippery” a class.

The sale of game, even with a license, was not legalised until 1831; and, prior to that year, the mere killing of game by an “unqualified” person was an offence entailing heavy penalties. The “qualification” consisted of the possession of a freehold estate of 100_l._ a year, or a leasehold for ninety-nine years of 150_l._ a year! By an Act, passed in the 25th year of George III., it was provided that a certificate (costing 3_l._ 13_s._ 6_d._) must be taken out by all qualified persons killing game. Since 1831 (1 & 2 William IV., c. 32,) a certificate, without any qualification, is all that is required from the game-killer.

Both sexes carry on the trade in game-hawking, but there are more than thrice as many men as women engaged in the business, the weight occasionally carried being beyond a woman’s strength. The most customary dress of the game or poultry-hawker is a clean smock-frock covering the whole of his other attire, except the ends of his trousers and his thick boots or shoes. Indeed he often, but less frequently than was the case five years ago, assumes the dress of a country labourer, although he may have been for years a resident in London. About forty years ago, I am informed, it was the custom for countrymen, residing at no great distance, to purchase a stock of chickens or ducks; and, taking their places in a wagon, to bring their birds to London, and hawk them from door to door. Some of these men’s smock-frocks were a convenient garb, for they covered the ample pockets of the coat beneath, in which were often a store of partridges, or an occasional pheasant or hare. This game, illegally killed--for it was all poached--was illegally sold by the hawker, and illegally bought by the hotel-keepers and the richer tradesmen. One informant (an old man) was of opinion that the game was rarely offered for sale by these countrymen at the West-end mansions of the aristocracy. “In fact,” he said, “I knew one country fellow--though he was sharp enough in his trade of game and poultry-selling--who seemed to think that every fine house, without a shop, and where there were livery servants, must needs be inhabited by a magistrate! But, as the great props of poaching were the rich--for, of course, the poor couldn’t buy game--there was, no doubt, a West-end as well as a City trade in it. I have bought game of a country poultry-hawker,” continued my informant, “when I lived in the City at the beginning of this century, and generally gave 3_s._ 6_d._ a brace for partridges. I have bid it, and the man has left, refusing to take it; and has told me afterwards, and, I dare say, he spoke the truth, that he had sold his partridges at 5_s._ or 6_s._ or more. I believe 5_s._ a brace was no uncommon price in the City. I have given as much as 10_s._ for a pheasant for a Christmas supper. The hawker, before offering the birds for sale, used to peer about him, though we were alone in my counting-house, and then pull his partridges out of his pockets, and say, ‘Sir, do you want any very young chickens?’--for so he called them. Hares he called ‘lions;’ and they cost often, enough, 5_s._ each of the hawker. The trade had all the charms and recommendations of a mystery and a risk about it, just like smuggling.”

The sale of game in London, however, was not confined to the street-hawkers, who generally derived their stock-in-trade immediately from the poacher. Before the legalisation of the sale, the trade was carried on, under the rose, by the salesmen in Leadenhall-market, and that to an extent of not less than a fifteenth of the sale now accomplished there. The purveyors for the London game-market--I learned from leading salesmen in Leadenhall--were not then, as now, noble lords and honourable gentlemen, but peasant or farmer poachers, who carried on the business systematically. The guards and coachmen of the stage-coaches were the media of communication, and had charge of the supply to the London market. The purchasers of the game thus supplied to a market, which is mostly the property of the municipality of the City of London, were not only hotel-keepers, who required it for public dinners presided over by princes, peers, and legislators, but the purveyors for the civic banquets--such as the Lord Mayor’s ninth of November dinner, at which the Ministers of State always attended.

This street-hawking of poached game, as far as I could ascertain from the best-informed quarters, hardly survived the first year of the legalised sale.

The female hawkers of game are almost all the wives of the men so engaged, or are women living with them as their wives. The trade is better, as regards profit, than the costermonger’s ordinary pursuits, but only when the season is favourable; it is, however, more uncertain.

There is very rarely a distinction between the hawkers of game and of poultry. A man will carry both, or have game one day and poultry the next, as suits his means, or as the market avails. The street-sellers of cheese are generally costers, while the vendors of butter and eggs are almost extinct.

Game, I may mention, consists of grouse (including black-cocks, and all the varieties of heath or moor-game), partridges, pheasants, bustards, and hares. Snipe, woodcocks, plovers, teal, widgeons, wild ducks, and rabbits are not game, but can only be taken or killed by certificated persons, who are owners or occupiers of the property on which they are found, or who have the necessary permission from such persons as are duly authorised to accord it. Poultry consists of chickens, geese, ducks, and turkeys, while some persons class pigeons as poultry.

Birds are dietetically divided into three classes: (1) the white-fleshed, as the common fowl and the turkey; (2) the dark-fleshed game, as the grouse and the black-cock; and (3) the aquatic (including swimmers and waders), as the goose and the duck; the flesh of the latter is penetrated with fat, and difficult of digestion.

OF THE QUANTITY OF GAME, RABBITS, AND POULTRY, SOLD IN THE STREETS.

It appears from inquiries that I instituted, and from authentic returns which I procured on the subject, that the following is the quantity of game and poultry sold yearly, as an average, in the markets of the metropolis. I give it exclusive of such birds as wild-ducks, woodcocks, &c., the supply of which depends upon the severity of the winter. I include all wild birds or animals, whether considered game or not, and I use round numbers, but as closely as possible.

During the past Christmas, however, I may observe, that the supply of poultry to the markets has been greater than on any previous occasion. The immensity of the supply was favourable to the hawker’s profit, as the glut enabled him to purchase both cheaply and largely. One young poultry-hawker told me that he had cleared 3_l._ in the Christmas week, and had spent it all in four days--except 5_s._ reserved for stock-money. It was not spent entirely in drunkenness, a large portion of it being expended in treats and amusements. So great, indeed, has been the supply of game and poultry this year, that a stranger, unused to the grand scale on which provisions are displayed in the great metropolitan marts, on visiting Leadenhall, a week before or after Christmas, might have imagined that the staple food of the London population consisted of turkeys, geese, and chickens. I give, however, an average yearly supply:

-------------------+-----------+----------+----------+-------------- | | | | Proportion Description. |Leadenhall.| Newgate. | Total. | sold in | | | | the Streets. -------------------+-----------+----------+----------+-------------- GAME, &C. | | | | Grouse | 45,000 | 12,000 | 57,000 |One-eleventh. Partridges | 85,000 | 60,000 | 145,000 |One-seventh. Pheasants | 44,000 | 20,000 | 64,000 |One-fifth. Snipes | 60,000 | 47,000 | 107,000 |One-twentieth. Wild Birds | 40,000 | 20,000 | 60,000 |None. Plovers | 28,000 | 18,000 | 46,000 |None. Larks | 213,000 | 100,000 | 313,000 |None. Teals | 10,000 | 5,000 | 15,000 |None. Widgeons | 30,000 | 8,000 | 38,000 |None. Hares | 48,000 | 55,000 | 102,000 |One-fifth. Rabbits | 680,000 | 180,000 | 860,000 |Three-fourths. +-----------+----------+----------+ |1,283,000 | 525,000 |1,807,000 | POULTRY. | | | | Domestic Fowls |1,266,000 | 490,000 |1,756,000 |One-third. ---- ---- (alive) | 45,000 | 15,000 | 60,000 |One-tenth. Geese | 888,000 | 114,000 |1,002,000 |One-fifth. Ducks | 235,000 | 148,000 | 383,000 |One-fourth. ---- (alive) | 20,000 | 20,000 | 40,000 |One-tenth. Turkeys | 69,000 | 55,000 | 124,000 |One-fourth. Pigeons | 285,000 | 98,000 | 383,000 |None. +-----------+----------+----------+ |2,808,000 | 940,000 |3,748,000 | Game, &c. |1,283,000 | 525,000 |1,807,000 | +-----------+----------+----------+ |4,091,000 | 1,465,000|5,555,000 | -------------------+-----------+----------+----------+--------------

In the above return wild ducks and woodcocks are not included, because the quantity sent to London is dependent entirely upon the severity of the winter. With the costers wild ducks are a favourite article of trade, and in what those street tradesmen would pronounce a favourable season for wild ducks, which means a very hard winter, the number sold in London will, I am told, equal that of pheasants (64,000). The great stock of wild ducks for the London tables is from Holland, where the duck decoys are objects of great care. Less than a fifth of the importation from Holland is from Lincolnshire. These birds, and even the finest and largest, have been sold during a glut at 1_s._ each. Woodcocks, under similar circumstances, number with plovers (45,000), nearly all of which are “golden plovers;” but of woodcocks the costermongers buy very few: “They’re only a mouthful and a half,” said one of them, “and don’t suit our customers.” In severe weather a few ptarmigan are sent to London from Scotland, and in 1841-2 great numbers were sent to the London markets from Norway. One salesman received nearly 10,000 ptarmigan in one day. A portion of these were disposed of to the costers, but the sale was not such as to encourage further importations.

The returns I give show, that, at the two great game and poultry-markets, 5,500,000 birds and animals, wild and tame, are yearly sent to London. To this must be added all that may be consigned direct to metropolitan game-dealers and poulterers, besides what may be sent as presents from the country, &c., so that the London supply may be safely estimated, I am assured, at 6,000,000.

It is difficult to arrive at any very precise computation of the quantity of game and poultry sold by the costers, or rather at the money value (or price) of what they sell. The most experienced salesmen agree, that, as to quantity, including everything popularly considered game (and I have so given it in the return), they sell one-third. As regards value, however, their purchases fall very short of a third. Of the best qualities of game, and even more especially of poultry, a third of the hawkers may buy a fifteenth, compared with their purchases in the lower-priced kinds. The others buy none of the best qualities. The more “aristocratic” of the poultry-hawkers will, as a rule, only buy, “when they have an order” or a sure sale, the best quality of English turkey-cocks; which cannot be wondered at, seeing that the average price of the English turkey-cock is 12_s._ One salesman this year sold (at Leadenhall) several turkey-cocks at 30_s._ each, and one at 3_l._ The average price of an English turkey-hen is 4_s._ 6_d._, and of these the costers buy a few: but their chief trade is in foreign turkey-hens; of which the average price (when of good quality and in good condition) is 3_s._ The foreign turkey-cocks average half the price of the English (or 6_s._). Of Dorking fat chickens, which average 6_s._ the couple, the hawkers buy none (save as in the case of the turkey-cocks); but of the Irish fowls, which, this season, have averaged 2_s._ 6_d._ the couple, they buy largely. On the other hand they buy nearly all the rabbits sent from Scotland, and half of those sent from Ostend, while they “clear the market”--no matter of what the glut may consist--when there is a glut. There is another distinction of which the hawker avails himself. The average price of young plump partridges is 2_s._ 6_d._ the brace, of old partridges, 2_s._; accordingly, the coster buys the old. It is the same with pheasants, the young averaging 7_s._ the brace, the old 6_s._: “And I can sell them best,” said one man; “for my customers say they’re more tastier-like. I’ve sold game for twelve years, or more, but I never tasted any of any kind, so I can’t say who’s right and who’s wrong.”

The hawkers buy, also, game and poultry which will not “keep” another day. Sometimes they puff out the breast of a chicken with fresh pork fat, which melts as the bird roasts. “It freshens the fowl, I’ve been told, and improves it,” said one man; “and the shopkeepers now and then, does the same. It’s a improvement, sir.”

In the present season the costers have bought of wild ducks, comparatively, none, and of teal, widgeons, wild birds, and larks, none at all; or so sparely, as to require no notice.

OF THE STREET-PURCHASERS OF GAME AND POULTRY.

As the purchasers of game and poultry are of a different class to the costermongers’ ordinary customers, I may devote a few words to them. From all the information that I could acquire, they appear to consist, principally, of those who reside at a distance from any cheap market, and buy a cheap luxury when it is brought to their doors, as well as of those who are “always on the look-out for something toothy, such as the shabby genteels, as they’re called, who never gives nothing but a scaly price. They’ve bargained with me till I was hard held from pitching into them, and over and over again I should, only it would have been fourteen days anyhow. They’ll tell me my birds stinks, when they’re as sweet as flowers. They’d go to the devil to save three farthings on a partridge.” Other buyers are old gourmands, living perhaps on small incomes, or if possessed of ample incomes, but confining themselves to a small expenditure; others, again, are men who like a cheap dinner, and seldom enjoy it, at their own cost, unless it be cheap, and who best of all like “such a thing as a moor bird (grouse),” said one hawker, “which can be eat up to a man’s own cheek.” This was also the opinion of a poulterer and game-dealer, who sometimes sold “goods” to the hawkers. Of this class of “patrons” many shopkeepers, in all branches of business, have a perfect horror, as they will care nothing for having occupied the tradesmen’s time to no purpose.

The game and poultry street-sellers, I am told, soon find out when a customer is bent upon a bargain, and shape their prices accordingly. Although these street-sellers may generally take as their motto the announcement so often seen in the shops of competitive tradesmen, “no reasonable offer refused,” they are sometimes so worried in bargaining that they do refuse.

In a conversation I had with a “retired” game salesman, he said it might be curious to trace the history of a brace of birds--of grouse, for instance--sold in the streets; and he did it after this manner. They were shot in the Highlands of Scotland by a member of parliament who had gladly left the senate for the moors. They were transferred to a tradesman who lived in or near some Scotch town having railway communication, and with whom “the honourable gentleman,” or “the noble lord,” had perhaps endeavoured to drive a hard bargain. He (the senator) must have a good price for his birds, as he had given a large sum for the moor: and the season was a bad one: the birds were scarce and wild: they would soon be “packed” (be in flocks of twenty or thirty instead of in broods), and then there would be no touching a feather of them. The canny Scot would quietly say that it was early in the season, and the birds never packed so early; that as to price, he could only give what he could get from a London salesman, and he was “nae just free to enter into any agreement for a fixed price at a’.” The honourable gentleman, after much demurring, gives way, feeling perhaps that he cannot well do anything else. In due course the grouse are received in Leadenhall, and unpacked and flung about with as little ceremony as if they had been “slaughtered” by a Whitechapel journeyman butcher, at so much a head. It is a thin market, perhaps, when they come to hand. A dealer, fashionable in the parish of St. George, Hanover-square, has declined to give the price demanded; they were not his money; “he had to give such long credit.” A dealer, popular in the ward of Cheap, has also declined to buy, and for the same alleged reason. The salesman, knowing that some of these dealers must buy, quietly says that he will take no less, and as he is known to be a man of his word, little is said upon the subject. As the hour arrives at which fashionable game-dealers are compelled to buy, or disappoint customers who will not brook such disappointment, the market, perhaps, is glutted, owing to a very great consignment by a later railway train. The Inverness Courier, or the North of Scotland Gazette, are in due course quoted by the London papers, touching the “extraordinary sport” of a party of lords and gentlemen in the Highlands; and the “heads” of game are particularized with a care that would do honour to a Price Current. The salesman then disposes rapidly of divers “brace” to the “hawkers,” at 1_s._ or 2_s._ the brace, and the hawker offers them to hotel-keepers, and shop-keepers, and housekeepers, selling some at 3_s._ 6_d._ the brace, some at 3_s._, at 2_s._ 6_d._, at 2_s._, and at less. “At last,” said my informant, “he may sell the finest brace of his basket, which he has held back to get a better price for, at 6_d._ a-piece, rather than keep them over-night, and that to a woman of the town, whom he may have met reeling home with money in her purse. Thus the products of an honourable gentleman’s skilful industry, on which he greatly prided himself, are eaten by the woman and her ‘fancy man,’ grumblingly enough, for they pronounce the birds inferior to tripe.”

The best quarters for the street-sale of game and poultry are, I am informed from several sources, either the business parts of the metropolis, or else the houses in the several suburbs which are the furthest from a market or from a business part. The squares, crescents, places, and streets, that do not partake of one or the other of these characteristics, are pronounced “no good.”

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A GAME HAWKER.

The man who gave me the following information was strong and robust, and had a weather-beaten look. He seemed about fifty. He wore when I saw him a large velveteen jacket, a cloth waistcoat which had been once green, and brown corduroy trousers. No part of his attire, though it seemed old, was patched, his shirt being clean and white. He evidently aimed at the gamekeeper style of dress. He affected some humour, and was dogged in his opinions:

“I was a gentleman’s footman when I was a young man,” he said, “and saw life both in town and country; so I knows what things belongs.” [A common phrase among persons of his class to denote their being men of the world.] “I never liked the confinement of service, and besides the upper servants takes on so. The others puts up with it more than they would, I suppose, because they hopes to be butlers themselves in time. The only decent people in the house I lived in last was master and missus. I won 20_l._, and got it too, on the Colonel, when he won the Leger. Master was a bit of a turf gentleman, and so we all dabbled--like master like man, you know, sir. I think that was in 1828, but I’m not certain. We came to London not long after Doncaster” [he meant Doncaster races], “something about a lawsuit, and that winter I left service and bought the goodwill of a coffee-shop for 25_l._ It didn’t answer. I wasn’t up to the coffee-making, I think; there’s a deal of things belongs to all things; so I got out of it, and after that I was in service again, and then I was a boots at an inn. But I couldn’t settle to nothing long; I’m of a free spirit, you see. I was hard up at last, and I popped my watch for a sovereign, because a friend of mine--we sometimes drank together of a night--said he could put me in the pigeon and chicken line; that was what he called it, but it meant game. This just suited me, for I’d been out with the poachers when I was a lad, and indeed when I was in service, out of a night on the sly; so I knew they got stiffish prices. My friend got me the pigeons. I believe he cheated me, but he’s gone to glory. The next season game was made legal eating. Before that I cleared from 25_s._ to 40_s._ a week by selling my ‘pigeons.’ I carried real pigeons as well, which I said was my own rearing at Gravesend. I sold my game pigeons--there was all sorts of names for them--in the City, and sometimes in the Strand, or Charing-cross, or Covent-garden. I sold to shopkeepers. Oft enough I’ve been offered so much tea for a hare. I sometimes had a hare in each pocket, but they was very awkward carriage; if one was sold, the other sagged so. I very seldom sold them, at that time, at less than 3_s._ 6_d._, often 4_s._ 6_d._, and sometimes 5_s._ or more. I once sold a thumping old jack-hare to a draper for 6_s._; it was Christmas time, and he thought it was a beauty. I went into the country after that, among my friends, and had a deal of ups and downs in different parts. I was a navvy part of the time, till five or six year back I came to London again, and got into my old trade; but it’s quite a different thing now. I hawks grouse, and every thing, quite open. Leadenhall and Newgate is my markets. Six of one and half-a-dozen of t’other. When there’s a great arrival of game, after a game battle” (he would so call a battue) “and it’s warm weather, that’s my time of day, for then I can buy cheap. A muggy day, when it’s close and warm, is best of all. I have a tidy bit of connection now in game, and don’t touch poultry when I can get game. Grouse is the first thing I get to sell. They are legal eating on the 12th of August, but as there’s hundreds of braces sold in London that day, and as they’re shot in Scotland and Yorkshire, and other places where there’s moors, in course they’re killed before it’s legal. It’s not often I can get them early in the season; not the first week, but I have had three brace two days before they were legal, and sold them at 5_s._ a brace; they cost me 3_s._ 3_d._, but I was told I was favoured. I got them of a dealer, but that’s a secret. I sold a few young partridges with grouse this year at 1_s._ 6_d._ and 1_s._ 9_d._ a piece, allowing 2_d._ or 3_d._ if a brace was taken. They weren’t legal eating till the 1st of September, but they was shot by grouse shooters, and when I hawked them I called them quails. Lord, sir, gentlefolks--and I serve a good many, leastways their cooks, and now and then themselves--they don’t make a fuss about Game Laws; they’ve too much sense. I’ve bought grouse quite fresh and fine when there’s been a lot, and bad keeping weather, at 1_s._ and 15_d._ each. I’ve sold them sometimes at 1_s._ 6_d._ and 2_s._ each, and 2_s._ 6_d._ the big ones, but only twice or thrice. If you ask very low at first, people won’t buy, only a few good judges, ’cause they think something must be amiss. I once bought a dozen good hares, on a Saturday afternoon, for 10_s._ 6_d._ It was jolly hot, and I could hardly sell them. I got 1_s._ 6_d._ a piece for three of them; 2_s._ for the finest one; 1_s._ 3_d._ for five, no, for four; 1_s._ 10_d._ for two; and I had a deal of trouble to get a landlord to take the last two for 1_s._ 6_d._, to wipe off a bit of a drink score. I didn’t do so bad as it was, but if it hadn’t been Saturday, I should have made a good thing of ’em. It’s very hard work carrying a dozen hares; and every one of that lot--except two, and they was fine leverets--was as cheap as butcher’s meat at half-a-crown a piece. I’ve done middling in partridges this year. I’ve bought them, but mixed things they was, as low as from 10_d._ to 16_d._ a brace, and have made a profit, big or little as happened, on every one. People that’s regular customers I always charge 6_d._ profit in 2_s._ 6_d._ to, and that’s far cheaper than they can get served other ways. It’s chiefly the game battles that does so much to cheapen partridges or peasants” (so he always called pheasants); “and it’s only then I meddles with peasants. They’re sold handier than the other birds at the shops, I think. They’re legal eating on the 1st of October. Such nonsense! why isn’t mutton made legal eating, only just at times, as well? In very hard weather I’ve done well on wild ducks. They come over here when the weather’s a clipper, for you see cold weather suits some birds and kills others. It aint hard weather that’s driven them here; the frost has drawed them here, because it’s only then they’re cheap. I’ve bought beauties at 1_s._ a piece, and one day I cleared 10_s._ 6_d._ out of twelve brace of them. I’ve often cleared 6_s._ and 7_s._--at least as often as there’s been a chance. I knew a man that did uncommon well on them; and he once told a parson, or a journeyman parson, I don’t know what he was, that if ever he prayed it was for a hard winter and lots of wild ducks. I’ve done a little sometimes in plover, and woodcock, and snipe, but not so much. I never plays no tricks with my birds. I trims them up to look well, certainly. If they won’t keep, and won’t sell, I sticks them into a landlord I knows, as likes them high, for a quartern or a pot, or anything. It’s often impossible to keep them. If they’re hard hit it’s soon up with them. A sportsman, if he has a good dog--but you’ll know that if you’ve ever been a shooting, sir--may get close upon a covey of young partridges before he springs them, and then give them his one, two, with both barrels, and they’re riddled to bits. I may make 18_s._ a week all the year round, because I have a connection. I’m very much respected, I thinks, on my round, for I deal fair; that there, sir, breeds respect, you know. When I can’t get game (birds) I can sometimes, indeed often, get hares, and mostly rabbits. I’ve hawked venson, but did no good--though I cried it at 4_d._ the lb. My best weeks is worth 30_s._ to 35_s._, my worst is 6_s._ to 10_s._ I’m a good deal in the country, working it. I’m forced to sell fish sometimes. Geese I sometimes join a mate in selling. I don’t mix much with the costermongers; in coorse I knows some. I live middling. Do I ever eat my own game if it’s high? No, sir, never. I couldn’t stand such cag-mag--my stomach couldn’t--though I’ve been a gentleman’s servant. Such stuff don’t suit nobody but rich people, whose stomach’s diseased by over-feeding, and that’s been brought up to it, like. I’ve only myself to keep now. I’ve had a wife or two, but we parted” (this was said gravely enough); “there was nothing to hinder us. I see them sometimes and treat them.”

The quantity of game annually sold in the London streets is as follows:--

Grouse 5,000 Partridges 20,000 Pheasants 12,000 Snipes 5,000 Hares 20,000

STATEMENT OF TWO POULTRY HAWKERS.

Two brothers, both good-looking and well-spoken young men--one I might characterise as handsome--gave me the following account. I found them unwilling to speak of their youth, and did not press them. I was afterwards informed that their parents died within the same month, and that the family was taken into the workhouse; but the two boys left it in a little time, and before they could benefit by any schooling. Neither of them could read or write. They left, I believe, with some little sum in hand, to “start theirselves.” An intelligent costermonger, who was with me when I saw the two brothers, told me that “a costermonger would rather be thought to have come out of prison than out of a workhouse,” for his “mates” would say, if they heard he had been locked up, “O, he’s only been quodded for pitching into a crusher.” The two brothers wore clean smock country frocks over their dress, and made a liberal display of their clean, but coarse, shirts. It was on a Monday that I saw them. What one brother said, the other confirmed: so I use the plural “we.”

“We sell poultry and game, but stick most to poultry, which suits our connection best. We buy at Leadenhall. We’re never cheated in the things we buy; indeed, perhaps, we could’nt be. A salesman will say--Mr. H---- will--‘Buy, if you like, I can’t recommend them. Use your own judgment. They’re cheap.’ He has only one price, and that’s often a low one. We give from 1_s._ to 1_s._ 9_d._ for good chickens, and from 2_s._ 6_d._ mostly for geese and turkeys. Pigeons is 1_s._ 9_d._ to 3_s._ a dozen. We aim at 6_d._ profit on chickens; and 1_s._, if we can get it, or 6_d._ if we can do no better, on geese and turkeys. Ducks are the same as chickens. All the year through, we may make 12_s._ a week a piece. We work together, one on one side of the street and the other on the other. It answers best that way. People find we can’t undersell one another. We buy the poultry, whenever we can, undressed, and dress them ourselves; pull the feathers off and make them ready for cooking. We sell cheaper than the shops, or we couldn’t sell at all. But you must be known, to do any trade, or people will think your poultry’s bad. We work game as well, but mostly poultry. We’ve been on hares to-day, mostly, and have made about 2_s._ 6_d._ a piece, but that’s an extra day. Our best customers are tradesmen in a big way, and people in the houses a little way out of town. Working people don’t buy of us now. We’re going to a penny gaff to-night” (it was then between four and five); “we’ve no better way of spending our time when our day’s work is done.”

From the returns before given, the street-sale of poultry amounts yearly to

500,000 fowls. 80,000 ducks. 20,000 geese. 30,000 turkeys.

OF THE STREET SALE OF LIVE POULTRY.

The street trade in live poultry is not considerable, and has become less considerable every year, since the facilities of railway conveyance have induced persons in the suburbs to make their purchases in London rather than of the hawkers. Geese used to be bought very largely by the hawkers in Leadenhall, and were driven in flocks to the country, 500 being a frequent number of a flock. Their sale commenced about six miles from town in all directions, the purchasers being those who, having the necessary convenience, liked to fatten their own Christmas geese, and the birds when bought were small and lean. A few flocks, with 120 or 150 in each, are still disposed of in this way; but the trade is not a fifth of what it was. As this branch of the business is not in the hands of the hawkers, but generally of country poulterers resident in the towns not far from the metropolis, I need but allude to it. A few flocks of ducks are driven in the same way.

The street trade in live poultry continues only for three months--from the latter part of June to the latter part of September. At this period, the hawkers say, as they can’t get “dead” they must get “live.” During these three months the hawkers sell 500 chickens and 300 ducks weekly, by hawking, or 10,400 in the season of 13 weeks. Occasionally, as many as 50 men and women--the same who hawk dead game and poultry--are concerned in the traffic I am treating of. At other times there are hardly 30, and in some not 20 so employed, for if the weather be temperate, dead poultry is preferred to live by the hawkers. Taking the average of “live” sellers at 25 every week, it gives only a trade of 32 birds each weekly. Some, however, will sell 18 in a day; but others, who occasionally resort to the trade, only a dozen in a week. The birds are sometimes carried in baskets on the hawker’s arm, their heads being let through network at the top; but more frequently they are hawked in open wicker-work coops carried on the head. The best live poultry are from Surrey and Sussex; the inferior from Ireland, and perhaps more than three-fourths of that sold by the hawkers is Irish.

The further nature of the trade, and the class of customers, is shown in the following statement, given to me by a middle-aged man, who had been familiar with the trade from his youth.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I’ve had a turn at live poultry for--let me see--someways between twenty and twenty-five years. The business is a sweater, sir; it’s heavy work, but ‘live’ aint so heavy as ‘dead.’ There’s fewer of them to carry in a round, that’s it. Ah! twenty years ago, or better, live poultry was worth following. I did a good bit in it. I’ve sold 160 fowls and ducks, and more, in a week, and cleared about 4_l._ But out of that I had to give a man 1_s._ a day, and his peck, to help me. At that time I sold my ducks and chickens--I worked nothing else--at from 2_s._ to 3_s._ 6_d._ a piece, according to size and quality. Now, if I get from 14_d._ to 2_s._ it’s not so bad. I sell more, I think, however, over 1_s._ 6_d._ than under it, but I’m perticler in my ‘live.’ I never sold to any but people out of town that had convenience to keep them, and Lord knows, I’ve seen ponds I could jump over reckoned prime for ducks. Them that keeps their gardens nice won’t buy live poultry. I’ve seldom sold to the big houses anything like to what I’ve done to the smaller. The big houses, you see, goes for fancy bantems, such as Sir John Seabright’s, or Spanish hens, or a bit of a game cross, or real game--just for ornament, and not for fighting--or for anything that’s got its name up. I’ve known young couples buy fowls to have their breakfast eggs from them. One young lady told me to bring her--that’s fifteen year ago, it is so--six couples, that I knew would lay. I told her she’d better have five hens to a cock, and she didn’t seem pleased, but I’m sure I don’t know why, for I hope I’m always civil. I told her there would be murder if there was a cock to every hen. I supplied her, and made 6_s._ by the job. I have sold live fowls to the Jews about Whitechapel, on my way to Stratford and Bow, but only when I’ve bought a bargain and sold one. I don’t know nothing how the Jews kills their fowls. Last summer I didn’t make 1_s._ 6_d._ a day; no, nor more than three half-crowns a week in ‘live.’ But that’s only part of my trade. I don’t complain, so it’s nothing to nobody what I makes. From Beever (De Beauvoir) Town to Stamford Hill, and on to Tottenham and Edmonton, and turning off Walthamstow way is as good a round as any for live; it is so; but nothing to what it was. Highgate and Hampstead is middling. The t’other side the water isn’t good at all.”

Fancy chickens, I may add, are never hawked, nor are live pigeons, nor geese, nor turkeys.

The hawkers’ sale of live poultry may be taken, at a moderate computation, as 6,500 chickens, and 3,900 ducks.

OF RABBIT SELLING IN THE STREETS.

Rabbit-selling cannot be said to be a distinct branch of costermongering, but some street-sellers devote themselves to it more exclusively than to other “goods,” and, for five or six months of the year, sell little else. It is not often, though it is sometimes, united with the game or poultry trade, as a stock of rabbits, of a dozen or a dozen and a half, is a sufficient load for one man. The best sale for rabbits is in the suburbs. They are generally carried slung two and two on a long pole, which is supported on the man’s shoulders, or on a short one which is carried in the hand. Lately, they have been hawked about hung up on a barrow. The trade is the briskest in the autumn and winter months; but some men carry them, though they do not confine themselves to the traffic in them, all the year round. The following statement shows the nature of the trade.

“I was born and bred a costermonger,” he said, “and I’ve been concerned with everything in the line. I’ve been mostly ‘on rabbits’ these five or six years, but I always sold a few, and now sometimes I sell a hare or two, and, if rabbits is too dear, I tumble on to fish. I buy at Leadenhall mainly. I’ve given from 6_s._ to 14_s._ a dozen for my rabbits. The usual price is from 5_s._ to 8_s._ a dozen. [I may remark that the costers buy nearly all the Scotch rabbits, at an average of 6_s._ the dozen; and the Ostend rabbits, which are a shilling or two dearer.] They’re Hampshire rabbits; but I don’t know where Hampshire is. I know they’re from Hampshire, for they’re called ‘Wild Hampshire rabbits, 1_s._ a pair.’ But still, as you say, that’s only a call. I never sell a rabbit at 6_d._, in course--it costs more. My way in business is to get 2_d._ profit, and the skin, on every rabbit. If they cost me 8_d._, I try to get 10_d._ It’s the skins is the profit. The skins now brings me from 1_s._ to 1_s._ 9_d._ a dozen. They’re best in frosty weather. The fur’s thickest then. It grows best in frost, I suppose. If I sell a dozen, it’s a tidy day’s work. If I get 2_d._ a-piece on them, and the skins at 1_s._ 3_d._, it’s 3_s._ 3_d._, but I dont sell above 5 dozen in a week--that’s 16_s._ 3_d._ a week, sir, is it? Wet and dark weather is against me. People won’t often buy rabbits by candlelight, if they’re ever so sweet. Some weeks in spring and summer I can’t sell above two dozen rabbits. I have sold two dozen and ten on a Saturday in the country, but then I had a young man to help me. I sell the skins to a warehouse for hatters. My old ’oman works a little fish at a stall sometimes, but she only can in fine weather, for we’ve a kid that can hardly walk, and it don’t do to let it stand out in the cold. Perhaps I may make 10_s._ to 14_s._ a week all the year round. I’m paying 1_s._ a week for 1_l._ borrowed, and paid 2_s._ all last year; but I’ll pay no more after Christmas. I did better on rabbits four or five year back, because I sold more to working-people and small shopkeepers than I do now. I suppose it’s because they’re not so well off now as they was then, and, as you say, butchers’-meat may be cheaper now, and tempts them. I do best short ways in the country. Wandsworth way ain’t bad. No more is parts of Stoke-Newington and Stamford-hill. St. John’s Wood and Hampstead is middling. Hackney’s bad. I goes all ways. I dont know what sort of people’s my best customers. Two of ’em, I’ve been told, is banker’s clerks, so in course they is rich.”

There are 600,000 rabbits sold every year in the streets of London; these, at 7_d._ a-piece, give 17,500_l._ thus expended annually in the metropolis.

OF THE STREET SALE OF BUTTER, CHEESE, AND EGGS.

All these commodities used to be hawked in the streets, and to a considerable extent. Until, as nearly as I can ascertain, between twenty and thirty years back, butter was brought from Epping, and other neighbouring parts, where good pasture existed, and hawked in the streets of London, usually along with poultry and eggs. This trade is among the more ancient of the street-trades. Steam-vessels and railways, however, have so stocked the markets, that no hawking of butter or eggs, from any agricultural part, even the nearest to London, would be remunerative now. Eggs are brought in immense quantities from France and Belgium, though thirty, or even twenty years ago the notion having of a good French egg, at a London breakfast-table, would have been laughed at as an absurd attempt at an impossible achievement. The number of eggs now annually imported into this kingdom, is 98,000,000, half of which may be said to be the yearly consumption of London. No butter is now hawked, but sometimes a few “new laid” eggs are carried from a rural part to the nearest metropolitan suburb, and are sold readily enough, if the purveyor be known. Mr. M’Culloch estimates the average consumption of butter, in London, at 6,250,000 lbs. per annum, or 5 oz., weekly, each individual.

The hawking of cheese was never a prominent part of the street-trade. Of late, its sale in the streets, may be described as accidental. A considerable quantity of American cheese was hawked, or more commonly sold at a standing, five or six years ago; unto December last, and for three months preceding, cheese was sold in the streets which had been rejected from Government stores, as it would not “keep” for the period required; but it was good for immediate consumption, for which all street-goods are required. This, and the American cheese, were both sold in the streets at 3_d._ the pound; usually, at fair weights, I am told, for it might not be easy to deceive the poor in a thing of such frequent purchase as “half a quarter or a quarter” (of a pound) of cheese.

The total quantity of foreign cheese consumed, yearly, in the metropolis may be estimated at 25,000,000 lbs. weight, or half of the gross quantity annually imported.

The following statement shows the quantity and sum paid for the game and poultry sold in London streets:

£ 5,000 grouse, at 1_s._ 9_d._ each 437 20,000 partridges, at 1_s._ 6_d._ 1,500 12,000 pheasants, at 3_s._ 6_d._ 2,100 5,000 snipes, at 8_d._ 166 20,000 hares, at 2_s._ 3_d._ 2,250 600,000 rabbits, at 7_d._ 17,500 500,000 fowls, at 1_s._ 6_d._ 37,500 20,000 geese, at 2_s._ 6_d._ 2,500 80,000 ducks, at 1_s._ 6_d._ 6,000 30,000 turkeys, at 3_s._ 6_d._ 5,250 10,000 live fowls and ducks, at 1_s._ 6_d._ 750 ------- £75,953

In this table I do not give the refuse game and poultry, bought sometimes for the mere feathers, when “undressed;” neither are the wild ducks nor woodcocks, nor those things of which the costers buy only exceptionally, included. Adding these, it may be said, that with the street sale of butter, cheese, and eggs, 80,000_l._ are annually expended in the streets on this class of articles.

OF THE SELLERS OF TREES, SHRUBS, FLOWERS (CUT AND IN POTS), ROOTS, SEEDS, AND BRANCHES.

The street-sellers of whom I have now to treat comprise those who deal in trees and shrubs, in flowers (whether in pots, or merely with soil attached to the roots, or cut from the plant as it grows in the garden), and in seeds and branches (as of holly, mistletoe, ivy, yew, laurel, palm, lilac, and may). The “root-sellers” (as the dealers in flowers in pots are mostly called) rank, when in a prosperous business, with the highest “aristocracy” of the street-greengrocers. The condition of a portion of them, may be characterised by a term which is readily understood as “comfortable,” that is to say, comparatively comfortable, when the circumstances of other street-sellers are considered. I may here remark, that though there are a great number of Scotchmen connected with horticultural labour in England, but more in the provincial than the metropolitan districts, there is not one Scotchman concerned in the metropolitan street-sale of flowers; nor, indeed, as I have good reason to believe, is there a single Scotchman earning his bread as a costermonger in London. A non-commissioned officer in an infantry regiment, a Scotchman, whom I met with a few months back, in the course of my inquiries concerning street musicians, told me that he thought any of his young countrymen, if hard pushed “to get a crust,” would enlist, rather than resort, even under favourable circumstances, to any kind of street-sale in London.

The dealers in trees and shrubs are the same as the root-sellers.

The same may be said, but with some few exceptions, of the seed-sellers.

The street-trade in holly, mistletoe, and all kinds of evergreens known as “Christmas,” is in the hands of the coster boys more than the men, while the trade in may, &c., is almost altogether confined to these lads.

The root-sellers do not reside in any particular localities, but there are more of them living in the outskirts than in the thickly populated streets.

The street-sellers of cut flowers present characteristics peculiarly their own. This trade is mostly in the hands of girls, who are of two classes. This traffic ranks with the street sale of water-cresses and congreves, that is to say, among the lowest grades of the street-trade, being pursued only by the very poor, or the very young.

OF THE QUANTITY OF SHRUBS, “ROOTS,” FLOWERS, ETC., SOLD IN THE STREETS, AND OF THE BUYERS.

The returns which I caused to be procured, to show the extent of the business carried on in the metropolitan markets, give the following results as to the quantity of trees, shrubs, flowers, roots, and branches, sold wholesale in London, as well as the proportion retailed in the streets.

TABLE SHOWING THE QUANTITY OF TREES, SHRUBS, FLOWERS, ROOTS, AND BRANCHES SOLD ANNUALLY, WHOLESALE, AT THE METROPOLITAN MARKETS, AND THE PROPORTION RETAILED IN THE STREETS.[6]

-------------------+----------------+-----------+---------+--------------- | Covent Garden. |Farringdon.| Total. |Proportion sold | | | | to Costers. -------------------+----------------+-----------+---------+--------------- TREES AND SHRUBS. | | | | Firs | 400 doz. roots| 400 | 800 | One-third. Laurels | 480 „ | 480 | 960 | One-third. Myrtles |1,440 „ | 1,120 | 2,560 | One-fourth. Rhododendrons | 288 „ | 256 | 544 | One-ninth. Lilac | 192 „ | 192 | 384 | One-sixth. Box | 288 „ | 192 | 480 | One-sixth. Heaths (of all | | | | kinds) |1,600 „ | 1,440 | 3,040 | One-fifth. Broom and Furze | 544 „ | 480 | 1,024 | One-fourth. Laurustinus | 400 „ | 320 | 720 | One-fourth. Southernwood | | | | (Old Man) | 960 „ | 480 | 1,440 | One-half. | | | | FLOWERS (IN POTS).| | | | Roses (Moss) |1,200 doz. pots | 960 | 2,160 | One-half. Ditto (China) |1,200 „ | 960 | 2,160 | One-half. Fuchsias |1,200 „ | 960 | 2,160 | One-half. | | | | FLOWER ROOTS. | | | | Primroses | 600 doz. roots| 400 | 1,000 | One-half. Polyanthus | 720 „ | 720 | 1,440 | One-half. Cowslips | 720 „ | 480 | 1,200 | One-half. Daisies | 800 „ | 600 | 1,400 | One-half. Wallflowers | 960 „ | 960 | 1,920 | One-half. Candytufts | 720 „ | 480 | 1,200 | One-half. Daffodils | 720 „ | 480 | 1,200 | One-half. Violets |1,200 „ | 1,200 | 2,400 | One-third. Mignonette |2,000 „ | 1,800 | 3,800 | One-sixth. Stocks |1,600 „ | 1,280 | 2,880 | One-sixth. Pinks and | | | | Carnations | 480 „ | 320 | 800 | One-half. Lilies of | | | | the Valley | 144 „ | 144 | 288 | One-fourth. Pansies | 600 „ | 480 | 1,080 | One-fourth. Lilies and Tulips | 152 „ | 128 | 280 | One-ninth. Balsam | 320 „ | 320 | 640 | One-sixth. Calceolarii | 360 „ | 240 | 600 | One-ninth. Musk-plants |5,760 „ | 4,800 |10,560 | One-half. London Pride | 400 „ | 320 | 720 | One-third. Lupins | 960 „ | 640 | 1,600 | One-third. China-asters | 450 „ | 400 | 850 | One-sixth. Marigolds |5,760 „ | 4,800 |10,560 | One-eighth. Dahlias | 80 „ | 80 | 160 | One-ninth. Heliotrope | 800 „ | 480 | 1,280 | One-sixth. Michaelmas | | | | Daisies | 216 „ | 216 | 432 | One-third. | | | | FLOWERS (CUT). | | | | Violets |1,440 doz. | 1,280 | 2,720 | One-half. | bunches | | | Wallflowers |3,200 „ | 1,600 | 4,800 | One-half. Lavender (green | | | | and dry) |1,600 „ | 1,200 | 4,120[7]| One-half. Pinks | 720 „ | 600 | 1,320 | One-third. Mignonette |2,000 „ | 1,600 | 3,600 | One-half. Lilies of | | | | the Valley | 180 „ | 160 | 340 | One-tenth. Moss Roses |2,000 „ | 1,600 | 3,600 | One-third. China ditto |2,000 „ | 1,600 | 3,600 | One-third. Stocks | 800 „ | 480 | 1,280 | One-third. | | | | BRANCHES. | | | | Holly | 840 doz. | 720 | 1,640[7]| One-half. | bundles | | | Mistletoe | 800 „ | 640 | 1,560[7]| One-half. Ivy and Laurel | 360 „ | 280 | 740[7]| One-half. Lilac | 96 „ | 64 | 150 | One-half. Palm | 12 „ | 8 | 28[7]| One-half. May | 30 „ | 20 | 70[7]| One-half. -------------------+----------------+-----------+---------+---------------

[6] The numbers here given do not include the shrubs, roots, &c., bought by the hawkers at the nursery gardens.

[7] These totals include the supplies sent to the other markets.

Perhaps the pleasantest of all cries in early spring is that of “All a-growing--all a-blowing” heard for the first time in the season. It is that of the “root-seller” who has stocked his barrow with primroses, violets, and daisies. Their beauty and fragrance gladden the senses; and the first and, perhaps, unexpected sight of them may prompt hopes of the coming year, such as seem proper to the spring.

Cobbett has insisted, and with unquestioned truth, that a fondness for bees and flowers is among the very best characteristics of the English peasant. I consider it equally unquestionable that a fondness for in-door flowers, is indicative of the good character and healthful tastes, as well as of the domestic and industrious habits, of the city artizan. Among some of the most intelligent and best-conducted of these artizans, I may occasionally have found, on my visits to their homes, neither flowers nor birds, but then I have found books.

United with the fondness for the violet, the wallflower, the rose--is the presence of the quality which has been pronounced the handmaiden of all the virtues--cleanliness. I believe that the bunch of violets, on which a poor woman or her husband has expended 1_d._, rarely ornaments an unswept hearth. In my investigations, I could not but notice how the presence or absence of flowers, together with other indications of the better tastes, marked the difference between the well-paid and the ill-paid workman. Concerning the tailors, for instance, I had occasion to remark, of the dwellings of these classes:--“In the one, you occasionally find small statues of Shakspere beneath glass shades; in the other, all is dirt and fœtor. The working-tailor’s comfortable first-floor at the West-end is redolent with the perfume of the small bunch of violets that stands in a tumbler over the mantel-piece; the sweater’s wretched garret is rank with the stench of filth and herrings.” The presence of the bunch of flowers of itself tells us of “a better state of things” elevating the workman; for, amidst the squalid poverty and fustiness of a slopworker’s garret, the nostril loses its daintiness of sense, so that even a freshly fragrant wallflower is only so many yellow petals and green leaves.

A love of flowers is also observable among men whose avocations are out of doors, and those whose habits are necessarily those of order and punctuality.

Among this class are such persons as gentlemen’s coachmen, who delight in the display of a flower or two in the button-holes of their coats when out of doors, and in small vases in their rooms in their masters’ mews. I have even seen the trellis work opposite the windows of cabmen’s rooms, which were over stables, with a projecting roof covering the whole, thickly yellow and green with the flowers and leaves of the easily-trained nasturtium and herb “twopence.” The omnibus driver occasionally “sports a nosegay”--as he himself might word it--in his button-hole; and the stage-coachman of old felt he was improperly dressed if a big bunch of flowers were not attached to his coat. Sailors ashore are likewise generally fond of flowers.

A delight in flowers is observable, also, among the workers whose handicraft requires the exercise of taste, and whose eyes are sensible, from the nature of their employment, to the beauty of colour. To this class belong especially the Spitalfields’ silk-weavers. At one time the Spitalfields weavers were almost the only botanists in London, and their love of flowers is still strong. I have seen fuchsias gladdening the weaver’s eyes by being placed near his loom, their crimson pendants swinging backwards and forwards to the motion of the treadles, while his small back garden has been many-coloured with dahlias. These weavers, too, were at one time highly-successful as growers of tulips.

Those out-door workmen, whose calling is of coarse character, are never known to purchase flowers, which to them are mere trumpery. Perhaps no one of my readers ever saw a flower in the possession of a flusherman, nightman, slaughterer, sweep, gaslayer, gut and tripe-preparer, or such like labourer. Their eyes convey to the mind no appreciation of beauty, and the sense of smell is actually dead in them, except the odour be rank exceedingly.

The fondness for flowers in London is strongest in the women, and, perhaps, strongest in those whose callings are in-door and sedentary. Flowers are to them a companionship.

It remains only for me to state that, in the poorest districts, and among people where there is no sense of refinement or but a small love for natural objects, flowers are little known. Flowers are not bought by the slop-workers, the garret and chamber-masters of Bethnal-green, nor in the poor Irish districts, nor by the City people. Indeed, as I have observed, there is not a flower-stand in the city.

It should be remembered that, in poor districts, the first appearance of flowers conveys to the slop-workman only one pleasurable association--that the season of warmth has arrived, and that he will not only escape being chilled with cold, but that he will be delivered from the heavy burden of providing fire and candle.

A pleasant-looking man, with an appearance which the vulgar characterise as “jolly,” and with hearty manners, gave me the following account as to the character of his customers. He had known the business since he was a boy, his friends having been in it previously. He said:

“There’s one old gentleman a little way out of town, he always gives 1_s._ for the first violet root that any such as me carries there. I’m often there before any others: ‘Ah!’ he says, ‘here you are; you’ve come, like Buonaparte, with your violet.’ I don’t know exactly what he means. I don’t like to ask him you see; for, though he’s civil, he’s not what you may call a free sort of man--that’s it.” [I explained to him that the allusion was to Buonaparte’s emblem of the violet, with the interpretation he or his admirers gave to it--“I come in the spring.”] “That’s it, sir, is it?” he resumed; “well, I’m glad I know, because I don’t like to be puzzled. Mine’s a puzzling trade, though. Violets have a good sale. I’ve sold six dozen roots in a day, and only half as many primroses and double-daisies, if half. Everybody likes violets. I’ve sold some to poor people in town, but they like their roots in pots. They haven’t a bit of a garden for ’em. More shame too I say, when they pays such rents. People that sits working all day is very fond of a sweet flower. A gentleman that’s always a-writing or a-reading in his office--he’s in the timber-trade--buys something of me every time I see him; twice or thrice a week, sometimes. I can’t say what he does with them all. Barmaids, though you mightn’t think it, sir, is wery tidy customers. So, sometimes, is young women that’s in an improper way of life, about Lisson-grove, and in some parts near Oxford-street. They buys all sorts. Perhaps more stocks than anything, for they’re beautiful roots, and not dear. I’ve sold real beauties for 2_d._--real beauties, but small; 6_d._ is a fair price; one stock will perfume a house. I tell my customers not to sleep with them in the room; it isn’t good for the health. A doctor told me that, and said, ‘You ought to give me a fuchsia for my opinion.’ That was his joke. Primroses I sell most of--they’re not in pots--two or three or four miles out of town, and most if a family’s come into a new house, or changed their house, if there’s children. The young ones teases the old ones to buy them to set in the garden, and when children gets fairly to work that way, it’s a sure sale. If they can’t get over father, they’ll get over mother. Busy men never buy flowers, as far as I’ve seen.” [‘In no thoroughfare in the city, I am assured, is there a flower-stand--a circumstance speaking volumes as to the habits and tastes of the people. Of fruit-stalls and chop-houses there are in the neighbourhood of the Exchange, more than in any other part of London perhaps--the faculty of perceiving the beauty of colour, form, and perfume, as combined in flowers is not common to the man of business. The pleasures of the palate, however, they can all understand.’] “Parsons and doctors are often tidy customers,” resumed my informant. “They have a good deal of sitting and reading, I believe. I’ve heard a parson say to his wife, ‘Do, my dear, go and buy a couple of those wallflowers for my study.’ I don’t do much for working-men; the women’s my best customers. There’s a shoemaker to be sure comes down sometimes with his old woman to lay out 2_d._ or 3_d._ on me; ‘Let’s have something that smells strong,’ he’ll say, ‘stronger than cobbler’s wax; for, though I can’t smell that, others can.’ I’ve sold him musks (musk-plants) as often as anything.

“The poor people buy rather largely at times; that is, many of them buy. One day last summer, my old woman and me sold 600 penny pots of mignonette; and all about you saw them--and it was a pleasure to see them--in the poor women’s windows. The women are far the best customers. There was the mignonette behind the bits of bars they have, in the shape of gates and such like, in the front of their windows, in the way of preventing the pots falling into the street. Mignonette’s the best of all for a sure sale; where can you possibly have a sweeter or a nicer penn’orth, pot and all.”

OF THE STREET SALE OF TREES AND SHRUBS.

The street-trade in trees and shrubs is an appendage of “root-selling,” and not an independent avocation. The season of supply at the markets extends over July, August, September, and October, with a smaller trade in the winter and spring months. At the nursery gardens, from the best data I can arrive at, there are about twice as many trees and shrubs purchased as in the markets by the costermongers. Nor is this the only difference. It is the more costly descriptions that are bought at the nursery grounds.

The trees and shrubs are bought at the gardens under precisely the same circumstances as the roots, but the trade is by no means popular with the root-sellers. They regard these heavy, cumbrous goods, as the smarter costers do such things as turnips and potatoes, requiring more room, and yielding less profit. “It breaks a man’s heart,” said one dealer, “and half kills his beast, going round with a lot of heavy things, that perhaps you can’t sell.” The street-dealers say they must keep them, “or people will go, where they can get roots, and trees, and everything, all together.” In winter, or in early spring, the street-seller goes a round now and then, with evergreens and shrubs alone, and the trade is then less distasteful to him. The trees and shrubs are displayed, when the market-space allows, on a sort of stand near the flower-stand; sometimes they are placed on the ground, along-side the flower-stand, but only when no better display can be made.

The trees and shrubs sold by the costers are mezereons, rhododendrons, savine, laurustinus, acacias (of the smaller genera, some being highly aromatic when in flower), myrtles, guelder-roses (when small), privet, genistas, broom, furze (when small), the cheaper heaths, syringas (small), lilacs (almost always young and for transplanting), southernwood (when large), box (large) dwarf laurels, variegated laurels (called a cuber by the street-people), and young fir-trees, &c.

The prices of trees vary far more than flower-roots, because they are dependent upon size for value. “Why,” said one man, “I’ve bought roddies, as I calls them (rhododendrons), at 4_s._ a dozen, but they was scrubby things, and I’ve bought them at 14_s._ 6_d._ I once gave 5_s._ for two trees of them, which I had ordered, and there was a rare grumbling about the price, though I only charged 7_s._ 6_d._ for the two, which was 1_s._ 3_d._ a piece for carriage, and hard earned too, to carry them near five miles in my cart, almost on purpose, but I thought I was pleasing a good customer. Then there’s myrtles, why I can get them at 5_d._ a piece, and at 5_s._, and a deal more if wanted. You can have myrtles that a hat might be very big for them to grow in, and myrtles that will fill a great window in a fine house. I’ve bought common heaths at 1_s._ 3_d._ a dozen.”

The coster ordinarily confines himself to the cheaper sorts of plants, and rarely meddles with such things as acacias, mezereons, savines, syringas, lilacs, or even myrtles, and with none of these things unless cheap. “Trees, real trees,” I was told, “are often as cheap as anything. Them young firs there was 4_s._ 6_d._ a dozen, and a man at market can buy four or six of them if he don’t want a dozen.”

The customers for trees and shrubs are generally those who inhabit the larger sort of houses, where there is room in the hall or the windows for display; or where there is a garden capacious enough for the implantation of the shrubs. Three-fourths of the trees are sold on a round, and when purchased at a stall the costermonger generally undertakes to deliver them at the purchaser’s residence, if not too much out of his way, in his regular rounds. Or he may diverge, and make a round on speculation, purposely. There is as much bartering trees for old clothes, as for roots, and as many, or more, complaints of the hard bargainings of ladies: “I’d rather sell polyanthuses at a farthing a piece profit to poor women, if I could get no more,” said one man, “than I’d work among them screws that’s so fine in grand caps and so civil. They’d skin a flea for his hide and tallow.”

The number of trees and shrubs sold annually, in the streets, are, as near as I can ascertain, as follows--I have added to the quantity purchased by the street-sellers, at the metropolitan markets, the amount bought by them at the principal nursery-gardens in the environs of London:

Firs 9,576 roots Laurels 1,152 „ Myrtles 23,040 „ Rhododendrons 2,160 „ Lilacs 2,304 „ Box 2,880 „ Heaths 21,888 „ Broom 2,880 „ Furze 6,912 „ Laurustinus 6,480 „ Southernwood 25,920 „

THE LONDON FLOWER GIRLS.

It is not easy to arrive at any accurate estimate of the number of flower-sellers in the streets of London. The cause of the difficulty lies in the fact that none can be said to devote themselves entirely to the sale of flowers in the street, for the flower-sellers, when oranges are cheap and good, find their sale of the fruit more certain and profitable than that of flowers, and resort to it accordingly. Another reason is, that a poor costermonger will on a fine summer’s day send out his children to sell flowers, while on other days they may be selling water-cresses or, perhaps, onions. Sunday is the best day for flower-selling, and one experienced man computed, that in the height and pride of the summer 400 children were selling flowers, on the Sundays, in the streets. Another man thought that number too low an estimate, and contended that it was nearer 800. I found more of the opinion of my last mentioned informant than of the other, but I myself am disposed to think the smaller number nearer the truth. On week days it is computed there are about half the number of flower-sellers that there are on the Sundays. The trade is almost entirely in the hands of children, the girls outnumbering the boys by more than eight to one. The ages of the girls vary from six to twenty; few of the boys are older than twelve, and most of them are under ten.

Of flower-girls there are two classes. Some girls, and they are certainly the smaller class of the two, avail themselves of the sale of flowers in the streets for immoral purposes, or rather, they seek to eke out the small gains of their trade by such practises. They frequent the great thoroughfares, and offer their bouquets to gentlemen, whom on an evening they pursue for a hundred yards or two in such places as the Strand, mixing up a leer with their whine for custom or for charity. Their ages are from fourteen to nineteen or twenty, and sometimes they remain out offering their flowers--or dried lavender when no fresh flowers are to be had--until late at night. They do not care, to make their appearance in the streets until towards evening, and though they solicit the custom of ladies, they rarely follow or importune them. Of this class I shall treat more fully under another head.

The other class of flower-girls is composed of the girls who, wholly or partially, depend upon the sale of flowers for their own support or as an assistance to their parents. Some of them are the children of street-sellers, some are orphans, and some are the daughters of mechanics who are out of employment, and who prefer any course rather than an application to the parish. These girls offer their flowers in the principal streets at the West End, and resort greatly to the suburbs; there are a few, also, in the business thoroughfares. They walk up and down in front of the houses, offering their flowers to any one looking out of the windows, or they stand at any likely place. They are generally very persevering, more especially the younger children, who will run along, barefooted, with their “Please, gentleman, do buy my flowers. Poor little girl!”--“Please, kind lady, buy my violets. O, do! please! Poor little girl! Do buy a bunch, please, kind lady!”

The statement I give, “of two orphan flower-sellers” furnishes another proof, in addition to the many I have already given, of the heroic struggles of the poor, and of the truth of the saying, “What would the poor do without the poor?”

The better class of flower-girls reside in Lisson-grove, in the streets off Drury-lane, in St. Giles’s, and in other parts inhabited by the very poor. Some of them live in lodging-houses, the stench and squalor of which are in remarkable contrast to the beauty and fragrance of the flowers they sometimes have to carry thither with them unsold.

OF TWO ORPHAN FLOWER GIRLS.

Of these girls the elder was fifteen and the younger eleven. Both were clad in old, but not torn, dark print frocks, hanging so closely, and yet so loosely, about them as to show the deficiency of under-clothing; they wore old broken black chip bonnets. The older sister (or rather half-sister) had a pair of old worn-out shoes on her feet, the younger was barefoot, but trotted along, in a gait at once quick and feeble--as if the soles of her little feet were impervious, like horn, to the roughness of the road. The elder girl has a modest expression of countenance, with no pretensions to prettiness except in having tolerably good eyes. Her complexion was somewhat muddy, and her features somewhat pinched. The younger child had a round, chubby, and even rosy face, and quite a healthful look. Her portrait is here given.

They lived in one of the streets near Drury-lane. They were inmates of a house, not let out as a lodging-house, in separate beds, but in rooms, and inhabited by street-sellers and street-labourers. The room they occupied was large, and one dim candle lighted it so insufficiently that it seemed to exaggerate the dimensions. The walls were bare and discoloured with damp. The furniture consisted of a crazy table and a few chairs, and in the centre of the room was an old four-post bedstead of the larger size. This bed was occupied nightly by the two sisters and their brother, a lad just turned thirteen. In a sort of recess in a corner of the room was the decency of an old curtain--or something equivalent, for I could hardly see in the dimness--and behind this was, I presume, the bed of the married couple. The three children paid 2_s._ a week for the room, the tenant an Irishman out of work paying 2_s._ 9_d._, but the furniture was his, and his wife aided the children in their trifle of washing, mended their clothes, where such a thing was possible, and such like. The husband was absent at the time of my visit, but the wife seemed of a better stamp, judging by her appearance, and by her refraining from any direct, or even indirect, way of begging, as well as from the “Glory be to Gods!” “the heavens be your honour’s bed!” or “it’s the thruth I’m telling of you sir,” that I so frequently meet with on similar visits.

The elder girl said, in an English accent, not at all garrulously, but merely in answer to my questions: “I sell flowers, sir; we live almost on flowers when they are to be got. I sell, and so does my sister, all kinds, but it’s very little use offering any that’s not sweet. I think it’s the sweetness as sells them. I sell primroses, when they’re in, and violets, and wall-flowers, and stocks, and roses of different sorts, and pinks, and carnations, and mixed flowers, and lilies of the valley, and green lavender, and mignonette (but that I do very seldom), and violets again at this time of the year, for we get them both in spring and winter.” [They are forced in hot-houses for winter sale, I may remark.] “The best sale of all is, I think, moss-roses, young moss-roses. We do best of all on them. Primroses are good, for people say: ‘Well, here’s spring again to a certainty.’ Gentlemen are our best customers. I’ve heard that they buy flowers to give to the ladies. Ladies have sometimes said: ‘A penny, my poor girl, here’s three-halfpence for the bunch.’ Or they’ve given me the price of two bunches for one; so have gentlemen. I never had a rude word said to me by a gentleman in my life. No, sir, neither lady nor gentleman ever gave me 6_d._ for a bunch of flowers. I never had a sixpence given to me in my life--never. I never go among boys, I know nobody but my brother. My father was a tradesman in Mitchelstown, in the County Cork. I don’t know what sort of a tradesman he was. I never saw him. He was a tradesman I’ve been told. I was born in London. Mother was a chairwoman, and lived very well. None of us ever saw a father.” [It was evident that they were illegitimate children, but the landlady had never seen the mother, and could give me no information.] “We don’t know anything about our fathers. We were all ‘mother’s children.’ Mother died seven years ago last Guy Faux day. I’ve got myself, and my brother and sister a bit of bread ever since, and never had any help but from the neighbours. I never troubled the parish. O, yes, sir, the neighbours is all poor people, very poor, some of them. We’ve lived with her” (indicating her landlady by a gesture) “the two years, and off and on before that. I can’t say how long.” “Well, I don’t know exactly,” said the landlady, “but I’ve had them with me almost all the time, for four years, as near as I can recollect; perhaps more. I’ve moved three times, and they always followed me.” In answer to my inquiries the landlady assured me that these two poor girls, were never out of doors all the time she had known them after six at night. “We’ve always good health. We can all read.” [Here the three somewhat insisted upon proving to me their proficiency in reading, and having produced a Roman Catholic book, the “Garden of Heaven,” they read very well.] “I put myself,” continued the girl, “and I put my brother and sister to a Roman Catholic school--and to Ragged schools--but I could read before mother died. My brother can write, and I pray to God that he’ll do well with it. I buy my flowers at Covent Garden; sometimes, but very seldom, at Farringdon. I pay 1_s._ for a dozen bunches, whatever flowers are in. Out of every two bunches I can make three, at 1_d._ a piece. Sometimes one or two over in the dozen, but not so often as I would like. We make the bunches up ourselves. We get the rush to tie them with for nothing. We put their own leaves round these violets (she produced a bunch). The paper for a dozen costs a penny; sometimes only a halfpenny. The two of us doesn’t make less than 6_d._ a day, unless it’s very ill luck. But religion teaches us that God will support us, and if we make less we say nothing. We do better on oranges in March or April, I think it is, than on flowers. Oranges keep better than flowers you see, sir. We make 1_s._ a day, and 9_d._ a day, on oranges, the two of us. I wish they was in all the year. I generally go St. John’s-wood way, and Hampstead and Highgate way with my flowers. I can get them nearly all the year, but oranges is better liked than flowers, I think. I always keep 1_s._ stock-money, if I can. If it’s bad weather, so bad that we can’t sell flowers at all, and so if we’ve had to spend our stock-money for a bit of bread, she (the landlady) lends us 1_s._, if she has one, or she borrows one of a neighbour, if she hasn’t, or if the neighbours hasn’t it, she borrows it at a dolly-shop” (the illegal pawn-shop). “There’s 2_d._ a week to pay for 1_s._ at a dolly, and perhaps an old rug left for it; if it’s very hard weather, the rug must be taken at night time, or we are starved with the cold. It sometimes has to be put into the dolly again next morning, and then there’s 2_d._ to pay for it for the day. We’ve had a frock in for 6_d._, and that’s a penny a week, and the same for a day. We never pawned anything; we have nothing they would take in at the pawnshop. We live on bread and tea, and sometimes a fresh herring of a night. Sometimes we don’t eat a bit all day when we’re out; sometimes we take a bit of bread with us, or buy a bit. My sister can’t eat taturs; they sicken her. I don’t know what emigrating means.” [I informed her and she continued]: “No, sir, I wouldn’t like to emigrate and leave brother and sister. If they went with me I don’t think I should like it, not among strangers. I think our living costs us 2_s._ a week for the two of us; the rest goes in rent. That’s all we make.”

The brother earned from 1_s._ 6_d._ to 2_s._ a week, with an occasional meal, as a costermonger’s boy. Neither of them ever missed mass on a Sunday.

OF THE LIFE OF A FLOWER GIRL.

Some of these girls are, as I have stated, of an immoral character, and some of them are sent out by their parents to make out a livelihood by prostitution. One of this class, whom I saw, had come out of prison a short time previously. She was not nineteen, and had been sentenced about a twelvemonth before to three months’ imprisonment with hard labour, “for heaving her shoe,” as she said, “at the Lord Mayor, to get a comfortable lodging, for she was tired of being about the streets.” After this she was locked up for breaking the lamps in the street. She alleged that her motive for this was a belief that by committing some such act she might be able to get into an asylum for females. She was sent out into the streets by her father and mother, at the age of nine, to sell flowers. Her father used to supply her with the money to buy the flowers, and she used to take the proceeds of the day’s work home to her parents. She used to be out frequently till past midnight, and seldom or never got home before nine. She associated only with flower-girls of loose character. The result may be imagined. She could not state positively that her parents were aware of the manner in which she got the money she took home to them. She supposes that they must have imagined what her practices were. He used to give her no supper if she “didn’t bring home a good bit of money.” Her father and mother did little or no work all this while. They lived on what she brought home. At thirteen years old she was sent to prison (she stated) “for selling combs in the street” (it was winter, and there were no flowers to be had). She was incarcerated fourteen days, and when liberated she returned to her former practices. The very night that she came home from gaol her father sent her out into the streets again. She continued in this state, her father and mother living upon her, until about twelve months before I received this account from her, when her father turned her out of his house, because she didn’t bring home money enough. She then went into Kent, hop-picking, and there fell in with a beggar, who accosted her while she was sitting under a tree. He said, “You have got a very bad pair of shoes on; come with me, and you shall have some better ones.” She consented, and walked with him into the village close by, where they stood out in the middle of the streets, and the man began addressing the people, “My kind good Christians, me and my poor wife here is ashamed to appear before you in the state we are in.” She remained with this person all the winter, and travelled with him through the country, begging. He was a beggar by trade. In the spring she returned to the flower-selling, but scarcely got any money either by that or other means. At last she grew desperate, and wanted to get back to prison. She broke the lamps outside the Mansion-house, and was sentenced to fourteen days’ imprisonment. She had been out of prison nearly three weeks when I saw her, and was in training to go into an asylum. She was sick and tired, she said, of her life.

OF THE STREET SALE OF LAVENDER.

The sale of green lavender in the streets is carried on by the same class as the sale of flowers, and is, as often as flowers, used for immoral purposes, when an evening or night sale is carried on.

The lavender is sold at the markets in bundles, each containing a dozen branches. It is sold principally to ladies in the suburbs, who purchase it to deposit in drawers and wardrobes; the odour communicated to linen from lavender being, perhaps, more agreeable and more communicable than that from any other flower. Nearly a tenth of the market sale may be disposed of in this way. Some costers sell it cheap to recommend themselves to ladies who are customers, that they may have the better chance for a continuance of those ladies’ custom.

The number of lavender-sellers can hardly be given as distinct from that of flower-sellers, because any flower-girl will sell lavender, “when it is in season.” The season continues from the beginning of July to the end of September. In the winter months, generally after day-fall, dried lavender is offered for sale; it is bought at the herb-shops. There is, however, an addition to the number of the flower-girls of a few old women, perhaps from twenty to thirty, who vary their street-selling avocations by going from door to door in the suburbs with lavender for sale, but do not stand to offer it in the street.

The street-seller’s profit on lavender is now somewhat more than cent. per cent., as the bundle, costing 2-1/2_d._, brings when tied up in sprigs, at least, 6_d._ The profit, I am told, was, six or seven years ago, 200 per cent.; “but people will have better penn’orths now.” I was informed, by a person long familiar with the trade in flowers, that, from twenty to twenty-five years ago, the sale was the best. It was a fashionable amusement for ladies to tie the sprigs of lavender together, compressing the stems very tightly with narrow ribbon of any favourite colour, the heads being less tightly bound, or remaining unbound; the largest stems were in demand for this work. The lavender bundle, when its manufacture was complete, was placed in drawers, or behind books in the shelves of a glazed book-case, so that a most pleasant atmosphere was diffused when the book-case was opened.

CUT FLOWERS.

I now give the quantity of cut flowers sold in the streets. The returns have been derived from nursery-men and market-salesmen. It will be seen how fully these returns corroborate the statement of the poor flower-girl--(p. 135)--“it’s very little use offering anything that’s not sweet.”

I may remark, too, that at the present period, from “the mildness of the season,” wallflowers, primroses, violets, and polyanthuses are almost as abundant as in spring sunshine.

Violets 65,280 bunches. Wallflowers 115,200 „ Lavender 296,640 „ Pinks and Carnations 63,360 „ Moss Roses 172,800 „ China ditto 172,800 „ Mignonette 86,400 „ Lilies of the Valley 1,632 „ Stocks 20,448 „ ------- Cut flowers sold yearly in the } streets } 994,560 „

OF THE STREET SALE OF FLOWERS IN POTS, ROOTS, ETC.

The “flower-root sellers”--for I heard them so called to distinguish them from the sellers of “cut flowers”--are among the best-mannered and the best-dressed of all the street-sellers I have met with, but that only as regards a portion of them. Their superiority in this respect may perhaps be in some measure attributable to their dealing with a better class of customers--with persons who, whether poor or rich, exercise healthful tastes.

I may mention, that I found the street-sellers of “roots”--always meaning thereby flower-roots in bloom--more attached to their trade than others of their class.

The roots, sold in the streets, are bought in the markets and at the nursery-gardens; but about three-fourths of those required by the better class of street-dealers are bought at the gardens, as are “cut flowers” occasionally. Hackney is the suburb most resorted to by the root-sellers. The best “pitches” for the sale of roots in the street are situated in the New-road, the City-road, the Hampstead-road, the Edgeware-road, and places of similar character, where there is a constant stream of passers along, who are not too much immersed in business. Above three-fourths of the sale is effected by itinerant costermongers. For this there is one manifest reason: a flower-pot, with the delicate petals of its full-blown moss-rose, perhaps, suffers even from the trifling concussion in the journey of an omnibus, for instance. To carry a heavy flower-pot, even any short distance, cannot be expected, and to take a cab for its conveyance adds greatly to the expense. Hence, flower-roots are generally purchased at the door of the buyer.

For the flowers of commoner or easier culture, the root-seller receives from 1_d._ to 3_d._ These are primroses, polyanthuses, cowslips (but in small quantities comparatively), daisies (single and double,--and single or wild, daisies were coming to be more asked for, each 1_d._), small early wallflowers, candy-tufts, southernwood (called “lad’s love” or “old man” by some), and daffodils, (but daffodils were sometimes dearer than 3_d._). The plants that may be said to struggle against frost and snow in a hard season, such as the snowdrop, the crocus, and the mezereon, are rarely sold by the costers; “They come too soon,” I was told. The primroses, and the other plants I have enumerated, are sold, for the most part, not in pots, but with soil attached to the roots, so that they may be planted in a garden (as they most frequently are) or in a pot.

Towards the close of May, in an early season, and in the two following months, the root-trade is at its height. Many of the stalls and barrows are then exceedingly beautiful, the barrow often resembling a moving garden. The stall-keepers have sometimes their flowers placed on a series of shelves, one above another, so as to present a small amphitheatre of beautiful and diversified hues; the purest white, as in the lily of the valley, to the deepest crimson, as in the fuschia; the bright or rust-blotted yellow of the wallflower, to the many hues of the stock. Then there are the pinks and carnations, double and single, with the rich-coloured and heavily scented “clove-pinks;” roses, mignonette, the velvetty pansies (or heart’s-ease), the white and orange lilies, calceolarias, balsams (a flower going out of fashion), geraniums (flowers coming again into fashion), musk-plants, London pride (and other saxifrages; the species known, oddly enough, as London pride being a native of wild and mountainous districts, such as botanists call “Alpine habitats,”) and the many coloured lupins. Later again come the China-asters, the African marigolds, the dahlias, the poppies, and the common and very aromatic marigold. Later still there are the Michaelmas daisies--the growth of the “All-Hallow’n summer,” to which Falstaff was compared.

There is a class of “roots” in which the street-sellers, on account of their general dearness, deal so sparingly, that I cannot class them as a part of the business. Among these are anemones, hyacinths, tulips, ranunculuses, and the orchidaceous tribe. Neither do the street people meddle, unless very exceptionally, with the taller and statelier plants, such as foxgloves, hollyoaks, and sunflowers; these are too difficult of carriage for their purpose. Nor do they sell, unless again as an exception, such flowers as require support--the convolvolus and the sweet-pea, for instance.

The plants I have specified vary in price. Geraniums are sold at from 3_d._ to 5_s._; pinks at from 3_d._ for the common pink, to 2_s._ for the best single clove, and 4_s._ for the best double; stocks, as they are small and single, to their being large and double, from 3_d._ (and sometimes less) to 2_s._; dahlias from 6_d._ to 5_s._; fuschias, from 6_d._ to 4_s._; rose-bushes from 3_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._, and sometimes, but not often, much higher; musk-plants, London pride, lupins, &c., are 1_d._ and 2_d._, pots generally included.

To carry on his business efficiently, the root-seller mostly keeps a pony and a cart, to convey his purchases from the garden to his stall or his barrow, and he must have a sheltered and cool shed in which to deposit the flowers which are to be kept over-night for the morrow’s business. “It’s a great bother, sir,” said a root-seller, “a man having to provide a shed for his roots. It wouldn’t do at all to have them in the same room as we sleep in--they’d droop. I have a beautiful big shed, and a snug stall for a donkey in a corner of it; but he won’t bear tying up--he’ll fight against tying all night, and if he was loose, why in course he’d eat the flowers I put in the shed. The price is nothing to him; he’d eat the Queen’s camellias, if he could get at them, if they cost a pound a-piece. So I have a deal of trouble, for I must block him up somehow; but he’s a first-rate ass.” To carry on a considerable business, the services of a man and his wife are generally required, as well as those of a boy.

The purchases wholesale are generally by the dozen roots, all ready for sale in pots. Mignonette, however, is grown in boxes, and sold by the box at from 5_s._ to 20_s._, according to the size, &c. The costermonger buys, for the large sale to the poor, at a rate which brings the mignonette roots into his possession at something less, perhaps, than a halfpenny each. He then purchases a gross of small common pots, costing him 1-1/2_d._ a dozen, and has to transfer the roots and soil to the pots, and then offer them for sale. The profit thus is about 4_s._ per hundred, but with the drawback of considerable labour and some cost in the conveyance of the boxes. The same method is sometimes pursued with young stocks.

The cheapness of pots, I may mention incidentally, and the more frequent sale of roots in them, has almost entirely swept away the fragment of a pitcher and “the spoutless tea-pot,” which Cowper mentions as containing the poor man’s flowers, that testified an inextinguishable love of rural objects, even in the heart of a city. There are a few such things, however, to be seen still.

Of root-sellers there are, for six months of the year, about 500 in London. Of these, one-fifth devote themselves principally, but none entirely, to the sale of roots; two-fifths sell roots regularly, but only as a portion, and not a larger portion of their business; and the remaining two-fifths are casual dealers in roots, buying them--almost always in the markets--whenever a bargain offers. Seven-eighths of the root-sellers are, I am informed, regular costers, occasionally a gardener’s assistant has taken to the street trade in flowers, “but I fancy, sir,” said an experienced man to me, “they’ve very seldom done any good at it. They’re always gardening at their roots, trimming them, and such like, and they overdo it. They’re too careful of their plants; people like to trim them theirselves.”

“I did well on fuschias last season,” said one of my informants; “I sold them from 6_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ The ‘Globes’ went off well. Geraniums was very fair. The ‘Fairy Queens’ of them sold faster than any, I think. It’s the ladies out of town a little way, and a few in town, that buy them, and buy the fuschias too. They require a good window. The ‘Jenny Linds’--they was geraniums and other plants--didn’t sell so well as the Fairy Queens, though they was cheaper. Good cloves (pinks) sell to the better sort of houses; so do carnations. Mignonette’s everybody’s money. Dahlias didn’t go off so well. I had very tidy dahlias at 6_d._ and 1_s._, and some 1_s._ 6_d._ I do a goodish bit in giving flowers for old clothes. I very seldom do it, but to ladies. I deal mostly with them for their husbands’ old hats, or boots, or shoes; yes, sir, and their trowsers and waistcoats sometimes--very seldom their coats--and ladies boots and shoes too. There’s one pleasant old lady, and her two daughters, they’ll talk me over any day. I very seldom indeed trade for ladies’ clothes. I have, though. Mostly for something in the shawl way, or wraps of some kind. Why, that lady I was telling you of and her daughters, got me to take togs that didn’t bring the prime cost of my roots and expenses. They called them by such fine names, that I was had. Then they was so polite; ‘O, my good man,’ says one of the young daughters, ‘I must have this geranium in ’change.’ It was a most big and beautiful Fairy Queen, well worth 4_s._ The tog--I didn’t know what they called it--a sort of cloak, fetched short of half-a-crown, and that just with cheaper togs. Some days, if it’s very hot, and the stall business isn’t good in very hot weather, my wife goes a round with me, and does considerable in swopping with ladies. They can’t do her as they can me. The same on wet days, if it’s not very wet, when I has my roots covered in the cart. Ladies is mostly at home such times, and perhaps they’re dull, and likes to go to work at a bargaining. My wife manages them. In good weeks, I can clear 3_l._ in my trade; the two of us can, anyhow. But then there’s bad weather, and there’s sometimes roots spoiled if they’re not cheap, and don’t go off--but I’ll sell one that cost me 1_s._ for 2_d._ to get rid of it; and there’s always the expenses to meet, and the pony to keep, and everything that way. No, sir, I don’t make 2_l._ a week for the five months--its nearer five than six--the season lasts; perhaps something near it. The rest of the year I sell fruit, or anything, and may clear 10_s._ or 15_s._ a week, but, some weeks, next to nothing, and the expenses all going on.

“Why, no, sir; I can’t say that times is what they was. Where I made 4_l._ on my roots five or six years back, I make only 3_l._ now. But it’s no use complaining; there’s lots worse off than I am--lots. I’ve given pennies and twopences to plenty that’s seen better days in the streets; it might be their own fault. It is so mostly, but perhaps only partly. I keep a connection together as well as I can. I have a stall; my wife’s there generally, and I go a round as well.”

One of the principal root-sellers in the streets told me that he not unfrequently sold ten dozen a day, over and above those sold not in pots. As my informant had a superior trade, his business is not to be taken as an average; but, reckoning that he averages six dozen a day for 20 weeks--he said 26--it shows that one man alone sells 8,640 flowers in pots in the season. The principal sellers carry on about the same extent of business.

According to similar returns, the number of the several kinds of flowers in pots and flower roots sold annually in the London streets, are as follows:

FLOWERS IN POTS.

Moss-roses 38,880 China-roses 38,880 Fuschias 38,800 Geraniums 12,800 ------- Total number of flowers in } pots sold in the streets } 129,360

FLOWER-ROOTS.

Primroses 24,000 Polyanthuses 34,560 Cowslips 28,800 Daisies 33,600 Wallflowers 46,080 Candytufts 28,800 Daffodils 28,800 Violets 38,400 Mignonette 30,384 Stocks 23,040 Pinks and Carnations 19,200 Lilies of the Valley 3,456 Pansies 12,960 Lilies 660 Tulips 852 Balsams 7,704 Calceolarias 3,180 Musk Plants 253,440 London Pride 11,520 Lupins 25,596 China-asters 9,156 Marigolds 63,360 Dahlias 852 Heliotrope 13,356 Poppies 1,920 Michaelmas Daisies 6,912 ------- Total number of flower-roots } sold in the streets } 750,588

OF THE STREET SALE OF SEEDS.

The street sale of seeds, I am informed, is smaller than it was thirty, or even twenty years back. One reason assigned for this falling off is the superior cheapness of “flowers in pots.” At one time, I was informed, the poorer classes who were fond of flowers liked to “grow their own mignonette.” I told one of my informants that I had been assured by a trustworthy man, that in one day he had sold 600 penny pots of mignonette: “Not a bit of doubt of it, sir,” was the answer, “not a doubt about it; I’ve heard of more than that sold in a day by a man who set on three hands to help him; and that’s just where it is. When a poor woman, or poor man either--but its mostly the women--can buy a mignonette pot, all blooming and smelling for 1_d._, why she won’t bother to buy seeds and set them in a box or a pot and wait for them to come into full blow. Selling seeds in the streets can’t be done so well now, sir. Anyhow it ain’t done as it was, as I’ve often heard old folk say.” The reason assigned for this is that cottages in many parts--such places as Lisson-grove, Islington, Hoxton, Hackney, or Stepney--where the inhabitants formerly cultivated flowers in their little gardens, are now let out in single apartments, and the gardens--or yards as they mostly are now--were used merely to hang clothes in. The only green thing which remained in some of these gardens, I was told, was horse-radish, a root which it is difficult to extirpate: “And it’s just the sort of thing,” said one man, “that poor people hasn’t no great call for, because they, you see, a’n’t not overdone with joints of roast beef, nor rump steaks.” In the suburbs where the small gardens are planted with flowers, the cultivators rarely buy seeds of the street-sellers, whose stands are mostly at a distance.

None of the street seed-vendors confine themselves to the sale. One man, whom I saw, told me that last spring he was penniless, after sickness, and a nurseryman, whom he knew, trusted him 5_s._ worth of seeds, which he continued to sell, trading in nothing else, for three or four weeks, until he was able to buy some flowers in pots. Though the profit is cent. per cent. on most kinds, 1_s._ 6_d._ a day is accounted “good earnings, on seeds.” On wet days there is no sale, and, indeed, the seeds cannot be exposed in the streets. My informant computed that he cleared 5_s._ a week. His customers were principally poor women, who liked to sow mignonette in boxes, or in a garden-border, “if it had ever such a little bit of sun,” and who resided, he believed, in small, quiet streets, branching off from the thoroughfares. Of flower-seeds, the street-sellers dispose most largely of mignonette, nasturtium, and the various stocks; and of herbs, the most is done in parsley. One of my informants, however, “did best in grass-seeds,” which people bought, he said, “to mend their grass-plots with,” sowing them in any bare place, and throwing soil loosely over them. Lupin, larkspur, convolvulus, and Venus’s looking-glass had a fair sale.

The street-trade, in seeds, would be less than it is, were it not that the dealers sell it in smaller quantities than the better class of shop-keepers. The street-traders buy their seeds by the quarter of a pound--or any quantity not considered retail--of the nurserymen, who often write the names for the costers on the paper in which the seed has to be inclosed. Seed that costs 4_d._, the street-seller makes into eight penny lots. “Why, yes, sir,” said one man, in answer to my inquiry, “people is often afraid that our seeds ain’t honest. If they’re not, they’re mixed, or they’re bad, before they come into our hands. I don’t think any of our chaps does anything with them.”

Fourteen or fifteen years ago, although seeds, generally, were fifteen to twenty per cent. dearer than they are now, there was twice the demand for them. An average price of good mignonette seed, he said, was now 1_s._ the quarter of a pound, and it was then 1_s._ 2_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ The shilling’s worth, is made, by the street-seller, into twenty or twenty-four pennyworths. An average price of parsley, and of the cheaper seeds, is less than half that of mignonette. Other seeds, again, are not sold to the street-people by the weight, but are made up in sixpenny and shilling packages. Their extreme lightness prevents their being weighed to a customer. Of this class are, the African marigold, the senecios (groundsel), and the china-aster; but of these compound flowers, the street-traders sell very few. Poppy-seed used to be in great demand among the street-buyers, but it has ceased to be so. “It’s a fine hardy plant, too, sir,” I was told, “but somehow, for all its variety in colours, it’s gone out of fashion, for fashion runs strong in flowers.”

One long-established street-seller, who is well known to supply the best seeds, makes for the five weeks or so of the season more than twice the weekly average of 5_s._; perhaps 12_s._; but as he is a shop as well as a stall-keeper, he could not speak very precisely as to the proportionate sale in the street or the shop. This man laughed at the fondness some of his customers manifested for “fine Latin names.” “There are some people,” he said, “who will buy antirrhinum, and artemisia, and digitalis, and wouldn’t hear of snapdragon, or wormwood, or foxglove, though they’re the identical plants.” The same informant told me that the railways in their approaches to the metropolis had destroyed many small gardens, and had, he thought, injured his trade. It was, also, a common thing now for the greengrocers and corn-chandlers to sell garden-seeds, which until these six or eight years they did much less extensively.

Last spring, I was told, there were not more than four persons, in London, selling only seeds. The “root-sellers,” of whom I have treated, generally deal in seeds also, but the demand does not extend beyond four or five weeks in the spring, though there was “a straggling trade that way” two or three weeks longer. It was computed for me, that there were fully one hundred persons selling seeds (with other things) in the streets, and that each might average a profit of 5_s._ weekly, for a month; giving 200_l._ expended in seeds, with 100_l._ profit to the costers. Seeds are rarely hawked as flowers are.

It is impossible to give as minutely detailed an account of the street-sale of seeds as of flowers, as from their diversity in size, weight, quantity in a pennyworth, &c., no calculation can be prepared by weight or measure, only by value. Thus, I find it necessary to depart somewhat from the order hitherto observed. One seedsman, acquainted with the street-trade from his dealings with the vendors, was of opinion that the following list and proportions were as nice an approximation as could be arrived at. It was found necessary to give it in proportions of twenty-fifths; but it must be borne in mind that the quantity in 3/25ths of parsley, for example, is more than double that of 3/25ths of mignonette. I give, in unison, seeds of about equal sale, whether of the same botanical family or not. Many of the most popular flowers, such as polyanthuses, daisies, violets, and primroses, are not raised from seed, except in the nursery gardens:--

Seeds. Twenty-fifths. Value. Mignonette Three £24 Stocks (of all kinds) Two 16 Marigolds (do.) One 8 Convolvulus (do.) „ 8 Wallflower „ 8 Scarlet-beans and Sweet-peas „ 8 China-asters and Venus’ looking-glass „ 8 Lupin and Larkspur „ 8 Nasturtium „ 8 Parsley Two 16 Other Pot-herbs One 8 Mustard and Cress, Lettuce, and the } other vegetables } Two 16 Grass One 8 Other seeds Seven 56 ---- Total expended annually on street-seeds £200

OF CHRISTMASING--LAUREL, IVY, HOLLY, AND MISTLETOE.

In London a large trade is carried on in “Christmasing,” or in the sale of holly and mistletoe, for Christmas sports and decorations. I have appended a table of the quantity of these “branches” sold, nearly 250,000, and of the money expended upon them in the streets. It must be borne in mind, to account for this expenditure for a brief season, that almost every housekeeper will expend something in “Christmasing;” from 2_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._, and the poor buy a pennyworth, or a halfpennyworth each, and they are the coster’s customers. In some houses, which are let off in rooms, floors, or suites of apartments, and not to the poorest class, every room will have the cheery decoration of holly, its bright, and as if glazed leaves and red berries, reflecting the light from fire or candle. “Then, look,” said a gardener to me, “what’s spent on a Christmasing the churches! Why, now, properly to Christmas St. Paul’s, I say properly, mind, would take 50_l._ worth at least; aye, more, when I think of it, nearer 100_l._ I hope there’ll be no ‘No Popery’ nonsense against Christmasing this year. I’m always sorry when anything of that kind’s afloat, because it’s frequently a hindrance to business.” This was said three weeks before Christmas. In London there are upwards of 300,000 inhabited houses. The whole of the evergreen branches sold number 375,000.

Even the ordinary-sized inns, I was informed, displayed holly decorations, costing from 2_s._ to 10_s._; while in the larger inns, where, perhaps, an assembly-room, a concert-room, or a club-room, had to be adorned, along with other apartments, 20_s._ worth of holly, &c., was a not uncommon outlay. “Well, then, consider,” said another informant, “the plum-puddings! Why, at least there’s a hundred thousand of ’em eaten, in London, through the Christmas and the month following. That’s nearly one pudding to every twenty of the population, is it, sir? Well, perhaps, that’s too much. But, then, there’s the great numbers eaten at public dinners and suppers; and there’s more plum-pudding clubs at the small grocers and public-houses than there used to be, so, say full a hundred thousand, flinging in any mince-pies that may be decorated with evergreens. Well, sir, every plum-pudding will have a sprig of holly in him. If it’s bought just for the occasion, it may cost 1_d._, to be really prime and nicely berried. If it’s part of a lot, why it won’t cost a halfpenny, so reckon it all at a halfpenny. What does that come to? Above 200_l._ Think of that, then, just for sprigging puddings!”

Mistletoe, I am informed, is in somewhat less demand than it was, though there might be no very perceptible difference. In many houses holly is now used instead of the true plant, for the ancient ceremonies and privileges observed “under the mistletoe bough.” The holly is not half the price of the mistletoe, which is one reason; for, though there is not any great disparity of price, wholesale, the holly, which costs 6_d._ retail, is more than the quantity of mistletoe retailed for 1_s._ The holly-tree may be grown in any hedge, and ivy may be reared against any wall; while the mistletoe is parasitical of the apple-tree, and, but not to half the extent, of the oak and other trees. It does not grow in the northern counties of England. The purchasers of the mistletoe are, for the most part, the wealthier classes, or, at any rate, I was told, “those who give parties.” It is bought, too, by the male servants in large establishments, and more would be so bought, “only so few of the great people, of the most fashionable squares and places, keep their Christmas in town.” Half-a-crown is a not uncommon price for a handsome mistletoe bough.

The costermongers buy about a half of the holly, &c., brought to the markets; it is also sold either direct to those requiring evergreens, or to green-grocers and fruiterers who have received orders for it from their customers, or who know it will be wanted. A shilling’s worth may be bought in the market, the bundles being divided. Mistletoe, the costers--those having regular customers in the suburbs--receive orders for. “Last December,” said a coster to me, “I remember a servant-girl, and she weren’t such a girl either, running after me in a regular flutter, to tell me the family had forgot to order 2_s._ worth of mistletoe of me, to be brought next day. Oh, yes, sir, if it’s ordered by, or delivered to, the servant-girls, they generally have a little giggling about it. If I’ve said: ‘What are you laughing at?’ they’ll mostly say: ‘Me! I’m not laughing.’”

The costermongers go into the neighbourhood of London to procure the holly for street-sale. This is chiefly done, I was told, by those who were “cracked up,” and some of them laboured at it “days and days.” It is, however, a very uncertain trade, as they must generally trespass, and if they are caught trespassing, by the occupier of the land, or any of his servants, they are seldom “given in charge,” but their stock of evergreens is not unfrequently taken from them, “and that, sir, that’s the cuttingest of all.” They do not so freely venture upon the gathering of mistletoe, for to procure it they must trespass in orchards, which is somewhat dangerous work, and they are in constant apprehension of traps, spring-guns, and bull-dogs. Six or seven hundred men or lads, the lads being the most numerous, are thus employed for a week or two before Christmas, and, perhaps, half that number, irregularly at intervals, for a week or two after it. Some of the lads are not known as regular coster-lads, but they are habitués of the streets in some capacity. To procure as much holly one day, as will sell for 2_s._ 6_d._ the next, is accounted pretty good work, and 7_s._ 6_d._ would be thus realised in six days. But 5_s._ is more frequently the return of six days’ labour and sale, though a very few have cleared 10_s._, and one man, “with uncommon luck,” once cleared 20_s._ in six days. The distance travelled in a short winter’s day, is sometimes twenty miles, and, perhaps, the lad or man has not broken his fast, on some days, until the evening, or even the next morning, for had he possessed a few pence he would probably have invested it in oranges or nuts, for street-sale, rather than “go a-gathering Christmas.”

One strong-looking lad, of 16 or 17, gave me the following account:--

“It’s hard work, is Christmasing; but, when you have neither money nor work, you must do something, and so the holly may come in handy. I live with a elder brother; he helps the masons, and as we had neither of us either work or money, he cut off Tottenham and Edmonton way, and me the t’other side of the water, Mortlake way, as well as I know. We’d both been used to costering, off and on. I was out, I think, ten days altogether, and didn’t make 6_s_. in it. I’d been out two Christmases before. O, yes, I’d forgot. I made 6_d._ over the 6_s._, for I had half a pork-pie and a pint of beer, and the landlord took it out in holly. I meant to have made a quarter of pork do, but I was so hungry--and so would you, sir, if you’d been out a-Christmasing--that I had the t’other quarter. It’s 2_d._ a quarter. I did better when I was out afore, but I forget what I made. It’s often slow work, for you must wait sometimes ’till no one’s looking, and then you must work away like anything. I’d nothing but a sharp knife, I borrowed, and some bits of cord to tie the holly up. You must look out sharp, because, you see, sir, a man very likely won’t like his holly-tree to be stripped. Wherever there is a berry, we goes for the berries. They’re poison berries, I’ve heard. Moonlight nights is the thing, sir, when you knows where you are. I never goes for mizzletoe. I hardly knows it when I sees it. The first time I was out, a man got me to go for some in a orchard, and told me how to manage; but I cut my lucky in a minute. Something came over me like. I felt sickish. But what can a poor fellow do? I never lost my Christmas, but a little bit of it once. Two men took it from me, and said I ought to thank them for letting me off without a jolly good jacketing, as they was gardeners. I believes they was men out a-Christmasing, as I were. It was a dreadful cold time that; and I was wet, and hungry,--and thirsty, too, for all I was so wet,--and I’d to wait a-watching in the wet. I’ve got something better to do now, and I’ll never go a-Christmasing again, if I can help it.”

This lad contrived to get back to his lodging, in town, every night, but some of those out Christmasing, stay two or three days and nights in the country, sleeping in barns, out-houses, carts, or under hay-stacks, inclement as the weather may be, when their funds are insufficient to defray the charge of a bed, or a part of one, at a country “dossing-crib” (low lodging-house). They resorted, in considerable numbers, to the casual wards of the workhouses, in Croydon, Greenwich, Reigate, Dartford, &c., when that accommodation was afforded them, concealing their holly for the night.

As in other matters, it may be a surprise to some of my readers to learn in what way the evergreens, used on festive occasions in their homes, may have been procured.

The costermongers who procure their own Christmasing, generally hawk it. A few sell it by the lot to their more prosperous brethren. What the costers purchase in the market, they aim to sell at cent. per cent.

Supposing that 700 men and lads gathered their own holly, &c., and each worked for three weeks (not regarding interruptions), and calculating that, in the time they cleared even 15_s._ each, it amounts to 525_l._

Some of the costermongers deck their carts and barrows, in the general line, with holly at Christmas. Some go out with their carts full of holly, for sale, and may be accompanied by a fiddler, or by a person beating a drum. The cry is, “Holly! Green Holly!”

One of my informants alluded incidentally to the decoration of the churches, and I may observe that they used to be far more profusely decked with Christmas evergreens than at present; so much so, that a lady correspondent in January, 1712, complained to “Mr. Spectator” that her church-going was bootless. She was constant at church, to hear divine service and make conquests; but the clerk had so overdone the greens in the church that, for three weeks, Miss Jenny Simper had not even seen the young baronet, whom she dressed at for divine worship, although he pursued his devotions only three pews from hers. The aisle was a pretty shady walk, and each pew was an arbour. The pulpit was so clustered with holly and ivy that the congregation, like Moses, heard the word out of a bush. “Sir Anthony Love’s pew in particular,” concludes the indignant Miss Simper, “is so well hedged, that all my batteries have no effect. I am obliged to shoot at random among the boughs without taking any manner of aim. Mr. Spectator, unless you’ll give orders for removing these greens, I shall grow a very awkward creature at church, and soon have little else to do there but to say my prayers.” In a subsequent number, the clerk glorifies himself that he had checked the ogling of Miss Simper. He had heard how the Kentish men evaded the Conqueror by displaying green boughs before them, and so he bethought him of a like device against the love-warfare of this coquettish lady.

Of all the “branches” in the markets, the costers buy one-half. This season, holly has been cheaper than was ever known previously. In some years, its price was double that cited, in some treble, when the December was very frosty.

OF THE SALE OF MAY, PALM, ETC.

The sale of the May, the fragrant flower of the hawthorn, a tree indigenous to this country--Wordsworth mentions one which must have been 800 years old--is carried on by the coster boys (principally), but only in a desultory way. The chief supply is brought to London in the carts or barrows of the costers returning from a country expedition. If the costermonger be accompanied by a lad--as he always is if the expedition be of any length--the lad will say to his master, “Bill, let’s have some May to take back.” The man will almost always consent, and often assist in procuring the thickly green branches with their white or rose-tinted, and freshly-smelling flowers. The odour of the hawthorn blossom is peculiar, and some eminent botanist--Dr. Withering if I remember rightly--says it may be best described as “fresh.” No flower, perhaps, is blended with more poetical, antiquarian, and beautiful associations than the ever-welcome blossom of the may-tree. One gardener told me that as the hawthorn was in perfection in June instead of May, the name was not proper. But it must be remembered that the name of the flower was given during the old style, which carried our present month of May twelve days into June, and the name would then be more appropriate.

The May is obtained by the costermongers in the same way as the holly, by cutting it from the trees in the hedges. It has sometimes to be cut or broken off stealthily, for persons may no more like their hawthorns to be stripped than their hollies, and an ingenuous lad--as will have been observed--told me of “people’s” objections to the unauthorized stripping of their holly-bushes. But there is not a quarter of the difficulty in procuring May that there is in procuring holly at Christmas.

The costermonger, if he has “done tidy” in the country will very probably leave the May at the disposal of his boy; but a few men, though perhaps little more than twenty, I was told, bring it on their own account. The lads then carry the branches about for sale; or if a considerable quantity has been brought, dispose of it to other boys or girls, or entrust them with the sale of it, at “half-profits,” or any terms agreed upon. Costermongers have been known to bring home “a load of May,” and this not unfrequently, at the request, and for the benefit of a “cracked-up” brother-trader, to whom it has been at once delivered gratuitously.

A lad, whom I met with as he was selling holly, told me that he had brought may from the country when he had been there with a coster. He had also gone out of town a few miles to gather it on his own account. “But it ain’t no good;” he said; “you must often go a good way--I never knows anything about how many miles--and if it’s very ripe (the word he used) it’s soon shaken. There’s no sure price. You may get 4_d._ for a big branch or you must take 1_d._ I may have made 1_s._ on a round but hardly ever more. It can’t be got near hand. There’s some stunning fine trees at the top of the park there (the Regent’s Park) the t’other side of the ’logical Gardens, but there’s always a cove looking after them, they say, and both night and day.”

Palm, the flower of any of the numerous species of the willow, is sold only on Palm Sunday, and the Saturday preceding. The trade is about equally in the hands of the English and Irish lads, but the English lads have a commercial advantage on the morning of Palm Sunday, when so many of the Irish lads are at chapel. The palm is all gathered by the street-vendors. One costermonger told me that when he was a lad, he had sold palm to a man who had managed to get half-drunk on a Sunday morning, and who told him that he wanted it to show his wife, who very seldom stirred out, that he’d been taking a healthful walk into the country!

Lilac in flower is sold (and procured) in the same way as May, but in small quantities. Very rarely indeed, laburnum; which is too fragile; or syringa, which, I am told, is hardly saleable in the streets. One informant remembered that forty years ago, when he was a boy, branches of elder-berry flowers were sold in the streets, but the trade has disappeared.

It is very difficult to form a calculation as to the extent of this trade. The best informed give me reason to believe that the sale of all these branches (apart from Christmas) ranges, according to circumstances, from 30_l._ to 50_l._, the cost being the labour of gathering, and the subsistence of the labourer while at the work. This is independent of what the costers buy in the markets.

* * * * *

I now show the quantity of branches forming the street trade:--

Holly 59,040 bunches Mistletoe 56,160 „ Ivy and Laurel 26,640 „ Lilac 5,400 „ Palm 1,008 „ May 2,520 „ ------- Total number of bunches } sold in the streets from } 150,768 market-sale } Add to quantity from } other sources } 75,000 ------- 225,768

The quantity of branches “from other sources” is that gathered by the costers in the way I have described; but it is impossible to obtain a return of it with proper precision: to state it as half of that purchased in the markets is a low average.

I now give the amount paid by street-buyers who indulge in the healthful and innocent tastes of which I have been treating--the fondness for the beautiful and the natural.

CUT FLOWERS.

Bunches of per bunch 65,280 Violets at 1/2_d._ £136 115,200 Wallflowers „ 1/2_d._ 240 86,400 Mignonette „ 1_d._ 360 1,632 Lilies of the Valley „ 1/2_d._ 3 20,448 Stocks „ 1/2_d._ 42 316,800 Pinks and Carnations „ 1/2_d._ each 660 864,000 Moss Roses „ 1/2_d._ „ 1,800 864,000 China ditto „ 1/2_d._ „ 1,800 296,640 Lavender „ 1_d._ 1,236 ------ Total annually £6,277

FLOWER ROOTS.

per root 24,000 Primroses at 1/2_d._ £60 34,560 Polyanthuses „ 1_d._ 144 28,800 Cowslips „ 1/2_d._ 50 33,600 Daisies „ 1_d._ 140 46,080 Wallflowers „ 1_d._ 192 28,800 Candy-tufts „ 1_d._ 120 28,800 Daffodils „ 1/2_d._ 60 38,400 Violets „ 1/2_d._ 80 30,380 Mignonette „ 1/2_d._ 63 23,040 Stocks „ 1_d._ 96 19,200 Pinks and Carnations „ 2_d._ 160 3,456 Lilies of the Valley „ 1_d._ 14 12,960 Pansies „ 1_d._ 54 660 Lilies „ 2_d._ 5 850 Tulips „ 2_d._ 7 7,704 Balsams „ 2_d._ 64 3,180 Calceolarias „ 2_d._ 26 253,440 Musk Plants „ 1_d._ 1,056 11,520 London Pride „ 1_d._ 48 25,595 Lupins „ 1_d._ 106 9,156 China-asters „ 1_d._ 38 63,360 Marigolds „ 1/2_d._ 132 852 Dahlias „ 6_d._ 21 13,356 Heliotropes „ 2_d._ 111 1,920 Poppies „ 2_d._ 16 6,912 Michaelmas Daisies „ 1/2_d._ 14 ------ Total annually £2,877

BRANCHES.

Bunches of per bunch 59,040 Holly at 3_d._ £738 56,160 Mistletoe „ 3_d._ 702 26,640 Ivy and Laurel „ 3_d._ 333 5,400 Lilac „ 3_d._ 67 1,008 Palm „ 3_d._ 12 2,520 May „ 3_d._ 31 ------ Total annually from Markets £1,883 Add one-half as shown 591 ------ £2,474

TREES AND SHRUBS.

each root 9,576 Firs (roots) at 3_d._ £119 1,152 Laurels „ 3_d._ 14 23,040 Myrtles „ 4_d._ 384 2,160 Rhododendrons „ 9_d._ 81 2,304 Lilacs „ 4_d._ 38 2,880 Box „ 2_d._ 24 21,888 Heaths „ 4_d._ 364 2,880 Broom „ 1_d._ 12 6,912 Furze „ 1_d._ 28 6,480 Laurustinus „ 8_d._ 216 25,920 Southernwood „ 1_d._ 108 ------ Total annually spent £1,388

FLOWERS IN POTS.

per pot 38,880 Moss Roses at 4_d._ £648 38,880 China ditto „ 2_d._ 324 38,800 Fuschias „ 3_d._ 485 12,850 Geraniums and Pelargoniums (of all kinds) „ 3_d._ 160 ------ Total annually £1,617

The returns give the following aggregate amount of street expenditure:--

£ Trees and shrubs 1,388 Cut Flowers 6,277 Flowers in pots 1,667 Flower roots 2,867 Branches 2,774 Seeds 200 ------- £15,173

From the returns we find that of “cut flowers” the roses retain their old English favouritism, no fewer than 1,628,000 being annually sold in the streets; but locality affects the sale, as some dealers dispose of more violets than roses, because violets are accounted less fragile. The cheapness and hardihood of the musk-plant and marigold, to say nothing of their peculiar odour, has made them the most popular of the “roots,” while the myrtle is the favourite among the “trees and shrubs.” The heaths, moreover, command an extensive sale,--a sale, I am told, which was unknown, until eight or ten years ago, another instance of the “fashion in flowers,” of which an informant has spoken.

STREET-SELLERS OF GREEN STUFF.

Under this head I class the street-purveyors of water-cresses, and of the chickweed, groundsel, plantain, and turf required for cage-birds. These purveyors seem to be on the outskirts, as it were, of the costermonger class, and, indeed, the regular costers look down upon them as an inferior caste. The green-stuff trade is carried on by very poor persons, and, generally, by children or old people, some of the old people being lame, or suffering from some infirmity, which, however, does not prevent their walking about with their commodities. To the children and infirm class, however, the turf-cutters supply an exception. The costermongers, as I have intimated, do not resort, and do not let their children resort, to this traffic. If reduced to the last shift, they will sell nuts or oranges in preference. The “old hands” have been “reduced,” as a general rule, from other avocations. Their homes are in the localities I have specified as inhabited by the poor.

I was informed by a seller of birds, that he thought fewer birds were kept by poor working-people, and even by working-people who had regular, though, perhaps, diminished earnings, than was the case six or eight years ago. At one time, it was not uncommon for a young man to present his betrothed with a pair of singing-birds in a neat cage; now such a present, as far as my informant’s knowledge extended--and he was a sharp intelligent man--was but rarely made. One reason this man had often heard advanced for poor persons not renewing their birds, when lost or dead, is pitiful in its plainness--“they eat too much.” I do not know, that, in such a gift as I have mentioned, there was any intention on the part of the lover to typify the beauty of cheerfulness, even in a very close confinement to home. “I can’t tell, sir,” was said to me, “how it may have been originally, but I never heard such a thing said much about, though there’s been joking about the matter, as when would the birds have young ones, and such like. No, sir; I think it was just a fashion.” Contrary to the custom in more prosperous establishments, I am satisfied, that, among the labouring classes, birds are more frequently the pets of the men than of the women. My bird-dealing informant cited merely his own experience, but there is no doubt that cage-birds are more extensively kept than ever in London; consequently there is a greater demand for the “green stuff” the birds require.

OF WATERCRESS-SELLING, IN FARRINGDON-MARKET.

The first coster-cry heard of a morning in the London streets is that of “Fresh wo-orter-creases.” Those that sell them have to be on their rounds in time for the mechanics’ breakfast, or the day’s gains are lost. As the stock-money for this calling need only consist of a few halfpence, it is followed by the very poorest of the poor; such as young children, who have been deserted by their parents, and whose strength is not equal to any very great labour, or by old men and women, crippled by disease or accident, who in their dread of a workhouse life, linger on with the few pence they earn by street-selling.

As winter draws near, the Farringdon cress-market begins long before daylight. On your way to the City to see this strange sight, the streets are deserted; in the squares the blinds are drawn down before the windows, and the shutters closed, so that the very houses seem asleep. All is so silent that you can hear the rattle of the milkmaids’ cans in the neighbouring streets, or the noisy song of three or four drunken voices breaks suddenly upon you, as if the singers had turned a corner, and then dies away in the distance. On the cab-stands, but one or two crazy cabs are left, the horses dozing with their heads down to their knees, and the drawn-up windows covered with the breath of the driver sleeping inside. At the corners of the streets, the bright fires of the coffee-stalls sparkle in the darkness, and as you walk along, the policeman, leaning against some gas-lamp, turns his lantern full upon you, as if in suspicion that one who walks abroad so early could mean no good to householders. At one house there stands a man, with dirty boots and loose hair, as if he had just left some saloon, giving sharp single knocks, and then going into the road and looking up at the bed-rooms, to see if a light appeared in them. As you near the City, you meet, if it be a Monday or Friday morning, droves of sheep and bullocks, tramping quietly along to Smithfield, and carrying a fog of steam with them, while behind, with his hands in his pockets, and his dog panting at his heels, walks the sheep-drover.

At the principal entrance to Farringdon-market there is an open space, running the entire length of the railings in front, and extending from the iron gates at the entrance to the sheds down the centre of the large paved court before the shops. In this open space the cresses are sold, by the salesmen or saleswomen to whom they are consigned, in the hampers they are brought in from the country.

The shops in the market are shut, the gaslights over the iron gates burn brightly, and every now and then you hear the half-smothered crowing of a cock, shut up in some shed or bird-fancier’s shop. Presently a man comes hurrying along, with a can of hot coffee in each hand, and his stall on his head, and when he has arranged his stand by the gates, and placed his white mugs between the railings on the stone wall, he blows at his charcoal fire, making the bright sparks fly about at every puff he gives. By degrees the customers are creeping up, dressed in every style of rags; they shuffle up and down before the gates, stamping to warm their feet, and rubbing their hands together till they grate like sandpaper. Some of the boys have brought large hand-baskets, and carry them with the handles round their necks, covering the head entirely with the wicker-work as with a hood; others have their shallows fastened to their backs with a strap, and one little girl, with the bottom of her gown tattered into a fringe like a blacksmith’s apron, stands shivering in a large pair of worn-out Vestris boots, holding in her blue hands a bent and rusty tea-tray. A few poor creatures have made friends with the coffee-man, and are allowed to warm their fingers at the fire under the cans, and as the heat strikes into them, they grow sleepy and yawn.

The market--by the time we reach it--has just begun; one dealer has taken his seat, and sits motionless with cold--for it wants but a month to Christmas--with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his gray driving coat. Before him is an opened hamper, with a candle fixed in the centre of the bright green cresses, and as it shines through the wicker sides of the basket, it casts curious patterns on the ground--as a night shade does. Two or three customers, with their “shallows” slung over their backs, and their hands poked into the bosoms of their gowns, are bending over the hamper, the light from which tinges their swarthy features, and they rattle their halfpence and speak coaxingly to the dealer, to hurry him in their bargains.

Just as the church clocks are striking five, a stout saleswoman enters the gates, and instantly a country-looking fellow, in a wagoner’s cap and smock-frock, arranges the baskets he has brought up to London. The other ladies are soon at their posts, well wrapped up in warm cloaks, over their thick shawls, and sit with their hands under their aprons, talking to the loungers, whom they call by their names. Now the business commences; the customers come in by twos and threes, and walk about, looking at the cresses, and listening to the prices asked. Every hamper is surrounded by a black crowd, bending over till their heads nearly meet, their foreheads and cheeks lighted up by the candle in the centre. The saleswomen’s voices are heard above the noise of the mob, sharply answering all objections that may be made to the quality of their goods. “They’re rather spotty, mum,” says an Irishman, as he examines one of the leaves. “No more spots than a newborn babe, Dennis,” answers the lady tartly, and then turns to a new comer. At one basket, a street-seller in an old green cloak, has spread out a rusty shawl to receive her bunches, and by her stands her daughter, in a thin cotton dress, patched like a quilt. “Ah! Mrs. Dolland,” cried the saleswoman in a gracious tone, “can you keep yourself warm? it bites the fingers like biling water, it do.” At another basket, an old man, with long gray hair streaming over a kind of policeman’s cape, is bitterly complaining of the way he has been treated by another saleswoman. “He bought a lot of her, the other morning, and by daylight they were quite white; for he only made threepence on his best day.” “Well, Joe,” returns the lady, “you should come to them as knows you, and allers treats you well.”

These saleswomen often call to each other from one end of the market to the other. If any quarrel take place at one of the hampers, as frequently it does, the next neighbour is sure to say something. “Pinch him well, Sally,” cried one saleswoman to another; “pinch him well; I do when I’ve a chance.” “It’s no use,” was the answer; “I might as well try to pinch a elephant.”

One old wrinkled woman, carrying a basket with an oilcloth bottom, was asked by a buxom rosy dealer, “Now, Nancy, what’s for you?” But the old dame was surly with the cold, and sneering at the beauty of the saleswoman, answered, “Why don’t you go and get a sweetheart; sich as you aint fit for sich as we.” This caused angry words, and Nancy was solemnly requested “to draw it mild, like a good soul.”

As the morning twilight came on, the paved court was crowded with purchasers. The sheds and shops at the end of the market grew every moment more distinct, and a railway-van, laden with carrots, came rumbling into the yard. The pigeons, too, began to fly on to the sheds, or walk about the paving-stones, and the gas-man came round with his ladder to turn out the lamps. Then every one was pushing about; the children crying, as their naked feet were trodden upon, and the women hurrying off, with their baskets or shawls filled with cresses, and the bunch of rushes in their hands. In one corner of the market, busily tying up their bunches, were three or four girls seated on the stones, with their legs curled up under them, and the ground near them was green with the leaves they had thrown away. A saleswoman, seeing me looking at the group, said to me, “Ah! you should come here of a summer’s morning, and then you’d see ’em, sitting tying up, young and old, upwards of a hundred poor things as thick as crows in a ploughed field.”

As it grew late, and the crowd had thinned; none but the very poorest of the cress-sellers were left. Many of these had come without money, others had their halfpence tied up carefully in their shawl-ends, as though they dreaded the loss. A sickly-looking boy, of about five, whose head just reached above the hampers, now crept forward, treading with his blue naked feet over the cold stones as a cat does over wet ground. At his elbows and knees, his skin showed in gashes through the rents in his clothes, and he looked so frozen, that the buxom saleswoman called to him, asking if his mother had gone home. The boy knew her well, for without answering her question, he went up to her, and, as he stood shivering on one foot, said, “Give us a few old cresses, Jinney,” and in a few minutes was running off with a green bundle under his arm. All of the saleswomen seemed to be of kindly natures, for at another stall an old dame, whose rags seemed to be beyond credit, was paying for some cresses she had long since been trusted with, and excusing herself for the time that had passed since the transaction. As I felt curious on the point of the honesty of the poor, I asked the saleswoman when she was alone, whether they lost much by giving credit. “It couldn’t be much,” she answered, “if they all of them decamped.” But they were generally honest, and paid back, often reminding her of credit given that she herself had forgotten. Whenever she lost anything, it was by the very very poor ones; “though it aint their fault, poor things,” she added in a kindly tone, “for when they keeps away from here, it’s either the workhouse or the churchyard as stops them.”

As you walk home--although the apprentice is knocking at the master’s door--the little water-cress girls are crying their goods in every street. Some of them are gathered round the pumps, washing the leaves and piling up the bunches in their baskets, that are tattered and worn as their own clothing; in some of the shallows the holes at the bottom have been laced up or darned together with rope and string, or twigs and split laths have been fastened across; whilst others are lined with oilcloth, or old pieces of sheet-tin. Even by the time the cress-market is over, it is yet so early that the maids are beating the mats in the road, and mechanics, with their tool-baskets swung over their shoulders, are still hurrying to their work. To visit Farringdon-market early on a Monday morning, is the only proper way to judge of the fortitude and courage and perseverance of the poor. As Douglas Jerrold has beautifully said, “there is goodness, like wild honey, hived in strange nooks and corners of the earth.” These poor cress-sellers belong to a class so poor that their extreme want alone would almost be an excuse for theft, and they can be trusted paying the few pence they owe even though they hunger for it. It must require no little energy of conscience on the part of the lads to make them resist the temptations around them, and refuse the luring advice of the young thieves they meet at the low lodging-house. And yet they prefer the early rising--the walk to market with naked feet along the cold stones--the pinched meal--and the day’s hard labour to earn the few halfpence--to the thief’s comparatively easy life. The heroism of the unknown poor is a thing to set even the dullest marvelling, and in no place in all London is the virtue of the humblest--both young and old--so conspicuous as among the watercress-buyers at Farringdon-market.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF WATER-CRESS.

The dealers in water-cresses are generally very old or very young people, and it is a trade greatly in the hands of women. The cause of this is, that the children are sent out by their parents “to get a loaf of bread somehow” (to use the words of an old man in the trade), and the very old take to it because they are unable to do hard labour, and they strive to keep away from the workhouse--(“I’d do anything before I’d go there--sweep the crossings, or anything: but I should have had to have gone to the house before, if it hadn’t been for my wife. I’m sixty-two,” said one who had been sixteen years at the trade). The old people are both men and women. The men have been sometimes one thing, and sometimes another. “I’ve been a porter myself,” said one, “jobbing about in the markets, or wherever I could get a job to do. Then there’s one old man goes about selling water-cresses who’s been a seafaring man; he’s very old, he is--older than what I am, sir. Many a one has been a good mechanic in his younger days, only he’s got too old for labour. The old women have, many of them, been laundresses, only they can’t now do the work, you see, and so they’re glad to pick up a crust anyhow. Nelly, I know, has lost her husband, and she hasn’t nothing else but her few creases to keep her. She’s as good, honest, hard-working a creature as ever were, for what she can do--poor old soul! The young people are, most of them, girls. There are some boys, but girls are generally put to it by the poor people. There’s Mary Macdonald, she’s about fourteen. Her father is a bricklayer’s labourer. He’s an Englishman, and he sends little Mary out to get a halfpenny or two. He gets sometimes a couple of days’ work in the week. He don’t get more now, I’m sure, and he’s got three children to keep out of that; so all on ’em that can work are obligated to do something. The other two children are so small they can’t do nothing yet. Then there’s Louisa; she’s about twelve, and she goes about with creases like I do. I don’t think she’s got ne’er a father. I know she’s a mother alive, and she sells creases like her daughter. The mother’s about fifty odd, I dare say. The sellers generally go about with an arm-basket, like a greengrocer’s at their side, or a ‘shallow’ in front of them; and plenty of them carry a small tin tray before them, slung round their neck. Ah! it would make your heart ache if you was to go to Farringdon-market early, this cold weather, and see the poor little things there without shoes and stockings, and their feet quite blue with the cold--oh, that they are, and many on ’em don’t know how to set one foot before the t’other, poor things. You would say they wanted something give to ’em.”

The small tin tray is generally carried by the young children. The cresses are mostly bought in Farringdon-market: “The usual time to go to the market is between five and six in the morning, and from that to seven,” said one informant; “myself, I am generally down in the market by five. I was there this morning at five, and bitter cold it was, I give you my word. We poor old people feel it dreadful. Years ago I didn’t mind cold, but I feel it now cruel bad, to be sure. Sometimes, when I’m turning up my things, I don’t hardly know whether I’ve got ’em in my hands or not; can’t even pick off a dead leaf. But that’s nothing to the poor little things without shoes. Why, bless you, I’ve seen ’em stand and cry two and three together, with the cold. Ah! my heart has ached for ’em over and over again. I’ve said to ’em, I wonder why your mother sends you out, that I have; and they said they was obligated to try and get a penny for breakfast. We buy the water-cresses by the ‘hand.’ One hand will make about five halfpenny bundles. There’s more call for ’em in the spring of the year than what there is in the winter. Why, they’re reckoned good for sweetening the blood in the spring; but, for my own eating, I’d sooner have the crease in the winter than I would have it in the spring of the year. There’s an old woman sits in Farringdon-market, of the name of Burrows, that’s sot there twenty-four years, and she’s been selling out creases to us all that time.

“The sellers goes to market with a few pence. I myself goes down there and lays out sometimes my 4_d._; that’s what I laid out this morning. Sometimes I lay out only 2_d._ and 3_d._, according as how I has the halfpence in my pocket. Many a one goes down to the market with only three halfpence, and glad to have that to get a halfpenny, or anything, so as to earn a mouthful of bread--a bellyful that they can’t get no how. Ah, many a time I walked through the streets, and picked a piece of bread that the servants chucked out of the door--may be to the birds. I’ve gone and picked it up when I’ve been right hungry. Thinks I, I can eat that as well as the birds. None of the sellers ever goes down to the market with less than a penny. They won’t make less than a pennorth, that’s one ‘hand,’ and if the little thing sells that, she won’t earn more than three halfpence out of it. After they have bought the creases they generally take them to the pump to wet them. I generally pump upon mine in Hatton-garden. It’s done to make them look nice and fresh all the morning, so that the wind shouldn’t make them flag. You see they’ve been packed all night in the hamper, and they get dry. Some ties them up in ha’porths as they walks along. Many of them sit down on the steps of St. Andrew’s Church and make them up into bunches. You’ll see plenty of them there of a morning between five and six. Plenty, poor little dear souls, sitting there,” said the old man to me. There the hand is parcelled out into five halfpenny bunches. In the summer the dealers often go to market and lay out as much as 1_s._ “On Saturday morning, this time of year, I buys as many as nine hands--there’s more call for ’em on Saturday and Sunday morning than on any other days; and we always has to buy on Saturdays what we want for Sundays--there an’t no market on that day, sir. At the market sufficient creases are bought by the sellers for the morning and afternoon as well. In the morning some begin crying their creases through the streets at half-past six, and others about seven. They go to different parts, but there is scarcely a place but what some goes to--there are so many of us now--there’s twenty to one to what there used to be. Why, they’re so thick down at the market in the summer time, that you might bowl balls along their heads, and all a fighting for the creases. There’s a regular scramble, I can assure you, to get at ’em, so as to make a halfpenny out of them. I should think in the spring mornings there’s 400 or 500 on ’em down at Farringdon-market all at one time--between four and five in the morning--if not more than that, and as fast as they keep going out, others keep coming in. I think there is more than a thousand, young and old, about the streets in the trade. The working classes are the principal of the customers. The bricklayers, and carpenters, and smiths, and plumbers, leaving work and going home to breakfast at eight o’clock, purchase the chief part of them. A great many are sold down the courts and mews, and bye streets, and very few are got rid of in the squares and the neighbourhood of the more respectable houses. Many are sold in the principal thoroughfares--a large number in the City. There is a man who stands close to the Post-office, at the top of Newgate-street, winter and summer, who sells a great quantity of bunches every morning. This man frequently takes between 4_s._ and 5_s._ of a winter’s morning, and about 10_s._ a day in the summer.” “Sixteen years ago,” said the old man who gave me the principal part of this information, “I could come out and take my 18_s._ of a Saturday morning, and 5_s._ on a Sunday morning as well; but now I think myself very lucky if I can take my 1_s._ 3_d._, and it’s only on two mornings in the week that I can get that.” The hucksters of watercresses are generally an honest, industrious, striving class of persons. The young girls are said to be well-behaved, and to be the daughters of poor struggling people. The old men and women are persons striving to save themselves from the workhouse. The old and young people generally travel nine and ten miles in the course of the day. They start off to market at four and five, and are out on their morning rounds from seven till nine, and on their afternoon rounds from half-past two to five in the evening. They travel at the rate of two miles an hour. “If it wasn’t for my wife, I must go to the workhouse outright,” said the old watercress man. “Ah, I do’nt know what I should do without her, I can assure you. She earns about 1_s._ 3_d._ a day. She takes in a little washing, and keeps a mangle. When I’m at home I turn the mangle for her. The mangle is my own. When my wife’s mother was alive she lent us the money to buy it, and as we earnt the money we paid her back so much a week. It is that what has kept us together, or else we shouldn’t have been as we are. The mangle we give 50_s._ for, and it brings us in now 1_s._ 3_d._ a day with the washing. My wife is younger than I am. She is about thirty-five years old. We have got two children. One is thirteen and the other fifteen. They’ve both got learning, and are both in situations. I always sent ’em to school. Though I can’t neither read nor write myself, I wished to make them some little scholards. I paid a penny a week for ’em at the school. Lady M---- has always given me my Christmas dinner for the last five years, and God bless her for it--that I do say indeed.”

WATERCRESS GIRL.

The little watercress girl who gave me the following statement, although only eight years of age, had entirely lost all childish ways, and was, indeed, in thoughts and manner, a woman. There was something cruelly pathetic in hearing this infant, so young that her features had scarcely formed themselves, talking of the bitterest struggles of life, with the calm earnestness of one who had endured them all. I did not know how to talk with her. At first I treated her as a child, speaking on childish subjects; so that I might, by being familiar with her, remove all shyness, and get her to narrate her life freely. I asked her about her toys and her games with her companions; but the look of amazement that answered me soon put an end to any attempt at fun on my part. I then talked to her about the parks, and whether she ever went to them. “The parks!” she replied in wonder, “where are they?” I explained to her, telling her that they were large open places with green grass and tall trees, where beautiful carriages drove about, and people walked for pleasure, and children played. Her eyes brightened up a little as I spoke; and she asked, half doubtingly, “Would they let such as me go there--just to look?” All her knowledge seemed to begin and end with water-cresses, and what they fetched. She knew no more of London than that part she had seen on her rounds, and believed that no quarter of the town was handsomer or pleasanter than it was at Farringdon-market or at Clerkenwell, where she lived. Her little face, pale and thin with privation, was wrinkled where the dimples ought to have been, and she would sigh frequently. When some hot dinner was offered to her, she would not touch it, because, if she eat too much, “it made her sick,” she said; “and she wasn’t used to meat, only on a Sunday.”

The poor child, although the weather was severe, was dressed in a thin cotton gown, with a threadbare shawl wrapped round her shoulders. She wore no covering to her head, and the long rusty hair stood out in all directions. When she walked she shuffled along, for fear that the large carpet slippers that served her for shoes should slip off her feet.

“I go about the streets with water-creases, crying, ‘Four bunches a penny, water-creases.’ I am just eight years old--that’s all, and I’ve a big sister, and a brother and a sister younger than I am. On and off, I’ve been very near a twelvemonth in the streets. Before that, I had to take care of a baby for my aunt. No, it wasn’t heavy--it was only two months old; but I minded it for ever such a time--till it could walk. It was a very nice little baby, not a very pretty one; but, if I touched it under the chin, it would laugh. Before I had the baby, I used to help mother, who was in the fur trade; and, if there was any slits in the fur, I’d sew them up. My mother learned me to needle-work and to knit when I was about five. I used to go to school, too; but I wasn’t there long. I’ve forgot all about it now, it’s such a time ago; and mother took me away because the master whacked me, though the missus use’n’t to never touch me. I didn’t like him at all. What do you think? he hit me three times, ever so hard, across the face with his cane, and made me go dancing down stairs; and when mother saw the marks on my cheek, she went to blow him up, but she couldn’t see him--he was afraid. That’s why I left school.

“The creases is so bad now, that I haven’t been out with ’em for three days. They’re so cold, people won’t buy ’em; for when I goes up to them, they say, ‘They’ll freeze our bellies.’ Besides, in the market, they won’t sell a ha’penny handful now--they’re ris to a penny and tuppence. In summer there’s lots, and ’most as cheap as dirt; but I have to be down at Farringdon-market between four and five, or else I can’t get any creases, because everyone almost--especially the Irish--is selling them, and they’re picked up so quick. Some of the saleswomen--we never calls ’em ladies--is very kind to us children, and some of them altogether spiteful. The good one will give you a bunch for nothing, when they’re cheap; but the others, cruel ones, if you try to bate them a farden less than they ask you, will say, ‘Go along with you, you’re no good.’ I used to go down to market along with another girl, as must be about fourteen, ’cos she does her back hair up. When we’ve bought a lot, we sits down on a door-step, and ties up the bunches. We never goes home to breakfast till we’ve sold out; but, if it’s very late, then I buys a penn’orth of pudden, which is very nice with gravy. I don’t know hardly one of the people, as goes to Farringdon, to talk to; they never speaks to me, so I don’t speak to them. We children never play down there, ’cos we’re thinking of our living. No; people never pities me in the street--excepting one gentleman, and he says, says he, ‘What do you do out so soon in the morning?’ but he gave me nothink--he only walked away.

“It’s very cold before winter comes on reg’lar--specially getting up of a morning. I gets up in the dark by the light of the lamp in the court. When the snow is on the ground, there’s no creases. I bears the cold--you must; so I puts my hands under my shawl, though it hurts ’em to take hold of the creases, especially when we takes ’em to the pump to wash ’em. No; I never see any children crying--it’s no use.

“Sometimes I make a great deal of money. One day I took 1_s._ 6_d._, and the creases cost 6_d._; but it isn’t often I get such luck as that. I oftener makes 3_d._ or 4_d._ than 1_s._; and then I’m at work, crying, ‘Creases, four bunches a penny, creases!’ from six in the morning to about ten. What do you mean by mechanics?--I don’t know what they are. The shops buys most of me. Some of ’em says, ‘Oh! I ain’t a-goin’ to give a penny for these;’ and they want ’em at the same price as I buys ’em at.

“I always give mother my money, she’s so very good to me. She don’t often beat me; but, when she do, she don’t play with me. She’s very poor, and goes out cleaning rooms sometimes, now she don’t work at the fur. I ain’t got no father, he’s a father-in-law. No; mother ain’t married again--he’s a father-in-law. He grinds scissors, and he’s very good to me. No; I dont mean by that that he says kind things to me, for he never hardly speaks. When I gets home, after selling creases, I stops at home. I puts the room to rights: mother don’t make me do it, I does it myself. I cleans the chairs, though there’s only two to clean. I takes a tub and scrubbing-brush and flannel, and scrubs the floor--that’s what I do three or four times a week.

“I don’t have no dinner. Mother gives me two slices of bread-and-butter and a cup of tea for breakfast, and then I go till tea, and has the same. We has meat of a Sunday, and, of course, I should like to have it every day. Mother has just the same to eat as we has, but she takes more tea--three cups, sometimes. No; I never has no sweet-stuff; I never buy none--I don’t like it. Sometimes we has a game of ‘honey-pots’ with the girls in the court, but not often. Me and Carry H---- carries the little ’uns. We plays, too, at ‘kiss-in-the-ring.’ I knows a good many games, but I don’t play at ’em, ’cos going out with creases tires me. On a Friday night, too, I goes to a Jew’s house till eleven o’clock on Saturday night. All I has to do is to snuff the candles and poke the fire. You see they keep their Sabbath then, and they won’t touch anything; so they gives me my wittals and 1-1/2_d._, and I does it for ’em. I have a reg’lar good lot to eat. Supper of Friday night, and tea after that, and fried fish of a Saturday morning, and meat for dinner, and tea, and supper, and I like it very well.

“Oh, yes; I’ve got some toys at home. I’ve a fire-place, and a box of toys, and a knife and fork, and two little chairs. The Jews gave ’em to me where I go to on a Friday, and that’s why I said they was very kind to me. I never had no doll; but I misses little sister--she’s only two years old. We don’t sleep in the same room; for father and mother sleeps with little sister in the one pair, and me and brother and other sister sleeps in the top room. I always goes to bed at seven, ’cos I has to be up so early.

“I am a capital hand at bargaining--but only at buying watercreases. They can’t take me in. If the woman tries to give me a small handful of creases, I says, ‘I ain’t a goin’ to have that for a ha’porth,’ and I go to the next basket, and so on, all round. I know the quantities very well. For a penny I ought to have a full market hand, or as much as I could carry in my arms at one time, without spilling. For 3_d._ I has a lap full, enough to earn about a shilling; and for 6_d._ I gets as many as crams my basket. I can’t read or write, but I knows how many pennies goes to a shilling, why, twelve, of course, but I don’t know how many ha’pence there is, though there’s two to a penny. When I’ve bought 3_d._ of creases, I ties ’em up into as many little bundles as I can. They must look biggish, or the people won’t buy them, some puffs them out as much as they’ll go. All my money I earns I puts in a club and draws it out to buy clothes with. It’s better than spending it in sweet-stuff, for them as has a living to earn. Besides it’s like a child to care for sugar-sticks, and not like one who’s got a living and vittals to earn. I aint a child, and I shan’t be a woman till I’m twenty, but I’m past eight, I am. I don’t know nothing about what I earns during the year, I only know how many pennies goes to a shilling, and two ha’pence goes to a penny, and four fardens goes to a penny. I knows, too, how many fardens goes to tuppence--eight. That’s as much as I wants to know for the markets.”

* * * * *

The market returns I have obtained show the following result of the quantity vended in the streets, and of the receipts by the cress-sellers:--

A TABLE SHOWING THE QUANTITY OF WATERCRESSES SOLD WHOLESALE THROUGHOUT THE YEAR IN LONDON, WITH THE PROPORTION RETAILED IN THE STREETS.

---------------+---------------------+-------------- | | Proportion | Quantity sold | retailed in Market. | wholesale. | the Streets. ---------------+---------------------+-------------- Covent Garden | 1,578,000 bunches | one-eighth. Farringdon | 12,960,000 „ | one-half. Borough | 180,000 „ | one-half. Spitalfields | 180,000 „ | one-half. Portman | 60,000 „ | one-third. | ---------- | Total | 14,958,000 „ | ---------------+---------------------+--------------

From this sale the street cress-sellers receive:--

Bunches. Receipts. Farringdon 6,480,000 1/2_d._ per bunch £13,500 Covent Garden 16,450 „ 34 Borough 90,000 „ 187 Spitalfields 90,000 „ 187 Portman 20,000 „ 41 ------- £13,949 -------

The discrepancy in the quantity sold in the respective markets is to be accounted for by the fact, that Farringdon is the water-cress market to which are conveyed the qualities, large-leaved and big-stalked, that suit the street-folk. Of this description of cress they purchase one-half of all that is sold in Farringdon; of the finer, and smaller, and brown-leaved cress sold there, they purchase hardly any. At Covent Garden only the finer sorts of cress are in demand, and, consequently, the itinerants buy only an eighth in that market, and they are not encouraged there. They purchase half the quantity in the Borough, and the same in Spitalfields, and a third at Portman. I have before mentioned that 500 might be taken as the number supported by the sale of “creases;” that is, 500 families, or at least 1,000 individuals. The total amount received is nearly 14,000_l._, and this apportioned among 1,000 street-sellers, gives a weekly receipt of 5_s._ 5_d._, with a profit of 3_s._ 3_d._ per individual.

The discrepancy is further accounted for because the other market salesmen buy cresses at Farringdon; but I have given under the head of Farringdon all that is sold to those other markets to be disposed to the street-sellers, and the returns from the other markets are of the cresses carried direct there, apart from any purchases at Farringdon.

OF GROUNDSEL AND CHICKWEED SELLERS.

On a former occasion (in the Morning Chronicle) I mentioned that I received a letter informing me that a woman, residing in one of the courts about Saffron-hill, was making braces, and receiving only 1_s._ for four dozen of them. I was assured she was a most deserving character, strictly sober, and not receiving parochial relief. “Her husband,” my informant added, “was paralysed, and endeavoured to assist his family by gathering green food for birds. They are in deep distress, but their character is irreproachable.” I found the couple located up a court, the entrance to which was about as narrow as the opening to a sentry-box, and on each side lolled groups of labourers and costermongers, with short black pipes in their mouths. As I dived into the court, a crowd followed me to see whither I was going. The brace-maker lived on the first floor of a crazy, fœtid house. I ascended the stairs, and the banisters, from which the rails had all been purloined, gave way in my hands. I found the woman, man, and their family busy at their tea-dinner. In a large broken chair, beside the fire-place, was the old paralysed man, dressed in a ragged greasy fustian coat, his beard unshorn, and his hair in the wildest disorder. On the edge of the bed sat a cleanly looking woman, his wife, with a black apron on. Standing by the table was a blue-eyed laughing and shoeless boy, with an old camlet cape pinned over his shoulders. Next him was a girl in a long grey pinafore, with her hair cut close to her head, with the exception of a few locks in front, which hung down over her forehead like a dirty fringe. On a chair near the window stood a basket half full of chickweed and groundsel, and two large cabbages. There was a stuffed linnet on the mantel-piece and an empty cage hanging outside the window. In front of the window-sill was the small imitation of a gate and palings, so popular among the workpeople. On the table were a loaf, a few mugs of milkless tea and a small piece of butter in a saucer. I had scarcely entered when the mother began to remove the camlet cape from the boy’s shoulders, and to slip a coarse clean pinafore over his head instead. At present I have only to deal with the trade of the husband, who made the following statement:

“I sell chickweed and grunsell, and turfs for larks. That’s all I sell, unless it’s a few nettles that’s ordered. I believe they’re for tea, sir. I gets the chickweed at Chalk Farm. I pay nothing for it. I gets it out of the public fields. Every morning about seven I goes for it. The grunsell a gentleman gives me leave to get out of his garden: that’s down Battle-bridge way, in the Chalk-road, leading to Holloway. I gets there every morning about nine. I goes there straight. After I have got my chickweed, I generally gathers enough of each to make up a dozen halfpenny bunches. The turfs I buys. A young man calls here with them. I pay 2_d._ a dozen for ’em to him. He gets them himself. Sometimes he cuts ’em at Kilburn Wells; and Notting-hill he goes to sometimes, I believe. He hires a spring barrow, weekly, to take them about. He pays 4_d._ a day, I believe, for the barrow. He sells the turfs to the bird-shops, and to such as me. He sells a few to some private places. I gets the nettles at Highgate. I don’t do much in the nettle line--there ain’t much call for it. After I’ve gathered my things I puts them in my basket, and slings ’em at my back, and starts round London. Low Marrabun I goes to always of a Saturday and Wednesday. I goes to St. Pancras on a Tuesday. I visit Clerkenwell, and Russell-square, and round about there, on a Monday. I goes down about Covent-garden and the Strand on a Thursday. I does High Marrabun on a Friday, because I aint able to do so much on that day, for I gathers my stuff on the Friday for Saturday. I find Low Marrabun the best of my beats. I cry ‘chickweed and grunsell’ as I goes along. I don’t say ‘for young singing birds.’ It is usual, I know, but I never did. I’ve been at the business about eighteen year. I’m out in usual till about five in the evening. I never stop to eat. I’m walking all the time. I has my breakfast afore I starts, and my tea when I comes home.” Here the woman shivered. I turned round and found the fire was quite out. I asked them whether they usually sat without one. The answer was, “We most generally raise a pennyworth, some how, just to boil the kettle with.” I inquired whether she was cold, and she assured me she wasn’t. “It was the blood,” she said, “that ran through her like ice sometimes.” “I am a walking ten hours every day--wet or dry,” the man continued. “I don’t stand nice much about that. I can’t go much above one mile and a half an hour, owing to my right side being paralysed. My leg and foot and all is quite dead. I goes with a stick.” [The wife brought the stick out from a corner of the room to show me. It was an old peculiarly carved one, with a bird rudely cut out of wood for the handle, and a snake twisting itself up the stick.] “I walk fifteen miles every day of my life, that I do--quite that--excepting Sunday, in course. I generally sell the chickweed and grunsell and turfs, all to the houses, not to the shops. The young man as cut the turf gathers grunsell as well for the shops. They’re tradespeople and gentlefolks’ houses together that I sells to--such as keeps canaries, or goldfinches, or linnets. I charge 1/2_d._ a bunch for chickweed and grunsell together. It’s the regular charge. The nettles is ordered in certain quantities; I don’t get them unless they’re ordered: I sells these in three-pennn’orths at a time. Why, Saturday is my best day, and that’s the reason why I can’t spare time to gather on that day. On Saturday I dare say I gets rid on two dozen bunches of chickweed and grunsell. On the other days, sometimes, I goes out and don’t sell above five or six bunches; at other times I get rid on a dozen; that I call a tidy day’s work for any other day but a Saturday, and some days I don’t sell as much as a couple of bunches in the whole day. Wednesday is my next best day after Saturday. On a Wednesday, sometimes, I sell a dozen and a half. In the summer I does much better than in winter. They gives it more to the birds then, and changes it oftener. I’ve seed a matter of eight or nine people that sell chickweed and grunsell like myself in the fields where I goes to gather it. They mostly all goes to where I do to get mine. They are a great many that sells grunsell about the streets in London, like I do. I dare say there is a hundred, and far more nor that, taking one place with another. I takes my nettles to ladies’ houses. They considers the nettles good for the blood, and drinks ’em at tea, mostly in the spring and autumn. In the spring I generally sells three threepenn’orths of ’em a week, and in the autumn about two threepenn’orths. The ladies I sell the nettles to are mostly sickly, but sometimes they aint, and has only a breaking out in the skin, or in their face. The nettles are mostly taken in Low Marrabun. I gathers more than all for Great Titchfield-street. The turfs I sell mostly in London-street, in Marrabun and John-street, and Carburton-street, and Portland-street, and Berners, and all about there. I sells about three dozen of turfs a week. I sells them at three and four a penny. I charges them at three a penny to gentlefolks and four a penny to tradespeople. I pays 2_d._ a dozen for ’em and so makes from 1_d._ to 2_d._ a dozen out of ’em. I does trifling with these in the winter--about two dozen a week, but always three dozen in the summer. Of the chickweed and grunsell I sells from six to seven dozen bunches a week in the summer, and about four or five dozen bunches in the winter. I sells mostly to regular customers, and a very few to chance ones that meet me in the street. The chance customers come mostly in the summer times. Altogether I should say with my regular and chance customers I make from 4_s._ to 5_s._ a week in the summer, and from 3_s._ to 4_s._ in the winter. That’s as near as I can tell. Last Monday I was out all day, and took 1-1/2_d._; Tuesday I took about 5-1/2_d._; Wednesday I got 9-1/2_d._; Thursday I can’t hardly recollect, not to tell the truth about it. But oh, dear me, yes I wasn’t allowed to go out on that day. We was given to understand nothing was allowed to be sold on that day. They told us it were the Thanksgiving-day. I was obliged to fast on that day. We did have a little in the morning, a trifle, but not near enough. Friday I came home with nigh upon 6_d._, and Saturday I got 1_s._, and 3_d._ after when I went out at night. I goes into Leather-lane every Saturday night, and stands with my basket there, so that altogether, last week I made 3_s._ 1-1/2_d._ But that was a slack week with me, owing to my having lost Thursday. If it hadn’t been for that I should have made near upon 4_s._ We felt the loss very severely. Prices have come down dreadful with us. The same bunches as I sell now for 1/2_d._ I used to get 1_d._ for nine or ten years ago. I dare say I could earn then, take one day with another, such a thing as 7_s._ a week, summer and winter through. There’s so many at it now to what there was afore, that it’s difficult to get a living, and the ladies are very hard with a body. They tries to beat me down, and particular in the matter of turfs. They tell me they can buy half-a-dozen for 1_d._, so I’m obligated to let ’em have three or four. There’s a many women at the business. I hardly know which is the most, men or women. There’s pretty nigh as much of one as the other, I think. I am a bed-sacking weaver by trade. When I worked at it I used to get 15_s._ a week regularly. But I was struck with paralysis nearly nineteen years ago, and lost the use of all one side, so I was obleeged to turn to summut else. Another grunseller told me on the business, and what he got, and I thought I couldn’t do no better. That’s a favourite linnet. We had that one stuffed there. A young man that I knew stuffed it for me. I was very sorry when the poor thing died. I’ve got another little linnet up there.” “I’m particular fond of little birds,” said the wife. “I never was worse off than I am now. I pays 2_s._ a week rent, and we has, take one time with another, about 3_s._ for the four of us to subsist upon for the whole seven days; yes, that, take one time with another, is generally what I do have. We very seldom has any meat. This day week we got a pound of pieces. I gave 4_d._ for ’em. Everything that will pledge I’ve got in pawn. I’ve been obliged to let them go. I can’t exactly say how much I’ve got in pledge, but you can see the tickets.” [The wife brought out a tin box full of duplicates. They were for the usual articles--coats, shawls, shirts, sheets, handkerchiefs, indeed almost every article of wearing-apparel and bedding. The sums lent were mostly 6_d._ and 9_d._, while some ran as high as 2_s._ The dates of many were last year, and these had been backed for three months.] “I’ve been paying interest for many of the things there for seven years. I pay for the backing 2-1/2_d._, that is 1_d._ for the backing, and 1-1/2_d._ for the three months’ interest. I pay 6_d._ a year interest on every one of the tickets. If its only 3_d._, I have to pay 1/2_d._ a month interest just the same, but nothing for the ticket when we put it in.” The number of duplicates was 26, and the gross sum amounted to 1_l._ 4_s._ 8_d._ One of the duplicates was for 4_d._; nine were for 6_d._, two for 9_d._, nine were for 1_s._, two for 1_s._ 6_d._, one for 1_s._ 3_d._, one for 1_s._ 7_d._ and two for 2_s._ “The greatest comfort I should like to have would be something more on our beds. We lay dreadful cold of a night, on account of being thin clad. I have no petticoats at all. We have no blankets--of late years I haven’t had any. The warm clothing would be the greatest blessing I could ask. I’m not at all discontented at my lot. That wouldn’t mend it. We strive and do the best we can, and may as well be contented over it. I think its God’s will we should be as we are. Providence is kind to me, even badly off as we are. I know it’s all for the best.”

There are no “pitches,” or stands, for the sale of groundsel in the streets; but, from the best information I could acquire, there are now 1,000 itinerants selling groundsel, each person selling, as an average, 18 bunches a day. We thus have 5,616,000 bunches a year, which, at 1/2_d._ each, realise 11,700_l._--about 4_s._ 2_d._ per week per head of sellers of groundsel. The “oldest hand” in the trade is the man whose statement and likeness I give. The sale continues through the year, but “the groundsel” season extends from April to September; in those months 24 bunches, per individual seller, is the extent of the traffic, in the other months half that quantity, giving the average of 18 bunches.

The capital required for groundsel-selling is 4_d._ for a brown wicker-basket; leather strap to sling it from the shoulder, 6_d._; in all, 10_d._ No knife is necessary; they pluck the groundsel.

Chickweed is only sold in the summer, and is most generally mixed with groundsel and plantain. The chickweed and plantain, together, are but half the sale of groundsel, and that only for five months, adding, to the total amount, 2,335_l._ But this adds little to the profits of the regular itinerants; for, when there is the best demand, there are the greatest number of sellers, who in winter seek some other business. The total amount of “green stuff” expended upon birds, as supplied by the street-sellers, I give at the close of my account of the trade of those purveyors.

Many of the groundsel and chickweed-sellers--for the callings are carried on together--who are aged men, were formerly brimstone-match sellers, who “didn’t like to take to the lucifers.”

On the publication of this account in the Morning Chronicle, several sums were forwarded to the office of that journal for the benefit of this family. These were the means of removing them to a more comfortable home, of redeeming their clothing, and in a measure realizing the wishes of the poor woman.

OF TURF CUTTING AND SELLING.

A man long familiar with this trade, and who knew almost every member of it individually, counted for me 36 turf-cutters, to his own knowledge, and was confident that there were 40 turf-cutters and 60 sellers in London; the addition of the sellers, however, is but that of 10 women, who assist their husbands or fathers in the street sales,--but no women cut turf,--and of 10 men who sell, but buy of the cutters.

The turf is simply a sod, but it is considered indispensable that it should contain the leaves of the “small Dutch clover,” (the shamrock of the Irish), the most common of all the trefoils. The turf is used almost entirely for the food and roosting-place of the caged sky-larks. Indeed one turf-cutter said to me: “It’s only people that don’t understand it that gives turf to other birds, but of course if we’re asked about it, we say it’s good for every bird, pigeons and chickens and all; and very likely it is if they choose to have it.” The principal places for the cutting of turf are at present Shepherd’s Bush, Notting Hill, the Caledonian Road, Hampstead, Highgate, Hornsey, Peckham, and Battersea. Chalk Farm was an excellent place, but it is now exhausted, “fairly flayed” of the shamrocks. Parts of Camden Town were also fertile in turf, but they have been built over. Hackney was a district to which the turf-cutters resorted, but they are now forbidden to cut sods there. Hampstead Heath used to be another harvest-field for these turf-purveyors, but they are now prohibited from “so much as sticking a knife into the Heath;” but turf-cutting is carried on surreptitiously on all the outskirts of the Heath, for there used to be a sort of feeling, I was told, among some real Londoners that Hampstead Heath yielded the best turf of any place. All the “commons” and “greens,” Paddington, Camberwell, Kennington, Clapham, Putney, &c. are also forbidden ground to the turf-cutter. “O, as to the parks and Primrose Hill itself--round about it’s another thing--nobody,” it was answered to my inquiry, “ever thought of cutting their turf there. The people about, if they was only visitors, wouldn’t stand it, and right too. I wouldn’t, if I wasn’t in the turf-cutting myself.”

The places where the turf is principally cut are the fields, or plots, in the suburbs, in which may be seen a half-illegible board, inviting the attention of the class of speculating builders to an “eligible site” for villas. Some of these places are open, and have long been open, to the road; others are protected by a few crazy rails, and the turf-cutters consider that outside the rails, or between them and the road, they have a right to cut turf, unless forbidden by the police. The fact is, that they cut it on sufferance; but the policeman never interferes, unless required to do so by the proprietor of the land or his agent. One gentleman, who has the control over a considerable quantity of land “eligible” for building, is very inimical to the pursuits of the turf-cutters, who, of course, return his hostility. One man told me that he was required, late on a Saturday night, some weeks ago, to supply six dozen of turfs to a very respectable shopkeeper, by ten or eleven on the Sunday morning. The shopkeeper had an aristocratic connection, and durst not disappoint his customers in their demands for fresh turf on the Sunday, so that the cutter must supply it. In doing so, he encountered Mr. ---- (the gentleman in question), who was exceedingly angry with him: “You d--d poaching thief!” said the gentleman, “if this is the way you pass your Sunday, I’ll give you in charge.” One turf-cutter, I was informed, had, within these eight years, paid 3_l._ 15_s._ fines for trespassing, besides losing his barrow, &c., on every conviction: “But he’s a most outdacious fellor,” I was told by one of his mates, “and won’t mind spoiling anybody’s ground to save hisself a bit of trouble. There’s too many that way, which gives us a bad name.” Some of the managers of the land to be built upon give the turf-cutters free leave to labour in their vocation; others sell the sods for garden-plots, or use them to set out the gardens to any small houses they may be connected with, and with them the turf-cutters have no chance of turning a sod or a penny.

I accompanied a turf-cutter, to observe the manner of his work. We went to the neighbourhood of Highgate, which we reached a little before nine in the morning. There was nothing very remarkable to be observed, but the scene was not without its interest. Although it was nearly the middle of January, the grass was very green and the weather very mild. There happened to be no one on the ground but my companion and myself, and in some parts of our progress nothing was visible but green fields with their fringe of dark-coloured leafless trees; while in other parts, which were somewhat more elevated, glimpses of the crowded roof of an omnibus, or of a line of fleecy white smoke, showing the existence of a railway, testified to the neighbourhood of a city; but no sound was heard except, now and then, a distant railway whistle. The turf-cutter, after looking carefully about him--the result of habit, for I was told afterwards, by the policeman, that there was no trespass--set rapidly to work. His apparatus was a sharp-pointed table-knife of the ordinary size, which he inserted in the ground, and made it rapidly describe a half-circle; he then as rapidly ran his implement in the opposite half-circle, flung up the sod, and, after slapping it with his knife, cut off the lower part so as to leave it flat--working precisely as does a butcher cutting out a joint or a chop, and reducing the fat. Small holes are thus left in the ground--of such shape and size as if deep saucers were to be fitted into them--and in the event of a thunder-shower in droughty weather, they become filled with water, and have caused a puzzlement, I am told, to persons taking their quiet walk when the storm had ceased, to comprehend why the rain should be found to gather in little circular pools in some parts, and not in others.

The man I accompanied cut and shaped six of these turfs in about a minute, but he worked without intermission, and rather to show me with what rapidity and precision he could cut, than troubling himself to select what was saleable. After that we diverged in the direction of Hampstead; and in a spot not far from a temporary church, found three turf-cutters at work,--but they worked asunder, and without communication one with another. The turfs, as soon as they are cut and shaped, are thrown into a circular basket, and when the basket is full it is emptied on to the barrow (a costermonger’s barrow), which is generally left untended at the nearest point: “We can trust one another, as far as I know,” said one turf-man to me, “and nobody else would find it worth while to steal turfs.” The largest number of men that my most intelligent informant had ever seen at work in one locality was fourteen, and that was in a field just about to be built over, and “where they had leave.” Among the turf-purveyors there is no understanding as to where they are to “cut.” Wet weather does not interfere with turf procuring; it merely adds to the weight, and consequently to the toil of drawing the barrow. Snow is rather an advantage to the street-seller, as purchasers are apt to fancy that if the storm continues, turfs will not be obtainable, and so they buy more freely. The turf-man clears the snow from the ground in any known locality--the cold pinching his ungloved hands--and cuts out the turf, “as green,” I was told, “as an April sod.” The weather most dreaded is that when hoar frost lies long and heavy on the ground, for the turf cut with the rime upon it soon turns black, and is unsaleable. Foggy dark weather is also prejudicial, “for then,” one man said, “the days clips it uncommon short, and people won’t buy by candlelight, no more will the shops. Birds has gone to sleep then, and them that’s fondest on them says, ‘We can get fresher turf to-morrow.’” The gatherers cannot work by moonlight; “for the clover leaves then shuts up,” I was told by one who said he was a bit of a botanist, “like the lid of a box, and you can’t tell them.”

One of my informants told me that he cut 25 dozen turfs every Friday (the great working turf-day) of the year on an average (he sometimes cut on that day upwards of 30 dozen); 17 dozen on a Tuesday; and 6 dozen on the other days of the week, more or less, as the demand justified--but 6 dozen was an average. He had also cut a few turfs on a Sunday morning, but only at long intervals, sometimes only thrice a year. Thus one man will cut 2,496 dozen, or 29,952 turfs in a year, not reckoning the product of any Sunday. From the best information I could acquire, there seems no doubt but that one-half of the turf-cutters (20) exert a similar degree of industry to that detailed; and the other 20 procure a moiety of the quantity cut and disposed of by their stronger and more fortunate brethren. This gives an aggregate, for an average year, of 598,560 turfs, or including Sunday turf-cutting, of 600,000. Each turf is about 6 inches diameter at the least; so that the whole extent of turf cut for London birds yearly, if placed side by side, would extend fifty-six miles, or from London to Canterbury.

In wet weather, 6 dozen turfs weigh, on an average, 1 cwt.; in dry weather, 8 dozen weigh no more; if, therefore, we take 7 dozen as the usual hundred-weight, a turf-cutter of the best class carries, in basket-loads, to his barrow, and when his stock is completed, drags into town from the localities I have specified, upwards of 3-1/2 cwt. every Friday, nearly 2-1/2 every Tuesday, and about 7 cwt. in the course of a week; the smaller traders drag half the quantity,--and the total weight of turf disposed of for the cage-birds of London, every year, is 546 tons.

Of the supply of turf, obtained as I have described, at least three-fourths is sold to the bird-shops, who retail it to their customers. The price paid by these shopkeepers to the labourers for their turf trade is 2_d._ and 2-1/2_d._ a dozen, but rarely 2-1/2_d._ They retail it at from 3_d._ to 6_d._ a dozen, according to connection and locality. The remainder is sold by the cutters on their rounds from house to house, at two and three a penny.

None of the turf-cutters confine themselves to it. They sell in addition groundsel, chickweed, plaintain, very generally; and a few supply nettles, dandelion, ground-ivy, snails, worms, frogs, and toads. The sellers of groundsel and chickweed are far more numerous, as I have shown, than the turf-cutters--indeed many of them are incapable of cutting turf or of dragging the weight of the turfs.

OF THE EXPERIENCE AND CUSTOMERS OF A TURF-CUTTER.

A short but strongly-built man, of about thirty, with a very English face, and dressed in a smock-frock, wearing also very strong unblacked boots, gave me the following account:--

“My father,” he said, “was in the Earl of ----’s service, and I was brought up to stable-work. I was employed in a large coaching inn, in Lancashire, when I was last employed in that way, but about ten years ago a railway line was opened, and the coaching was no go any longer; it hadn’t a chance to pay, so the horses and all was sold, and I was discharged with a lot of others. I walked from Manchester to London--for I think most men when they don’t know what in the world to do, come to London--and I lived a few months on what little money I had, and what I could pick up in an odd job about horses. I had some expectations when I came up that I might get something to do through my lord, or some of his people--they all knew me: but my lord was abroad, and his establishment wasn’t in town, and I had to depend entirely on myself. I was beat out three or four times, and didn’t know what to do, but somehow or other I got over it. At last--it’s between eight and nine years ago--I was fairly beat out. I was taking a walk--I can’t say just now in what way I went, for it was all one which way--but I remember I saw a man cutting turf, and I remembered then that a man that lived near me lived pretty middling by turf-cutting. So I watched how it was done, and then I inquired how I could get into it, and as I’d paid my way I could give reference to show I might be trusted; so I got a barrow on hire, and a basket, and bought a knife for 3_d._ at a marine-shop, and set to work. At first I only supplied shops, but in a little time I fell into a private round, and that pays better. I’ve been at it almost every day, I may say, ever since. My best customers are working people that’s fond of birds; they’re far the best. It’s the ready penny with them, and no grumbling. I’ve lost money by trusting noblemen; of course I blame their servants. You’d be surprised, sir, to hear how often at rich folks’ houses, when they’ve taken their turf or what they want, they’ll take credit and say, ‘O, I’ve got no change,’ or ‘I can’t be bothered with ha’pence,’ or ‘you must call again.’ There’s one great house in Cavendish-square always takes a month’s credit, and pays one month within another (pays the first month as the second is falling due), and not always that very regular. They can’t know how poor men has to fight for a bit of bread. Some people are very particular about their turfs, and look very sharp for the small clover leaves. We never have turfs left on hand: in summer we water them to keep them fresh; in wet weather they don’t require it; they’ll keep without. I think I make on turf 9_s._ a week all the year round; the summer’s half as good again as the winter. Supposing I make 3_s._ a week on groundsel, and chickweed, and snails, and other things, that’s 12_s._--but look you here, sir. I pay 3_s._ 6_d._ a week for my rent--it’s a furnished room--and 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for my barrow; that’s 5_s._ off the 12_s._; and I’ve a wife and one little boy. My wife may get a day at least every week at charring; she has 1_s._ for it and her board. She helps me when she’s not out, and if she is out, I sometimes have to hire a lad, so it’s no great advantage the shilling a day. I’ve paid 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for my barrow--it’s a very good and big one--for four years. Before that I paid 2_s._ a week. O yes, sir, I know very well, that at 1_s._ 6_d._ a week I’ve paid nearly 14_l._ for a barrow worth only 2_l._ 2_s._; but I can’t help it; I really can’t. I’ve tried my hardest to get money to have one of my own, and to get a few sticks (furniture) of my own too. It’s no use trying any more. If I have ever got a few shillings a-head, there’s a pair of shoes wanted, or there’s something else, or my wife has a fit of sickness, or my little boy has, or something’s sure to happen that way, and it all goes. Last winter was a very hard time for people in my way, from hoar frost and fogs. I ran near 3_l._ into debt; greater part of it for house-rent and my barrow; the rest was small sums borrowed of shopkeepers that I served. I paid all up in the summer, but I’m now 14_s._ in debt for my barrow; it always keeps me back; the man that owns it calls every Sunday morning, but he don’t press me, if I haven’t money. I would get out of the life if I could, but will anybody take a groom out of the streets? and I’m not master of anything but grooming. I can read and write. I was brought up a Roman Catholic, and was christened one. I never go to mass now. One gets out of the way of such things, having to fight for a living as I have. It seems like mocking going to chapel, when you’re grumbling in your soul.”

OF PLANTAIN-SELLERS.

Plantain is sold extensively, and is given to canaries, but water-cress is given to those birds more than any other green thing. It is the ripe seed, in a spike, of the “great” and the “ribbed” plantain. The green leaves of the last-mentioned plant used to be in demand as a styptick. Shenstone speaks of “plantain ribbed, that heals the reaper’s wound.” I believe that it was never sold in the streets of London. The most of the plantain is gathered in the brick-fields, wherever they are found, as the greater plantain, which gives three-fourths of the supply, loves an arid situation. It is sold in hands to the shops, about 60 “heads” going to a “hand,” at a price, according to size, &c., from 1_d._ to 4_d._ On a private round, five or six are given for a halfpenny. It is, however, generally gathered and sold with chickweed, and along with chickweed I have shown the quantity used.

* * * * *

The money-value of the several kinds and quantities of “green-stuff” annually purchased in the streets of London is as follows:--

6,696,450 bunches of water-cresses, at 1/2_d._ per bunch £13,950 5,616,000 „ groundsel, at 1/2_d._ 11,700 1,120,800 „ chickweed and plantain 2,335 660,000 turfs, at 2-1/2_d._ per doz. 572 ------- 28,557

Of the above amount, it may be said that upwards of 14,000_l._ are spent yearly on what may be called the bird-food of London.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF EATABLES AND DRINKABLES.

These dealers were more numerous, even when the metropolitan population was but half its present extent. I heard several causes assigned for this,--such as the higher rate of earnings of the labouring people at that time, as well as the smaller number of shopkeepers who deal in such cheap luxuries as penny pies, and the fewer places of cheap amusement, such as the “penny gaffs.” These places, I was told, “run away with the young people’s pennies,” which were, at one period, expended in the streets.

The class engaged in the manufacture, or in the sale, of these articles, are a more intelligent people than the generality of street-sellers. They have nearly all been mechanics who, from inability to procure employment at their several crafts--from dislike to an irksome and, perhaps, sedentary confinement--or from an overpowering desire “to be their own masters,” have sought a livelihood in the streets. The purchase and sale of fish, fruit, or vegetables require no great training or deftness; but to make the dainties, in which street-people are critical, and to sell them at the lowest possible price, certainly requires some previous discipline to produce the skill to combine and the taste to please.

I may here observe, that I found it common enough among these street-sellers to describe themselves and their fraternity not by their names or callings, but by the article in which they deal. This is sometimes ludicrous enough: “Is the man you’re asking about a pickled whelk, sir?” was said to me. In answer to another inquiry, I was told, “Oh, yes, I know him--he’s a sweet-stuff.” Such ellipses, or abbreviations, are common in all mechanical or commercial callings.

Men and women, and most especially boys, purchase their meals day after day in the streets. The coffee-stall supplies a warm breakfast; shell-fish of many kinds tempt to a luncheon; hot-eels or pea-soup, flanked by a potato “all hot,” serve for a dinner; and cakes and tarts, or nuts and oranges, with many varieties of pastry, confectionary, and fruit, woo to indulgence in a dessert; while for supper there is a sandwich, a meat pudding, or a “trotter.”

The street provisions consist of cooked or prepared victuals, which may be divided into solids, pastry, confectionary, and drinkables.

The “solids” however, of these three divisions, are such as only regular street-buyers consider to be sufficing for a substantial meal, for it will be seen that the comestibles accounted “good for dinner,” are all of a dainty, rather than a solid character. Men whose lives, as I have before stated, are alternations of starvation and surfeit, love some easily-swallowed and comfortable food, better than the most approved substantiality of a dinner-table. I was told by a man, who was once foodless for thirty-eight hours, that in looking into the window of a cook-shop--he longed far more for a basin of soup than for a cut from the boiled round, or the roasted ribs, of beef. He felt a gnawing rather than a ravenous desire, and some tasty semi-liquid was the incessant object of his desires.

The solids then, according to street estimation, consist of hot-eels, pickled whelks, oysters, sheep’s-trotters, pea-soup, fried fish, ham-sandwiches, hot green peas, kidney puddings, boiled meat puddings, beef, mutton, kidney, and eel pies, and baked potatos. In each of these provisions the street poor find a mid-day or mid-night meal.

The pastry and confectionary which tempt the street eaters are tarts of rhubarb, currant, gooseberry, cherry, apple, damson, cranberry, and (so called) mince pies; plum dough and plum-cake; lard, currant, almond and many other varieties of cakes, as well as of tarts; gingerbread-nuts and heart-cakes; Chelsea buns; muffins and crumpets; “sweet stuff” includes the several kinds of rocks, sticks, lozenges, candies, and hard-bakes; the medicinal confectionary of cough-drops and horehound; and, lastly, the more novel and aristocratic luxury of street-ices; and strawberry cream, at 1_d._ a glass, (in Greenwich Park).

The drinkables are tea, coffee, and cocoa; ginger-beer, lemonade, Persian sherbet, and some highly-coloured beverages which have no specific name, but are introduced to the public as “cooling” drinks; hot elder cordial or wine; peppermint water; curds and whey; water (as at Hampstead); rice milk; and milk in the parks.

At different periods there have been attempts to introduce more substantial viands into the street provision trade, but all within these twenty years have been exceptional and unsuccessful. One man a few years back established a portable cook-shop in Leather-lane, cutting out portions of the joints to be carried away or eaten on the spot, at the buyer’s option. But the speculation was a failure. Black puddings used to be sold, until a few years back, smoking from cans, not unlike potato cans, in such places as the New Cut; but the trade in these rather suspicious articles gradually disappeared.

Mr. Albert Smith, who is an acute observer in all such matters, says, in a lively article on the Street Boys of London:

“The kerb is his club, offering all the advantages of one of those institutions without any subscription or ballot. Had he a few pence, he might dine equally well as at Blackwall, and with the same variety of delicacies without going twenty yards from the pillars of St. Clement’s churchyard. He might begin with a water souchée of eels, varying his first course with pickled whelks, cold fried flounders, or periwinkles. Whitebait, to be sure, he would find a difficulty in procuring, but as the more cunning gourmands do not believe these delicacies to be fish at all, but merely little bits of light pie-crust fried in grease;--and as moreover, the brown bread and butter is after all the grand attraction,--the boy might soon find a substitute. Then would come the potatos, apparently giving out so much steam that the can which contains them seems in momentary danger of blowing up; large, hot, mealy fellows, that prove how unfounded were the alarms of the bad-crop-ites; and he might next have a course of boiled feet of some animal or other, which he would be certain to find in front of the gin-shop. Cyder-cups perhaps he would not get; but there would be ‘ginger-beer from the fountain, at 1_d._ per glass;’ and instead of mulled claret, he could indulge in hot elder cordial; whilst for dessert he could calculate upon all the delicacies of the season, from the salads at the corner of Wych-street to the baked apples at Temple Bar. None of these things would cost more than a penny a piece; some of them would be under that sum; and since as at Verey’s, and some other foreign restaurateurs, there is no objection to your dividing the “portions,” the boy might, if he felt inclined to give a dinner to a friend, get off under 6_d._ There would be the digestive advantage too of moving leisurely about from one course to another; and, above all, there would be no fee to waiters.” After alluding to the former glories of some of the street-stands, more especially of the kidney pudding establishments which displayed rude transparencies, one representing the courier of St. Petersburg riding six horses at once for a kidney pudding, Mr. Smith continues,--“But of all these eating-stands the chief favourite with the boy is the potato-can. They collect around it as they would do on ’Change, and there talk over local matters, or discuss the affairs of the adjacent cab-stand, in which they are at times joined by the waterman whom they respect, more so perhaps than the policeman; certainly more than they do the street-keeper, for him they especially delight to annoy, and they watch any of their fellows eating a potato, with a curiosity and an attention most remarkable, as if no two persons fed in the same manner, and they expected something strange or diverting to happen at every mouthful.”

A gentleman, who has taken an artist’s interest in all connected with the streets, and has been familiar with their daily and nightly aspect from the commencement of the present century, considers that the great change is not so much in what has ceased to be sold, but in the introduction of fresh articles into street-traffic--such as pine-apples and Brazil-nuts, rhubarb and cucumbers, ham-sandwiches, ginger-beer, &c. The coffee-stall, he represents, has but superseded the saloop-stall (of which I have previously spoken); while the class of street-customers who supported the saloop-dealer now support the purveyor of coffee. The appearance of the two stalls, however, seen before daybreak, with their respective customers, on a bleak winter’s morning, was very different. Round the saloop-stall was a group--hardly discernible at a little distance in the dimly-lighted streets--the prominent figures being of two callings now extinct--the climbing-boy and the old hackney-coachman.

The little sweep would have his saloop smoking hot--and there was the common appliance of a charcoal grate--regaling himself with the savoury steam until the mess was cool enough for him to swallow; whilst he sought to relieve his naked feet from the numbing effects of the cold by standing now on the right foot and now on the left, and swinging the other to and fro, until a change of posture was necessitated; his white teeth the while gleamed from his sooty visage as he gleefully licked his lips at the warm and oily breakfast.

The old hackney-coachman was wrapped up in a many-caped great coat, drab--when it left the tailor’s hands some years before--but then worn and discoloured, and, perhaps, patched or tattered; its weight alone, however, communicated a sort of warmth to the wearer; his legs were closely and artistically “wisped” with hay-bands; and as he kept smiting his chest with his arms, “to keep the cold out,” while his saloop was cooling, he would, in no very gentle terms, express his desire to add to its comforting influence the stimulant of a “flash of lightning,” a “go of rum,” or a “glass of max,”--for so a dram of neat spirit was then called.

The old watchman of that day, too, almost as heavily coated as the hackneyman, would sometimes partake of the street “Saloop-loop-loop! Sa-loop!” The woman of the town, in “looped and windowed raggedness,” the outcast of the very lowest class, was at the saloop, as she is now and then at the coffee-stall, waiting until daylight drove her to her filthy lodging-house. But the climbing-boy has, happily, left no successor; the hackneyman has been succeeded by the jauntier cabman; and the taciturn old watchman by the lounging and trim policeman.

Another class of street-sellers, no longer to be seen, were the “barrow-women.” They sold fruit of all kinds, little else, in very clean white barrows, and their fruit was excellent, and purchased by the wealthier classes. They were, for the most part, Irish women, and some were remarkable for beauty. Their dress was usually a good chintz gown, the skirt being tidily tucked or pinned up behind, “in a way,” said one informant, “now sometimes seen on the stage when correctness of costume is cared for.” These women were prosperous in their calling, nor was there any imputation on their chastity, as the mothers were almost always wives.

Concerning the bygone street-cries, I had also the following account from the personal observation of an able correspondent:--

“First among the old ‘musical cries,’ may be cited the ‘Tiddy Doll!’--immortalised by Hogarth--then comes the last person, who, with a fine bass voice, coaxed his customers to buy sweets with, ‘Quack, quack, quack, quack! Browns, browns, browns! have you got any mouldy browns?’ There was a man, too, who sold tripe, &c., in this way, and to some purpose; he was as fine a man as ever stepped, and his deep rich voice would ring through a whole street, ‘Dog’s-meat! cat’s-meat! nice tripe! neat’s feet! Come buy my trotters!’ The last part would not have disgraced Lablache. He discovered a new way of pickling tripe--got on--made contracts for supplying the Navy during the war, and acquired a large property. One of our most successful artists is his grandson. Then there was that delight of our childhood--the eight o’clock ‘Hot spiced gingerbread! hot spiced gingerbread! buy my spiced gingerbread! sm-o-o-king hot!’” Another informant remembered a very popular character (among the boys), whose daily cry was: “Hot spiced gingerbread nuts, nuts, nuts! If one’ll warm you, wha-at’ll a pound do?--Wha-a-a-at’ll a pound do?” Gingerbread was formerly in much greater demand than it is now.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF PEA-SOUP AND HOT EELS.

Two of the condiments greatly relished by the chilled labourers and others who regale themselves on street luxuries, are “pea-soup” and “hot eels.” Of these tradesmen there may be 500 now in the streets on a Saturday. As the two trades are frequently carried on by the same party, I shall treat of them together. The greatest number of these stands is in Old-street, St. Luke’s, about twenty. In warm weather these street-cooks deal only in “hot eels” and whelks; as the whelk trade is sometimes an accompaniment of the others, for then the soup will not sell. These dealers are stationary, having stalls or stands in the street, and the savoury odour from them attracts more hungry-looking gazers and longers than does a cook-shop window. They seldom move about, but generally frequent the same place. A celebrated dealer of this class has a stand in Clare-street, Clare-market, opposite a cat’s-meat shop; he has been heard to boast, that he wouldn’t soil his hands at the business if he didn’t get his 30_s._ a day, and his 2_l._ 10_s._ on a Saturday. Half this amount is considered to be about the truth. This person has mostly all the trade for hot eels in the Clare-market district. There is another “hot eel purveyor” at the end of Windmill-street, Tottenham-court-road, that does a very good trade. It is thought that he makes about 5_s._ a day at the business, and about 10_s._ on Saturday. There was, before the removals, a man who came out about five every afternoon, standing in the New-cut, nearly opposite the Victoria Theatre, his “girl” always attending to the stall. He had two or three lamps with “hot eels” painted upon them, and a handsome stall. He was considered to make about 7_s._ a day by the sale of eels alone, but he dealt in fried fish and pickled whelks as well, and often had a pile of fried fish a foot high. Near the Bricklayers’ Arms, at the junction of the Old and New Kent-roads, a hot-eel man dispenses what a juvenile customer assured me was “as spicy as any in London, as if there was gin in it.” But the dealer in Clare-market does the largest trade of all in the hot-eel line. He is “the head man.” On one Saturday he was known to sell 100lbs. of eels, and on most Saturdays he will get rid of his four “draughts” of eels (a draught being 20lbs.) He and his son are dressed in Jenny Lind hats, bound with blue velvet, and both dispense the provisions, while the daughter attends to wash the cups. “On a Sunday, anybody,” said my informant, “would think him the first nobleman or squire in the land, to see him dressed in his white hat, with black crape round it, and his drab paletot and mother-o’-pearl buttons, and black kid gloves, with the fingers too long for him.”

I may add, that even the very poorest, who have only a halfpenny to spend, as well as those with better means, resort to the stylish stalls in preference to the others. The eels are all purchased at Billingsgate early in the morning. The parties themselves, or their sons or daughters, go to Billingsgate, and the watermen row them to the Dutch eel vessels moored off the market. The fare paid to the watermen is 1_d._ for every 10lbs. purchased and brought back in the boat, the passenger being gratis. These dealers generally trade on their own capital; but when some have been having “a flare up,” and have “broke down for stock,” to use the words of my informant, they borrow 1_l._, and pay it back in a week or a fortnight at the outside, and give 2_s._ for the loan of it. The money is usually borrowed of the barrow, truck, and basket-lenders. The amount of capital required for carrying on the business of course depends on the trade done; but even in a small way, the utensils cost 1_l._ They consist of one fish-kettle and one soup-kettle, holding upon an average three gallons each; besides these, five basins and five cups and ten spoons are required, also a washhand basin to wash the cups, basins, and spoons in, and a board and tressel on which the whole stand. In a large way, it requires from 3_l._ to 4_l._ to fit up a handsome stall. For this the party would have “two fine kettles,” holding about four gallons each, and two patent cast-iron fireplaces (the 1_l._ outfit only admits of the bottoms of two tin saucepans being used as fireplaces, in which charcoal is always burning to keep the eels and soup hot; the whelks are always eaten cold). The crockery and spoons would be in no way superior. A small dealer requires, over and above this sum, 10_s._ to go to market with and purchase stock, and the large dealer about 30_s._ The class of persons belonging to the business have either been bred to it, or taken to it through being out of work. Some have been disabled during their work, and have resorted to it to save themselves from the workhouse. The price of the hot eels is a halfpenny for five or seven pieces of fish, and three-parts of a cupfull of liquor. The charge for a half-pint of pea-soup is a halfpenny, and the whelks are sold, according to the size, from a halfpenny each to three or four for the same sum. These are put out in saucers.

The eels are Dutch, and are cleaned and washed, and cut in small pieces of from a half to an inch each. [The daughter of one of my informants was busily engaged, as I derived this information, in the cutting of the fish. She worked at a blood-stained board, with a pile of pieces on one side and a heap of entrails on the other.] The portions so cut are then boiled, and the liquor is thickened with flour and flavoured with chopped parsley and mixed spices. It is kept hot in the streets, and served out, as I have stated, in halfpenny cupfulls, with a small quantity of vinegar and pepper. The best purveyors add a little butter. The street-boys are extravagant in their use of vinegar.

To dress a draught of eels takes three hours--to clean, cut them up, and cook them sufficiently; and the cost is now 5_s._ 2_d._ (much lower in the summer) for the draught (the 2_d._ being the expense of “shoring”), 8_d._ for 4 lb. of flour to thicken the liquor, 2_d._ for the parsley to flavour it, and 1_s._ 6_d._ for the vinegar, spices, and pepper (about three quarts of vinegar and two ounces of pepper). This quantity, when dressed and seasoned, will fetch in halfpennyworths from 15_s._ to 18_s._ The profit upon this would be from 7_s._ to 9_s._ 6_d._; but the cost of the charcoal has to be deducted, as well as the salt used while cooking. These two items amount to about 5_d._

The pea-soup consists of split peas, celery, and beef bones. Five pints, at 3-1/2_d._ a quart, are used to every three gallons; the bones cost 2_d._, carrots 1_d._, and celery 1/2_d._--these cost 1_s._ 0-1/4_d._; and the pepper, salt, and mint, to season it, about 2_d._ This, when served in halfpenny basinfulls, will fetch from 2_s._ 3_d._ to 2_s._ 4_d._, leaving 1_s._ 1_d._ profit. But from this the expenses of cooking must be taken; so that the clear gain upon three gallons comes to about 11_d._ In a large trade, three kettles, or twelve gallons, of pea-soup will be disposed of in the day, and about four draughts, or 80 lbs., of hot eels on every day but Saturday,--when the quantity of eels disposed of would be about five draughts, or 100 lbs. weight, and about 15 gallons of pea-soup. Hence the profits of a good business in the hot-eel and pea-soup line united will be from 7_l._ to 7_l._ 10_s._ per week, or more. But there is only one man in London does this amount of business, or rather makes this amount of money. A small business will do about 15 lbs. of eels in the week, including Saturday, and about 12 gallons of soup. Sometimes credit is given for a halfpennyworth, or a pennyworth, at the outside; but very little is lost from bad debts. Boys who are partaking of the articles will occasionally say to the proprietor of the stall, “Well, master, they are nice; trust us another ha’p’orth, and I’ll pay you when I comes again;” but they are seldom credited, for the stall-keepers know well they would never see them again. Very often the stock cooked is not disposed of, and then it is brought home and eaten by the family. The pea-soup will seldom keep a night, but what is left the family generally use for supper.

The dealers go out about half-past ten in the morning, and remain out till about ten at night. Monday is the next best day to Saturday. The generality of the customers are boys from 12 to 16 years of age. Newsboys are very partial to hot eels--women prefer the pea-soup. Some of the boys will have as many as six halfpenny cupfulls consecutively on a Saturday night; and some women will have three halfpenny basinsfull of soup. Many persons in the cold weather prefer the hot soup to beer. On wet, raw, chilly days, the soup goes off better than usual, and in fine weather there is a greater demand for the hot eels. One dealer assured me that he once did serve two gentlemen’s servants with twenty-eight halfpenny cupfulls of hot eels one after another. One servant had sixteen, and the other twelve cupfulls, which they ate all at one standing; and one of these customers was so partial to hot eels, that he used to come twice a day every day for six months after that, and have eight cupfulls each day, four at noon and four in the evening. These two persons were the best customers my informant ever had. Servants, however, are not generally partial to the commodity. Hot eels are not usually taken for dinner, nor is pea-soup, but throughout the whole day, and just at the fancy of the passers-by. There are no shops for the sale of these articles. The dealers keep no accounts of what their receipts and expenditure are.

The best time of the year for the hot eels is from the middle of June to the end of August. On some days during that time a person in a small way of business will clear upon an average 1_s._ 6_d._ a day, on other days 1_s._; on some days, during the month of August, as much as 2_s._ 6_d._ a day. Some cry out “Nice hot eels--nice hot eels!” or “Warm your hands and fill your bellies for a halfpenny.” One man used to give his surplus eels, when he considered his sale completed on a night, to the poor creatures refused admission into a workhouse, lending them his charcoal fire for warmth, which was always returned to him. The poor creatures begged cinders, and carried the fire under a railway arch. The general rule, however, is for the dealer to be silent, and merely expose the articles for sale. “I likes better,” said one man to me, “to touch up people’s noses than their heyes or their hears.” There are now in the trade almost more than can get a living at it, and their earnings are less than they were formerly. One party attributed this to the opening of a couple of penny-pie shops in his neighbourhood. Before then he could get 2_s._ 6_d._ a day clear, take one day with another; but since the establishment of the business in the penny-pie line he cannot take above 1_s._ 6_d._ a day clear. On the day the first of these pie-shops opened, it made as much as 10 lbs., or half a draught of eels, difference to him. There was a band of music and an illumination at the pie-shop, and it was impossible to stand against that. The fashionable dress of the trade is the “Jenny Lind” or “wide-awake” hat, with a broad black ribbon tied round it, and a white apron and sleeves. The dealers usually go to Hampton-court or Greenwich on a fine Sunday. They are partial to the pit of Astley’s. One of them told his waterman at Billingsgate the other morning that “he and his good lady had been werry amused with the osses at Hashley’s last night.”

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A HOT-EEL AND PEA-SOUP MAN.

“I was a coalheaver,” said one of the class to me, as I sat in his attic up a close court, watching his wife “thicken the liquor;” “I was a-going along the plank, from one barge to another, when the swell of some steamers throwed the plank off the ‘horse,’ and chucked me down, and broke my knee agin the side of the barge. Before that I was yarning upon an average my 20_s._ to 30_s._ a week. I was seven months and four days in King’s College Hospital after this. I found they was a-doing me no good there, so I come out and went over to Bartholemy’s Hospital. I was in there nineteen months altogether, and after that I was a month in Middlesex Hospital, and all on ’em turned me out oncurable. You see, the bone’s decayed--four bits of bone have been taken from it. The doctor turned me out three times ’cause I wouldn’t have it off. He asked my wife if she would give consent, but neither she nor my daughter would listen to it, so I was turned out on ’em all. How my family lived all this time it’s hard to tell. My eldest boy did a little--got 3_s._ 6_d._ a week as an errand-boy, and my daughter was in service, and did a little for me; but that was all we had to live upon. There was six children on my hands, and however they did manage I can’t say. After I came out of the hospital I applied to the parish, and was allowed 2_s._ 6_d._ a week and four loaves. But I was anxious to do something, so a master butcher, as I knowed, said he would get me ‘a pitch’ (the right to fix a stall), if I thought I could sit at a stall and sell a few things. I told him I thought I could, and would be very thankful for it. Well, I had heard how the man up in the market was making a fortune at the hot-eel and pea-soup line. [A paviour as left his barrow and two shovels with me told me to-day, said the man, by way of parenthesis--‘that he knowed for a fact he was clearing 6_l._ a week regular.’] So I thought I’d have a touch at the same thing. But you see, I never could rise money enough to get sufficient stock to make a do of it, and never shall, I expect--it don’t seem like it, however. I ought to have 5_s._ to go to market with to-morrow, and I ain’t got above 1_s._ 6_d._; and what’s that for stock-money, I’d like to know? Well, as I was saying, the master butcher lent me 10_s._ to start in the line. He was the best friend I ever had. But I’ve never been able to do anything at it--not to say to get a living.” “He can’t carry anything now, sir,” said his wife, as the old man strove to get the bellows to warm up the large kettle of pea-soup that was on the fire. “Aye, I can’t go without my crutch. My daughter goes to Billingsgate for me. I’ve got nobody else; and she cuts up the eels. If it warn’t for her I must give it up altogether, and go into the workhouse outright. I couldn’t fetch ’em. I ought to have been out to-night by rights till ten, if I’d had anything to have sold. My wife can’t do much; she’s troubled with the rheumatics in her head and limbs.” “Yes,” said the old body, with a sigh, “I’m never well, and never shall be again, I know.” “Would you accept on a drop of soup, sir?” asked the man; “you’re very welcome, I can assure you. You’ll find it very good, sir.” I told him I had just dined, and the poor old fellow proceeded with his tale. “Last week I earned clear about 8_s._, and that’s to keep six on us. I didn’t pay no rent last week nor yet this, and I don’t know when I shall again, if things goes on in this way. The week before there was a fast-day, and I didn’t earn above 6_s._ that week, if I did that. My boy can’t go to school. He’s got no shoes nor nothing to go in. The girls go to the ragged-school, but we can’t send them of a Sunday nowhere.” “Other people can go,” said one of the young girls nestling round the fire, and with a piece of sacking over her shoulders for a shawl--“them as has got things to go in; but mother don’t like to let us go as we are.” “She slips her mother’s shoes on when she goes out. It would take 1_l._ to start me well. With that I could go to market, and buy my draught of eels a shilling cheaper, and I could afford to cut my pieces a little bigger; and people where they gets used well comes again--don’t you see? I could have sold more eels if I’d had ’em to-day, and soup too. Why, there’s four hours of about the best time to-night that I’m losing now ’cause I’ve nothing to sell. The man in the market can give more than we can. He gives what is called the lumping ha’p’orth--that is, seven or eight pieces; ah, that I daresay he does; indeed, some of the boys has told me he gives as many as eight pieces. And then the more eels you biles up, you see, the richer the liquor is, and in our little tin-pot way it’s like biling up a great jint of meat in a hocean of water. In course we can’t compete agin the man in the market, and so we’re being ruined entirely. The boys very often comes and asks me if I’ve got a farden’s-worth of heads. The woman at Broadway, they tells me, sells ’em at four a farden and a drop of liquor, but we chucks ’em away, there’s nothing to eat on them; the boys though will eat anything.”

In the hot-eel trade are now 140 vendors, each selling 6 lb. of eels daily at their stands; 60 sell 40 lb. daily; and 100 are itinerant, selling 5 lb. nightly at the public-houses. The first mentioned take 2_s._ daily; the second 16_s._; and the third 1_s._ 8_d._ This gives a street expenditure in the trade in hot eels of 21,910_l._ for the year.

To start in this business a capital is required after this rate:--stall 6_s._; basket 1_s._; eel-kettle 3_s._ 6_d._; jar 6_d._; ladle 4_d._; 12 cups 1_s._; 12 spoons 1_s._; stew-pan 2_s._; chafing-dish 6_d._; strainer 1_s._; 8 cloths 2_s._ 8_d._; a pair sleeves 4_d._; apron 4_d._; charcoal 2_s._ (4_d._ being an average daily consumption); 1/4 cwt. coal 3-1/2_d._; 1/2 lb. butter (the weekly average) 4_d._; 1 quartern flour 5_d._; 4 oz. pepper 4_d._; 1 quart vinegar 10_d._; 1 lb. salt 1/2_d._; 1 lb. candles for stall 6_d._; parsley 3_d._; stock-money 10_s._ In all 1_l._ 15_s._ In the course of a year the property which may be described as fixed, as in the stall, &c., and the expenditure daily occurring as for stock, butter, coal, according to the foregoing statement, amounts to 15,750_l._ The eels purchased for this trade at Billingsgate are 1,166,880 lb., costing, at 3_d._ per lb., 14,586_l._

In the pea-soup trade there are now one half of the whole number of the hot-eel vendors; of whom 100 will sell, each 4 gallons daily; and of the remaining 50 vendors, each will sell upon an average 10 gallons daily. The first mentioned take 3_s._ daily; and the last 7_s._ 6_d._ This gives a street expenditure of 4,050_l._ during the winter season of five months.

To commence business in the street sale of pea-soup a capital is required after this rate: soup-kettle 4_s._; peas 2_s._; soup-ladle 6_d._; pepper-box 1_d._; mint-box 3_d._; chafing-dish 6_d._; 12 basons 1_s._; 12 spoons 1_s._; bones, celery, mint, carrots, and onions, 1_s._ 6_d._ In all 10_s._ 10_d._ The hot-eel trade being in conjunction with the pea-soup, the same stall, candles, towels, sleeves, and aprons, does for both, and the quantity of extra coal and charcoal; pepper and salt given in the summary of hot-eels serves in cooking, &c., both eels and pea-soup.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF PICKLED WHELKS.

The trade in whelks is one of which the costermongers have the undisputed monopoly. The wholesale business is all transacted in Billingsgate, where this shell-fish is bought by the measure (a double peck or gallon), half-measure, or wash. A wash is four measures, and is the most advantageous mode of purchase; “It’s so much cheaper by taking that quantity,” I was told, “it’s as good as having a half-measure in.” An average price for the year may be 4_s._ the wash; “But I’ve given 21_s._ for three wash,” said one costermonger, and he waxed indignant as he spoke, “one Saturday, when there was a great stock in too, just because there was a fair coming on on Monday, and the whelkmen, who are the biggest rogues in Billingsgate, always have the price up then, and hinder a poor man doing good--they’ve a great knack of that.” A wash weighs about 60 lbs. On rare occasions it has been as low as 2_s._ 6_d._, and even 1_s._ 6_d._

About one-half of the whelks are sold alive (wholesale), and the other half “cooked” (boiled), some of the salesmen having “convenience for cooking” near the market; but they are all brought to London alive, “or what should be alive.” When bought alive, which ensures a better quality, I was told--for “whelks’ll boil after they’re dead and gone, you see, sir, as if they was alive and hungry”--the costermonger boils them in the largest saucepan at his command for about ten minutes, and then leaves them until they cool. “They never kicks as they boils, like lobsters or crabs,” said one whelk dealer, “they takes it quiet. A missionary cove said to me, ‘Why don’t you kill them first? it’s murder.’ They doesn’t suffer; I’ve suffered more with a toothach than the whole of a measure of whelks has in a boiling, that I’m clear upon.” The boiling is generally the work of the women. The next process is to place them in a tub, throw boiling water over them, and stir them up for ten or fifteen minutes with a broom-handle. If the quantity be a wash, two broom-handles, usually wielded by the man and his wife, are employed. This is both to clean them and “to make them come out easier to be wormed.” The “worming” is equivalent to the removing of the beard of an oyster or mussel. The whelks are wormed one by one. The operator cuts into the fish, rapidly draws out the “worm,” and pushes the severed parts together, which closes. The small whelks are not wormed, “because it’s not reckoned necessary, and they’re sold to poor lads and such like, that’s not particular; but nearly all the women, and a good many of the boys, are very particular. They think the worm’s poison.” The whelks are next shaken in a tub, in cold water, and are then ready for sale. The same process, after the mere boiling, is observed, when the whelks are bought “cooked.”

Some whelk-sellers, who wish to display a superior article, engage children for a few halfpence to rub the shell of every whelk, so that it looks clean and even bright.

I find a difficulty, common in the course of this inquiry, of ascertaining precisely the number of whelk-sellers, because the sale is often carried on simultaneously with that of other things, (stewed eels, for instance,) and because it is common for costermongers to sell whelks on a Saturday night only, both at stalls and “round to the public-houses,” but only when they are cheap at Billingsgate. On a Saturday night there may be 300 whelk-sellers in the streets, nearly half at stalls, and half, or more, “working the public-houses.” But of this number it must be understood that perhaps the wife is at the stall while the husband is on a round, and some whelks are sent out by a man having an extra stock. This, therefore, reduces the number of independent dealers, but not the actual number of sellers. On all other nights there may be half the number engaged in this traffic, in the streets regularly all the year; and more than half on a Monday, as regards the public-house business, in which little is done between Monday and Saturday nights. But a man will, in some instances, work the public-houses every night (the wife tending the stall), and the more assiduously if the weather be bad or foggy, when a public-house custom is the best. A fair week’s earnings in whelks, “when a man’s known,” is 1_l._; a bad week is from 5_s._ to 8_s._ I am assured that bad weeks are “as plenty as good, at least, the year round;” and thus the average to the street whelk-sellers, in whelks alone, is about 13_s._ when the trade is carried on daily and regularly, and 5_s._ a week by those who occasionally resort to it; and as the occasional hands are the more numerous, the average may be struck at 7_s._

The whelks are sold at the stalls at two, three, four, six, and eight a penny, according to size. Four is an average pennyworth for good whelks; the six a penny are small, and the eight a penny very small. The principal place for their sale is in Old-street, City-road. The other principal places are the street-markets, which I have before particularised. The whelks are sold in saucers, generally small and white, and of common ware, and are contained in jars, ready to be “shelled” into any saucer that may have been emptied. Sometimes a small pyramid of shells, surmounted by a candle protected by a shade, attracts the regard of the passer-by. The man doing the best business in London was to be found, before the removals of which I have spoken, in Lambeth-walk, but he has now no fixed locality. His profits, I am informed, were regularly 3_l._ a week; but out of this he had to pay for the assistance of two or sometimes three persons, in washing his whelks, boiling them, &c.; besides that, his wife was as busy as himself. To the quality and cleanliness of his whelks he was very attentive, and would sell no mediocre article if better could be bought. “He deserved all he earned, sir,” said another street-dealer to me; “why, in Old-street now they’ll have the old original saucers, miserable things, such as they had fifty years back; but the man we’re talking of, about two years ago, brought in very pretty plates, quite enterprising things, and they answered well. His example’s spreading, but it’s slowly.” The whelks are eaten with vinegar and pepper.

For sale in the public-houses, the whelks are most frequently carried in jars, and transferred in a saucer to the consumer. “There’s often a good sale,” said a man familiar with the business, “when a public room’s filled. People drinking there always want to eat. They buy whelks, not to fill themselves, but for a relish. A man that’s used to the trade will often get off inferior sorts to the lushingtons; he’ll have them to rights. Whelks is all the same, good, bad, or middling, when a man’s drinking, if they’re well seasoned with pepper and vinegar. Oh yes; any whelk-man will take in a drunken fellow, and he will do it all the same, if he’s made up his mind to, get drunk hisself that very night.”

The trade is carried on by the regular costers, but of the present number of whelk-sellers, about twenty have been mechanics or servants. The whelk-trade is an evening trade, commencing generally about six, summer and winter, or an hour earlier in winter.

The capital required to start in the whelk-business is: stall, 2_s._ 6_d._; saucers, vinegar-bottle, jar, pepper-castor, and small watering-pan (used only in dusty weather), 2_s._ 6_d._; a pair of stilts (supports for the stall), 1_s._ 6_d._; stock-money, 5_s._; pepper and vinegar, 6_d._, or 12_s._ in all. If the trade be commenced in a round basket, for public-house sale, 7_s._ or 8_s._ only is required, but it is a hazardous experiment for a person unpractised in street business.

OF THE CUSTOMERS, ETC., OF PICKLED WHELK-SELLERS.

An intelligent man gave me the following account. He had been connected with street-trading from his youth up, and is now about thirty:

“The chief customers for whelks, sir, are working people and poor people, and they prefer them to oysters; I do myself, and I think they’re not so much eaten because they’re not fashionable like oysters. But I’ve sold them to first-rate public-houses, and to doctors’ shops--more than other shops, I don’t know why--and to private houses. Masters have sent out their servant-maids to me for three or four penn’orths for supper. I’ve offered the maids a whelk, but they won’t eat them in the street; I dare say they’re afraid their young men may be about, and might think they wasn’t ladies if they eat whelks in the street. Boys are the best customers for ‘small,’ but if you don’t look sharp, you’ll be done out of three-ha’porth of vinegar to a ha’porth of whelks. I can’t make out why they like it so. They’re particular enough in their way. If the whelks are thin, as they will be sometimes, the lads will say, ‘What a lot of snails you’ve gathered to-night!’ If they’re plump and fine, then they’ll say, ‘Fat ’uns to-night--stunners!’ Some people eat whelks for an appetite; they give me one, and more in summer than winter. The women of the town are good customers, at least they are in the Cut and Shoreditch, for I know both. If they have five-penn’orth, when they’re treated perhaps, there’s always sixpence. They come on the sly sometimes, by themselves, and make what’s a meal, I’m satisfied, on whelks, and they’ll want credit sometimes. I’ve given trust to a woman of that sort as far as 2_s._ 6_d._ I’ve lost very little by them; I don’t know how much altogether. I keep no account, but carry any credit in my head. Those women’s good pay, take it altogether, for they know how hard it is to get a crust, and have a feeling for a poor man, if they haven’t for a rich one--that’s my opinion, sir. Costermongers in a good time are capital customers; they’ll buy five or six penn’orths at a time. The dust’s a great injury to the trade in summer time; it dries the whelks up, and they look old. I wish whelks were cheaper at Billingsgate, and I could do more business; and I could do more if I could sell a few minutes after twelve on a Saturday night, when people must leave the public-house. I have sold three wash of a Saturday night, and cleared 15_s._ on them. I one week made 3_l._, but I had a few stewed eels to help,--that is, I cleared 2_l._, and had a pound’s worth over on the Saturday night, and sent them to be sold--and they were sold--at Battersea on the Sunday; I never went there myself. I’ve had twenty people round my stall at one time on a Saturday. Perhaps my earnings on that (and other odd things) may come to 1_l._ a week, or hardly so much, the year round. I can’t say exactly. The shells are no use. Boys have asked me for them ‘to make sea-shells of,’ they say--to hold them to their ears when they’re big, and there’s a sound like the sea rolling. Gentlemen have sometimes told me to keep a dozen dozen or twenty dozen, for borders to a garden. I make no charge for them--just what a gentleman may please to give.”

The information given shows an outlay of 5,250_l._ yearly for street whelks, and as the return I have cited shows the money spent in whelks at Billingsgate to be 2,500_l._, the number of whelks being 4,950,000, the account is correct, as the coster’s usual “half-profits” make up the sum expended.

OF THE STREET SELLERS, AND OF THE PREPARATION OF FRIED FISH.

Among the cooked food which has for many years formed a portion of the street trade is fried fish. The sellers are about 350, as a maximum and 250 as a minimum, 300 being an average number. The reason of the variation in number is, that on a Saturday night, and occasionally on other nights, especially on Mondays, stall-keepers sell fried fish, and not as an ordinary article of their trade. Some men, too, resort to the trade for a time, when they cannot be employed in any way more profitable or suitable to them. The dealers in this article are, for the most part, old men and boys, though there may be 30 or 40 women who sell it, but only 3 or 4 girls, and they are the daughters of the men in the business as the women are the wives. Among the fried-fish sellers there are not half a dozen Irish people, although fish is so especial a part of the diet of the poor Irish. The men in the calling have been, as regards the great majority, mechanics or servants; none, I was told, had been fishmongers, or their assistants.

The fish fried by street dealers is known as “plaice dabs” and “sole dabs,” which are merely plaice and soles, “dab” being a common word for any flat fish. The fish which supplies upwards of one half the quantity fried for the streets is plaice; the other fishes used are soles, haddocks, whitings, flounders, and herrings, but very sparingly indeed as regards herrings. Soles are used in as large a quantity as the other kinds mentioned altogether. On my inquiry as to the precise quantity of each description fried, the answer from the traders was uniform: “I can’t say, sir. I buy whatever’s cheapest.” The fish is bought at Billingsgate, but some of the street dealers obtain another and even a cheaper commodity than at that great mart. This supply is known in the trade as “friers,” and consists of the overplus of a fishmonger’s stock, of what he has not sold overnight, and does not care to offer for sale on the following morning, and therefore vends it to the costermongers, whose customers are chiefly among the poor. The friers are sometimes half, and sometimes more than half, of the wholesale price in Billingsgate. Many of the friers are good, but some, I was told, “in any thing like muggy or close weather were very queer fish, very queer indeed,” and they are consequently fried with a most liberal allowance of oil, “which will conceal anything.”

The fish to be fried is first washed and gutted; the fins, head, and tail are then cut off, and the trunk is dipped in flour and water, so that in frying, oil being always used, the skin will not be scorched by the, perhaps, too violent action of the fire, but merely browned. Pale rape oil is generally used. The sellers, however, are often twitted with using lamp oil, even when it is dearer than that devoted to the purpose. The fish is cooked in ordinary frying-pans. One tradesman in Cripplegate, formerly a costermonger, has on his premises a commodious oven which he had built for the frying, or rather baking, of fish. He supplies the small shopkeepers who deal in the article (although some prepare it themselves), and sells his fish retail also, but the street-sellers buy little of him, as they are nearly all “their own cooks.” Some of the “illegitimates,” however, lay in their stock by purchase of the tradesman in question. The fish is cut into portions before it is fried, and the frying occupies about ten minutes. The quantity prepared together is from six to twenty portions, according to the size of the pans; four dozen portions, or “pieces,” as the street people call them, require a quart of oil.

The fried fish-sellers live in some out of the way alley, and not unfrequently in garrets; for among even the poorest class there are great objections to their being fellow-lodgers, on account of the odour from the frying. Even when the fish is fresh (as it most frequently is), and the oil pure, the odour is rank. In one place I visited, which was, moreover, admirable for cleanliness, it was very rank. The cooks, however, whether husbands or wives--for the women often attend to the pan--when they hear of this disagreeable rankness, answer that it may be so, many people say so; but for their parts they cannot smell it at all. The garments of the fried-fish sellers are more strongly impregnated with the smell of fish than were those of any “wet” or other fish-sellers whom I met with. Their residences are in some of the labyrinths of courts and alleys that run from Gray’s-inn-lane to Leather-lane, and similar places between Fetter and Chancery-lanes. They are to be found, too, in the courts running from Cow-cross, Smithfield; and from Turnmill-street and Ray-street, Clerkenwell; also, in the alleys about Bishopsgate-street and the Kingsland-road, and some in the half-ruinous buildings near the Southwark and Borough-roads. None, or very few, of those who are their own cooks, reside at a greater distance than three miles from Billingsgate. A gin-drinking neighbourhood, one coster said, suits best, “for people hasn’t their smell so correct there.”

The sale is both on rounds and at stalls, the itinerants being twice as numerous as the stationary. The round is usually from public-house to public-house, in populous neighbourhoods. The itinerants generally confine themselves to the trade in fried fish, but the stall-keepers always sell other articles, generally fish of some kind, along with it. The sale in the public-houses is the greatest.

At the neighbouring races and fairs there is a great sale of fried fish. At last Epsom races, I was told, there were at least fifty purveyors of that dainty from London, half of them perhaps being costermongers, who speculated in it merely for the occasion, preparing it themselves. Three men joined in one speculation, expending 8_l._ in fish, and did well, selling at the usual profit of cent. per cent., but with the drawback of considerable expenses. Their customers at the races and fairs are the boys who hold horses or brush clothes, or who sell oranges or nuts, or push at roundabouts, and the costers who are there on business. At Epsom races there was plenty of bread, I was informed, to be picked up on the ground; it had been flung from the carriages after luncheon, and this, with a piece of fish, supplied a meal or “a relish” to hundreds.

In the public-houses, a slice of bread, 16 or 32 being cut from a quartern loaf--as they are whole or half slices--is sold or offered with the fish for a penny. The cry of the seller is, “fish and bread, a penny.” Sometimes for an extra-sized piece, with bread, 2_d._ is obtained, but very seldom, and sometimes two pieces are given for 1-1/2_d._ At the stalls bread is rarely sold with the edible in question.

For the itinerant trade, a neatly painted wooden tray, slung by a leathern strap from the neck, is used: the tray is papered over generally with clean newspapers, and on the paper is spread the shapeless brown lumps of fish. Parsley is often strewn over them, and a salt-box is placed at the discretion of the customer. The trays contain from two to five dozen pieces. I understand that no one has a trade greatly in advance of his fellows. The whole body complain of their earnings being far less than was the case four or five years back.

The itinerant fried fish-sellers, when pursuing their avocation, wear generally a jacket of cloth or fustian buttoned round them, but the rest of their attire is hidden by the white sleeves and apron some wear, or by the black calico sleeves and dark woollen aprons worn by others.

The capital required to start properly in the business is:--frying-pan 2_s._ (second-hand 9_d._); tray 2_s._ 6_d._ (second-hand 8_d._); salt-box 6_d._ (second-hand 1_d._); and stock-money 5_s._--in all 10_s._ A man has gone into the trade, however, with 1_s._, which he expended in fish and oil, borrowed a frying-pan, borrowed an old tea-board, and so started on his venture.

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A FRIED FISH-SELLER, AND OF THE CLASS OF CUSTOMERS.

The man who gave me the following information was well-looking, and might be about 45 or 50. He was poorly dressed, but his old brown surtout fitted him close and well, was jauntily buttoned up to his black satin stock, worn, but of good quality; and, altogether, he had what is understood among a class as “a betterly appearance about him.” His statement, as well as those of the other vendors of provisions, is curious in its details of public-house vagaries:--

“I’ve been in the trade,” he said, “seventeen years. Before that, I was a gentleman’s servant, and I married a servant-maid, and we had a family, and, on that account, couldn’t, either of us, get a situation, though we’d good characters. I was out of employ for seven or eight months, and things was beginning to go to the pawn for a living; but at last, when I gave up any hope of getting into a gentleman’s service, I raised 10_s._, and determined to try something else. I was persuaded, by a friend who kept a beer-shop, to sell oysters at his door. I took his advice, and went to Billingsgate for the first time in my life, and bought a peck of oysters for 2_s._ 6_d._ I was dressed respectable then--nothing like the mess and dirt I’m in now” [I may observe, that there was no dirt about him]; “and so the salesman laid it on, but I gave him all he asked. I know a deal better now. I’d never been used to open oysters, and I couldn’t do it. I cut my fingers with the knife slipping all over them, and had to hire a man to open for me, or the blood from my cut fingers would have run upon the oysters. For all that, I cleared 2_s._ 6_d._ on that peck, and I soon got up to the trade, and did well; till, in two or three months, the season got over, and I was advised, by the same friend, to try fried fish. That suited me. I’ve lived in good families, where there was first-rate men-cooks, and I know what good cooking means. I bought a dozen plaice; I forget what I gave for them, but they were dearer then than now. For all that, I took between 11_s._ and 12_s._ the first night--it was Saturday--that I started; and I stuck to it, and took from 7_s._ to 10_s._ every night, with more, of course, on Saturday, and it was half of it profit then. I cleared a good mechanic’s earnings at that time--30_s._ a week and more. Soon after, I was told that, if agreeable, my wife could have a stall with fried fish, opposite a wine-vaults just opened, and she made nearly half as much as I did on my rounds. I served the public-houses, and soon got known. With some landlords I had the privilege of the parlour, and tap-room, and bar, when other tradesmen have been kept out. The landlords will say to me still: ‘You can go in, Fishy.’ Somehow, I got the name of ‘Fishy’ then, and I’ve kept it ever since. There was hospitality in those days. I’ve gone into a room in a public-house, used by mechanics, and one of them has said: ‘I’ll stand fish round, gentlemen;’ and I’ve supplied fifteen penn’orths. Perhaps he was a stranger, such a sort of customer, that wanted to be agreeable. Now, it’s more likely I hear: ‘Jack, lend us a penny to buy a bit of fried;’ and then Jack says: ‘You be d--d! here, lass, let’s have another pint.’ The insults and difficulties I’ve had in the public-house trade is dreadful. I once sold 16_d._ worth to three rough-looking fellows I’d never seen before, and they seemed hearty, and asked me to drink with them, so I took a pull; but they wouldn’t pay me when I asked, and I waited a goodish bit before I did ask. I thought, at first, it was their fun, but I waited from four to seven, and I found it was no fun. I felt upset, and ran out and told the policeman, but he said it was only a debt, and he couldn’t interfere. So I ran to the station, but the head man there said the same, and told me I should hand over the fish with one hand, and hold out the other hand for my money. So I went back to the public-house, and asked for my money--and there was some mechanics that knew me there then--but I got nothing but ‘---- you’s!’ and one of ’em used most dreadful language. At last, one of the mechanics said: ‘Muzzle him, Fishy, if he won’t pay.’ He was far bigger than me, him that was one in debt; but my spirit was up, and I let go at him and gave him a bloody nose, and the next hit I knocked him backwards, I’m sure I don’t know how, on to a table; but I fell on him, and he clutched me by the coat-collar--I was respectable dressed then--and half smothered me. He tore the back of my coat, too, and I went home like Jim Crow. The pot-man and the others parted us, and they made the man give me 1_s._, and the waiter paid me the other 4_d._, and said he’d take his chance to get it--but he never got it. Another time I went into a bar, and there was a ball in the house, and one of the ball gents came down and gave my basket a kick without ever a word, and started the fish; and in a scuffle--he was a little fellow, but my master--I had this finger put out of joint--you can see that, sir, still--and was in the hospital a week from an injury to my leg; the tiblin bone was hurt, the doctors said” [the tibia.] “I’ve had my tray kicked over for a lark in a public-house, and a scramble for my fish, and all gone, and no help and no money for me. The landlords always prevent such things, when they can, and interfere for a poor man; but then it’s done sudden, and over in an instant. That sort of thing wasn’t the worst. I once had some powdery stuff flung sudden over me at a parlour door. My fish fell off, for I jumped, because I felt blinded, and what became of them I don’t know; but I aimed at once for home--it was very late--and had to feel my way almost like a blind man. I can’t tell what I suffered. I found it was something black, for I kept rubbing my face with my apron, and could just tell it came away black. I let myself in with my latch, and my wife was in bed, and I told her to get up and look at my face and get some water, and she thought I was joking, as she was half asleep; but when she got up and got a light, and a glass, she screamed, and said I looked such a shiny image; and so I did, as well as I could see, for it was black lead--such as they use for grates--that was flung on me. I washed it off, but it wasn’t easy, and my face was sore days after. I had a respectable coat on then, too, which was greatly spoiled, and no remedy at all. I don’t know who did it to me. I heard some one say: ‘You’re served out beautiful.’ Its men that calls themselves gentlemen that does such things. I know the style of them then--it was eight or ten years ago; they’d heard of Lord ----, and his goings on. That way it’s better now, but worse, far, in the way of getting a living. I dare say, if I had dressed in rough corderoys, I shouldn’t have been larked at so much, because they might have thought I was a regular coster, and a fighter; but I don’t like that sort of thing--I like to be decent and respectable, if I can.

“I’ve been in the ‘fried’ trade ever since, except about three months that I tried the sandwiches. I didn’t do so well in them, but it was a far easier trade; no carrying heavy weights all the way from Billingsgate: but I went back to the fried. Why now, sir, a good week with me--and I’ve only myself in the trade now” [he was a widower]--“is to earn 12_s._, a poor week is 9_s._; and there’s as many of one as of the other. I’m known to sell the best of fish, and to cook it in the best style. I think half of us, take it round and round for a year, may earn as much as I do, and the other half about half as much. I think so. I might have saved money, but for a family. I’ve only one at home with me now, and he really is a good lad. My customers are public-house people that want a relish or a sort of supper with their beer, not so much to drinkers. I sell to tradesmen, too; 4_d._ worth for tea or supper. Some of them send to my place, for I’m known. The Great Exhibition can’t be any difference to me. I’ve a regular round. I used to sell a good deal to women of the town, but I don’t now. They haven’t the money, I believe. Where I took 10_s._ of them, eight or ten years ago, I now take only 6_d._ They may go for other sorts of relishes now; I can’t say. The worst of my trade is, that people must have as big penn’orths when fish is dear as when its cheap. I never sold a piece of fish to an Italian boy in my life, though they’re Catholics. Indeed, I never saw an Italian boy spend a halfpenny in the streets on anything.”

A working-man told me that he often bought fried fish, and accounted it a good to men like himself. He was fond of fried fish to his supper; he couldn’t buy half so cheap as the street-sellers, perhaps not a quarter; and, if he could, it would cost him 1_d._ for dripping to fry the fish in, and he got it ready, and well fried, and generally good, for 1_d._

Subsequent inquiries satisfied me that my informant was correct as to his calculations of his fellows’ earnings, judging from his own. The price of plaice at Billingsgate is from 1/2_d._ to 2_d._ each, according to size (the fried fish purveyors never calculate by the weight), 3/4_d._ being a fair average. A plaice costing 1_d._ will now be fried into four pieces, each 1_d._; but the addition of bread, cost of oil, &c., reduces the “fried” peoples’ profits to rather less than cent. per cent. Soles and the other fish are, moreover, 30 per cent. dearer than plaice. As 150 sellers make as much weekly as my informant, and the other 150 half that amount, we have an average yearly earning of 27_l._ 6_s._ in one case, and of 13_l._ 13_s._ in the other. Taking only 20_l._ a year as a medium earning, and adding 90 per cent. for profit, the outlay on the fried fish supplied by London street-sellers is 11,400_l._

OF THE PREPARATION AND QUANTITY OF SHEEP’S TROTTERS, AND OF THE STREET-SELLERS.

The sale of sheep’s trotters, as a regular street-trade, is confined to London, Liverpool, Newcastle-on-Tyne, and a few more of our greater towns. The “trotter,” as it is commonly called, is the boiled foot of the sheep. None of my readers can have formed any commensurate notion of the extent of the sale in London, and to some readers the very existence of such a comestible may be unknown. The great supply now required is readily attained. The wholesale trade is now in the hands of one fellmongering firm, though until within these twenty months or so there were two, and the feet are cut off the sheep-skins by the salesmen in the skin-market, in Bermondsey, and conveyed to the fellmonger’s premises in carts and in trucks.

Sheep’s trotters, one of my informants could remember, were sold in the streets fifty years ago, but in such small quantities that it could hardly be called a trade. Instead of being prepared wholesale as at present, and then sold out to the retailers, the trotters were then prepared by the individual retailers, or by small traders in tripe and cow-heel. Twenty-five years ago nearly all the sheep’s trotters were “lined and prepared,” when the skin came into the hands of the fellmonger, for the glue and size makers. Twenty years ago only about one-twentieth of the trotters now prepared for eating were devoted to the same purpose; and it was not until about fifteen years back that the trade began to reach its present magnitude; and for the last twelve years it has been about stationary, but there were never more sold than last year.

From fifteen to twenty years ago glue and size, owing principally to improved modes of manufacture, became cheaper, so that it paid the fellmonger better to dispose of the trotters as an article “cooked” for the poor, than to the glue-boiler.

The process of cookery is carried on rapidly at the fellmonger’s in question. The feet are first scalded for about half an hour. After that from ten to fifteen boys are employed in scooping out the hoofs, which are sold for manure or to manufacturers of Prussian blue, which is extensively used by painters. Women are then employed, forty being an average number, “to scrape the hair off,”--for hair it is called--quickly, but softly, so that the skin should not be injured, and after that the trotters are boiled for about four hours, and they are then ready for market.

The proprietor of this establishment, after he had obligingly given me the information I required, invited me to walk round his premises unaccompanied, and observe how the business was conducted. The premises are extensive, and are situated, as are nearly all branches of the great trade connected with hides and skins, in Bermondsey. The trotter business is kept distinct from the general fellmongering. Within a long shed are five coppers, each containing, on an average, 250 “sets,” a set being the complement of the sheep’s feet, four. Two of these coppers, on my visit, were devoted to the scalding, and three to the boiling of the trotters. They looked like what one might imagine to be witches’ big caldrons; seething, hissing, boiling, and throwing forth a steam not peculiarly grateful to the nostrils of the uninitiated. Thus there are, weekly, “cooking” in one form or other, the feet of 20,000 sheep for the consumption of the poorer classes, or as a relish for those whose stomachs crave after edibles of this description. At one extremity of this shed are the boys, who work in a place open at the side, but the flues and fires make all parts sufficiently warm. The women have a place to themselves on the opposite side of the yard. The room where they work has forms running along its sides, and each woman has a sort of bench in front of her seat, on which she scrapes the trotters. One of the best of these workwomen can scrape 150 sets, or 600 feet in a day, but the average of the work is 500 sets a week, including women and girls. I saw no girls but what seemed above seventeen or eighteen, and none of the women were old. They were exceedingly merry, laughing and chatting, and appearing to consider that a listener was not of primary consequence, as they talked pretty much altogether. I saw none but what were decently dressed, some were good-looking, and none seemed sickly.

In this establishment are prepared, weekly, 20,000 sets, or 80,000 feet; a yearly average of 4,160,000 trotters, or the feet of 1,040,000 sheep. Of this quantity the street-folk buy seven-eighths; 3,640,000 trotters yearly, or 70,000 weekly. The number of sheep trotter-sellers may be taken at 300, which gives an average of nearly sixty sets a week per individual.

The wholesale price, at the “trotter yard,” is five a penny, which gives an outlay by the street-sellers of 3,033_l._ 6_s._ 8_d._ yearly.

But this is not the whole of the trade. Lamb’s trotters are also prepared, but only to one-twentieth of the quantity of sheep’s trotters, and that for only three months of the year. These are all sold to the street-sellers. The lamb’s foot is usually left appended to the leg and shoulder of lamb. It is weighed with the joint, but the butcher’s man or boy will say to the purchaser: “Do you want the foot?” As the answer is usually in the negative, it is at once cut off and forms a “perquisite.” There are some half dozen men, journeymen butchers not fully employed, who collect these feet, prepare and sell them to the street-people, but as the lamb’s feet are very seldom as fresh as those of the sheep carried direct from the skin market to--so to speak--the great trotter kitchen, the demand for “lamb’s” falls off yearly. Last year the sale may be taken at about 14,000 sets, selling, wholesale, at about 46_l._, the same price as the sheep.

The sellers of trotters, who are stationary at publichouse and theatre doors, and at street corners, and itinerant, but itinerant chiefly from one public house to another are a wretchedly poor class. Three fourths of them are elderly women and children, the great majority being Irish people, and there are more boys than girls in the trade. The capital required to start in the business is very small. A hand basket of the larger size costs 1_s._ 9_d._, but smaller or second-hand only 1_s._, and the white cotton cloth on which the trotters are displayed costs 4_d._ or 6_d._; stock-money need not exceed 1_s._, so that 3_s._ is all that is required. This is one reason, I heard from several trotter-sellers, why the business is over-peopled.

STATEMENTS OF SHEEP’S TROTTER WOMEN.

From one woman, who, I am assured, may be taken as a fair type of the better class of trotter-sellers--some of the women being sottish and addicted to penn’orths of gin beyond their means--I had the following statement. I found her in the top room of a lofty house in Clerkenwell. She was washing when I called, and her son, a crippled boy of 16, with his crutch by his side, was cleaning knives, which he had done for many months for a family in the neighbourhood, who paid for his labour in what the mother pronounced better than money--broken victuals, because they were of such good, wholesome quality. The room, which is of a good size, had its red-brown plaster walls, stained in parts with damp, but a great portion was covered with the cheap engravings “given away with No. 6” (or any other number) of some periodical “of thrilling interest;” while the narrow mantel-shelf was almost covered with pot figures of dumpy men, red-breeched and blue-coated, and similar ornaments. I have often noted such attempts to subdue, as it were, the grimness of poverty, by the poor who had “seen better days.” The mother was tall and spare, and the boy had that look of premature sedateness, his face being of a sickly hue, common to those of quiet dispositions, who have been afflicted from their childhood:--

“I’m the widow of a sawyer, sir,” said Mrs. ----, with a very slight brogue, for she was an Irishwoman, “and I’ve been a widow 18 long years. I’m 54, I believe, but that 18 years seems longer than all the rest of my life together. My husband earned hardly ever less than 30_s._ a week, sometimes 3_l._, and I didn’t know what pinching was. But I was left destitute with four young children, and had to bring them up as well as I could, by what I could make by washing and charing, and a hard fight it was. One of my children went for a soldier, one’s dead, another’s married, and that’s the youngest there. Ah! poor fellow, what he’s gone through! He’s had 18 abscesses, one after another, and he has been four times in Bartholomew’s. There’s only God above to help him when I’m gone. My health broke six years ago, and I couldn’t do hard work in washing, and I took to trotter selling, because one of my neighbours was in that way, and told me how to go about it. My son sells trotters too; he always sits at the corner of this street. I go from one public-house to another, and sometimes stand at the door, or sit inside, because I’m known and have leave. But I can’t either sit, or stand, or walk long at a time, I’m so rheumatic. No, sir, I can’t say I was ever badly insulted in a public-house; but I only go to those I know. Others may be different. We depend mostly on trotters, but I have a shilling and my meat, for charing, a day in every week. I’ve tried ’winks and whelks too, ’cause I thought they might be more in my pocket than trotters, but they don’t suit a poor woman that’s begun a street-trade when she’s not very young. And the trotters can be carried on with so little money. It’s not so long ago that I’ve sold three-penn’orth of trotters--that is, him and me has--pretty early in the evening; I’d bought them at Mr. ----’s, in Bermondsey, in the afternoon, for we can buy three penn’orth, and I walked there again--perhaps it’s four miles there and back--and bought another 3_d._ worth. The first three-pence was all I could rise. It’s a long weary way for me to walk, but some walk from Poplar and Limehouse. If I lay out 2_s._ on the Saturday--there’s 15 sets for 1_s._, that’s 60 trotters--they’ll carry us on to Monday night, and sometimes, if they’ll keep, to Tuesday night. Sometimes I could sell half-a-crown’s worth in less time. I have to go to Bermondsey three or four times a week. The trade was far better six years ago, though trotters were dearer then, only 13 sets 1_s._, then 14, now 15. For some very few, that’s very fine and very big, I get a penny a piece; for some I get 1-1/2_d._ for two; the most’s 1/2_d._ each; some’s four for 1-1/2_d._; and some I have to throw into the dust-hole. The two of us earns 5_s._ a week on trotters, not more, I’m sure. I sell to people in the public-houses; some of them may be rather the worse for drink, but not so many; regular drunkards buys nothing but drink. I’ve sold them too to steady, respectable gentlemen, that’s been passing in the street, who put them in their pockets for supper. My rent’s 1_s._ a week.”

I then had some conversation with the poor lad. He’d had many a bitter night, he told me, from half-past five to twelve, for he knew there was no breakfast for his mother and him if he couldn’t sell some trotters. He had a cry sometimes. He didn’t know any good it did him, but he couldn’t help it. The boys gathered round him sometimes, and teased him, and snatched at his crutch; and the policeman said that he must make him “move on,” as he encouraged the boys about him. He didn’t like the boys any more than they were fond of the policemen. He had often sad thoughts as he sat with his trotters before him, when he didn’t cry; he wondered if ever he would be better off; but what could he do? He could read, but not write; he liked to read very well when he had anything to read. His mother and he never missed mass.

Another old woman, very poorly, but rather tidily dressed, gave me the following account, which shows a little of public-house custom:--

“I’ve seen better days, sir, I have indeed; I don’t like to talk about that, but now I’m only a poor sheep’s trotter seller, and I’ve been one a good many years. I don’t know how long, and I don’t like to think about it. It’s a shocking bad trade, and such insults as we have to put up with. I serve some public-houses, and I stand sometimes at a playhouse-door. I make 3_s._ or 3_s._ 6_d._ a week, and in a very good week 4_s._, but, then, I sometimes make only 2_s._ I’m infirm now, God help me! and I can do nothing else. Another old woman and me has a room between us, at 1_s._ 4_d._ a week. Mother’s the best name I’m called in a public-house, and it ain’t a respectable name. ‘Here, mother, give us one of your b-- trotters,’ is often said to me. One customer sometimes says: ‘The stuff’ll choke me, but that’s as good as the Union.’ He ain’t a bad man, though. He sometimes treats me. He’ll bait my trotters, but that’s his larking way, and then he’ll say:

‘A pennorth o’ gin, ’ll make your old body spin.’

It’s his own poetry, he says. I don’t know what he is, but he’s often drunk, poor fellow. Women’s far worse to please than men. I’ve known a woman buy a trotter, put her teeth into it, and then say it wasn’t good, and return it. It wasn’t paid for when she did so, and because I grumbled, I was abused by her, as if I’d been a Turk. The landlord interfered, and he said, said he, ‘I’ll not have this poor woman insulted; she’s here for the convenience of them as requires trotters, and she’s a well-conducted woman, and I’ll not have her insulted,’ he says, says he, lofty and like a gentleman, sir. ‘Why, who’s insulting the old b--h?’ says the woman, says she. ‘Why, you are,’ says the landlord, says he, ‘and you ought to pay her for her trotter, or how is she to live?’ ‘What the b-- h--ll do I care how she lives,’ says the woman, ‘its nothing to me, and I won’t pay her.’ ‘Then I will,’ says the landlord, says he, ‘here’s 6_d._,’ and he wouldn’t take the change. After that I soon sold all my trotters, and some gave me double price, when the landlord showed himself such a gentleman, and I went out and bought nine trotters more, another woman’s stock, that she was dreading she couldn’t sell, and I got through them in no time. It was the best trotter night I ever had. She wasn’t a woman of the town as used me so. I have had worse sauce from modest women, as they called themselves, than from the women of the town, for plenty of them knows what poverty is, and is civiler, poor things--yes, I’m sure of that, though it’s a shocking life--O, shocking! I never go to the playhouse-door but on a fine night. Young men treats their sweethearts to a trotter, for a relish, with a drop of beer between the acts. Wet nights is the best for public-houses. ‘They’re not salt enough,’ has been said to me, oft enough, ‘they don’t make a man thirsty.’ It’ll come to the workhouse with me before long, and, perhaps, all the better. It’s warm in the public-house, and that draws me to sell my trotters there sometimes. I live on fish and bread a good deal.”

The returns I collected show that there is expended yearly in London streets on trotters, calculating their sale, retail, at 1/2_d._ each, 6,500_l._, but though the regular price is 1/2_d._, some trotters are sold at four for 1-1/2_d._, very few higher than 1/2_d._, and some are kept until they are unsaleable, so that the amount may be estimated at 6,000_l._, a receipt of 7_s._ 6_d._ weekly, per individual seller, rather more than one-half of which sum is profit.

OF THE STREET TRADE IN BAKED POTATOES.

The baked potato trade, in the way it is at present carried on, has not been known more than fifteen years in the streets. Before that, potatoes were sometimes roasted as chestnuts are now, but only on a small scale. The trade is more profitable than that in fruit, but continues for but six months of the year.

The potatoes, for street-consumption, are bought of the greengrocers, at the rate of 5_s._ 6_d._ the cwt. They are usually a large-sized “fruit,” running about two or three to the pound. The kind generally bought is what are called the “French Regent’s.” French potatoes are greatly used now, as they are cheaper than the English. The potatoes are picked, and those of a large size, and with a rough skin, selected from the others, because they are the mealiest. A waxy potato shrivels in the baking. There are usually from 280 to 300 potatoes in the cwt.; these are cleaned by the huckster, and, when dried, taken in baskets, about a quarter cwt. at a time, to the baker’s, to be cooked. They are baked in large tins, and require an hour and a half to do them well. The charge for baking is 9_d._ the cwt., the baker usually finding the tins. They are taken home from the bakehouse in a basket, with a yard and a half of green baize in which they are covered up, and so protected from the cold. The huckster then places them in his can, which consists of a tin with a half-lid; it stands on four legs, and has a large handle to it, while an iron fire-pot is suspended immediately beneath the vessel which is used for holding the potatoes. Directly over the fire-pot is a boiler for hot water. This is concealed within the vessel, and serves to keep the potatoes always hot. Outside the vessel where the potatoes are kept is, at one end, a small compartment for butter and salt, and at the other end another compartment for fresh charcoal. Above the boiler, and beside the lid, is a small pipe for carrying off the steam. These potato-cans are sometimes brightly polished, sometimes painted red, and occasionally brass-mounted. Some of the handsomest are all brass, and some are highly ornamented with brass-mountings. Great pride is taken in the cans. The baked-potato man usually devotes half an hour to polishing them up, and they are mostly kept as bright as silver. The handsomest potato-can is now in Shoreditch. It cost ten guineas, and is of brass mounted with German silver. There are three lamps attached to it, with coloured glass, and of a style to accord with that of the machine; each lamp cost 5_s._ The expense of an ordinary can, tin and brass-mounted, is about 50_s._ They are mostly made by a tinman in the Ratcliffe-highway. The usual places for these cans to stand are the principal thoroughfares and street-markets. It is considered by one who has been many years at the business, that there are, taking those who have regular stands and those who are travelling with their cans on their arm, at least two hundred individuals engaged in the trade in London. There are three at the bottom of Farringdon-street, two in Smithfield, and three in Tottenham-court-road (the two places last named are said to be the best ‘pitches’ in all London), two in Leather-lane, one on Holborn-hill, one at King’s-cross, three at the Brill, Somers-town, three in the New-cut, three in Covent-garden (this is considered to be on market-days the second-best pitch), two at the Elephant and Castle, one at Westminster-bridge, two at the top of Edgeware-road, one in St. Martin’s-lane, one in Newport-market, two at the upper end of Oxford-street, one in Clare-market, two in Regent-street, one in Newgate-market, two at the Angel, Islington, three at Shoreditch church, four about Rosemary-lane, two at Whitechapel, two near Spitalfields-market, and more than double the above number wandering about London. Some of the cans have names--as the “Royal Union Jack” (engraved in a brass plate), the “Royal George,” the “Prince of Wales,” the “Original Baked Potatoes,” and the “Old Original Baked Potatoes.”

The business begins about the middle of August and continues to the latter end of April, or as soon as the potatoes get to any size,--until they are pronounced ‘bad.’ The season, upon an average, lasts about half the year, and depends much upon the weather. If it is cold and frosty, the trade is brisker than in wet weather; indeed then little is doing. The best hours for business are from half-past ten in the morning till two in the afternoon, and from five in the evening till eleven or twelve at night. The night trade is considered the best. In cold weather the potatoes are frequently bought to warm the hands. Indeed, an eminent divine classed them, in a public speech, among the best of modern improvements, it being a cheap luxury to the poor wayfarer, who was benumbed in the night by cold, and an excellent medium for diffusing warmth into the system, by being held in the gloved hand. Some buy them in the morning for lunch and some for dinner. A newsvender, who had to take a hasty meal in his shop, told me he was “always glad to hear the baked-potato cry, as it made a dinner of what was only a snack without it.” The best time at night, is about nine, when the potatoes are purchased for supper.

The customers consist of all classes. Many gentlefolks buy them in the street, and take them home for supper in their pockets; but the working classes are the greatest purchasers. Many boys and girls lay out a halfpenny in a baked potato. Irishmen are particularly fond of them, but they are the worst customers, I am told, as they want the largest potatoes in the can. Women buy a great number of those sold. Some take them home, and some eat them in the street. Three baked potatoes are as much as will satisfy the stoutest appetite. One potato dealer in Smithfield is said to sell about 2-1/2 cwt. of potatoes on a market-day; or, in other words, from 900 to 1,000 potatoes, and to take upwards of 2_l._ One informant told me that he himself had often sold 1-1/2 cwt. of a day, and taken 1_l._ in halfpence. I am informed, that upon an average, taking the good stands with the bad ones throughout London, there are about 1 cwt. of potatoes sold by each baked-potato man--and there are 200 of these throughout the metropolis--making the total quantity of baked potatoes consumed every day 10 tons. The money spent upon these comes to within a few shillings of 125_l._ (calculating 300 potatoes to the cwt., and each of those potatoes to be sold at a halfpenny). Hence, there are 60 tons of baked potatoes eaten in London streets, and 750_l._ spent upon them every week during the season. Saturdays and Mondays are the best days for the sale of baked potatoes in those parts of London that are not near the markets; but in those in the vicinity of Clare, Newport, Covent-garden, Newgate, Smithfield, and other markets, the trade is briskest on the market-days. The baked-potato men are many of them broken-down tradesmen. Many are labourers who find a difficulty of obtaining employment in the winter time; some are costermongers; some have been artisans; indeed, there are some of all classes among them.

After the baked potato season is over, the generality of the hucksters take to selling strawberries, raspberries, or anything in season. Some go to labouring work. One of my informants, who had been a bricklayer’s labourer, said that after the season he always looked out for work among the bricklayers, and this kept him employed until the baked potato season came round again.

“When I first took to it,” he said, “I was very badly off. My master had no employment for me, and my brother was ill, and so was my wife’s sister, and I had no way of keeping ’em, or myself either. The labouring men are mostly out of work in the winter time, so I spoke to a friend of mine, and he told me how he managed every winter, and advised me to do the same. I took to it, and have stuck to it ever since. The trade was much better then. I could buy a hundred-weight of potatoes for 1_s._ 9_d._ to 2_s._ 3_d._, and there were fewer to sell them. We generally use to a cwt. of potatoes three-quarters of a pound of butter--tenpenny salt butter is what we buy--a pennyworth of salt, a pennyworth of pepper, and five pennyworth of charcoal. This, with the baking, 9_d._, brings the expenses to just upon 7_s._ 6_d._ per cwt., and for this our receipts will be 12_s._ 6_d._, thus leaving about 5_s._ per cwt. profit.” Hence the average profits of the trade are about 30_s._ a week--“and more to some,” said my informant. A man in Smithfield-market, I am credibly informed, clears at the least 3_l._ a week. On the Friday he has a fresh basket of hot potatoes brought to him from the baker’s every quarter of an hour. Such is his custom that he has not even time to take money, and his wife stands by his side to do so.

Another potato-vender who shifted his can, he said, “from a public-house where the tap dined at twelve,” to another half-a-mile off, where it “dined at one, and so did the parlour,” and afterwards to any place he deemed best, gave me the following account of his customers:--

“Such a day as this, sir [Jan. 24], when the fog’s like a cloud come down, people looks very shy at my taties, very; they’ve been more suspicious ever since the taty rot. I thought I should never have rekivered it; never, not the rot. I sell most to mechanics--I was a grocer’s porter myself before I was a baked taty--for their dinners, and they’re on for good shops where I serves the taps and parlours, and pays me without grumbling, like gentlemen. Gentlemen does grumble though, for I’ve sold to them at private houses when they’ve held the door half open as they’ve called me--aye, and ladies too--and they’ve said, ‘Is that all for 2_d._?’ If it’d been a peck they’d have said the same, I know. Some customers is very pleasant with me, and says I’m a blessing. One always says he’ll give me a ton of taties when his ship comes home, ’cause he can always have a hot murphy to his cold saveloy, when tin’s short. He’s a harness-maker, and the railways has injured him. There’s Union-street and there’s Pearl-row, and there’s Market-street, now,--they’re all off the Borough-road--if I go there at ten at night or so, I can sell 3_s._ worth, perhaps, ’cause they know me, and I have another baked taty to help there sometimes. They’re women that’s not reckoned the best in the world that buys there, but they pay me. I know why I got my name up. I had luck to have good fruit when the rot was about, and they got to know me. I only go twice or thrice a week, for it’s two miles from my regular places. I’ve trusted them sometimes. They’ve said to me, as modest as could be, ‘Do give me credit, and ’pon my word you shall be paid; there’s a dear!’ I am paid mostly. Little shopkeepers is fair customers, but I do best for the taps and the parlours. Perhaps I make 12_s._ or 15_s._ a week--I hardly know, for I’ve only myself and keep no ’count--for the season; money goes one can’t tell how, and ’specially if you drinks a drop, as I do sometimes. Foggy weather drives me to it, I’m so worritted; that is, now and then, you’ll mind, sir.”

There are, at present, 300 vendors of hot baked potatoes getting their living in the streets of London, each of whom sell, upon an average, 3/4 cwt. of potatoes daily. The average takings of each vendor is 6_s._ a day; and the receipts of the whole number throughout the season (which lasts from the latter end of September till March inclusive), a period of 6 months, is 14,000_l._

A capital is required to start in this trade, as follows:--can, 2_l._; knife, 3_d._; stock-money, 8_s._; charge for baking 100 potatoes, 1_s._; charcoal, 4_d._; butter, 2_d._; salt, 1_d._, and pepper, 1_d._; altogether, 2_l._ 9_s._ 11_d._ The can and knife is the only property described as fixed, stock-money, &c., being daily occurring, amounts to 75_l._ during the season.

OF “TROTTING,” OR “HAWKING” BUTCHERS.

These two appellations are, or have been, used somewhat confusedly in the meat trade. Thirty, or forty, or fifty years ago--for each term was mentioned to me--the butcher in question was a man who went “trotting” on his small horse to the more distant suburbs to sell meat. This was when the suburbs, in any direction, were “not built up to” as they are now, and the appearance of the trotting butcher might be hailed as saving a walk of a mile, or a mile and a half, to a butcher’s shop, for only tradesmen of a smaller capital then opened butcher’s shops in the remoter suburbs. For a suburban butcher to send round “for orders” at that period would have occupied too much time, for a distance must be traversed; and to have gone, or sent, on horseback, would have entailed the keeping or hiring of a horse which was in those days an expensive matter. One butcher who told me that he had known the trade, man and boy, for nearly fifty years, said: “As to ‘trotting,’ a small man couldn’t so well do it, for if 20_l._ was offered for a tidy horse in the war time it would most likely be said, ‘I’ll get more for it in the cavaldry--for it was often called cavaldry then--there’s better plunder there.’ (Plunder, I may explain, is a common word in the horse trade to express profit.) So it wasn’t so easy to get a horse.” The trotting butchers were then men sent or going out from the more frequented parts to supply the suburbs, but in many cases only when a tradesman was “hung up” with meat. They carried from 20 to 100 lb. of meat generally in one basket, resting on the pommel of the saddle, and attached by a long leathern strap to the person of the “trotter.” The trade, however, was irregular and, considering the expenses, little remunerative; neither was it extensive, but what might be the extent I could not ascertain. There then sprung up the class of butchers--or rather the class became greatly multiplied--who sent their boys or men on fast trotting horses to take orders from the dwellers in the suburbs, and even in the streets, not suburbs, which were away from the shop thoroughfares, and afterwards to deliver the orders--still travelling on horseback--at the customer’s door. This system still continues, but to nothing like its former extent, and as it does not pertain especially to the street-trade I need not dwell upon it at present, nor on the competition that sprung up as to “trotting butcher’s ponies,”--in the “matching” of which “against time” sporting men have taken great interest.

Of “trotting” butchers, keeping their own horses, there are now none, but there are still, I am told, about six of the class who contrive, by hiring, or more frequently borrowing, horses of some friendly butcher, to live by trotting. These men are all known, and all call upon known customers--often those whom they have served in their prosperity, for the trotting butcher is a “reduced” man--and are not likely to be succeeded by any in the same line, or--as I heard it called--“ride” of business. These traders not subsisting exactly upon street traffic, or on any adventure depending upon door by door, or street by street, commerce, but upon a connection remaining from their having been in business on their own accounts, need no further mention.

The present class of street-traders in raw meat are known to the trade as “hawking” butchers, and they are as thoroughly street-sellers as are the game and poultry “hawkers.” Their number, I am assured, is never less than 150, and sometimes 200 or even 250. They have all been butchers, or journeymen butchers, and are broken down in the one case, or unable to obtain work in the other. They then “watch the turn of the markets,” as small meat “jobbers,” and--as on the Stock Exchange--“invest,” when they account the market at the lowest. The meat so purchased is hawked in a large basket carried on the shoulders, if of a weight too great to be sustained in a basket on the arm. The sale is confined almost entirely to public-houses, and those at no great distance from the great meat marts of Newgate, Leadenhall, and Whitechapel. The hawkers do not go to the suburbs. Their principal trade is in pork and veal,--for those joints weigh lighter, and present a larger surface in comparison with the weight, than do beef or mutton. The same may be said of lamb; but of that they do not buy one quarter so much as of pork or veal.

The hawking butcher bought his meat last year at from 2-1/2_d._ to 5-1/2_d._ the pound, according to kind and quality. He seldom gave 6_d._, even years ago, when meat was dearer; for it is difficult--I was told by one of these hawkers--to get more than 6_d._ per lb. from chance customers, no matter what the market price. “If I ask 7-1/2_d._ or 7_d._,” he said, “I’m sure of one answer--‘Nonsense!’ I never goes no higher nor 6_d._” Sometimes--and especially if he can command credit for two or three days--the hawking butcher will buy the whole carcass of a sheep. If he reside near the market, he may “cut it up” in his own room; but he can generally find the necessary accommodation at some friendly butcher’s block. If the weather be “bad for keeping,” he will dispose of a portion of the carcass to his brother-hawkers; if cold, he will persevere in hawking the whole himself. He usually, however, buys only a hind or fore-quarter of mutton, or other meat, except beef, which he buys by the joint, and more sparingly than he buys any other animal food. The hawker generally has his joints weighed before he starts, and can remember the exact pounds and ounces of each, but the purchasers generally weigh them before payment; or, as one hawker expressed it, “They goes to the scales before they come to the tin.”

Many of these hawkers drink hard, and, being often men of robust constitution, until the approach of age, can live “hard,”--as regards lodging, especially. One hawker I heard of slept in a slaughter-house, on the bare but clean floor, for nearly two years: “But that was seven years ago, and no butcher would allow it now.”

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A HAWKING BUTCHER.

A middle-aged man, the front of his head being nearly bald, and the few hairs there were to be seen shining strongly and lying flat, as if rubbed with suet or dripping, gave me the following account. He was dressed in the usual blue garb of the butcher:--

“I’ve hawked, sir--well, perhaps for fifteen years. My father was a journeyman butcher, and I helped him, and so grew up to it. I never had to call regular work, and made it out with hawking. Perhaps I’ve hawked, take it altogether, nearly three quarters of every year. The other times I’ve had a turn at slaughtering. But I haven’t slaughtered for these three or four years; I’ve had turns as a butcher’s porter, and wish I had more, as it’s sure browns, if it’s only 1_s._ 6_d._ a day: but there’s often a bit of cuttings. I sell most pork of anything in autumn and winter, and most mutton in summer; but the summer isn’t much more than half as good as the winter for my trade. When I slaughtered I had 3_s._ for an ox, 4_d._ for a sheep, and 1_s._ for a pig. Calves is slaughtered by the master’s people generally. Well, I dare say it is cruel the way they slaughter calves; you would think it so, no doubt. I believe they slaughter cheaper now. If I buy cheap--and on a very hot day and a slow market, I have bought a fore, aye, and a hind, quarter of mutton, about two and a half stone each (8 lbs. to the stone), at 2_d._ a pound; but that’s only very, very seldom--when I buy cheap sir, I aim at 2_d._ a pound over what I give, if not so cheap at 1_d._, and then its low to my customers. But I cut up the meat, you see, myself, and I carry it. I sell eight times as much to public-houses and eating-houses as anywhere else; most to the publics if they’ve ordinaries, and a deal for the publics’ families’ eating, ’cause a landlord knows I wouldn’t deceive him,--and there’s a part of it taken out in drink, of course, and landlords is good judges. Trade was far better years back. I’ve heard my father and his pals talk about a hawking butcher that twenty years ago was imprisoned falsely, and got a honest lawyer to bring his haction, and had 150_l._ damages for false imprisonment. It was in the Lord Mayor’s Court of Equity, I’ve heard. It was a wrong arrest. I don’t understand the particulars of it, but it’s true; and the damages was for loss of time and trade. I’m no lawyer myself; not a bit. I have sold the like of a loin of mutton, when it was small, in a tap-room, to make chops for the people there. They’ll cook chops and steaks for a pint of beer, at a public; that is, you must order a pint--but I’ve sold it very seldom. When mutton was dearer it was easier to sell it that way, for I sold cheap; and at one public the mechanics--I hardly know just what they was, something about building--used to gather there at one o’clock and wait for ‘Giblets’; so they called me there. I live a good bit on the cuttings of the meat I hawk, or I chop a meal off if I can manage or afford it, or my wife--(I’ve only a wife and she earns never less than 2_s._ a week in washing for a master butcher--I wish I was a master butcher,--and that covers the rent)--my wife makes it into broth. Take it all the year round, I s’pose I sell three stun a day (24 lb.), and at 1_d._ a pound profit. Not a farthing more go round and round. I don’t think the others, altogether, do as much, for I’m known to a many landlords. But some make 3_s._ and 4_s._ a day oft enough. I’ve made as much myself sometimes. We all aim at 1_d._ a pound profit, but have to take less in hot weather sometimes. Last year 4_d._ the pound has been a haverage price to me for all sorts.”

“Dead salesmen,” as they are called--that is, the market salesmen of the meat sent so largely from Scotland and elsewhere, ready slaughtered--expressed to me their conviction that my informant’s calculation was correct, and might be taken as an average; so did butchers. Thus, then, we find that the hawking butchers, taking their number at 150, sell 747,000 lbs. of meat, producing 12,450_l._ annually, one-fourth being profit; this gives an annual receipt of 83_l._ each, and an annual earning of 20_l._ 15_s._ The capital required to start in this trade is about 20_s._, which is usually laid out as follows:--A basket for the shoulders, which costs 4_s._ 6_d._; a leathern strap, 1_s._; a basket for the arm, 2_s._ 6_d._; a butcher’s knife, 1_s._; a steel, 1_s._ 6_d._; a leather belt for the waist to which the knife is slung, 6_d._; a chopper, 1_s._ 6_d._; and a saw, 2_s._; 6_s._ stock-money, though credit is sometimes given.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF HAM-SANDWICHES.

The ham-sandwich-seller carries his sandwiches on a tray or flat basket, covered with a clean white cloth; he also wears a white apron, and white sleeves. His usual stand is at the doors of the theatres.

The trade was unknown until eleven years ago, when a man who had been unsuccessful in keeping a coffee-shop in Westminster, found it necessary to look out for some mode of living, and he hit upon the plan of vending sandwiches, precisely in the present style, at the theatre doors. The attempt was successful; the man soon took 10_s._ a night, half of which was profit. He “attended” both the great theatres, and was “doing well;” but at five or six weeks’ end, competitors appeared in the field, and increased rapidly, and so his sale was affected, people being regardless of his urging that he “was the original ham-sandwich.” The capital required to start in the trade was small; a few pounds of ham, a proportion of loaves, and a little mustard was all that was required, and for this 10_s._ was ample. That sum, however, could not be commanded by many who were anxious to deal in sandwiches; and the man who commenced the trade supplied them at 6_d._ a dozen, the charge to the public being 1_d._ a-piece. Some of the men, however, murmured, because they thought that what they thus bought were not equal to those the wholesale sandwich-man offered for sale himself; and his wholesale trade fell off, until now, I am told, he has only two customers among street-sellers.

Ham sandwiches are made from any part of the bacon which may be sufficiently lean, such as “the gammon,” which now costs 4_d._ and 5_d._ the pound. It is sometimes, but very rarely, picked up at 3-1/2_d._ When the trade was first started, 7_d._ a pound was paid for the ham, but the sandwiches are now much larger. To make three dozen a pound of meat is required, and four quartern loaves. The “ham” may cost 5_d._, the bread 1_s._ 8_d._ or 1_s._ 10_d._, and the mustard 1_d._ The proceeds for this would be 3_s._, but the trade is very precarious: little can be done in wet weather. If unsold, the sandwiches spoil, for the bread gets dry, and the ham loses its fresh colour; so that those who depend upon this trade are wretchedly poor. A first-rate week is to clear 10_s._; a good week is put at 7_s._; and a bad week at 3_s._ 6_d._ On some nights they do not sell a dozen sandwiches. There are halfpenny sandwiches, but these are only half the size of those at a penny.

The persons carrying on this trade have been, for the most part, in some kind of service--errand-boys, pot-boys, foot-boys (or pages), or lads engaged about inns. Some few have been mechanics. Their average weekly earnings hardly exceed 5_s._, but some “get odd jobs” at other things.

“There are now, sir, at the theatres this (the Strand) side the water, and at Ashley’s, the Surrey, and the Vic., two dozen and nine sandwiches.” So said one of the trade, who counted up his brethren for me. This man calculated also that at the Standard, the saloons, the concert-rooms, and at Limehouse, Mile-end, Bethnal-green-road, and elsewhere, there might be more than as many again as those “working” the theatres--or 70 in all. They are nearly all men, and no boys or girls are now in the trade. The number of these people, when the large theatres were open with the others, was about double what it is now.

The information collected shows that the expenditure in ham-sandwiches, supplied by street-sellers, is 1,820_l._ yearly, and a consumption of 436,800 sandwiches.

To start in the ham-sandwich street-trade requires 2_s._ for a basket, 2_s._ for kettle to boil ham in, 6_d._ for knife and fork, 2_d._ for mustard-pot and spoon, 7_d._ for 1/2 cwt. of coals, 5_s._ for ham, 1_s._ 3_d._ for bread, 4_d._ for mustard, 9_d._ for basket, cloth, and apron, 4_d._ for over-sleeves--or a capital of 12_s._ 11_d._

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A HAM SANDWICH-SELLER.

A young man gave me the following account. His look and manners were subdued; and, though his dress was old and worn, it was clean and unpatched:--

“I hardly remember my father, sir,” he said; “but I believe, if he’d lived, I should have been better off. My mother couldn’t keep my brother and me--he’s older than me--when we grew to be twelve or thirteen, and we had to shift for ourselves. She works at the stays, and now makes only 3_s._ a week, and we can’t help her. I was first in place as a sort of errand-boy, then I was a stationer’s boy, and then a news agent’s boy. I wasn’t wanted any longer, but left with a good character. My brother had gone into the sandwich trade--I hardly know what made him--and he advised me to be a ham sandwich-man, and so I started as one. At first, I made 10_s._, and 7_s._, and 8_s._ a week--that’s seven years, or so--but things are worse now, and I make 3_s._ 6_d._ some weeks, and 5_s._ others, and 6_s._ is an out-and-outer. My rent’s 2_s._ a week, but I haven’t my own things. I am so sick of this life, I’d do anything to get out of it; but I don’t see a way. Perhaps I might have been more careful when I was first in it; but, really, if you do make 10_s._ a week, you want shoes, or a shirt--so what is 10_s._ after all? I wish I had it now, though. I used to buy my sandwiches at 6_d._ a dozen, but I found that wouldn’t do; and now I buy and boil the stuff, and make them myself. What did cost 6_d._, now only costs me 4_d._ or 4-1/2_d._ I work the theatres this side of the water, chiefly the ’Lympic and the ’Delphi. The best theatre I ever had was the Garding, when it had two galleries, and was dramatic--the operas there wasn’t the least good to me. The Lyceum was good, when it was Mr. Keeley’s. I hardly know what sort my customers are, but they’re those that go to theaytres: shopkeepers and clerks, I think. Gentlemen don’t often buy of me. They have bought, though. Oh, no, they never give a farthing over; they’re more likely to want seven for 6_d._ The women of the town buy of me, when it gets late, for themselves and their fancy men. They’re liberal enough when they’ve money. They sometimes treat a poor fellow in a public-house. In summer I’m often out ’till four in the morning, and then must lie in bed half next day. The ’Delphi was better than it is. I’ve taken 3_s._ at the first “turn out” (the leaving the theatre for a short time after the first piece), “but the turn-outs at the Garding was better than that. A penny pie-shop has spoiled us at the ’Delphi and at Ashley’s. I go out between eight and nine in the evening. People often want more in my sandwiches, though I’m starving on them. ‘Oh,’ they’ll say, ‘you’ve been ’prenticed to Vauxhall, you have.’ ‘They’re 1_s._ there,’ says I, ‘and no bigger. I haven’t Vauxhall prices.’ I stand by the night-houses when it’s late--not the fashionables. Their customers would’nt look at me; but I’ve known women, that carried their heads very high, glad to get a sandwich afterwards. Six times I’ve been upset by drunken fellows, on purpose, I’ve no doubt, and lost all my stock. Once, a gent. kicked my basket into the dirt, and he was going off--for it was late--but some people by began to make remarks about using a poor fellow that way, so he paid for all, after he had them counted. I am so sick of this life, sir. I do dread the winter so. I’ve stood up to the ankles in snow till after midnight, and till I’ve wished I was snow myself, and could melt like it and have an end. I’d do anything to get away from this, but I can’t. Passion Week’s another dreadful time. It drives us to starve, just when we want to get up a little stock-money for Easter. I’ve been bilked by cabmen, who’ve taken a sandwich; but, instead of paying for it, have offered to fight me. There’s no help. We’re knocked about sadly by the police. Time’s very heavy on my hands, sometimes, and that’s where you feel it. I read a bit, if I can get anything to read, for I was at St. Clement’s school; or I walk out to look for a job. On summer-days I sell a trotter or two. But mine’s a wretched life, and so is most ham sandwich-men. I’ve no enjoyment of my youth, and no comfort.

“Ah, sir! I live very poorly. A ha’porth or a penn’orth of cheap fish, which I cook myself, is one of my treats--either herrings or plaice--with a ’tatur, perhaps. Then there’s a sort of meal, now and then, off the odds and ends of the ham, such as isn’t quite viewy enough for the public, along with the odds and ends of the loaves. I can’t boil a bit of greens with my ham, ’cause I’m afraid it might rather spoil the colour. I don’t slice the ham till it’s cold--it cuts easier, and is a better colour then, I think. I wash my aprons, and sleeves, and cloths myself, and iron them too. A man that sometimes makes only 3_s._ 6_d._ a week, and sometimes less, and must pay 2_s._ rent out of that, must look after every farthing. I’ve often walked eight miles to see if I could find ham a halfpenny a pound cheaper anywhere. If it was tainted, I know it would be flung in my face. If I was sick there’s only the parish for me.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF BREAD.

The street-trade in bread is not so extensive as might be expected, from the universality of the consumption. It is confined to Petticoat-lane and the poorer districts in that neighbourhood. A person who has known the East-end of town for nearly fifty years, told me that as long as he could recollect, bread was sold in the streets, but not to the present extent. In 1812 and 1813, when bread was the dearest, there was very little sold in the streets. At that time, and until 1815, the Assize Acts, regulating the bread-trade, were in force, and had been in force in London since 1266. Previously to 1815 bakers were restricted, by these Acts, to the baking of three kinds of bread--wheaten, standard wheaten, and household. The wheaten was made of the best flour, the standard wheaten of the different kinds of flour mixed together, and the household of the coarser and commoner flour. In 1823, however, it was enacted that within the City of London and ten miles round, “it shall be lawful for the bakers to make and sell bread made of wheat, barley, rye, oats, buck-wheat, Indian-corn, peas, beans, rice, or potatoes, or any of them, along with common salt, pure-water, eggs, milk, barm-leaven, potato, or other yeast, and mixed in such proportions as they shall think fit.” I mention this because my informant, as well as an old master baker with whom I conversed on the subject, remembered that every now and then, after 1823, but only for two or three years, some speculative trader, both in shops and in the streets, would endeavour to introduce an inferior, but still a wholesome, bread, to his customers, such as an admixture of barley with wheat-flour, but no one--as far as I could learn--persevered in the speculation for more than a week or so. Their attempts were not only unsuccessful but they met with abuse, from street-buyers especially, for endeavouring to palm off “brown” bread as “good enough for poor people.” One of my elder informants remembered his father telling him that in 1800 and 1801, George III. had set the example of eating brown bread at his one o’clock dinner, but he was sometimes assailed as he passed in his carriage, with the reproachful epithet of “Brown George.” This feeling continues, for the poor people, and even the more intelligent working-men, if cockneys, have still a notion that only “white” bread is fit for consumption. Into the question of the relative nutrition of breads, I shall enter when I treat of the bakers.

During a period of about four months in the summer, there are from twenty to thirty men daily selling stale bread. Of these only twelve sell it regularly every day of the year, and they trade chiefly on their own account. Of the others, some are sent out by their masters, receiving from 1_s._ to 2_s._ for their labour. Those who sell on their own account, go round to the bakers’ shops about Stepney, Mile-end, and Whitechapel, and purchase the stale-bread on hand. It is sold to them at 1/2_d._, 1_d._ and 1-1/2_d._ per quartern less than the retail shop price; but when the weather is very hot, and the bakers have a large quantity of stale-bread on hand, the street-sellers sometimes get the bread at 2_d._ a quartern less than the retail price. All the street-sellers of bread have been brought up as bakers. Some have resorted to the street-trade, I am told, when unable to procure work; others because it is a less toilsome, and sometimes a more profitable means of subsistence, than the labour of an operative baker. It is very rarely that any of the street-traders leave their calling to resume working as journeymen. Some of these traders have baskets containing the bread offered for street-sale; others have barrows, and one has a barrow resembling a costermonger’s, with a long basket made to fit upon it. The dress of these vendors is a light coat of cloth or fustian; corduroy, fustian, or cloth trousers, and a cloth cap or a hat, the whole attire being, what is best understood as “dusty,” ingrained as it is with flour.

From one bread-seller, a middle-aged man, with the pale look and habitual stoop of a journeyman baker, I had the following account:

“I’ve known the street-trade a few years; I can’t say exactly how many. I was a journeyman baker before that, and can’t say but what I had pretty regular employment; but then, sir, what an employment it is! So much night-work, and the heat of the oven, with the close air, and sleeping on sacks at nights (for you can’t leave the place), so that altogether it’s a slave’s life. A journeyman baker hasn’t what can be called a home, for he’s so much away at the oven; he’d better not be a married man, for if his wife isn’t very careful there’s talk, and there’s unhappiness about nothing perhaps. I can’t be thought to speak feelingly that way though, for I’ve been fortunate in a wife. But a journeyman baker’s life drives him to drink, almost whether he will or not. A street life’s not quite so bad. I was out of work two or three weeks, and I certainly lushed too much, and can’t say as I tried very hard to get work, but I had a pound or two in hand, and then I began to think I’d try and sell stale bread in the streets, for it’s a healthfuller trade than the other; so I started, and have been at it ever since, excepting when I work a few days, or weeks, for a master baker; but he’s a relation, and I assist him when he’s ill. My customers are all poor persons,--some in rags, and some as decent as their bad earnings’ll let them. No doubt about it, sir, there’s poor women buy of me that’s wives of mechanics working slop, and that’s forced to live on stale bread. Where there’s a family of children, stale bread goes so very much further. I think I sell to few but what has families, for a quartern’s too much at a time for a single woman. I often hear my customers talk about their children, and say they must make haste, as the poor things are hungry, and they couldn’t get them any bread sooner. O, it’s a hard fight to live, all Spitalfields and Bethnal-green way, for I know it all. There are first the journeyman bakers over-worked and fretted into drinking, a-making the bread, and there are the poor fellows in all sorts of trade over-worked to get money to buy it. I’ve had women that looked as if they was ‘reduced,’ come to me of an evening as soon as it was dusk, and buy stale bread, as if they was ashamed to be seen. Yes, I give credit. Some has a week’s credit regular, and pays every Saturday night. I lose very little in trusting. I sometimes have bread over and sell it--rather than hold it over to next day--for half what it cost me. I have given it away to begging people, sooner than keep it to be too stale, and they would get something for it at a lodging-house. The lodging-house keepers never buy of me that I know of. They can buy far cheaper than I can--you understand, sir. Perhaps, altogether, I make about a guinea every week; wet weather and short days are against me. I don’t sell more, I think, on a Saturday than on other nights. The nights are much of a muchness that way.”

The average quantity sold by each vendor during the summer months is 150 quarterns daily, usually at 4_d._, but occasionally at 3_d._ the quartern. One man informed me that he had sold in one day 350 quarterns, receiving 5_l._ 16_s._ 8_d._ for them.

The number of men (for if there be women they are the men’s wives) engaged daily throughout the year in the street-sale of bread is 12. These sell upon an average 100 quarterns each per day: taking every day in the year 1_l._ 12_s._ each (a few being sold at 3_d._)

Calculating then the four months’ trade in summer at 150 quarterns per day per man, and reckoning 15 men so selling, and each receiving 45_s._ (thus allowing for the threepenny sale); and taking the receipts of the 12 regular traders at 1_l._ 12_s._ per day, we find nearly 9,000_l._ annually expended in the street purchase of 700,000 quartern loaves of bread. The profits of the sellers vary from 1_l._ to 2_l._ a week, according to the extent of their business.

To start in this branch of the street-trade a capital is required according to the following rate:--Stock-money for bread, average 1_l._; (largest amount required, 5_l._; smallest, 10_s._); a basket, 4_s._ 6_d._ Of those who are employed in the summer, one-half have baskets, and the other half bakers’ barrows; while of those who attend the year through, 8 have baskets at 4_s._ 6_d._ each, 3 have barrows at 40_s._ each, and one a barrow and the long basket, before mentioned. The barrow costs 30_s._, and the basket 2_l._

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF HOT GREEN PEAS.

The sale of hot green peas in the streets is of great antiquity, that is to say, if the cry of “hot peas-cod,” recorded by Lydgate (and formerly alluded to), may be taken as having intimated the sale of the same article. In many parts of the country it is, or was, customary to have “scaldings of peas,” often held as a sort of rustic feast. The peas were not shelled, but boiled in the pod, and eaten by the pod being dipped in melted butter, with a little pepper, salt, and vinegar, and then drawn through the teeth to extract the peas, the pod being thrown away. The mention of peas-cod (or pea-shell) by Lydgate renders it probable that the “scalding” method was that then in use in the streets. None of the street-sellers, however, whom I saw, remembered the peas being vended in any other form than shelled and boiled as at present.

The sellers of green peas have no stands, but carry a round or oval tin pot or pan, with a swing handle; the pan being wrapped round with a thick cloth, to retain the heat. The peas are served out with a ladle, and eaten by the customers, if eaten in the street, out of basins, provided with spoons, by the pea-man. Salt, vinegar, and pepper, are applied from the vendor’s store, at the customer’s discretion.

There are now four men carrying on this trade. They wear no particular dress, “just what clothes we can get,” said one of them. One, who has been in the trade twenty-five years, was formerly an inn-porter; the other three are ladies’ shoemakers in the day-time, and pea-sellers in the evening, or at early morning, in any market. Their average sale is three gallons daily, with a receipt of 7_s._ per man. Seven gallons a day is accounted a large sale; but the largest of all is at Greenwich fair, when each pea-man will take 35_s._ in a day. Each vendor has his district. One takes Billingsgate, Rosemary-lane, and its vicinity; another, the Old Clothes Exchange, Bishopsgate, Shoreditch, and Bethnal-green; a third, Mile-end and Stepney; and a fourth, Ratcliffe-highway, Limehouse, and Poplar. Each man resides in his “round,” for the convenience of boiling his peas, and introducing them to his customers “hot and hot.”

The peas used in this traffic are all the dried field pea, but dried green and whole, and not split, or prepared, as are the yellow peas for soup or puddings. They are purchased at the corn-chandlers’ or the seed-shops, the price being 2_s._ the peck (or two gallons.) The peas are soaked before they are boiled, and swell considerably, so that one gallon of the dried peas makes rather more than two gallons of the boiled. The hot green peas are sold in halfpennyworths; a halfpennyworth being about a quarter of a pint. The cry of the sellers is, “Hot green peas! all hot, all hot! Here’s your peas hot, hot, hot!”

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A HOT GREEN PEA SELLER.

The most experienced man in the trade gave me the following account:--

“Come the 25th of March, sir, and I shall have been 26 years in the business, for I started it on the 25th of March--it’s a day easy for to remember, ’cause everybody knows it’s quarter-day--in 1825. I was a porter in coaching-inns before; but there was a mishap, and I had to drop it. I didn’t leave ’cause I thought the pea line might be better, but because I must do something, and knew a man in the trade, and all about it. It was a capital trade then, and for a good many years after I was in it. Many a day I’ve taken a guinea, and, sometimes, 35_s._; and I have taken two guineas at Greenwich Fair, but then I worked till one or two in the morning from eleven the day before. Money wasn’t so scarce then. Oh, sir, as to what my profit was or is, I never tell. I wouldn’t to my own wife; neither her that’s living nor her that’s dead.” [A person present intimated that the secret might be safely confided to the dead wife, but the pea-seller shook his head.] “Now, one day with another, except Sundays, when I don’t work, I may take 7_s._ I always use the dried peas. They pay better than fresh garden-peas would at a groat a peck. People has asked for young green peas, but I’ve said that I didn’t have them. Billingsgate’s my best ground. I sell to the costers, and the roughs, and all the parties that has their dinners in the tap-rooms--they has a bit of steak, or a bit of cold meat they’ve brought with them. There’s very little fish eat in Billingsgate, except, perhaps, at the ord’n’ries (ordinaries). I’m looked for as regular as dinner-time. The landlords tell me to give my customers plenty of pepper and salt, to make them thirsty. I go on board the Billingsgate ships, too, and sometimes sell 6_d._ worth to captain and crew. It’s a treat, after a rough voyage. Oh, no, sir, I never go on board the Dutch eel-vessels. There’s nothing to be got out of scaly fur’ners (foreigners.) I sell to the herring, and mackarel, and oyster-boats, when they’re up. My great sale is in public-houses, but I sometimes sell 2_d._ or 3_d._ worth to private houses. I go out morning, noon, and night; and at night I go my round when people’s having a bite of supper, perhaps, in the public-houses. I sell to the women of the town then. Yes, I give them credit. To-night, now (Saturday), I expect to receive 2_s._ 3_d._, or near on to it, that I’ve trusted them this week. They mostly pay me on a Saturday night. I lose very little by them. I’m knocked about in public-houses by the Billingsgate roughs, and I’ve been bilked by the prigs. I’ve known at least six people try my trade, and fail in it, and I was glad to see them broke. I sell twice as much in cold weather as in warm.”

I ascertained that my informant sold three times as much as the other dealers, who confine their trade principally to an evening round. Reckoning that the chief man of business sells 3 gallons a day (which, at 1_d._ the quarter-pint, would be 8_s._, my informant said 7_s._), and that the other three together sell the same quantity, we find a street-expenditure on hot green peas of 250_l._ and a street consumption of 1870 gallons. The peas, costing 2_s._ the two gallons, are vended for 4_s._ or 5_s._, at the least, as they boil into more than double the quantity, and a gallon, retail, is 2_s._ 8_d._; but the addition of vinegar, pepper, &c., may reduce the profit to cent. per cent., while there is the heaping up of every measure retail to reduce the profit. Thus, independent of any consideration as to the labour in boiling, &c. (generally done by the women), the principal man’s profit is 21_s._ a week; that of the others 7_s._ each weekly.

The capital required to start in the business is--can, 2_s._ 6_d._; vinegar-bottle and pepper-box, 4_d._; saucers and spoons, 6_d._; stock-money, about 2_s._; cloth to wrap over the peas, 4_d._ (a vendor wearing out a cloth in three months); or an average of 9_s._ or 10_s._

OF CATS’ AND DOGS’-MEAT DEALERS.

The supply of food for cats and dogs is far greater than may be generally thought. “Vy, sir,” said one of the dealers to me, “can you tell me ’ow many people’s in London?” On my replying, upwards of two millions; “I don’t know nothing vatever,” said my informant, “about millions, but I think there’s a cat to every ten people, aye, and more than that; and so, sir, you can reckon.” [I told him this gave a total of 200,000 cats in London; but the number of inhabited houses in the metropolis was 100,000 more than this, and though there was not a cat to every house, still, as many lodgers as well as householders kept cats, I added that I thought the total number of cats in London might be taken at the same number as the inhabited houses, or 300,000 in all.] “There’s not near half so many dogs as cats. I must know, for they all knows me, and I sarves about 200 cats and 70 dogs. Mine’s a middling trade, but some does far better. Some cats has a hap’orth a day, some every other day; werry few can afford a penn’orth, but times is inferior. Dogs is better pay when you’ve a connection among ’em.”

The cat and dogs’-meat dealers, or “carriers,” as they call themselves, generally purchase the meat at the knackers’ (horse-slaughterers’) yards. There are upwards of twenty of such yards in London; three or four are in Whitechapel, one in Wandsworth, two in Cow-cross--one of the two last mentioned is the largest establishment in London--and there are two about Bermondsey. The proprietors of these yards purchase live and dead horses. They contract for them with large firms, such as brewers, coal-merchants, and large cab and ’bus yards, giving so much per head for their old live and dead horses through the year. The price varies from 2_l._ to 50_s._ the carcass. The knackers also have contractors in the country (harness-makers and others), who bring or send up to town for them the live and dead stock of those parts. The dead horses are brought to the yard--two or three upon one cart, and sometimes five. The live ones are tied to the tail of these carts, and behind the tail of each other. Occasionally a string of fourteen or fifteen are brought up, head to tail, at one time. The live horses are purchased merely for slaughtering. If among the lot bought there should chance to be one that is young, but in bad condition, it is placed in the stable, fed up, and then put into the knacker’s carts, or sold by them, or let on hire. Occasionally a fine horse has been rescued from death in this manner. One person is known to have bought an animal for 15_s._, for which he afterwards got 150_l._ Frequently young horses that will not work in cabs--such as “jibs”--are sold to the horse-slaughterers as useless. They are kept in the yard, and after being well fed, often turn out good horses. The live horses are slaughtered by the persons called “knackers.” These men get upon an average 4_s._ a day. They begin work at twelve at night, because some of the flesh is required to be boiled before six in the morning; indeed, a great part of the meat is delivered to the carriers before that hour. The horse to be slaughtered has his mane clipped as short as possible (on account of the hair, which is valuable). It is then blinded with a piece of old apron smothered in blood, so that it may not see the slaughterman when about to strike. A pole-axe is used, and a cane, to put an immediate end to the animal’s sufferings. After the animal is slaughtered, the hide is taken off, and the flesh cut from the bones in large pieces. These pieces are termed, according to the part from which they are cut, hind-quarters, fore-quarters, cram-bones, throats, necks, briskets, backs, ribs, kidney pieces, hearts, tongues, liver and lights. The bones (called “racks” by the knackers) are chopped up and boiled, in order to extract the fat, which is used for greasing common harness, and the wheels of carts and drags, &c. The bones themselves are sold for manure. The pieces of flesh are thrown into large coppers or pans, about nine feet in diameter and four feet deep. Each of these pans will hold about three good-sized horses. Sometimes two large brewers’ horses will fill them, and sometimes as many as four “poor” cab-horses may be put into them. The flesh is boiled about an hour and 20 minutes for a “killed” horse, and from two hours to two hours and 20 minutes for a dead horse (a horse dying from age or disease). The flesh, when boiled, is taken from the coppers, laid on the stones, and sprinkled with water to cool it. It is then weighed out in pieces of 112, 56, 28, 21, 14, 7, and 3-1/2 lbs. weight. These are either taken round in a cart to the “carriers,” or, at about five, the carriers call at the yard to purchase, and continue doing so till twelve in the day. The price is 14_s._ per cwt. in winter, and 16_s._ in summer. The tripe is served out at 12 lb. for 6_d._ All this is for cats and dogs. The carriers then take the meat round town, wherever their “walk” may lie. They sell it to the public at the rate of 2-1/2_d._ per lb., and in small pieces, on skewers, at a farthing, a halfpenny, and a penny each. Some carriers will sell as much as a hundred-weight in a day, and about half a hundred-weight is the average quantity disposed of by the carriers in London. Some sell much cheaper than others. These dealers will frequently knock at the doors of persons whom they have seen served by another on the previous day, and show them that they can let them have a larger quantity of meat for the same money. The class of persons belonging to the business are mostly those who have been unable to obtain employment at their trade. Occasionally a person is bred to it, having been engaged as a lad by some carrier to go round with the barrow and assist him in his business. These boys will, after a time, find a “walk” for themselves, beginning first with a basket, and ultimately rising to a barrow. Many of the carriers give light weight to the extent of 2 oz. and 4 oz. in the pound. At one yard alone near upon 100 carriers purchase meat, and there are, upon an average, 150 horses slaughtered there every week. Each slaughter-house may be said to do, one with another, 60 horses per week throughout the year, which, reckoning the London slaughter-houses at 12, gives a total of 720 horses killed every week in the metropolis, or, in round numbers, 37,500 in the course of the year.

The London cat and dogs’-meat carriers or sellers--nearly all men--number at the least 1,000.

The slaughtermen are said to reap large fortunes very rapidly--indeed, the carriers say they coin the money. Many of them retire after a few years, and take large farms. One, after 12 years’ business, retired with several thousand pounds, and has now three large farms. The carriers are men, women, and boys. Very few women do as well as the men at it. The carriers “are generally sad drunkards.” Out of five hundred, it is said three hundred at least spend 1_l._ a head a week in drink. One party in the trade told me that he knew a carrier who would often spend 10_s._ in liquor at one sitting. The profit the carriers make upon the meat is at present only a penny per pound. In the summer time the profit per pound is reduced to a halfpenny, owing to the meat being dearer on account of its scarcity. The carriers give a great deal of credit--indeed, they take but little ready money. On some days they do not come home with more than 2_s._ One with a middling walk pays for his meat 7_s._ 6_d._ per day. For this he has half a hundred-weight. This produces him as much as 11_s._ 6_d._, so that his profit is 4_s._; which, I am assured, is about a fair average of the earnings of the trade. One carrier is said to have amassed 1,000_l._ at the business. He usually sold from 1-1/2 to 2 cwt. every morning, so that his profits were generally from 16_s._ to 1_l._ per day. But the trade is much worse now. There are so many at it, they say, that there is barely a living for any. A carrier assured me that he seldom went less than 30, and frequently 40 miles, through the streets every day. The best districts are among the houses of tradesmen, mechanics, and labourers. The coachmen in the mews at the back of the squares are very good customers. “The work lays thicker there,” said my informant. Old maids are bad, though very plentiful, customers. They cheapen the carriers down so, that they can scarcely live at the business. “They will pay one halfpenny and owe another, and forget that after a day or two.” The cats’ meat dealers generally complain of their losses from bad debts. Their customers require credit frequently to the extent of 1_l._ “One party owes me 15_s._ now,” said a carrier to me, “and many 10_s._; in fact, very few people pay ready money for the meat.”

The carriers frequently serve as much as ten pennyworths to one person in a day. One gentleman has as much as 4 lbs. of meat each morning for two Newfoundland dogs; and there was one woman--a black--who used to have as much as 16 pennyworth every day. This person used to get out on the roof of the house and throw it to the cats on the tiles. By this she brought so many stray cats round about the neighbourhood, that the parties in the vicinity complained; it was quite a nuisance. She would have the meat always brought to her before ten in the morning, or else she would send to a shop for it, and between ten and eleven in the morning the noise and cries of the hundreds of stray cats attracted to the spot was “terrible to hear.” When the meat was thrown to the cats on the roof, the riot, and confusion, and fighting, was beyond description. “A beer-shop man,” I was told, “was obliged to keep five or six dogs to drive the cats from his walls.” There was also a mad woman in Islington, who used to have 14 lbs. of meat a day. The party who supplied her had his money often at 2_l._ and 3_l._ at a time. She had as many as thirty cats at times in her house. Every stray one that came she would take in and support. The stench was so great that she was obliged to be ejected. The best days for the cats’ meat business are Mondays, Tuesdays, and Saturdays. A double quantity of meat is sold on the Saturday; and on that day and Monday and Tuesday the weekly customers generally pay.

“My father was a baker by trade,” said a carrier to me, “but through an enlargement of the heart he was obliged to give up working at his trade; leaning over the trough increased his complaint so severely, that he used to fall down, and be obliged to be brought home. This made him take to the cats’ and dogs’ meat trade, and he brought me up to it. I do pretty comfortably. I have a very good business, having been all my life at it. If it wasn’t for the bad debts I should do much better; but some of the people I trust leave the houses, and actually take in a double quantity of meat the day before. I suppose there is at the present moment as much as 20_l._ owing to me that I never expect to see a farthing of.”

The generality of the dealers wear a shiny hat, black plush waistcoat and sleeves, a blue apron, corduroy trousers, and a blue and white spotted handkerchief round their necks. Some, indeed, will wear two and three handkerchiefs round their necks, this being fashionable among them. A great many meet every Friday afternoon in the donkey-market, Smithfield, and retire to a public-house adjoining, to spend the evening.

A “cats’ meat carrier” who supplied me with information was more comfortably situated than any of the poorer classes that I have yet seen. He lived in the front room of a second floor, in an open and respectable quarter of the town, and his lodgings were the perfection of comfort and cleanliness in an humble sphere. It was late in the evening when I reached the house. I found the “carrier” and his family preparing for supper. In a large morocco leather easy chair sat the cats’ meat carrier himself; his “blue apron and black shiny hat” had disappeared, and he wore a “dress” coat and a black satin waistcoat instead. His wife, who was a remarkably pretty woman, and of very attractive manners, wore a “Dolly Varden” cap, placed jauntily at the back of her head, and a drab merino dress. The room was cosily carpeted, and in one corner stood a mahogany “crib” with cane-work sides, in which one of the children was asleep. On the table was a clean white table-cloth, and the room was savoury with the steaks, and mashed potatoes that were cooking on the fire. Indeed, I have never yet seen greater comfort in the abodes of the poor. The cleanliness and wholesomeness of the apartment were the more striking from the unpleasant associations connected with the calling.

It is believed by one who has been engaged at the business for 25 years, that there are from 900 to 1,000 horses, averaging 2 cwt. of meat each--little and big--boiled down every week; so that the quantity of cats’ and dogs’ meat used throughout London is about 200,000 lbs. per week, and this, sold at the rate of 2-1/2_d._ per lb., gives 2,000_l._ a week for the money spent in cats’ and dogs’ meat, or upwards of 100,000_l._ a year, which is at the rate of 100_l._-worth sold annually by each carrier. The profits of the carriers may be estimated at about 50_l._ each per annum.

The capital required to start in this business varies from 1_l._ to 2_l._ The stock-money needed is between 5_s._ and 10_s._ The barrow and basket, weights and scales, knife and steel, or black-stone, cost about 2_l._ when new, and from 15_s._ to 4_s._ second-hand.

OF THE STREET-SALE OF DRINKABLES.

The street-sellers of the drinkables, who have now to be considered, belong to the same class as I have described in treating of the sale of street-provisions generally. The buyers are not precisely of the same class, for the street-eatables often supply a meal, but with the exception of the coffee-stalls, and occasionally of the rice-milk, the drinkables are more of a luxury than a meal. Thus the buyers are chiefly those who have “a penny to spare,” rather than those who have “a penny to dine upon.” I have described the different classes of purchasers of each potable, and perhaps the accounts--as a picture of street-life--are even more curious than those I have given of the purchasers of the eatables--of (literally) the diners out.

OF COFFEE-STALL KEEPERS.

The vending of tea and coffee, in the streets, was little if at all known twenty years ago, saloop being then the beverage supplied from stalls to the late and early wayfarers. Nor was it until after 1842 that the stalls approached to anything like their present number, which is said to be upwards of 300--the majority of the proprietors being women. Prior to 1824, coffee was in little demand, even among the smaller tradesmen or farmers, but in that year the duty having been reduced from 1_s._ to 6_d._ per lb., the consumption throughout the kingdom in the next seven years was nearly trebled, the increase being from 7,933,041 lbs., in 1824, to 22,745,627 lbs., in 1831. In 1842, the duty on coffee, was fixed at 4_d._, from British possessions, and from foreign countries at 6_d._

But it was not owing solely to the reduced price of coffee, that the street-vendors of it increased in the year or two subsequent to 1842, at least 100 per cent. The great facilities then offered for a cheap adulteration, by mixing ground chicory with the ground coffee, was an enhancement of the profits, and a greater temptation to embark in the business, as a smaller amount of capital would suffice. Within these two or three years, this cheapness has been still further promoted, by the medium of adulteration, the chicory itself being, in its turn, adulterated by the admixture of baked carrots, and the like saccharine roots, which, of course, are not subjected to any duty, while foreign chicory is charged 6_d._ per lb. English chicory is not chargeable with duty, and is now cultivated, I am assured, to the yield of between 4,000 and 5,000 tons yearly, and this nearly all used in the adulteration of coffee. Nor is there greater culpability in this trade among street-venders, than among “respectable” shopkeepers; for I was assured, by a leading grocer, that he could not mention twenty shops in the city, of which he could say: “You can go and buy a pound of ground coffee there, and it will not be adulterated.” The revelations recently made on this subject by the Lancet are a still more convincing proof of the general dishonesty of grocers.

The coffee-stall keepers generally stand at the corner of a street. In the fruit and meat markets there are usually two or three coffee-stalls, and one or two in the streets leading to them; in Covent-garden there are no less than four coffee-stalls. Indeed, the stalls abound in all the great thoroughfares, and the most in those not accounted “fashionable” and great “business” routes, but such as are frequented by working people, on their way to their day’s labour. The best “pitch” in London is supposed to be at the corner of Duke-street, Oxford-street. The proprietor of that stall is said to take full 30_s._ of a morning, in halfpence. One stall-keeper, I was informed, when “upon the drink” thinks nothing of spending his 10_l._ or 15_l._ in a week. A party assured me that once, when the stall-keeper above mentioned was away “on the spree,” he took up his stand there, and got from 4_s._ to 5_s._ in the course of ten minutes, at the busy time of the morning.

The coffee-stall usually consists of a spring-barrow, with two, and occasionally four, wheels. Some are made up of tables, and some have a tressel and board. On the top of this are placed two or three, and sometimes four, large tin cans, holding upon an average five gallons each. Beneath each of these cans is a small iron fire-pot, perforated like a rushlight shade, and here charcoal is continually burning, so as to keep the coffee or tea, with which the cans are filled, hot throughout the early part of the morning. The board of the stall has mostly a compartment for bread and butter, cake, and ham sandwiches, and another for the coffee mugs. There is generally a small tub under each of the stalls, in which the mugs and saucers are washed. The “grandest” stall in this line is the one before-mentioned, as standing at the corner of Duke-street, Oxford-street (of which an engraving is here given). It is a large truck on four wheels, and painted a bright green. The cans are four in number, and of bright polished tin, mounted with brass-plates. There are compartments for bread and butter, sandwiches, and cake. It is lighted by three large oil lamps, with bright brass mountings, and covered in with an oil-cloth roof. The coffee-stalls, generally, are lighted by candle-lamps. Some coffee-stalls are covered over with tarpaulin, like a tent, and others screened from the sharp night or morning air by a clothes-horse covered with blankets, and drawn half round the stall.

Some of the stall-keepers make their appearance at twelve at night, and some not till three or four in the morning. Those that come out at midnight, are for the accommodation of the “night-walkers”--“fast gentlemen” and loose girls; and those that come out in the morning, are for the accommodation of the working men.

It is, I may add, piteous enough to see a few young and good-looking girls, some without the indelible mark of habitual depravity on their countenances, clustering together for warmth round a coffee-stall, to which a penny expenditure, or the charity of the proprietor, has admitted them. The thieves do not resort to the coffee-stalls, which are so immediately under the eye of the policeman.

The coffee-stall keepers usually sell coffee and tea, and some of them cocoa. They keep hot milk in one of the large cans, and coffee, tea, or cocoa in the others. They supply bread and butter, or currant cake, in slices--ham sandwiches, water-cresses, and boiled eggs. The price is 1_d._ per mug, or 1/2_d._ per half-mug, for coffee, tea, or cocoa; and 1/2_d._ a slice the bread and butter or cake. The ham sandwiches are 2_d._ (or 1_d._) each, the boiled eggs 1_d._, and the water-cresses a halfpenny a bunch. The coffee, tea, cocoa, and sugar they generally purchase by the single pound, at a grocer’s. Those who do an extensive trade purchase in larger quantities. The coffee is usually bought in the berry, and ground by themselves. All purchase chicory to mix with it. For the coffee they pay about 1_s._; for the tea about 3_s._; for the cocoa 6_d._ per lb.; and for the sugar 3-1/2_d._ to 4_d._ For the chicory the price is 6_d._ (which is the amount of the duty alone on foreign chicory), and it is mixed with the coffee at the rate of 6 ozs. to the pound; many use as much as 9 and 12 ozs. The coffee is made of a dark colour by means of what are called “finings,” which consist of burnt sugar--such, as is used for browning soups. Coffee is the article mostly sold at the stalls; indeed, there is scarcely one stall in a hundred that is supplied with tea, and not more than a dozen in all London that furnish cocoa. The stall-keepers usually make the cake themselves. A 4 lb. cake generally consists of half a pound of currants, half a pound of sugar, six ounces of beef dripping, and a quartern of flour. The ham for sandwiches costs 5-1/2_d._ or 6_d._ per lb.; and when boiled produces in sandwiches about 2_s._ per lb. It is usually cut up in slices little thicker than paper. The bread is usually “second bread;” the butter, salt, at about 8_d._ the pound. Some borrow their barrows, and pay 1_s._ a week for the hire of them. Many borrow the capital upon which they trade, frequently of their landlord. Some get credit for their grocery--some for their bread. If they borrow, they pay about 20 per cent. per week for the loan. I was told of one man that makes a practice of lending money to the coffee-stall-keepers and other hucksters, at the rate of at least 20 per cent. a week. If the party wishing to borrow a pound or two is unknown to the money-lender, he requires security, and the interest to be paid him weekly. This money-lender, I am informed, has been transported once for receiving stolen property, and would now purchase any amount of plate that might be taken to him.

The class of persons usually belonging to the business have been either cab-men, policemen, labourers, or artisans. Many have been bred to dealing in the streets, and brought up to no other employment, but many have taken to the business owing to the difficulty of obtaining work at their own trade. The generality of them are opposed to one another. I asked one in a small way of business what was the average amount of his profits, and his answer was,--

“I usually buy 10 ounces of coffee a night. That costs, when good, 1_s._ 0-1/2_d._ With this I should make five gallons of coffee, such as I sell in the street, which would require 3 quarts of milk, at 3_d._ per quart, and 1-1/2 lb. of sugar, at 3-1/2_d._ per lb., there is some at 3_d._ This would come to 2_s._ 2-3/4_d._; and, allowing 1-1/4_d._ for a quarter of a peck of charcoal to keep the coffee hot, it would give 2_s._ 4_d._ for the cost of five gallons of coffee. This I should sell out at about 1-1/2_d._ per pint; so that the five gallons would produce me 5_s._, or 2_s._ 8_d._ clear. I generally get rid of one quartern loaf and 6 oz. of butter with this quantity of coffee, and for this I pay 5_d._ the loaf and 3_d._ the butter, making 8_d._; and these I make into twenty-eight slices at 1/2_d._ per slice; so the whole brings me in 1_s._ 2_d._, or about 6_d._ clear. Added to this, I sell a 4 lb. cake, which costs me 3-1/2_d._ per lb. 1_s._ 2_d._ the entire cake; and this in twenty-eight slices, at 1_d._ per slice, would yield 2_s._ 4_d._, or 1_s._ 2_d._ clear; so that altogether my clear gains would be 4_s._ 4_d._ upon an expenditure of 2_s._ 2_d._--say 200 per cent.”

This is said to be about the usual profit of the trade. Sometimes they give credit. One person assured me he trusted as much as 9-1/2_d._ that morning, and out of that he was satisfied there was 4_d._, at least, he should never see. Most of the stalls are stationary, but some are locomotive. Some cans are carried about with yokes, like milk-cans, the mugs being kept in a basket. The best district for the night-trade is the City, and the approaches to the bridges. There are more men and women, I was told, walking along Cheapside, Aldersgate-street, Bishopsgate-street, and Fleet-street. In the latter place a good trade is frequently done between twelve at night and two in the morning. For the morning trade the best districts are the Strand, Oxford-street, City-road, New-road (from one end to the other), the markets, especially Covent Garden, Billingsgate, Newgate, and the Borough. There are no coffee-stalls in Smithfield. The reason is that the drovers, on arriving at the market, are generally tired and cold, and prefer sitting down to their coffee in a warm shop rather than drink it in the open street. The best days for coffee-stalls are market mornings, viz. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On these days the receipts are generally half as much again as those of the other mornings. The best time of the year for the business is the summer. This is, I am told, because the workpeople and costermongers have more money to spend. Some stall-keepers save sufficient to take a shop, but these are only such as have a “pitch” in the best thoroughfares. One who did a little business informed me that he usually cleared, including Sunday, 14_s._--last week his gains were 15_s._; the week before that he could not remember. He is very frequently out all night, and does not earn sixpence. This is on wet and cold nights, when there are few people about. His is generally the night-trade. The average weekly earnings of the trade, throughout the year, are said to be 1_l._ The trade, I am assured by all, is overstocked. They are half too many, they say. “Two of us,” to use their own words, “are eating one man’s bread.” “When coffee in the streets first came up, a man could go and earn,” I am told, “his 8_s._ a night at the very lowest; but now the same class of men cannot earn more than 3_s._” Some men may earn comparatively a large sum, as much as 38_s._ or 2_l._, but the generality of the trade cannot make more than 1_l._ per week, if so much. The following is the statement of one of the class:--

“I was a mason’s labourer, a smith’s labourer, a plasterer’s labourer, or a bricklayer’s labourer. I was, indeed, a labouring man. I could not get employment. I was for six months without any employment. I did not know which way to support my wife and child (I have only one child). Being so long out of employment, I saw no other means of getting a living but out of the streets. I was almost starving before I took to it--that I certainly was. I’m not ashamed of telling anybody that, because it’s true, and I sought for a livelihood wherever I could. Many said they wouldn’t do such a thing as keep a coffee-stall, but I said I’d do anything to get a bit of bread honestly. Years ago, when I was a boy, I used to go out selling water-cresses, and apples, oranges, and radishes, with a barrow, for my landlord; so I thought, when I was thrown out of employment, I would take to selling coffee in the streets. I went to a tinman, and paid him 10_s._ 6_d._ (the last of my savings, after I’d been four or five months out of work) for a can, I didn’t care how I got my living so long as I could turn an honest penny. Well; I went on, and knocked about, and couldn’t get a pitch anywhere; but at last I heard that an old man, who had been in the habit of standing for many years at the entrance of one of the markets, had fell ill; so, what did I do, but I goes and pops into his pitch, and there I’ve done better than ever I did afore. I get 20_s._ now where I got 10_s._ one time; and if I only had such a thing as 5_l._ or 10_l._, I might get a good living for life. I cannot do half as much as the man that was there before me. He used to make his coffee down there, and had a can for hot water as well; but I have but one can to keep coffee and all in; and I have to borrow my barrow, and pay 1_s._ a week for it. If I sell my can out, I can’t do any more. The struggle to get a living is so great, that, what with one and another in the coffee-trade, it’s only those as can get good ‘pitches’ that can get a crust at it.”

As it appears that each coffee-stall keeper on an average, clears 1_l._ a week, and his takings may be said to be at least double that sum, the yearly street expenditure for tea, coffee, &c., amounts to 31,200_l._ The quantity of coffee sold annually in the streets, appears to be about 550,000 gallons.

To commence as a coffee-stall keeper in a moderate manner requires about 5_l._ capital. The truck costs 2_l._, and the other utensils and materials 3_l._ The expense of the cans is near upon 16_s._ each. The stock-money is a few shillings.

OF THE STREET SALE OF GINGER-BEER, SHERBET, LEMONADE, &C.

The street-trade in ginger-beer--now a very considerable traffic--was not known to any extent until about thirty years ago. About that time (1822) a man, during a most sultry drought, sold extraordinary quantities of “cool ginger-beer” and of “soda-powders,” near the Royal Exchange, clearing, for the three or four weeks the heat continued, 30_s._ a day, or 9_l._ weekly. Soda-water he sold “in powders,” the acid and the alkali being mixed in the water of the glass held by the customer, and drunk whilst effervescing. His prices were 2_d._ and 3_d._ a glass for ginger-beer; and 3_d._ and 4_d._ for soda-water, “according to the quality;” though there was in reality no difference whatever in the quality--only in the price. From that time, the numbers pursuing this street avocation increased gradually; they have however fallen off of late years.

The street-sellers who “brew their own beer” generally prepare half a gross (six dozen) at a time. For a “good quality” or the “penny bottle” trade, the following are the ingredients and the mode of preparation:--3 gallons of water; 1 lb. of ginger, 6_d._; lemon-acid, 2_d._; essence of cloves, 2_d._; yeast, 2_d._; and 1 lb. of raw sugar, 7_d._ This admixture, the yeast being the last ingredient introduced, stands 24 hours, and is then ready for bottling. If the beverage be required in 12 hours, double the quantity of yeast is used. The bottles are filled only “to the ridge,” but the liquid and the froth more than fill a full-sized half-pint glass. “Only half froth,” I was told, “is reckoned very fair, and it’s just the same in the shops.” Thus, 72 bottles, each to be sold at 1_d._, cost--apart from any outlay in utensils, or any consideration of the value of labour--only 1_s._ 7_d._, and yield, at 1_d._ per bottle, 6_s._ For the cheaper beverage--called “playhouse ginger-beer” in the trade--instead of sugar, molasses from the “private distilleries” is made available. The “private” distilleries are the illicit ones: “‘Jiggers,’ we call them,” said one man; “and I could pass 100 in 10 minutes’ walk from where we’re talking.” Molasses, costing 3_d._ at a jigger’s, is sufficient for a half-gross of bottles of ginger-beer; and of the other ingredients only half the quantity is used, the cloves being altogether dispensed with, but the same amount of yeast is generally applied. This quality of “beer” is sold at 1/2_d._ the glass.

About five years ago “fountains” for the production of ginger-beer became common in the streets. The ginger-beer trade in the open air is only for a summer season, extending from four to seven months, according to the weather, the season last year having been over in about four months. There were then 200 fountains in the streets, all of which, excepting 20 or 30 of the best, were hired of the ginger-beer manufacturers, who drive a profitable trade in them. The average value of a street-fountain, with a handsome frame or stand, which is usually fixed on a wheeled and movable truck, so as one man’s strength may be sufficient to propel it, is 7_l._; and, for the rent of such a fountain, 6_s._ a week is paid when the season is brisk, and 4_s._ when it is slack; but last summer, I am told, 4_s._ 6_d._ was an average. The largest and handsomest ginger-beer fountain in London was--I speak of last summer--in use at the East-end, usually standing in Petticoat-lane, and is the property of a dancing-master. It is made of mahogany, and presents somewhat the form of an upright piano on wheels. It has two pumps, and the brass of the pump-handles and the glass receivers is always kept bright and clean, so that the whole glitters handsomely to the light. Two persons “serve” at this fountain; and on a fine Sunday morning, from six to one, that being the best trading time, they take 7_l._ or 8_l._ in halfpennies--for “the beer” is 1/2_d._ a glass--and 2_l._ each other day of the week. This machine, as it may be called, is drawn by two ponies, said to be worth 10_l._ a-piece; and the whole cost is pronounced--perhaps with a sufficient exaggeration--to have been 150_l._ There were, in the same neighbourhood, two more fountains on a similar scale, but commoner, each drawn by only one pony instead of the aristocratic “pair.”

The ingredients required to feed the “ginger-beer” fountains are of a very cheap description. To supply 10 gallons, 2 quarts of lime-juice (as it is called, but it is, in reality, lemon-juice), costing 3_s._ 6_d._, are placed in the recess, sometimes with the addition of a pound of sugar (4_d._); while some, I am assured, put in a smaller quantity of juice, and add two-pennyworth of oil of vitriol, which “brings out the sharpness of the lime-juice.” The rest is water. No process of brewing or fermentation is necessary, for the fixed air pumped into the liquid as it is drawn from the fountain, communicates a sufficient briskness or effervescence. “The harder you pumps,” said one man who had worked a fountain, “the frothier it comes; and though it seems to fill a big glass--and the glass an’t so big for holding as it looks--let it settle, and there’s only a quarter of a pint.” The hirer of a fountain is required to give security. This is not, as in some slop-trades, a deposit of money; but a householder must, by written agreement, make himself responsible for any damage the fountain may sustain, as well as for its return, or make good the loss: the street ginger-beer seller is alone responsible for the rent of the machine. It is however, only men that are known, who are trusted in this way. Of the fountains thus hired, 50 are usually to be found at the neighbouring fairs and races. As the ginger-beer men carry lime-juice, &c., with them, only water is required to complete the “brewing of the beer” and so conveyance is not difficult.

There is another kind of “ginger-beer,” or rather of “small acid tiff,” which is sold out of barrels at street-stalls at 1/2_d._ the glass. To make 2-1/2 gallons of this, there is used 1/2lb. tartaric, or other acid, 1_s._; 1/2 lb. alkali (soda), 10_d._; 1/2 lb. lump sugar, bruised fine, 4_d._; and yeast 1_d._ Of these “barrel-men” there are now about one hundred.

Another class of street-sellers obtain their stock of ginger-beer from the manufacturers. One of the largest manufacturers for the street-trade resides near Ratcliffe-highway, and another in the Commercial-road. The charge by the wholesale traders is 8_d._ the doz., while to a known man, or for ready money, 13 are given to the dozen. The beer, however, is often let out on credit--or in some cases security is given in the same way as for the fountains--and the empty bottles must be duly returned. It is not uncommon for two gross of beer to be let out in this way at a time. For the itinerant trade these are placed on a truck or barrow, fitted up with four shelves, on which are ranged the bottles. These barrows are hired in the same way as the costers’ barrows. Some sell their beer at stalls fitted up exclusively for the trade, a kind of tank being let into the centre of the board and filled with water, in which the glasses are rinsed or washed. Underneath the stall there is usually a reserve of the beer, and a keg containing water. Some of the best frequented stalls were in Whitechapel, Old-street-road, City-road, Tottenham-court-road, the New-cut, Elephant and Castle, the Commercial-road, Tower-hill, the Strand, and near Westminster-bridge.

The stationary beer business is, for the most part, carried on in the more public streets, such as Holborn and Oxford-street, and in the markets of Covent-garden, Smithfield, and Billingsgate; while the peripatetic trade, which is briskest on the Sundays--when, indeed, some of the stationary hands become itinerant--is more for the suburbs; Victoria-park, Battersea-fields, Hampstead-heath, Primrose-hill, Kennington-common, and Camberwell-green, being approved Sunday haunts.

The London street-sellers of ginger-beer, say the more experienced, may be computed at 3,000--of whom about one-third are women. I heard them frequently estimated at 5,000, and some urged that the number was at least as near 5,000 as 3,000. For my own part I am inclined to believe that half the smaller number would be nearer the truth. Judging by the number of miles of streets throughout the metropolis, and comparing the street-sellers of ginger-beer with the fruit-stall keepers, I am satisfied that in estimating the ginger-beer-sellers at 1,500 we are rather over than under the truth. This body of street-sellers were more numerous five years back by 15 or 20 per cent., but the introduction of the street fountains, and the trade being resorted to by the keepers of coal-sheds and the small shopkeepers--who have frequently a stand with ginger-beer in front of their shops--have reduced the amount of the street-sellers. In 1842, there were 1,200 ginger-beer sellers in the streets who had attached to their stalls or trucks labels, showing that they were members--or assumed to be members--of the Society of Odd Fellows. This was done in hopes of a greater amount of custom from the other members of the Society, but the expectation was not realised--and so the Odd Fellowship of the ginger-beer people disappeared. Of the street-traders 200 work fountains; and of the remaining portion the stationary and the itinerant are about equally divided. Of the whole number, however, not above an eighth confine themselves to the trade, but usually sell with their “pop” some other article of open-air traffic--fruit, sweet-stuff, or shell-fish. There are of the entire number about 350, who, whenever the weather permits, stay out all night with their stands or barrows, and are to be found especially in all the approaches to Covent-garden, and the other markets to which there is a resort during the night or at day-break. These men, I was told by one of their body, worked from eight in the evening to eight or ten next morning, then went to bed, rose at three, and “plenty of ’em then goes to the skittles or to get drunk.”

The character of the ginger-beer-sellers does not differ from what I have described as pertaining to the costermonger class, and to street-traders generally. There is the same admixture of the reduced mechanic, the broken-down gentleman’s servant, the man of any class in life who cannot brook the confinement and restraint of ordinary in-door labour, and of the man “brought up to the streets.” One experienced and trustworthy man told me that from his own knowledge he could count up twenty “classical men,” as he styled them, who were in the street ginger-beer-trade, and of these four had been, or were said to have been “parsons,” two being of the same name (Mr. S ----); but my informant did not know if they stood in any degree of consanguinity one to another. The women are the wives, daughters, or other connections of the men.

Some of the stalls at which ginger-beer is sold--and it is the same at the coal-sheds and the chandlers’ shops--are adorned pictorially. Erected at the end of a stall is often a painting, papered on a board, in which a gentleman, with the bluest of coats, the whitest of trousers, the yellowest of waistcoats, and the largest of guard-chains or eye-glasses, is handing a glass of ginger-beer, frothed up like a pot of stout, and containing, apparently, a pint and a half, to some lady in flowing white robes, or gorgeous in purple or orange.

To commence in this branch of the street business requires, in all 18_s._ 3_d._: six glasses, 2_s._ 9_d._; board, 5_s._; tank, 1_s._; keg, 1_s._; gross of beer, 8_s._ (this is where the seller is not also the maker); and for towels, &c., 6_d._; if however the street-seller brew his own beer, he will require half a gross of bottles, 5_s._ 6_d._; and the ingredients I have enumerated, 1_s._ 7_d._

In addition to the street-sale of ginger-beer is that of other summer-drinks. Of these, the principal is lemonade, the consumption of which is as much as that of all the others together. Indeed, the high-sounding names given to some of these beverages--such as “Nectar” and “Persian Sherbet”--are but other names for lemonade, in a slightly different colour or fashion.

Lemonade is made, by those vendors who deal in the best articles, after the following method: 1 lb. of carbonate of soda, 6_d._; 1 lb. of tartaric acid, 1_s._ 4_d._ (“at least,” said an informant, “I pay 1_s._ 4_d._ at ’Pothecaries Hall, but it can be had at 1_s._”); 1 lb. of loaf-sugar, 5-1/2_d._; essence of lemon, 3_d._ This admixture is kept, in the form of a powder, in a jar, and water is drawn from what the street-sellers call a “stone-barrel”--which is a stone jar, something like the common-shaped filters, with a tap--and a larger or smaller spoonful of the admixture in a glass of water supplies an effervescing draught for 1_d._ or 1/2_d._ “There’s sometimes shocking roguishness in the trade,” said one man, “and there is in a many trades--some uses vitriol!” Lemonade, made after the recipe I have given, is sometimes bottled by the street-sellers, and sold in the same way as ginger-beer. It is bought, also, for street sale of the ginger-beer manufacturers--the profit being the same--but so bought to less than a twentieth of the whole sale. The water in the stone barrel is spring-water, obtained from the nearest pump, and in hot weather obtained frequently, so as to be “served” in as cool a state as possible. Sometimes lemonade powders are used; they are bought at a chemist’s, at 1_s._ 6_d._ the pound. “Sherbet” is the same admixture, with cream of tartar instead of tartaric acid. “Raspberry” has, sometimes, the addition of a few crusted raspberries, and a colouring of cochineal, with, generally, a greater degree of sweetening than lemonade. “If cochineal is used for colouring,” said one man, “it sometimes turns brown in the sun, and the rasberry don’t sell. A little lake’s better.” “Lemon-juice” is again lemonade, with a slight infusion of saffron to give it a yellow or pale orange colour. “Nectar,” in imitation of Soyer’s, has more sugar and less acid than the lemonade; spices, such as cinnamon, is used to flavour it, and the colouring is from lake and saffron.

These “cooling drinks” are sold from the powder or the jar, as I have described, from fountains, and from bottles. The fountain sale is not above a tenth of the whole. All is sold in 1/2_d._ and 1_d._ glasses, except the nectar, which is never less than 1_d._ The customers are the same as those who buy ginger-beer; but one “lemonader” with whom I conversed, seemed inclined to insist that they were a “more respectabler class.” Boys are good customers--better, perhaps, than for the beer,--as “the colour and the fine names attracts them.”

The “cooling drink” season, like that of the ginger-beer, is determined by the weather, and last summer it was only four months. It was computed for me that there were 200 persons, chiefly men, selling solely lemonade, &c., and an additional 300 uniting the sale with that of ginger-beer. One man, whose statement was confirmed by others, told me that on fine days he took 3_s._ 6_d._, out of which he cleared 2_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._; and he concluded that his brother tradesmen cleared as much every fine day, and so, allowing for wet weather and diminished receipts, made 10_s._ a week. The receipts, then, for this street luxury--a receipt of 17_s._ 6_d._ affording a profit of 10_s._--show a street expenditure in such a summer as the last, of 2,800_l._, by those who do not unite ginger-beer with the trade. Calculating that those who do unite ginger-beer with it sell only one-half as much as the others, we find a total outlay of 4,900_l._ One of the best trades is in the hands of a man who “works” Smithfield, and on the market days clears generally from 6_s._ to 9_s._

The stalls, &c., are of the same character as those of the ginger-beer sellers. The capital required to start is:--stone barrel, with brass tap, 5_s._ 6_d._; stand and trestle, 6_s._; 6 tumbler glasses, 2_s._ 3_d._; 2 towels, 6_d._; stock money, 2_s._ 6_d._; jar, 2_s._; 12 bottles (when used), 3_s._ 6_d._; in all, about a guinea.

In showing the money expended in the ginger-beer trade it must be borne in mind that a large portion of the profits accrues to persons who cannot be properly classed with the regular street-traders. Such is the proprietor of the great fountain of which I have spoken, who is to be classed as a speculative man, ready to embark capital in any way--whether connected with street-traffic or not--likely to be remunerative. The other and large participants in the profits are the wholesale ginger-beer manufacturers, who are also the letters-out of fountains, one of them having generally nine let out at a time. For a street trader to sell three gross of ginger-beer in bottle is now accounted a good week, and for that the receipts will be 36_s._ with a profit in the penny bottle trade, to the seller, if he buy of a manufacturer, of 12_s._; if he be his own brewer--reckoning a fair compensation for labour, and for money invested in utensils, and in bottles, &c., of 20_s._ An ordinary week’s sale is two gross, costing the public 24_s._, with the same proportion of profit in the same trade to the seller. In a bad week, or “in a small way to help out other things,” not more than one gross is sold.

The fountain trade is the most profitable to the proprietors, whether they send out their machines on their own account, or let them out on hire; but perhaps there are only an eighth of the number not let out on hire. Calculating that a fountain be let out for three successive seasons of twenty weeks each, at only 4_s._ the week, the gross receipts are 12_l._ for what on the first day of hire was worth only 7_l._; so that the returns from 200 machines let out for the same term, would be 2,400_l._, or a profit of 1,000_l._ over and above the worth of the fountain, which having been thus paid for is of course in a succeeding year the means of a clear profit of 4_l._ I am assured that the weekly average of “a fountain’s takings,” when in the hands of the regular street-dealers, is 18_s._

The barrel traders may be taken as in the average receipt of 6_s._ a week.

The duration of the season was, last year, only sixteen weeks. Calculating from the best data I could acquire, it appears that for this period 200 street-sellers of ginger-beer in the bottle trade of the penny class take 30_s._ a week each (thus allowing for the inferior receipts in bad weather); 300 take 20_s._ each, selling for the most part at 1/2_d._ the bottle, and that the remaining 400 “in a small way” take 6_s._ each; hence we find 11,480_l._ expended in the bottled ginger-beer of the streets. Adding the receipts from the fountains and the barrels, the barrel season continuing only ten weeks, the total sum expended annually in street ginger-beer is altogether 14,660_l._ The bottles of ginger-beer sold yearly in the streets will number about 4,798,000, and the total street consumption of the same beverage may be said to be about 250,000 gallons per annum.

OF THE EXPERIENCE AND CUSTOMERS OF A GINGER-BEER SELLER.

A slim, well-spoken man, with a half-military appearance, as he had a well trimmed moustache, and was very cleanlily dressed, gave me the following account: “I have known the ginger-beer trade for eight years, and every branch of it. Indeed I think I’ve tried all sorts of street business. I’ve been a costermonger, a lot-seller, a nut-seller, a secret-paper-seller (with straws, you know, sir), a cap-seller, a street-printer, a cakeman, a clown, an umbrella-maker, a toasting-fork maker, a sovereign seller, and a ginger-beer seller. I hardly know what I haven’t been. I made my own when last I worked beer. Sunday was my best day, or rather Sunday mornings when there’s no public-houses open. Drinking Saturday nights make dry Sunday mornings. Many a time men have said to me: ‘Let’s have a bottle to quench a spark in my throat,’ or ‘My mouth’s like an oven.’ I’ve had to help people to lift the glass to their lips, their hands trembled so. They couldn’t have written their names plain if there was a sovereign for it. But these was only chance customers; one or two in a morning, and five or six on a Sunday morning. I’ve been a teetotaller myself for fifteen years. No, sir, I didn’t turn one--but I never was a drinker--not from any great respect for the ginger-beer trade, but because I thought it gave one a better chance of getting on. I once had saved money, but it went in a long sickness. I used to be off early on Sunday mornings sometimes to Hackney Marsh, and sell my beer there to gentlemen--oldish gentlemen some of them--going a fishing. Others were going there to swim. One week I took 35_s._ at 1_d._ a bottle, by going out early in a morning; perhaps 20_s._ of it was profit, but my earnings in the trade in a good season wasn’t more than 12_s._ one week with another. All the trades in the streets are bad now, I think. Eight years back I could make half as much more in ginger-beer as could be made last summer. Working people and boys were my other customers. I stuck to ginger-beer in the season and then went into something else, for I can turn my hand to anything. I began a street life at eight years old by selling memorandum-books in the bull-ring at Birmingham. My parents were ill and hadn’t a farthing in the house. I began with 1_d._ stock-money, and I bought three memorandum-books for it at Cheap Jack’s thatched house. I’ve been in London seventeen or eighteen years. I’m a roulette-maker now; I mean the roulette boxes that gentlemen take with them to play with when travelling on a railway or such times. I make loaded dice, too, and supply gaming-houses. I think I know more gaming-houses than any man in London. I’ve sold them to gentlemen and to parsons, that is ministers of religion. I can prove that. I don’t sell those sort of things in the streets. I could do very well in the trade, but it’s so uncertain and so little’s wanted compared to what would keep a man going, and I have a mother that’s sixty to support. Altogether my present business is inferior to the ginger-beer; but the fountains will destroy all the fair ginger-beer trade.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF HOT ELDER WINE.

The sale of hot elder wine in the streets is one of the trades which have been long established, but it is only within these eight or ten years that it has been carried on in its present form. It continues for about four months in the winter.

Elder wine is made from the berries of the elder-tree. Elder syrup--also made from the berries--was formerly famous in the north of England as a curative for colds, and was frequently taken, with a small admixture of rum, at bedtime. Some of the street-sellers make the wine themselves; the majority, however, buy it of the British wine makers. The berries must be gathered when fully ripe, and on a dry day. They are picked, measured, and put into a copper, two gallons of water being added to every gallon of berries. They are then boiled till the berries are quite soft, when the liquor is strained and pressed from them through a strong hair sieve. The liquor thus expressed is again put into the copper, boiled an hour, skimmed, and placed in a tub along with a bread toast, on which yeast is spread thickly; it then stands two days, and is afterwards put into a cask, a few cloves and crusted ginger being hung in a muslin bag from the bung-hole, so as to flavour the liquor. Sometimes this spicing is added afterwards, when the liquor is warmed. The berries are sold in the markets, principally in Covent-garden,--the price varying, according to the season, from 1_s._ 6_d._ to 3_s._ a gallon. Of all elder-wine makers the Jews are the best as regards the street commodity. The costermongers say they “have a secret;” a thing said frequently enough when superior skill is shown, and especially when, as in the case of the Jews’ elder wine, better pennyworths are given. The Jews, I am told, add a small quantity of raspberry vinegar to their “elder,” so as to give it a “sharp pleasant twang.” The heat and pungency of the elder wine sold in the streets is increased by some street-sellers by means of whole black pepper and capsicums.

The apparatus in which the wine is now kept for sale in the streets is of copper or brass, and is sometimes “handsome.” It is generally an urn of an oblong form, erected on a sort of pedestal, with the lid or top ornamented with brass mouldings, &c. Three plated taps give vent to the beverage. Orifices are contrived and are generally hidden, or partially hidden, with some ornament, which act as safety-valves, or, as one man would have it, “chimneys.” The interior of these urns holds three or four quarts of elder wine, which is surrounded with boiling water, and the water and wine are kept up to the boiling pitch by means of a charcoal fire at the foot of the vessel. Fruit of some kind is generally sold by the elder-wine men at their stand.

The elder wine urn is placed on a stand covered with an oil-cloth, six or eight glasses being ranged about it. It is sold at a halfpenny and a penny a glass; but there is “little difference in some elder wines,” I was told, “between the penn’orths and the ha’porths.” A wine glass of the “regular” size is a half-quartern, or the eighth of a pint.

Along with each glass of hot elder wine is given a small piece of toasted bread. Some buyers steep this bread in the wine, and so imbibe the flavour. “It ain’t no good as I know on,” said an elder-wine seller, “but it’s the fashion, and so people must have it.” The purchasers of elder wine are the working classes--but not the better order of them--and the boys of the street. Some of these lads, I was told, were very choice and critical in their elder wines. Some will say: “It ain’t such bad wine, but not the real spicy.”--“The helder I thinks,” said another, “is middlin’, but somehow there’s nothing but hotness for to taste.”

Of these traders there are now perhaps fifty in London. One man counted up thirty of his brethren whom he knew personally, or knew to be then “working elder,” and he thought that there might be as many more, but I am assured that fifty is about the mark. The sellers of elder wine have been for the most part mechanics who have adopted the calling for the reasons I have often given. None of them, in the course of my inquiry, depended entirely upon the sale of the wine, but sold fruit in addition to it. All complained of the bad state of trade. One man said, that four or five years back he had replenished the wine in a three quart urn twelve times a day, a jar of the wine being kept at the stall in readiness for that purpose. This amounted to 576 glasses sold in the course of the day, and a receipt--reckoning each glass at a penny--of 48_s._; but probably not more than 40_s._ would be taken, as some would have halfpenny glasses. Now the same man rarely sells three quarts in a day, except perhaps on a Saturday, and on wet days he sells none at all. The elder wine can be bought at almost any price at the wine makers, from 4_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ the quart. The charge in the public-houses is twice as high as in the streets, but the inn wine, I was told by a person familiar with the trade, contains spirit, and is more highly spiced.

A decent-looking middle-aged man who had been in a gentleman’s service, but was disabled by an accident which crushed his hand, and who thereupon resorted to street-selling and had since continued in it, in different branches, from fifteen to twenty years, gave me an account of his customers. He had not been acquainted with the elder-wine trade above four or five years when he bought an elder can for about 15_s._ among a cheap miscellaneous “lot” in Smithfield one Friday afternoon, and so he commenced:

“It’s a poor trade, sir,” he said. “I don’t suppose any of us make 10_s._ a week at it alone, but it’s a good help to other things, and I do middling. I should say less than a 1_s._ a day was above the average profits of the trade. Say 5_s._ a week, for on wet days we can’t sell at all. No one will stop to drink elder wine in the wet. They’ll rather have a pennor’th of gin, or half a pint of beer with the chill off, under shelter. I sell sometimes to people that say they’re teetotallers and ask if there’s any spirit in my wine. I assure them there’s not, just the juice of the berry. I start when I think the weather’s cold enough, and keep at it as long as there’s any demand. My customers are boys and poor people, and I sell more ha’porths than pennor’ths. I’ve heard poor women that’s bought of me say it was the only wine they ever tasted. The boys are hard to please, but I won’t put up with their nonsense. It’s not once in fifty times that a girl of the town buys my wine. It’s not strong enough for her, I fancy. A sharp frosty dry day suits me best. I may then sell three or four quarts. I don’t make it, but buy it. It’s a poor trade, and I think it gets worse every year, though I believe there’s far fewer of us.”

One elder-wine stand in Tottenham-court-road cost, when new, 7_l._, but that was six or seven years ago. Calculating that 50 persons clear 5_s._ a week for 16 weeks, their profit being at least cent. per cent., the street outlay in this very British wine will be only 200_l._, and the street-consumption of it in the course of the year 1,500 gallons.

OF THE STREET SALE OF PEPPERMINT-WATER.

Perhaps the only thing which can be called a cordial or a liqueur sold in the streets (if we except elder wine), is peppermint-water, and of this the sale is very limited. For the first 15 or 20 years of the present century, I was told by one who spoke from a personal knowledge, “a pepperminter” had two little taps to his keg, which had a division in the interior. From one tap was extracted “peppermint-water;” from the other, “strong peppermint-water.” The one was at that time 1_d._ a glass, the other from 2_d._ to 4_d._, according to the size of the glass. With the “strong” beverage was mixed smuggled spirit, but so strongly impregnated with the odour of the mint, that a passer-by could not detect the presence of the illicit compound. There are six persons selling peppermint-water in the winter, and only half that number in the summer. The trade is irregular, as some pursue it only of a night, and generally in the street markets; others sell at Billingsgate, and places of great traffic, when the traffic is being carried on. They are stationary for awhile, but keep shifting their ground. The vendors generally “distilled their own mint,” when the sale was greater, but within these six or eight years they have purchased it at a distilling chemist’s, and have only prepared it for sale. Water is added to the distilled liquid bought of the chemist, to increase the quantity; but to enhance the heat of the draught--which is a draw to some buyers--black pepper (unground), or ginger, or, but rarely, capsicums, are steeped in the beverage. The peppermint-water is lauded by the vendors, when questioned concerning it, as an excellent stomachic; but nothing is said publicly of its virtues, the cry being merely, “Pep-permint water, a halfpenny a glass.”

The sellers will generally say that they distil the peppermint-water themselves, but this is not now commonly the case. The process, however, is simple enough. The peppermint used is gathered just as it is bursting into flower, and the leaves and buds are placed in a tub, with just water enough to cover them. This steeping continues 24 hours, and then a still is filled three-parts full, and the water is “over” drawn very slowly.

The price at the chemist’s is 1_s._ a quart for the common mint-water; the street price is 1/2_d._ a glass, containing something short of the eighth of a pint. What costs 1_s._, the street-seller disposes of for 2_s._, so realising the usual cent. per cent.

To take 2_s._ is now accounted “a tidy day’s work;” and calculating that four “pepperminters” take that amount the year round, Sundays excepted, we find that nearly 125_l._ is spent annually in peppermint-water and 900 gallons of it consumed every year in the streets of London.

The capital required is, keg, 3_s._ 6_d._, or jar, 2_s._ (for they are used indifferently); four glasses, 1_s._; towel, 4_d._, and stock-money, 4_s._; or, in all, about 8_s._ The “water”-keg, or jar, is carried by the vendor, but sometimes it is rested on a large stool carried for the purpose. A distilling apparatus, such as the street-sellers used, was worth about 10_s._ The vendors are of the same class of street-sellers as the ginger-beer people.

OF MILK SELLING IN ST. JAMES’S PARK.

The principal sale of milk from the cow is in St. James’s Park. The once fashionable drink known as syllabubs--the milk being drawn warm from the cow’s udder, upon a portion of wine, sugar, spice, &c.--is now unknown. As the sellers of milk in the park are merely the servants of cow-keepers, and attend to the sale as a part of their business, no lengthened notice is required.

The milk-sellers obtain leave from the Home Secretary, to ply their trade in the park. There are eight stands in the summer, and as many cows, but in the winter there are only four cows. The milk-vendors sell upon an average, in the summer, from eighteen to twenty quarts per day; in the winter, not more than a third of that quantity. The interrupted milking of the cows, as practised in the Park, often causes them to give less milk, than they would in the ordinary way. The chief customers are infants, and adults, and others, of a delicate constitution, who have been recommended to take new milk. On a wet day scarcely any milk can be disposed of. Soldiers are occasional customers.

A somewhat sour-tempered old woman, speaking as if she had been crossed in love, but experienced in this trade, gave me the following account:

“It’s not at all a lively sort of life, selling milk from the cows, though some thinks it’s a gay time in the Park! I’ve often been dull enough, and could see nothing to interest one, sitting alongside a cow. People drink new milk for their health, and I’ve served a good many such. They’re mostly young women, I think, that’s delicate, and makes the most of it. There’s twenty women, and more, to one man what drinks new milk. If they was set to some good hard work, it would do them more good than new milk, or ass’s milk either, I think. Let them go on a milk-walk to cure them--that’s what I say. Some children come pretty regularly with their nurses to drink new milk. Some bring their own china mugs to drink it out of; nothing less was good enough for them. I’ve seen the nurse-girls frightened to death about the mugs. I’ve heard one young child say to another: ‘I shall tell mama that Caroline spoke to a mechanic, who came and shook hands with her.’ The girl was as red as fire, and said it was her brother. Oh, yes, there’s a deal of brothers comes to look for their sisters in the Park. The greatest fools I’ve sold milk to is servant-gals out for the day. Some must have a day, or half a day, in the month. Their mistresses ought to keep them at home, I say, and not let them out to spend their money, and get into nobody knows what company for a holiday; mistresses is too easy that way. It’s such gals as makes fools of themselves in liking a soldier to run after them. I’ve seen one of them--yes, some would call her pretty, and the prettiest is the silliest and easiest tricked out of money, that’s my opinion, anyhow--I’ve seen one of them, and more than one, walk with a soldier, and they’ve stopped a minute, and she’s taken something out of her glove and given it to him. Then they’ve come up to me, and he’s said to her, ‘Mayn’t I treat you with a little new milk, my dear?’ and he’s changed a shilling. Why, of course, the silly fool of a gal had given him that there shilling. I thought, when Annette Myers shot the soldier, it would be a warning, but nothing’s a warning to some gals. She was one of those fools. It was a good deal talked about at the stand, but I think none of us know’d her. Indeed, we don’t know our customers but by sight. Yes, there’s now and then some oldish gentlemen--I suppose they’re gentlemen, anyhow, they’re idle men--lounging about the stand: but there’s no nonsense there. They tell me, too, that there’s not so much lounging about as there was; those that’s known the trade longer than me thinks so. Them children’s a great check on the nusses, and they can’t be such fools as the servant-maids. I don’t know how many of them I’ve served with milk along with soldiers: I never counted them. They’re nothing to me. Very few elderly people drink new milk. It’s mostly the young. I’ve been asked by strangers when the Duke of Wellington would pass to the Horse-Guards or to the House of Lords. He’s pretty regular. I’ve had 6_d._ given me--but not above once or twice a year--to tell strangers where was the best place to see him from as he passed. I don’t understand about this Great Exhibition, but, no doubt, more new milk will be sold when it’s opened, and that’s all I cares about.”

OF THE STREET SALE OF MILK.

During the summer months milk is sold in Smithfield, Billingsgate, and the other markets, and on Sundays in Battersea-fields, Clapham-common, Camberwell-green, Hampstead-heath, and similar places. About twenty men are engaged in this sale. They usually wear a smock frock, and have the cans and yoke used by the regular milk-sellers; they are not itinerant. The skim milk--for they sell none else--is purchased at the dairies at 1-1/2_d._ a quart, and even the skim milk is also further watered by the street-sellers. Their cry is “Half-penny half-pint! Milk!” The tin measure however in which the milk-and-water is served is generally a “slang,” and contains but half of the quantity proclaimed. The purchasers are chiefly boys and children; rarely men, and never costermongers, I was told, “for they reckon milk sickly.” These street-sellers--who have most of them been employed in the more regular milk-trade--clear about 1_s._ 6_d._ a day each, for three months; and as the profit is rather more than cent. per cent. it appears that about 4,000 gallons of milk are thus sold, and upwards of 260_l._ laid out upon these persons, yearly in its purchase.

A pair of cans with the yoke cost 15_s._, and 1_l._ is amply sufficient as capital to start in this trade, as the two measures used may be bought for 2_s._; and 3_s._ can be devoted to the purchase of the liquid.

OF THE STREET-SALE OF CURDS AND WHEY.

The preparations of milk which comprise the street-trade, are curds and whey and rice-milk, the oldest street-sellers stating that these were a portion of the trade in their childhood. The one is a summer, and the other a winter traffic, and both are exclusively in the hands of the same middle-aged and elderly women. The vendors prepare the curds and whey in all cases themselves. “Skim-milk,” purchased at the dairies, is used by the street-purveyors, a gallon being the quantity usually prepared at a time. This milk gallon is double the usual quantity, or eight quarts. The milk is first “scalded,” the pan containing it being closely watched, in order that the contents may not boil. The scalding occupies 10 or 15 minutes, and it is then “cooled” until it attains the lukewarmness of new milk. Half a pound of sugar is then dissolved in the milk, and a tea-spoonful of rennet is introduced, which is sufficient to “turn” a gallon. In an hour, or in some cases two, the milk is curded, and is ready for use. The street-sale is confined to stalls; the stall, which is the ordinary stand, being covered with a white cloth, or in some cases an oil-cloth, and on this the curds, in a bright tin kettle or pan, are deposited. There are six mugs on the board, and a spoon in each, but those who affect a more modern style have glasses. One of the neatest stalls, as regards the display of glass, and the bright cleanliness of the vessel containing the curds, is in Holborn; but the curd-seller there has only an average business. The mugs or glasses hold about the third of a pint, and “the full of one” is a penny-worth; for a halfpenny-worth the vessel is half filled. The season is during the height of summer, and continues three or four months, or, as one woman tersely and commercially expressed it, “from Easter to fruit.” The number of street-saleswomen is about 100. Along with the curds they generally sell oranges, or such early fruit as cherries.

A woman who had sold “cruds”--as the street-people usually call it--for eighteen years, gave me the following account:--“Boys and girls is my best customers for cruds, sir. Perhaps I sell to them almost half of all I get rid of. Very little fellows will treat girls, often bigger than themselves, at my stall, and they have as much chaffing and nonsense about it’s being ‘stunning good for the teeth,’ and such like, as if they was grown-up. Some don’t much like it at first, but they gets to like it. One boy, whose young woman made faces at it--and it was a little sour to be sure that morning--got quite vexed and said, ‘Wot a image you’re a-making on yourself!’ I don’t know what sort the boys are, only that they’re the street-boys mostly. Quiet working people are my other customers, perhaps rather more women than men. Some has told me they was teetotallers. Then there’s the women of the town of the poorer sort, they’re good customers,--as indeed I think they are for most cooling drinks at times, for they seem to me to be always thirsty. I never sell to dustmen or that sort of people. Saturday is my best day. If it’s fine and warm, I sell a gallon then, which makes about 40 penn’orths; sometimes it brings me 3_s._, sometimes 3_s._ 6_d._; it’s rather more than half profits. Take it altogether, I sell five gallons in fine dry weeks, and half that in wet; and perhaps there’s what I call a set down wet week for every two dry. Nobody has a better right to pray against wet weather than poor women like me. Ten years ago I sold almost twice as much as I can now. There’s so many more of us at present, I think, and let alone that there’s more shops keeps it too.”

Another old woman told me, that she used, “when days was longest,” to be up all night, and sell her “cruds” near Drury-lane theatre, and often received in a few hours 5_s._ or 6_s._, from “ladies and gentlemen out at night.” But the men were so rackety, she said, and she’d had her stall so often kicked over by drunken people, and no help for it, that she gave up the night-trade, and she believed it was hardly ever followed now.

To start in the curds and whey line requires the following capital:--Saucepan, for the scalding and boiling, 2_s._; stall, 5_s._; 6 mugs, 6_d._; or 6 glasses, 2_s._ 6_d._; 6 spoons, 3_d._; tin kettle on stall, 3_s._ 6_d._; pail for water to rinse glasses, 1_s._ Then for stock-money: 1 gallon skimmed milk, 1_s._ 6_d._ or 1_s._ 8_d._; and 1/2 lb. sugar, 2_d._ In all, 14_s._ 1_d._, reckoning the materials to be of the better sort.

Of the whole number of street curd-sellers, 50 dispose of as much as my informant, or 12-1/2 gallons in 3 weeks; the other 50 sell only half as much. Taking the season at 3 months, we find the consumption of curds and whey in the street to be 2,812 double gallons (as regards the ingredient of milk), at a cost to the purchasers of 421_l._, half of which is the profit accruing to the street-seller. The receipts of those having the better description of business being 9_s._ 4_d._ weekly; those of the smaller traders being 4_s._ 8_d._ There is a slight and occasional loss by the “cruds” being kept until unsaleable, in which case they are “fit for nothing but the hog-wash man.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF RICE-MILK.

To make rice-milk, the street-seller usually boils four quarts, of the regular measure, of “skim” with one pound of rice, which has been previously boiled in water. An hour suffices for the boiling of the milk; and the addition of the rice, swollen by the boiling water, increases the quantity to six quarts. No other process is observed, except that some sweeten their rice-milk before they offer it for sale; the majority, however, sweeten it to the customer’s liking when he is “served,” unless--to use the words of one informant--“he have a werry, werry sweet tooth indeed, sir; and that can’t be stood.” For the sweetening of six quarts, half a pound of sugar is used; for the “spicing,” half an ounce of allspice, dashed over the milk freely enough from a pepper-castor. Rice-milk is always sold at stalls arranged for the purpose, and is kept in a tin pan fitted upon a charcoal brazier, so that the “drinkable” is always hot. This apparatus generally stands on the ground alongside the stall, and is elevated only by the feet of the brazier. The “rice-milk woman,”--for the street-sellers are generally females,--dips a large breakfast-cup, holding half a pint, into the pan, puts a tea-spoonful of sugar into it, browns the whole with allspice, and receives 1_d._; a halfpennyworth is, of course, half the quantity. The rice-milk women are also sellers of oranges, chestnuts, apples, or some other fruit, as well as the rice-milk; but, sometimes, when the weather is very cold and frosty, they sell rice-milk alone. There are fifty street-sellers of rice-milk in London. Saturday night is the best time of sale, when it is not uncommon for a rice-milk woman to sell six quarts; but, in a good trade, four quarts a day for six days of the week is an average. The purchasers are poor people; and a fourth of the milk is sold to boys and girls, to whom it is often a meal. “Ah, sir,” said one woman, “you should have seen how a poor man, last winter, swallowed a penn’orth. He’d been a-wandering all night, he said, and he looked it, and a gentleman gave him 2_d._, for he took pity on his hungry look, and he spent 1_d._ with me, and I gave him another cup for charity. ‘God bless the gentleman and you!’ says he, ‘it’s saved my life; if I’d bought a penny loaf, I’d have choked on it.’ He wasn’t a beggar, for I never saw him before, and I’ve never seen him again from that day to this.” The same informant told me, that she believed no rice-milk was bought by the women of the town: “it didn’t suit the likes of them.” Neither is it bought by those who are engaged in noisome trades. If there be any of the rice-milk left at night, and the saleswoman have doubts of its “keeping,” it is re-boiled with fresh rice and milk. The profit is considerable; for the ingredients, which cost less than 1_s._ 6_d._, are made into 96 pennyworths, and so to realize 8_s._ In some of the poorer localities, however, such as Rosemary-lane, only 1/2_d._ the half-pint can be obtained, and 4_s._ is then the amount received for six quarts, instead of 8_s._

To start “in rice-milk” requires 13_s._ capital, which includes a pan for boiling the milk, 2_s._; a kettle, with brazier, for stall, 4_s._; stall or stand, 5_s._; six cups, 9_d._; for stock-money 15-1/2_d._, with which is bought 4 quarts of skim-milk, 9_d._; 1 lb. of rice, 3_d._; 1/2 lb. of sugar, 2_d._; allspice, 1_d._

The season continues for four months; and calculating--a calculation within the mark--that one half of the 50 sellers have as good a trade as my informant--24 quarts weekly--and that, of the remaining 25, one half sell 12 quarts each weekly, at 1_d._ the half-pint, and the other half vend 24 quarts at 1/2_d._ the half-pint, we find that 320_l._ is annually spent in rice-milk and about 3,000 gallons of it yearly consumed in the streets of London.

OF WATER-CARRIERS.

It may surprise many to learn that there are still existing water-carriers in London, and some of them depending upon the trade for a livelihood; while others, the “odd men” of the neighbourhood, carry pails of spring water to the publicans or eating-house keepers, who may not have servants to send to the nearest pump for it, and who require it fresh and cool for those who drink it at their meals. Of these men there are, as near as I can ascertain, from 100 to 150; their charge is 1_d._ per pail. Their earnings per day 6_d._ to 1_s._ Perhaps none of them depend solely upon this labour for their support.

It is otherwise at Highgate and Hampstead, for in those places both men and women depend entirely for their daily bread on water carrying. At Hampstead the supply is derived from what may be called a double well, known as “the Conduit.” The ground is flagged, and the water is seen at each corner of a wall built to the surface of the ground (about eight feet) and surmounted by an iron rail. The water is covered over, in one corner and not in the other, and the carrier descends a step or two, dips in his pails and walks away with them when filled. The water is carried by means of a “yoke,” in the same way as we see the milk-pails carried in every street in London. The well and the field in which the Hampstead water is situated are the property of the Church, and the water is free to any one, in any quantity, either for sale or any other purpose, “without leave.” In droughts or frosts the supply fails, and the carriers have sometimes to wait hours for their “turn,” and then to bale the water into their pails with a basin. The nearest street to which the water is carried is half a mile distant. Some is carried three quarters of a mile, and some (occasionally) a mile. The two pails full, which contain seven gallons, are sold at 1-1/2_d._ The weight is about 70 lbs. Seventeen years ago the price was 3_d._; after which it fell to 2-1/2_d._, then to 2_d._, and has been 1-1/2_d._ these five or six years, while now there are three or four carriers who even “carry” at two pails a-penny to the nearer places. The supply of the well (apart from drought or frost) is fifty-six gallons an hour. The principal customers are the laundresses; but in wet weather their cisterns and water-tubs are filled, and the carriers, or the major part of them, are idle. The average earnings of the carriers are 5_s._ a week the year through. Two of them are men of seventy. There is a bench about midway to Hampstead, at which these labourers rest; and here on almost every fine day sits with them a palsied old soldier, a pensioner of about eighty, who regales them, almost daily, with long tales of Vinegar Hill, and Jemmy O’Brien (the informer), and all the terrors of the terrible times of the Irish rebellion of 1798; for the old man (himself an Irishman) had served through the whole of it. This appears to be a somewhat curious theme for constant expatiation to a band of London water-carriers.

There are now twenty individuals, fourteen men and six women, carrying at Hampstead, and twice that number at Highgate. Some leave the carrying when they get better work,--but three-fourths of the number live by it entirely. The women are the wives and widows of carriers. The men have been either mechanics or labourers, except six or eight youths (my informant was not certain which) who had been “brought up to the water, but would willingly get away from it if they could.”

A well-spoken and intelligent-looking man, dressed in thick fustian, old and greasy, “but good enough for the carrying,” gave me the following account.

“I was a copper-plate printer,” he said, “and twenty years ago could earn my 25_s._ a week. But employment fell off. The lithographic injured it, and at last I could get very little work, and then none at all, so I have been carrying now between three and four years. My father-in-law was in the trade, and that made me think of it. My best day’s work, and it’s the same with all, is 2_s._, which is sixteen turns. It’s not possible to do more. If that could be done every day it would be very well, but in wet weather when the laundresses, who are my customers, don’t want water, I can’t make 1_s._ a week. Then in a drought or a frost one has to wait such a long time for his turn, that it’s not 6_d._ a day; a dry spring’s the worst. Last March I had many days to wait six turns, and it takes well on to an hour for a turn then. We sit by the well and talk when we’re waiting. O, yes, sir, the Pope has had his turn of talk. There’s water companies both at Hampstead and Highgate, but our well water (Hampstead) is asked for, for all that. It’s so with Highgate. It is beautiful water, either for washing or drinking. Perhaps it’s better with a little drop of spirit for drinking, but I seldom taste it that way. The fatigue’s so great that we must take a little drop of spirit on a long day. No, sir, we don’t mix it; that spoils two good things. I’ve been at the well first light in the morning, and in summer I’ve been at work at it all night. There’s no rule among us, but it’s understood that every one has his turn. There’s a little chaff sometimes, and some get angry at having to wait, but I never knew a fight. I have a wife and three children. She works for a laundress, and has 2_s._ 6_d._ a day. She has two days regular every week, and sometimes odd turns as well. I think that the women earn more than the men in Hampstead. My rent is 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for an unfurnished room. There is no trade on Sundays, but on fine summer Sundays old ---- attends at the well and sells glasses of cool water. He gets 2_s._ 6_d._ some days. He makes no charge; just what any one pleases to give. Any body might do it, but the old gentleman would grumble that they were taking his post.”

Computing the number of water carriers at the two places at sixty, and their average earnings through the year at 5_s._ a week, it appears that these men receive 780_l._ yearly. The capital required to start in the business is 9_s._, the cost of a pair of pails and a yoke.

The old man who sells water on the summer Sunday mornings, generally leaving off his sale at church-time, told me that his best customers were ladies and gentlemen who loved an early walk, and bought of him “as it looked like a bit of country life,” he supposed, more than from being thirsty. When such customers were not inhabitants of the neighbourhood, they came to him to ask their way, or to make inquiries concerning the localities. Sometimes he dispensed water to men who “looked as if they had been on the loose all night.” “One gentleman,” he said, “looks sharp about him, and puts a dark-coloured stuff--very likely it’s brandy--into the two or three glasses of water which he drinks every Sunday, or which he used to drink rather, for I missed him all last summer, I think. His hand trembled like a aspen; he mostly gave me 6_d._” The water-seller spoke with some indignation of boys, and sometimes men, going to the well on a Sunday morning and “drinking out of their own tins that they’d taken with ’em.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF PASTRY AND CONFECTIONARY.

The cooked provisions sold in the streets, it has been before stated, consist of three kinds--solids, liquids, and pastry and confectionary. The two first have now been fully described, but the last still remains to be set forth.

The street pastry may be best characterised as of a strong flavour. This is, for the most part, attributable to the use of old or rancid butter,--possessing the all-important recommendation of cheapness,--or to the substitution of lard, dripping, or some congenial substance. The “strong” taste, however, appears to possess its value in the estimation of street pastry-buyers, especially among the boys. This may arise from the palates of the consumers having been unaccustomed to more delicate flavours, and having become habituated to the relish of that which is somewhat rank; just in the same way as the “fumet” of game or venison becomes dear to the palate of the more aristocratic gourmand. To some descriptions of street pastry the epithet strong-flavoured may seem inappropriate, but it is appropriate to the generality of these comestibles,--especially to the tarts, which constitute a luxury, if not to the meat pies or puddings that may supply a meal.

The articles of pastry sold in the London streets are meat and fruit pies, boiled meat and kidney puddings, plum “duff” or pudding, and an almost infinite variety of tarts, cakes, buns, and biscuits; while the confectionary consists of all the several preparations included under the wide denomination of “sweet-stuff,” as well as the more “medicinal” kind known as “cough drops;” in addition to these there are the more “aristocratic” delicacies recently introduced into street traffic, viz., penny raspberry creams and ices.

OF STREET PIEMEN.

The itinerant trade in pies is one of the most ancient of the street callings of London. The meat pies are made of beef or mutton; the fish pies of eels; the fruit of apples, currants, gooseberries, plums, damsons, cherries, raspberries, or rhubarb, according to the season--and occasionally of mince-meat. A few years ago the street pie-trade was very profitable, but it has been almost destroyed by the “pie-shops,” and further, the few remaining street-dealers say “the people now haven’t the pennies to spare.” Summer fairs and races are the best places for the piemen. In London the best times are during any grand sight or holiday-making, such as a review in Hyde-park, the Lord Mayor’s show, the opening of Parliament, Greenwich fair, &c. Nearly all the men of this class, whom I saw, were fond of speculating as to whether the Great Exposition would be “any good” to them, or not.

The London piemen, who may number about forty in winter, and twice that number in summer, are seldom stationary. They go along with their pie-cans on their arms, crying, “Pies all ’ot! eel, beef, or mutton pies! Penny pies, all ’ot--all ’ot!” The “can” has been before described. The pies are kept hot by means of a charcoal fire beneath, and there is a partition in the body of the can to separate the hot and cold pies. The “can” has two tin drawers, one at the bottom, where the hot pies are kept, and above these are the cold pies. As fast as the hot dainties are sold, their place is supplied by the cold from the upper drawer.

A teetotal pieman in Billingsgate has a pony and “shay cart.” His business is the most extensive in London. It is believed that he sells 20_s._ worth or 240 pies a day, but his brother tradesmen sell no such amount. “I was out last night,” said one man to me, “from four in the afternoon till half-past twelve. I went from Somers-town to the Horse Guards, and looked in at all the public-houses on my way, and I didn’t take above 1_s._ 6_d._ I have been out sometimes from the beginning of the evening till long past midnight, and haven’t taken more than 4_d._, and out of that I have to pay 1_d._ for charcoal.”

The pie-dealers usually make the pies themselves. The meat is bought in “pieces,” of the same part as the sausage-makers purchase--the “stickings”--at about 3_d._ the pound. “People, when I go into houses,” said one man, “often begin crying, ‘Mee-yow,’ or ‘Bow-wow-wow!’ at me; but there’s nothing of that kind now. Meat, you see, is so cheap.” About five-dozen pies are generally made at a time. These require a quartern of flour at 5_d._ or 6_d._; 2 lbs. of suet at 6_d._; 1-1/2 lb. meat at 3_d._, amounting in all to about 2_s._ To this must be added 3_d._ for baking; 1_d._ for the cost of keeping hot, and 2_d._ for pepper, salt, and eggs with which to season and wash them over. Hence the cost of the five dozen would be about 2_s._ 6_d._, and the profit the same. The usual quantity of meat in each pie is about half an ounce. There are not more than 20 hot-piemen now in London. There are some who carry pies about on a tray slung before them; these are mostly boys, and, including them, the number amounts to about sixty all the year round, as I have stated.

The penny pie-shops, the street men say, have done their trade a great deal of harm. These shops have now got mostly all the custom, as they make the pies much larger for the money than those sold in the streets. The pies in Tottenham-court-road are very highly seasoned. “I bought one there the other day, and it nearly took the skin off my mouth; it was full of pepper,” said a street-pieman, with considerable bitterness, to me. The reason why so large a quantity of pepper is put in is, because persons can’t exactly tell the flavour of the meat with it. Piemen generally are not very particular about the flavour of the meat they buy, as they can season it up into anything. In the summer, a street pieman thinks he is doing a good business if he takes 5_s._ per day, and in the winter if he gets half that. On a Saturday night, however, he generally takes 5_s._ in the winter, and about 8_s._ in the summer. At Greenwich fair he will take about 14_s._ At a review in Hyde-park, if it is a good one, he will sell about 10_s._ worth. The generality of the customers are the boys of London. The women seldom, if ever, buy pies in the streets. At the public-houses a few pies are sold, and the pieman makes a practice of “looking in” at all the taverns on his way. Here his customers are found principally in the tap-room. “Here’s all ’ot!” the pieman cries, as he walks in; “toss or buy! up and win ’em!” This is the only way that the pies can be got rid of. “If it wasn’t for tossing we shouldn’t sell one.”

To “toss the pieman” is a favourite pastime with costermongers boys and all that class; some of whom aspire to the repute of being gourmands, and are critical on the quality of the comestible. If the pieman win the toss, he receives 1_d._ without giving a pie; if he lose, he hands it over for nothing. The pieman himself never “tosses,” but always calls head or tail to his customer. At the week’s end it comes to the same thing, they say, whether they toss or not, or rather whether they win or lose the toss: “I’ve taken as much as 2_s._ 6_d._ at tossing, which I shouldn’t have had if I had’nt done so. Very few people buy without tossing, and the boys in particular. Gentlemen ‘out on the spree’ at the late public-houses will frequently toss when they don’t want the pies, and when they win they will amuse themselves by throwing the pies at one another, or at me. Sometimes I have taken as much as half-a-crown, and the people of whom I had the money has never eaten a pie. The boys has the greatest love of gambling, and they seldom, if ever, buys without tossing.” One of the reasons why the street boys delight in tossing, is, that they can often obtain a pie by such means when they have only a halfpenny wherewith to gamble. If the lad wins he gets a penny pie for his halfpenny.

For street mince-meat pies the pieman usually makes 5lb. of mince-meat at a time, and for this he will put in 2 doz. of apples, 1lb. of sugar, 1lb. of currants, 2lb. of “critlings” (critlings being the refuse left after boiling down the lard), a good bit of spice to give the critlings a flavour, and plenty of treacle to make the mince-meat look rich.

The “gravy” which used to be given with the meat-pies was poured out of an oil-can, and consisted of a little salt and water browned. A hole was made with the little finger in the top of the meat pie, and the “gravy” poured in until the crust rose. With this gravy a person in the line assured me that he has known pies four days old to go off very freely, and be pronounced excellent. The street piemen are mostly bakers, who are unable to obtain employment at their trade. “I myself,” said one, “was a bread and biscuit baker. I have been at the pie business now about two years and a half, and I can’t get a living at it. Last week my earnings were not more than 7_s._ all the week through, and I was out till three in the morning to get that.” The piemen seldom begin business till six o’clock, and some remain out all night. The best time for the sale of pies is generally from ten at night to one in the morning.

Calculating that there are only fifty street piemen plying their trade in London, the year through, and that their average earnings are 8_s._ a week, we find a street expenditure exceeding 1,040_l._, and a street consumption of pies amounting nearly to three quarters of a million yearly.

To start in the penny pie business of the streets requires 1_l._ for a “can,” 2_s._ 6_d._ for a “turn-halfpenny” board to gamble with, 12_s._ for a gross of tin pie-dishes, 8_d._ for an apron, and about 6_s._ 6_d._ for stock money--allowing 1_s._ for flour, 1_s._ 3_d._ for meat, 2_d._ for apples, 4_d._ for eels, 2_s._ for pork flare or fat, 2_d._ for sugar, 1/2_d._ for cloves, 1_d._ for pepper and salt, 1_d._ for an egg to wash the pies over with, 6_d._ for baking, and 1_d._ for charcoal to keep the pies hot in the streets. Hence the capital required would be about 2_l._ in all.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF BOILED PUDDINGS.

The sale of boiled puddings, meat and currant--which might perhaps be with greater correctness called dumplings--has not been known in London, I was informed by one in the trade, more than twelve or fourteen years. The ingredients for the meat puddings are not dissimilar to those I have described as required for the meat pies, but the puddings are boiled, in cotton bags, in coppers or large pans, and present the form of a round ball. The charge is a halfpenny each. Five or six years back a man embarked his means--said to be about 15_l._--in the meat-pudding line, and prepared a superior article, which was kept warm in the street by means of steam, in a manner similar to that employed by the pieman. A mechanic out of work was engaged by this projector to aid him in the sale of his street luxuries, and the mechanic and his two boys made a living by this sale for two or three years. The original pudding-projector relinquished the street trade to go into business as a small shop-keeper, and the man who sold for him on a sort of commission, earning from 12_s._ to 18_s._ a week, made the puddings on his own account. His earnings, however, on his own account were not above from 1_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ a week beyond what he earned by commission, and a little while back he obtained work again at his own business, but his two boys still sell puddings in the street.

The sale of boiled meat puddings is carried on only in the autumn and winter months, and only in the evenings, except on Saturdays, when the business commences in the afternoon. The sale, I was informed by one of the parties, has been as many as forty-five dozen puddings on a Saturday evening. The tins in which the puddings are carried about hold from four to six dozen, and are replenished from the pans--the makers always living contiguous to the street where the vend takes place--as fast as the demand requires such replenishment. An average sale on a fine dry winter Saturday evening is thirty dozen, but then, as in most street callings, “the weather”--a remark often made to me--“has considerable to do with it.” A frost, I was told, helped off the puddings, and a rain kept them back. Next to Saturday the best business night is Monday; but the average sale on the Monday is barely half that on the Saturday, and on the other evenings of the week about a third. This gives a weekly sale by each street-seller of 85 dozen, or 1,020 puddings, and as I am informed there are now but six street-sellers (regularly) of this comestible, the weekly aggregate would be--allowing for bad weather--5,400, or 129,600 in a season of 24 weeks; an expenditure on the part of the street boys and girls (who are the principal purchasers), and of the poor persons who patronise the street-trade, of about 270_l._ per annum. The wandering street-musicians of the poorer class--such as “Old Sarey” and the Italian boys--often make their dinner off a meat pudding purchased on their rounds; for it is the rule with such people never to return home after starting in the morning till their day’s work is done.

The boys who ply their callings in the street, or are much in the open air, are very fond of these puddings, and to witness the way in which they throw the pudding, when very hot, from hand to hand, eyeing it with an expression that shows an eagerness to eat with a fear of burning the mouth, is sometimes laughable and sometimes painful, because not unfrequently there is a look of keen hunger about the--probably outcast--lad. The currant puddings are, I believe, sold only at Billingsgate and Petticoat-lane.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF PLUM “DUFF” OR DOUGH.

Plum dough is one of the street-eatables--though perhaps it is rather a violence to class it with the street-pastry--which is usually made by the vendors. It is simply a boiled plum, or currant, pudding, of the plainest description. It is sometimes made in the rounded form of the plum-pudding; but more frequently in the “roly-poly” style. Hot pudding used to be of much more extensive sale in the streets. One informant told me that twenty or thirty years ago, batter, or Yorkshire, pudding, “with plums in it,” was a popular street business. The “plums,” as in the orthodox plum-puddings, are raisins. The street-vendors of plum “duff” are now very few, only six as an average, and generally women, or if a man be the salesman he is the woman’s husband. The sale is for the most part an evening sale, and some vend the plum dough only on a Saturday night. A woman in Leather-lane, whose trade is a Saturday night trade, is accounted “one of the best plum duffs” in London, as regards the quality of the comestible, but her trade is not considerable.

The vendors of plum dough are the street-sellers who live by vending other articles, and resort to plum dough, as well as to other things, “as a help.” This dough is sold out of baskets in which it is kept hot by being covered with cloths, sometimes two and even three, thick; and the smoke issuing out of the basket, and the cry of the street-seller, “Hot plum duff, hot plum,” invite custom. A quartern of flour, 5_d._; 1/2 lb. Valentia raisins, 2_d._; dripping and suet in equal proportions, 2-1/2_d._; treacle, 1/2_d._; and allspice, 1/2_d._--in all 10-1/2_d._; supply a roly-poly of twenty pennyworths. The treacle, however, is only introduced “to make the dough look rich and spicy,” and must be used sparingly.

The plum dough is sold in slices at 1/2_d._ or 1_d._ each, and the purchasers are almost exclusively boys and girls--boys being at least three-fourths of the revellers in this street luxury. I have ascertained--as far as the information of the street-sellers enables me to ascertain--that take the year through, six “plum duffers” take 1_s._ a day each, for four winter months, including Sundays, when the trade is likewise prosecuted. Some will take from 4_s._ to 10_s._ (but rarely 10_s._) on a Saturday night, and nothing on other nights, and some do a little in the summer. The vendors, who are all stationary, stand chiefly in the street-markets and reside near their stands, so that they can get relays of hot dough.

If we calculate then 42_s._ a week as the takings of six persons, for five months, so including the summer trade, we find that upwards of 200_l._ is expended in the street purchase of plum dough, nearly half of which is profit. The trade, however, is reckoned among those which will disappear altogether from the streets.

The capital required to start is: basket, 1_s._ 9_d._; cloths, 6_d._; pan for boiling, 2_s._; knife, 2_d._; stock-money, 2_s._; in all about, 7_s._ 6_d._

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF CAKES, TARTS, &C.

These men and boys--for there are very few women or girls in the trade--constitute a somewhat numerous class. They are computed (including Jews) at 150 at the least, all regular hands, with an addition, perhaps, of 15 or 20, who seek to earn a few pence on a Sunday, but have some other, though poorly remunerative, employment on the week-days. The cake and tart-sellers in the streets have been, for the most part, mechanics or servants; a fifth of the body, however, have been brought up to this or to some other street-calling.

The cake-men carry their goods on a tray slung round their shoulders when they are offering their delicacies for sale, and on their heads when not engaged in the effort to do business. They are to be found in the vicinity of all public places. Their goods are generally arranged in pairs on the trays; in bad weather they are covered with a green cloth.

None of the street-vendors make the articles they sell; indeed, the diversity of those articles renders that impossible. Among the regular articles of this street-sale are “Coventrys,” or three-cornered puffs with jam inside; raspberry biscuits; cinnamon biscuits; “chonkeys,” or a kind of mince-meat baked in crust; Dutch butter-cakes; Jews’ butter-cakes; “bowlas,” or round tarts made of sugar, apple, and bread; “jumbles,” or thin crisp cakes made of treacle, butter, and flour; and jams, or open tarts with a little preserve in the centre.

All these things are made for the street-sellers by about a dozen Jew pastry-cooks, the most of whom reside about Whitechapel. They confine themselves to the trade, and make every description. On a fine holiday morning their shops, or rather bake-houses, are filled with customers, as they supply the small shops as well as the street-sellers of London. Each article is made to be sold at a halfpenny, and the allowance by the wholesale pastry-cook is such as to enable his customers to realise a profit of 4_d._ in 1_s._; thus he charges 4_d._ a dozen for the several articles. Within the last seven years there has been, I am assured, a great improvement in the composition of these cakes, &c. This is attributable to the Jews having introduced superior dainties, and, of course, rendered it necessary for the others to vie with them: the articles vended by these Jews (of whom there are from 20 to 40 in the streets) are still pronounced, by many connoisseurs in street-pastry, as the best. Some sell penny dainties also, but not to a twentieth part of the halfpenny trade. One of the wholesale pastry-cooks takes 40_l._ a week. These wholesale men, who sometimes credit the street-people, buy ten, fifteen, or twenty sacks of flour at a time whenever a cheap bargain offers. They purchase as largely in Irish butter, which they have bought at 3_d._ or 2-1/2_d._ the pound. They buy also “scrapings,” or what remains in the butter-firkins when emptied by the butter-sellers in the shops. “Good scrapings” are used for the best cakes; the jam they make themselves. To commence the wholesale business requires a capital of 600_l._ To commence the street-selling requires a capital of only 10_s._; and this includes the cost of a tray, about 1_s._ 9_d._; a cloth 1_s._; and a leathern strap, with buckle, to go round the neck, 6_d._; while the rest is for stock, with a shilling, or two as a reserve. All the street-sellers insist upon the impossibility of any general baker making cakes as cheap as those they vend. “It’s impossible, sir,” said one man to me; “it’s a trade by itself; nobody else can touch it. They was miserable little things seven years ago.”

An acute-looking man, decently dressed, gave me the following account. He resided with his wife--who went out charing--in a decent little back-room at the East-end, for which he paid 1_s._ a week. He had no children:--

“I’m a ‘translator’ (a species of cobbler) by trade,” he said, “but I’ve been a cake and a tart-seller in the streets for seven or eight years. I couldn’t make 1_s._ 3_d._ a day of twelve hours’ work, and sometimes nothing, by translating. Besides, my health was failing; and, as I used to go out on a Sunday with cakes to sell for a cousin of mine, I went into the trade myself, because I’d got up to it. I did middling the first three or four years, and I’d do middling still, if it wasn’t for the bad weather and the police. I’ve been up three times for ‘obstructing.’ Why, sir, I never obstructed a quarter as much as the print-shops and newspaper-shops down there” (pointing to a narrow street in the City). “But the keepers of them shops can take a sight at the Lord Mayor from behind their tills. The first time I was up before the Lord Mayor--it’s a few years back--I thought he talked like an old wife. ‘You mustn’t stand that way,’ he says, ‘and you mustn’t do this, and you mustn’t do that.’ ‘Well, my lord,’ says I, ‘then I mustn’t live honestly. But if you’ll give me 9_s._ a week, I’ll promise not to stand here, and not to stand there; and neither to do this, nor that, nor anything at all, if that pleases you better.’ They was shocked, they said, at my impudence--so young a fellow, too! I got off each time, but a deal of my things was spoiled. I work the City on week-days, and Victoria Park on Sundays. In the City, my best customers is not children, but young gents; real gents, some of them with gold watches. They buys twopenn’orth, mostly--that’s four of any sort, or different sorts. They’re clerks in banks and counting-houses, I suppose, that must look respectable like on a little, and so feeds cheap, poor chaps! for they dine or lunch off it, never doubt. Or they may be keeping their money for other things. To sell eleven dozen is a first-rate days’ work; that’s 1_s._ 9_d._ or 1_s._ 10_d._ profit. But then comes the wet days, and I can’t trade at all in the rain; and so the things get stale, and I have to sell them in Petticoat-lane for two a halfpenny. Victoria Park--I’m not let inside with my tray--is good and bad as happens. It’s chiefly a tossing trade there. Oh, I dare say I toss 100 times some Sundays. I don’t like tossing the coster lads, they’re the wide-awakes that way. The thieves use ‘grays.’ They’re ha’pennies, either both sides heads or both tails. Grays sell at from 2_d._ to 6_d._ I’m not often had that way, though. Working-people buy very few of me on Sundays; it’s mostly boys; and next to the gents., why, perhaps, the boys is my best customers in the City. Only on Monday a lad, that had been lucky ‘fiddling’” (holding horses, or picking up money anyhow) “spent a whole shilling on me. I clear, I think--and I’m among the cakes that’s the top of the tree--about 10_s._ a week in summer, and hardly 7_s._ a week in winter. My old woman and me makes both ends meet, and that’s all.”

Reckoning 150 cake-sellers, each clearing 6_s._ a week, a sufficiently low average, the street outlay will be 2,340_l._, representing a street-consumption of 1,123,200 cakes, tarts, &c.

OF OTHER CAKE-SELLERS IN THE STREETS.

The street cake-selling of London is not altogether confined to the class I have described; but the others engaged in it are not regular pursuers of the business, and do not exceed thirty in number. Some stock their trays with flare-cakes, which are round cakes, made of flour and “unrendered” (unmelted) lard, and stuck over freely with currants. They are sold at a farthing and a halfpenny each. Others, again, carry only sponge-cakes, made of flour and eggs, packed closely and regularly together, so as to present an uniform and inviting surface. Others carry only gingerbread, made of flour and treacle. These small trades are sometimes resorted to for a temporary purpose, rather than a street-seller’s remaining in compulsory idleness. I learned also that cake-sellers in the regular line, when unable to command sufficient capital to carry on their trade in the way they have been accustomed to, sell “flayers,” so called from being made with pig’s or sheep’s “flay,” or any other cheap cakes, and so endeavour to retrieve themselves. The profits on these plainer sorts is 1_d._ in 1_s._ more than that on the others, but the sale rarely exceeds half as much. I heard, however, of one man who deposited in pence, in eight days, 1_s._ 10_d._ with a wholesale pastry-cook. He had saved this sum by almost starving himself, on the sale of the inferior cakes, and the dealer trusted him the 10_d._ to make up eight dozen in the regular cake business. To commence the street sale of cheap cakes requires a capital of less than 5_s._; for tray, 1_s._ 6_d._; cloth, 6_d._; strap, 6_d._; and stock-money, 1_s._ 6_d._

Three or four men are occupied in selling plum-cakes. These are generally sold in half-penny and penny lots. The plum-cake is made by the same class of pastrycooks whom I have described as supplying the tarts, puffs, &c., and sold on the same terms. The profits are fifty per cent.--what cost 4_s._ bringing in 6_s._ One man who travels to all the fairs and races, and is more in the country than town in the summer and autumn, sells large quantities of plum-cake in Smithfield when in town, sometimes having 2_l._ worth and more on his stall. He sells cakes of a pound (ostensibly) at 4_d._, 6_d._, and 8_d._, according to quality. He sometimes supplies the street-sellers on the same terms as the pastrycooks, for he was once a baker.

From the best data at my command, it appears that the sale of these inferior cakes does not realise above a fifth of that taken by the other sellers, of whom I have treated, amounting to about 450_l._ in all.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF GINGERBREAD-NUTS, &C.

The sale of gingerbread, as I have previously observed, was much more extensive in the streets than it is at present. Indeed, what was formerly known in the trade as “toy” gingerbread is now unseen in the streets, except occasionally, and that only when the whole has not been sold at the neighbouring fairs, at which it is still offered. But, even at these fairs, the principal, and sometimes the only, toy gingerbread that is vended is the “cock in breeches;” a formidable-looking bird, with his nether garments of gold. Twenty or thirty years ago, “king George on horseback” was popular in gingerbread. His Majesty, wearing a gilt crown, gilt spurs, and a gilt sword, bestrode the gilt saddle of his steed, and was eaten with great relish by his juvenile subjects. There were also sheep, and dogs, and other animals, all adorned in a similar manner, and looking as if they had been formed in close and faithful imitation of children’s first attempts at cattle drawing. These edible toys were then sold in “white,” as well as in “brown” gingerbread, the white being the same in all other respects as the brown, except that a portion of sugar was used in its composition instead of treacle.

There are now only two men in London who make their own gingerbread-nuts for sale in the streets. This preparation of gingerbread is called by the street-sellers, after a common elliptical fashion, merely “nuts.” From the most experienced man in the street trade I had the following account: he was an intelligent, well-mannered, and well-spoken man, and when he laughed or smiled, had what may be best described as a pleasant look. After he had initiated me into the art and mystery of gingerbread making--which I shall detail separately--he said,

“I’ve been in the ‘nut’ trade 25 years, or thereabouts, and have made my own nuts for 20 years of that time. I bought of a gingerbread baker at first--there was plenty of them in them days--and the profit a living profit, too. Certainly it was, for what I bought for 5_s._ I could sell for 16_s._ I was brought up a baker, but the moment I was out of my time I started in the street nut trade for myself. I knew the profits of it, and thought it better than the slavery of a journeyman baker’s life. You’ve mentioned, sir, in your work, a musical sort of a street-crier of gingerbread (see p. 160), and I think, and indeed I’m pretty certain, that it’s the same man as was my partner 20 years back; aye, more than 20, but I can’t tell about years.” [The reader will have remarked how frequently this oblivion as to dates and periods characterises the statements of street-sellers. Perhaps no men take less note of time.] “At that time he was my partner in the pig trade. Dairy-fed, d’you say, sir? Not in the slightest. The outsides of the hanimals was paste, and the insides on ’em was all mince-meat. Their eyes was currants. We two was the original pigs, and, I believe, the only two pigs in the streets. We often made 15_s._ between us, in a day, in pigs alone. The musical man, as you call him--poor fellow, he dropped down dead in the street one day as he was crying; he was regular worn out--cried himself into his grave you may say--poor fellow, he used to sing out

‘Here’s a long-tailed pig, and a short-tailed pig, And a pig with a curly tail: Here’s a Yorkshire pig, and a Hampshire pig, And a pig without e’er a tail.’

“When I was first in the trade, I sold twice as many nuts as I do now, though my nuts was only 12 a penny then, and they’re now 40. A little larger the 12 were, but not very much. I have taken 20_s._ and 24_s._ many and many a Saturday. I then made from 2_l._ to 2_l._ 10_s._ a week by sticking to it, and money might have been saved. I’ve taken between 7_l._ and 8_l._ at a Greenwich Fair in the three days, in them times, by myself. Indeed, last Easter, my wife and me--for she works as well as I do, and sells almost as much--took 5_l._ But gingerbread was money in the old times, and I sold ‘lumps’ as well as ‘nuts;’ but now lumps won’t go off--not in a fair, no how. I’ve been in the trade ever since I started in it, but I’ve had turns at other things. I was in the service of a Custom-house agency firm; but they got into bother about contrabands, and the revenue, and cut off to America--I believe they took money with them, a good bit of it--and I was indicted, or whatever they call it, in the Court of Exchequer--I never was in the Court in my life--and was called upon, one fine day, to pay to the Crown 1,580_l._, and some odd pounds and shillings besides! I never understood the rights of it, but it was about smuggling. I was indicted by myself, I believe. When Mr. Candy, and other great houses in the City, were found out that way, they made it all right; paid something, as I’ve heard, and sacked the profits. Well; when I was called on, it wasn’t, I assure you, sir--ha, ha, ha!--at all convenient for a servant--and I was only that--to pay the fifteen hundred and odd; so I served 12 months and 2 days in prison for it. I’d saved a little money, and wasn’t so uncomfortable in prison. I could get a dinner, and give a dinner. When I came out, I took to the nuts. It was lucky for me that I had a trade to turn to; for, even if I could have shown I wasn’t at all to blame about the Exchequer, I could never have got another situation--never. So the streets saved me: my nuts was my bread.

“At this present time, sir, if I make, the year through, 9_s._ a week, and my wife 1_s._ or 2_s._ less, that’s the extent. When the Queen opened Parliament, the two on us took 10_s._ The Queen’s good for that, anyhow, in person. If the opening was by proclamation” [so he called it, three or four times], “it wouldn’t have been worth while going to--not at all. If there’s not a crowd, the police interfere, and ‘move on!’ is the order. The Queen’s popular with me, for her opening Parliament herself. I count it her duty. The police are a great trouble. I can’t say they disturb me in the place (never mind mentioning it, sir) where you’ve seen me, but they do in other places. They say there’s no rest for the wicked; but, in the streets, there’s no rest for a man trying to make an honest living, as I’m sure I do. I could pitch anywhere, one time.

“My chief dependence is on working-men, who buys my nuts to take home to their young ’uns. I never sell for parties, or desserts, that I know of. I take very little from boys--very little. The women of the town buy hardly any of me. I used to sell a good many pigs to them, in some of the streets about Brunswick-square; kept misses, and such like--and very pleasant customers they was, and good pay: but that’s all over now. They never ’bated me--never.”

To make about 56 lbs. of the gingerbread-nuts sold by my informant, takes 28 lbs. of treacle, 7_s._; 48 lbs. of flour, 14_s._; 1/2 lb. of ginger, 4_d._; and 1/2 lb. of allspice, 4_d._ From 18 to 20 dozen of small nuts go to the pound. This quantity, at 40 a penny, reckoning 18 dozen to a pound, realises about 5_d._ per pound; or about 25_s._ for an outlay of 11_s._ 8_d._ The expense of baking, however, and of “appurtenances,” reduces the profit to little more than cent. per cent.

The other nut-sellers in the streets vend the “almond nuts.” Of these vendors there are not less than 150; of them, 100 buy their goods of the bakers (what they sell for 1_s._ costing them 4_d._), and the other 50 make their own. The materials are the same as those of the gingerbread, with the addition of 4 lbs. of butter, 8_d._ per lb.; 1 lb. of almonds, 1_s._ 4_d._; and 2 lbs. of volatile salts, 8_d._ Out of this material, 60 lbs. of “almond nuts” may be made. A split almond is placed in the centre of each of these nuts; and, as they are three times as large as the gingerbread nuts, 12 a penny is the price. To sell 36 dozen a day--and so clearing 2_s._--is accounted a “very tidy day’s work.” With the drawback of wet weather, the average weekly earnings of the almond nut-sellers are, perhaps, the same as the gingerbread nut man’s--9_s._ weekly. These almond nut-sellers are, for the most part, itinerant, their localities of sale being the same as in the “cake and tart” line. They carry their goods, neatly done up in paper, on trays slung from the shoulder. The gingerbread-nuts are carried in a large basket, and are ready packed in paper bags.

Some of the “almond” men call at the public-houses, but the sale in such places is very small. Most of those who make their own nuts have been brought up as bakers--a class of workmen who seem to resort and adapt themselves to a street trade more readily than others. The nuts are baked in the usual way, spread on tin trays. To erect a proper oven for the purpose costs about 5_l._, but most of the men hire the use of one.

I have already specified the materials required to make 56 lb. of gingerbread nuts, the cost being 11_s._ 8_d._ To that, the capital required to start in the business must be added, and this consists of basket, 6_s._; baize cloth, 1_s._; pan for dough, 1_s._; rolling-pin, 3_d._, and baking-tins, 1_s._ In all about 21_s._ To begin in a small way in the “almond” line, buying the nuts ready made, requires as capital: tray, 2_s._; leather strap, 6_d._; baize, 1_s._; stock-money, 1_s._ 6_d._--in all 5_s._ The sale is prosecuted through the year, but hot weather is unfavourable to it, as the nuts then turn soft.

Calculating that 150 of these street-dealers take 17_s._ each weekly (clearing 9_s._), we find 6,630_l._ spent yearly in “spice” nuts in the streets of London.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF HOT-CROSS BUNS, AND OF CHELSEA BUNS.

Perhaps no cry--though it is only for one morning--is more familiar to the ears of a Londoner, than that of “One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot-cross buns,” on Good Friday. The sale is unknown in the Irish capital; for among Roman Catholics, Good Friday, I need hardly say, is a strict fast, and the eggs in the buns prevent their being used. One London gentleman, who spoke of fifty years ago, told me that the street-bun-sellers used to have a not unpleasing distich. On reflection, however, my informant could not be certain whether he had heard this distich cried, or had remembered hearing the elders of his family speak of it as having been cried, or how it was impressed upon his memory. It seems hardly in accordance with the usual style of street poetry:--

“One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot-cross buns! If your daughters will not eat them, give them to your sons. But if you hav’n’t any of those pretty little elves, You cannot then do better than eat them all yourselves.”

A tradesman who had resided more than fifty years in the Borough had, in his boyhood, heard, but not often, this ridiculous cry:--

“One-a-penny, poker; two-a-penny, tongs! One-a-penny; two-a-penny, hot-cross buns.”

The sellers of the Good Friday buns are principally boys, and they are of mixed classes--costers’ boys, boys habitually and boys occasionally street-sellers, and boys street-sellers for that occasion only. One great inducement to embark in the trade is the hope of raising a little money for the Greenwich Fair of the following Monday.

I am informed that 500 persons are employed on Good Friday in the streets of London in the sale of hot-cross buns, each itinerant selling upon the day’s average six dozen halfpenny, and seven dozen penny buns, for which he will take 12_s._ 6_d._ (his profits being 3_d._ in the shilling or 3_s._ 1-1/2_d._). One person informed me that last Good Friday he had sold during the day forty dozen penny buns, for which he received 50_s._

The bun-selling itinerants derive their supplies principally from the wholesale pastry-cooks, and, in a less degree, from the small bakers and pastrycooks, who work more for “the trade” than themselves. The street hot-cross bun trade is less than it was seven or eight years ago, as the bakers have entered into it more freely, and send round for orders: so that the itinerants complain that they have lost many a good customer. One informant (a master pastry-cook, who had been in the business nearly fifty years) said to me: “Times are sadly altered to what they were when I was a boy. Why I have known my master to bake five sacks of flour in nothing but hot-cross buns, and that is sufficient for 20,000 buns” (one sack of flour being used for 4,000 buns, or 500 lbs. of raw material to the same quantity of buns). The itinerants carry their baskets slung on their arm, or borne upon the head. A flannel or green baize is placed at the bottom of the basket and brought over the buns, after which a white cloth is spread over the top of the baize, to give it a clean appearance.

A vendor of “hot-cross buns” has to provide himself with a basket, a flannel (to keep the buns warm), and a cloth, to give a clean appearance to his commodities. These articles, if bought for the purpose, cost--basket, 2_s._ 6_d._; flannel and cloth, 2_s._; stock-money, average, 5_s._ (largest amount 15_s._, smallest 2_s._ 6_d._); or about 10_s._ in all.

There is expended in one day, in hot-cross buns purchased in the London streets, 300_l._, and nearly 100,000 buns thus bought.

The Chelsea buns are now altogether superseded by the Bath and Alexander’s buns. “People,” the street-sellers say, “want so much for their money.” There are now but two Chelsea bun-houses; the one at Pimlico, and the other at Chelsea. The principal times Chelsea buns were sold in the streets was Good Friday, Easter, and Whitsuntide; and, with the exception of Good Friday, the great sales were at Greenwich Fair, and then they were sold with other cakes and sweetmeats. I am informed that twenty years ago there was one man, with a rich musical voice, who sold these buns, about Westminster principally, all the year round; his cry--which was one of the musical ones--was, “One a penny, two a penny, hot Chelsea buns! Burning hot! smoking hot! r-r-r-reeking hot! hot Chelsea buns!”

OF MUFFIN AND CRUMPET-SELLING IN THE STREETS.

The street-sellers of muffins and crumpets rank among the old street-tradesmen. It is difficult to estimate their numbers, but they were computed for me at 500, during the winter months. They are for the most part boys, young men, or old men, and some of them infirm. There are a few girls in the trade, but very few women.

The ringing of the muffin-man’s bell--attached to which the pleasant associations are not a few--was prohibited by a recent Act of Parliament, but the prohibition has been as inoperative as that which forbad the use of a drum to the costermonger, for the muffin bell still tinkles along the streets, and is rung vigorously in the suburbs. The sellers of muffins and crumpets are a mixed class, but I am told that more of them are the children of bakers, or worn-out bakers, than can be said of any other calling. The best sale is in the suburbs. “As far as I know, sir,” said a muffin-seller, “it’s the best Hackney way, and Stoke Newington, and Dalston, and Balls Pond, and Islington; where the gents that’s in banks--the steady coves of them--goes home to their teas, and the missuses has muffins to welcome them; that’s my opinion.”

I did not hear of any street-seller who made the muffins or crumpets he vended. Indeed, he could not make the small quantity required, so as to be remunerative. The muffins are bought of the bakers, and at prices to leave a profit of 4_d._ in 1_s._ Some bakers give thirteen to the dozen to the street-sellers whom they know. The muffin-man carries his delicacies in a basket, wherein they are well swathed in flannel, to retain the heat: “People likes them warm, sir,” an old man told me, “to satisfy them they’re fresh, and they almost always are fresh; but it can’t matter so much about their being warm, as they have to be toasted again. I only wish good butter was a sight cheaper, and that would make the muffins go. Butter’s half the battle.” The basket and flannels cost the muffin-man 2_s._ 6_d._ or 3_s._ 6_d._ His bell stands him in from 4_d._ to 2_s._, “according as the metal is.” The regular price of good-sized muffins from the street-sellers is a halfpenny each; the crumpets are four a penny. Some are sold cheaper, but these are generally smaller, or made of inferior flour. Most of the street-sellers give thirteen, and some even fourteen to the dozen, especially if the purchase be made early in the day, as the muffin-man can then, if he deem it prudent, obtain a further supply.

A sharp London lad of fourteen, whose father had been a journeyman baker, and whose mother (a widow) kept a small chandler’s shop, gave me the following account:--

“I turns out with muffins and crumpets, sir, in October, and continues until it gets well into the spring, according to the weather. I carries a fust-rate article; werry much so. If you was to taste ’em, sir, you’d say the same. If I sells three dozen muffins at 1/2_d._ each, and twice that in crumpets, it’s a werry fair day, werry fair; all beyond that is a good day. The profit on the three dozen and the others is 1_s._, but that’s a great help, really a wonderful help, to mother, for I should be only mindin’ the shop at home. Perhaps I clears 4_s._ a week, perhaps more, perhaps less; but that’s about it, sir. Some does far better than that, and some can’t hold a candle to it. If I has a hextra day’s sale, mother’ll give me 3_d._ to go to the play, and that hencourages a young man, you know, sir. If there’s any unsold, a coffee-shop gets them cheap, and puts ’em off cheap again next morning. My best customers is genteel houses, ’cause I sells a genteel thing. I likes wet days best, ’cause there’s werry respectable ladies what don’t keep a servant, and they buys to save themselves going out. We’re a great conwenience to the ladies, sir--a great conwenience to them as likes a slap-up tea. I have made 1_s._ 8_d._ in a day; that was my best. I once took only 2-1/2_d._--I don’t know why--that was my worst. The shops don’t love me--I puts their noses out. Sunday is no better day than others, or werry little. I can read, but wish I could read easier.”

Calculating 500 muffin-sellers, each clearing 4_s._ a week, we find 100_l._ a week expended on the metropolitan street sale of muffins; or, in the course of twenty weeks, 2,000_l._ Five shillings, with the price of a basket, &c., which is about 3_s._ 6_d._ more, is the capital required for a start.

OF THE STREET SALE OF SWEET-STUFF.

In this sale there are now engaged, as one of the most intelligent of the class calculated, 200 individuals, exclusive of twenty or thirty Jew boys. The majority of the sellers are also the manufacturers of the articles they vend. They have all been brought up to the calling, their parents having been in it, or having been artizans (more especially bakers) who have adopted it for some of the general reasons I have before assigned. The non-makers buy of the cheap confectioners.

The articles now vended do not differ materially, I am informed by men who have known the street trade for forty years, from those which were in demand when they began selling in the streets.

A very intelligent man, who had succeeded his father and mother in the “sweet-stuff” business--his father’s drunkenness having kept them in continual poverty--showed me his apparatus, and explained his mode of work. His room, which was on the second-floor of a house in a busy thoroughfare, had what I have frequently noticed in the abodes of the working classes--the decency of a turn-up bedstead. It was a large apartment, the rent being 3_s._ 6_d._ a week, unfurnished. The room was cheerful with birds, of which there were ten or twelve. A remarkably fine thrush was hopping in a large wicker cage, while linnets and bullfinches showed their quick bright eyes from smaller cages on all sides. These were not kept for sale but for amusement, their owner being seldom able to leave his room. The father and mother of this man cleared, twenty years ago, although at that time sugar was 6_d._ or 7_d._ the pound, from 2_l._ to 3_l._ a week by the sale of sweet-stuff; half by keeping a stall, and half by supplying small shops or other stall-keepers. My present informant, however, who has--not the best--but one of the best businesses in London, makes 24_s._ or 25_s._ a week from October to May, and scarcely 12_s._ a week during the summer months, “when people love to buy any cool fresh fruit instead of sweet-stuff.” The average profits of the generality of the trade do not perhaps exceed 10_s._ 6_d._ or 12_s._ a week, take the year round. They reside in all parts.

Treacle and sugar are the ground-work of the manufacture of all kinds of sweet-stuff. “Hardbake,” “almond toffy,” “halfpenny lollipops,” “black balls,” the cheaper “bulls eyes,” and “squibs” are all made of treacle. One informant sold more of treacle rock than of anything else, as it was dispensed in larger halfpennyworths, and no one else made it in the same way. Of peppermint rock and sticks he made a good quantity. Half-a-crown’s worth, as retailed in the streets, requires 4 lbs. of rough raw sugar at 4-1/4_d._ per lb., 1-1/2_d._ for scent (essence of peppermint), 1-1/2_d._ for firing, and 1/2_d._ for paper--in all 1_s._ 8-1/2_d._ calculating nothing for the labour and time expended in boiling and making it. The profit on the other things was proportionate, except on almond rock, which does not leave 2-1/2_d._ in a shilling--almonds being dear. Brandy balls are made of sugar, water, peppermint, and a little cinnamon. Rose acid, which is a “transparent” sweet, is composed of loaf sugar at 6-1/2_d._ per lb., coloured with cochineal. The articles sold in “sticks” are pulled into form along a hook until they present the whitish, or speckled colour desired. A quarter of a stone of materials will, for instance, be boiled for forty minutes, and then pulled a quarter of an hour, until it is sufficiently crisp and will “set” without waste. The flavouring--or “scent” as I heard it called in the trade--now most in demand is peppermint. Gibraltar rock and Wellington pillars used to be flavoured with ginger, but these “sweeties” are exploded.

Dr. Pereria, in his “Treatise on Diet,” enumerates as many as ten different varieties and preparations of sugar used for dietetical purposes. These are (1) purified or refined sugar; (2) brown or raw sugar; (3) molasses or treacle--or fluid sugar; (4) aqueous solutions of sugar--or syrups; (5) boiled sugars, or the softer kinds of confectionary; (6) sugar-candy, or crystallized cane sugar; (7) burnt sugar, or caramel; (8) hard confectionary; (9) liquorice; (10) preserves. The fifth and eighth varieties alone concern us here.

Of the several preparations of boiled sugar, the Doctor thus speaks, “If a small quantity of water be added to sugar, the mixture heated until the sugar dissolves, and the solution boiled to drive off part of the water, the tendency of the sugar to crystallise is diminished, or, in some cases, totally destroyed. To promote this effect, confectioners sometimes add a small portion of cream of tartar to the solution while boiling. Sugar, thus altered by heat, and sometimes variously flavoured, constitutes several preparations sold by the confectioner. Barley-sugar and acidulated drops are prepared in this way from white sugar: powdered tartaric acid being added to the sugar while soft. Hardbake and toffee are made by a similar process from brown sugar. Toffee differs from hardbake from containing butter. The ornamented sugar pieces, or caramel-tops, with which pastrycooks decorate their tarts, &c., are prepared in the same way. If the boiled and yet soft sugar be rapidly and repeatedly extended, and pulled over a hook, it becomes opaque and white, and then constitutes pulled sugar, or penides. Pulled sugar, variously flavoured and coloured, is sold in several forms by the preparers of hard confectionary.

“Concerning this hard confectionary,” Dr. Pereira says, “sugar constitutes the base of an almost innumerable variety of hard confectionary, sold under the names of lozenges, brilliants, pipe, rock, comfits, nonpareils, &c. Besides sugar, these preparations contain some flavouring ingredient, as well as flour or gum, to give them cohesiveness, and frequently colouring matter. Carraway, fruits, almonds, and pine seeds, constitute the nuclei of some of these preparations.”

One of the appliances of the street sweet-stuff trade which I saw in the room of the seller before mentioned was--Acts of Parliament. A pile of these, a foot or more deep, lay on a shelf. They are used to wrap up the rock, &c., sold. The sweet-stuff maker (I never heard them called confectioners) bought his “paper” of the stationers, or at the old book-shops. Sometimes, he said, he got works in this way in sheets which had never been cut (some he feared were stolen,) and which he retained to read at his short intervals of leisure, and then used to wrap his goods in. In this way he had read through two Histories of England! He maintained a wife, two young children, and a young sister, who could attend to the stall; his wife assisted him in his manufactures. He used 1 cwt. of sugar a week on the year’s average, 1/2 cwt. of treacle, and 5 oz. of scents, each 8_d._ an oz.

The man who has the best trade in London streets, is one who, about two years ago, introduced--after much study, I was told--short sentences into his “sticks.” He boasts of his secret. When snapped asunder, in any part, the stick presents a sort of coloured inscription. The four I saw were: “Do you love me?” The next was of less touching character, “Do you love sprats?” The others were, “Lord Mayor’s Day,” and “Sir Robert Peel.” This man’s profits are twice those of my respectable informant’s.

OF THE CUSTOMERS OF THE SWEET-STUFF STREET-SELLERS.

Another sweet-stuff man, originally a baker, but who, for a fortnight before I saw him, had been attending upon an old gentleman, disabled from an accident, gave me the following account of his customers. What I heard from the other street-sellers satisfies me of the correctness of the statement. It will be seen that he was possessed of some humour and observation:

“Boys and girls are my best customers, sir, and mostly the smallest of them; but then, again, some of them’s fifty, aye, turned fifty; Lor’ love you. An old fellow, that hasn’t a stump of a tooth in front, why, he’ll stop and buy a ha’porth of hard-bake, and he’ll say, ‘I’ve a deal of the boy left about me still.’ He doesn’t show it, anyhow, in his look. I’m sometimes a thinking I’ll introduce a softer sort of toffy--boiled treacle, such as they call Tom Trot in some parts, but it’s out of fashion now, just for old people that’s ‘boys still.’ It was rolled in a ha’penny stick, sir, and sold stunnin’. The old ones wants something to suck, and not to chew. Why, when I was a lad at school, there was Jews used to go about with boxes on their backs, offering rings and pencil-cases, and lots of things that’s no real use to nobody, and they told everybody they asked to buy ‘that they sold everything,’ and us boys used to say--‘Then give’s a ha’porth of boiled treacle.’ It was a regular joke. I wish I’d stuck more to my book then, but what can’t be cured must be endured, you know. Now, those poor things that walks down there” (intimating, by a motion of the head, a thoroughfare frequented by girls of the town), “they’re often customers, but not near so good as they was ten year ago; no, indeed, nor six or eight year. They like something that bites in the mouth, such as peppermint-rock, or ginger-drops. They used to buy a penn’orth or two and offer it to people, but they don’t now, I think. I’ve trusted them ha’pennies and pennies, sometimes. They always paid me. Some that held their heads high like, might say: ‘I really have no change; I’ll pay you to-morrow.’ She hadn’t no change, poor lass, sure enough, and she hadn’t nothing to change either, I’ll go bail. I’ve known women, that seemed working men’s or little shopkeeper’s wives, buy of me and ask which of my stuffs took greatest hold of the breath. I always knew what they was up to. They’d been having a drop, and didn’t want it to be detected. Why, it was only last Saturday week two niceish-looking and niceish-dressed women, comes up to me, and one was going to buy peppermint-rock, and the other says to her: ‘Don’t, you fool, he’ll only think you’ve been drinking gin-and-peppermint. Coffee takes it off best.’ So I lost my customers. They hadn’t had a single drain that night, I’ll go bail, but still they didn’t look like regular lushingtons at all. I make farthing’s-worths of sweet-stuff, for children, but I don’t like it; it’s an injury to trade. I was afraid that when half-farthings was coined, they’d come among children, and they’d want half a farthing of brandy-balls. Now, talking of brandy-balls, there’s a gentleman that sometimes has a minute’s chat with me, as he buys a penn’orth to take home to his children--(every reasonable man ought to marry and have children for the sake of the sweet-trade, but it ain’t the women’s fault that many’s single still)--when one gentleman I knows buys brandy-balls, he says, quite grave, ‘What kind o’ brandy do you put in them?’ ‘Not a drop of British,’ says I, ‘I can assure you; not a single drop.’ He’s not finely dressed; indeed, he’s a leetle seedy, but I know he’s a gentleman, or what’s the same thing, if he ain’t rich; for a common fellow’ll never have his boots polished that way, every day of his life; his blacking bills must come heavy at Christmas. I can tell a gentleman, too, by his way of talk, ’cause he’s never bumptious. It’s the working people’s children that’s my great support, and they was a better support, by 2_s._ in every 10_s._, and more, when times was better; and next to them among my patrons is poor people. Perhaps, this last year, I’ve cleared 11_s._ a week, not more, all through. I make my own stuffs, except the drops, and they require machinery. I would get out of the streets if I could.”

Another of these traders told me, that he took more in farthings, than in halfpennies or pennies.

Calculating 200 sweet-stuff sellers, each clearing 10_s._ weekly, the outlay in rocks, candies, hard-bakes, &c., in the streets is 5,200_l._ yearly, or nearly two and a half millions of halfpenny-worths.

To start in the sweet-stuff business requires a capital of 35_s._, including a saucepan in which to boil sugar, 2_s._; weights and scales, 4_s._; stock-money (average), 4_s._; and barrow, 25_s._ If the seller be not his own manufacturer, then a tray, 1_s._ 9_d._; and stock-money, 1_s._ 6_d._; or 3_s._ 3_d._ in all will be sufficient.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF COUGH DROPS AND OF MEDICAL CONFECTIONARY.

Mr. Strutt, in his “Sports and Pastimes of the People of England” (1800), says of the Mountebank: “It is uncertain at what period this vagrant dealer in physic made his appearance in England; it is clear, however, that he figured away with much success in this country during the last two centuries.... The mountebanks usually preface the vending of their medicines with pompous orations, in which they pay as little regard to truth as to propriety.” I am informed by a gentleman observant of the matter, that within his knowledge, which extends to the commencement of the present century, no mountebank (proper) had appeared in the streets of London proclaiming the virtues of his medicines; neither with nor without his “fool.” The last seen by my informant, perhaps the latest mountebank in England, was about twenty years ago, in the vicinity of Yarmouth. He was selling “cough drops” and infallible cures for asthma, and was dressed in a periwig and an embroidered coat, with ruffles at his wrist, a sword to his side, and was a representation, in shabby genteel, of the fine gentleman of the reign of Queen Anne. The mountebank’s most legitimate successor in the street cajolery of London, as regards his “orations,” is the “Patterer,” as I shall show in my account of the street trade in stationery literature. His successor in the vending of curative confectionaries and (in a small degree) of nostrums, salves, ointments, &c., are the sellers of “cough drops” and “horehound candy,” and of the corn salves, and cures for bruises, sprains, burns, &c., &c., &c.

The street-traders in cough drops and their accompaniments, however, do not now exceed six, and of them only two--who are near relatives--manufacture their own stock-in-trade. I here treat of the street trade in “cough drops,” as a branch of the itinerant sweet-stuff trade. The “mountebank” part of the business--that is to say, “the prefacing the vending of the medicines with pompous orations,” I shall reserve till its proper place--viz. the “pattering” part of the street trade, of which an account will be given in the next Chapter.

The two principal vendors of cough drops wheel their stalls, which are fixed upon barrows, to different parts of town, but one principal stand is in Holborn. On their boards are displayed the cough cures, both in the form of “sticks” and “drops,” and a model of a small distillery. The portion inclosing the still is painted to resemble brick-work, and a tin tube, or worm, appears to carry the distillation to a receiver. Horehound, colts-foot, and some other herbs lie in a dried state on the stall, but principally horehound, to which popular (street) opinion seems to attach the most and the greatest virtues. There are also on the stalls a few bottles, tied up in the way they are dispensed from a regular practitioner, while the cough drops are in the form of sticks (1/2_d._ each), also neatly wrapped in paper. The cry is both expressive and simply descriptive--“Long life candy! Candy from herbs!”

From the most experienced person in this curious trade, I had the following statement. He entertained a full assurance, as far as I could perceive, of the excellence of his remedies, and of the high art and mystery of his calling. In persons of his class, professing to heal, no matter in what capacity, or what may be the disease, this is an important element of success. My informant, whether answering my questions or speaking of his own accord, always took time to consider, and sometimes, as will be seen, declined replying to my inquiries. From him I received the following account:--

“The cough drop and herb trade is nothing now to what it was long ago. Thirty or forty years ago, it was as good as 3_l._ or 4_l._ a week to a person, and was carried on by respectable men. I know nothing of any ‘humbugs’ in the respectable part of the trade. What’s done by those who are ignorant, and not respectable, is nothing to me. I don’t know how many there were in the trade thirty or forty years ago; but I know that, ten or eleven years since, I supplied seven persons who sold cough drops, and such like, in the streets, and now I supply only myself and another. I sell only four or five months in the year--the cold months, in course; for, in the summer, people are not so subject to coughs and colds. I am the ‘original’ maker of my goods. I will cure any child of the hooping-cough, and very speedily. I defy any medical man to dispute it, and I’ll do it--‘no cure, no pay.’ I never profess to cure asthma. Nobody but a gravedigger can put an end to that there; but I can relieve it. It’s the same with consumption; it may be relieved, but the gravedigger is the only man as can put a stop to it. Many have tried to do it, but they’ve all failed. I sell to very respectable people, and to educated people, too; and, what’s more, a good deal (of cough drops) to medical men. In course, they can analyse it, if they please. They can taste the bitter, and judge for themselves, just as they can taste wine in the Docks. Perhaps the wives of mechanics are among my best customers. They are the most numerous, but they buy only ha’porths and penn’orths. Very likely, they would think more of the remedy if they had to pay 13-1/2_d._ for it, instead of the 1-1/2_d._ The Government stamp makes many a stuff sell. Oh! I know nothing about quackery: you must inquire at the Stamp-office, if you want to know about them kind of medicines. They’re the people that help to sell them. Respectable people will pay me 1_s._ or 2_s._ at a time; and those who buy once, buy again. I’m sent to from as far off as Woolwich. I’ll undertake to cure, or afford relief, in coughs, colds, or wind in the chest, or forfeit 1_s._ I can dispel wind in two minutes. I sell bottles, too, for those cures (as well as the candy from herbs): I manufacture them myself. They’re decoctions of herbs, and the way to prepare them is my secret. I sell them at from 2_d._ to 1_s._ Why, I use one article that costs 24_s._ a pound, foreign, and twice that English. I’ve sold hundred weights. The decoctions are my secret. I will instruct any person--and have instructed a good many--when I’m paid for it. In course, it would never do to publish it in your work, for thousands would then learn it for 2_d._ My secret was never given to any person--only with what you may call a fee--except one, and only to him when he got married, and started in the line. He’s a connection of mine. All we sell is genuine.

“I sell herbs, too, but it’s not a street sale: I supply them to orders from my connection. It’s not a large trade. I sell horehound, for tea or decoctions; coltsfoot, for smoking as herb tobacco (I gather the coltsfoot myself, but buy the horehound of a shopkeeper, as it’s cultivated); ground-ivy is sold only for the blood (but little of it); hyssop for wind; and Irish moss for consumption. I’m never asked for anything improper. They won’t ask me for ---- or ----. And I’m never asked for washes or cosmetics; but a few nettles are ordered of me for complexions.

“Well, sir, I’d rather not state the quantities I sell, or my profits, or prices. I make what keeps myself, my wife, and seven children, and that’s all I need say about it. I’d rather say no more on that part of the business: and so, I’m sure you won’t press me. I don’t know what others in the trade make. They buy of confectioners, and are only imitators of me. They buy coltsfoot-candy, and such like; how it’s made so cheap, I don’t know. In the summer, I give up cough-drop selling, and take to gold fish.”

I am told that the cough-drop-makers, who are also street-sellers, prepare their sticks, &c., much in the same method as the manufacturers of the ordinary sweet-stuff (which I have described), using the decoction, generally of horehound or coltsfoot, as the “scents” are used. In the old times, it would appear that the preparation of a medicinal confection was a much more elaborate matter, if we may judge by the following extract from an obsolete medical work treating of the matter. The author styles such preparations “lohochs,” which is an Arabic word, he says, and signifies “a thing to be licked.” It would appear that the lohoch was not so hard as the present cough-drop. The following is one of the receipts, “used generally against diseases in the breast and lungs:”--

“Lohoch de farfara,” the Lohoch of Coltsfoot.

Take of coltsfoot roots cleansed 8 ozs., marsh-mallow roots 4 ozs., boil them in a sufficient quantity of water, and press the pulp through a sieve, dissolve it again in the decoction, and let it boil once or twice; then take it from the fire, and add 2 lbs. of white sugar, honey of raisins 14 ozs., juice of liquorice 2-1/2 drams, stir them well with a wooden pestle, sprinkling in of saffron and cloves in powder, of each 1 scruple, cinnamon and mace, of each 2 scruples; make them into a lohoch according to art. It is good for a cough and roughness of the windpipe.

Without wishing to infringe upon professional secrets, I may mention that the earnings of the principal man in the trade may be taken at 30_s._ a week for 20 weeks; that of another at 15_s._ for the same period; and those of the remaining four at 5_s._ each, weekly; but the latter sell acid drops, and other things bought of the chemists. Allowing the usual cent. per cent., we then find 130_l._ expended by street-buyers on cough-drops.

The best cough-drop stall seen in the streets is a kind of barrow, which can be shut up like a piano: it cost 3_l._ 10_s._ complete with the distilling apparatus before described. Scales and weights cost 5_s._, and the stock-money for the supply of such a stall need not exceed 10_s._; or, in all, about 4_l._ 10_s._ For an ordinary trade--ready-made articles forming the stock--the capital would be, stall and trestle, 7_s._; scales and weights (which are not always used), 3_s._ 6_d._, and stock-money, 2_s._ 6_d._; in all, 13_s._

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF ICES AND OF ICE CREAMS.

I have already treated of the street luxury of pine-apples, and have now to deal with the greater street rarity of ice-creams.

A quick-witted street-seller--but not in the “provision” line--conversing with me upon this subject, said: “Ices in the streets! Aye, and there’ll be jellies next, and then mock turtle, and then the real ticket, sir. I don’t know nothing of the difference between the real thing and the mock, but I once had some cheap mock in an eating-house, and it tasted like stewed tripe with a little glue. You’ll keep your eyes open, sir, at the Great Exhibition; and you’ll see a new move or two in the streets, take my word for it. Penny glasses of champagne, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Notwithstanding the sanguine anticipations of my street friend, the sale of ices in the streets has not been such as to offer any great encouragement to a perseverance in the traffic.

The sale of ice-creams was unknown in the streets until last summer, and was first introduced, as a matter of speculation, by a man who was acquainted with the confectionary business, and who purchased his ices of a confectioner in Holborn. He resold these luxuries daily to street-sellers, sometimes to twenty of them, but more frequently to twelve. The sale, however, was not remunerative, and had it not been generally united with other things, such as ginger-beer, could not have been carried on as a means of subsistence. The supplier of the street-traders sometimes went himself, and sometimes sent another to sell ice-cream in Greenwich Park on fine summer days, but the sale was sometimes insufficient to pay his railway expenses. After three or four weeks’ trial, this man abandoned the trade, and soon afterwards emigrated to America.

Not many weeks subsequent to “the first start,” I was informed, the trade was entered into by a street-seller in Petticoat-lane, who had become possessed, it was said, of Masters’s Freezing Apparatus. He did not vend the ices himself for more than two or three weeks, and moreover confined his sale to Sunday mornings; after a while he employed himself for a short time in making ices for four or five street-sellers, some of whom looked upon the preparation as a wonderful discovery of his own, and he then discontinued the trade.

There were many difficulties attending the introduction of ices into street-traffic. The buyers had but a confused notion how the ice was to be swallowed. The trade, therefore, spread only very gradually, but some of the more enterprising sellers purchased stale ices from the confectioners. So little, however, were the street-people skilled in the trade, that a confectioner told me they sometimes offered ice to their customers in the streets, and could supply only water! Ices were sold by the street-vendors generally at 1_d._ each, and the trade left them a profit of 4_d._ in 1_s._, when they served them “without waste,” and some of the sellers contrived, by giving smaller modicums, to enhance the 4_d._ into 5_d._; the profit, however, was sometimes what is expressively called “nil.” Cent. per cent.--the favourite and simple rate known in the streets as “half-profits” was rarely attained.

From a street-dealer I received the following account:--

“Yes, sir, I mind very well the first time as I ever sold ices. I don’t think they’ll ever take greatly in the streets, but there’s no saying. Lord! how I’ve seen the people splutter when they’ve tasted them for the first time. I did as much myself. They get among the teeth and make you feel as if you tooth-ached all over. I sold mostly strawberry ices. I haven’t an idee how they’re made, but it’s a most wonderful thing in summer--freezing fruits in that way. One young Irish fellow--I think from his look and cap he was a printer’s or stationer’s boy--he bought an ice of me, and when he had scraped it all together with the spoon, he made a pull at it as if he was a drinking beer. In course it was all among his teeth in less than no time, and he stood like a stattey for a instant, and then he roared out,--‘Jasus! I’m kilt. The could shivers is on to me!’ But I said, ‘O, you’re all right, you are;’ and he says, ‘What d’you mane, you horrid horn,[8] by selling such stuff as that. An’ you must have the money first, bad scran to the likes o’ you!’

“The persons what enjoyed their ices most,” the man went on, “was, I think, servant maids that gulped them on the sly. Pr’aps they’d been used, some on ’em, to get a taste of ices on the sly before, in their services. We sees a many dodges in the streets, sir--a many. I knew one smart servant maid, treated to an ice by her young man--they seemed as if they was keeping company--and he soon was stamping, with the ice among his teeth, but she knew how to take hern, put the spoon right into the middle of her mouth, and when she’d had a clean swallow she says: ‘O, Joseph, why didn’t you ask me to tell you how to eat your ice?’ The conceit of sarvant gals is ridiculous. Don’t you think so, sir? But it goes out of them when they gets married and has to think of how to get broth before how to eat ices. One hot day, about eleven, a thin tall gentleman, not very young, threw down 1_d._ to me, and says, says he, ‘As much ice as you can make for that.’ He knew how to take it. When he’d done, he says, says he, ‘By G--, my good feller, you’ve saved my life. I’ve been keeping it up all night, and I was dying of a burnt-up throat, after a snooze, and had only 1_d._ So sick and hot was my stomach, I could have knelt down and taken a pull at the Thames’--we was near it at the time--‘You’ve saved my life, and I’ll see you again.’ But I’ve never see’d him since. He was a gentleman, I think. He was in black, and wore a big black and gold ring--only one.

[8] I inquired as to what was meant by the reproachful appellation, “horrid horn,” and my informant declared that “to the best of his hearing,” those were the words used; but doubtless the word was “omad-haun,” signifying in the Erse tongue, a half-witted fellow. My informant had often sold fruit to the same lad, and said he had little of the brogue, or of “old Irish words,” unless “his temper was riz, and then it came out powerful.”

“The rest of my customers for ices, was people that bought out of curiosity, and there was gentlemen’s servants among ’em, very little fellows some of ’em; and doctors’ boys; and mechanics as was young and seemed of a smartish sort; and boys that seemed like schoolboys; and a few women of the town,--but mine’s not much of a pitch for them.”

From the information I obtained, I may state that, if the sale of street ices be calculated at twenty persons taking, not earning, 1_s._ 6_d._ daily for four weeks, it is as near the mark as possible. This gives an expenditure of 42_l._ in street ices, with a profit to the vendors of from 10 to 25 per cent. I am told that an unsuccessful start has characterised other street trades--rhubarb for instance, both in the streets and markets--which have been afterwards successful and remunerative.

For capital in the ice trade a small sum was necessary, as the vendors had all stalls and sold other commodities, except the “original street ice man,” who was not a regular street trader, but a speculator. A jar--in which the ices were neither sufficiently covered nor kept cooled, though it was often placed in a vessel or “cooler,” containing cold water--cost 1_s._, three cups, 3_d._ (or three glasses, 1_s._), and three spoons, 3_d._, with 2_s._ stock-money; the total is, presuming glasses were used, 4_s._, or, with a vessel for water, 5_s._

OF THE CAPITAL AND INCOME OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF EATABLES AND DRINKABLES.

I now give a summary of the Capital and Income of the street-sellers of eatables and drinkables. But, first, I will endeavour to arrive at an estimate of the total number of people belonging to the class.

The street-sellers engaged in the sale of eatables and drinkables, are, summing the several items before given, altogether 6,347: of whom 300 sell pea-soup and hot eels; 150, pickled whelks; 300, fried fish; 300, sheeps’ trotters; 60, ham-sandwiches; 200, baked ’tatoes; 4, hot green peas; 150, meat; 25, bread; 1,000, cat and dogs’ meat; 300, coffee and tea; 1,700, ginger-beer, lemonade, sherbet, &c.; 50, elder-wine; 4, peppermint-water; 28, milk; 100, curds and whey and rice-milk; 60, water; 50, pies; 6, boiled pudding; 6, plum “duff”; 150, cakes and tarts; 4, plum-cakes; 30, other cheaper cakes; 150, gingerbread-nuts; 500, cross-buns; 500, muffins and crumpets; 200, sweet stuff; 6, cough-drops; 20, ice-creams. But many of the above are only temporary trades. The street-sale of hot cross-buns, for instance, lasts only for a day; that of muffins and crumpets, baked potatoes, plum-“duff,” cough-drops, elder-wine, and rice-milk, are all purely winter trades, while the sale of ginger-beer, lemonade, ice-creams, and curds and whey, is carried on solely in the summer. By this means the number of the street-sellers of eatables and drinkables, never at any one time reaches the amount before stated. In summer there are, in addition to the 10,000 costers before mentioned, about 3,000 people, and in winter between 4,000 and 5,000, engaged in the eatable and drinkable branch of the street-traffic.

As regards the Capital and Income, many minute accounts have been prepared.

To show the care, as well as the fulness with which these returns have been made, I give one of the Tables in its integrity, merely remarking, that similar tables relative to all the other articles have been made; but I condense the details, lest a repetition, however curious in its statistics, should prove wearisome:

CAPITAL, OR STOCK IN TRADE, OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF EATABLES AND DRINKABLES.

Street-sellers of Hot Eels. £ s. d. 200 stalls, at 6_s._ 60 0 0 100 baskets, at 1_s._ 5 0 0 200 eel-kettles, at 3_s._ 6_d._ 35 0 0 100 jars for itinerants, at 6_d._ 2 10 0 300 stew-pans, at 2_s._ 30 0 0 300 strainers, at 1_s._ 15 0 0 300 ladles, at 4_d._ 5 0 0 2,400 cups, at 1_d._ 10 0 0 2,400 spoons, at 1_d._ 10 0 0 200 chafing-dishes, at 6_d._ 5 0 0 200 glasses for candles, at 3_d._ 2 10 0 240 vendors’ stock-money, at 5_s._ each 60 0 0 60 ditto, at 25_s._ each 75 0 0 100 itinerants’ ditto, at 2_s._ each 10 0 0 300 cloths, at 4_d._ each 5 0 0 300 pairs of sleeves, at 4_d._ per pair 5 0 0 300 aprons at 4_d._ each 5 0 0 ---------------- £339 10 0

Street-sellers of Pea Soup.

150 soup-kettles, 4_s._ each; 150 ladles, 6_d._ each; 150 pepper-boxes, 1_d._ each; 150 mint-boxes, 3_d._ each; 150 chafing-dishes, 6_d._ each; 1,800 basons, 1_d._ each; 1,800 spoons, 1_d._ each; stock-money, 3_s._ 6_d._ each[9] 81 5 0

[9] The hot-eel trade being in conjunction with the pea-soup, the same stall, candles, towels, sleeves, and aprons do for both.

Street-sellers of Pickled Whelks.

100 stalls, 4_s._ each; 150 baskets, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 150 tin boilers, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 75 pans, 9_d._ each; 150 jars, 6_d._ each; 150 flour-dredgers, 4_d._ each; 1,800 saucers, 1/2_d._ each; 150 table-spoons, 2_d._ each; 150 knives, 2_d._ each; 150 vinegar-bottles, 1_d._ each; 150 serge aprons, 2_s._ each; stock-money, for 150 vendors, 5_s._ each 125 18 9

Street-sellers of Fried Fish.

300 trays, 1_s._ 6_d._ each; 300 frying-pans, 1_s._ 6_d._ each; 300 salt-dredgers, 3_d._ each; 300 knives, 2_d._ each; 300 earthenware pans, 1_s._ each; 300 shallows, 1_s._ each; stock-money, for 150 vendors, 5_s._ each 156 5 0

Street-sellers of Sheeps’ Trotters.

300 baskets, 1_s._ 4_d._ each; 300 cotton cloths, 4_d._ each; 300 forks, 2_d._ each; 300 knives, 3_d._ each; 300 pepper-boxes, 1_d._ each; 300 salt-cellars, 1_d._ each; stock-money, for 300 sellers, 1_s._ each 48 15 0

Street-sellers of Ham Sandwiches.

60 baskets, 2_s._ each; 60 tin boilers, 2_s._ each; 60 knives and forks, 6_d._ per pair; 60 mustard-pots, 1_d._ each; 60 spoons, 1_d._ each; 60 cloths, 5_d._ each; 60 aprons, 4_d._ each; 60 pairs of sleeves, 4_d._ per pair; stock-money for 60 vendors, 7_s._ 2_d._ weekly 38 15 0

Street-sellers of Baked ’Tatoes.

300 cans, 2_l._ each; 300 knives, 3_d._ each; 300 pepper-boxes, 1_d._ each; stock-money for 300 vendors, 10_s._ each 755 0 0

Street-sellers of Hot Green Peas.

4 cans, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 4 vinegar-bottles, 1_d._ each; 4 pepper-boxes, 3_d._ each; 12 saucers, 1_d._ each; 12 spoons, 1_d._ each; 4 cloths, 4_d._ each; stock-money for 4 vendors, 2_s._ each 1 2 8

Street-sellers of Meat (“Hawking Butchers.”)

150 baskets, 4_s._ 6_d._ each; 150 saws, 2_s._ each; 150 cleavers, 1_s._ 6_d._ each; 150 steels, 1_s._ 6_d._ each; 150 belts for baskets, 1_s._ each; 150 do. for waist, 6_d._ each; 150 cloths, 6_d._ each; 150 aprons, 6_d._ each; 150 pairs of sleeves, 4_d._ per pair; 150 vendors’ stock-money, 6_s._ each per day 138 5 0

Street-sellers of Bread.

12 baskets, 4_s._ 6_d._ each; 12 barrows, 40_s._ each; 1 long bread-basket, 40_s._; 1 barrow, 30_s._; 13 sacks, 1_s._ each; stock-money for 25 vendors, at 1_l._ each 55 17 0

Street-sellers of Cats’ and Dogs’-meat.

500 barrows, 18_s._ each; 1,000 baskets, 1_s._ 6_d._ each; 500 sets of weights and scales, 4_s._ each; 1,000 knives, 8_d._ each; 1,000 steels, 1_s._ each; stock-money of 1,500 vendors, 7_s._ 6_d._ per head 1,083 6 8

Street-sellers of Coffee and Tea.

150 tables, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 75 stalls, 6_s._ each; 75 coffee-barrows, 1_l._ each; 400 coffee-cans (100 vendors having two cans, and 200 only one), 8_s._ each; 1,200 half-pint cups and saucers, 3_d._ each, and 900 pints, 6_d._ each; 2,100 spoons, 1_d._ each; 900 plates, 1-1/2_d._ each; 300 knives, 2_d._ each; 300 pans, 9_d._ each; 600 canisters, 5_d._ each; 50 screens, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money of 300 vendors, 5_s._ each 435 12 0

Street-sellers of Ginger-beer.

300 barrows, 1_l._ each; 1,000 stalls, 5_s._ each; 175 fountains, 7_l._ each; 20 ditto, 20_l._ each; 3 ditto, 100_l._ each; 9,000 glasses, 5_d._ each; 1,500 tanks, 1_s._ each; 3,000 towels, 6_d._ each; 500 sets of brewing utensils, corks, &c., 5_s._ each; 500 gross of bottles, 10_s._ per gross, and stock-money for 1,500 vendors, 5_s._ each 3,562 10 0

Street-sellers of Lemonade, Nectar, Sherbet, &c.[10]

200 stalls, 6_s._ each; 500 stone barrels, 5_s._ 6_d._ each; 1,200 glasses, 4-1/2_d._ each; 400 towels, 6_d._ each; 200 jars, 2_s._ each; 2,400 glass bottles, 3_d._ each; stock-money for 200 vendors, 2_s._ 6_d._ each 305 0 0

[10] There are altogether 500 vendors of lemonade in the streets, but 300 of these sell also ginger-beer, and consequently do not have separate stalls, &c.

Street-sellers of Elder-wine.

3 elder-wine carriages and apparatus, 7_l._ each; 47 ditto ditto, 3_l._ 10_s._ each; 300 small wine-glasses, 2_d._ each; stock-money, 3_s._ per head 195 10 0

Street-sellers of Peppermint-water.

2 kegs, 3_s._ 6_d._ each; 2 jars, 2_s._ each; 16 glasses, 3_d._ each; 4 cloths, 4_d._ each; stock-money, for four vendors, 1_s._ each 1 0 4

Milk-sellers in the Park.

16 cows, 20_l._ each; 8 lockers, 3_l._ each; 32 fixed seats, 3_s._ each; 48 forms, 3_s._ each; 48 glasses, 4-1/2_d._ each; 96 cups, 1_d._ each; 8 halters, for cows, 6_d._ each; 8 pans, 1_s._ each; 16 towels, 6_d._ each 358 6 0

Milk-sellers in Markets, &c.

20 yokes and pairs of cans, 15_s._ each; 20 sets of measures, 2_s._ per set; stock-money for 20 vendors, 3_s._ each 20 0 0

Street-sellers of Curds and Whey.

100 stalls, 5_s._ each; 100 saucepans, to scald the milk in, 2_s._ each; 300 cups, 1_d._ each; 300 glasses, 5_d._ each; 600 spoons, 1/2_d._ each; 100 tin kettles, for stalls, at 3_s._ 6_d._ each; 100 small tubs, 1_s._ each; 100 cloths, 3_d._ each; stock-money for 100 vendors, at 2_s._ each 77 10 0

Street-sellers of Rice-milk.[11]

50 kettles and braziers, for stall, 4_s._ the two; 300 spice or peppermint-boxes, 1_d._ each; stock-money for fifty vendors, 1_s._ 3_d._ each 14 7 6

[11] The street-sellers of rice-milk are included in the street-sellers of curds and whey; hence the stalls, saucepans, cups, &c., of the two classes are the same.

Water-carriers.

120 pails, 2_s._ each; 60 yokes, 5_s._ each 27 0 0

Street Piemen.

50 pie-cans, 1_l._ each; 25 turn halfpenny boards, to gamble with, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 50 gross of tin pie-dishes, 12_s._ per gross; 50 aprons, 8_d._ each; 100 tins, 1_s._ each (for baking pies upon), stock-money, for 50 vendors, 6_s._ 6_d._ each 106 0 10

Street-sellers of Boiled Puddings.

6 stands, 6_s._ each; 6 cans, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 6 pots (tin), 2_s._ each; 6 chafing-dishes and stands, 5_d._ each; 6 forks, 2_d._ each; 6 cloths, 6_d._ each; stock-money, for 6 vendors, 2_s._ 6_d._ each 4 4 6

Street-sellers of Plum-duff.

6 baskets, 1_s._ 9_d._ each; 6 saucepans, 2_s._ each; 6 cloths, 6_d._ each; 6 knives, 2_d._ each; stock-money, for 6 vendors, 2_s._ each 1 18 6

Street-sellers of Cakes, Tarts, &c.

150 trays, 1_s._ 9_d._ each; 150 cloths, 1_s._ 3_d._ each; 150 straps, 6_d._ each; stock-money, 16_s._ 6_d._ each 150 0 0

Other and inferior Cake-sellers.

30 trays, 1_s._ 9_d._ each; 30 straps, 6_d._ each; stock-money, 2_s._ 6_d._ each 7 2 6

Street-sellers of Plum-cake.

4 trays, 1_s._ 9_d._ each; 4 baskets, 1_s._ 6_d._ each; 4 cloths (oil-cloth covers for baskets), 1_s._ each; 4 knives, 2_d._ each; stock-money, for 4 sellers, 4_s._ each 1 18 8

Gingerbread-nut Makers and Sellers.

50 ovens, 5_l._ each; 50 peels and rakes, 3_s._ the two; 750 tins, 1_s._ each; 50 lamps, for fairs, 6_s._ each; 50 stalls, 6_s._ each; 50 sets of scales and 100 sets of weights, half of them false, 7_s._ 6_d._ each; 100 canisters, 2_s._ each; 50 barrows, 30_s._ each; 50 baskets, 6_s._ each; 50 baizes, 1_s._ each; 50 cloths to cover stall, 1_s._ each; stock-money, for 50 makers and sellers, 14_s._ each 483 15 0

Gingerbread-nut Sellers (not Makers.)

150 trays, 1_s._ 9_d._ each; 150 straps, 6_d._ each; stock-money, for 150 sellers, 1_s._ 6_d._ each 28 5 6

Street-sellers of Hot cross Buns.

500 baskets, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 500 flannels and cloths, 2_s._ the two; stock-money, for 500 sellers, 2_s._ 6_d._ each 175 0 0

Street-sellers of Muffins and Crumpets.

500 baskets, 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 500 cloths, 1_s._ each; stock-money, for 500 sellers, 5_s._ each 212 10 0

Street-sellers of Sweet-stuff.

6 barrows, 1_l._ 10_s._ each; 150 trays, 1_s._ 9_d._ each; 50 saucepans, 2_s._ each; 18 canisters (long tin), 2_s._ each; 44 stalls, at 4_s._ each; 50 sets of weights and scales, at 4_s._ each; stock-money, for 150 vendors, 3_s._ each 70 4 6

Street-sellers of Cough Drops.

2 stills and barrows, 3_l._ 10_s._ each; 4 stalls, 7_s._ each; 6 weights and scales, 3_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money, for 6 sellers, 2_s._ 6_d._ each 10 4 0

Street-sellers of Ices.

20 jars, 1_s._ each; 20 coolers, 2_s._ each; 30 cups, 1_d._ each, and 30 glasses, 4_d._ each; 60 spoons, 1_d._ each; stock-money, for 20 vendors, 2_s._ per head 5 17 6 ------------------

TOTAL CAPITAL INVESTED IN THE STREET SALE OF EATABLES AND DRINKABLES 9,077 12 5 ------------------

INCOME, OR “TAKINGS,” OF STREET-SELLERS OF EATABLES AND DRINKABLES.

Street-sellers of Hot Eels.

There are upwards of 1,000,000 lbs. weight of hot eels sold yearly in the streets of London. 140 vendors each sell 6 lbs. of eels daily at their stands; 60 sell 40 lbs. daily; and 100 itinerant sell 5 lbs. nightly at the public-houses. The first mentioned take on an average 2_s._ daily; the second 16_s._; and the third 1_s._ 8_d._ This gives a yearly street expenditure in the trade in hot eels amounting to £19,448

Street-sellers of Pea-soup.

The annual street consumption of pea-soup amounts to 1,680 gallons. 100 vendors sell each 4 gallons daily; and 50 vendors, each sell upon an average 10 gallons daily. The first mentioned take 3_s._ a day; and the last, 7_s._ 6_d._ This gives a street expenditure during the winter season of five months, of £4,050

Street-sellers of Pickled Whelks.

According to the Billingsgate returns, there are nearly 5,000,000 of whelks sold yearly in the streets of London. These are retailed in a boiled state, and flavoured with vinegar, at four a penny. 150 vendors take on an average 13_s._ weekly. This gives an annual street expenditure, of £5,000

Street-sellers of Fried Fish.

150 sellers make 10_s._ 6_d._ weekly, or yearly 27_l._ 6_s._; and 150 sellers make half that amount, 13_l._ 13_s._ per annum. Reckoning 20_l._ a year as a medium earning, and adding 90 per cent. for profit, the annual consumption of fried fish supplied by London street-sellers amounts to 684,000 lbs., and the sum expended thereupon to £11,400

Street-sellers of Sheep’s Trotters.

In the wholesale “trotter” establishment there are prepared, weekly, 20,000 sets, or 80,000 feet; giving a yearly average of 4,160,000 trotters, or the feet of 1,040,000 sheep. Of this quantity the street-folk buy seven-eighths, or 3,640,000 trotters yearly. The number of sheep trotter-sellers may be taken at 300; which gives an average of nearly 60 sets a week per individual. There is then expended yearly in London streets on trotters, calculating their sale, retail, at 1/2_d._ each, 6,500_l._; but though the regular price is 1/2_d._, some trotters are sold at four for 1-1/2_d._, very few higher than 1/2_d._, and some are kept until they are unsaleable, so that the amount thus expended may be estimated at £6,000

Street-sellers of Ham-sandwiches.

60 vendors, take 8_s._ a week, and sell annually 486,800 sandwiches, at a cost of £1,800

Street-sellers of Baked ’Tatoes.

300 vendors, sell upon an average 3/4 cwt. of baked potatoes daily, or 1,755 tons in the season. The average takings of each vendor amount to 6_s._ a day; and the receipts of the whole number throughout the season (which lasts from the latter end of September till March inclusive), a period of 6 months, are £14,000

The Street-sellers of Hot Green Peas.

The chief man of business sells 3 gallons a day (which, at 1_d._ the quarter-pint, would be 8_s._, my informant said 7_s._), the other three together sell the same quantity; hence there is an annual street consumption of 1,870 gallons, and a street expenditure on “hot green peas” of £250

Street-sellers of Meat.

The hawking butchers, taking their number at 150, sell 747,000 lbs. of meat, and take annually £12,450

Street-sellers of Bread.

25 men take 45_s._ a day for five months in the summer, and 12 regular traders take 1_l._ 12_s._ per day; this gives an annual street consumption of 700,000 quartern loaves of bread, and a street expenditure of £9,000

Street-sellers of Cats and Dogs’ Meat.

There are 300,000 cats in the metropolis, and from 900 to 1,000 horses, averaging 2 cwt. of meat each, boiled down every week; the quantity of cats’ and dogs’ meat used throughout London is about 200,000 lbs. per week, and this, sold at the rate of 2-1/2_d._ per lb., gives 2,000_l._ a week for the money spent in cats’ and dogs’ meat, or per year, upwards of £100,000

Street-sellers of Coffee, Tea, &c.

Each coffee-stall keeper on an average clears 1_l._ a week, and his takings may be said to be at least double that sum; hence the quantity of coffee sold annually in the streets, is about 550,000 gallons, while the yearly street expenditure for tea, coffee, &c., amounts to £31,200

Street-sellers of Ginger-beer.

The bottles of ginger-beer sold yearly in the streets number about 4,798,000, and the total street consumption of the same beverage may be said to be about 250,000 gallons per annum. 200 street-sellers of ginger-beer in the bottle trade of the penny class take 30_s._ a week each (thus allowing for inferior receipts in bad weather); 300 take 20_s._ each, selling their “beer” for the most part at 1/2_d._ the bottle, while the remaining 400 “in a small way” take 6_s._ each; hence there is expended in the bottled ginger-beer of the streets 11,480_l._ Adding the receipts from the fountains and the barrels, the barrel season continuing only ten weeks, the total sum expended annually in street ginger-beer amounts altogether to £14,660

Street-sellers of Lemonade, Sherbet, Nectar, &c.

There are 200 persons, chiefly men, selling solely lemonade, &c., and an additional 300 uniting the sale with that of ginger-beer. Their average receipts on fine days are 3_s._ 6_d._ a day, or, allowing for wet weather and diminished receipts, 10_s._ a week. The receipts, then, for this street luxury, show a street expenditure in such a summer as the last, of 2,800_l._, among those who do not unite ginger-beer with the trade. Calculating that those who do unite ginger-beer with it sell only one-half as much as the others, we find a total outlay of £4,900

Street-sellers of Elder-wine.

50 vendors clear 5_s._ a week for 16 weeks by the sale of elder-wine in the streets, their profit being at least cent. per cent.; hence the street consumption of this beverage in the course of the year is 1,500 gallons, and the outlay £200

Street-sellers of Peppermint-water.

Calculating that 4 “pepperminters” take 2_s._ a day the year round, Sundays excepted, we find that 900 gallons of peppermint-water are consumed every year in the streets of London, while the sum expended in it amounts annually to £125

Street-sellers of Milk in the Markets, Parks, &c.

The vendors in the markets clear about 1_s._ 6_d._ a day each, for three months; and as the profit is rather more than cent. per cent., there are about 4,000 gallons of milk thus sold yearly. The quantity sold in the park averages 20 quarts a day for a period of nine months, or 1,170 gallons in the year. This is retailed at 4_d._ per quart; hence the annual expenditure is £344

Street-sellers of Curds and Whey.

50 sellers dispose of 12-1/2 gallons in 3 weeks; the other 50 sell only half as much. Taking the season at 3 months, the annual consumption of curds and whey in the streets is 2,812 double gallons (as regards the ingredients of milk), which is retailed at a cost to the purchasers of £412

Street-sellers of Rice-milk.

Calculating that 50 sellers dispose of 24 quarts weekly, while one-half of the remaining 25 sell 12 quarts each per week at 1_d._ the half-pint, and the other half vend 24 quarts at 1/2_d._ the half-pint, there are about 3,000 gallons of rice-milk yearly consumed in the streets of London, while the expenditure amounts to £320

Water-carriers.

The number of water-carriers are sixty, and their average earnings through the year 5_s._ a week; hence the sum annually expended in water thus obtained amounts to £780

Street Piemen.

There are fifty street piemen plying their trade in London, the year through, their average takings are one guinea a week; hence there is an annual street consumption of pies of nearly to three-quarters of a million, and a street expenditure amounting to £3,000

Street-sellers of Meat and Currant Puddings.

Each street-seller gets rid of, on an average, 85 dozen, or 1,020 puddings; there are now but six street-sellers (regularly) of these comestibles; hence the weekly aggregate would be--allowing for bad weather--5,400, and the total 129,600 meat and currant puddings sold in the streets, in a season of 24 weeks. This gives an annual expenditure on the part of the street boys and girls (who are the principal purchasers), and of the poor persons who patronise the street-trade, of about £270

Street-sellers of Plum “duff.”

Calculating 42_s._ a week as the takings of six persons, for five months, we find there is yearly expended in the street purchase of plum dough upwards of £250

Street-sellers of Cakes, Tarts, &c.

Reckoning 150 cake-sellers, each taking 6_s._ a week--a sufficiently low average--the street consumption of cakes, tarts, &c., will be 1,123,200 every year, and the street outlay about £2,350

Street-sellers of other and inferior Cakes.

The sale of the inferior street cakes realises about a fifth of that taken by the other cake-sellers; hence it may be estimated yearly at £450

Street-sellers of Gingerbread-nuts.

150 gingerbread-nut-sellers take 17_s._ each weekly (clearing 9_s._); at this rate the sum spent yearly in “spice” nuts in the streets of London amounts to £6,630

Street-sellers of Hot-cross Buns.

There are nearly 100,000 hot-cross buns sold every Good Friday in the streets of London; hence there is expended in one day, upon the buns thus bought about £300

Street-sellers of Muffins and Crumpets.

There are 500 muffin-sellers, each clearing 4_s._ and taking 12_s._ a week on an average; hence the metropolitan street sale of muffins and crumpets will be in 20 weeks about 120,000 dozen, and the sum expended thereon £6,000

Street-sellers of Sweet-stuff.

The number of sweet-stuff sellers in London amounts to 200, each of whom, on an average, clears 10_s._, and takes 20_s._ weekly; the yearly consumption, therefore, of rocks, candies, hard-bakes, &c., purchased in the streets is nearly two and a half millions of halfpenny-worths, or (at the rate of 1/2_d._ an ounce) about 70 tons weight per annum, costing the consumers about £10,000

Street-sellers of Cough-drops.

The earnings of the principal man in the “cough-drop” street trade may be taken at 30_s._ a week for twenty weeks; that of another at 15_s._ for the same period; and those of the remaining four street-sellers of the same compound at 5_s._ each, weekly; allowing the usual cent. per cent., we find there is annually expended by street-buyers on cough-drops £130

Street-sellers of Ice Creams.

The sale of street ices may be calculated at twenty persons, taking 1_s._ 6_d._ daily for four weeks. This gives a street consumption of 10,000 penny ices, and an annual expenditure thereon of £42 -------- TOTAL SUM EXPENDED YEARLY ON STREET EATABLES AND DRINKABLES £203,115 --------

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF STATIONERY, LITERATURE, AND THE FINE ARTS.

We now come to a class of street-folk wholly distinct from any before treated of. As yet we have been dealing principally with the uneducated portion of the street-people--men whom, for the most part, are allowed to remain in nearly the same primitive and brutish state as the savage--creatures with nothing but their appetites, instincts, and passions to move them, and made up of the same crude combination of virtue and vice--the same generosity combined with the same predatory tendencies as the Bedouins of the desert--the same love of revenge and disregard of pain, and often the same gratitude and susceptibility to kindness as the Red Indian--and, furthermore, the same insensibility to female honour and abuse of female weakness, and the same utter ignorance of the Divine nature of the Godhead as marks either Bosjesman, Carib, or Thug.

The costers and many other of the street-sellers before described, however, are bad--not so much from their own perversity as from our selfishness. That they partake of the natural evil of human nature is not their fault but ours,--who would be like them if we had not been taught by others better than ourselves to controul the bad and cherish the good principles of our hearts.

The street-sellers of stationery, literature, and the fine arts, however, differ from all before treated of in the general, though far from universal, education of the sect. They constitute principally the class of street-orators, known in these days as “patterers,” and formerly termed “mountebanks,”--people who, in the words of Strutt, strive to “help off their wares by pompous speeches, in which little regard is paid either to truth or propriety.” To patter, is a slang term, meaning to speak. To indulge in this kind of oral puffery, of course, requires a certain exercise of the intellect, and it is the consciousness of their mental superiority which makes the patterers look down upon the costermongers as an inferior body, with whom they object either to be classed or to associate. The scorn of some of the “patterers” for the mere costers is as profound as the contempt of the pickpocket for the pure beggar. Those who have not witnessed this pride of class among even the most degraded, can form no adequate idea of the arrogance with which the skilled man, no matter how base the art, looks upon the unskilled. “We are the haristocracy of the streets,” was said to me by one of the street-folks, who told penny fortunes with a bottle. “People don’t pay us for what we gives ’em, but only to hear us talk. We live like yourself, sir, by the hexercise of our hintellects--we by talking, and you by writing.”

But notwithstanding the self-esteem of the patterers, I am inclined to think that they are less impressionable and less susceptible of kindness than the costers whom they despise. Dr. Conolly has told us that, even among the insane, the educated classes are the most difficult to move and govern through their affections. They are invariably suspicious, attributing unworthy motives to every benefit conferred, and consequently incapable of being touched by any sympathy on the part of those who may be affected by their distress. So far as my experience goes it is the same with the street-patterers. Any attempt to befriend them is almost sure to be met with distrust. Nor does their mode of life serve in any way to lessen their misgivings. Conscious how much their own livelihood depends upon assumption and trickery, they naturally consider that others have some “dodge,” as they call it, or some latent object in view when any good is sought to be done them. The impulsive costermonger, however, approximating more closely to the primitive man, moved solely by his feelings, is as easily humanized by any kindness as he is brutified by any injury.

The patterers, again, though certainly more intellectual, are scarcely less immoral than the costers. Their superior cleverness gives them the power of justifying and speciously glossing their evil practices, but serves in no way to restrain them; thus affording the social philosopher another melancholy instance of the evil of developing the intellect without the conscience--of teaching people to know what is morally beautiful and ugly, without teaching them at the same time to feel and delight in the one and abhor the other--or, in other words, of quickening the cunning and checking the emotions of the individual.

Among the patterers marriage is as little frequent as among the costermongers; with the exception of the older class, who “were perhaps married before they took to the streets.” Hardly one of the patterers, however, has been bred to a street life; and this constitutes another line of demarcation between them and the costermongers.

The costers, we have seen, are mostly hereditary wanderers--having been as it were born to frequent the public thoroughfares; some few of the itinerant dealers in fish, fruit, and vegetables, have it is true been driven by want of employment to adopt street-selling as a means of living, but these are, so to speak, the aliens rather than the natives of the streets. The patterers, on the other hand, have for the most part neither been born and bred nor driven to a street life--but have rather taken to it from a natural love of what they call “roving.” This propensity to lapse from a civilized into a nomad state--to pass from a settler into a wanderer--is a peculiar characteristic of the pattering tribe. The tendency however is by no means extraordinary; for ethnology teaches us, that whereas many abandon the habits of civilized life to adopt those of a nomadic state of existence, but few of the wandering tribes give up vagabondising and betake themselves to settled occupations. The innate “love of a roving life,” which many of the street-people themselves speak of as the cause of their originally taking to the streets, appears to be accompanied by several peculiar characteristics; among the most marked of these are an indomitable “self-will” or hatred of the least restraint or controul--an innate aversion to every species of law or government, whether political, moral, or domestic--a stubborn, contradictory nature--an incapability of continuous labour, or remaining long in the same place occupied with the same object, or attending to the same subject--an unusual predilection for amusements, and especially for what partakes of the ludicrous--together with a great relish of all that is ingenious, and so finding extreme delight in tricks and frauds of every kind. There are two patterers now in the streets (brothers)--well-educated and respectably connected--who candidly confess they prefer that kind of life to any other, and would not leave it if they could.

Nor are the patterers less remarkable than the costermongers for their utter absence of all religious feeling. There is, however, this distinction between the two classes--that whereas the creedlessness of the one is but the consequence of brutish ignorance, that of the other is the result of natural perversity and educated scepticism--as the street-patterers include many men of respectable connections, and even classical attainments. Among them, may be found the son of a military officer, a clergyman, a man brought up to the profession of medicine, two Grecians of the Blue-coat School, clerks, shopmen, and a class who have been educated to no especial calling--some of the latter being the natural sons of gentlemen and noblemen--and who, when deprived of the support of their parents or friends, have taken to the streets for bread. Many of the younger and smarter men, I am assured, reside with women of the town, though they may not be dependent for their livelihood on the wages got by the infamy of these women. Not a few of the patterers, too, in their dress and appearance, present but little difference to that of the “gent.” Some wear a moustache, while others indulge in a Henri-Quatre beard. The patterers are, moreover, as a body, not distinguished by that good and friendly feeling one to another which is remarkable among costermongers. If an absence of heartiness and good fellowship be characteristic of an aristocracy--as some political philosophers contend--then the patterers may indeed be said to be the aristocrats of the streets.

The patterers or oratorical street-sellers include among their class many itinerant traders, other than the wandering “paper-workers”--as those vending the several varieties of street-literature are generally denominated. The Cheap Jacks, or oratorical hucksters of hardware at fairs and other places, are among the most celebrated and humorous of this class. The commercial arts and jests of some of these people, display considerable cleverness. Many of their jokes, it is true, are traditional--and as purely a matter of parrotry as the witticisms of the “funny gentlemen” on the stage, but their ready adaptation of accidental circumstances to the purposes of their business, betrays a modicum of wit far beyond that which falls to the share of ordinary “low comedians.” The street-vendors of cough drops--infallible cures for the toothache and other ailments--also belong to the pattering class. These are, as was before stated, the remains of the obsolete mountebanks of England and the saltinbanque of France--a class of al fresco orators who derived their names from the bench--the street pulpit, rostrum, or platform--that they ascended, in order the better to deliver their harangues. The street jugglers, actors, and showmen, as well as the street-sellers of grease-removing compositions, corn-salve, razor-paste, plating-balls, waterproof blacking, rat poisons, sovereigns sold for wagers, and a multiplicity of similar street-trickeries--such as oratorical begging--are other ingenious and wordy members of the same chattering, jabbering, or “pattering” fraternity. These will all be spoken of under the head of the different things they respectively sell or do. For the present we have only to deal with that portion of the “pattering” body who are engaged in the street sale of literature--or the “paper-workers” as they call themselves. The latter include the “running patterers,” or “death-hunters;” being men (no women) engaged in vending last dying speeches and confessions--in hawking “se-cond edi-tions” of newspapers--or else in “working,” that is to say, in getting rid of what are technically termed “cocks;” which, in polite language, means accounts of fabulous duels between ladies of fashion--of apocryphal elopements, or fictitious love-letters of sporting noblemen and certain young milliners not a hundred miles from the spot--“cooked” assassinations and sudden deaths of eminent individuals--pretended jealous affrays between Her Majesty and the Prince Consort (but these papers are now never worked)--or awful tragedies, including mendacious murders, impossible robberies, and delusive suicides.

The sellers of these choice articles, however, belong more particularly to that order or species of the pattering genus known as “running patterers,” or “flying stationers,” from the fact of their being continually on the move while describing the attractions of the “papers” they have to sell. Contradistinguished from them, however, are the “standing patterers,” or those for whose less startling announcements a crowd is necessary, in order that the audience may have time to swallow the many marvels worked by their wares. The standing patterers require, therefore, what they term a “pitch,” that is to say a fixed locality, where they can hold forth to a gaping multitude for, at least, some few minutes continuously. They are mainly such street-sellers as deal in nostrums and the different kinds of street “wonders.” Occasionally, however, the running patterer (who is especially literary) transmigrates into a standing one, betaking himself to “board work,” as it is termed in street technology, and stopping at the corners of thoroughfares with a large pictorial placard raised upon a pole, and glowing with a highly-coloured exaggeration of the interesting terrors of the pamphlet he has for sale. This is either “The Life of Calcraft, the Hangman,” “The Diabolical Practices of Dr. ---- on his Patients when in a state of Mesmerism,” or “The Secret Doings at the White House, Soho,” and other similar attractively-repulsive details. Akin to this “board work” is the practice of what is called “strawing,” or selling straws in the street, and giving away with them something that is either really or fictionally forbidden to be sold,--as indecent papers, political songs, and the like. This practice, however, is now seldom resorted to, while the sale of “secret papers” is rarely carried on in public. It is true, there are three or four patterers who live chiefly by professing to dispose of “sealed packets” of obscene drawings and cards for gentlemen; but this is generally a trick adopted to extort money from old debauchees, young libertines, and people of degraded or diseased tastes; for the packets, on being opened, seldom contain anything but an odd number of some defunct periodical. There is, however, a large traffic in such secret papers carried on in what is called “the public-house trade,” that is to say, by itinerant “paper-workers” (mostly women), who never make their appearance in the streets, but obtain a livelihood by “busking,” as it is technically termed, or, in other words, by offering their goods for sale only at the bars and in the tap-rooms and parlours of taverns. The excessive indulgence of one appetite is often accompanied by the disease of a second; the drunkard, of course, is supereminently a sensualist, and is therefore easily taken by anything that tends to stimulate his exhausted desires: so sure is it that one form of bestiality is a necessary concomitant of another. There is another species of patterer, who, though usually included among the standing patterers, belongs rather to an intermediate class, viz., those who neither stand nor “run,” as they descant upon what they sell; but those walk at so slow a rate that, though never stationary, they can hardly be said to move. These are the reciters of dialogues, litanies, and the various street “squibs” upon passing events; they also include the public propounders of conundrums, and the “hundred and fifty popular song” enumerators--such as are represented in the engraving here given. Closely connected with them are the “chaunters,” or those who do not cry, but (if one may so far stretch the English language) sing the contents of the “papers” they vend.

These traffickers constitute the principal street-sellers of literature, or “paper-workers,” of the “pattering” class. In addition to them there are many others vending “papers” in the public thoroughfares, who are mere traders resorting to no other acts for the disposal of their goods than a simple cry or exposition of them; and many of these are but poor, humble, struggling, and inoffensive dealers. They do not puff or represent what they have to sell as what it is not--(allowing them a fair commercial latitude). They are not of the “enterprising” class of street tradesmen. Among these are the street-sellers of stationery--such as note-paper, envelopes, pens, ink, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers. Belonging to the same class, too, are the street-vendors of almanacs, pocket-books, memorandum and account-books. Then there are the sellers of odd numbers of periodicals and broadsheets, and those who vend either playing cards, conversation cards, stenographic cards, and (at Epsom, Ascot, &c.) racing cards. Besides these, again, there are the vendors of illustrated cards, such as those embellished with engravings of the Crystal Palace, Views of the Houses of Parliament, as well as the gelatine poetry cards--all of whom, with the exception of the racing-card sellers (who belong generally to the pattering tribe), partake of the usual characteristics of the street-selling class.

After these may be enumerated the vendors of old engravings out of inverted umbrellas, and the hawkers of coloured pictures in frames. Then there are the old book-stalls and barrows, and “the pinners-up,” as they are termed, or sellers of old songs pinned against the wall, as well as the vendors of manuscript music. Moreover, appertaining to the same class, there are the vendors of playbills and “books of the performance” outside the theatre; and lastly, the pretended sellers of tracts--such as the Lascars and others, who use this kind of street traffic as a cloak for the more profitable trade of begging. The street-sellers of images, although strictly comprised within those who vend fine art productions in the public thoroughfares will be treated of under the head of THE STREET ITALIANS, to which class they mostly belong.

OF THE FORMER AND PRESENT STREET-PATTERERS.

Of the street-patterers the running (or flying) trader announces the contents of the paper he is offering for sale, as he proceeds on his mission. It is usually the detail of some “barbarious and horrible murder,” or of some extraordinary occurrence--such as the attack on Marshal Haynau--which has roused public attention; or the paper announced as descriptive of a murder, or of some exciting event, may in reality be some odd number of a defunct periodical. “It’s astonishing,” said one patterer to me, “how few people ever complain of having been took in. It hurts their feelings to lose a halfpenny, but it hurts their pride too much, when they’re had, to grumble in public about it.” On this head, then, I need give no further general explanation.