London Labour and the London Poor (part 5 of 6)

London Labour and the London Poor (part 5 of 6)

“It is well-known that in the colliery districts an explosion of fire-damp frequently takes place, when many lives are lost, and the men who escape are often so wounded as to render amputation of a leg or arm the only probable means of saving them from the grave. Of course the accident, with every particular as to date and locality, goes the round of the newspapers. Such an event is a sort of God-send to the begging-letter writer. If he is anything of a draughtsman, so much the better. He then procures a sheet of vellum, and heads it with a picture of an explosion, and exhibiting men, boys, and horses up in the air, and a few nearer the ground, minus a head, a leg, or an arm; with a background of women tearing their hair, and a few little girls crying. Such a ‘fakement,’ professionally filled up and put into the hands of an experienced lurker, will bring the ‘amanuensis,’ or ‘screever,’ two guineas at least, and the proceeds of such an expedition have in many cases averaged 60_l._ per week. The lurker presenting this would have to take with him three or four countrymen, dressed in the garb of colliers, one at least knowing something of underground work. These he would engage at ‘a bob a nob’ (one shilling each), and if he made a good day, give them a ‘toothful o’ rum’ beside. As such men are always left outside the jigger (door) of the houses, they are of course ignorant of the state of the subscription-list.

“A famous lurker, to whom we have previously referred, Nicholas A----, kept ‘a man of business’ to himself, and gave him from 5_s._ to 10_s._ 6_d._ per day. Nicholas, who was tolerably educated, could write very well, but as his ‘secretary’ could imitate twelve different hands, he was of course no trifling acquisition.

“It would not be easy to trace the history of all, or even many of the men, who pursue the begging-letter trade as professional writers. Many of the vagrant tribe write their own letters, but the vast majority are obliged to have assistance. Of course, they are sometimes detected by the fact that their conversation does not tally with the rhetorical statement of the petition. The few really deserving persons, well-born and highly educated, who subsist by begging, are very retired and cautious in their appeals. They write concisely, and their statements are generally true to a certain extent, or perhaps rigidly so in relation to an earlier part of their history. These seldom live in the very common lodging-houses.

“The most renowned of the tribe who write for others, and whose general trade lies in forged certificates of bankruptcy, seizure of goods for rent, and medical testimonies to infirmity, is an Irishman, brought up in London, and who may be seen almost every night at the bar of a certain public-house in Drury-lane. He lives, or did live, at one of the model lodging-houses. Very few persons know his occupation. They suppose that he is ‘connected with the press.’ Several years ago this person, says one who knew this trade well, was ‘regularly hard up,’ and made a tender of his services to a distinguished M.P., who took a lively interest in the emancipation of the Jews. He offered to visit the provinces, hold meetings, and get up petitions. The hon. member tested his abilities, and gave him clothes and a ten-pound note to commence operations. ‘I saw him’ (says my informant) ‘the same night, and he mooted the subject to me over a glass of whiskey-punch. ‘Not that I care (said he) if all the b--y Jews were in h--ll, but I must do something.’

“‘But how,’ asked my informant, ‘will you get up the meetings?--and then the signatures, you know!’

“‘Meetings!’ was the reply, ‘don’t mention it; I can get millions of signatures!’

“The pretended Jewish Advocate never left London. He got (from Ireland) a box of old documents relative to bygone petitions for repeal, &c., and on these he put a frontispiece suited to his purpose--got them sent to Bath and Bristol, and thence transmitted to his employer--who praised his perseverance, and sent more money to the post-office of one of the above-named towns; this was countermanded to London, and jovially spent at Tom Spring’s’ in Holborn.

“Hitherto the movements of the begging-letter writer--self-considered--have been chiefly dwelt upon. There is another class of the fraternity, however, of whom some notice must here be taken; viz., those, who to meet cases of great pretension, and consequent misgivings on the part of the noblemen or gentry to whom fakements are presented, become referees to professional beggars. These referees are kept by local ‘schools’ of beggars in well-furnished apartments at respectable houses, and well dressed; their allowance varies from 1_l._ to 3_l._ per week.

“But the most expert and least suspected dodge is referring to some dignified person in the country; a person however who exists nowhere but in imagination. Suppose (says my informant) I am a beggar, I apply to you for relief. Perhaps I state that I am in prospect of lucrative employment, if I could get enough money to clothe myself. You plead the number of impositions; I consent to that fact, but offer you references as to the truth of my statement. I refer you to the Hon. and Rev. Mr. Erskine, at Cheltenham (any name or place will do). You promise to write, and tell me to call in a few days; meanwhile, I assume the name of the gentleman to whom I have referred you, and write forthwith to the post-master of the town in question, requesting that any letter coming there directed to the Hon. and Rev. Mr. Erskine, may be forwarded to my present address. I thus discover what you have written, frame a flattering reply, and address it to you. I send it (under cover) to a pal of mine at Cheltenham, or elsewhere, who posts it; I call half an hour after you receive it, and, being satisfied, you give me a donation, and perhaps introduce me to some of your friends. Thus I raise a handsome sum, and the fraud is probably never found out.

“One of the London lurkers, who has good means of forming a calculation on the subject, assures me that the average earnings of ‘lurkers’ in London alone (including those who write for them), cannot be less than 6,000_l._ per annum.

“Two of the class were lately apprehended, at the instance of the Duke of Wellington; on their persons was found fifteen sovereigns, one five-pound note, a silver watch with gold guard, and two gold watches with a ribbon attached to each; their subscription-book showed that they had collected 620_l._ during the current year.

“A man named M’Kensie--who was transported at the last Bristol Assizes--had just received a cheque for 100_l._ from a nobleman lately deceased.

“Most of the ‘professionals’ of this class include a copy of the ‘Court Guide’ among their stock in trade. In this all the persons known to be charitable, have the mark [cross in circle] set against their names. I have been furnished with a list of such persons, accompanied with comments, from the note-book of ‘an old stager’ ‘thirty years on the monkery,’ and, as he adds, ‘never quodded but twice.’

“The late Queen Dowager.

Hon. Wm. Ashley.

The Bishop of Norwich.

Serjeant Talfourd.

Charles Dickins.

Samuel Rogers, the Poet.

Samuel Warren (Author of ‘Extracts from the Diary of a Physician’).

Hon. G. C. Norton, the ‘beak’ (magistrate), but good for all that.

Rev. E. Holland, Hyde-park-gardens.

The late Sir Robert Peel.

Countess of Essex (only good to sickness, or distressed authorship).

Marquess of Bredalbane (good on anything religious).

The Editor of the ‘Sun.’

Madame Celeste.

Marquess of Blandford.

Duke of Portland.

Duke of Devonshire.

Lord George Bentinck (deceased; God A’mighty wouldn’t let him live; he was too good for this world.)

Lord Skelmersdale.

Lord John Manners.

Lord Lyttleton.

Mrs. Elder, Exeter.

Lady Emily Ponsonby (a devilish pretty wench).

Miss Burdett Coutts.

F. Stewart, Esq., Bath.

Mrs. Groves, Salisbury.

Mrs. Mitchell, Dorchester.

Mrs. Taggart, Bayswater (her husband is a Unitarian minister, not so good as she, but he’ll stand a ‘bob’ if you look straight at him and keep to one story.)

Archdeacon Sinclair, at Kensington (but not so good as Archdeacon Pott, as was there afore him; he was a good man; he couldn’t refuse a dog, much more a Christian; but he had a butler, a regular ‘knark,’ who was a b-- and a half, good weight.)

Lady Cottenham used to be good, but she is ‘coopered’ (spoilt) now, without you has a ‘slum,’ any one as she knows, and then she won’t stand above a ‘bull’ (five shillings).”

OF THE PROBABLE MEANS OF REFORMATION.

I shall now conclude this account of the patterers, lurkers, and screevers, with some observations from the pen of one who has had ample means of judging as to the effect of the several plans now in operation for the reformation or improvement of the class.

“In looking over the number of institutions,” writes the person alluded to, “designed to reform and improve the classes under review, we are, as it were, overwhelmed with their numerous branches; and though it is highly gratifying to see so much good being done, it is necessary to confine this notice to the examination of only the most prominent, with their general characteristics.

“The churches, on many considerations--personal feelings being the smallest, but not unknown--demand attention first. I must treat this subject (for your work is not a theological magazine) without respect to doctrine, principle, or legislation.

“The object of erecting churches in poor neighbourhoods is to benefit the poor; why is it, then, that the instruction communicated should exercise so little influence upon the vicious, the destitute, and the outcast? Is it that Christian ordinances are less adapted to them than to others? Or, rather, is it not that the public institutions of the clergy are not made interesting to the wretched community in question? The great hindrance (in my opinion) to the progress of religion among the unsettled classes is, that having been occasionally to church or chapel, and heard nothing but doctrinal lectures or feverish mental effusions, they cannot see the application of these to every-day trade and practice; and so they arrive at the conclusion, that they can get as much or more good at home.

“Our preachers seem to be afraid of ascertaining the sentiments, feelings, and habits of the more wretched part of the population; and, without this, their words will die away upon the wind, and no practical echo answer their addresses.

“It will, perhaps, relieve the monotony of this statement if I give an illustration communicated to me by a person well acquainted to determine the merits of the question.

“Your readers will probably recollect the opposition experienced by Dr. Hampden on his promotion to the bishopric of Hereford. Shortly after the affair was settled, his lordship accepted an invitation to preach on behalf of the schools connected with the ‘ten new churches’ of Bethnal-green. The church selected for the purpose was the one on Friar’s-mount. It was one July Sunday in 1849, and, as I well remember, the morning was very wet; but, supposing the curiosity, or better motives, of the public would induce a large congregation, I went to the church at half-past ten. The free-seats occupying the middle aisle were all filled, and chiefly with persons of the lowest and worst classes, many of whom I personally knew, and was agreeably surprised to find them in such a place.

“I sat in the midst of the group, and at the elbow of a tall attenuated beggar, known by the name of ‘Lath and Plaster,’ of whom it is but justice to say that he repeated the responsive parts of the service very correctly. It is true he could not read; but having ‘larned a few prayers’ in the ‘Downs’ (Tothill-fields prison), ‘he always sed ’em, night and morning, if he wasn’t drunk, and then he sed ’em twice next day, ’cos,’ reasoned he, ‘I likes to rub off as I goes on.’

“In course of time, the bishop made his appearance in the pulpit. His subject was neglected education, and he illustrated it from the history of Eli.

“I thought proper to hang back, and observe the group as they passed out of church. There was Tailor Tom, and Brummagem Dick, and Keate-street Nancy, and Davy the Duke, and Stationer George, and at least two dozen more, most of whom were miserably clad, and several apparently without a shirt. They were not, however, without halfpence; and as I was well known to several of the party, and flattered as being ‘a very knowledgeable man,’ I was invited to the Cat and Bagpipes afterwards, to ‘have share of what was going.’

“I was anxious,” continues my informant, “to learn from my companions their opinion of the right reverend prelate. They thought, to use their own words, ‘he was a jolly old brick.’ But did they think he was sound in opinion about the Trinity, or was he (as alleged) a Unitarian? They did not even understand the meaning of these words. All they did understand was, that ‘a top-sawyer parson at Oxford, called Dr. Pussy,’ had ‘made himself disagreeable,’ and that some of the bishops and nobility had ‘jined him;’ that these had persecuted Dr. Hampden, because he was ‘more cleverer’ than themselves; and that Lord John Russell, who, generally speaking, was ‘a regular muff,’ had ‘acted like a man’ in this instance, and ‘he ought to be commended for it; and,’ added the man who pronounced the above sentiment, ‘it’s just a picture of ourselves.’ To other ears than mine, the closing remark would have appeared impertinent, but I ‘tumbled to’ it immediately. It was a case of oppression; and whether the oppressors belonged to Oxford University or to Scotland-yard militated nothing against the aphorism: ‘it’s just a picture of ourselves!’

“It seems to me that these poor creatures understood the circumstances better than they did the sermon; and my inference is, that whether from the parochial pulpit, or the missionary exhortation, or in the printed form of a tract, those who wish to produce a practical effect must themselves be practical men. I, who have been in the Christian ministry, and am familiar, unhappily, with the sufferings of men of every grade among the outcast, would say: ‘If you wish to do these poor outcasts real good, you must mould your language to their ideas, get hold of their common phrases--those which tell so powerfully when they are speaking to each other--let them have their own fashion of things, and, where it does not interfere with order and decency, use yourselves language which their unpolished minds will appreciate; and then, having gained their entire confidence, and, perhaps, their esteem, you may safely strike home, though it be as with a sledge-hammer, and they will even ‘love you for the smart.’

“The temperance movement next claims attention, and I doubt not that much crime and degradation has been prevented by total abstinence from all intoxicating drinks; but I would rather raise the tone of moral feeling by intelligent and ennobling means than by those spasmodic efforts, which are without deliberation, and often without permanency. The object sought to be obtained, however, is good,--so is the motive,--and I leave to others to judge what means are most likely to secure it.

“I may also allude, as another means of reformation, to the Ragged-schools which are now studding the localities of the poorest neighbourhoods. The object of these schools is, one would hope, to take care of the uncared for, and to give instruction to those who would be otherwise running wild and growing up as a pest to society. A few instances of real reform stand, however, in juxtaposition with many of increased hardihood. I, as a man, seeing those who resort to ragged-schools, cannot understand the propriety of insulting an honest though ragged boy by classing him with a young thief; or the hope of improving the juvenile female character where the sexes are brought in promiscuous contact, and left unrestrained on their way home to say and do everything subversive of the good instruction they have received.” [It is right I should here state, that these are my informant’s own unbiassed sentiments, delivered without communication with myself on the subject. I say thus much, because, my own opinions being known, it might perhaps appear as if I had exerted some influence over the judgment of my correspondent.]

“The most efficient means of moral reform among the street-folk, appear to have been consulted by those who, in Westminster and other places, have opened institutions cheaper, but equally efficient, as the mechanics’ institutes of the metropolis. In these, for one farthing per night, three-halfpence a week, or sixpence a month, lectures, exhibitions, newspapers, &c., are available to the very poor. These, and such as these, I humbly but earnestly would commend to public sympathy and support, believing that, under the auspices of heaven, they may ‘deliver the outcast and poor’ from their own mistaken views and practices, and make them ornamental to that society to which they have long been expensive and dangerous.”

Another laudable attempt to improve the condition of the poorer class is by the erection of model lodging-houses. The plan which induced this measure was good, and the success has been tolerable; but I am inclined to think the management of these houses, as well as their internal regulation, is scarcely what their well-meaning founders designed. The principal of these buildings is in George-street, St. Giles’s; the building is spacious and well ventilated, there is a good library, and the class of lodgers very superior to what might be expected. This latter circumstance makes the house in question scarcely admissible to the catalogue of reformed lodging-houses for the very poor.

“The next ‘model lodging-house’ in importance is the one in Charles-street, Drury-lane. This, from personal observation (having lodged in it more than four months),” says my informant, “I can safely say (so far as social reform is concerned), is a miserable failure. The bed-rooms are clean, but the sitting-room, though large, is the scene of dirt and disorder. Noise, confusion, and intemperance abound from morning till night.

“There is a model lodging-house in Westminster, the private property of Lord Kinnaird. It is generally well conducted. His lordship’s agent visits the place once a week. There is an almost profuse supply of cooking utensils and other similar comforts. There are, moreover, two spacious reading-rooms, abundance of books and periodicals, and every lodger, on payment of 6_d._, is provided with two lockers--one in his bed-room, and the other below-stairs. The money is returned when the person leaves the house. There is divine service every day, conducted by different missionaries, and twice on Sundays. Attendance on these services is optional; and as there are two ways of ingress and egress, the devout and undevout need not come in contact with each other. The kitchen is very large and detached from the house. The master of this establishment is a man well fitted for his situation. He is a native of Saffron Walden in Essex, where his father farmed his own estate. He received a superior education, and has twice had a fortune at his own disposal. He did dispose of it, however; and ‘after many roving years,’ as a ‘traveller,’ ‘lurker,’ and ‘patterer,’ he has settled down in his present situation, and maintained it with great credit for a considerable period. The beds in this house are only 3_d._ per night, and no small praise is due to Lord Kinnaird for the superiority of this ‘model’ over others of the same denomination.

“Such are a few of the principal of these establishments. Giving every credit to their founders, however, for purity and even excellence of motive, I doubt if ‘model lodging-houses,’ as at present conducted, are likely to accomplish much real good for those who get their living in the streets. Ever and anon they are visited by dukes and bishops, lords and ladies, who march in procession past every table, scrutinise every countenance, make their remarks upon the quantity and quality of food, and then go into the lobby, sign their names, jump into their carriages, and drive away, declaring that ‘after all’ there is not so much poverty in London as they supposed.

“The poor inmates of these houses, moreover,” adds my informant, “are kept in bondage, and made to feel that bondage, to the almost annihilation of old English independence. It is thought by the managers of these establishments, and with some share of propriety, that persons who get their living by any honest means may get home and go to bed, according to strict rule, at a certain prescribed hour--in one house it is ten o’clock, in the others eleven. But many of the best-conducted of these poor people, if they be street-folk, are at those very hours in the height of their business, and have therefore to pack up their goods, and carry homeward their cumbersome and perhaps heavy load a distance usually varying from two or three to six or seven miles. If they are a minute beyond time, they are shut out, and have to seek lodgings in a strange place. On their return next morning, they are charged for the bed they were prevented from occupying, and if they demur they are at once expelled! Thus the ‘model’ lodgers are kept, as it were, in leading-strings, and triumphed over by lords and ladies, masters and matrons, who, while they pique themselves on the efforts they are making to ‘better the condition of the poor,’ are making them their slaves, and driving them into unreasonable thraldom; while the rich and noble managers, reckless of their own professed benevolence, are making the poor poorer, by adding insult to wretchedness. If my remarks upon these establishments appear,” adds the writer of the above remarks, “to be invidious, it is only in ‘appearance’ that they are so. I give their promoters credit for the best intentions, and, as far as sanitary and moral measures are concerned, I rejoice in the benefit while suggesting the improvement.

“Everything even moderately valuable has its counterfeit. We have counterfeit money, counterfeit virtue, counterfeit modesty, counterfeit religion, and last, but not least, ‘counterfeit model lodging-houses.’ Many private adventurers have thus dignified their domiciles, and some of them highly merit the distinction, while with others it is only a cloak for greater uncleanliness and grosser immorality.

“There has come to my knowledge the case of one man, who owns nearly a dozen of these dens of infamy, in one of which a poor girl under fifteen was lately ruined by a gray-headed monster, who, according to the pseudo-‘model’ regulations, slept in an adjoining bed. The sham model-houses to which I more particularly allude,” says my correspondent, “are in Short’s-gardens, Drury-lane; Mill-yard, Cable-street; Keate-street, Flower and Dean-street, Thrawl-street, Spitalfields; Plough-court, Whitechapel; and Union-court, Holborn. All of these are, without exception, twopenny brothels, head-quarters of low-lived procuresses, and resorts of young thieves and prostitutes. Each of the houses is managed by a ‘deputy,’ who receives an income of 8_s._ 2_d._ per week, out of which he has to provide coke, candles, soap, &c. Of course it is impossible to do this from such small resources, and the men consequently increase their salaries by ‘taking in couples for a little while,’ purchasing stolen goods, and other nefarious practices. Worse than all, the person owning these houses is a member of a strict Baptist church, and the son of a deceased minister. He lives in great splendour in one of the fashionable streets in Pimlico.

“It still remains for me,” my correspondent continues, “to contemplate the best agency for promoting the reformation of the poor. The ‘City Mission,’ if properly conducted, as it brings many good men in close contact with the ‘outcast and poor,’ might be made productive of real and extensive good. Whether it has done so, or done so to any extent, is perhaps an open question. Our town missionary societies sprang up when our different Christian denominations were not fully alive to the apprehension of their own duties to their poorer brethren, who were lost to principle, conscience, and society. That the object of the London City Mission is most noble, needs no discussion, and admits of no dispute. The method of carrying out this great object is by employing agents, who are required to give their whole time to the work, without engaging in any secular concerns of life; and regarding the operation of the work so done, I must say that great good has resulted from the enterprise. At the commencement of the labours of the Mission in any particular locality great opposition was manifested, and a great amount of prejudice, with habits of the most immoral kind--openly carried on without any public censure--had to be overcome. The statements of the missionaries have from time to time been published, and lie recorded against us as a nation, of the glaring evils and ignorance of a vast portion of our people. It is principally owing to the city missionaries that the other portions of society have known what they now do of the practices and habits of the poor; it is principally due to their exertions that schools have been established in connection with their labours; and the Ragged-schools--one of the principal movements of the last few years--are mainly to be attributed to their efforts.

“A man,” says my informant in conclusion, “can receive little benefit from a thing he does not understand; the talk which will do for the senate will not do for the cottage, and the argument which will do for the study will not do for the man who spends all his spare time in a public-house. These remarks will apply to the distribution of tracts, which should be couched in the very language that is used by the people to whom they are addressed; then the ideas will penetrate their understanding. Some years back I met with an old sailor in a lodging-house in Westminster, who professed a belief that there had once been a God, but that he was either dead, or grown old and diseased. He did not dispute the inspiration of the Bible. He believed that there had been revelations made to our forefathers when God was alive and active, but that now the Almighty did not ‘fash’ (trouble) himself about his creatures at all!

“I endeavoured to instruct the man in his own rude language and ideas; and after he had thus been made to comprehend the doctrine of the Atonement, he said, ‘I see it all plain enough--though I’ve liked a drop o’ drink, and been a devil among the gals, and all that, in my time, if I’ll humble myself I can have it all wiped off; and, as the song says, “We may be happy yet,” because, as the saying is, it’s all square with God A’mighty.’ Whether the sailor permanently reformed, I am unable to say, for I lost sight of him shortly after; at any rate he understood the subject, and was thus qualified to profit by it. And what can the teachers of Christianity among the British heathen--herded together in courts and alleys--tell their poor ignorant hearers better than the old sailor’s aphorism, ‘You have, indeed, gone astray from your greatest and best Friend, but, if you so desire, “You may be happy yet,” because it’s all square with God A’mighty?’

“Before quitting this subject, I would add, if you really wish to do these poor creatures good, you must remember that your instructions are not intended for so-called fashionable society, but for those who have a fashion of their own. If you lose sight of this fact, your words will die away upon the wind, and no echo in the hearts of these poor people will answer your addresses.”

The above observations are from the pen of one who has not only had the means, but is likewise possessed of the power, of judging as to the effect of the several plans (now in course of operation) for the reformation and improvement of the London poor. I have given the comments in the writer’s own language, because I was anxious that the public should know the opinions of the best informed of the street-people themselves on this subject; and I trust I need not say that I have sought in no way to influence my correspondent’s judgment.

I now subjoin a communication from a clergyman in the country, touching the character of the tramps and lurkers frequenting his neighbourhood, together with some suggestions concerning the means of improving the condition of the London poor. These I append, because it is advisable that in so difficult a matter the sentiments of every one having sufficient experience, judgment, and heart to fit him to speak on the subject should be calmly attended to, so that amid much counsel there may be at least some little wisdom.

“The subject of the welfare of our poorer brethren was one which engaged much of my attention twenty years ago, when studying for the bar at Lincoln’s Inn, before I entered into orders; and the inquiries, &c., then made by me in reference to London, are recalled by many of your pages. I have pursued the same course, according to my limited means and opportunities (for my benefice, like thousands of others, is but 100_l._ a-year) in this neighbourhood, and there are very many of my clerical brethren, also, deeply anxious and exerting their means for the country poor. The details given in your numbers as to the country tramps and patterers, I can fully corroborate from personal experience and knowledge, so far as the country part of it. We never give money to beggars here, on any pretence whatever. We never give clothes. We never give relief to a naked or half-naked man if we can avoid it (the imposture is too barefaced). Medicine I do give occasionally to the sick, or pretended sick, and see them take it. Every beggar may have dry bread, or three or four tracts to sell, but never both. I know we are even thus often imposed on; but it is better to run this risk than to turn away, by chance, a starving man; and I do see the mendicants often sit down on a field near, and eat the dry bread with ravenous look. The tramps sometimes come to church on Sunday, and then beg: but we never give even bread on Sunday, because on that day they can get help at the Union workhouse, and it only tempts idlers. Sometimes we are days without a beggar, and then there will be ten to twenty per day, and then all at once the stream stops. There are no tramp lodging-houses in my parish (which is a village of 600 or 700 people). Most of the burglaries hereabouts seem connected with some inroad of tramps into the neighbourhood. The lodging-houses are very bad in some of the small towns near, but somehow the magistrates cannot get them put down. The gentry are alive here to the evil of crowded cottages, &c., and are using efforts to build better and more decent ones. But the evil results from the little landowners, who have an acre or two, or less, and build rows of cottages on them of the scantiest dimensions, at high rents,--ten per cent. on the cost of building. The rents of the gentry and nobility are very moderate to the poor, viz., scarcely two per cent. (beyond the yearly repairs) on the market value of the cottage.

“In 1832 I succeeded in getting land allotments for the poor here, and most of the parishes round have followed our example since. The success to the poor has always depended on the rent being a real rent, such as is paid by the land round about, and on the rules of good management and of payment of rent being rigidly enforced.

“The character of the poor of England must be raised, as well as their independence. They must not be left to lean on charity. I am sure that the sterling worth of the English character can only be raised by that means to the surface of society among the poor. The “English” is a fine material, but the poor neither value, nor are benefited, by mawkish nonsense or excessive feeling.

“I believe this parish was one of the most fearfully demoralized twenty years ago. It was said there was not one young female cottager of virtuous character. There was not one man who was not, or had not been, a drunkard; and theft, fighting, &c., &c., were universal. It is greatly better now--totally different--and I attribute the change to the land allotments, the provident society, the village horticultural society, the lending library, the clothing club, the coal club, the cultivating a taste for music, &c., &c., as subsidiary to the more directly pastoral work of a clergyman, and the schools, &c.

“I am probably visionary in my ideas, but the perusal of your pages has led me to think that, were I clergyman of a parish where the street-folks lived, I should aim at some schemes of this style, in addition to the benefit society and loan society (the last most important) as proposed by yourself.

“(1) To get music taught at 1/2_d._ a week, or something of the kind--a ragged-school music-room, if the people would learn gratis, would be still better--as a step to a “superior” music class at 1_d._ per week.

“(2) To get the poor to adorn their rooms plentifully with a better class of pictures--of places, of people, of natural history, and of historical and religious subjects--just as they might like, and a circulating library for pictures if they preferred change. This I find takes with the village poor. Provide these things excessively cheap for them--at nominal prices, just high enough to prevent them being sold at a profit by the poor.

“(3) To establish a monthly or fortnightly sheet--or little book for the poor--at 1/2_d._, or some trifle, full of pictures such as they would like, but free from impropriety. It might be called ‘The Coster’s Barrow,’ or some name which would take their fancy, and contain pictures for those who cannot read, and reading for those who can. Its contents should be instructive, and yet lively; as for instance, the ‘History of London Bridge,’ ‘History of a Codfish,’ ‘Travels of Whelks,’ ‘Dreams of St. Paul’s,’ (old History of England), ‘Voice from the Bottom of the Coal Exchange’ (Roman tales), ‘True Tale of Trafalgar,’ &c., &c. All very short articles, at which perhaps they might be angry, or praise, or abuse, or do anything, but still would read, or hear, and talk about. If possible, the little work might have a corner called, ‘The Next World’s Page,’ or any name of the kind, with nothing in it but the Lord’s Prayer, or the Creed, or the Ten Commandments, or a Parable, or Miracle, or discourse of Christ’s--in the exact words of Scripture--without any commentary; which could neither annoy the Roman Catholics nor others. Those parts in which the Douay version differs from ours might be avoided, and the Romanists be given to understand that they would always be avoided.

“The more difficult question of cheap amusements instead of the demoralizing ones now popular, is one which as yet I cannot see my way through---but it is one which must be grappled with if any good is to be done.

“I write thus,” adds my correspondent, “because I feel you are a fellow-worker--so far as your labours show it, for the cause of God’s poor--and therefore will sympathize in anything another worker can say from experience on the same subject.”

* * * * *

Such are the opinions of two of my correspondents--each looking at the subject from different points of view--the one living among the people of whom he treats, and daily witnessing the effects of the several plans now in operation for the moral and physical improvement of the poor, and the other in frequent intercourse with the tramps and lurkers, on their vagrant excursions through the country, as well as with the resident poor of his own parish--the former living in friendly communion with those of whom he writes, and the latter visiting them as their spiritual adviser and material benefactor.

I would, however, before passing to the consideration of the next subject, here pause to draw special attention to the distinctive features of the several classes of people obtaining their livelihood in the streets. These viewed in regard to the causes which have induced them to adopt this mode of life, may be arranged in three different groups, viz.:

(1.) Those who are bred to the streets.

(2.) Those who take to the streets.

(3.) Those who are driven to the streets.

The class bred to the streets are those whose fathers having been street-sellers before them, have sent them out into the thoroughfares at an early age to sell either watercresses, lavender, oranges, nuts, flowers, apples, onions, &c., as a means of eking out the family income. Of such street-apprenticeship several notable instances have already been given; and one or two classes of juvenile street-sellers, as the lucifer match, and the blacking-sellers, still remain to be described. Another class of street-apprentice is to be found in the boys engaged to wheel the barrows of the costers, and who are thus at an early age tutored in all the art and mystery of street traffic, and who rarely abandon it at maturity. These two classes may be said to constitute the natives of the streets--the tribe indigenous to the paving-stones--imbibing the habits and morals of the gutters almost with their mothers’ milk. To expect that children thus nursed in the lap of the kennel, should when men not bear the impress of the circumstances amid which they have been reared, is to expect to find costermongers heroes instead of ordinary human beings. We might as well blame the various races on the face of the earth for those several geographical peculiarities of taste, which constitute their national characteristics. Surely there is a moral acclimatisation as well as a physical one, and the heart may become inured to a particular atmosphere in the same manner as the body; and even as the seed of the apple returns, unless grafted, to its original crab, so does the child, without training, go back to its parent stock--the vagabond savage. For the bred and born street-seller, who inherits a barrow as some do coronets, to be other than he is--it has here been repeatedly enunciated--is no fault of his but of ours, who could and yet will not move to make him otherwise. Might not “the finest gentleman in Europe” have been the greatest blackguard in Billingsgate, had he been born to carry a fish-basket on his head instead of a crown? and by a parity of reasoning let the roughest “rough” outside the London fish-market have had his lot in life cast, “by the Grace of God, King, Defender of the Faith,” and surely his shoulders would have glittered with diamond epaulettes instead of fish scales.

I say thus much, to impress upon the reader a deep and devout sense, that we who have been appointed to another state, are, by the grace of God, what we are, and from no special merit of our own, to which, in the arrogance of our self-conceit, we are too prone to attribute the social and moral differences of our nature. Go to a lady of fashion and tell her she could have even become a fishfag, and she will think you some mad ethnologist (if indeed she had ever heard of the science). Let me not, however, while thus seeking to impress the reader’s mind with a sense of the “antecedents” of the human character, be thought to espouse the doctrine that men are merely the creatures of events. All I wish to enforce is, that the three common causes of the social and moral differences of individuals are to be found in race, organization, and circumstances--that none of us are entirely proof against the influence of these three conditions--the ethnological, the physiological, and the associative elements of our idiosincracy. But, while I admit the full force of external nature upon us all, while I allow that we are, in many respects, merely patients, still I cannot but perceive that, in other respects we are self-agents, moving rather than being moved, by events--often stemming the current of circumstances, and at other times giving to it a special direction rather than being swept along with it. I am conscious that it is this directive and controlling power, not only over external events, but over the events of my own nature, that distinguishes me as well from the brute of the fields as it does my waking from my sleeping moments. I know, moreover, that in proportion as a man is active or passive in his operations, so is his humanity or brutality developed; that true greatness lies in the superiority of the internal forces over the external ones; and that as heroes, or extraordinary men are heroes, because they overcome the sway of one or other, or all, of the three material influences above-named, so ordinary people are ordinary, simply because they lack energy--principle--will (call it what you please) to overcome the material elements of their nature with the spiritual. And it is precisely because I know this, that I do know that those who are bred to the streets must bear about them the moral impress of the kennel and the gutter--unless we seek to develope the inward and controlling part of their constitution. If we allow them to remain the creatures of circumstances, to wander through life principleless, purposeless, conscienceless--if it be their lot to be flung on the wide waste of waters without a “guiding star” above, or a rudder or compass within, how can we (the well-fed) dare to blame them because, wanting bread, they prey and live upon their fellow-creatures?

I say thus much, because I feel satisfied that a large portion of the street-folk--and especially those who have been bred to the business--are of improvable natures; that they crave knowledge, as starving men for “the staff of life;” that they are most grateful for instruction; that they are as deeply moved by any kindness and sympathy (when once their suspicion has been overcome) as they are excited by any wrong or oppression--and I say it moreover, because I feel thoroughly convinced of the ineffectiveness of the present educational resources for the poor. We think, if we teach them reading and writing, and to chatter a creed, that we have armed them against the temptations, the trials, and the exasperations of life, believing, because we have put the knife and fork in their hands that we have really filled with food the empty bellies of their brains. We exercise their memories, make them human parrots, and then wonder that they do not act as human beings. The intellect, the conscience, the taste, indeed all that refines, enlightens, and ennobles our nature, we leave untouched, to shrivel and wither like unused limbs. The beautiful, the admirable, the true, the right, are as hidden to them as at their first day’s schooling. We impress them with no purpose, animate them with no principle; they are still the same brute creatures of circumstances--the same passive instruments--human waifs and strays--left to be blown about as the storms of life may whirl them.

Of the second group, or those who take to the streets, I entertain very different opinions. This class is distinguished from that above mentioned, in being wanderers by choice, rather than wanderers by necessity. In the early chapters of this work, I strove to point out to my readers that the human race universally consisted of two distinct classes: the wanderers and the settlers--the civilized and the savage--those who produced their food, and those who merely collected it. I sought further to show, that these two classes were not necessarily isolated, but that, on the contrary, almost every civilized tribe had its nomadic race, like parasites, living upon it. These nomadic races I proved, moreover, to have several characteristics common to the class, one of the most remarkable of which was, their adoption of a secret language, with the intent of concealing their designs and exploits. “Strange to say,” I then observed, “that despite its privations, dangers, and hardships, those who have once taken to a wandering life rarely abandon it. There are countless instances,” I added, “of white men adopting all the usages of an Indian hunter; but there is not one example of the Indian hunter or trapper, adopting the steady and regular habits of civilized society.” That this passion for “a roving life” (to use the common expression by which many of the street-people themselves designate it), is a marked feature of some natures, there cannot be a doubt in the mind of any one who has contemplated even the surface differences of human beings; and nevertheless it is a point to which no social philosopher has yet drawn attention. To my mind, it is essentially the physical cause of crime. Too restive and volatile to pursue the slow process of production, the wanderers, and consequently the collectors, of subsistence must (in a land where all things are appropriated) live upon the stock of the producers. The nomadic or vagrant class have all an universal type, whether they be the Bushmen of Africa or the “tramps” of our own country; and Mr. Knapp, the intelligent master of the Wandsworth and Clapham Union, to whom I was referred at the time of my investigations touching the subject of vagrancy, as having the greatest experience upon the matter, gave me the following graphic account, which, as I said at the time of its first publication, had perhaps never been surpassed as an analysis of the habits and propensities of the vagabond class:

“Ignorance,” to use the gentleman’s own words, “is certainly not their prevailing characteristic: indeed, with a few exceptions, it is the reverse. The vagrants are mostly distinguished by their aversion to continuous labour of any kind. He never knew them to work. Their great inclination is to be on the move, and wandering from place to place, and they appear to receive a great deal of pleasure from the assembly and conversation of the casual ward. They are physically stout and healthy, and certainly not emaciated or sickly. They belong especially to the able-bodied class, being, as he says, full of health and mischief. They are very stubborn and self-willed. They are a most difficult class to govern, and are especially restive under the least restraint; they can ill brook control, and they find great delight in thwarting the authorities. They are particularly fond of amusements of all kinds. He never knew them love reading. They mostly pass under fictitious names. They are particularly distinguished by their libidinous propensities. They are not remarkable for a love of drink. He considers them to be generally a class possessing the keenest intellect, and of a highly enterprising character. They seem to have no sense of danger, and to be especially delighted with such acts as involve any peril. They are likewise characterised by their exceeding love of mischief. They generally are of a most restless and volatile disposition. They have great quickness of perception, but little power of continuous attention or perseverance. They have a keen sense of the ridiculous, and are not devoid of deep feeling. In the summer they make regular tours through the country, visiting all places that they have not seen. They are perfectly organized, so that any regulation affecting their comforts or interests becomes known among the whole body in a remarkably short space of time.”

Every day my inquiries add some fresh proof to the justice of the above enumeration of the several phenomena distinguishing this class. To the more sedate portion of the human family, the attractions of “a roving life” are inexplicable. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that, to the more volatile, the mere muscular exercise and the continual change of scene, together with the wild delight which attends the overcoming of any danger, are sources of pleasure sufficient to compensate for all the privations and hardships attending such a state of existence.

Mr. Ruxton, one of the many who have passed from settlers to wanderers, has given us the following description of the enjoyments of a life in the wilderness:

“Although liable to an accusation of barbarism, I must confess that the very happiest moments of my life have been spent in the wilderness of the Far West; and I never recall, but with pleasure, the remembrance of my solitary camp in the Bayou Solade, with no friend near me more faithful than my rifle, and no companions more sociable than my good horse and mules, or the attendant cayute which nightly serenaded us. Seldom did I ever wish to change such hours of freedom for all the luxuries of civilized life; and unnatural and extraordinary as it may appear, yet such is the fascination of the life of the mountain hunter, that I believe not one instance could be adduced of even the most polished and civilized of men, who had once tasted the sweets of its attendant liberty and freedom from every worldly care, not regretting the moment when he exchanged it for the monotonous life of the settlements, nor sighing and sighing again once more to partake of its pleasures and allurements.”

To this class of voluntary wanderers belong those who take to the streets, glad to exchange the wearisomeness and restraint of a settled occupation for the greater freedom and license of a nomad mode of life. As a class, they are essentially the non-working, preferring, as I said before, to collect, rather than produce, what they eat. If they sell, they do so because for sundry reasons they fear to infringe the law, and as traders their transactions certainly are not marked by an excess of honesty. I am not aware that any of them are professional thieves (for these are the more daring portion of the same vagrant fraternity), though the majority assuredly are habitual cheats--delighting in proving their cleverness by imposing upon simple-minded citizens--viewing all society as composed of the same dishonest elements as their own tribes, and looking upon all sympathy and sacrifice, even when made for their own benefit, as some “artful dodge” or trick, by which to snare them.

It should be remembered, however, that there are many grades of vagrants among us, and that though they are all essentially non-producing and, consequently, predatory, still many are in no way distinguished from a large portion of even our wealthy tradesmen--our puffing grocers and slopsellers. To attempt to improve the condition of the voluntary street-sellers by teaching of any kind, would be to talk to the wind. We might as well preach to Messrs. Moses, Nicol, and Co., in the hope of Christianising them. Those who take to the streets are not, like those who are bred to it, an uneducated class. They are intelligent and “knowing” enough, and it is this development of their intellect at the expense of their conscience which gives rise to that excessive admiration of mere cleverness, which makes skill the sole standard of excellence with them. They approve, admire, venerate nothing but what is ingenious. Wrong with them is mere folly--right, cunning; and those who think the simple cultivation of the intellect the great social panacea of the time, have merely to study the characteristics of this class to see how a certain style of education can breed the very vice it seeks to destroy. Years ago, I wrote and printed the following passage, and every year since my studies have convinced me more and more of its truth:

“Man, if deprived of his intellect, would be the most miserable and destitute,--if of his sympathy, the most savage and cunning, of all the brute creation: consequently, we may infer that, according as solely the one or the other of these powers is expanded in us, so shall we approximate in our nature either to the instinct of the brute or to the artifice of the demon, and that only when they are developed in an equal degree, can Man be said to be educated as Man. We should remember that the intellect simply executes; it is either the selfish or moral propensity that designs. The intellectual principle enables us to perceive the means of attaining any particular object; it is the selfish or else the moral principle in us, that causes us originally to desire that object. The two latter principles are the springs, the former is merely the instrument of all human action. They are masters, whereas the intellect is but the servant of the will; and hence it is evident that in proportion as the one or the other of these two predominant principles--as either the selfish or the moral disposition is educed in man, and thus made the chief director and stimulus of the intellectual power within him, so will the cultivation of that power be the source of happiness or misery to himself and others.”

The third and last class, namely, those who are driven to the streets, is almost as large as any. Luckily, those who take to that mode of life, are by far the least numerous portion of the street-folk; and if those who are bred to the business are worthy of our pity, assuredly those who are driven to it are equally, if not more, so. With some who are deprived of the means of obtaining a maintenance for themselves, the sale of small articles in the streets may, perhaps, be an excuse for begging; but in most cases, I am convinced it is adopted from a horror of the workhouse, and a disposition to do, at least, something for the food they eat. Often is it the last struggle of independence--the desire to give something like an equivalent for what they receive. Over and over again have I noticed this honourable pride, even in individuals who, from some privations or affliction that rendered them utterly incompetent to labour for their living, had a just claim on our sympathies and assistance. The blind--the cripple--the maimed--the very old--the very young--all have generally adopted a street-life, because they could do nothing else. With many it is the last resort of all. The smallness of the stock-money required--for a shilling, it has been shown, is sufficient to commence several street-trades--is one of the principal causes of so many of those who are helpless taking to the street-traffic. Moreover, the severity of the Poor-laws and the degradation of pauperism, and the aversion to be thought a common beggar by all, except the very lowest, are, I have no doubt, strong incentives to this course. There are many callings which are peculiar, as being followed principally by the disabled. The majority of the blind are musicians, or boot-lace or tape-sellers. The very old are sellers of watercresses, lucifers, pincushions, ballads, and pins and needles, stay-laces, and such small articles as are light to carry, and require but a few pence for the outlay. The very young are sellers of flowers, oranges, nuts, onions, blacking, lucifers, and the like. Many of those who have lost an arm, or a leg, or a hand, turn showmen, or become sellers of small metal articles, as knives or nutmeg-graters; and many who have been born cripples may be seen in the streets struggling for self-support. But all who are driven to the streets have not been physically disabled for labour. Some have been reduced from their position as tradesmen or shopmen; others, again, have been gentlemen’s servants and clerks; all, dragged down by a series of misfortunes, sometimes beyond their control, and sometimes brought about by their own imprudence or sluggishness. As we have seen, many are reduced to a state of poverty by long illness, and on their recovery are unable, from want of clothes or friends, to follow any other occupation.

But a still larger class than all, are the beaten-out mechanics and artizans, who, from want of employment in their own trade, take to make up small things (as clothes-horses, tin-ware, cutlery, brushes, pails, caps, and bonnets) on their own account. The number of artizans in the London streets speaks volumes for the independence of the working-men of this country; as well as for the difficulty of their obtaining employment at their own trades. Those who are unacquainted with the sterling pride of the destitute English mechanic, know not what he will suffer before becoming an inmate of a workhouse, or sinking to the debasement of a beggar. That handicraftsmen do occasionally pass into “lurkers” I know well; but these, I am convinced, have gradually been warped to the life by a long course of tramping, aided by the funds of their societies, and thus becoming disused to labour, have, after forfeiting all claims upon the funds of their trade, adopted beggary as a means of subsistence. But, that this is the exception rather than the rule, the following is sufficient to show:

“The destitute mechanics,” said the Master of the Wandsworth and Clapham Union to me, “are entirely a different class from the regular vagrants; they have different habits, and indeed different features. During the whole of my experience I never knew a distressed artizan who applied for a night’s shelter, commit an act of theft; and I have seen them,” he added, “in the last stage of destitution. Occasionally they have sold the shirt and waistcoat off their backs before they applied for admittance into the workhouse, while some of them have been so weak from long starvation that they could scarcely reach the gate, and indeed had to be kept for several days in the Infirmary before their strength was recruited sufficiently to continue their journey.” “The poor mechanic,” said another of my informants, “will sit in the casual ward like a lost man, scared. It’s shocking to think a decent mechanic’s houseless. When he’s beat out he’s like a bird out of a cage; he doesn’t know where to go, or how to get a bit.”

I shall avail myself of another occasion to discuss the means of improving the condition of the street-people.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED ARTICLES.

These traders consist of: (1) The vendors of metal articles; (2) Of chemical articles; (3) Of China, glass, and stone articles; (4) Of linen, cotton, and other textile fabrics; and (5) Of miscellaneous articles. In this classification I do not include second-hand articles, nor yet the traffic of those who make the articles they sell, and who are indeed street-artizans rather than street-sellers.

Under the first head are included, the vendors of razors, table and penknives, tea-trays, dog-collars, key-rings, articles of hardware, small coins and medals, pins and needles, jewellery, snuffers, candlesticks, articles of tin-ware, tools, card-counters, herring-toasters, trivets, gridirons, pans, tray-stands (as in the roasting of meat), and Dutch ovens.

Of the second description are the vendors of blacking, black-lead, lucifer matches, corn-salves, grease-removing compositions, china and glass cements, plating-balls, rat and beetle poisons, crackers, detonating-balls, and cigar-lights.

Under the third head come all street-sold articles of China, glass, or stone manufacture, including not only “crockery,” but vases, chimney-ornaments, and stone fruit.

The fourth head presents the street-vending of cotton, silken, and linen-manufactures; such as sheetings, shirtings, a variety of laces, sewing cotton, threads and tapes, articles of haberdashery and of millinery, artificial flowers, handkerchiefs, and pretended smuggled goods.

Among the fifth class, or the “miscellaneous” street-sellers, are those who vend cigars, pipes, tobacco and snuff-boxes and cigar-cases, accordions, spectacles, hats, sponge, combs and hair-brushes, shirt-buttons and coat-studs, “lots,” rhubarb, wash-leather, paper-hangings, dolls, Bristol and other toys, saw-dust, fire-wood, and pin-cushions.

There are many other manufactured articles sold in the streets, but their description will be more proper under the head of Street Artisans.

The street-sellers of manufactured articles present, as a body, so many and often such varying characteristics, that I cannot offer to give a description of them as a whole, as I have been able to do with other and less diversified classes.

Among them are several distinct and peculiar street-characters, such as the pack-men, who carry their cotton or linen goods in packs on their backs, and are all itinerants. Then there are duffers, who vend pretended smuggled goods, handkerchiefs, silks, tobacco or cigars; also, the sellers of sham sovereigns and sham gold rings for wagers. The crockery-ware and glass-sellers (known in the street-trade as “crocks”), are peculiar from their principle of bartering. They will sell to any one, but they sell very rarely, and always clamour in preference for an exchange of their wares for wearing-apparel of any kind. They state, if questioned, that their reason for doing this is--at least I heard the statement from some of the most intelligent among them--that they do so because, if they “sold outright,” they required a hawker’s license, and could not sell or “swop” so cheap.

Some of the street-sellers of manufactured articles are also patterers. Among these are the “cheap Jacks,” or “cheap Johns;” the grease and stain removers; the corn-salve and plate-ball vendors; the sellers of sovereigns and rings for wagers; a portion of the lot-sellers; and the men who vend poison for vermin and go about the streets with live rats clinging to, or running about, their persons.

This class of street-sellers also includes many of the very old and the very young; the diseased, crippled, maimed, and blind. These poor creatures sell, and sometimes obtain a charitable penny, by offering to sell such things as boxes of lucifer-matches; cakes of blacking; boot, stay, and other laces; pins, and sewing and knitting-needles; tapes; cotton-bobbins; garters; pincushions; combs; nutmeg-graters; metal skewers and meat-hooks; hooks and eyes; and shirt-buttons.

The rest of the class may be described as merely street-sellers; toiling, struggling, plodding, itinerant tradesmen.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED ARTICLES IN METAL.

These street-sellers are less numerous than might be imagined, when--according to my present division--the class is confined to the sellers of articles which they do not manufacture. The metal wares thus sold I have already enumerated, and I have now to describe the characteristics of the sellers.

The result of my inquiries leads me to the conclusion, that the street-vendors of any article which is the product of the skill of the handicraftsman, have been, almost always, in their first outset in a street life, connected in some capacity or other with the trade, the manufactures of which they vend.

One elderly man, long familiar with this branch of the street-trade, expressed to me his conviction that when a mechanic sought his livelihood in the streets, he naturally “gave his mind to sell what he understood. Now, in my own case,” continued my informant, “I was born and bred a tinman, and when I was driven to a street-life, I never thought of selling anything but tins. How could I, if I wished to do the thing square and proper?--it would be like trying to speak another language. If I’d started on slippers--and I knew a poor man who was set up in the streets by a charitable lady on a stock of gentlemen’s slippers--what could I have done? Why, no better than he told me he did. He was a potter down at Deptford, and knew of nothing but flower-pots, and honey-jars for grocers, and them red sorts of pottery. Poor fellow, he might have died of hunger, only the cholera came quickest. But when I’m questioned about my tins, I’m my own man; and it’s a great thing, I’m satisfied, in a street-trade, when there’s so many cheap shops, and the police and all again you, to understand the goods you’re talking about.”

This statement, I may repeat, is undoubtedly correct, so far as that a “beaten-out” mechanic, when driven to the streets, in the first instance offers to the public wares of which he understands the value and quality. Afterwards, in the experience or vagaries of a street-life, other commodities may be, or may appear to be, more remunerative, and for such the mechanic may relinquish his first articles of street-traffic. “Why, sir,” I was told, “there was one man who left razors for cabbages; ’cause one day a costermonger wot lived in the same house with him and was taken ill, asked him to go out with a barrow of summer cabbages--the costermonger’s boy went with him--and they went off so well that Joe [the former razor-seller] managed to start in the costering line, he was so encouraged.”

The street-trade in metal manufactured articles is principally itinerant. Perhaps during the week upwards of three-fourths of those carrying it on are itinerant, while on a Saturday night, perhaps, all are stationary, and almost always in the street-markets. The itinerant trade is carried on, and chiefly in the suburbs, by men, women, and children; but the children are always, or almost always, the offspring of the adult street-sellers.

The metal sold in the street may be divided into street-hardware, street-tinware, and street-jewellery. I shall begin with the former.

The street-sellers of hardware are, I am assured, in number about 100, including single men and families; for women “take their share” in the business, and children sell smaller things, such as snuffers or bread-baskets. The people pursuing the trade are of the class I have above described, with the exception of some ten or twelve who formerly made a living as servants to the gaming-booths at Epsom, Ascot, &c., &c., and “managed to live out of the races, somehow, most of the year;” since the gaming-booths have been disallowed, they have “taken to the street hardware.”

All these street-sellers obtain their supplies at “the swag-shops;” of which I shall speak hereafter. The main articles of their trade are tea-boards, waiters, snuffers, candlesticks, bread-baskets, cheese-trays, Britannia metal tea-pots and spoons, iron kettles, pans, and coffee-pots. The most saleable things, I am told by a man who has been fifteen years in this and similar street trades, are at present 18-in. tea-boards, bought at “the swags” at from 10_s._ 6_d._ a doz., to 4_s._ each; 24-in. boards, from 20_s._ the doz. to 5_s._ each; bread-baskets, 4_s._ 6_d._ the doz.; and Britannia metal tea-pots, 10_s._ the doz. These tea-pots have generally what is called “loaded bottoms;” the lower part of the vessel is “filled with composition, so as to look as if there was great weight of metal, and as if the pot would melt for almost the 18_d._ which is asked for it, and very often got.”

I learned from the same man, however, and from others in the trade, that it is far more difficult now than it was a few years ago, to sell “rubbish.” There used to be also, but not within these six or eight years, a tolerable profit realised by the street-sellers of hardware in the way of “swop.” It was common to take an old metal article, as part payment for a new one; and if the old article were of good quality, it was polished and tinkered up for sale in the Saturday evening street-markets, and often “went off well.” This traffic, however, has almost ceased to exist, as regards the street-sellers of hardware, and has been all but monopolised by the men who barter “crocks” for wearing-apparel, or any old metal. Some hardware-men who have become well known on their “rounds”--for the principal trade is in the suburbs--sell very good wares, and at moderate profits.

“It’s a poor trade, sir, is the hardware,” said one man carrying it on, “and street trades are mostly poor trades, for I’ve tried many a one of them. I was brought up a clown, I may say; my father died when I was a child, and I might have been a clown still but for an accident (a rupture). That’s long ago,--I can’t say how long; but I know that before I was fifteen, I many a time wished I was dead, and I have many a time since. Why the day before yesterday, from 9 in the morning to 11 at night, I didn’t take a farthing. Some days I don’t earn 1_s._, and I have a mother depending upon me who can do little or nothing. I’m a teetotaller; if I wasn’t we shouldn’t have a meal a day. I never was fond of drink, and if I’m ever so weary and out of sorts, and worried for a meal’s meat, I can’t say I ever long for a drop to cheer me up. Sometimes I can’t get coffee, let alone anything else. O, I suffer terribly. Day after day I get wet through, and have nothing to take home to my mother at last. Our principal food is bread and butter, and tea. Not fish half so often as many poor people. I suppose, because we don’t care for it. I know that our living, the two of us, stands to less than 1_s._ a day,--not 6_d._ a piece. Then I have two rents to pay. No, sir, not for two places; but I pay 2_s._ a week for a room, a tidy bit of a chamber, furnished, and 1_s._ a week rent,--I call it rent, for a loan of 5_s._ I’ve paid 1_s._ a week for four weeks on it, and must keep paying until I can hand over the 5_s._, with 1_s._ for rent added to it, all in one sum. If I could tip up the 5_s._ the day after I’d paid the last week’s 1_s._, I must pay another shilling. The man who lends does nothing else; he lives by lending, and by letting out a few barrows to costermongers, and other street-people. I wish I could take a farewell sight of them.”

The principal traffic carried on by these street-sellers is in the suburbs. Women constitute their sole customers, or nearly so. Their profits fluctuate from 20 per cent. to 100 per cent. The bread-baskets, which they buy at 4_s._ 6_d._ the doz., they retail at 6_d._ each; for it is very difficult, I have frequently been told, to get a price between 6_d._ and 1_s._ This, however, relates only to those things which are not articles of actual necessity. Half of these street-sellers, I am assured, take on an average from 20_s._ to 25_s._ weekly the year through; a quarter take 15_s._, and the remaining quarter from 7_s._ 6_d._ to 10_s._ Calculating an average taking of 15_s._ each per week, throughout the entire class, men, women, and children, we find 3,900_l._ expended in street-sold hardwares. Ten years ago, I am told, the takings were not less than 2,000_l._

The following is an extract from accounts kept, not long ago, by a street-seller of hardware. His principal sale was snuffers, knives and forks, iron candlesticks, padlocks, and bed-screws. His stock cost him 35_s._ on the Monday morning, and his first week was his best, which I here subjoin:

Receipts. Profits. Monday 8_s._ 3_s._ 0_d._ Tuesday 5 2 3 Wednesday 4 1 6 Thursday (always a slack day) 3 --------- Friday (a better day about the docks, when people are paid) 7 3 0 Saturday Morning and Even. 23 6 1 -- ---------- 50 15 10

The following is the worst week in the account-books. The street-seller after this (about half a year ago) sold his stock to a small shopkeeper, and went into another business.

Receipts. Profits. s. d. s. d. Monday (very cold) a common bed-screw 0 4 0 1-1/4 Tuesday ------- --------- Wednesday 1 0 0 5 Thursday (sold cheap) 1 1 0 3 Friday ------- ---------- Saturday 1 7 0 8 ------- ---------- 4 0 1 5-1/4

OF THE CHEAP JOHNS, OR STREET HANSELLERS.

This class of street-salesmen, who are perhaps the largest dealers of all in hardware, are not so numerous as they were some few years ago--the Excise Laws, as I have before remarked, having interfered with their business. The principal portion of those I have met are Irishmen, who, notwithstanding, generally “hail” from Sheffield, and all their sales are effected in an attempt at the Yorkshire dialect, interspersed, however, with an unmistakeable brogue. The brogue is the more apparent when cheap John gets a little out of temper--if his sales are flat, for instance, he’ll say, “By J--s, I don’t belaive you’ve any money with you, or that you’ve lift any at home, at all, at all. Bad cess to you!”

There are, however, many English cheap Johns, but few of them are natives of Sheffield or Birmingham, from which towns they invariably “hail.” Their system of selling is to attract a crowd of persons by an harangue after the following fashion: “Here I am, the original cheap John from Sheffield. I’ve not come here to get money; not I; I’ve come here merely for the good of the public, and to let you see how you’ve been imposed upon by a parcel of pompous shopkeepers, who are not content with less than 100 per cent. for rubbish. They got up a petition--which I haven’t time to read to you just now--offering me a large sum of money to keep away from here. But no, I had too much friendship for you to consent, and here I am, cheap John, born without a shirt, one day while my mother was out, in a haystack; consequently I’ve no parish, for the cows eat up mine, and therefore I’ve never no fear of going to the workhouse. I’ve more money than the parson of the parish--I’ve in this cart a cargo of useful and cheap goods; can supply you with anything, from a needle to an anchor. Nobody can sell as cheap as me, seeing that I gets all my goods upon credit, and never means to pay for them. Now then, what shall we begin with? Here’s a beautiful guard-chain; if it isn’t silver, it’s the same colour--I don’t say it isn’t silver, nor I don’t say it is--in that affair use your own judgment. Now, in the reg’lar way of trade, you shall go into any shop in town, and they will ask you 1_l._ 18_s._ 6_d._ for an article not half so good, so what will you say for this splendid chain? Eighteen and sixpence without the pound? What, that’s too much! Well, then say 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10 shillings; what, none of you give ten shillings for this beautiful article? See how it improves a man’s appearance” (hanging the chain round his neck). “Any young man here present wearing this chain will always be shown into the parlour instead of the tap-room; into the best pew in church, when he and--but the advantages the purchaser of this chain will possess I haven’t time to tell. What! no buyers? Why, what’s the matter with ye? Have you no money, or no brains? But I’ll ruin myself for your sakes. Say 9_s._ for this splendid piece of jewellery--8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1--a shilling, will anybody give a shilling? Well, here 11_d._, 10_d._, 9_d._, 8_d._, 7_d._, 6-1/2_d._, 6_d._! Is there ever a buyer at sixpence? Now I’ll ask no more and I’ll take no less; sell it or never sell it.” The concluding words are spoken with peculiar emphasis, and after saying them the cheap John never takes any lower sum. A customer perhaps is soon obtained for the guard-chain, and then the vendor elevates his voice; “Sold to a very respectable gentleman, with his mouth between his nose and chin, a most remarkable circumstance. I believe I’ve just one more--this is better than the last; I must have a shilling for this. Sixpence? To you, sir. Sold again, to a gentleman worth 30,000_l._ a year; only the right owner keeps him out of it. I believe I’ve just one more; yes, here it is; it’s brighterer, longerer, strongerer, and betterer than the last. I must have at least tenpence for this. Well then, 9, 8, 7, 6; take this one for a sixpence. Sold again, to a gentleman, his father’s pet and his mother’s joy. Pray, sir, does your mother know you’re out? Well, I don’t think I’ve any more, but I’ll look; yes, here is one more. Now this is better than all the rest. Sold again, to a most respectable gentleman, whose mother keeps a chandler’s shop, and whose father turns the mangle.” In this manner the cheap John continues to sell his guard-chain, until he has drained his last customer for that particular commodity. He has always his remark to make relative to the purchaser. The cheap John always takes care to receive payment before he hazards his jokes, which I need scarcely remark are ready made, and most of them ancient and worn threadbare, the joint property of the whole fraternity of cheap Johns. After supplying his audience with one particular article, he introduces another: “Here is a carving-knife and fork, none of your wasters, capital buck-horn handle, manufactured of the best steel, in a regular workmanlike manner; fit for carving in the best style, from a sparrow to a bullock. I don’t ask 7_s._ 6_d._ for this--although go over to Mr. ----, the ironmonger, and he will have the impudence to ask you 15_s._ for a worse article.” (The cheap Johns always make comparisons as to their own prices and the shopkeepers, and sometimes mention their names.) “I say 5_s._ for the carving-knife and fork. Why, it’s an article that’ll almost fill your children’s bellies by looking at it, and will always make 1 lb. of beef go as far as 6 lb. carved by any other knife and fork. Well, 4_s._, 3_s._, 2_s._, 1_s._ 11_d._, 1_s._ 10_d._, 1_s._ 9_d._, 1_s._ 8_d._, 1_s._ 7_d._, 18_d._ I ask no more, nor I’ll take no less.” The salesman throughout his variety of articles indulges in the same jokes, and holds out the same inducements. I give a few.

“This is the original teapot” (producing one), “formerly invented by the Chinese; the first that ever was imported by those celebrated people--only two of them came over in three ships. If I do not sell this to-day, I intend presenting it to the British Museum or the Great Exhibition. It is mostly used for making tea,--sometimes by ladies, for keeping a little drop on the sly; it is an article constructed upon scientific principles, considered to require a lesser quantity of tea to manufacture the largest quantity of tea-water, than any other teapot now in use--largely patronised by the tea-totallers. Now, here’s a fine pair of bellows! Any of you want to raise the wind? This is a capital opportunity, if you’ll try. I’ll tell you how; buy these of me for 3_s._ 6_d._, and go and pawn them for 7_s._ Will you buy ’em, sir? No! well, then, you be blowed! Let’s see--I said 3_s._ 6_d._; it’s too little, but as I have said it, they must go; well--3_s._,” &c. &c. “Capital article to chastise the children or a drunken husband. Well, take ’em for 1_s._--I ask no more, and I’ll take no less.”

These men have several articles which they sell singly, such as tea-trays, copper kettles, fire-irons, guns, whips, to all of which they have some preamble; but their most attractive lot is a heap of miscellaneous articles:--“I have here a pair of scissors; I only want half-a-crown for them. What! you won’t give 1_s._? well, I’ll add something else. Here’s a most useful article--a knife with eight blades, and there’s not a blade among you all that’s more highly polished. This knife’s a case of instruments in addition to the blades; here’s a corkscrew, a button-hook, a file, and a picker. For this capital knife and first-rate pair of scissors I ask 1_s._ Well, well, you’ve no more conscience than a lawyer; here’s something else--a pocket-book. This book no gentleman should be without; it contains a diary for every day in the week, an almanack, a ready-reckoner, a tablet for your own memorandums, pockets to keep your papers, and a splendid pencil with a silver top. No buyers! I’m astonished; but I’ll add another article. Here’s a pocket-comb. No young man with any sense of decency should be without a pocket-comb. What looks worse than to see a man’s head in an uproar? Some of you look as if your hair hadn’t seen a comb for years. Surely I shall get a customer now. What! no buyers--well I never! Here, I’ll add half-a-dozen of the very best Britannia metal tea-spoons, and if you don’t buy, you must be spoons yourselves. Why, you perfectly astonish me! I really believe if I was to offer all in the shop, myself included, I should not draw 1_s._ out of you. Well, I’ll try again. Here, I’ll add a dozen of black-lead pencils. Now, then, look at these articles”--(he spreads them out, holding them between his fingers to the best advantage)--“here’s a pair of first-rate scissors, that will almost cut of themselves,--this valuable knife, which comprises within itself almost a chest of tools,--a splendid pocket-book, which must add to the respectability and consequence of any man who wears it,--a pocket-comb which possesses the peculiar property of making the hair curl, and dyeing it any colour you wish,--a half-dozen spoons, nothing inferior to silver, and that do not require half the usual quantity of sugar to sweeten your tea,--and a dozen beautiful pencils, at least worth the money I ask for the whole lot. Now, a reasonable price for these articles would be at least 10_s._ 6_d._; I’ll sell them for 1_s._ I ask no more, I’ll take no less. Sold again!”

The opposition these men display to each other, while pursuing their business, is mostly assumed, for the purpose of attracting a crowd. Sometimes, when in earnest, their language is disgusting; and I have seen them, (says an informant), after selling, try and settle their differences with a game at fisticuffs: but this occurred but seldom. One of these men had a wife who used to sell for him,--she was considered to be the best “chaffer” on the road; not one of them could stand against her tongue: but her language abounded with obscenity. All the “cheap Johns” were afraid of her.

They never under-sell each other (unless they get in a real passion); this but seldom happens, but when it does they are exceedingly bitter against each other. I cannot state the language they use, further than that it reaches the very summit of blackguardism. They have, however, assumed quarrels, for the purpose of holding a crowd together, and chaff goes round, intended to amuse their expected customers.

“He’s coming your way to-morrow,” they’ll say one of the other, “mind and don’t hang your husbands’ shirts to dry, ladies, he’s very lucky at finding things before they’re lost; he sells very cheap, no doubt--but mind, if you handle any of his wares, he don’t make you a present of a Scotch fiddle for nothing. His hair looks as if it had been cut with a knife and fork.”

The Irishmen, in these displays, generally have the best of it; indeed, most of their jokes have originated with the Irishmen, who complain of the piracies of other “cheap Johns,” for as soon as the joke is uttered it is the property of the commonwealth, and not unfrequently used against the inventor half an hour after its first appearance.

A few of them are not over particular as to the respectability of their transactions. I recollect one purchasing a brick at Sheffield; the brick was packed up in paper, with a knife tied on the outside, it appeared like a package of knives, containing several dozens. The “cheap John” made out that he bought them as stolen property; the biter was deservedly bitten. A few of the fraternity are well-known “Fences,” and some of them pursue the double calling of “cheap John” and gambler--keeping gambling tables at races. However the majority are hard-working men, who unite untiring industry with the most indomitable perseverance, for the laudable purpose of bettering their condition.

I believe the most successful in the line have worked their way up from nothing, gaining experience as they proceeded. I have known two or three start the trade with plenty of stock, but, wanting the tact, they have soon been knocked off the road. There is a great deal of judgment required in knowing the best fairs, and even when there, as to getting a good stand; and these matters are to be acquired only by practice.

In the provinces, and in Scotland, there may be 100 “cheap Johns,” or, as they term themselves, “Han-sellers.” They are generally a most persevering body of men, and have frequently risen from small hawkers of belts, braces, &c. Their receipts are from 5_l._ to 30_l._ per day, their profits from 20 to 25 per cent.; 20_l._ is considered a good day’s work; and they can take about three fairs a week during the summer months. “I have known many of these men,” a man well acquainted with them informs me, “who would walk 20 miles to a fair during the night, hawk the public-houses the whole of the day, and start again all night for a fair to be held 20 miles off upon the following day. I knew two Irish lads, named ----, and I watched their progress with some interest. Each had a stock of goods worth a few shillings; and now each has a wholesale warehouse,--one at Sheffield, in the cutlery line, and the other at Birmingham, in general wares.”

The goods the han-seller disposes of are mostly purchased at Sheffield and Birmingham. They purchase the cheapest goods they can obtain. Many of the han-sellers have settled in various parts of England as “swag-shop keepers.” There are two or three in London, I am told, who have done so; one in the Kent-road, a large concern,--the others I am not aware of their locality. Their mode of living while travelling is rather peculiar. Those who have their caravans, sleep in them, some with their wives and families; they have a man, or more generally a boy, to look after the horse, and other drudgery, and sometimes at a fair, to hawk, or act as a button (a decoy), to purchase the first lot of goods put up. This boy is accommodated with a bed made between the wheels of the cart or wagon, with some old canvas hung round to keep the weather out--not the most comfortable quarters, perhaps,--but, as they say, “it’s nothing when you’re used to it.” The packing up occurs when there’s no more chance of effecting sales; the horse is put to, and the caravan proceeds on the road towards the next town intended to visit. After a sufficient days’ travel, the “cheap John” looks out for a spot to encamp for the night. A clear stream of water, and provender for the horse, are indispensable; or perhaps the han-seller has visited that part before, and is aware of the halting-place. After having released the horse, and secured his fore-feet, so that he cannot stray, the next process is to look for some crack (some dry wood to light a fire); this is the boy’s work. He is told not to despoil hedges, or damage fences: “cheap John” doesn’t wish to offend the farmers; and during his temporary sojourn in the green lanes, he frequently has some friendly chat with the yeomen and their servants, sometimes disposes of goods, and often barters for a piece of fat bacon or potatoes. A fire is lighted between the shafts of the cart,--a stick placed across, upon which is suspended the cookery utensil. When the meal is concluded, the parties retire to bed,--the master within the caravan, and the boy to his chamber between the wheels. Sometimes they breakfast before they proceed on their journey; at other times they travel a few miles first.

Those who have children bring them up in such a manner as may be imagined considering their itinerant life: but there are very few who have families travelling with them; though in most cases a wife; generally the children of the “cheap John” are stationary, either out at nurse or with relatives.

Some of the “cheap Johns” have wagons upon four wheels, others have carts; but both are fitted up with a wooden roof. The proprietor invariably sleeps within his portable house, both for the protection of his property and also upon the score of economy. The vans with four wheels answer all the purposes of a habitation. The furniture consists of a bed placed upon boxes, containing the stock in trade. The bed extends the whole width of the vehicle, about 6 ft. 6 in., and many generally extend about 5 ft. into the body of the van, and occupies the farthest end of the machine from the door,--which door opens out upon the horse. The four-wheeled vans are 12 ft. long, and the two-wheeled carts 9 ft. During business hours the whole of the articles most likely to be wanted are spread out upon the bed, and the assistant (either the wife or a boy) hands them out as the salesman may require them. The furniture, in addition to the bed, is very scarce; indeed they are very much averse to carry more than is really necessary. The pail, the horse takes his corn and beans from (I don’t know why, but they never use nose-bags,) serves the purpose of a wash-hand basin or a washing-tub. It is generally painted the same colour as the van, with the initials of the proprietor painted upon it, and, when travelling, hangs upon a hook under the machine. They mostly begin with a two-wheeled machine, and if successful a four-wheeler follows. The tables and chairs are the boxes in which the goods are packed. A tea-kettle and saucepan, and as few delf articles as possible, and corner-cupboard, and these comprise the whole of the furniture of the van. In the four-wheeled wagons there is always a fire-place similar to those the captains of ships have in their cabins, but in the two-wheeled carts fire-places are dispensed with. These are mostly brass ones, and are kept very bright; for the “cheap Johns” are proud of their van and its contents. They are always gaudily painted, sometimes expensively; indeed they are most expensive articles, and cost from 80_l._ to 120_l._ The principal person for making these machines is a Mr. Davidson of Leeds. The showman’s caravans are still more expensive; the last purchased by the late Mr. Wombwell cost more than 300_l._, and is really a curiosity. He termed it, as all showmen do--the living wagon; viz. to live in--it has parlour and kitchen, and is fitted up most handsomely; its exterior presents the appearance of a first-class railway-carriage. The front exterior of the van during the trading operations of the “cheap Johns,” is hung round with guns, saws, tea-trays, bridles, whips, centre-bits, and other articles, displayed to the best advantage. The name of the proprietor is always prominently displayed along the whole side of the vehicle, added to which is a signification that he is a wholesale hardwareman, from Sheffield, Yorkshire, or Birmingham, Warwickshire, and sometimes an extra announcement.

“The original cheap John.”

I do not know any class of men who are more fond of the good things of this life than “cheap John;” his dinner, during a fair, is generally eaten upon the platform outside his van, where he disposes of his wares, and invariably consists of a joint of baked meat and potatoes--that is where they can get a dinner baked. As little time as possible is occupied in eating, especially if trade is good. At a hill fair (that is where the fair is held upon a hill away from a town), a fire is made behind the cart, the pot is suspended upon three sticks, and dinner prepared in the usual camp fashion. The wife or boy superintends this. Tea and coffee also generally find their way to their table; and if there’s no cold meat a plentiful supply of bacon, beef-steaks, eggs, or something in the shape of a relish, seem to be with “cheap John” indispensable. His man or boy (if John is unmarried) appears to be upon an equality with the master in the eating department; he is not allowanced, neither has he to wait until his superior has finished. Get it over as quick as you can seems to be the chief object. Perhaps from the circumstance of their selling guns, and consequently always having such implements in their possession, these men, when they have time on their hands, are fond of the sports of the field, and many a hare finds its way into the camp-kettle of “cheap John.” I need not say that they practise this sport with but little respectful feeling towards the Game-laws; but they are careful when indulging in such amusement, and I never heard of one getting into a hobble.

During the winter (since the “cheap John” has been obliged to become a licensed auctioneer), some of them take shops and sell their goods by auction, or get up mock-auctions. I have been told by them that sometimes its a better game than “han-selling.”

The commencement of the “cheap John’s” season is at Lynn in Norfolk; there is a mart there commencing 14th February, it continues fourteen days. After this, there is Wisbeach, Spalding, Grantham, and other marts in Norfolk and Lincolnshire; which bring them up to Easter. At Easter there are many fairs--Manchester, Knott Mill, Blackburn, Darlington, Newcastle, &c., &c. The “cheap Johns” then disperse themselves through different parts of the country. Hill-fairs are considered the best; that is cattle-fairs, where there are plenty of farmers and country people. Hirings for servants are next to them. It may appear curious, but Sheffield and Birmingham fairs are two of the best for the “cheap John’s” business in England. There are two fairs at each place during the year. Sheffield, at Whitsuntide and November; Birmingham, Whitsuntide and September. Nottingham, Derby, Leeds, Newcastle, Bristol, Glasgow--in fact, where the greatest population is, the chances for business are considered the best, and if I may judge from the number of traders in this line, who attend the largest towns, I should say they succeed better than in smaller towns.

If we calculate that there are 100 “cheap Johns” in London and in the country, and they are more or less itinerant, and that they each take 4_l._ per day for nine months in the year, or 24_l._ per week; this amounts to 2,400_l._ per week, or about 90,000_l._ in nine months. Supposing their profits to be 20 per cent., it would leave 18,000_l._ clear income. Say that during the winter there are seventy-five following the business, and that their receipts amount to 15_l._ each per week, this amounts to 13,500_l._ additional; and, at the rate of 20 per cent. profit, comes to 2,700_l._,--making throughout the year the profits of the 100 “cheap Johns” 20,700_l._, or 207_l._ a man.

The “cheap Johns” seldom frequent the crowded thoroughfares of London. Their usual pitches in the metropolis are, King’s-cross, St. George’s-in-the-East, Stepney, round about the London Docks, Paddington, Kennington, and such like places.

THE CRIPPLED STREET-SELLER OF NUTMEG-GRATERS.

I now give an example of one of the classes driven to the streets by utter inability to labour. I have already spoken of the sterling independence of some of these men possessing the strongest claims to our sympathy and charity, and yet preferring to sell rather than beg. As I said before, many ingrained beggars certainly use the street trade as a cloak for alms-seeking, but as certainly many more, with every title to our assistance, use it as a means of redemption from beggary. That the nutmeg-grater seller is a noble example of the latter class, I have not the least doubt. I have made all due inquiries to satisfy myself as to his worthiness, and I feel convinced that when the reader looks at the portrait here given, and observes how utterly helpless the poor fellow is, and then reads the following plain unvarnished tale, he will marvel like me, not only at the fortitude which could sustain him under all his heavy afflictions, but at the resignation (not to say philosophy) with which he bears them every one. His struggles to earn his own living (notwithstanding his physical incapacity even to put the victuals to his mouth after he has earned them), are instances of a nobility of pride that are I believe without a parallel. The poor creature’s legs and arms are completely withered; indeed he is scarcely more than head and trunk. His thigh is hardly thicker than a child’s wrist. His hands are bent inward from contraction of the sinews, the fingers being curled up and almost as thin as the claws of a bird’s foot. He is unable even to stand, and cannot move from place to place but on his knees, which are shod with leather caps, like the heels of a clog, strapped round the joint; the soles of his boots are on the upper leathers, that being the part always turned towards the ground while he is crawling along. His countenance is rather handsome than otherwise; the intelligence indicated by his ample forehead is fully borne out by the testimony as to his sagacity in his business, and the mild expression of his eye by the statements as to his feeling for all others in affliction.

“I sell nutmeg-graters and funnels,” said the cripple to me; “I sell them at 1_d._ and 1-1/2_d._ a piece. I get mine of the man in whose house I live. He is a tinman, and makes for the street-trade and shops and all. I pay 7_d._ a dozen for them, and I get 12_d._ or 18_d._ a dozen, if I can when I sell them, but I mostly get only a penny a piece--it’s quite a chance if I have a customer at 1-1/2_d._ Some days I sell only three--some days not one--though I’m out from ten o’clock till six. The most I ever took was 3_s._ 6_d._ in a day. Some weeks I hardly clear my expenses--and they’re between 7_s._ and 8_s._ a week; for not being able to dress and ondress myself, I’m obligated to pay some one to do it for me--I think I don’t clear more than 7_s._ a week take one week with another. When I don’t make that much, I go without--sometimes friends who are kind to me give me a trifle, or else I should starve. As near as I can judge, I take about 15_s._ a week, and out of that I clear about 6_s._ or 7_s._ I pay for my meals as I have them--3_d._ or 4_d._ a meal. I pay every night for my lodging as I go in, if I can; but if not my landlady lets it run a night or two. I give her 1_s._ a week for my washing and looking after me, and 1_s._ 6_d._ for my lodging. When I do very well I have three meals a day, but it’s oftener only two--breakfast and supper--unless of Sunday. On a wet day when I can’t get out, I often go without food. I may have a bit of bread and butter give me, but that’s all--then I lie a-bed. I feel miserable enough when I see the rain come down of a week day, I can tell you. Ah, it is very miserable indeed lying in bed all day, and in a lonely room, without perhaps a person to come near one--helpless as I am--and hear the rain beat against the windows, and all that without nothing to put in your lips. I’ve done that over and over again where I lived before; but where I am now I’m more comfortable like. My breakfast is mostly bread and butter and tea; and my supper, bread and butter and tea with a bit of fish, or a small bit of meat. What my landlord and landlady has I share with them. I never break my fast from the time I go out in the morning till I come home--unless it is a halfpenny orange I buy in the street; I do that when I feel faint. I have only been selling in the streets since this last winter. I was in the workhouse with a fever all the summer. I was destitute afterwards, and obliged to begin selling in the streets. The Guardians gave me 5_s._ to get stock. I had always dealt in tin ware, so I knew where to go to buy my things. It’s very hard work indeed is street-selling for such as me. I can’t walk no distance. I suffer a great deal of pains in my back and knees. Sometimes I go in a barrow, when I’m travelling any great way. When I go only a short way I crawl along on my knees and toes. The most I’ve ever crawled is two miles. When I get home afterwards, I’m in great pain. My knees swell dreadfully, and they’re all covered with blisters, and my toes ache awful. I’ve corns all on top of them.

“Often after I’ve been walking, my limbs and back ache so badly that I can get no sleep. Across my lines it feels as if I’d got some great weight, and my knees are in a heat, and throb, and feel as if a knife was running into them. When I go up-stairs I have to crawl upon the back of my hands and my knees. I can’t lift nothing to my mouth. The sinews of my hands is all contracted. I am obliged to have things held to my lip for me to drink, like a child. I can use a knife and fork by leaning my arm on the table and then stooping my head to it. I can’t wash nor ondress myself. Sometimes I think of my helplessness a great deal. The thoughts of it used to throw me into fits at one time--very bad. It’s the Almighty’s will that I am so, and I must abide by it. People says, as they passes me in the streets, ‘Poor fellow, it’s a shocking thing;’ but very seldom they does any more than pity me; some lays out a halfpenny or a penny with me, but the most of ’em goes on about their business. Persons looks at me a good bit when I go into a strange place. I do feel it very much, that I haven’t the power to get my living or to do a thing for myself, but I never begged for nothing. I’d sooner starve than I’d do that. I never thought that people whom God had given the power to help theirselves ought to help me. I have thought that I’m as I am--obliged to go on my hands and knees, from no fault of my own. Often I’ve done that, and I’ve over and over again laid in bed and wondered why the Almighty should send me into the world in such a state; often I’ve done that on a wet day, with nothing to eat, and no friend to come a-nigh me. When I’ve gone along the streets, too, and been in pain, I’ve thought, as I’ve seen the people pass straight up, with all the use of their limbs, and some of them the biggest blackguards, cussing and swearing, I’ve thought, Why should I be deprived of the use of mine? and I’ve felt angry like, and perhaps at that moment I couldn’t bring my mind to believe the Almighty was so good and merciful as I’d heard say; but then in a minute or two afterwards I’ve prayed to Him to make me better and happier in the next world. I’ve always been led to think He’s afflicted me as He has for some wise purpose or another that I can’t see. I think as mine is so hard a life in this world, I shall be better off in the next. Often when I couldn’t afford to pay a boy, I’ve not had my boots off for four or five nights and days, nor my clothes neither. Give me the world I couldn’t take them off myself, and then my feet has swollen to that degree that I’ve been nearly mad with pain, and I’ve been shivering and faint, but still I was obliged to go out with my things; if I hadn’t I should have starved. Such as I am can’t afford to be ill--it’s only rich folks as can lay up, not we; for us to take to our beds is to go without food altogether. When I was without never a boy, I used to tie the wet towel round the back of one of the chairs, and wash myself by rubbing my face up against it. I’ve been two days without a bit of anything passing between my lips. I couldn’t go and beg for victuals--I’d rather go without. Then I used to feel faint, and my head used to ache dreadful. I used then to drink a plenty of water. The women sex is mostly more kinder to me than the men. Some of the men fancies, as I goes along, that I can walk. They often says to me, ‘Why, the sole of your boot is as muddy as mine;’ and one on ’em is, because I always rests myself on that foot--the other sole, you see, is as clean as when it was first made. The women never seem frightened on me. My trade is to sell brooms and brushes, and all kinds of cutlery and tin-ware. I learnt it myself. I never was brought up to nothing, because I couldn’t use my hands. Mother was a cook in a nobleman’s family when I were born. They say as I was a love-child. I was not brought up by mother, but by one of her fellow-servants. Mother’s intellects was so weak, that she couldn’t have me with her. She used to fret a great deal about me, so her fellow-servant took me when she got married. After I were born, mother married a farmer in middling circumstances. They tell me as my mother was frightened afore I was born. I never knew my father. He went over to Buonos Ayres, and kept an hotel there--I’ve heard mother say as much. No mother couldn’t love a child more than mine did me, but her feelings was such she couldn’t bear to see me. I never went to mother’s to live, but was brought up by the fellow-servant as I’ve told you of. Mother allowed her 30_l._ a-year. I was with her till two years back. She was always very kind to me--treated me like one of her own. Mother used to come and see me about once a-year--sometimes not so often: she was very kind to me then. Oh, yes; I used to like to see her very much. Whatever I wished for she’d let me have; if I wrote to her, she always sent me what I wanted. I was very comfortably then. Mother died four years ago; and when I lost her I fell into a fit--I was told of it all of a sudden. She and the party as I was brought up with was the only friends as I had in the world--the only persons as cared anything about a creature like me. I was in a fit for hours, and when I came to, I thought what would become of me: I knew I could do nothing for myself, and the only friend as I had as could keep me was gone. The person as brought me up was very good, and said, while she’d got a home I should never want; but, two years after mother’s death, she was seized with the cholera, and then I hadn’t a friend left in the world. When she died I felt ready to kill myself; I was all alone then, and what could I do--cripple as I was? She thought her sons and daughters as I’d been brought up with--like brothers and sisters--would look after me; but it was not in their power--they was only hard-working people. My mother used to allow so much a year for my schooling, and I can read and write pretty well.” (He wrote his name in my presence kneeling at the table; holding the pen almost as one might fancy a bird would, and placing the paper sideways instead of straight before him.) “While mother was alive, I was always foraging about to learn something unbeknown to her. I wanted to do so, in case mother should leave me without the means of getting a living. I used to buy old bedsteads, and take them to a man, and get him to repair them, and then I’d put the sacking on myself; I can hold a hammer somehow in my right hand. I used to polish them on my knees. I made a bench to my height out of two old chairs. I used to know what I should get for the bedsteads, and so could tell what I could afford to give the man to do up the parts as I couldn’t manage. It was so I got to learn something like a business for myself. When the person died as had brought me up, I could do a little; I had then got the means. Before her death I had opened a kind of shop for things in the general line; I sold tin-ware, and brass-work, and candlesticks, and fire-irons, and all old furniture, and gown-prints as well. I went into the tally business, and that ruined me altogether. I couldn’t get my money in; there’s a good deal owing to me now. Me and a boy used to manage the whole. I used to make all my account-books and everything. My lodgers didn’t pay me my rent, so I had to move from the house, and live on what stock I had. In my new lodging I went on as well as I could for a little while; but about eighteen months ago I could hold on no longer. Then I borrowed a little, and went hawking tin-ware and brushes in the country. I sold baking-dishes, Dutch ovens, roasting-jacks, skewers and gridirons, teapots and saucepans, and combs. I used to exchange sometimes for old clothes. I had a barrow and a boy with me; I used to keep him, and give him 1_s._ a week. I managed to get just a living that way. When the winter came on I gave it up; it was too cold. After that I was took bad with a fever; my stock had been all gone a little while before, and the boy had left because I couldn’t keep him, and I had to do all for myself. All my friends was dead, and I had no one to help me, so I was obligated to lay about all night in my things, for I couldn’t get them off alone; and that and want of food brought on a fever. Then I was took into the workhouse, and there I stopped all the summer, as I told you. I can’t say they treated me bad, but they certainly didn’t use me well. If I could have worked after I got better, I could have had tea; but ’cause I couldn’t do nothing, they gave me that beastly gruel morning and night. I had meat three times a week. They would have kept me there till now, but I would die in the streets rather than be a pauper. So I told them, if they would give me the means of getting a stock, I would try and get a living for myself. After refusing many times to let me have 10_s._, they agreed to give me 5_s._ Then I came out, but I had no home, and so I crawled about till I met with the people where I am now, and they let me sit up there till I got a room of my own. Then some of my friends collected for me about 15_s._ altogether, and I did pretty well for a little while. I went to live close by the Blackfriars-road, but the people where I lodged treated me very bad. There was a number of girls of the town in the same street, but they was too fond of their selves and their drink to give nothing. They used to buy things of me and never pay me. They never made game of me, nor played me any tricks, and if they saw the boys doing it they would protect me. They never offered to give me no victuals; indeed, I shouldn’t have liked to have eaten the food they got. After that I couldn’t pay my lodgings, and the parties where I lodged turned me out, and I had to crawl about the streets for four days and nights. This was only a month back. I was fit to die with pain all that time. If I could get a penny I used to go into a coffee-shop for half-a-pint of coffee, and sit there till they drove me out, and then I’d crawl about till it was time for me to go out selling. Oh! dreadful, dreadful, it was to be all them hours--day and night--on my knees. I couldn’t get along at all, I was forced to sit down every minute, and then I used to fall asleep with my things in my hand, and be woke up by the police to be pushed about and druv on by them. It seemed like as if I was walking on the bare bones of my knees. The pain in them was like the cramp, only much worse. At last I could bear it no longer, so I went afore Mr. Secker, the magistrate, at Union Hall, and told him I was destitute, and that the parties where I had been living kept my bed and the few things I had, for 2_s._ 6_d._ rent, that I owed them. He said he couldn’t believe that anybody would force me to crawl about the streets, for four days and nights, cripple as I was, for such a sum. One of the officers told him I was a honest and striving man, and the magistrate sent the officer, with the money, to get my things, but the landlady wouldn’t give them till the officer compelled her, and then she chucked my bed out into the middle of the street. A neighbour took it in for me and took care of it till I found out the tinman who had before let me sit up in his house. I should have gone to him at first, but he lived farther than I could walk. I am stopping with him now, and he is very kind to me. I have still some relations living, and they are well to do, but, being a cripple, they despise me. My aunt, my mother’s sister, is married to a builder, in Petersham, near Richmond, and they are rich people--having some houses of their own besides a good business. I have got a boy to wheel me down on a barrow to them, and asked assistance of them, but they will have nothing to do with me. They won’t look at me for my affliction. Six months ago they gave me half-a-crown. I had no lodgings nor victuals then; and that I shouldn’t have had from them had I not said I was starving and must go to the parish. This winter I went to them, and they shut the door in my face. After leaving my aunt’s, I went down to Ham Common, where my father-in-law lives, and there his daughter’s husband sent for a policeman to drive me away from the place. I told the husband I had no money nor food; but he advised me to go begging, and said I shouldn’t have a penny of them. My father-in-law was ill up-stairs at the time, but I don’t think he would have treated me a bit better--and all this they do because the Almighty has made me a cripple. I can, indeed, solemnly say, that there is nothing else against me, and that I strive hard and crawl about till my limbs ache enough to drive me mad, to get an honest livelihood. With a couple of pounds I could, I think, manage to shift very well for myself. I’d get a stock, and go into the country with a barrow, and buy old metal, and exchange tin ware for old clothes, and, with that, I’m almost sure I could get a decent living. I’m accounted a very good dealer.”

In answer to my inquiries concerning the character of this man, I received the following written communication:

“I have known C---- A---- twelve years; the last six years he has dealt with me for tinware. I have found him honest in all his dealings with me, sober and industrious.

“C---- H----, Tinman.”

From the writer of the above testimonial I received the following account of the poor cripple:--

“He is a man of generous a disposition, and very sensitive for the afflictions of others. One day while passing down the Borough he saw a man afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance shaking from head to foot, and leaning on the arm of a woman who appeared to be his wife.” The cripple told my informant that he should never forget what he felt when he beheld that poor man. “I thought,” he said, “what a blessing it is I am not like him.” Nor is the cripple, I am told, less independent than he is generous. In all his sufferings and privations he never pleads poverty to others; but bears up under the trials of life with the greatest patience and fortitude. When in better circumstances he was more independent than at present, having since, through illness and poverty, been much humbled.

“His privations have been great,” adds my informant. “Only two months back, being in a state of utter destitution and quite worn out with fatigue, he called at the house of a person (where my informant occupied a room) about ten o’clock at night, and begged them to let him rest himself for a short while, but the inhuman landlady and her son laid hold of the wretched man, the one taking him by the arms and the other by the legs, and literally hurled him into the street. The next morning,” my informant continued, “I saw the poor creature leaning against a lamp-post, shivering with the cold, and my heart bled for him; and since that he has been living with me.”

OF THE SWAG-SHOPS OF THE METROPOLIS.

By those who are not connected with the street trade, the proprietors of the swag-shops are often called “warehousemen” or “general dealers,” and even “slaughterers.” These descriptions apply but partially. “Warehousemen” or “general dealers” are vague terms, which I need not further notice. The wretchedly under-paid and over-worked shoe-makers, cabinet-makers and others call these places “slaughter-houses,” when the establishment is in the hands of tradesmen who buy their goods of poor workmen without having given orders for them. On Saturday afternoons pale-looking men may be seen carrying a few chairs, or bending under the weight of a cheffonier or a chest of drawers, in Tottenham-court Road, and thoroughfares of a similar character in all parts. These are “small masters,” who make or (as one man said to me, “No, sir, I don’t make these drawers, I put them together, it can’t be called making; it’s not workmanship”) who “put together” in the hastiest manner, and in any way not positively offensive to the eye, articles of household furniture. The “slaughterers” who supply all the goods required for the furniture of a house, buy at “starvation prices” (the common term), the artificer being often kept waiting for hours, and treated with every indignity. One East-end “slaughterer” (as I ascertained in a former inquiry) used habitually to tell that he prayed for wet Saturday afternoons, because it put 20_l._ extra into his pocket! This was owing to the damage sustained in the appearance of any painted, varnished, or polished article, by exposure to the weather; or if it had been protected from the weather, by the unwillingness of the small master to carry it to another slaughter-house in the rain. Under such circumstances--and under most of the circumstances of this unhappy trade--the poor workman is at the mercy of the slaughterer.

I describe this matter more fully than I might have deemed necessary, had I not found that both the “small masters” spoken of--for I called upon some of them again--and the street-sellers, very frequently confounded the “swag-shop” and the “slaughter-house.” The distinction I hold to be this:--The slaughterer buys as a rule, with hardly an exception, the furniture, or whatever it may be, made for the express purpose of being offered to him on speculation of sale. The swag shop-keeper orders his goods as a rule, and buys, as an exception, in the manner in which the slaughterer buys ordinarily. The slaughterer sells by retail; the swag-shop keeper only by wholesale.

Most of the articles, of the class of which I now treat, are “Brummagem made.” An experienced tradesman said to me: “All these low-priced metal things, fancy goods and all, which you see about, are made in Birmingham; in nineteen cases out of twenty at the least. They may be marked London, or Sheffield, or Paris, or any place--you can have them marked North Pole if you will--but they’re genuine Birmingham. The carriage is lower from Birmingham than from Sheffield--that’s one thing.”

The majority of the swag-shop proprietors are Jews. The wares which they supply to the cheap shops, the cheap John’s, and the street-sellers, in town and country, consist of every variety of article, apart from what is eatable, drinkable, or wearable, in which the trade class I have specified can deal. As regards what is wearable, indeed, such things as braces, garters, &c., form a portion of the stock of the swag-shop.

In one street (a thoroughfare at the east-end of London) are twenty-three of these establishments. In the windows there is little attempt at display; the design aimed at seems to be rather to crowd the window--as if to show the amplitude of the stores within, “the wonderful resources of this most extensive and universal establishment”--than to tempt purchasers by exhibiting tastefully what may have been tastefully executed by the artificer, or what it is desired should be held to be so executed.

In one of these windows the daylight is almost precluded from the interior by what may be called a perfect wall of “pots.” A street-seller who accompanied me called them merely “pots” (the trade term), but they were all pot ornaments. Among them were great store of shepherdesses, of greyhounds of a gamboge colour, of what I heard called “figures” (allegorical nymphs with and without birds or wreaths in their hands), very tall-looking Shaksperes (I did not see one of these windows without its Shakspere, a sitting figure), and some “pots” which seem to be either shepherds or musicians; from what I could learn, at the pleasure of the seller, the buyer, or the inquirer. The shepherd, or musician is usually seated under a tree; he wears a light blue coat, and yellow breeches, and his limbs, more than his body, are remarkable for their bulk; to call them merely fat does not sufficiently express their character, and in some “pots,” they are as short and stumpy as they are bulky. On my asking if the dogs were intended for Italian greyhounds, I was told, “No, they are German.” I alluded however to the species of the animal represented; my informant to the place of manufacture, for the pots were chiefly German. A number of mugs however, with the Crystal Palace very well depicted upon them, were unmistakably English. In another window of the same establishment was a conglomeration of pincushions, shaving-brushes, letter-stamps (all in bone), cribbage-boards and boxes (including a pack of cards), necklaces, and strings of beads.

The window of a neighbouring swag-shop presented, in the like crowding, and in greater confusion, an array of brooches (some in coloured glass to imitate rubies, topazes, &c., some containing portraits, deeply coloured, in purple attire, and red cheeks, and some being very large cameos), time-pieces (with and without glasses), French toys with moveable figures, telescopes, American clocks, musical boxes, shirt-studs, backgammon-boards, tea-trays (one with a nondescript bird of most gorgeous green plumage forming a sort of centrepiece), razor-strops writing-desks, sailors’ knives, hair-brushes, and tobacco-boxes.

Another window presented even a more “miscellaneous assortment;” dirks (apparently not very formidable weapons), a mess of steel pens, in brown-paper packages and cases, and of black-lead pencils, pipe-heads, cigar-cases, snuff-boxes, razors, shaving-brushes, letter-stamps, metal tea-pots, metal tea-spoons, glass globes with artificial flowers and leaves within the glass (an improvement one man thought on the old ornament of a reel in a bottle), Peel medals, Exhibition medals, roulette-boxes, scent bottles, quill pens with artificial flowers in the feathery part, fans, side-combs, glass pen-holders, and pot figures (caricatures) of Louis Philippe, carrying a very red umbrella, Marshal Haynau, with some instrument of torture in his hand, while over all boomed a huge English seaman, in yellow waistcoat and with a brick-coloured face.

Sometimes the furniture of a swag-shop window is less plentiful, but quite as heterogenous. In one were only American clocks, French toys (large), opera-glasses, knives and forks, and powder-flasks.

In some windows the predominant character is jewellery. Ear-drops (generally gilt), rings of all kinds, brooches of every size and shade of coloured glass, shawl-pins, shirt-studs, necklaces, bead purses, small paintings of the Crystal-palace, in “burnished ‘gold’ frames,” watch-guards, watch-seals (each with three impressions or mottoes), watch-chains and keys, “silver” tooth-picks, medals, and snuff-boxes. It might be expected that the jewellery shops would present the most imposing display of any; they are, on the contrary, among the dingiest, as if it were not worth the trouble to put clean things in the window, but merely what sufficed to characterise the nature of the trade carried on.

Of the twenty-three swag-shops in question, five were confined to the trade in all the branches of stationery. Of these I saw one, the large window of which was perfectly packed from bottom to top with note-paper, account and copy-books, steel-pens, pencils, sealing-wax, enamelled wafers (in boxes), ink-stands, &c.

Of the other shops, two had cases of watches, with no attempt at display, or even arrangement. “Poor things,” I was told by a person familiar with the trade in them, “fit only to offer to countrymen when they’ve been drinking at a fair, and think themselves clever.”

I have so far described the exterior of these street-dealers’ bazaars, the swag-shops, in what may be called their head-quarters. Upon entering some of these places of business, spacious rooms are seen to extend behind the shop or warehouse which opens to the street. Some are almost blocked up with what appears a litter of packing-cases, packages, and bales--but which are no doubt ordered systematically enough--while the shelves are crammed with goods in brown paper, or in cases or boxes. This uniformity of package, so to speak, has the effect of destroying the true character of these swag store-rooms; for they present the appearance of only three or four different kinds of merchandise being deposited on a range of shelves, when, perhaps, there are a hundred. In some of these swag-shops it appears certain, both from what fell under my own observation, and from what I learned through my inquiries of persons long familiar with such places, that the “litter” I have spoken of is disposed so as to present the appearance of an affluence of goods without the reality of possession.

In no warehouses (properly “swag,” or wholesale traders) is there any arranged display of the wares vended. “Ve don’t vant people here,” one street-seller had often heard a swag-shopkeeper say, “as looks about them, and says, ‘’Ow purty!--Vot nice things!’ Ve vants to sell, and not to show. Ve is all for bisness, and be d----d.” All of these places which I saw were dark, more or less so, in the interior, as if a customer’s inspection were uncared for.

Some of the swag-shop people present cards, or “circulars with prices,” to their street and other customers, calling attention to the variety of their wares. These circulars are not given without inquiry, as if it were felt that one must not be wasted. On one I find the following enumeration:--

Shopkeepers and Dealers supplied with the following Articles:--

CLOCKS--American, French, German, and English eight-day dials.

WATCHES--Gold and Silver.

MUSICAL BOXES--Two, Four, Six, and Eight Airs.

WATCH-GLASSES--Common Flint, Geneva, and Lunettes.

MAIN-SPRINGS--Blue and Straw-colour, English and Geneva.

WATCH MATERIALS--Of every description.

JEWELLERY--A general assortment.

SPECTACLES--Gold, Silver, Steel, Horn, and Metal Frames, Concave, Convex, Coloured, and Smoked Eyes.

TELESCOPES--One, two, and three draws.

MATHEMATICAL INSTRUMENTS.

COMBS--Side, Dressing, Curl, Pocket, Ivory, Small-Tooth, &c.

MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS--Violins, Violincellos, Bows, &c., Flutes, Clarionets, Trombones, Ophoclides, Cornopeans, French-Horns, Post-Horns, Trumpets, and Passes, Violin Tailboards, Pegs, and Bridges.

ACCORDIONS--French and German of every size and style.

It must not be thought that swag-shops are mainly repositories of “fancy” articles, for such is not the case. I have described only the “windows” and outward appearances of these places--the interior being little demonstrative of the business; but the bulkier and more useful articles of swag traffic cannot be exposed in a window. In the miscellaneous (or Birmingham and Sheffield) shops, however, the useful and the “fancy” are mixed together; as is shown by the following extracts from the Circular of one of the principal swag-houses. I give each head, with an occasional statement of prices. The firm describe themselves as “Wholesale, Retail, and Export Furnishing Ironmongers, General Hardwaremen, Manufacturers of Clocks, Watches, and Steel Pens, and Importers of Toys, Beads, and other Foreign Manufactures.”

Table Cutlery.

s. d. Common knives and forks, per doz. 2 0 Ivory-handle table knives and fork, per set of fifty-pieces 30 0 Tables, per doz. 15 0 Desserts, per doz. 11 3 Carvers, per pair 4 0

Fire-Irons.

Strong wrought-iron for kitchens, per set 2_s._ to 6 0 Ditto for parlours or libraries, bright pans, 4_s._ 6_d._ to 7 0

Fenders.

Kitchen fenders, 3 ft. long, with sliding bar 3 0 Green ditto, brass tops, for bed rooms 1 8

“Britannia Metal Goods” (tea-pots, &c.), “German Silver Goods” (tea-spoons, 1_s._ to 2_s._ per dozen, &c.).

Bellows.

Kitchen, each 10_d._ to 2 0 Parlour ditto, brass pipes and nails 2_s._ 3_d._ to 3 0

Japanned goods, brass goods, iron saucepans, oval iron pots, iron tea-kettles, &c., iron stew-pans, &c. The prices here run very systematically:--

One quart 1 2 Three pints 1 8 Two quarts 2 0 Three quarts 3 0 Four quarts 3 9 Five quarts 4 0

Patent enamelled saucepans, oval tin boilers, tin saucepans, tea-kettles, coffee-pots. In all these useful articles the prices range in the same way as in the iron stew-pans. Copper goods (kettles, coal-scoops, &c.), tin fish-kettles, dish-covers, rosewood workboxes, glass, brushes, (tooth, hair, clothes, scrubbing, stove, shoe, japanned hearth, banister, plate, carpet, and dandy), tools, plated goods (warranted silver edges), snuffers, beads, musical instruments (accordions from 1_s._ to 5_s._, &c.). Then come dials and clocks, combs, optics, spectacles, eye-glasses, telescopes, opera glasses, each 10_d._ to 10_s._, China ornaments, lamps, sundries (these I give verbatim, to show the nature of the trade), crimping and goffering-machines, from 14_s._, looking-glasses, pictures, &c., beads of every kind, watch-guards, shaving-boxes, guns, pistols, powder-flasks, belts, percussion caps, &c., corkscrews, 6_d._ to 2_s._, nut-cracks, 6_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._, folding measures, each 2_s._ to 4_s._, silver spoons, haberdashery, skates per pair 2_s._ to 10_s._, carpet bags, each 3_s._ to 10_s._, egg-boilers, tapers, flat and box irons, Italian irons and heaters, earthenware jugs, metal covers, tea-pots, plaited straw baskets, sieves, wood pails, camera-obscuras, medals, amulets, perfumery and fancy soaps of all kinds, mathematical instruments, steel pens, silver and German silver patent pencil-cases and leads, snuff-boxes “in great variety,” strops, ink, slates, metal eyelet-holes and machines, padlocks, braces, belts, Congreves, lucifers, fuzees, pocket-books, bill-cases, bed-keys, and a great variety of articles too numerous to mention.

Notwithstanding the specific character and arrangement of the “Circulars with prices,” it is common enough for the swag-shop proprietors to intimate to any one likely to purchase that those prices are not altogether to be a guidance, as thirty-five per cent. discount is allowed on the amount of a ready-money purchase. One of the largest “swags” made such an allowance to a street-seller last week.

The swag-shops (of which I state the numbers in a parenthesis) are in Houndsditch (their principal locality) (23), Minories (4), Whitechapel (2), Ratcliffe-highway (20), Shoreditch (1), Long-lane, Smithfield (4), Fleet-lane (2), Holywell-street, Strand (1), Tothill-street (4), Compton-street, Soho (1), Hatton-garden (2), Clerkenwell (10), Kent-street, Borough (8), New-cut (6), Blackman-street (2), Tooley-street (3), London-road (3), Borough-road (1), Waterloo-road (4)--in all 101; but a person who had been upwards of twenty years a frequenter of these places counted up fifty others, many of them in obscure courts and alleys near Houndsditch, Ratcliffe Highway, &c., &c. These “outsiders” are generally of a smaller class than those I have described; “and I can tell you, sir,” the same man said, “some of them--ay, and some of the big ones, too--are real swag-shops still,--partly so, that is; you understand me, sir.” The word “swag,” I should inform my polite readers, means in slang language, “plunder.”

It may be safely calculated, then, that there are 150 swag-shops to which the different classes of street-sellers resort for the purchase of stock. Among these establishments are pot swag, stationery swag, haberdashery swag, jewellery swag, and miscellaneous swag--the latter comprise far more than half of the entire number, and constitute the warehouses which are described by their owners as “Birmingham and Sheffield,” or “English and Foreign,” or “English and German.” It is in these last-mentioned “swags” that the class I now treat of--the street-sellers of metal manufactures--find the commodities of their trade. To this, however, there is one exception. Tins for household use are not sold at the general swag-shops; but “fancy tins,” such as japanned and embellished trays, are vended there extensively. The street-sellers of this order are supplied at the “tin-shops,”--the number of the wholesale tin-men supplying the street-sellers is about fifty. The principle on which the business is conducted is precisely that of the more general swag-shop; but I shall speak of them when I treat of the street-sellers of tins.

An intelligent man, who had been employed in different capacities in some of the principal swag-shops, told me of one which had been carried on by the same family, from father to son, for more than seventy years. In the largest of the “swags” about 200 “hands” are employed, in the various capacities of salesmen, buyers, clerks, travellers, unpackers, packers, porters, &c., &c. On some mornings twenty-five large packages--some of small articles entirely--are received from the carriers. In one week, when my informant assisted in “making up the books,” the receipts were upwards of 3000_l._ “In my opinion, sir,” he said, “and it’s from an insight into the business, Mr. ----’s profit on that 3000_l._ was not less than thirty-five per cent.; for he’s a great capitalist, and pays for everything down upon the nail; that’s more than 1000_l._ profit in a week. Certainly it was an extra week, and there’s the 200 hands to pay,--but that wouldn’t range higher than 300_l._, indeed, not so high; and there’s heavy rent and taxes, and rates, no doubt, and he (the proprietor is a Jew) is a fair man to the trade, and not an uncharitable man--but he will drive a good bargain where it’s possible; so considering everything, sir, the profits must be very great, and they are mostly made out of poor buyers, who sell it to poor people in the streets, or in small shops. It’s a wonderful trade.”

From the best information I could obtain I come to the conclusion that, including small and large shops, 3000_l._ yearly is the average receipt of each--or, as it is most frequently expressed, that sum is “turned over” by the swag-shop keepers yearly. There is great competition in the trade, and much of what is called “cutting,” or one tradesman underselling another. The profit consequently varies from twenty to thirty-five and (rarely) fifty per cent. Sometimes a swag-shop proprietor is “hung-up” with a stock the demand for which has ceased, and he must dispose of it as “a job lot,” to make room for other goods, and thus is necessarily “out of pocket.” The smaller swag-shops do not “turn over” 500_l._ a year. The calculation I have given shows an outlay, yearly, of 450,000_l._ at the swag-shops of London; “but,” said a partner in one of these establishments, “what proportion of the goods find their way into the streets, what to the shops, what to the country, and what for shipping, I cannot form even a guess, for we never ask a customer for what purpose he wants the goods, though sometimes he will say, ‘I must have what is best for such or such a trade.’ Say half a million turned over in a year, sir, by the warehousemen who sell to the street-people, among others, and you’re within the mark.”

I found the street-sellers characterize the “swags” as hard and grinding men, taking every advantage “in the way of trade.” There is, too, I was told by a man lately employed in a swag-shop a constant collision of clamour and bargaining, not to say of wits, between the smarter street-sellers--the pattering class especially--and the swag-men with whom they are familiar.

The points in which the “swag-shops” resemble the “slaughter-houses,” are in the traffic in work-boxes, desks, and dressing-cases.

OF THE LIFE OF A CHEAP-JOHN.

The following narrative, relative to this curious class, who, in many respects, partake of the characteristics which I have pointed out as proper to the mountebank of old, was taken from one of the fraternity. It may be cited as an example of those who are bred to the streets:--“My father and mother,” said he, “both followed a travelling occupation, and were engaged in vending different things, from the old brimstone matches up to clothes lines, clothes props, and clothes pegs. They never got beyond these,--the other articles were thread, tapes, nutmeg graters, shoe-ties, stay-laces, and needles. My father, my mother used to tell me, was a great scholard, and had not always been a travelling vagrant. My mother had never known any other life. I, however, did not reap any benefit from my father’s scholarship. At a very early age, five or six perhaps, I recollect myself a poor little neglected wretch, sent out each day with a roll of matches, with strict injunctions not to come home without selling them, and to bring home a certain sum of money, upon pain of receiving a sound thrashing, which threat was mostly put into execution whenever I failed to perform the task imposed upon me. My father seldom worked, that is, seldom hawked, but my mother, poor thing, had to travel and work very hard to support four of us--my father, myself, and a sister, who is since dead. I was but little assistance, and sometimes when I did not bring home the sum required, she would make it up, and tell my father I had been a good boy. My father was an inveterate drinker, and a very violent temper. My mother, I am sorry to say, used to drink too, but I believe that ill-usage drove her to it. They led a dreadful life; I scarcely felt any attachment for them; home we had none, one place was as good another to us. I left my parents when scarcely eight years old. I had received a thrashing the day before for being a defaulter in my sale, and I determined the following morning to decamp; and accordingly, with my nine-pennyworth of matches (the quantity generally allotted me), I set out to begin the world upon my own account. Although this occurred 25 years ago, I have never met my parents since. My father, I heard, died a few years after my leaving, but my mother I know not whether she be living or dead. I left my parents at Dover, and journeyed on to London. I knew there were lodging-houses for travellers in every town, some of them I had stopped at with my father and mother. I told the people of these houses that my parents would arrive the following day, and paid my 2_d._ for the share of a third, fourth, fifth, or even sixth part of a bed, according to the number of children who inhabited the lodging-house upon that particular night. My matches I could always sell if I tried, but I used to play my time away, and many times night has arrived before I thought of effecting sales sufficient to pay my expenses at the beggar’s hotel. Broken victuals I got in abundance, indeed more than sufficient for my own consumption. The money I received for the matches, after paying my lodging, and purchasing a pennyworth of brimstone to make more (the wood I begged at the carpenters), I gambled away at cards. Yes, young as I was, I understood Blind Hookey. I invariably lost; of course I was cheated.

“I remained in a lodging house in Mill-lane, Deptford, for two years, discontinued the match-selling, and, having a tidy voice, took to hawking songs through the public-houses. The sailors used to ask me to sing, and there were few days that I did not accumulate 2_s._ 6_d._, and from that to 4_s._, especially when I chose to be industrious; but my love of pitch and toss and blind hookey always kept me poor. I often got into debt with my landlady, and had no difficulty in doing so, for I always felt a pride in paying. From selling the printed songs, I imbibed a wish to learn to read, and, with the assistance of an old soldier, I soon acquired sufficient knowledge to make out the names of each song, and shortly afterwards I could study a song and learn the words without any one helping me. I stopped in Deptford until I was something more than twelve years old. I had then laid the songs aside, and taken to hawking small wares, tapes, thread, &c.; and in the winter season I was a buyer of rabbit and hare skins. I kept at this for about three years, sometimes entirely without a stock. I had run it out, perhaps gambled it away; and at such times I suffered great privations. I never could beg. I have often tried, but never could. I have approached a house with a begging intention, knocked at the door, and when it has been opened I have requested a drink of water. When I was about 16 I joined in partnership with a man who used to make phosphorus boxes. I sold them for him. A piece of phosphorus was stuck in a tin tube, the match was dipped into the phosphorus, and it would ignite by friction. I was hawking these boxes in Norwich, when the constable considered they were dreadful affairs, and calculated to encourage and assist thieves and burglars. He took me before the magistrate, at the beak’s own private house, and he being equally horrified, I was sent to prison for a month. I have often thought since that the proceeding was illegal. What would be said now if a man was to be sent to jail for selling lucifer matches? In Norwich prison I associated with the rest, and if I had been inclined to turn thief I had plenty of opportunities and offers of gratuitous instruction. The separate or silent system was not in vogue then. I worked on the treadmill. Dinner was allowed to be sent in on the Sunday by the prisoner’s friends. My dinner was sent in on the first Sunday by the man I sold the boxes for, as it was on the second, third, and fourth; but I had lost it before I received it. I had always gambled it away, for there were plenty of opportunities of doing so in the prisons then. On leaving the jail I received 1_s._; with this I purchased some songs and travelled to Yarmouth. I could do best among sailors. After a few weeks I had accumulated about 8_s._, and with that sum I purchased some hardware at the swag-shop, commenced hawking, and cut the vocal department altogether; still I gambled and kept myself in poverty. In the course of time, however, I had amassed a basket of goods, worth, perhaps, 3_l._ I gambled and lost them all in one night. I was so downcast and unhappy from this circumstance, that it caused me to reflect seriously, and I made an oath that I never would gamble again. I have kept it, and have reason to bless the day that I made so good a resolution. After losing my basket of goods, the winner gave me articles amounting to a few shillings, and I began the world once more. Shortly afterwards I commenced rag gatherer, and changed my goods for old rags, of course not refusing cash in payment. My next step was to have some bills printed, whereon I requested all thrifty wives to look out their old rags or old metal, or old bones, &c.; stating at the bottom that the bill would be called for, and that a good price in ready money would be given for all useless lumber, &c. Some months at this business realized me a pretty sum of money. I was in possession of nearly 5_l._ Then I discontinued the rag-gathering; not that the trade was declining, but I did not like it--I was ambitious. I purchased a neat box, and started to sell a little Birmingham jewellery. I was now respectably dressed, was getting a living, and had entirely left off stopping at common lodging-houses; but I confined my visits to small villages--I was afraid of the law; and as I was pursuing my calling near Wakefield, a constable inquired for my hawker’s licence. I had none to produce. He took me into custody, and introduced me to a magistrate, who committed me to prison for a month, and took away my box of goods. I endured the month’s imprisonment upon the silent system; they cut my hair short; and at the expiration of the term I was thrust out upon the world heart-broken, without a shilling, to beg, to steal, or to starve.

“I proceeded to Leeds, the fair was on at this time. I got engaged to assist a person, from whom I had been accustomed occasionally to purchase goods. He was a ‘Cheap-John.’ In the course of the day he suggested that I should have a try at the hand-selling. I mounted the platform, and succeeded beyond my own expectations or that of my master. He offered me a regular engagement, which I accepted. At times I would help him sell, and at other times I hawked with his licence. I had regular wages, besides all I could get above a certain price that he placed upon each of the goods. I remained with this person some fifteen months, at the end of which period I commenced for myself, having saved nearly 25_l._ I began at once the hand-selling, and purchased a hawker’s licence, which enabled me to sell without danger. Then I always called at the constable’s house, and gave a louder knock at his door than any other person’s, proud of my authority, and assured of my safety. At first I borrowed an empty cart, in which I stood and sold my wares. I could chaff as well as the best, and was as good a salesman as most of them. After that I purchased a second-hand cart from a person who had lately started a waggon. I progressed and improved in circumstances, and at last bought a very handsome waggon for myself. I have now a nice caravan, and good stock of goods, worth at least 500_l._ Money I have but little. I always invest it in goods. I am married, and have got a family. I always travel in the summer, but remain at home during the winter. My wife never travels. She remains behind, and manages a little swag-shop, which always turns in at least the family expenses.”

THE STREET-SELLERS OF CUTLERY.

The cutlery sold in the streets of London consists of razors, pen-knives, pocket-knives, table and carving-knives and forks, scissors, shears, nail-filers, and occasionally (if ordered) lancets. The knives are of various kinds--such as sailors’ knives (with a hole through the handle), butchers’ knives, together with choppers and steels (sold principally at Newgate and Billinsgate Markets, and round about the docks), oyster and fish-knives (sold principally at Billinsgate and Hungerford Markets), bread-knives (hawked at the bakers’ shops), ham and beef knives (hawked at the ham and beef shops), cheese-knives with tasters, and ham-triers, shoemakers’ knives, and a variety of others. These articles are usually purchased at the “swag-shops,” and the prices of them vary from 2-1/2_d._ to 1_s._ 1-1/2_d._ each. They are bought either by the dozen, half-dozen, or singly, according to the extent of the street-seller’s stock-money. Hence it would appear that the street-seller of cutlery can begin business with only a few pence; but it is only when the swag-shop keeper has known the street-seller that he will consent to sell one knife alone “to sell again;” to street-sellers with whom he is unacquainted, he will not vend less than half-a-dozen. Even where the street-seller is known, he has, if “cracked-up,” to beg hard, I am told, before he can induce the warehouseman to let him have only one article. “The swag-shops won’t be bothered with it,” say the men--“what are our troubles to them? if the rain starves us out and makes us eat up all our stock-money, what is it to such folks? they wouldn’t let us have even a row of pins without the money for ’em--no, not if we was to drop down dead for want of bread in their shops. They have been deceived by such a many that now they won’t listen to none.” I subjoin a list of the prices paid and received by the street-sellers of cutlery for the principal articles in which they deal:

Lowest Sold at Highest Sold at price paid in the price paid in the per streets. per streets. half-dozen. half-dozen.

s. d. s. d. s. d. s. d. Table-knives and forks 1 3 2 0 5 0 7 6 Ditto, without forks 0 9 1 3 4 0 6 0 Pocket-knives 1 0 1 6 4 0 6 0 Pen-knives 1 9 2 6 2 6 3 9 Razors 1 9 2 6 5 0 7 6 Scissors 0 3-1/2 0 6 1 9 2 6

Their usual rate of profit is 50 per cent., but rather than refuse a ready sale the street cutlery-seller will often take much less. Many of the sellers only pursue the trade for a few weeks in the year. A number of the Irish labourers take to it in the winter-time when they can get no work. Some few of the sellers are countrymen, but these mostly follow the business continuously. “I don’t see as there is hardly one upon the list as has ever been a cutler by trade,” said one street-seller to me, “and certainly none of the cutlery-sellers have ever belonged to Sheffield--they may say so, but its only a dodge.” The cutlery street-sellers are not one-quarter so numerous as they were two years back. “The reason is,” I am told, “that things are got so bad a man can’t live by the trade--mayhap he has to walk three miles now before he can sell for 1_s._ a knife that has cost him 8-1/2_d._, and then mayhap he is faint, and what’s 3-1/2_d._, sir, to keep body and soul together, when a man most likely has had no victuals all the day before.” If they had a good bit of stock they might perhaps get a crust, they say. “Things within the last two or three years,” to quote the words of one of my informants, “have been getting much worse in the streets; ’specially in the cutlery line. I can’t give no account for it, I’m sure, sir; the sellers have not been half as many as they were. What’s become of them that’s gone, I can’t tell; they’re in the workhouse, I dare say.” But, notwithstanding this decrease in the number of sellers, there is a greater difficulty to vend their goods now than formerly. “It’s all owing to the times, that’s all I can say. People, shopkeepers, and all says to me, I can’t tell why things is so bad, and has been so bad in trade; but so they is. We has to walk farther to sell our goods, and people beat us down so terrible hard, that we can’t get a penny out of them when we do sell. Sometimes they offers me 9_d._, yes, and often 6_d._ for an 8-1/2_d._ knife; and often enough 4_d._ for one that stands you in 3-3/4_d._--a 1/4_d._ profit, think of that, sir. Then they say, ‘Well, my man, will you take my money?’ and so as to make you do so, they’ll flash it before your eyes, as if they knew you was a starving, and would be sure to be took in by the sight of it. Yes, sir, it is a very hard life, and we has to put up with a good deal--a good deal--starvation and hard-dealing, and insults and knockings about, and all. And then you see the swag-shops is almost as hard on us as the buyers. The swag-men will say, if you merely makes a remark, that a knife they’ve sold you is cracked in the handle, ‘Oh, is it; let me see whereabouts;’ and when you hands it to ’em to show it ’em, they’ll put it back where they took it from, and tell you, ‘You’re too particular by half, my man. You’d better go and get your goods somewhere else; here take your money, and go on about your business, for we won’t sarve you at all.’ They’ll do just the same with the scissors too, if you complains about their being a bit rusty. ‘Go somewhere else,’ they’ll say, ‘We won’t sarve you.’ Ah, sir, that’s what it is to be a poor man; to have your poverty flung in your teeth every minute. People says, ‘to be poor and seem poor is the devil;’ but to be poor, and be treated like a dog merely because you are poor, surely is ten thousand times worse. A street-seller now-a-days is looked upon as a ‘cadger,’ and treated as one. To try to get a living for one’s self is to do something shameful in these times.”

The man then gave me the following history of himself. He was a kindly-looking and hearty old man. He had on a ragged fustian jacket, over which he wore a black greasy-looking and tattered oilskin coat--the collar of this was torn away, and the green baize lining alone visible. His waistcoat was patched in every direction, while his trousers appeared to be of corduroy; but the grease and mud was so thick upon them, that it was difficult to tell of what material they were made. His shoes--or rather what remained of them--were tied on his feet with pieces of string. His appearance altogether denoted great poverty.

“My father was a farmer, sir. He had two farms, about 800 acres in all. I was one of eleven (ten sons and one daughter). Seven years before my father’s death he left his farm, and went to live on his money. He had made a good bit at farming; but when he died it was all gone, and we was left to shift as we could. I had little or no education. My brothers could read and write, but I didn’t take to it; I went a bird’s-nesting, boy-like, instead, so that what little I did larn I have forgot. I am very sorry for that now. I used to drive the plough, and go a harrowing for father. I was brought up to nothing else. When father died, I thought as I should like to see London. I was a mere lad--about 20--and so I strolled up to town. I had 10_s._ with me, and that, with a bundle, was all that I possessed in the world. When I got to London I went to lodge at a public-house--the Red Lion--in Great Wild-street; and while I was there I sought about for work, but could not get any; when all was gone, I was turned out into the streets, and walked about for two days and two nights, without a bed, or a bit to eat, unless what I picked out of the gutter, and eat like a dog--orange-peel and old cabbage-stumps, indeed anything I could find. When I was very hard put to it, I was coming down Drury-lane, and I looked in, quite casual like, to ask for a job of work at the shop of Mr. Bolton, the needle-maker from Redditch. I told him as how I was nigh starving, and would do anything to get a crust; I didn’t mind what I put my hand to. He said he would try me, and gave me two packets of needles to sell--they was the goolden-eyed ones of that time of day--and he said when I had got rid of them I was to come back to him, and I should have two packets more. He told me the price to ask--sixpence a paper--and away I went like a sand-boy, and got rid of the two in an hour and a half. Then I went back, and when I told him what I’d done, he shook hands with me, and said, as he burst out laughing, “Now, you see I’ve made a man of you.” Oh, he was an uncommon nice gentleman! Then he told me to keep the shilling I had taken, and said he would trust me with two more packets. I sold them, and two others besides, that day. Then, he says, ‘I shall give you something else,’ and he let me have two packets of tailors’ needles and half a dozen of tailors’ thimbles. He told me how to sell them, and where to go, and on them I did better. I went round to the tailors’ shops and sold a good lot, but at last they stopped me, because I was taking the bread out of the mouths of the poor blind needle-sellers what supplies the journeymen tailors at the West-end. Then Mr. Bolton sent me down to one of his relations, a Mr. Crooks, in Fetter Lane, who was a Sheffield man, and sold cutlery to the hawkers; and Mr. Crooks and Mr. Bolton sot me up between them, and so I’ve followed the line ever since. I dare say I shall continue in it to my dying day. After I got fairly set agoing, I used to make--take good and bad, wet and dry days together--18_s._ a week; three shillings a day was what I calculated on at the least, and to do that I was obligated to take between 2_l._ and 3_l._ a week, or about eight or nine shillings each day. I went on doing this for upwards of thirty year. I have been nearly forty years, altogether, in the streets, selling cutlery. I did very tidy till about 4 years back--I generally made from 18_s._ to 1_l._ a week up to that time. I used to go round the country--to Margate, Brighton, Portsmouth--I mostly travelled by the coast, calling at all the sea-port towns, for I always did best among the sailors. I went away every Spring time, and came to London again at the fall of the year. Sixteen year ago, I married the widow of a printer--a pressman--she had no money, but you see I had no home, and I thought I should be more comfortable, and so I have been--a great deal more comfortable--and so I should be now, if things hadn’t got so bad. Four year ago, as I was a telling you, it was just after the railways had knocked off work, things began to get uncommon bad--before then, I had as good as 30_s._ or 40_s._ stock, and when things got slack, it went away, little by little. I couldn’t make profit enough to support me and my old woman--she has got the rheumatics and can’t earn me a halfpenny or a farden in the world; she hasn’t done so for years. When I didn’t make enough to live upon, of course I was obligated to break into my stock; so there it kept going shilling by shilling, and sixpence by sixpence, until I had got nothing left to work upon--not a halfpenny. You see, four or five months ago, I was took very bad with the rheumatic fever and gout. I got wet through in the streets, and my clothes dried on me, and the next day I was taken bad with pains in my limbs, and then everything that would fetch me a penny went to the pawn-shop; all my own and my old woman’s clothes went to get us food--blankets, sheets and all. I never would go nigh the parish; I couldn’t bring myself to have the talk about it. When I got well and out into the streets again, I borrowed 2_s._ or 3_s._ of my landlady--I have lived with her these three years--to get my stock again, but you see that got me so few things, that I couldn’t fetch myself up. I lost the greater portion of my time in going backards and forrards to the shop to get fresh goods as fast as I sold them, and so what I took wasn’t enough to earn the commonest living for me and my missus. Since December we have been nearly starving, and that’s as true as you have got the pen in your very hand. Sunday after Sunday we have been without a bit of dinner, and I have laid a-bed all day because we have had no coal, and then been obligated to go out on Monday morning without a bit of victuals between my lips. I’ve been so faint I couldn’t hardly walk. I’ve picked the crusts off the tables of the tap-rooms where I have been to hawk my goods, and put them in my pocket to eat them on the sly. Wet and dry I’m obligated to be out; let it come down ever so hard I must be in it, with scarcely a bit of shoe, and turned 60 years old, as I am. Look here, sir,” he said, holding up his foot; “look at these shoes, the soles is all loose, you see, and let water. On wet days I hawk my goods to respectable shops; tap-rooms is no good, decent people merely get insulted there. But in most of the shops as I goes to people tells me, ‘My good man it is as much as we can do to keep ourselves and our family in these cutting times.’ Now, just to show you what I done last week. Sunday, I laid a-bed all day and had no dinner. Monday, I went out in the morning without a morsel between my lips, and with only 8-1/2_d._ for stock-money; with that I bought a knife and sold it for a shilling, and then I got another and another after that, and that was my day’s work--three times 3-1/2_d._ or 10-1/2_d._ in all, to keep the two of us. Tuesday, I sold a pair of small scissors and two little pearl-handled knives, at 6_d._ each article, and cleared 10-1/2_d._ on the whole, and that is all I did. Wednesday, I sold a razor-strop for 6_d._, a four-bladed knife for a shilling, and a small hone for 6_d._; by these I cleared 10_d._ altogether. Thursday, I sold a pair of razors for a shilling, clearing by the whole 11-1/2_d._ Friday, I got rid of a pair of razors for 1_s._ 9_d._, and got 9_d._ clear.” I added up the week’s profits and found they amounted to 4_s._ 3-1/2_d._ “That’s about right,” said the man, “out of that I shall have to pay 1_s._ for my week’s rent; we’ve got a kitchen, so that I leave you to judge how we two can live out of what’s remaining.” I told him it would’nt average quite 6_d._ a day. “That’s about it,” he replied, “we have half a loaf of bread a day, and that thank God is only five farthings now. This lasts us the day, with two-penny-worth of bits of meat that my old woman buys at a ham-shop, where they pare the hams and puts the parings by on plates to sell to poor people; and when she can’t get that, she buys half a sheep’s head, one that’s three or four days old, for then they sells ’em to the poor for 1-1/2_d._ the half; and these with 3/4_d._ worth of tea, and 1/2_d._ worth of sugar, 1/4_d._ for a candle, 1_d._ of coal--that’s seven pounds--and 3/4_d._ worth of coke--that’s half a peck--makes up all we gets.” These items amount to 6-1/2_d._ in all. “That’s how we do when we can get it, and when we can’t, why we lays in bed and goes without altogether.”

OF THE BLIND STREET-SELLERS OF TAILORS’ NEEDLES, ETC.

It is customary with many trades, for the journeymen to buy such articles as they require in their business of those members of their craft who have become incapacitated for work, either by old age, or by some affliction. The tailors--the shoe-makers--the carpenters--and many others do this. These sellers are, perhaps, the most exemplary instances of men driven to the streets, or to hawking for a means of living; and they, one and all, are distinguished by that horror of the workhouse which I have before spoken of as constituting a peculiar feature in the operative’s character. At present I purpose treating of the street-sellers of needles and “trimmings” to the tailors.

There are, I am informed, two dozen “broken-down” journeymen tailors pursuing this avocation in and around London. “There may be more,” said one who had lost his sight stitching, “but I get my information from the needle warehouse, where we all buy our goods; and the lady there told me she knew as many as twenty-four hawkers who were once tailors. These are all either decayed journeymen, or their widows. Some are incapacitated by age, being between sixty and seventy years old; the greater part of the aged journeymen, however, are inmates of the tailors’ almshouses. I am not aware,” said my informant, “of there being more than one very old man hawking needles to the tailors, though there may be many that I know nothing about. The one I am acquainted with is close upon eighty, and he is a very respectable man, much esteemed in St. James’s and St. George’s; he sells needles, and ‘London Labour and the London Poor’ to the journeymen: he is very feeble indeed, and can scarcely get along.” Of the two dozen needle-sellers above mentioned, there are only six who confine their “rounds” solely to the metropolis. Out of these six my informant knew two who were blind beside himself (one of these sells to the journeymen in the city). There are other blind tailors who were formerly hawkers of needles, but being unable to realize a subsistence thereby, have been obliged to become inmates of the workhouses; others have recently gained admission into the almshouses. Last February, I am assured, there were two blind needle-sellers, and two decrepit, in St. James’s workhouse. There are, moreover, two widows selling tailors’ needles in London. One of these, I am told, is wretchedly poor, being “eat up with the rheumatics, and scarcely able to move”--she is the relict of a blind journeyman, and well known in St. James’s. The other widow is now in St. Pancras Workhouse, having been unable, to use the words of my informant, “to get anything to keep life and soul together at the needle trade;” she, too, I am told, is well known to the journeymen. The tailors’ needle-sellers confining themselves more particularly to London consist of, at present, one old man, three blind, one paralyzed, and one widow; besides these, there are now in the alms-houses, two decrepit and one paralyzed; and one widow in the workhouse, all of whom, till recently, were needle-sellers, and originally connected with the trade.

“That is all that I believe are now in London,” said one to me, “I should, I think, know if there were more; for it is not from one place we get our articles, but many; and there I hear that six is about the number of tailors’ hawkers in town; the rest of the two dozen hawkers that I spoke of go a little way out into the suburbs. The six, however, stick to London altogether.” The needle-sellers who go into the country, I am told, travel as far as Reading, westward, and to Gravesend, in the opposite direction, or Brentwood, in Essex, and they will keep going back’ards and for’ards to the metropolis immediately their stock is exhausted. These persons sell not only tailors’ needles, but women’s needles as well, and staylaces and cottons, and small ware in general, which they get from Shepherd’s, in Compton Street; they have all been tailors, and are incapacitated from labour, either by old age or some affliction. There was one widow of a tailor among the number, but it is believed she is now either too old to continue her journeys, or else that she is deceased. The town-sellers confine their peregrinations mostly to the parishes of St. James’s and St. George’s (my informant was not aware that any went even into Marylebone). One travels the City, while the other five keep to the West End; they all sell thimbles, needles, inch-measures, bodkins, inch sticks, scissars (“when they can get them,” I was told, “and that’s very seldom”), and bees’-wax, basting cotton, and, many of them, publications. The publications vended by these men are principally the cheap periodicals of the day, and two of these street-sellers, I am informed, do much better with the sale of publications than by the “trimmings.” “They get money, sir,” said one man to me, “while we are starving. They have their set customers and have only to go round and leave the paper, and then to get their money on the Monday morning.”

The tailors’ hawkers buy their trimmings mostly at the retail shops. They have not stock-money sufficient, I am assured, to purchase at the wholesale houses, for “such a thing as a paper of needles large tradesmen don’t care about of selling us poor men.” They tell me that if they could buy wholesale they could get their goods one-fourth cheaper, and to be “obligated” to purchase retail is a great drawback on their profits. They call at the principal tailors’ workshops, and solicit custom of the journeymen; they are almost all known to the trade, both masters and men, and, having no other means of living, they are allowed to enter the masters’ shops, though some of the masters, such as Allen, in Bond-street; Curlewis, Jarvis, and Jones, in Conduit-street, and others, refuse the poor fellows even this small privilege. The journeymen treat them very kindly, the needle-sellers tell me, and generally give them part of the provisions they have brought with them to the shop. If it was not for this the needle-sellers, I am assured, could hardly live at all. “There’s that boy there,” said a blind tailor, speaking of the youth who had led him to my house, and who sat on the stool fast asleep by the fire,--“I’m sure he must have starved this winter if it hadn’t been for the goodness of the men to us, for it’s little that me and his mother has to give him; she’s gone almost as blind as myself working at the ‘sank work’ (making up soldiers’ clothing). Oh, ours is a miserable life, sir!--worn out--blind with over work, and scarcely a hole to put one’s head in, or a bit to put in one’s mouth. God Almighty knows that’s the bare truth, sir.” Sometimes the hawkers go on their rounds and take only 2_d._, but that is not often; sometimes they take 5_s._ in a day, and “that is the greatest sum,” said my informant, “I ever took; what others might do I can’t say, but that I’m confident is about the highest takings.” In the summer three months the average takings rise to 4_s._ per day; but in the winter they fall to 1_s._, or at the outside 1_s._ 6_d._ The business lasts only for three hours and a half each day, that is from eight till half-past eleven in the morning; after that no good is to be done. Then the needle-sellers, I am told, go home, and the reason of this is, I am told, if they appear in the public streets selling or soliciting alms, the blind are exempted from becoming recipients of the benefits of many of the charitable institutions. The blind man whom I saw, told me that after he had done work and returned home, he occupied himself with pressing the seams of the soldiers’ clothes when his “missus” had sewed them. The tailors’ needle-sellers are all married, and one of the wives has a mangle; and “perhaps,” said my informant, “the blind husband turns the mangle when he goes home, but I can’t say.” Another wife is a bookfolder, but she has no work. The needles they usually sell five a penny to the journeymen, but the most of the journeymen will take but four; they say “we can’t get a living at all if we sell the needles cheaper. The journeymen are mostly very considerate--very indeed; much more than the masters; for the masters won’t hardly look at us. I don’t know that a master ever gave me a farden--and yet there’s some of them very soothing and kind in speaking.” The profit in the needles, I am told, is rather more than 100 per cent.; “but,” say the sellers, “only think, sir, we must get rid of 150 needles even to take 3_s._ The most we ever sell in one shop is 6_d._ worth--and the usual amount is 2_d._ worth. You can easy tell how many shops we must travel round to, in order to get rid of 3_s._ worth.” Take one shop with another, the good with the bad, they tell me they make about 1_d._ profit from each they visit. The profit on the rest of the articles they vend is about 20 per cent., and they calculate that all the year round, summer and winter, they may be said to take 2_s._ a day, or 12_s._ a week; out of which they clear from 5_s._ to 5_s._ 6_d._ They sell far more needles than anything else. Some of the blind needle-sellers make their own bees’-wax into “shapes,” (pennyworths) themselves, melting into and pouring into small moulds.

The blind needle-seller whom I saw was a respectable-looking man, with the same delicacy of hand as is peculiar to tailors, and which forms so marked a contrast to the horny palms of other workmen. He was tall and thin, and had that upward look remarkable in all blind men. His eyes gave no signs of blindness (the pupils being full and black), except that they appeared to be directed to no one object, and though fixed, were so without the least expression of observation. His long black surtout, though faded in colour, was far from ragged, having been patched and stitched in many places, while his cloth waistcoat and trowsers were clean and neat--very different from the garments of street-sellers in general. In his hand he carried his stick, which, as he sat, he seemed afraid to part with, for he held it fast between his knees. He came to me accompanied by his son, a good-looking rough-headed lad, habited in a washed-out-blue French kind of pinafore, and whose duty it was to lead his blind father about on his rounds. Though the boy was decently clad, still his clothes, like those of his father, bore many traces of that respectable kind of poverty which seeks by continuous mending to hide its rags from the world. The face of the father, too, was pinched, while there was a plaintiveness about his voice that told of a wretched spirit-broken and afflicted man. Altogether he was one of the better kind of handicraftsmen--one of those fine specimens of the operatives of this country--independent even in their helplessness, scorning to beg, and proud to be able to give some little equivalent for the money bestowed on them. I have already given accounts of the “beaten-out” mechanic from those who certainly cannot be accused of an excess of sympathy for the poor--namely the Poor Law Commissioners and masters of workhouses; and I can only add, that all my experience goes fully to bear out the justice of these statements. As I said before, the class who are driven to the streets to which the beaten-out or incapacitated operative belongs, is, of all others, the most deserving of our sympathy; and the following biography of one of this order is given to teach us to look with a kindly eye upon the many who are forced to become street-sellers as the sole means of saving themselves from the degradation of pauperism or beggary.

“I am 45 years of age next June,” said the blind tailor. “It is upwards of 30 years since I first went to work at the tailoring trade in London. I learnt my business under one of the old hands at Mr. Cook’s, in Poland-street, and after that went to work at Guthrie’s, in Bond-street. I belonged to the Society held at the Old White Hart. I continued working for the honourable trade and belonging to Society for about 15 years. My weekly earnings then averaged 1_l._ 16_s._ a week while I was at work, and for several years I was seldom out of work, for when I got into a shop it was a long time before I got out again. I was not married then. I lived in a first floor back room, well-furnished, and could do very comfortably indeed. I saved often my 15_s._ or 16_s._ in a week, and was worth a good bit of money up to the time of my first illness. At one period I had nearly 50_l._ by me, and had it not been for “vacations” and “slack seasons” I should have put by more; but you see to be out of work even a few weeks makes a large hole in a journeyman’s savings. All this time I subscribed regularly to Society, and knew that if I got superannuated I should be comfortably maintained by the trade. I felt quite happy with the consciousness of being provided for in my old age or affliction then, and if it had not been for that perhaps I might have saved more even than I did. I went on in this way, as I said before, for 15 years, and no one could have been happier than I was--not a working man in all England couldn’t. I had my silver watch and chain. I could lay out my trifle every week in a few books, and used to have a trip now and then up and down the river, just to blow the London smoke off, you know. About 15 years ago my eyes began to fail me without any pain at all; they got to have as it were a thick mist, like smoke, before them. I couldn’t see anything clear. Working by gas-light at first weakened and at last destroyed the nerve altogether. I’m now in total darkness. I can only tell when the gas is lighted by the heat of it.

“It is not the black clothes that is trying to the sight--black is the steadiest of all colours to work at; white and all bright colours makes the eyes water after looking at ’em for any long time; but of all colours scarlet, such as is used for regimentals, is the most blinding, it seems to burn the eyeballs, and makes them ache dreadful. After working at red there’s always flying colours before the eyes; there’s no steady colour to be seen in anything for some time. Everything seems all of a twitter, and to keep changing its tint. There’s more military tailors blind than any others. A great number of tailors go blind, but a great many more has lost their sight since gas-light has come up. Candle-light was not half so pernicious to the sight. Gas-light is so very heating, and there’s such a glare with it that it makes the eyes throb, and shoot too, if you work long by it. I’ve often continued working past midnight with no other light than that, and then my eyes used to feel like two bits of burning coals in my head. And you see, sir, the worst of it was, as I found my sight going bad I was obliged to try it more, so as to keep up with my mates in the shop. At last my eyes got so weak that I was compelled to give up work, and go into the country, and there I stopped, living on my savings, and unable to do any work for fear of losing my sight altogether. I was away about three years, and then all my money was gone, and I was obligated, in spite of my eyes, to go back to work again. But then, with my sight defective as it was, I could get no employment at the honourable trade, and so I had to take a seat in a shop at one of the cheap houses in the city, and that was the ruin of me entirely; for working there, of course I got “scratched” from the trade Society, and so lost all hope of being provided for by them in my helplessness. The workshop at this cheap house was both small and badly ventilated. It was about seven foot square, and so low, that as you sot on the floor you could touch the ceiling with the tip of your finger. In this place seven of us worked--three on each side and one in the middle. Two of my shopmates were boys, or else I am sure it would not have held us all. There was no chimney, nor no window that could be opened to let the air in. It was lighted by a skylight, and this would neither open nor shut. The only means for letting out the foul air was one of them working ventilators--like cockades, you know, sir--fixed in one of the panes of glass; but this wouldn’t work, so there we were, often from 5 in the morning till 10 at night, working in this dreadful place. There was no fire in the winter, though we never needed one, for the workshop was over-hot from the suffocation, and in the summer it was like an oven. This is what it was in the daytime, but mortal tongue can’t tell what it was at night, with the two gas-lights burning away, and almost stifling us. Many a time some of the men has been carried out by the others fainting for air. They all fell ill, every one of them, and I lost my eyes and my living entirely by it. We spoke to the master repeatedly, telling him he was killing us, and though when he came up to the workshop hisself, he was nearly blown back by the stench and heat, he would not let us have any other room to work in--and yet he’d plenty of convenience up stairs. He paid little more than half the regular wages, and employed such men as myself--only those who couldn’t get anything better to do. What with illness and all, I don’t think my wages there averaged above 12_s._ a week: sometimes I could make 1_l._ in the week, but then, the next week, maybe I’d be ill, and would get but a few shillings. It was impossible to save anything then--even to pay one’s way was a difficulty, and, at last, I was seized with rheumatics on the brain, and obliged to go into St. Thomas’s Hospital. I was there eleven months, and came out stone blind. I am convinced I lost my eyesight by working in that cheap shop; nothing on earth will ever persuade me to the contrary, and what’s more, my master robbed me of a third of my wages and my sight too, and left me helpless in the world, as, God knows, I am now. It is by the ruin of such men as me that these masters are enabled to undersell the better shops; they get hold of the men whose eyes are just beginning to fail them, like mine did, because they know they can get them to work cheap, and then, just at the time when a journeyman requires to be in the best of shops, have the best of air, and to work as little by gas-light as possible, they puts him into a hole of a place that would stifle a rat, and keeps him working there half the night through. That’s the way, sir, the cheap clothes is produced, by making blind beggars of the workmen, like myself, and throwing us on the parish in our old age. You are right, sir, they not only robs the men but the ratepayers too.

“Well, sir, as I said, I come out of the hospital stone blind, and have been in darkness ever since, and that’s near upon ten years ago. I often dream of colours, and see the most delightful pictures in the world; nothing that I ever beheld with my eyes can equal them--they’re so brilliant, and clear and beautiful. I see then the features and figures of all my old friends, and I can’t tell you how pleasureable it is to me. When I have such dreams they so excite me that I am ill all the next day. I often see, too, the fields, with the cows grazing on a beautiful green pasture, and the flowers, just at twilight like, closing up their blossoms as they do. I never dream of rivers; nor do I ever remember seeing a field of corn in my visions; it’s strange I never dreamt in any shape of the corn or the rivers, but maybe I didn’t take so much notice of them as of the others. Sometimes I see the sky, and very often indeed there’s a rainbow in it, with all kinds of beautiful colours. The sun is a thing I often dream about seeing, going down like a ball of fire at the close of the day. I never dreamt of the stars, nor the moon--it’s mostly bright colours that I see.

“I have been under all the oculists I could hear of--Mr. Turnbull, in Russell-square, but he did me no good; then I went to Charing-cross, under Mr. Guthrie, and he gave me a blind certificate, and made me a present of half-a-sovereign; he told me not to have my eyes tampered with again, as the optic nerve was totally decayed. Oh, yes; if I had all the riches in the world I’d give them every one to get my sight back, for it’s the greatest pressure to me to be in darkness. God help me! I know I am a sinner, and believe I’m so afflicted on account of my sins. No, sir, it’s nothing like when you shut your eyes; when I had my sight, and closed mine, I remember I could still see the light through the lids, the very same as when you hold your hand up before the candle; but mine’s far darker than that--pitch black. I see a dark mass like before me, and never any change--everlasting darkness, and no chance of a light or shade in this world. But I feel consolated some how, now it is settled; although it’s a very poor comfort after all. I go along the streets in great fear. If a baby have hold of me, I am firm, but by myself, I reel about like a drunken man. I feel very timid unless I have hold of something--not to support me, but to assure me I shall not fall. If I was going down your staircase, sir, I should be all right so long as I touched the bannister, but if I missed that, I’m sure I should grow so giddy and nervous I should fall from the top to the bottom. After losing my sight, I found a great difficulty in putting my food into my mouth, for a long time--six months or better--and I was obliged to have some one to guide my hand, for I used often to put the fork up to my forehead instead of my mouth. Shortly after my becoming quite blind, I found all my other senses much quickened--my hearing--feeling--and reckoning. I got to like music very much indeed; it seemed to elevate me--to animate and cheer me much more than it did before, and so much so now, that when it ceases, I feel duller than ever. It sounds as if it was in a wilderness to me--I can’t tell why, but that’s all I can compare it to; as if I was quite alone with it. My smell and taste is very acute” (he was given some violets to smell)--“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he cried, “very reviving indeed. Often of an evening, I can see things in my imagination, and that’s why I like to sit alone then; for of all the beautiful thoughts that ever a man possessed, there’s none to equal a blind man’s, when he’s by hisself.

“I don’t see my early home, but occurrences that has recently took place. I see them all plain before me, in colours as vivid as if I had my sight again, and the people all dressed in the fashion of my time; the clothes seem to make a great impression on me, and I often sit and see in my mind master tailors trying a coat on a gentleman, and pulling it here and there. The figures keep passing before me like soldiers, and often I’m so took by them that I forget I’m blind, and turn my head round to look after them as they pass by me. But that sort of thinking would throw me into a melancholly--it’s too exciting while it lasts, and then leaves me dreadful dull afterwards. I have got much more melancholy since my blindness; before then, I was not seriously given, but now I find great consolation in religion. I think my blindness is sent to try my patience and resignation, and I pray to the Almighty to give me strength to bear with my affliction. I was quick and hot-tempered before I was blind, but since then, I have got less hasty like; all other troubles appears nothing to me. Sometimes I revile against my affliction--too frequently--but that is at my thoughtless moments, for when I’m calm and serious, I feel thankful that the Almighty has touched me with his correcting rod, and then I’m happy and at peace with all the world. If I had run my race, and not been stopped, I might never have believed there was a God. My wife works at the ‘sank work.’ She makes soldiers’ coats; she gets 1_s._ 1_d._ for making one, and that’s nearly a day and a half’s work; then she has to find her own trimmings, and they’re 1_d._ It takes her 16 hours to finish one garment, and the over-work at that is beginning to make her like as I was myself. If she takes up a book to read to me now, it’s all like a dirty mass before her, and that’s just as my sight was before I lost it altogether. She slaves hard to help me; she’s anxious and willing--indeed too much so. If she could get constant work, she might perhaps make about 7_s._ a week; but as it is, her earnings are, take one week with another, not more than 3_s._ Last week she earned 5_s._; but that was the first job of work she’d had to do for two months. I think the two of us make on an average about 8_s._; and out of that there is three people to keep--our two selves and our boy. Our rent is 2_s._ 6_d._, so that after paying that, we has about 5_s._ 6_d._ left for food, firing, and clothing for the whole of us. How we do it I can’t tell; but I know we live very, very hard: mostly on pieces of bread that the men gives to me and my boy, as we go round to the workshops. If we was any of us to fall ill, we must all go to the parish; if my boy was to go sick, I should be left without any one to lead me about, and that would be as bad as if I was laid-up myself; and if anything was to happen to my wife, I’d be done clean altogether. But yet the Lord is very good, and we’d get out of that, I dare say. If anything was to drive me to the parish, I should lose all hopes of getting some help from the blind institutions; and so I dread the workhouse worse than all. I’d sooner die on the step of a door, any time, than go there and be what they call well kept. I don’t know why I should have a dislike to going there, but yet I do possess it. I do believe, that any one that is willing to work for their bread, hates a workhouse; for the workhouse coat is a slothful, degrading badge. After a man has had one on his back, he’s never the same. I would’nt go for an order for relief so long as I could get a halfpenny loaf in twenty-four hours. If I could only get some friend to give me a letter of recommendation to Mr. Day’s Charity for the Blind, I should be happy for the rest of my days. I could give the best of references to any one who would take pity on me in my affliction.”

THE PUBLIC-HOUSE HAWKERS OF METAL SPOONS, ETC.

The public-house hawkers are never so prosperous as those who confine their calling to private houses; they are often invited to partake of drink; are not the most industrious class of hawkers, and, to use their own language, are more frequently hard up than those who keep away from tap-room selling. The profits of the small hawkers in public-houses vary considerably. Some of them, when they have earned a shilling or two, are content to spend it before they leave the tap-room, and so they lose both their stock and profit. I do not mean to infer that this is the case with the whole of the public-house hawkers, for some among them strive hard to better their condition, and occasionally succeed; but there are too many who are content to drawl out their existence by always suffering to-morrow to provide for itself. The man who gave me the routine of small hawkers’ business I found in a tap-room in Ratcliffe Highway. He was hawking tea-spoons, and all the stock he possessed was half-a-dozen. These he importuned me to purchase with great earnestness. He prayed of me to lay out a trifle with him. He had not taken a penny the whole day he said, and had nothing to eat. “What’s much worse for such as me,” he added, “I’m dying for a glass of rum.” I might have his tea-spoons, he told me, at any price. If I would but pay for a glass of rum for him they should be mine. I assured him some bread and cheese would do him more good, as he had not eaten anything that day; but still he would have the rum. With a trembling hand he threw the liquor down his throat, smacked his lips, and said “that there dram has saved my life.” A few minutes afterwards he sold his spoons to a customer for sixpence; and he had another glass of rum. “Now,” said he, “I’m all right for business; if I’d twopence more I could buy a dozen tea-spoons, and I should earn a ‘bob’ or two yet before I went to bed.” After this he grew communicative, and told me he was as good a hawker as there was in London, and he thought he could do more than any other man with a small stock. He had two or three times resolved to better himself, and had ‘put in the pin,’ meaning he had made a vow to refrain from drinking; but he had broken out again and gone on in his old course until he had melted the whole of his stock, though twice it had, during his sobriety, amounted to 5_l._, and was often worth between 2_l._ and 3_l._ It was almost maddening when he came to his senses, he said, to find he had acted so foolishly; indeed, it was so disheartening to discover all the result of his good resolutions dissipated in a moment, that he declared he never intended to try again. After having drunk out his stock, he would if possible commence with half-a-dozen Britannia metal tea-spoons; these cost him 6_d._, and would sell for 9_d._ or 1_s._ When one half-dozen were disposed of he would procure another, adding a knife, or a comb or two. If entirely destitute, he would stick a needle in a cork, and request to know of “the parties” assembled in some tap-room, if they wanted anything in the ironmongery line, though the needle was all the stock he had. This was done for the purpose of “raising the wind;” and by it he would be sure to obtain a glass or two of ale if he introduced himself with his “ironmongery establishment” among the sailors. Sometimes he would manage to beg a few pence, and then he would purchase a knife, pair of braces, or half-a-dozen tea-spoons, and begin to practise his trade in a legitimate manner. In answer to my inquiry he said he had not always been a hawker. His father had been a soldier, and he had worked in the armoury. His father had been discharged upon a pension, and he (the hawker) left the army with his parents. He had never enlisted while his father was a soldier, but he had since. His mother adopted the business of a hawker upon the receipt of his father’s first quarter’s pension; and then he used to accompany her on her rounds. With the pension and the mother’s exertions they managed to subsist tolerably well. “Being the only child, I was foolishly spoilt by my parents,” he said; “and when I was a very young man--15 or 16--I became a great trouble to them. At 18 I enlisted in the 7th Fusileers, remained in the regiment three months, and then, at my own request, was bought off. My mother sold off most of her stock of goods to raise the money (twenty pounds). When I returned home I could not think of trudging by my mother’s side, as I had been used to do when carrying the goods; nor did I feel inclined to exert myself in any way for my own support. I considered my mother had a right to keep me without my working, and she, poor thing, thought so too. I was not only supported in idleness, but my mother would give me many a shilling, though she could ill afford it, for me to spend with my companions. I passed most of my time in a skittle ground. I was not what you might term a skittle sharp, for I never entered into a plot to victimise any person, although I confess I have often bet upon the ‘greenness’ of those who were silly enough to make wagers that they could not possibly win. Sometimes, after I had lost the trifle supplied me by my mother, I would return, and be blackguard enough to assume the bully unless my demands on her for a further supply were attended to. Poor thing, she was very meek, and with tears in her eyes she would grant my request. I often weep when I think how I treated her” (here the tears trickled down the man’s cheek), “and yet, badly as I used her, in my heart I loved her very much. I got tired of the skittle grounds in consequence of getting into a hobble relative to a skittle swindle: some sharpers had obtained a flat; I was speculating in a small way, betting pennies and twopences in such a manner as always to win; I was practising upon the flat upon my own account, without having any connection with the others; they fleeced their dupe out of several pounds, and he made a row about it. The police interfered, and I was singled out as one of the gang; the principals were also apprehended; they got six months each, and I was accommodated with a month’s board and lodging at the expense of the nation. I thought this at the time unjust, but I was as culpable as any of them, for at the time I only regretted I had not more money to stake larger wagers, and envied the other parties who were making a better thing of the business than I was. When I came out of jail, my poor mother treated me as a martyr. She thought I was as innocent as a child. Shortly after my release from prison my father died, and with him went the pension of course. I was then obligated to do something for myself. A few shillings’ worth of goods only were procured--for my father’s funeral and my extravagances had sadly crippled my mother’s means. I behaved very well for a short time. My mother then was often ill, and she never recovered the death of my father. In about a year after my father died I lost my mother; our stock of goods had dwindled down to a very poor lot, and I was obligated to ask relief of the parish towards her funeral expenses. When all was over, the value of my goods and cash did not amount to 20_s._ Ten years have elapsed since my mother’s death, and I don’t think I have ever been, during the whole period, sober for a month together.”

While I sat in this tap-room, I counted in the course of an hour and a quarter,--4 hawkers of sheep’s trotters, who visited the place; 3 sellers of shrimps, pickled whelks, and periwinkles; 2 baked potato-sellers; 8 song-hawkers; the same number with lucifer matches; and 3 with braces, &c. Not one of these effected a sale.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF JEWELLERY.

The jewellery now sold in the streets far exceeds, both in cheapness and quality, what was known even ten years ago. Fifty years ago the jewellery itinerant trade was almost entirely, if not entirely, in the hands of Jews, who at any rate professed to sell really gold articles, and who asked large prices; but these traders have lost their command over this, as I have shown that they have over other street callings, as not a twelfth of the street-jewellers are now Jews. A common trade among such street and country itinerant jewellers was in large watch seals, the bodies of which were of lead, more or less thickly plated with gold, and which were unsaleable even as old metal until broken to pieces,--but not always saleable then. The street or itinerant trade was for a long time afterwards carried on only by those who were regularly licensed as hawkers, and who preferred “barter” or “swopping” to actual sale, the barter being usually for other and more solid articles of the goldsmith’s trade.

The introduction of “mosaic” and other cheap modes of manufacturing quasi gold ornaments, brought about considerable changes in the trade, pertaining, however, more to the general manufacture, than to that prepared for the streets.

The itinerants usually carry their wares in boxes or cases, which shut up close, and can be slung on the shoulder for conveyance, or hung round the neck for the purposes of sale. These cases are nearly all glazed; within them the jewellery is disposed in such manner as, in the street-seller’s judgment, is the most attractive. A card of the larger brooches, or of cameos, often forms the centre, and the other space is occupied with the shawl-pins, with their globular tops of scarlet or other coloured glass: rings, armlets, necklaces, a few earrings and ear-drops, and sometimes a few side-combs, small medals for keepsakes, clasps, beads, and bead-purses, ornamental buttons for dresses, gilt buckles for waist-belts, thimbles, &c., constitute the street jeweller’s stock-in-trade. The usual prices are from 2_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._; the price most frequently obtained for any article being 3_d._ It will be seen from the enumeration of the articles, that the stock is such as is required “for women’s wear,” and women are now almost the sole customers of the street-jewellers. “In my time, sir,” said one elderly street-trader, “or rather, when I was a boy, and in my uncle’s time--for he was in jewellery, and I helped him at times--quite different sorts of jewellery was sold, and quite different prices was had; what’s a high figure now was a low figure then. I’ve known children’s coral and bells in my uncle’s stock--well, I don’t know whether it was real coral or not--and big watch keys with coloured stones in the centre on ’em, such as I’ve seen old gents keep spinning round when they was talking, and big seals and watch-chains; there weren’t no guards then, as I remember. And there was plated fruit-knives--silver, as near as a toucher--and silver pencils (pencil-cases), and gilt lockets, to give your sweetheart your hair in for keepsakes. Lor’ bless you! times is turned upside down.”

The disposition of the street-stalls is somewhat after the same fashion as that in the itinerant’s box, with the advantage of a greater command of space. Some of the stalls--one in Tottenham-court Road, I may instance, and another in Whitechapel--make a great show.

I did not hear of any in this branch of the jewellery trade who had been connected with it as working jewellers. I heard of two journeymen watchmakers and four clockmakers now selling jewellery (but often with other things, such as eye-glasses) in the street, but that is all. The street mass selling jewellery in town and country are, I believe, composed of the various classes who constitute the street-traders generally.

Of the nature of his present trade, and of the class of his customers, I had the following account from a man of twelve years’ experience in the vending of street jewellery:--

“It’s not very easy to tell, sir,” he said, “what sells best, for people begins to suspect everything, and seems to think they’re done if they give 3_d._ for an agate brooch, and finds out it ain’t set in gold. I think agate is about the best part of the trade now. It seems a stone as is easy imitated. Cornelians, too, ain’t so bad in brooches--people likes the colour; but not what they was, and not up to agates. But nothing is up to what it once was; not in the least. Sell twice as much--when you can, which often stands over till to-morrow come-never--and get half the profit. I don’t expect very much from the Great Exhibition. They sends goods so cheap from Germany, they’ll think anything dear in London, if it’s only at German prices. I think it’s a mistake to fancy that the cheaper a jewellery article is the more you’ll sell of it. You won’t. People’s of opinion--at least that’s my notion of it--that it’s so common everybody’ll have it, and so they won’t touch it. It’s Thames water, sir, against beer, is poor low-priced jewellery, against tidy and fair-priced; but then the low-priced has now ruined the other sorts, for they’re all thought to go under the same umbrella,--all of a sort; 1_s._ or 1_d._ Why, as to who’s the best customers, that depends on where you pitches your pitch, or works your round, and whether you are known, or are merely a upstart. But I can tell you, sir, who’s been my best customers--and is yet, but not so good as they was--and that’s women of the town; and mostly (for I’ve tried most places) about Ratcliff Highway, Whitechapel, Mile-end-road, Bethnal-green, and Oxford-street. The sailors’ gals is the best of all; but a’most all of them is very particular, and some is uncommon tiresome. ‘I’m afeard,’ they says, ‘this colour don’t suit my complexion; it’s too light, or it’s too dark. How does that ring show on my finger?’ I’ve known some of the fat and fair ones--what had been younger, but would be older--say, ‘Let me have a necklace of bright black beads;’ them things shows best with the fat ’uns--but in gen’ral them poor creatures is bad judges of what becomes them. The things they’re the most particular of all in is necklaces. Amber and pearl sells most. I have them from 6_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ I never get more than 1_s._ 6_d._ Cornelian necklaces is most liked by children, and most bought for them. I’ve trusted the women of the town, and trust them still. One young woman in Shadwell took a fancy the t’other week for a pearl necklace, ‘it became her so,’ which it didn’t; and offered to pay me 6_d._ a week for it if I wouldn’t sell it away from her. The first week she paid 6_d._; the second nothing; and next week the full tip, ’cause her Jack had come home. I never lost a halfpenny by the women. Yes, they pays you a fairish price, but nothing more. Sometimes they’ve beat me down 1_d._, and has said, ‘It’s all the money I has.’

“It’s not very long ago that one of them offered me a fine goold watch which I could have bought at any price, for I saw she knew nothing of what it was worth. I never do anything that way. I believe a very few in my line does, for they can’t give the prices the rich fences can. It’s common enough for them gals to ask any street-jeweller they knows how much a watch ought to pop for, or to sell for, afore they tries it on. But it isn’t they as tries it on, sir; they gets some respeckbel old lady, or old gent, to do that for them. I’ve had cigars and Cavendish of them; such as seamen had left behind them; you know, sir, I’ve never given money, only jewellery for it. Plenty of shopkeepers is glad to buy it of me, and not at a bad price. They asks no questions, and I tells them no lies. One reason why these gals buys free is that when the jewellery gets out of order or out of fashion, they can fling it away and get fresh, it’s so cheap. When I’ve had no money on a day until I has sold to these women, I’ve oft enough said, ‘God bless ’em!’ Earrings is hardly any go now, sir; nothing to what they was; they’re going out. The penny jewellery’s little good; it’s only children what buys, or gets it bought for them. I sell most of brooches from 3_d._ to 6_d._, very seldom higher, and bracelets--they calls them armlets now--at the same price. I buys all my goods at a swag-shop: there’s no other market. Watchguards was middling sale, both silver and goold, or washed white and washed yellow, and the swags made money in them; but instead of 1_s._, they’re not to be sold at a Joey now, watchguards ain’t, if a man patters ever so.”

I am informed that there are not less than 1000 individuals who all buy their jewellery at the London swag-shops, and sell it in the streets, with or without other articles, but principally without; and that of this number 500 are generally in London and its suburbs, including such places as Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich. Of these traders about one-tenth are women; and in town about three-fifths are itinerant, and the others stationary. One-half, or thereabouts, of the women, are the wives of street-sellers; the others trade on their own account. A few “swop” jewellery for old clothes, with either the mistress or the maids. Four or five, when they see a favourable opportunity, offer to tell any servant-maid her fortune. “‘Buy this beautiful agate brooch, my dear,’ the woman’ll say, ‘and I’ll only charge you 1_s._ 6_d._’--a German thing, sir, costing her seven farthings one street-jeweller informed me,--‘and I’ll tell you your fortune into the bargain.’”

One “old hand” calculated, that when a street-jeweller could display 50_s._ worth of stock, he could clear, all the year round, 15_s._ a week. “People,” said this man, “as far as I’ve known the streets, like to buy of what they think is a respectable man, and seemingly well to do; they feel safe with him.” Those, however, who cannot boast so large a stock of jewellery as 50_s._ worth, may only clear 10_s._ instead of 15_s._ weekly. One trader thought that the average earnings of his fraternity might be taken at 12_s._ a week; another--and both judged from their own experience--thought 10_s._ 6_d._ was high enough. Calculating, then, at a weekly profit of 10_s._ 6_d._, and a receipt of 18_s._ per individual, we find 23,400_l._ expended in the street-trade, including the sales at Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich; where--both places being resorted to by pleasure-seekers and seamen--the trade is sometimes considerable; watches, which now are almost unknown in a regular street-trade, there forming an occasional part of it.

OF THE PEDLAR-JEWELLERS.

I have heard a manufacturer of Birmingham jewellery assert, that one pound of copper was sufficient to make 10_l._ worth of jewellery; consequently, the material to provide the unmanufactured stock in trade of a wholesale dealer in Birmingham jewellery, is not over expensive. It may be imagined then that the pedlars who hawk jewellery do not invest a very great capital in the wares they sell; there are some few, however, who have very valuable stocks of goods, pedlars though they be. This trade is principally pursued by Jews, and to a great extent (especially in a small way) by foreign Jews. The Jews are, I think, more attentive to the wants of their poorer brethren than other people; and instead of supplying them with trifling sums of money, which must necessarily soon be expended, they give them small quantities of goods, so that they may immediately commence foraging for their own support. Many of these poor Jews, when provided with their stock of merchandise, can scarcely speak a word of English, and few of them know but little respecting the value of the goods they sell; they always take care to ask a good price, leaving plenty of room for abatement. I heard one observe that they could not easily be taken in by being overcharged, for according what they paid for the article they fixed the price upon it. Some of these men, notwithstanding their scanty knowledge of the trade at starting, have eventually become excellent judges of jewellery; some of them, moreover, have acquired riches in it; indeed from the indomitable perseverance of the Hebrew race, success is generally the result of their untiring industry. If once you look at the goods of a Jew pedlar, it is not an easy matter to get out of his clutches; it is not for want of perseverance if he does not bore and tease you, until at length you are glad to purchase some trifle to get rid of him. One of my informants tells me he is acquainted with several Jews, who now hold their heads high as merchants, and are considered very excellent judges of the wares they deal in, who originally began trading with but a small stock of jewellery, and that a charitable donation. As well as Jews there are Irishmen who deal in such commodities. The pedlar generally has a mahogany box bound with brass, and which he carries with a strap hung across his shoulder; when he calls at a house, an inquiry is made whether there is any old silver or gold to dispose of. “I will give you a full price for any such articles.” If the lady or gentleman accosted seems to be likely to buy, the box is immediately opened and a tempting display of gold rings, chains, scent-boxes, lockets, brooches, breast-pins, bracelets, silver thimbles, &c., &c., are exposed to view. All the eloquence the pedlar can command is now brought into play. The jewellery is arranged about the persons of his expected customers to the best advantage. The pedlar says all he can think of to enhance their sale: he will chop and change for anything they may wish to dispose of--any old clothes, books, or useless lumber may be converted into ornaments for the hair or other parts of dress. The Irish pedlar mostly confines his visits to the vicinity of large factories where there are many girls employed; these he supplies with earrings, necklaces, shawl-pins, brooches, lockets, &c., which are bought wholesale at the following prices:--Earrings and drops at from 3_s._ 6_d._ to 12_s._ per dozen pairs; the 3_d._ earring is a neat little article says my informant, and those sold at 1_s._ each, wholesale, are gorgeous-looking affairs; many of the latter have been disposed of by the pedlars at 1_l._ the pair, and even a greater price. Necklaces are from 5_s._ to 1_l._ per dozen. Lockets may be purchased wholesale at from 2_s._ to 10_s._ per dozen; guard chains (German silver) are 4_s._ per dozen; gilt heavy-looking waistcoat chains 6_s._ per dozen: and all other articles are equally low in price. The pedlar jeweller can begin business “respectably” for two pounds. His box costs him 7_s._ 6_d._; half-a-dozen pairs of earrings of six different sorts, 3_s._; half-a-dozen lockets (various), 1_s._ 9_d._; half-a-dozen guard chains, 2_s._; half-a-dozen shawl brooches, 2_s._ 6_d._; one dozen breast-pins (different kinds), 3_s._; one dozen finger rings of various descriptions, 3_s._ 6_d._; half-a-dozen brooches at 4_d._ each, 2_s._; one dozen necklaces (a variety), at 6_s._; three silver pencil-cases at 1_s._ 9_d._ each, 5_s._ 3_d._; half-a-dozen waistcoat chains, 3_s._; one silver toothpick, at 1_s._ 6_d._ These make altogether two pounds. If the articles are arranged with taste and seeming care (as if they were very valuable), with jeweller’s wadding under each, and stuck on pink cards, &c., while the finger rings are inserted in the long narrow velvet-lined groove of the box, and the other “valuables” well spread about the little portable shop--they may be made to assume a very respectable and almost “rich” appearance. Many who now have large establishments commenced life with much less stock than is here mentioned. The Jews, I do not think, continues my informant, are the best salesmen; and the fact of their being Israelites is, in many instances, a bar to their success; country people, especially, are afraid of being taken in by them. The importunities and appeals of the Hebrew, however, are far more urgent than any other tradesman; and they always wait where they think there’s the slightest chance of effecting a sale, until the door is slammed in their face. I believe there are not, at the present time, many (especially small traders) who deal exclusively in jewellery; they mostly add other small and light articles--such as fancy cutlery, side combs, &c. There may, at a rough guess, be 500 of them travelling the country; half the number are poor foreign Jews; a quarter are Jews, who have, perhaps, followed the same calling for years; and the remaining quarter, a mixture of Irish and English, with a small preponderance of Irishmen. All these “swop” their goods for old gold and silver, and frequently realize a large sum, by changing the base metal for the sterling article. Their goods are always sold as being gold or silver--If asked whether a particular article be gold, they reply “It’s jewellers’ gold;” “Is this ring gold?” inquires the customer, taking one from the box--“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t deceive you!” is the answer, “that is not gold; but here is one,” adds the pedlar (taking up one exactly of the same description, and which cost the same price) “which is of a similar shape and fashion, and the best jeweller’s gold that is made.” The profits of the pedlar-jewellers it is almost impossible to calculate, for they will sell at any price upon which the smallest amount of profit can be realized. The foreign Jews, especially, will do this, and it is not an unusual circumstance for one of these men to ask 5_s._ for an article which originally cost them 3_d._, and which they will eventually sell for 4_d._

In London there are about 200 hawkers of jewellery, who visit the public-houses; but few of these have boxes--they invite customers by displaying some chains in their hands, or having one or two arranged in front of their waistcoats, while the smaller articles are carried in their waistcoat pockets. The class of persons who patronize the public-house hawkers are those who visit the tap-rooms of taverns, and countrymen in the vicinity of Smithfield upon market days, (one of the hawkers tells me, that they succeed better upon the hay-market days than at the cattle sales, for the butchers, they say, are too “fly” for them). Sailors are among their best customers, but the coster-girls are very fond of drop earrings and coral beads; the sailors, however, give the best prices of all. I am told that the quantity of old gold and silver which the country pedlars obtain in exchange for their goods is “astonishing;” and there have been occasions on which a pedlar has been enriched for life by one single transaction of barter; some old and unfashionable piece of jewellery, that they received for their goods, has been composed of costly stones, which had lain by for years, and of which the pedlar’s customer was unacquainted with the value. The more respectable jewellery pedlars put up at the better class of public-houses, and, even after their day’s travels are over, they still have an eye to business; they open the box upon the table of the tap-room where they are lodging, and, under the pretence of cleaning or arranging their goods, temptingly display their glittering stock. The bar-maid, kitchen-maid, the landlady’s daughter, or perhaps the landlady herself, admires some ornaments, which the pedlar declares would become them vastly. He hangs a necklace upon the neck of one of them; holds a showy earring and drop to the ear of another; facetiously inquires of the girls whether they are not likely to want something of this sort shortly--as he holds up first a wedding-ring, and then a baby’s coral; or else he exhibits a ring set with Turquoise, or pearls and small diamonds in a cluster, to the landlady, and tries it on her finger; and by such arts a sale that will cover his expenses is generally effected. There is one peculiarity these men have when bartering their goods. A worn-out ornament of jewellery is brought to them, and, although it be brass, the pedlar never attempts to undeceive the possessor, if he finds it is considered to be genuine. Of course he never gives cash for such articles; but he offers a large price in barter. “I will take 10_s._ for this ring, and allow you 5_s._ for the old one,” says the pedlar. It would never do to say the ornament was not gold; the customer bought it years ago for such, and no one ever disputed its being the precious metal; should our pedlar do so, he might as well shut up shop immediately. The lady would be angry and suspicious; neither would she believe him, but rather suspect that he wanted only to cheat her; consequently the pedlar barters, obtains the old ring, or some other article, and 5_s._, for his commodity; and though the article he has taken in exchange is worth only a few pence, he very likely profits to the amount of 200 per cent. upon the cash received. The pedlars of lesser consequence put up at humble private or public-houses, and some of them at the common lodging-houses. Those who have only small stocks confine their visits to farm-houses and villages.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF CARD-COUNTERS, MEDALS, ETC.

The “card-counters,” or, as I have heard them sometimes called by street-sellers, the “small coins,” are now of a very limited sale. The slang name for these articles is “Jacks” and “Half Jacks.” They are sold to the street-people at only two places in London; one in Holborn, and the other at Black Tom’s (himself formerly a street-seller, now “a small swag”), in Clerkenwell. They are all made in Birmingham, and are of the size and colour of the genuine sovereigns and half sovereigns; but it is hardly possible that any one who had ever received a sovereign in payment, could be deceived by the substitution of a Jack. Those now sold in the streets are much thinner, and very much lighter. Each presents a profile of the Queen; but instead of the superscription “Victoria Dei Gratiâ” of the true sovereign, the Jack has “Victoria Regina.” On the reverse, in the place of the “Britanniarum Regina Fid. Def.” surrounding the royal arms and crown, is a device (intended for an imitation of St. George and the Dragon) representing a soldier on horseback--the horse having three legs elevated from the ground, while a drawn sword fills the right hand of the equestrian, and a crown adorns his head. The superscription is, “to Hanover,” and the rider seems to be sociably accompanied by a dragon. Round the Queen’s head on the half Jack is “Victoria, Queen of Great Britain,” and on the reverse the Prince of Wales’s feather, with the legend, “The Prince of Wales’s Model Half Sovereign.”

Until within these five or six years the gilt card-counters had generally the portraiture of the monarch, and on the reverse the legend “Keep your temper,” as a seasonable admonition to whist players. Occasionally the card-counter was a gilt coin, closely resembling a sovereign; but the magistracy, eight or nine years back, “put down” the sale of these imitations.

Under another head will be found an account of the use made of these sovereigns, in pretended wagers. A further use of them was to add to the heaps of apparent gold at the back of the table-keeper in a race booth, when gambling was allowed at Epsom, and the “great meetings.”

There are now only two men regularly selling Jacks in the streets. There have been as many as twelve. One of these street-sellers is often found in Holborn, announcing “30_s._ for 1_d._! 30_s._ for 1_d._! cheapest bargain ever offered; 30_s._ for 1_d._!”

The Jacks cost, wholesale, 4_s._ 6_d._ the gross; the half Jacks 2_s._ 9_d._ The two are sold for 1_d._ If the sale be not brisk, the street-seller will give a ring into the bargain. These rings cost 1_s._ the gross, or the third part of a farthing each.

If there be, on the year’s average, only two street-sellers disposing of the Jacks, and earning 9_s._ a week--to earn which the receipts will be about 20_s._--we find 104_l._ expended in the streets on these trifles.

Of medals the street sale is sometimes considerable, at others a mere nothing. When a popular subject is before the public, many of the general patterers “go to medals.” I could not learn that any of the present street-people vended medals in the time of the war; I believe there are none at present among the street folk who did so. I am told that the street sale in war medals was smaller than might reasonably have been expected. The manufacture of those articles in the Salamanca, Vittoria, and even Waterloo days, was greatly inferior to what it is at present, and the street price demanded was as often 6_d._ as a smaller sum. These medals in a little time presented a dull, leaden look, and the knowledge that they were “poor things” seems to have prevented the public buying them to any extent in the streets, and perhaps deterred the street-sellers from offering them. Those who were the most successful of the medal-sellers had been, or assumed to have been, soldiers or seamen.

Within the last eighteen years, or more, there has hardly been any public occurrence without a comparatively well-executed medal being sold in the streets in commemoration of it. That sold at the opening of London-bridge was, I am told, considered “a superior thing,” and the improvement in this art of manufacture has progressed to the present time. Within the last three years the most saleable medals, an experienced man told me, were of Hungerford Suspension (bridge), the New Houses of Parliament, the Chinese Junk, and Sir Robert Peel. The Thames Tunnel medals were at one time “very tidy,” as were those of the New Royal Exchange. The great sale is at present of the Crystal Palace; and one man had heard that there were a great many persons coming to London to sell them at the opening of the Great Exhibition. “The great eggs and bacon, I call it,” he said; “for I hope it will bring us that sort of grub. But I don’t know; I’m afraid there’ll be too many of us. Besides, they say we shan’t be let sell in the park.”

The exhibition medal is as follows:--

What the street medal-sellers call the “right-side”--I speak of the “penny” medal, which commands by far the greatest sale--presents the Crystal Palace, raised from the surface of the medal, and whitened by the application of aqua fortis. The superscription is “THE BUILDING FOR THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION, LONDON, 1851.” On the “wrong side” (so called) is the following inscription, occupying the whole face of the medal:

THE CONSTRUCTION IS OF IRON AND OF GLASS, 1848 FEET LONG. ABOUT HALF IS 456 WIDE. THE REMAINDER 408 FEET WIDE, AND 66 FEET HIGH; SITE, UPWARDS OF 20 ACRES. COST £150,000. JOSH. PAXTON, ARCHT.

The size of this medal is between that of a shilling and a half-crown.

A patterer, who used to sell medals on Sunday mornings in the park, informed me that he told his customers the Crystal Palace part was dead silver, by a new discovery making silver cheap; but for all that he would risk changing it for a four-penny bit!

The two-penny medal is after the same style, but the letters are more distinct. On my stating, to a medal-seller, that it was difficult to read the inscription on his “pennies,” he said, “Not at all, sir; but it’s your eyes is dazzled.” This was said quietly, and with a touch of slyness, and I have no doubt was the man’s “cut-and-dried” answer.

The patterer whom I have mentioned, told me, that encouraged by a tolerable sale and “a gathering of the aristocrats,” on a very fine Sunday in January or February--he could not remember which--he ventured upon 6 “sixpenny medals,” costing him 1_s._ 9_d._ He sold them all but one, which he showed me. It was exactly the size of a crown-piece. The Crystal Palace was “raised,” and of “dead silver,” as in the smaller medals. The superscription was the same as on the penny medal; but underneath the representation of the palace were raised figures of Mercury and of a naked personage, with a quill as long as himself, a cornucopia, and a bee-hive: this I presume was Industry. These twin figures are supporters to a medallion, crown-surmounted, of the Queen and Prince Albert: being also in “dead silver.” On the reverse was an inscription, giving the dimensions, &c., of the building.

The medals in demand for street-sale in London seem to be those commemorative of local events only. None, for instance, were sold relating to the opening of the Britannia Bridge.

The wholesale price of the medals retailed in the street at 1_d._ is 7_s._ the gross; those retailed at 2_d._ are 12_s._ the gross, but more than three-fourths of those sold are penny medals. They are all bought at the swag-shops, and are all made in Birmingham. It is difficult to compute how many persons are engaged in this street trade, for many resort to it only on occasions. There are, however, from 12 to 20 generally selling medals, and at the present time about 30 are so occupied: they, however, do not sell medals exclusively, but along with a few articles of jewellery, or occasionally of such street stationery as letter stamps and “fancy” pens, with coloured glass or china handles. A fourth of the number are women. The weather greatly influences the street medal trade, as rain or damp dims their brightness. One seller told me that the day before I saw him he had sold only four medals. “I’ve known the trade, off and on,” he said, “for about six years, and the greatest number as ever I sold was half-a-gross one Saturday. I cleared rather better than 3_s._ I sold them in Whitehall and by Westminster-bridge. There was nothing new among them, but I had a good stock, and it was a fine day, and I was lucky in meeting parties, and had a run for sets.” By a “run for sets,” my informant meant that he had met with customers who bought a medal of each of the kinds he displayed; this is called “a set.”

An intelligent man, familiar with the trade, and who was in the habit of clubbing his stock-money with two others, that they might buy a gross at a time, calculated that 15 medal sellers were engaged in the traffic the year through, and earned, in medals alone, 6_d._ a day each, to clear which they would take 6_s._ 6_d._ weekly, giving a yearly outlay of 253_l._ 10_s._ It must be remembered, to account for the smallness of the earnings, that the trade in medals is irregular, and the calculation embraces all the seasons of the trade.

On occasions when medals are the sole or chief articles of traffic, they are displayed on a tray, which is a box with a lid, and thus look bright as silver on the faded brown velvet, with which the box is often lined. Among the favourite pitches are Oxford-street, the approaches to London, Blackfriars, Westminster, and Waterloo-bridges, the railway stations, and the City-road.

Of small coins (proper) there is now no sale in the streets. When there was an issue of half-farthings, about seven years ago, the street-sellers drove a brisk trade, in vending them at four a penny, urging on the sale before the coins got into circulation, which they never did. “It’s not often,” said one patterer to me, “that we has anything to thank the Government for, but we may thank them for the half-farthings. I dare say at least 30 of us made a tidy living on them for a week or more; and if they wasn’t coined just to give us a spirt, I should like to know what they was coined for! I once myself, sir, for a lark, gave one to a man that swept a capital crossing, and he was in a thundering passion, and wanted to fight me, when I told him they was coined to pay the likes of him!”

There was afterwards a tolerable sale of the “new silver pennies, just issued from the Mint, three ha’pence each, or 7 for 6_d._;” also of “genuine models of the new English florin, only 1_d._:” both of these were fictitious.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF RINGS AND SOVEREIGNS FOR WAGERS.

This class is hardly known in the streets of London at present. Country fairs and races are a more fitting ground for the ring-seller’s operations. One man of this class told me that he had been selling rings, and occasionally medals, for wagers for this last fifteen years. “It’s only a so-so game just now,” he said; “the people get so fly to it. A many hold out their penny for a ring, and just as I suppose I’m a going to receive it, they put the penny into their pockets, and their thumb upon their nose. I wish I had some other game, for this is a very dickey one. I gives 3_d._ a-dozen for the rings at the swag shop; and sometimes sells a couple of dozen in a day, but seldom more. Saturday is no better day than any other. Country people are my best customers. I know them by their appearance. Sometimes a person in the crowd whispers to others that he bought one the other day and went and pawned it for 5_s._, and he’d buy another, but he’s got no money. I don’t ask for such assistance; I suppose it’s done for a lark, and to laugh at others if they buy. Women buy more frequently than any one else. Several times since I have been on this dodge, women have come back and abused me because the ring they bought for a penny was not gold. Some had been to the pawn shop, and was quite astonished that the pawnbroker wouldn’t take the ring in. I do best in the summer at races: people think it more likely that two sporting gents would lay an out of the way wager (as you know I always make out) then than at any other time. I have been interfered with at races before now for being an impostor, and yet at the same time the gamblers was allowed to keep their tables; but of course theirs was all fair--no imposition about them--oh no! I am considered one of the best patterers among our lot. I dare say there may be twenty on us all together, in town and country, on rings and sovereigns. Sometimes, when travelling on foot to a race or fair, I do a little in the Fawney dropping line;” (fawneys are rings;) “but that is a dangerous game, I never did it but two or three times. There were some got lagged for it, and that frightened me. In ring-dropping we pretend to have found a ring, and ask some simple-looking fellow if it’s good gold, as it’s only just picked up. Sometimes it is immediately pronounced gold: ‘Well it’s no use to me,’ we’ll say, ‘will you buy it?’ Often they are foolish enough to buy, and it’s some satisfaction to one’s conscience to know that they think they are a taking you in, for they give you only a shilling or two for an article which if really gold would be worth eight or ten. Some ring-droppers write out an account and make a little parcel of jewellery, and when they pick out their man, they say, ‘If you please, sir, will you read this for me, and tell me what I should do with these things, as I’ve just found them?’ Some people advise they should be taken to the police office--but very few say that; some, that they should be taken to the address; others, that they should be sold, and the money shared; others offer a price for them, stating that they’re not gold, they’re only trumpery they say, but they’ll give half-a-crown for them. It’s pleasant to take such people in. Sometimes the finder says he’s in haste, and will sell them for anything to attend to other business, and he then transfers his interest at perhaps 200 per cent. profit. This game won’t friz now, sir, it’s very dangerous. I’ve left it off long since. I don’t like the idea of quod. I’ve been there once.” Another plan of dropping rings is to write a letter. This is the style:--

“My dear Anne,

“I have sent you the ring, and hope it will fit.--Excuse me not bringing it. John will leave it with you.--You know I have so much to attend to.--I shall think every minute a year until the happy day arrives.

“Yours devotedly, “JAMES BROWN.”

This love epistle containing the wedding-ring was most successful when it first came up, but the public now are too wide awake. According to another informant, the ring-dropping “lurk” is now carried on this way, for the old style is “coopered.” “A woman” he says, “is made up so as to appear in the family-way--pretty far gone--and generally with a face as long as a boy’s kite. Up she goes to any likely ken, where she knows there are women that are married or expect to get married, and commences begging. Then comes the tale of woe, if she can get them to listen--‘I’m in the family-way,’ she says, ‘as you can plainly see young ladies (this she says to the servants, and that prides them you know). My husband has left me after serving me in this way. I don’t know where he is, and am forced to solicit the ladies’ charity.’ Well, the servants will bring broken victuals and make a little collection among themselves for the ‘unprotected female;’ for which in return, with many thanks for their kindness, she offers her gold wedding-ring for sale, as she wants to get back to her suffering kids to give them something to eat, poor things, and they shall have the gold ring, she says, for half what it’s worth; or if they won’t buy it, will they lend 2_s._ or 3_s._ on it till she can redeem it, as she hasn’t been in the habit of pledging! The girls are taken off their guard (she not being in the habit of pledging is a choker for them) by the woman’s seeming simplicity, and there’s a consultation. One says to the other--‘Oh, you’ll want it, Mary, for John;’ and another, ‘No, you’ll want it first, Sally, for William.’ But the woman has her eye on the one as says the least, as the likeliest of all to want it, and so she says to the John and William girls, ‘Oh, you don’t want it; but here (touching the silent one), here’s a young lady as does,’ (that sweetens the servant girl up directly.) She says, ‘I don’t want it, bless you (with a giggle), but I’ll lend you a trifle, as you are in this state, and have a family, and are left like this by your husband--aint he cruel, Sally (she adds to her fellow-servant)?’ The money the ring-woman gets, sir, depends upon the servant’s funds; if it is just after quarter-day, she generally gets a tidy tip--if not, 4 or 5 bob. I’ve known one woman get 10_s._ and even 12_s._ this way. The ring is made out of brass gilt buttons, and stunning well: it’s faked up to rights, and takes a good judge even at this day to detect it without a test.”

“The best sort of rings for fawney dropping is the Belchers. They are a good thick looking ring, and have the crown and V. R. stamped upon them. They are 7_d._ a dozen. I takes my stand now, in my ring-selling, as if I was in a great hurry, and pulls out my watch. I used to have a real one, but now it’s a dummy. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ says I, ‘I am not permitted to remain more than ten minutes in one spot. I have rings to sell to decide a wager recently made between two sporting noblemen, to the effect that I do not sell a certain quantity of these rings in a given time, at a penny a piece. I can recommend the article as being well worth the money I ask for it, perhaps something more. I do not say they are gold; in fact, I must not say too much, as there is a person in this company watching my proceedings, and seeing that I do not remain more than ten minutes in this spot,’--here I always looks very hard at the most respectable and gentlemanly-looking person among my hearers, and sometimes gives him a wink, and sometimes a nod,--‘but if you should hear anything more about these rings, and you want to purchase, don’t be vexed if I am gone when you want me. The ten minutes has nearly expired; three minutes more; any more buyers? It makes no difference to me whether I sell or not--I get my pay all the same; but, if you take my advice, buy; and perhaps if you was to call at the sign of the Three Balls, as you go home, you may be agreeably surprised, and hear something to your advantage. Perhaps I have said too much. I have one minute more, before I close the establishment. After shutting the box, I dare not sell another in this spot, if you were to offer me 5_l._ for it; therefore, if you wish to purchase, now is your time.’ I make many a pitch, and do not sell a single ring; and the insults I receive used to aggravate me very much, but I do not mind them now, I’m used to it. The flyest cove among all us ring-sellers is little Ikey, the Jew. There were two used to work the game. They had a real gold ring, just like the ones they were selling, and they always used to pitch near a pawnbroker’s shop. Ikey’s pal would buy a ring for a penny, of the street-seller, and would then say, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, ‘There’s a pawn shop--I’ll go and ask them to take it in.’ A crowd would follow him. He would enter the pawnbroker’s--present a real gold ring--obtain a loan of 5_s._, and would present the ticket to the bystanders, who would then buy very fast. When the pitch was over, Ikey’s pal would take the ring out of pawn, and away the two would go to work near some other pawnbroker’s. I have heard Ikey say they have pawned the ring thirty-five times in a day. I tried the same caper; but my pal cut with the gold ring the first day, and I’ve never had another go at that fake since.

“Before I commenced the jewellery line,” continued my candid informant, “a good many years ago, I used to hold horses about Bond-street. Afterwards I was taken as an errand boy at a druggist’s, was out of an errand one day and got 6_d._ for holding a gentleman’s horse, which kept me nearly an hour; when I went back to my master’s I was told I wasn’t wanted any more. I had been cautioned about stopping of errands two or three times before; however I didn’t like the situation, it was too confining. I next got a place as pot-boy, in Brick Lane. Here I was out one day gathering in the pots. I hung the strap of pots to a railing to have a game at chances (pitch and toss), somebody prigged my strap of pots, and I cut. A few weeks after I was grabbed for this, and got a month at the mill; but I was quite innocent of prigging--I was only careless. When I came out of prison, I went to Epsom races, thinking to get a job there at something or other. A man engaged me to assist him in ‘pitching the hunters.’ Pitching the hunters is the three sticks a penny, with the snuffboxes stuck upon sticks; if you throw your stick, and they fall out of the hole, you are entitled to what you knock off. I came to London with my master the pitcher-hunter, he went to a swag shop in Kent-street, in the Borough, to purchase a new stock. I saw a man there purchasing rings, this was little Ikey, the Jew; some days afterwards I saw him making a pitch, and selling very fast. I had fourpence in my pocket; went to Kent-street, to the swag shops, bought a dozen rings, and commenced selling them. I sold that day three dozen; that wasn’t bad considering that my toggery was very queer, and I looked anything but like one who would be trusted with ten pounds’ worth of gold rings. This wager between the two sporting noblemen has been a long time settling. I’ve been at it more than fifteen years. The origin of it was this here: when sovereigns were first coined, the Jew boys and others used to sell medals and card-counters upon particular occasions, the same as they do now, and shove them in a saucepan lid, with silver paper under them. Captain Barclay, and another of the same sort, bet a wager, that one of these Jew-boys could not dispose of a certain number of real sovereigns in a given time, supposing the Jew-boy cried out nothing more than ‘here’s sovereigns, only a penny a piece.’ The number he was to sell was 50 within the hour, and to take his station at London Bridge. The wager was made, the Jew-boy procured, and the sovereigns put into the pot lid. ‘Here are real sovereigns a penny a piece, who’ll buy?’ he cried; but he sold only a few. The number disposed of, within the hour, I have heard, was seventeen. Those who purchased, when they found that they had really bought sovereigns at a penny a piece, returned for more, but the salesman was gone. A good harvest was afterwards reaped among the Jews, who got up a medal something like a sovereign, and sold them in every quarter of London, for the Captain’s wager soon spread about everywhere. It’s a stale game now; it was so before my time, but I’ve heard the Jews talk about it. The second day I tried the ring dodge, I was a little more successful; indeed every day for some time exceeded the day before, for, as I improved in patter, my sales increased. My appearance, too, was improving. At one time I was a regular swell, sported white kid gloves, white choker, white waistcoat, black ribbon, and a quizzing glass. Some people used to chaff me, and cry out ‘there’s a swell.’ I never was saving, always spent my money as fast as I got it. I might have saved a goodish bit, and I wish I had now. I never had a wife, but I have had two or three broomstick matches, though they never turned out happy. I never got hold of one but what was fond of lush. I live in Westminster, at a padding-ken. I’d rather not tell you where, not that I’ve anything to fear, but people might think I was a nose, if anybody came after me, and they would crab me. I’d rather get something else to do if I could, but I think this is the best street game I could follow. I don’t believe any of the ring-sellers dispose of more than myself, except little Ikey; he now adds other articles, a silver thimble (he calls it), some conundrums, a song-book and a seal, and all for a penny. I tried the same thing, but found I could do just as well with the rings alone. We all expects to do great things during the Exhibition. I think all on us ought to be allowed to sell in the parks. Foreigners are invited to witness specimens of British Industry, and it’s my opinion they should see all, from the highest to the lowest. We did intend petitioning the Prince on the subject, but I don’t suppose it would be any go, seeing as how the slang coves” (the showmen), “have done so, and been refused.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF CHILDREN’S GILT WATCHES.

These articles were first introduced into general street sale about 10 years ago. They were then German made. The size was not much larger than that of a shilling, and to this tiny watch was appended as tiny a chain and seal. The street-price was only 1_d._, and the wholesale price was 8_s._ the gross. They were sold at eight of the swag-shops, all “English and foreign,” or “English and German” establishments. From the price it would appear that the profit was 4_d._ a dozen, but as the street-sellers had to “take the watches as they came,” the profit was but 3_d._, as a dozen watches in a gross had broken glasses, or were otherwise damaged and unsaleable. The supply of these watches was not equal to the demand, for when a case of them was received, “it could have been sold twice over.” One street-seller told me that he had sold 15 and even 16 dozen of these watches on a day, and that once on a Saturday night, and early on Sunday morning, he had sold 2 gross, or 24 dozen. Such, however, was not the regular sale; a “good week” was a profit of 15_s._

About six years ago gilt watches of a very superior kind were sold in the streets in a different way. They were French made, and were at first vended at 1_s._ each. Some were displayed in case-boxes, fitted up with divisions, in which were placed the watches with the guard-chains, about three-quarters of a yard long, coiled round them. There were also two or three keys, one in the form of a pistol. The others were hung from a small pole, sometimes a dozen, and sometimes two, being so suspended, and they had a good glittering appearance in a bright light; this street fashion still continues. The street-sellers, however, are anxious not to expose these watches too much, as they are easily injured by the weather, and any stain or injury is irreparable. The shilling sale continued prosperously for about six weeks, and then the wholesale price--owing, the street-sellers were told at the swag-shops, to “an opposition in the trade in Paris,”--was reduced to 4_s._ 6_d._ the dozen, and the retail street-price to 6_d._ each. When the trade was “at its best” there were thirty men and twenty women selling these watches, all May, June, and July, and each clearing from 12_s._ to 20_s._ (but rarely the latter sum) a week. Last “season” there were for the same period about half the number of sellers mentioned, averaging a profit of about 15_d._ a day each, or 9_s._ a week. The cry is--“Handsome present for 6_d._ Beautiful child’s watch and chain, made of Peruvian metal, by working jewellers out of employ. Only 6_d._ for a handsome present.”

The vendors of these watches are the regular street-sellers, some of them being tolerably good patterers. One of these men, in the second year of the street-sale of watches, appeared one morning in an apron and sleeves, to which brass and copper filings were made to adhere, and he announced himself as an English working jeweller unemployed, offering his own manufactures for sale, “better finished and more solider nor the French.” The man’s sale was greatly increased. On the following day, however, four other English working jewellers appeared in Leicester-square and its approaches, each in besprinkled apron and sleeves, and each offering the productions of his own handicraft! The apron and sleeves were therefore soon abandoned.

Among the best “pitches,”--for the watch-sellers are not itinerant, though they walk to and fro--are the Regent’s-park, Leicester-square, the foot of London-bridge, and of Blackfriars-bridge, and at the several railway stations.

The principal purchasers, I was told by an intelligent patterer, who sometimes “turned his hand to the watches,” were “fathers and mothers,” he thought, “and them as wished to please such parties.”

Calculating that twenty-five persons now vend watches for twelve weeks in the year, and--as they are 10 per cent. cheaper than they were at the swag-shops--that each clears 8_s._ weekly, we find 360_l._ yearly expended in London streets in these toy watches.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF TINWARE.

The sellers of tins, who carry them under their arms, or in any way on a round, apart from the use of a vehicle, are known as hand-sellers. The word hand-seller is construed by the street-traders as meaning literally hand-seller, that is to say, a seller of things held or carried in the hand; but the term is clearly derived from the Scotch handsell, as in “handsell penny.” Handsell, according to Jamieson, the Scotch etymologist, means, (1) “The first money that a trader receives for goods; also a gift conferred at a particular season. (2) A piece of bread given before breakfast.” Ihre, the Gothic lexicographer, views the term handsell as having sprung from the Mæso-Gothic hunsla (sacrifice or offering). This is the same as the Anglo-Sax husl (the Eucharist), whence comes the English housel and unhouseled; and he considers the word to have originally meant a gift or offering of any kind. Hence, the hand-sellers of tin and other wares in the street, would mean simply those who offered such tin or other wares for sale. The goods they dispose of are dripping-pans (sometimes called “square pans”), sold at from 3_d._ to 18_d._, the 3_d._ pans being “6 inch,” and the 18_d._ “15 inch;” cullenders, 6_d._ to 9_d._; hand-bowls, for washerwomen, 1_s._ (now a very small portion of the trade); roasting-jacks, with tin bodies, 6_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ (this used to be the best article for profit and ready sale in the trade, but “they are going out of date”); and the smaller articles of graters, &c.

The hand-sellers also trade in other articles which are less portable; the principal sale, however, is at “stands,” and there chiefly on a Saturday night, the greatest business-time of street-commerce! These less portable articles are tea-kettles, 10_d._ to 18_d._; saucepans of all sizes, the smallest being the “open pints” at 2_d._ or 2-1/2_d._ each (they cost them 20_d._ a dozen; it’s a bargain to get them at 18_d._), and the largest the “nine quart;” but the kinds most in demand are the “three pints” and “two quarts,” sold at 6_d._ and 8_d._ There are also fish-kettles in this street-traffic, though to a very limited extent--“one fish-kettle,” I was told, “to four-and-twenty saucepans;” the selling price for the fish-kettles is 5_s._ and 3_s._ 6_d._ each; candlesticks are sold at 4_d._ to 1_s._; and shaving-pots, 4_d._ A few tin things used to be sold at the mews, but the trade is now almost entirely abandoned. These were tins for singeing horses, 2_s._ 6_d._ each when first introduced, ten or twelve years ago, but now 1_s._, and stable lanterns, of punched tin, which cannot be sold now for more than 1_s._ each, though they cost 10_s._ per dozen at a tin-shop.

There are other tin articles vended in the streets, but they will be more properly detailed in my account of street-artisans, as the maker and the street-seller are the same individual. Among these are Dutch ovens, which are rarely offered now by those who purchase their goods at the tin-shops, as the charge there is 6_d._ “Why,” said a working tinman to me, “I’ve had 10_d._ many a week for making ovens, and the stuff found. It takes two plates of tin to make an oven, that’s 3_d._ at any tin-shop, before a minute’s labour is given to it, and yet the men who hawk their own goods sell their ovens regularly enough at 4_d._ It’s the ruin of the trade.” The tin-shops, I may observe, supply the artisans with the materials they require, as well as the ready-made articles, to the street-seller.

One of the largest street-stands “in tin” is in St. John-street, Clerkenwell, on Saturday evenings, but the proprietor pertains to the artisan class, though he buys some of his goods at the tin-shops.

The hand-sellers of tin are about 100 in number, and 60 of that number may be said to be wives and children of the remaining 40; as the majority of the itinerant vendors of tinware are married men with families. “Tins” are not a heavy carriage, and can very well be borne from house to house by women, while children sell such things as nutmeg-graters, pepper-boxes, extinguishers, and save-alls. Those who sell the larger tin articles in the streets are generally the makers of them. “A dozen years back or more, perhaps, there was,” I was informed, “some prime block-tin tea-pots sold in the streets; there’s none now. Metal’s druv out tin.”

Among the street tin-sellers I heard many complaints of the smallness, and the constantly diminishing rate of their earnings. “Our people has bad luck, too,” said one man, “or they isn’t wide awake. You may remember, sir, that a few weeks back, a new save-all came in, and was called candle-wedges, and went off well. It was a tin thing, and ought by rights to have been started by the tin-shops for us. But it was first put out by the swag-men at 3_s._ the gross. The first and second days the men were soon sold out. Them as could patter tidy did the best--I tried, but you see, sir, I’m no scholar. Well, they went at night to Mr. ----’s, in Houndsditch, I think it is, and he says, ‘I’m out of them, but I’ll have some in the morning.’ They goes in the morning, and the swag says: ‘O, I can’t afford ’em at three shillings, you can have ’em at four.’ He put 1_s._ exter on the gross, cause they sold, nothing else, sir; and a relation of mine heard the swag shopkeeper say, ‘Why, they’re cheap at four; Jim (the street-seller) there made 3_s._ 3_d._ on ’em yesterday. I ain’t a going to slave, and pay rent, and rates, and taxes, to make your fortens; it ain’t likely.’ You see, sir, they was sold at 1/2_d._ each, and cost 1/4_d._, which is 3_d._ a dozen, and so the swag got a higher profit, while the poor fellows had to sell for less profit.”

From the most reliable information which I could acquire, it appears that these tin-sellers, taken altogether, do not earn above 6_s._ a week each, as regards the adult men, and half that as regards the children and women. To realize this amount, the adults must take 13_s._, and the women and children 7_s._, for the latter are less “priced down.” Thus, if we calculate an average receipt, per individual, of 10_s._ weekly, reckoning 100 sellers, we find a yearly expenditure on tins, bought in the street, of 2500_l._ The trade is greatest in the suburbs, and some men, who have become “known on their rounds,” supply houses, by order, with all the tins they require.

There is a branch of the tin-trade carried on in a way which I have shown prevailed occasionally among the costermongers, viz., the selling of goods on commission. This system is now carried on among all the parties who trade “from” swag-barrows.

The word “swag” which has been so often used in this work of late, is, like many other of the street-terms, of Scotch origin (as handseller, and busker). The Scotch word is sweg or swack, and means, according to Jamieson, a quantity, a considerable number, a large collection of any kind. (The root appears to be an ancient German term, sweig--a flock, a herd.) Hence a Swag Warehouse is a warehouse containing a large collection of miscellaneous goods; and a Swag Barrow, a barrow laden with a considerable assortment of articles. The slang term swag means booty, plunder--that is to say, the collection of goods--the “lot,” the “heap” stolen.

Of these swag-barrowmen, there are not less than 150, and the barrows are mostly the property of three individuals, who are not street-sellers themselves. One of these men has 50 barrows of his own, and employs 50 men to work them. The barrow proprietor supplies not only the vehicle, but the stock, and the men’s remuneration is 3_d._ in the 1_s._ on the amount of sales. Each article they sell is charged to the public 1_d._ The tin-wares of the swag-barrows are nutmeg-graters, bread-graters, beer-warmers, fish-slices, goblets, mugs, save-alls, extinguishers, candle-shades, money-boxes, children’s plates, and rattles. In addition to the tin-wares, the swag-barrows are stocked with brooches, rings, pot-ornaments, plates, small crockeryware, toys, &c., each article being also vended at 1_d._ The trade is so far stationary, that the men generally confine themselves to one neighbourhood, if not to one street. The majority of the swag-barrowmen have been costermongers, and nearly the whole have been engaged in street avocations all their lives. One man familiar with the trade thought I might state that the whole were of this description; for though there was lately a swag-barrowman who had been a tradesman in an extensive way, there was, he believed, no such exception at the present time. These barrowmen are nearly all uneducated, and are plodding and persevering men, though they make few exertions to better their condition. As the barrow and stock are supplied to them, without any outlay on their part, their faculties are not even sharpened, as among many of the costermongers, by the necessity of providing stock-money, and knowing how to bargain and buy to advantage. They have merely to sell. Their commission furnishes little or nothing more than the means of a bare subsistence. The great sale is on Saturday nights at the street-markets, and to the working people, who then crowd those places, and, as one said to me, “has a few pennies to lay out.” At such times as much as 3_l._ has been taken by a swag-barrowman. During the other days of the week their earnings are small. It is considered a first-rate week, and there must be all the facilities for street-trade afforded by fine weather, to take 2_s._ a day (clearing 6_d._), and 3_l._ on a Saturday night. This gives the swag-barrowman a commission of 18_s._; but I am informed, by competent persons, that the average of the weekly profits of these street-traders does not exceed 10_s._ a week. This shows a yearly receipt, by the men working the barrows, of 3900_l._ as their profit or payment, and a gross receipt of 11,700_l._ Of this large amount nearly two-thirds, I am assured, is expended on tin-wares.

The prime cost, at the tin-shops, of these wares, to the barrow proprietors, are 7_s._ and 7_s._ 6_d._ the gross, leaving from 1-1/2_d._ to 2_d._ profit on every shilling, over the 3_d._ commission paid to the salesman. The tins are all made in London. The jewellery, and other stock of the swag-barrows, are bought at the general swag-shops, of which I have before spoken.

OF THE LIFE OF A TIN-WARE SELLER.

The following street-biography was communicated to me in writing. It is, I believe, a striking instance of the vicissitudes and privations to which a street-life is subject. It forms, moreover, a curious example of those moral contradictions which make the same individual at one time give way hopelessly to the force of circumstances, and at another resolutely control them.

“My object,” says my correspondent, “for writing this, what some folks no doubt will call a nonsensical epistle, is merely to show how much human nature is capable of enduring in the shape of privations. People in easy circumstances will scarcely credit what I am about to relate; and many of the poor will smile at what I have termed hardships, and at my folly in endeavouring to paint the misery I have endured, which will appear slight when compared to what they themselves have suffered.

“I am the son of a mechanic who was accidentally drowned some weeks previous to my birth. My mother, through industry and perseverance, endeavoured to support me and my sister till we arrived at the ages of 15 and 18, I being the younger. I entered a gentleman’s service as pantry-boy, where I continued until I considered myself competent to take a higher situation. Still a servant’s life was not the bent of my inclinations; martial music and viewing soldiers on parade made me think that a rifle was a more graceful tool than a toasting-fork. I resolved to serve his Majesty, and for that purpose enlisted in the 60th Rifles on the route for India, but Providence ordained it otherwise. On the afternoon on which I ’listed I fell by accident and broke my leg, and as I was not sworn in I was entitled to no pension. I was six months confined to my bed, and it was three years before I could go without my crutch. Grief for my misfortunes had borne my mother to an early grave, and I was left a cripple and destitute. Whether by design or accident I do not recollect, but I met with the lady (Lady M----) in whose service I first entered as pantry-boy; she took pity on my forlorn condition, and kindly invited me to her Mansion, where I remained until completely restored to health, but still crippled. After this I was employed painting and glazing, &c., and, considering myself competent to get my living in that line, I resolved to go to London--the theatre of all my misery to come, for I was disappointed. On reaching the metropolis my paint-brush was turned into a shovel, my paint-pot into a dust sieve, for I could only get employed by a man to work in a dust-yard at 10_s._ a week. From thence I went to a firm belonging to a friend at Beckenham, near Croydon, as working time-keeper, or foreman; but during a fair in that village I neglected to back the time, and being discharged was cast upon the world again with only 3_s._ in my pocket, which I eat and drank up, having no idea of street trading. Then came my trials; but having had sufficient food during the day, I did not feel much the effects of my first night in the streets. The next day I had no food, and towards dusk began bitterly to feel my situation; that night I slept, or rather lay, in an empty house. Towards noon of the next day I felt weak, and drank large quantities of water, for I had no particular desire for food. Passing by a shop where old clothes were offered for sale, I saw a man wretched in appearance disposing of an old vest for a few pence. I caught the malady and was instantly spoiled of my coat, having received in exchange for it 2_s._ and an old frock--such as are generally worn by waggoners or countrymen. I more than once smiled at my novel appearance. A penny loaf, a drink of water, and a threepenny lodging was the first assault upon my 2_s._ I regretted, however, the 3_d._ paid for my lodging, and determined not to risk another, for my bedfellows were so numerous, and of such teazing propensities, that they would not allow me to sleep; truly indeed is it said that ‘poverty makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows.’ At this time I formed an acquaintance with a man whose condition was similar to my own; he engaged to put me ‘fly to a dodge’ or two; an explanation from him was necessary to make me acquainted with the sense of his words, which I soon found simply meant artful manœuvres. One of these dodges was to snooze (a term for sleeping) in the Adelphi arches; I felt grateful for such a mark of disinterested friendship, and next day my friend and me fared sumptuously on the produce of my coat, and at night we repaired to the Arches in question, and there found a comfortable lodging in a hay-loft. I lay for some time, but did not sleep. I was several times addressed by my companion in an under tone, ‘Are you asleep,’ he whispered, ‘ain’t it a stunning dos?’ (which means a good bed). I was not in a mood for conversation, and made no reply; to silence him completely I affected to snore, and this had the desired effect. For a few minutes he was quite quiet, and then he commenced with great caution to unlace my boots, with a view to stealing them. I perceived his object, and immediately left my lodging and companion. I felt grieved and disappointed at the loss of one in whom I placed all confidence; but this time wisdom was purchased cheaply, inasmuch as I suffered no loss except that my money might have lasted me a little longer. The remainder of that night I strayed about the Strand and Charing-cross, after a drink of water; I took a seat on a curb surrounding the pump; many wretched beings came and seated themselves beside me, and a conversation ensued respecting their several destinations during the day. One proposed going to Hungerford-market to do a feed on decayed shrimps or other offal laying about the market; another proposed going to Covent-garden to do a ‘tightener’ of rotten oranges, to which I was humorously invited; I accepted the invitation, and proceeded with my new companion. I fared well; I filled my hat, took a seat, and made a most delicious breakfast. I remained strolling about the Garden all day, and towards evening was invited by my companions to a ‘dos’ in an open shed in Islington; this I declined, alleging that I had a lodging, but that night I slept amongst a heap of stones near the pillar at Charing-cross. I continued to attend the Garden for several weeks, subsisting entirely on the offal of that market. One day I took notice of a man there selling chestnut leaves; I enquired how he obtained them: he told me he plucked them from the trees without hindrance, and directed me to where I could obtain some. I went to a grove in the vicinity of Kilburn, and lay there all night. Next morning I found no leaves, so I returned disappointed to town, and on going through the market a woman employed me to carry a bushel of pears some little distance for her for a penny. I felt quite elevated in anticipation of such a treat as a penny loaf, but alas! I fell down under the weight of the fruit and poverty; my employer, however, kindly gave me the penny, though some of her pears were injured, and I had not taken them half the required distance. With the money I purchased a loaf, and sat on a stone near the pump in Covent Garden and began my meal. Here I soon had a companion, who after rincing a lettuce at the pump, began to devour it. I shared my loaf with him. ‘O God!’ said he, ‘what are we destined to suffer. I have escaped the bullets of the Carlists in Spain to die in the streets of London with hunger.’ I felt an interest in the poor fellow, who I discovered in the course of conversation had been a gentleman’s servant in his time; he assured me he had been living in the same way for several weeks as I myself had been. Towards night my companion asked me where I slept. I told him my different haunts, he told me I’d better go to the straw-yard with him; this was a place I had not yet heard of; it was the nightly refuge for the houseless poor. I accompanied him without hesitation; my confidence was not misplaced; I slept there several nights. Bread was distributed to us night and morning, and this was fortunate, for the Garden began to fail. In the course of conversation with some of the inmates of the Refuge, we found that we could obtain employment at stone-breaking; this we tried the next morning, and succeeded. We worked all day, and received 6_d._ each on leaving work. We then made up our minds to go to lodgings that we might have an opportunity of washing what were once shirts.

“Misery had not had that wasting influence on my companion as it had on me. I was at this time a complete skeleton; a puff of wind would cause me to stagger. I continued stone-breaking, but about noon of the third day I sunk exhausted on the heap of stones before me. Poverty had done its work, and I anticipated with pleasure approaching dissolution. I was assisted to my lodging by my companion, and went to bed. When the woman at the lodging-house discovered that I was ill, she ordered some of her domestics to dress me and put me in the street, alleging that she was under a penalty of 20_l._ were it discovered that she lodged a sick stranger. I was, therefore, cast into the street at 12 o’clock at night. My companion then gave me the 3_d._ he had earned that day to procure me a lodging if possible, and he slept in the streets the remainder of the night. I went to another lodging, concealing as much as possible my illness; my money was taken, and I was conducted to bed. I spent a wretched night, and next morning I was very bad. The landlady led me to the workhouse; I was admitted directly; had they detained me asking questions I should have sunk on the floor. My disorder was pronounced English cholera. I lay three weeks in a precarious state, but at the end of seven weeks was recovered sufficiently to walk about. I was then discharged; but on going towards the Abbey in Westminster I fainted, and on recovery found myself surrounded by a number of persons. I was advised to return to the house; I did so, and was admitted for a short time, after which I was again discharged, but I received out-door relief twice a week; and for some time a small portion of bread and cheese as well. I had now lost not only all hope, but even desire of bettering my condition; during these trials I made none acquainted with my privations, save those situated as I was. I now altered my condition as regards sleeping; I walked about during the night, and slept a portion of the day on a heap of sand near Westminster-bridge. I then remembered to have a poor relative in Kensington; I did not plead distress, but merely asked whether she knew where I might procure employment. I had a cup of tea, the first I had tasted since I was in the workhouse, a period of five weeks. Being asked some question by my relative, I could not help making reference to some of my sufferings. At this place I found a young man of whom I had had a previous acquaintance; I told him of my inability to procure a lodging, and he allowed me without the knowledge of his parents to sleep in the stable-loft; the bed was hard, but the coal sacks kept me warm. Here I had many opportunities of earning a few pence, and I began to regain my spirits. On one occasion, seeing a lad illtreated by a young man who was much his superior in size and strength, I interposed, and it may be conjectured in what manner. This circumstance procured me a friend, for, with the assistance of the lad I had protected, I was enabled to live tolerably well, and after a short while I got a situation at a coal-shed at 10_s._ a week. I continued in this place eighteen months, but, my master giving up the business, I was again cast on the world. I then began to think seriously of some way of living, and for the first time asked for the loan of 15_s._ With this I purchased a few articles of furniture, laid out 7_s._ 6_d._ for two hundred of oranges, with which I walked and hawked about two days, taking but 4_d._ during the time. I disposed of the remainder of my stock, wholesale, for 6_s._; with this I purchased a small tin saucepan, a piece of marble slab, and commenced sugar-boiling. I retailed my manufacture in the streets. By dint of perseverance and economy I managed to live this way through the winter and a portion of the spring; but summer being now come, people needed none of my compounds to warm their mouths, so it was necessary for me to change my hand. What should I do? Thoughts came and vanished at their births. I recollected having seen a person selling rings at a penny each; I made up my mind to try the same. I laid out 5_s._ in a tray and stock; after arranging the goods to the best advantage I sallied into the streets. The glittering baubles took for a while, but when discoloured were useless. Having once a considerable stock of these soiled rings, I was prompted to begin “lot selling.” After calculating the profits, I commenced selling in that line. As this continued for seven weeks I managed to get a living. The system then became general; every street in the metropolis contained a lot seller, so I was determined to change my hand. One day in the street I saw a girl with a bundle of old umbrellas going towards a marine store shop; I asked if the umbrellas were for sale; she replied in the affirmative; the price she asked was 4_d._; I became a purchaser. With these old umbrellas I commenced a new life. I bought some trifling tools necessary for repairing umbrellas, and, after viewing well the construction of the articles, I commenced operations. I succeeded, and in a little time could not only mend an old umbrella, but make a new one. This way of living I followed three years. In one of my walks through the streets crying old umbrellas to sell, I saw a street tinker repairing a saucepan; he seemed so very comfortable with his fire-pan before him, that I resolved from that moment to become a tinker, and for that purpose I bought a few tools, prepared a budget, and sallied into the streets with as much indifference as if I had been at the business since my birth. After a little practice I fancied I was fit for better things than mending old saucepans, and flattered myself that I was able to make a new one. This I resolved to attempt, and succeeded so well, that I at once abandoned the rainy-day system, and commenced manufacturing articles in tin-ware, such as are now sold in the streets, namely funnels, nutmeg-graters, penny mugs, extinguishers, slices, savealls, &c. I soon became known to the street-sellers and swag-shop proprietors. The prices I get are low, and I am deficient in some of the tools necessary to forward the work, with the required speed to procure returns adequate to my expenses; but thanks to the Lord I am better off than ever I expected to be, with the difference only of a somewhat shattered constitution. There are many at the present day suffering as I have done, and they may be found in and about the different markets of the metropolis.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF DOG-COLLARS.

Of these street-traders there are now regularly twelve; one man counted to me fourteen, but two of these only sold dog-collars occasionally, when they could not get employment in their trade as journeymen brass-founders. Of the regular hands, one, two, and sometimes three sell only dog-collars (with the usual adjuncts of locks, and sometimes chains, and key-rings), but even these, when their stock-money avails, prefer uniting to the collars some other trifling article.

Two of the most profitable pitches for the sale of these articles are in the neighbourhood of the Old Swan Pier, off Thames-street, and at a corner of the Bank. Neither of these two traders confines his stock to dog-collars, though they constitute the most valuable portion of it. The one sells, in addition to his collars, key-rings, keys and chains, dog-whistles, stamps with letters engraved upon them, printer’s type, in which any name or initials may be set up, shaving-brushes, trowser-straps, razors, and a few other light articles. The other sells little more than “dog” articles, with the addition of brass padlocks and small whips. But the minor commodities are frequently varied, according to the season and to the street-seller’s opinion of what may “sell.”

Some of these traders hang their wares against the rails of any public or other building in a good situation, where they can obtain leave. Others have stalls, with “a back,” from the corners of which hang the strings of dog-collars, one linked within another. The manner in which one street-seller displays his wares is shown in the illustration before given. Of the whole number, half are either itinerant on a round, or walk up and down a thoroughfare and an adjacent street or two. “Dog-collars,” said one man, “is no good at Saturday-night markets. People has said to me--for I was flat enough to try once--‘Dogs! pooh, I’ve hardly grub enough for the kids.’ For all that, sir, some poor people has dogs, and is very fond of them too; ay, and I’ve sold them collars, but seldom. I think it’s them as has no children has dogs.”

The collars most in demand are brass. One man pointed out to me the merits of his stock, which he retailed from 6_d._ each (for the very small ones) to 3_s._--for collars seemingly big enough for Pyrenean sheep dogs. Some of the street-sold collars have black and red rims and linings; others are of leather, often scarlet, stitched ornamentally over a sort of jointed iron or wire-work. A few are of strong compact steel chain-work; “but them’s more the fashion,” said one seller, “for sporting dogs, like pointers and greyhounds, and is very seldom bought in the streets. It’s the pet dogs as is our best friends.”

The dog-collar sellers have, as regards perhaps one-half, been connected in their youth with some mechanical occupation in metal manufacture. Four, I am told, are or were pensioners to a small amount, as soldiers or sailors.

Some further particulars of the business will be found in the following statement given me by a man in the trade. He was sickly-looking, seemed dispirited at first, but to recover his spirits as he conversed, and spoke with a provincial (I presume a Warwickshire or Staffordshire) accent.

“I served my time, sir; my relations put me--for my parents died when I was a boy--to a harness furniture maker, in Wa’sall (Walsal), who supplied Mr. Dixon, a saddler’s ironmonger, in a good way. I had fair makings, and was well treated, and when I was out of my time I worked for another master, and I then found I could make my pad territs” (the round loops of the harness pad, through which the reins are passed), “my hooks, my buckles, my ornaments (some of ’em crests), as well as any man. I worked only in brass, never plated, but sometimes the body for plating, and mostly territs and hooks. Thinking I’d better myself, I came to London. I was between five and six weeks before I got a stroke of work, and my money had gone. I found that London harness makers and coachmakers’ names was put on Walsal-made goods, and ‘London made’ and ‘town made’ was put too. They might be as good, but they wasn’t town made no more nor I am. I can’t tell what I suffered, and felt, and thought, as at last I walked the streets. I was afraid to call at any brass-worker’s--for I can do many sorts of brass work--I was so shabby. I called once at Mr. A----’s, near Smithfield, and he, or his foreman perhaps it was, says to me, ‘Give that tug-buckle a file.’ I’d had nothing to eat but an apple I found in the street that day, and my hand trembled, and so he told me that drunkards, with trembling hands, wouldn’t do there. I was never a drinking man; and at that time hadn’t tasted so much as beer for ten days. My landlady--I paid her 1_s._ a week for half a bed with a porter--trusted me my rent, ’cause I paid her when I had it; but I walked about, narvussed and trembling, and frightened at every sudden sound. No, sir, I’ve stood looking over a bridge, but, though I may have thought of suicide, I never once had really a notion of it. I don’t know how to tell it, but I felt stupified like, as much as miserable. I felt I could do nothing. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had power of mind to drown myself if I’d made up my resolution; besides, it’s a dreadful wickedness. I always liked reading, and, before I was fairly beaten out, used to read at home, at shop-windows, and at book-stalls, as long as I dared, but latterly, when I was starving, I couldn’t fix my mind to read anyhow. One night I met a Wa’s’ll friend, and he took me to his inn, and gave me a good beef-steak supper and some beer, and he got me a nice clean bed in the house. In the morning he gave me what did me most good of all, a good new shirt, and 5_s._ I got work two days after, and kept it near five years, with four masters, and married and saved 12_l._ We had no family to live, and my poor wife died in the cholera in 1849, and I buried her decently, thank God, for she was a good soul. When I thought the cholera was gone, I had it myself, and was ill long, and lost my work, and had the same sufferings as before, and was without soles to my shoes or a shirt to my back, ’till a gentleman I’d worked for lent me 1_l._, and then I went into this trade, and pulled up a little. In six weeks I paid 15_s._ of my debt, and had my own time for the remaining 5_s._ Now I get an odd job with my master sometimes, and at others sell my collars, and chains, and key-rings, and locks, and such like. I’m ashamed of the dog-collar locks; I can buy them at 2_d._ a dozen, or 1_s._ 6_d._ a gross; they’re sad rubbish. In two or three weeks sometimes, the wire hasp is worn through, just by the rattling of the collar, and the lock falls off. I make now, one way and another, about 10_s._ a week. My lodging’s 2_s._ a week for a bed-room--it’s a closet tho’, for my furniture all went. God’s good, and I’ll see better days yet. I have sure promise of regular work, and then I can earn 30_s._ to 40_s._ I do best with my collars about the docks. I’m sure I don’t know why.”

I am told that each of the street-sellers of dog-collars sell on the average a dozen a week, at a medium receipt of 12_s._ (“sometimes 20_s._, and sometimes 6_s._”), though some will sell three and even four dozen collars in the week. Any regular dog-collar seller will undertake to get a name engraved upon it at 1_d._ a letter. The goods are bought at a swag-shop, or an establishment carried on in the same way. The retailer’s profit is 35 per cent.

Reckoning 12_s._ weekly taken by twelve men, we find 374_l._ expended yearly in the streets in dog-collars.

OF THE LIFE OF A STREET-SELLER OF DOG-COLLARS.

From the well-known vendor of these articles whose portrait was given in No. 10 of this work, I had the following sketch of his history:--

“I was born in Brewer-street, St. James,” he said, in answer to my questions; “I am 73 years of age. My father and mother were poor people; I never went to school; my father died while I was young; my mother used to go out charing; she couldn’t afford to pay for schooling, and told me, I must look out and yearn my own living while I was a mere chick. At ten years of age I went to sea in the merchant sarvice. While I was in the merchant sarvice, I could get good wages, for I soon knowed my duty. I was always of an industrious turn, and never liked to be idle; don’t you see what I mean. In ’97 I was pressed on board the INCONSTANT frigate; I was paid off six months arterwards, but hadn’t much to take, and that, like all other young men who hadn’t larned the dodges of life, I spent very soon; but I never got drunk--thank God!” said the old man, “I never got drunk, or I shouldn’t ha been what I am now at 73 years of age. I was drafted into the Woolwich 44-gun ship; from her to the OVERISAL.” I inquired how the name of the ship was spelt; “Oh I am not scholard enough for that there,” he replied, “tho’ I did larn to read and write when abord a man of war. I larned myself. But you must look into a Dutch dictionary, for it’s a Dutch name. I then entered on board the AMPHINE frigate, and arter I had sarved some months in her, I entered the merchant sarvice again, and arter that I went to Greenland to the whale-fishery--they calls me here in the college” (he is now an inmate of Greenwich Hospital) “‘Whaler Ben,’ but I arnt affronted--most on ’em here have nicknames. I went three voyages besides to the West Ingees. I never got drunk even there, though I was obliged to drink rum; it wouldn’t ha done to ha drunk the water NEAT, there was so many insects in it. When my sailor’s life was over I comes to Liverpool and marries a wife--aye and as good a wife as any poor man ever had in England. I had saved a goodish bit o’ money, nearly 300_l._, for I was not so foolish as some of the poor sailors, who yearns their money like horses and spends it like asses, I say. Well we sets up a shop--a chandler shop--in Liverpool: me and my old ’ooman does; and I also entered into the pig-dealing line. I used to get some of my pigs from Ireland, and some I used to breed myself, but I was very misfortunate. You recollect the year when the disease was among the cattle, in course you recollects that; well, sir, I lost 24 pigs and a horse in one year, and that was a good loss for a poor man, wer’n’t it? I thought it werry hard, for I’d worked hard for my money at sea, and I was always werry careful, arter I knowed what life was. My poor wife too used to trust a good deal in the shop and by-and-by, behold you, me and my old ’ooman was on our beam ends. My wife was took ill too--and, for the purpose of getting the best adwice, I brings her to London, but her cable had run out, and she died, and I’ve been a poor forlorned creatur’ ever since. You wouldn’t think it, but arter that I never slept on a bed for seven years. I had blankets and my clothes--but what I means is that I never had a bed to lie on. I sold most of my bits o’ things to bury my wife. I didn’t relish applying to the parish. I kept a few sticks tho’, for I don’t like them ere lodging-houses. I can’t be a werry bad kerackter, for I was seven years under one landlord, and I warrant me if I wanted a room agin he would let me have one. Arter my wife died, knowing some’at about ropes I gets work at Maberley’s, the great contractors--in course you knows him. I made rope traces for the artillery; there’s a good deal of leather-work about the traces, and stitching them, you see, puts me up to the making of dogs’-collars. I was always handy with my fingers, and can make shoes or anythink. I can work now as well as ever I could in my life, only my eyes isn’t so good. Ain’t it curious now, sir, that wot a man larns in his fingers he never forgets? Well being out o’ work, I was knocking about for some time, and then I was adwised to apply for a board to carry at one of them cheap tailors, but I didn’t get none; so I takes to hawking link buttons and key rings, and buys some brass dog-collars; it was them brass collars as made me bethought myself as I could make some leather ones. Altho’ I had been better off I didn’t think it any disgrace to get a honest living. The leather collars is harder to make than the brass ones, only the brass ones wants more implements. There are about a dozen selling in the streets as makes brass-collars--there’s not much profit on the brass ones. People says there’s nothing like leather, and I thinks they are right. Well, sir, as I was a telling you, I commences the leather-collar making,--in course I didn’t make ’em as well at first as I do now. It was werry hard lines at the best of times. I used to get up at 4 o’clock in the morning in the summer time, and make my collars; then I’d turn out about 9, and keep out until 7 or 8 at night. I seldom took more than 2_s._ per day. What profit did I get out of 2_s._? Why, lor’ bless you, sir! if I hadn’t made them myself, I shouldn’t have got no profit at all. But as it was, if I took 2_s._, the profits was from 1_s._ to 1_s._ 6_d._; howsomever, sometimes I didn’t take 6_d._ Wet days too used to run me aground altogether; my rheumatics used to bore me always when the rain come down, and then I couldn’t get out to sell. If I’d any leather at them times I used to make it up; but if I hadn’t none, why I was obligated to make the best on it. Oh, sir! you little knows what I’ve suffered; many a banyan day I’ve had in my little room--upon a wet day--aye, and other days too. Why, I think I’d a starved if it hadn’t a been for the ’bus-men about Hungerford-market. They are good lads them there ’bus lads to such as me; they used to buy my collars when they didn’t want them. Ask any on ’em if they know anything about old Tom, the collar-maker, and see if they don’t flare up and respect me. They used sometimes to raffle my collars and give ’em back to me. Mr. Longstaff too, the landlord of the Hungerford Arms--I believe it’s called the Hungerford Hotel--has given me something to eat very often when I was hungry, and had nothing myself. There’s what you call a hor’nary there every day. You knows what I mean--gentlemen has their grub there at so much a head, or so much a belly it should be, I says. I used to come in for the scraps, and werry thankful I was for them I can assure you. Yes, Mr. Longstaff is what you may call a good man. He’s what you calls a odd man, and a odd man’s always a good man. All I got to say is, ‘God bless him!’ he’s fed me many time when I’ve been hungry. I used to light upon other friends too,--landlords of public-houses, where I used to hawk my collars; they seemed to take to me somehow; it wer’n’t for what I spent in their houses I’m sure, seeing as how I’d nothing to spend. I had no pension for my sarvice, and so I was adwised to apply for admission to ‘the house here’ (Greenwich Hospital). I goes to Somerset-House; another poor fellow was making a application at the same time; but I didn’t nothing till one very cold day, when I was standing quite miserable like with my collars. I’d been out several hours and hadn’t taken a penny, when up comes the man as wanted to get into the house, running with all his might to me. I thought he was going to tell me he had got into the house, and I was glad on it, for, poor fellow, he was werry bad off; howsomever he says to me, ‘Tom,’ says he, ‘they wants you at the Admirality.’ ‘Does they?’ says I, and ’cordingly away I goes; and arter telling the admiral my sarvice, and answering a good many questions as he put to me, the admiral says, says he, ‘The order will be made out; you shall go into the house.’ I think the admiral knowed me or somethink about me, you see. I don’t know his name, and it would’nt ha’ done to have axed. God bless him, whoever he is, I says, and shall say to my dying day; it seemed like Providence. I hadn’t taken a ha’penny all that day; I was cold and hungry, and suffering great pain from my rheumatics. Thank God,” exclaimed the old man in conclusion, “I am quite comfortable now. I’ve everythink I want except a little more tea and shuggar, but I’m quite content, and thank God for all his mercies.”

The old man informed me moreover that he did not think there were more than half-a-dozen street-sellers besides himself who made leather collars; it was a poor trade, he said, and though the other makers were younger than he was, he “could lick them all at stitching.” He did not believe, he told me, that any of the collar-sellers sold more than he did--if as many--for he had friends that perhaps other men had not. He makes collars now sometimes, and wishes he could get some shopkeeper to sell them for him, and then maybe, he says, he could obtain a little more tea and shuggar, and assist a sister-in-law of his whom he tells me is in great distress, and whom he has been in the habit of assisting for many years, notwithstanding his poverty. The old man, during the recital of his troubles, was affected to tears several times--especially when he spoke of his wife, and the distress he had undergone--and with much sincerity blessed God for the comforts that he now enjoys.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF TOOLS.

These people are of the same class as the sellers of hardware articles, though so far a distinct body that they generally sell tools only.

The tools are of the commonest kind, and supplied by the cheapest swag-shops, from which establishments the majority of the street-traders derive their supplies. They are sometimes displayed on a small barrow, sometimes on a stall, and are mostly German-made.

The articles sold and the price asked--and generally obtained, as no extravagant profit is demanded--is shown by the following:--

Claw hammers, 6_d._ Large claw, black and glaze-faced, 1_s._ Pincers, 4_d._; larger ones, 6_d._ Screw-drivers, from 2_d._ to 1_s._! Flat-nose pliers, 6_d._ a pair; squares, 6_d._ to 1_s._ Carpenters’ oil-cans, from 9_d._ to 1_s._ 3_d._ Nests of brad-awls (for joiners, and in wooden cases), 6_d._ to 2_s._ Back saws, 1_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._

While many of the street-sellers of tools travel the several thoroughfares and suburbs of the metropolis, others vend tools of a particular kind in particular localities. These localities and sellers may be divided into four distinct classes:--(1) The street-sellers of tools in the markets; (2) The street-sellers of tools at the docks and warehouses; (3) The street-sellers of tools at mews, stable-yards, and job-masters’; and (4) The street-sellers of tools to working men at their workshops.

The markets which are usually frequented by the vendors of tools are Newgate and Leadenhall. There are, I am informed, only five or six street-sellers who at present frequent these markets on the busy days. The articles in which they deal are butchers’ saws, cleavers, steels, meat-hooks, and knives; these saws they sell from 2_s._ to 4_s._ each; knives and steels, from 9_d._ to 1_s._ 3_d._ each; cleavers, from 1_s._ 6_d._ to 2_s._ each; and meat-hooks at 1_d._, 2_d._, and 3_d._ each, according to the size. It is very seldom, however, that cleavers are sold by the street-sellers, as they are too heavy to carry about. I am told that the trade of the tool-sellers in Newgate and Leadenhall markets is now very indifferent, owing chiefly to the butchers having been so frequently imposed upon by the street-sellers, that they are either indisposed or afraid to deal with them. When the itinerant tool-sellers are not occupied at the markets they vend their wares to tradesmen at private shops, but often without success. “It is a poor living,” said one of the hawkers to me; “sometimes little better than starving. I have gone out a whole day and haven’t taken a farthing.” I am informed that the greater portion of these street-sellers are broken-down butchers. The tools they vend are purchased at the Brummagem warehouses. To start in this branch of the street-business 5_s._ or 10_s._ usually constitutes the amount of capital invested in stock, and the average takings of each are about 2_s._ or 2_s._ 6_d._ a day.

“A dozen years back twenty such men offered saws at my shop,” said a butcher in a northern suburb to me; “now there’s only one, and he seems half-starving, poor fellow, and looks very hungrily at the meat. Perhaps it’s a way he’s got to have a bit given him, as it is sometimes.”

The only street-seller of tools at present frequenting Billingsgate-market is an elderly man, who is by trade a working cutler. The articles he displays upon his tray are oyster-knives, fish-knives, steels, scissors, packing-needles, and hammers. This tradesman makes his own oyster-knives and fish-knives; the scissors and hammers are second-hand; and the packing-needles are bought at the ironmongers. Sometimes brad-awls, gimlets, nails, and screws form a part of his stock. He informed me that he had frequented Billingsgate-market upwards of ten years. “Wet or dry,” he said, “I am here, and I often suffer from rheumatics in the head and limbs. Sometimes I have taken only a few pence; on other occasions I have taken 3_s._ or 4_s._, but this is not very often. However, what with the little I take at Billingsgate, and at other places, I can just get a crust, and go on from day to day.”

The itinerant saw-sellers offer their goods to any one in the street as well as at the shops, and are at the street markets on Saturday evenings with small saws for use in cookery. With the butchers they generally barter rather than sell, taking any old saw in exchange with so much money, for a new one. “I was brought up a butcher,” said one of these saw-sellers, “and worked as a journeyman, off and on, between twenty and thirty year. But I grew werry delicate from rheumaticks, and my old ’ooman was bad too, so that we once had to go into Marylebone work’us. I had no family living, perhaps they’re better as it is. We discharged ourselves after a time, and they gave us 5_s._ I then thought I’d try and sell a few saws and things. A master-butcher that’s been a friend to me, lent me another 5_s._, and I asked a man as sold saws to butchers to put me in the way of it, and he took me to a swag-shop. I do werry badly, sir, but I’ll not deny, and I can’t deny--not anyhow--when you tell me Mr. ---- told you about me--that there’s ’elps to me. If I make a bargain, for so much; or for old saws or cleavers, or any old butcher thing, and so much; a man wot knows me says, ‘Well, old boy, you don’t look satisfied; here’s a bit of steak for you.’ Sometimes it’s a cut off a scrag of mutton, or weal; that gives the old ’ooman and me a good nourishing bit of grub. I can work at times, and every Saturday a’most I’m now a porter to a butcher. I carries his meat from Newgate, when he’s killed hisself, and wants no more than a man’s weight from the market; and when he ’asn’t killed hisself in course he hires a cart. I makes 1_s._ a day the year round, I think, on saws, and my old ’ooman makes more than ’arf as much at charing, and there’s the ’elps, and then I gets 18_d._ and my grub every Saturday. It’s no use grumbling; lots isn’t grubbed ’arf so well as me and my old ’ooman. My rent’s 20_d._ a week.”

The articles vended by the second class of the street-sellers of tools, or those whose purchasers are mostly connected with the docks and warehouses, consist of iron-handled claw-hammers, spanners, bed-keys, and corkscrews. Of these street-traders there are ten or twelve, and the greater portion of them are blacksmiths out of employ. Some make their own hammers, whereas others purchase the articles they vend at the swag-shops. “We sell more hammers and bed-keys than other things,” said one, “and sometimes we sells a corkscrew to the landlord of a public-house, and then we have perhaps half-a-pint of beer. Our principal customers for spanners are wheelwrights. Those for hammers are egg-merchants, oilmen, wax and tallow-chandlers, and other tradesmen who receive or send out goods in wooden cases; as well as chance customers in the streets.” The amount of capital required to start in the line is from 5_s._ to 15_s._: “it is not much use,” said one, “to go to shop with less than 10_s._”

A third class of the street-sellers of tools are the vendors of curry-combs and brushes, mane-combs, scrapers, and clipping instruments; and these articles are usually sold at the several mews, stable-yards, and jobbing-masters’ in and about the metropolis. The sellers are mostly broken-down grooms, who, not being able to obtain a situation, resort to street-selling as a last shift. “It is the last coach, when a man takes to this kind of living,” said one of my informants, a groom in a “good place;” “and it’s getting worse and worse. The poor fellows look half-starved. Why, what do you think I gave for these scissors? I got ’em for 6_d._ and a pint of beer, and I should have to give perhaps half-a-crown for ’em at a shop.” The trade is fast declining, and to gentlemen’s carriage mews the street-sellers of such tools rarely resort, as the instruments required for stable-use are now bought, by the coachmen, of the tradesmen who supply their masters. At the “mixed mews,” as I heard them called, there are two men who, along with razors, knives, and other things, occasionally offer “clipping” and “trimming” scissors. Four or five years ago there were four of these street-sellers. The trimming-scissors are, in the shops, 1_s._ 6_d._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ a pair. There is one trade still carried on in these places, although it is diminutive compared to what it was: I allude to the sale of curry-combs. Those vended by street-sellers at the mews are sold at 7_d._ or 6_d._ The best sale for these curry-combs is about Coventry-street and the Haymarket, and at the livery-stables generally. Along with curry-combs, the street-vendors sell wash-leathers, mane-combs (horn), sponges (which were like dried moss for awhile, I was told, got up by the Jews, but which are now good), dandy-brushes (whalebone-brushes, to scrape dirt from a horse’s legs, before he is groomed), spoke-brushes (to clean carriage-wheels), and coach-mops. One dweller in a large West-end mews computed that 100 different street-traders resorted thither daily, and that twenty sold the articles I have specified. In this trade, I am assured, there are no broken-down coachmen or grooms, only the regular street-sellers. A commoner curry-comb is sold at 2_d._ (prime cost 1_s._ 3_d._ a dozen), at Smithfield, on market-days, and to the carmen, and the owners of the rougher sort of horses; but this trade is not extensive.

There may be ten men, I am told, selling common “currys;” and they also sell other articles (often horse oil-cloths and nose-bags) along with them.

The last class of street-sellers is the beaten-out mechanic or workman, who, through blindness, age, or infirmities, is driven to obtain a livelihood by supplying his particular craft with their various implements. Of this class, as I have before stated, there are six men in London who were brought up as tailors, but are now, through some affliction or privation, incapacitated from following their calling. These men sell needles at four and five for 1_d._; thimbles 1_d._ to 2_d._ each; scissors from 1_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._; and wax 1_d._ the lump. There are also old and blind shoemakers, who sell a few articles of grindery to their shopmates, as they term them, as well as a few decayed members of other trades, hawking the implements of the handicraft to which they formerly belonged. But as I have already given a long account of one of this class, under the head of the blind needle-seller, there is no occasion for me to speak further on the subject.

From one of the street-traders in saws I had the following account of his struggles, as well as the benefit he received from teetotalism, of which he spoke very warmly. His room was on the fourth floor of a house in a court near Holborn, and was clean and comfortable-looking. There were good-sized pictures, in frames, of the Queen, the Last Supper, and a Rural Scene, besides minor pictures: some of these had been received in exchange for saws with street-picture-sellers. A shelf was covered with china ornaments, such as are sold in the streets; the table had its oil-skin cover, and altogether I have seldom seen a more decent room. The rent, unfurnished, was 2_s._ a week.

“I’ve been eight years in this trade, sir,” the saw-seller said, “but I was brought up to a very different one. When a lad I worked in a coal-pit along with my father, but his behaviour to me was so cruel, he beat me so, that I ran away, and walked every step from the north of England to London. I can’t say I ever repented running away--much as I’ve gone through. My money was soon gone when I got to London, and my way of speaking was laughed at. [He had now very little of a provincial accent.] That’s fourteen year back. Why, indeed, sir, it puzzles me to tell you how I lived then when I did live. I jobbed about the markets, and slept, when I could pay for a lodging, at the cheap lodging-houses; so I got into the way of selling a few things in the streets, as I saw others do. I sold laces and children’s handkerchiefs. Sometimes I was miserable enough when I hadn’t a farthing, and if I managed to make a sixpence I got tipsy on it. For six weeks I slept every night in the Peckham Union. For another five or six weeks I slept every night in the dark arches by the Strand. I’ve sometimes had twenty or thirty companions there. I used to lie down on the bare stones, and was asleep in a minute, and slept like a top all night, but waking was very bad. I felt stiff, and sore, and cold, and miserable. How I lived at all is a wonder to me. About eleven years ago I was persuaded to go to a Temperance Meeting in Harp Alley (Farringdon-street), and there I signed the pledge; that is, I made my mark, for I can’t read or write, which has been a great hinder to me. If I’d been a scholard a teetotal gent would have got me into the police three years ago, about the time I got married. I did better, of course, when I was a teetotaller--no more dark arches. I sold a few little shawls in the streets then, but it was hardly bread and butter and coffee at times. Eight year ago I thought I would try saw-selling: a shopkeeper advised me, and I began on six salt saws, which I sold to oilmen. They’re for cutting salt only, and are made of zinc, as steel would rust and dirty the salt. The trade was far better at first than it is now. In good weeks I earned 16_s._ to 18_s._ In bad weeks 10_s._ or 12_s._ Now I may earn 10_s._, not more, a week, pretty regular: yesterday I made only 6_d._ Oilmen are better customers than chance street-buyers, for I’m known to them. There’s only one man besides myself selling nothing but saws. I walk, I believe, 100 miles every week, and that I couldn’t do, I know, if I wasn’t teetotal. I never long for a taste of liquor if I’m ever so cold or tired. It’s all poisonous.”

The saws sold are 8 inch, which cost at the swag-shops 8_s._ and 8_s._ 6_d._ a dozen; 10 inch, 9_s._ and 9_s._ 6_d._; and so on, the price advancing according to the increased size, to 18 inch, 13_s._ 6_d._ the dozen. Larger sizes are seldom sold in the streets. The second man’s earnings, my informant believed, were the same as his own.

The wife of my informant, when she got work as an embroideress, could earn 11_s._ and 12_s._ At present she was at work braiding dresses for a dressmaker, at 2-1/2_d._ each. By hard work, and if she had not her baby to attend to, she could earn no more than 7-1/2_d._ a day. As it was she did not earn 6_d._

OF THE BEGGAR STREET-SELLERS.

Under this head I include only such of the beggar street-sellers as are neither infirm nor suffering from any severe bodily affliction or privation. I am well aware that the aged--the blind--the lame and the halt often pretend to sell small articles in the street--such as boot-laces, tracts, cabbage-nets, lucifer-matches, kettle-holders, and the like; and that such matters are carried by them partly to keep clear of the law, and partly to evince a disposition to the public that they are willing to do something for their livelihood. But these being really objects of charity, they belong more properly to the second main division of this book, in which the poor, or those that can’t work, and their several means of living, will be treated of.

Such, though beggars, are not “lurkers”--a lurker being strictly one who loiters about for some dishonest purpose. Many modes of thieving as well as begging are termed “lurking”--the “dead lurk,” for instance, is the expressive slang phrase for the art of entering dwelling-houses during divine service. The term “lurk,” however, is mostly applied to the several modes of plundering by representations of sham distress.

It is of these alone that I purpose here treating--or rather of that portion of them which pretends to deal in manufactured articles.

In a few instances the street-sellers of small articles of utility are also the manufacturers. Many, however, say they are the producers of the things they offer for sale, thinking thus to evade the necessity of having a hawker’s licence. The majority of these petty dealers know little of the manufacture of the goods they vend, being mere tradesmen. Some few profess to be the makers of their commodities, solely with the view of enlisting sympathy, and thus either selling the trifles they carry at an enormous profit, or else of obtaining alms.

An inmate of one of the low lodging-houses has supplied me with the following statement:--“Within my recollection,” says my informant, “the great branch of trade among these worthies, was the sale of sewing cotton, either in skeins or on reels. In the former case, the article cost the ‘lurkers’ about 8_d._ per pound; one pound would produce thirty skeins, which, sold at one penny each, or two for three halfpence, produced a heavy profit. The lurkers could mostly dispose of three pounds per day; the article was, of course, damaged, rotten, and worthless.

“The mode of sale consisted in the ‘lurkers’ calling at the several houses in a particular district, and representing themselves as Manchester cotton spinners out of employ. Long tales, of course, were told of the distresses of the operatives, and of the oppression of their employers; these tales had for the most part been taught them at the padding-ken, by some old and experienced dodger of ‘the school;’ and if the spokesman could patter well, a much larger sum was frequently obtained in direct alms than was reaped by the sale.”

Cotton on reels was--except to the purchaser--a still better speculation; the reels were large, handsomely mounted, and displayed in bold relief such inscriptions as the following:--

PIKE’S PATENT COTTON. 120 YARDS.

The reader, however, must divide the “120 yards,” here mentioned, by 12, and then he will arrive at something like the true secret as to the quantity; for the surface only was covered by the thread.

“The ‘cotton Lurk’ is now ‘cooper’d’ (worn out); a more common dodge--and, of course, only an excuse for begging--is to envelope a packet of ‘warranted’ needles, or a few inches of ‘real Honiton lace’ in an envelope, with a few lines to the ‘Lady of the House,’ or a printed bill, setting forth the misery of the manufacturers, and the intention of the parties leaving the ‘fakement’ to presume to call for an answer in a few hours. I subjoin a copy of one of these documents.

‘THE LACE-MAKERS’ APPEAL.

‘It is with extreme regret we thus presume to trespass on your time and attention, we are Lace Makers by trade, and owing to the extensive improvements in Machinery, it has made hand labour completely useless.

‘So that it has thrown hundreds of honest and industrious men out of employment, your petitioners are among the number. Fifteen men with their families have left their homes with the intention of emigrating to South Australia, and the only means we have of supporting ourselves till we can get away, is by the sale of some Frame Thread and Traced Lace Collars of our own manufacture, at the following low prices--Fashionable Frame Lace Collars 3d. each, warranted to wash and wear well; Frame Thread Collars 6d. each, Traced Lace Collars 1s. each, the best that can be made, and we trust we shall meet with that encouragement from the Friends of Industry which our necessities require.

‘The enclosed two 6d.

‘The party calling for this, will have an assortment of the Newest Patterns of Frame Thread Lace and Edgings for your inspection, and the smallest purchase will be thankfully received and gratefully remembered by G. DAVIS, Lace Makers.

‘We beg to state that a number of the families being destitute of clothing, the bearer is authorised to receive any articles of such in exchange for Lace, Edgings or Collars.

‘ALLEN, Printer, Long-row, Nottingham.’

“These are left by one of ‘the school’ at the houses of the gentry, a mark being placed on the door post of such as are ‘bone’ or ‘gammy,’ in order to inform the rest of ‘the school’ where to call, and what houses to avoid. As the needles cost but a few pence per thousand, and the lace less than one halfpenny per yard--a few purchasers of the former at 1_s._ per packet (25 needles), or of the latter at 2_s._ 6_d._ per yard, is what these ‘lurkers’ term a ‘fair day’s work for a fair day’s wages.’

“Another and very extensive branch of the pseudo-‘manufacturing’ fraternity is to be found among the sham street-sellers of cutlery.

“At some of the least respectable of the swag-shops may be bought all the paraphernalia requisite in order to set up as the real manufacturer of Sheffield and ‘Brummagem’ goods--including, beside the cutlery, chamois-leather aprons, paper caps (ready crushed, to give them the appearance of age and usage), and last, but not least, a compound of black lead and tallow, to ‘take the granny’ off them as has white ’ands, so as the flat’s shan’t ‘tumble’ to the ‘unworkmanlike’ appearance of the palms of the ‘lurker.’

“Thus ‘got up’ for the part,” continues my informant, “and provided with a case of razors, which perhaps has cost him two groats, and (if he can raise as much) a noggin o’ rum to ‘give him cheek’ and make him ‘speak up’ to his victims--‘Jack Beaver,’ the ‘king of the street-cutlers,’ will sally forth, and meet, intercept, and follow any gentleman who seems a ‘likely spec,’ till worried perhaps by importunity, the ‘swell’ buys what he does not want, and, I need scarcely add, what he cannot use. Next, in importance, to ‘Jack Beaver,’ is the notorious ‘Pat Connor.’ Pat ‘does nothing on the blob,’ that is to say (he does not follow people and speak to them on the streets). His ‘dodge’--and it has been for years a successful one--is to go round to the public offices, dressed as before described, with the exception of being in his shirt sleeves (he has every day a clean shirt), and teaze the clerks till they purchase a pen-knife. He has been known to sell from fifteen to twenty knives in one day, at two shillings each, the first cost being about threepence-halfpenny. Of course he is often interrupted by porters and other officials, but he always carries in one hand a roll of wire, and a small hammer in the other, and having got the name of some gentleman up stairs, he pretends that he is going to mend Mr. So-and-so’s bell. This worthy, a short time ago, made free--in the Custom House--with a timepiece, belonging to one of the clerks, for which the ‘Sheffield manufacturer’ got twelve months in Newgate. I have not seen him since,” adds my informant, “and therefore imagine that he is now taking a provincial tour.”

OF THE “HOUSE OF LORDS,” A STREET-SELLER’S DEFUNCT CLUB.

I have given an account of a defunct club, of which the “paper workers” were the chief members; and I have now to do the same of a society not very dissimilar in its objects, of which the street-sellers of manufactured articles constituted the great majority. It was called the “house of lords,” and was established about eight years ago, at the Roebuck-tavern, Holborn, and existed three years. Its object was to relieve its members in sickness. The subscription was 2_d._ a week, and the relief to a sick member was as many pennies a week as the club contained members, with, in any pressing case, an additional halfpenny, which the members paid into the fund, over and above their weekly subscription. For the greater part of its existence the club contained ninety members (a few of them honorary), and there were very few cases of “declaring on the fund” by sick members. At one period for many weeks there were no such declarations, and the “house of lords” had 30_l._ in hand. One of the leading members, a very intelligent man, who had “a good connection in hardware,” had taken great pains to prepare a code of rules, which, having been approved by the other members, it was considered time that the “house of lords” should be enrolled. Delays, however, intervened. “To tell you the truth, sir,” one of them said, “we were afraid to employ an attorney, and thought of waiting upon Mr. Tidd Pratt ourselves, but it wasn’t to be.”

The club was, moreover, looked upon as somewhat select. “No costers were admitted, sir,” I was told by a hardware seller in the streets; “not but what there’s many very industrious and honest men among them, but they’re in a different line, and are a different sort of people to us.” The members met once a week, and, though they were merry and talkative enough, drunkenness was strongly discouraged. It was common for the subscribers who were regarded as the “geniuses” of the trade, to take counsel together, and “invent any new move.” They were reputed to be knowing among the most knowing, in all street arts and dodges, and the way in which the club came to an end, considering the strong claims to knowingness of its members, was curious enough.

One Saturday evening a member who was considered a respectable man, and was sufficiently regular in his payments, appeared at the weekly meeting, introducing his landlord, who, as a non-member, had to pay 1_d._ for admission. The man told how his family had suffered from illness, and how he had been ill, and got into arrears of rent, for he did not like to distress the fund; and how his landlord was then in possession of his “sticks,” which must be sold in the morning if he could not pay 15_s._; and, moreover, how his landlord--a very kind-hearted, indulgent man--was forced to do this, for he himself was in difficulties. The members voted that the 15_s._ should be advanced; but before the next meeting night it was discovered that the statement of the poor member in arrears was an imposition. The landlord was merely a confederate; the worthy couple had been drinking together, and, to prolong their tippling, had hit upon the roguish scheme I have mentioned.

This, among other things, lowered the confidence of the members. The numbers fell off until it was thought best to “wind up the concern.” The small funds in hand were fairly apportioned among the remaining members, and the club ceased to exist.

Another Street-sellers’ Club has recently been formed by the men themselves, of which the following is the prospectus, and it is to be hoped that this attempt on the part of the street-folk to better their condition will meet with a better fate than its predecessor:--

Our motto is “To live honestly by daily perseverance and industry.”

Street Mechanics, Labourers, Hawkers, &c. PROTECTION ASSOCIATION, HELD AT THE LAMB TAVERN, NEW TURNSTILE, HOLBORN, Proprietor, Mr. White.

The above-named classes are kindly invited to attend a Meeting convened for

SUNDAY EVENING NEXT,

And every succeeding Sunday Evening, at the above house, to carry out the object unanimously agreed to by the Enrolled Members and the General Committee. Furthermore, to take into consideration the most appropriate means whereby we may be enabled to assist each other in the time of adversity.

COMMITTEE:

Mr. Taylor, Chairman, Mr. Thoresby, -- Travers, -- Dowse, -- Cowan, -- Manly, -- Moody, -- Morris, -- Moore, -- Lawson, -- Hand, -- Lamb, -- Martin.

Mr. J. White, Treasurer. Mr. F. A. Thoresby, Secretary.

The chair will be taken at Seven o’clock, and the Committee are requested to be in attendance one hour previous.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF CROCKERY AND GLASS-WARES.

We now come to a new class of the street-sellers of manufactured articles--viz., the “crocks,” as they are termed. I have before alluded to one characteristic of these traders--that they all strive to be barterers in preference to salesmen. They also present other varying qualities when compared with other classes of street-sellers. Of these “crocks,” there are, from the best data I could obtain from men in the trade, and from the swag-shop people who supply them, 250 men and 150 women; of these, 120 couples (man and woman) “work” together; of the remainder, sometimes two men work in unison, and some women work singly. On my inquiring of one of these street folk if ever three worked together, I was told that such was never the case, as the “crocks” would quote a saying: “Two’s good company, three’s none at all.” Of the men and women carrying on this traffic conjointly more than half are married; showing a difference of habits to the costermongers. The reason assigned to me by one of the class (himself once a costermonger) was that the interest of the man and woman in the business was closer than in costermongering, while the serviceableness of a woman helpmate in “swopping,” or bartering, was much greater. This prompts the women, I am told, even if they are unmarried at the outset, to insist upon wedlock; and the man--sometimes, perhaps, to secure a valuable “help,” at others, it may be, from better motives--consents to what in this rank of life, and under the circumstances of such street-traders, is more frequently the woman’s offer than the man’s. The trade, in its present form, has not been known more than twelve years.

The goods, which are all bought at the crock swag-shops, of which an account is given below, are carried in baskets on the head, the men having pads on the cloth caps which they wear--or sometimes a padding of hay or wool inside the cap--while the women’s pads are worn outside their bonnets or caps, the bonnet being occasionally placed on the basket. The goods, though carried in baskets on the head to the locality of the traffic, are, whilst the traffic is going on, usually borne from house to house, or street to street, on the arm, or when in large baskets carried before them by the two hands. These baskets are strongly made; the principal mart is close to Spitalfields-market.

The men engaged in this trade are usually strong, robust, and red-faced. Most of them are above the middle stature; very few are beyond middle age, and the majority of them are under or little more than 30. The women, more than the men, have contracted a stoop or bend to one side, not so much by carrying weights on the head, as by carrying them on the arm. The weights they carry are from three to five stone. The dress of the men is the same as the costermongers, with the exception of shooting-cut jackets being more frequent among the “crocks” than the costers, and red plush waistcoats are very popular with them. When not at work, or on Sundays--for they never work on the Sabbath, though they do not go to church or chapel--these men are hardly ever seen to wear a hat. Both men and women wear strong boots and, unless when “hard-up,” silk handkerchiefs. Their places of residence are, as regards the majority, in Spitalfields, Bethnal-green, and Shoreditch. Of the others the greater portion reside in the neighbourhood of Kent-street, in the Borough. Their abode usually consists of one room, which is in most cases more comfortable, and better furnished than those of the costers. “We pick up a tidy ornament now and then,” one crock said, “such as a picture, in the way of swop, and our good women likes to keep them at home for a bit of show.” They live well, in general, dining out almost every day; and I am told that, as a body, they have fewer children than any other class of street-folk.

The trade is almost entirely itinerant. Crock-sellers are to be seen at street-markets on Saturday nights, but they are not the regular crocks, who, as I have said, do not care to sell. The crocks go on “rounds,” the great trade being in the suburbs. Sometimes a round lasts a week, the couple resting at a fresh place every night. Others have a round for each day of the week.

The long rounds are to Greenwich, Woolwich, Northfleet, Gravesend, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and then to Maidstone. Some will then make Maidstone the head-quarters, and work the neighbouring villages--such as East Farleigh, Town Malling, Yalding, Aylesford, and others. The return to town may be direct by railway, or by some other route, if any stock remains unsold. On these long rounds the higher priced goods are generally carried, and stock is forwarded from London to the “crock” whilst on the round, if the demand require it. Another long round is Vauxhall, Wandsworth, Kingston-on-Thames, and Guildford, with divergings to the villages. The return from Guildford is often by Richmond, Kew, &c. A third long round is Hampstead, Kilburn, Barnet, Watford, and so on to St. Alban’s. The other long rounds are less frequented; but some go to Uxbridge; others to Windsor and Eton, and as far as Reading; others to Cambridge, by Tottenham, Edmonton, Ware, &c. When no trade is to be done close to London, the “crocks” often have themselves and their wares conveyed to any town by rail. The short, or town rounds, are the Dover-road, New Kent-road, Walworth, Camberwell, and back by Newington; Kennington, Brixton, Clapham, and back by Vauxhall; Bayswater, Notting-hill, and back by Paddington; Camden Town, St. John’s Wood, and Hampstead; Stoke Newington, Dalston, Clapton, Shacklewell, and Stamford-hill; Mile-end, Stratford, and Bow; Limehouse, Poplar, and back by the Commercial-road. It would be easy to cite other routes, but these show the character of the trade. Some occupy two days. A few crocks “work” the poor neighbourhoods, such as Hoxton, Kingsland-road, parts of Hackney, &c., and cry, “Here we are--now, ladies, bring out your old hats, old clothes, old umbrellers, old anythink; old shoes, metal, old anythink; here we are!”

The trade, from the best information I could acquire, is almost equally divided into what may be called “fancy” and “useful” articles. A lodging-letter, for instance, will “swop” her old gowns and boots, and drive keen bargains for plates, dishes, or wash-hand basins and jugs. A housekeeper, who may be in easier circumstances, will exchange for vases and glass wares. Servant-maids swop clothes and money for a set of china, “’gainst they get married.” Perhaps there are no more frequent collisions between buyer and seller than in the crock swag-shops. A man who had once been an assistant in one of these places, told me that some of the “crocks” were tiresome beyond measure, and every now and then a minute or two was wasted by the “crock” and the swag-shopman in swearing one at another. Some of these street traffickers insist upon testing the soundness of every article, by striking the middle finger nail against it. This they do to satisfy their customers also, in the course of trade, especially in poor neighbourhoods.

From the best data at my command, one quarter of the goods sold at the swag-shops are sold to the crock dealers I have described, and in about equal proportions as to amount in fancy or useful articles. There are, in addition to the crock barterers, perhaps 100 traders who work the poor streets, chiefly carrying their goods in barrows, but they sell, and though they will barter, do not clamour for it. They cry: “Free trade for ever! Here’s cup and saucer for a halfpenny! Pick ’em out at your own price! Tea-pot for three half-pence! Pick ’em out! Oho! oho! Giving away here!” They rattle dishes and basins as they make this noise. These men are all supplied at the swag-shops, buying what is called “common lots,” and selling at 30 per cent. profit. Such traders have only been known in the streets for five years, and for three or four months of the year half of these “go to costering.” The barrows are about seventy in number, and there are thirty stalls. Seven-eighths of the “barrow-crocks” are men. The swag-barrowmen also sell small articles of crockery wares, and altogether one half of the trade of the crock swag-shops (which I have described) is a trade for the streets.

Of the way in which the “crock barterers” dispose of their wares, &c., I have given an account below. They are rapidly supplanting the “old clo’” trade of the Jews.

The hucksters of crockery-ware are a considerable class. One who has great experience in the business thinks there must be some hundreds employed in it throughout London. He says he meets many at the swag warehouses on the evenings that he goes there. He is often half an hour before he can be served. There are seven or eight swag warehouses frequented by the hucksters, and at the busy time my informant has often seen as many as twenty-five at each house, and he is satisfied that there must be three or four hundred hucksters of china and glass throughout the metropolis. The china and glass in which they deal are usually purchased at the east end of the town, upon the understanding that if the huckster is unable to dispose of them in the course of the day the articles will be taken back in the morning, if uninjured, and the money returned. The hucksters usually take out their goods early in the day. Their baskets are commonly deposited at the warehouse, and each warehouse has from thirty to forty baskets left there over-night, when the unsold articles are returned. The baskets are usually filled with china and glass and ornaments, to the amount of from 5_s._ to 15_s._, according to the stock-money of the huckster. A basket filled with 15_s._ worth of china is considered, I am told, “a very tidy stock.” In the same neighbourhood as they get the crockery, are made the baskets in which it is carried. For these baskets they pay from 2_s._ to 6_s._, and they are made expressly for the hucksters; indeed, on one side of a well-known street at the east end, the baskets made in the cellars may be seen piled outside the houses up to the second-floor windows. The class of persons engaged in hawking china through the metropolis are either broken-down tradesmen or clerks out of place, or Jews, or they may be Staffordshire men, who have been regularly bred to the business. They carry different kinds of articles. The Staffordshire man may generally be known by the heavy load of china that he carries with him. He has few light or fancy articles in his basket; it is filled chiefly with plates and dishes and earthenware pans. The broken-down tradesmen carries a lighter load. He prefers tea services and vases, and rummers and cruet-stands, as they are generally of a more delicate make than the articles carried by the Staffordshire men. The Jew, however, will carry nothing of any considerable weight. He takes with him mostly light, showy, Bohemian goods--which are difficult “to be priced” by his customers, and do not require much labour to hawk about. The hucksters usually start on their rounds about nine. There are very few who take money; indeed they profess to take none at all. “But that is all flam,” said my informant. “If any one was to ask me the price of an article in an artful way like, I shouldn’t give him a straight-forward answer. To such parties we always say, ‘Have you got any old clothes?’” The hucksters do take money when they can get it, and they adopt the principle of exchanging their goods for old clothes merely as a means of evading the licence. Still they are compelled to do a great deal in the old clothes’ line. When they take money they usually reckon to get 4_d._ in the shilling, but at least three-fourths of their transactions consist of exchanges for old clothes. “A good tea-service we generally give,” said my informant, “for a left-off suit of clothes, hat, and boots--they must all be in a decent condition to be worth that. We give a sugar-basin for an old coat, and a rummer for a pair of old Wellington boots. For a glass milk-jug I should expect a waistcoat and trowsers, and they must be tidy ones too. But there’s nothing so saleable as a pair of old boots to us. There is always a market for old boots, when there is not for old clothes. You can any day get a dinner out of old Wellingtons; but as for coats and waistcoats--there’s a fashion about them, and what pleases one don’t another. I can sell a pair of old boots going along the streets if I carry them in my hand. The snobs will run after us to get them--the backs are so valuable. Old beaver hats and waistcoats are worth little or nothing. Old silk hats, however, there’s a tidy market for. They are bought for the shops, and are made up into new hats for the country. The shape is what is principally wanted. We won’t give a farden for the polka hats with the low crowns. If we can double an old hat up and put it in our pockets, it’s more valuable to us than a stiff one. We know that the shape must be good to stand that. As soon as a hatter touches a hat he knows by the touch or the stiffness of it whether it’s been ‘through’ the fire or not; and if so, they’ll give it you back in a minute. There is one man who stands in Devonshire-street, Bishopsgate-street, waiting to buy the hats of us as we go into the market, and who purchases at least thirty dozen of us a week. There will be three or four there besides him looking out for us as we return from our rounds, and they’ll either outbid one another, according as the demand is, or they’ll all hold together to give one price. The same will be done by other parties wanting the old umbrellas that we bring back with us. These are valuable principally for the whalebone. Cane ribbed ones are worth only from 1_d._ to 2_d._, and that’s merely the value of the stick and the supporters. Iron skewers are made principally out of the old supporters of umbrellas.” The china and crockery bought by the hucksters at the warehouses are always second-rate articles. They are most of them a little damaged, and the glass won’t stand hot water. Every huckster, when he starts, has a bag, and most of them two--the one for the inferior, and the other for the better kind of old clothes he buys. “We purchase gentlemen’s left-off wearing apparel. This is mostly sold to us by women. They are either the wives of tradesmen or mechanics who sell them to us, or else it is the servant of a lodging-house, who has had the things given to her, and with her we can deal much easier than the others. She’s come to ’em light, and of course she parts with ’em light,” said the man, “and she’ll take a pair of sugar basins worth about 6_d._, you know, for a thing that’ll fetch two or three shillings sometimes. But the mistresses of the houses are she-dragons. They wants a whole dinner chany service for their husband’s rags. As for plates and dishes, they think they can be had for picking up. Many a time they sells their husband’s things unbeknown to ’em, and often the gentleman of the house coming up to the door, and seeing us make a deal--for his trowsers maybe--puts a stop to the whole transaction. Often and often I’ve known a woman sell the best part of her husband’s stock of clothes for chany ornaments for her mantelpiece. And I’m sure the other day a lady stripped the whole of her passage, and gave me almost a new great coat, that was hanging up in the hall, for a few trumpery tea-things. But the greatest ‘screws’ we has to deal with are some of the ladies in the squares. They stops you on the sly in the streets, and tells you to call at their house at sitch a hour of the day, and when you goes there they smuggles you quietly into some room by yourselves, and then sets to work Jewing away as hard as they can, pricing up their own things, and downcrying yourn. Why, the other day I was told to call at a fashionable part of Pimlico, so I gave a person 3_d._ to mind the child, and me and my good woman started off at eight in the morning with a double load. But, bless you, when we got there, the lady took us both into a private room unbeknown to the servants, and wanted me to go and buy expressly for her a green and white chamber service all complete, with soap trays and brush trays, together with four breakfast cups--and all this here grand set-out she wanted for a couple of old washed-out light waistcoats, and a pair of light trowsers. She tried hard to make me believe that the buttons alone on the waistcoats was worth 6_d._ a piece, but I knowed the value of buttons afore she was borned; at first start off I’m sure they wouldn’t have cost 1_d._ each, so I couldn’t make a deal of it no how, and I had to take all my things back for my trouble. I asked her even for a pint of beer, but she wouldn’t listen to no such thing. We generally cry as we go, ‘any old clothes to sell or exchange,’ and I look down the area, and sometimes knock at the door. If I go out with a 15_s._ basket of crockery, may be after a tidy day’s work I shall come home with 1_s._ in my pocket (perhaps I shall have sold a couple of tumblers, or half a dozen plates), and a bundle of old clothes, consisting of two or three old shirts, a coat or two, a suit of left-off livery, a woman’s gown may be, or a pair of old stays, a couple of pair of Wellingtons, and a waistcoat or so. These I should have at my back, and the remainder of my chany and glass on my head, and werry probably a humberella or two under my arm, and five or six old hats in my hand. This load altogether will weigh about three quarters of a cwt., and I shall have travelled fifteen miles with that, at least; for as fast as I gets rid on the weight of the crockery, I takes up the weight of the old clothes. The clothes I hardly know the value on till I gets to the Clothes Exchange, in Houndsditch. The usual time for the hucksters arriving there is between three and four in the winter, or between five and six in the summer. In fact, we must be at the Exchange at them hours, because there all our buyers is, and we can’t go out the next day until we’ve sold our lot. We can’t have our baskets stocked again until we’ve got the money for our old clothes.” The Exchange is a large square plot of damp ground, about an acre in extent, enclosed by a hoarding about eight feet high, on the top of which is a narrow sloping roof, projecting sufficiently forward to shelter one person from the rain. Across this ground are placed four rows of double seats, ranged back to back. Here meet all the Jew clothesmen, hucksters, dealers in second-hand shoes, left-off wardrobe keepers, hareskin dealers, umbrella dealers and menders, and indeed buyers and sellers of left-off clothes and worn-out commodities of every description. The purchasers are of all nations, and in all costumes. Some are Greeks, others Swiss, and others Germans; some have come there to buy up old rough charity clothing and army coats for the Irish market, others have come to purchase the hareskins and old furs, or else to pick up cheap old teapots and tea-urns. The man with the long flowing beard and greasy tattered gaberdine is worth thousands, and he has come to make another sixpence out of the rags and tatters that are strewn about the ground in heaps for sale. At a little before three o’clock the stream of rag-sellers sets in in a flood towards this spot. At the gate stands “Barney Aaron,” to take the half-penny admission of every one entering the ground. By his side stands his son with a leather pouch of half-pence, to give change for any silver that may be tendered. The stench of the old clothes is positively overpowering. Every one there is dressed in his worst. If he has any good clothes he would not put them on. Almost each one that enters has a bag at his back, and scarcely has he passed the gate before he is surrounded by some half dozen eager Jews--one feels the contents of the bundle on the huckster’s back--another clamours for the first sight. A third cries, “I’m sure you have something that’ll suit me.” “You know me,” says a fourth, “I’m a buyer, and give a good price.” “Have you got any breaking?” asks this Jew, who wants an old coat or two to cut up into cloth caps--“Have you got any fustian, any old cords, or old boats?” And such is the anxiety and greediness of the buyers, that it is as much as the seller can do to keep his bundle on his back. At length he forces his way to a seat, and as he empties the contents of his sack on the ground, each different article is snapped up and eagerly overhauled by the different Jews that have followed him to his seat. Then they all ask what sum is wanted for the several things, and they, one and all, bid one quarter of the price demanded. I am assured that it requires the greatest vigilance to prevent the things being carried off unpaid in the confusion. While this scene is going on, a Jew, perched upon a high stage in the centre of the ground, shouts aloud to the multitude, “Hot wine, a half-penny a glass, here.” Beside him stands another, with smoking cans of hot eels; and next to this one is a sweet-meat stall, with a crowd of Jew boys gathered round the keeper of it, gambling with marbles for Albert rock and hardbake. Up and down between the seats push women with baskets of sheep’s trotters on their arms, and screaming, “Legs of mutton, two for a penny; who’ll give me a handsel--who’ll give me a handsel?” After them comes a man with a large tin can under his arm, and roaring, “Hot pea, oh! hot pea, oh!” In one corner is a coffee and beer shop. Inside this are Jews playing at draughts, or settling and wrangling about the goods they have bought of one another. In fact, in no other place is such a scene of riot, rags, and filth to be witnessed. The cause of this excitement is the great demand on the part of the poor, and the cheap clothiers as well, for those articles which are considered as worthless by the rich. The old shoes are to be cobbled up, and the cracks heel-balled over, and sold out to the working-classes as strong durable articles. The Wellingtons are to be new fronted, and disposed of to clerks who are expected to appear respectable upon the smallest salaries. The old coats and trowsers are wanted for the slop-shops; they are to be “turned,” and made up into new garments. The best black suits are to be “clobbered” up--and those which are more worn in parts are to be cut up and made into new cloth caps for young gentlemen, or gaiters for poor curates; whilst others are to be transformed into the “best boys’ tunics.” Such as are too far gone are bought to be torn to pieces by the “devil,” and made up into new cloth--or “shoddy” as it is termed--while such as have already done this duty are sold for manure for the ground. The old shirts, if they are past mending, are bought as “rubbish” by the marine store dealers, and sold as rags to the paper-mills, to be changed either into the bank-note, the newspaper, or the best satin note-paper.

The average earnings of the hucksters who exchange crockery, china and glass for the above articles, are from 8_s._ to 10_s._ per week. Some days, I am told, they will make 3_s._, and on others they will get only 6_d._ However, taking the good with the bad, it is thought that 10_s._ a week is about a fair average of the earnings of the whole class. The best times for this trade are at the turn of the winter, and at the summer season, because then people usually purchase new clothes, and are throwing off the old ones. The average price of an old hat is from 1_d._ to 8_d._; for an old pair of shoes, from 1_d._ to 4_d._; an old pair of Wellingtons fetch from 3_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ (those of French leather are of scarcely any value). An old coat is worth from 4_d._ to 1_s._; waistcoats are valued from 1_d._ to 3_d._; trowsers are worth from 4_d._ to 8_d._; cotton gowns are of the same value; bonnets are of no value whatever; shirts fetch from 2_d._ to 6_d._; stockings are 1_d._ per pair; a silk handkerchief varies in value from 3_d._ to 1_s._ The party supplying me with the above information was originally in the coal and greengrocery business, but, owing to a succession of calamities, he has been unable to carry it on. Since then he has taken to the vending of crockery in the streets. He is a man far above the average of the class to which he at present belongs.

OF THE “SWAG,” CROCKERY, AND GLASS SHOPS.

In addition to the 150 general and particular “swag-shops,” or shops having a large collection of goods, of which I have spoken, there are twenty establishments for the sale of crockery and china, which I heard styled by persons in the trade “swag-crocks,” or “crock-shops.” The principle on which the trade is conducted in these places is the same as that of the swag-shops, inasmuch as the sales are wholesale, to street-sellers, shop-keepers, and shippers, but rarely to private individuals.

The crock swag-shops are to be found in the streets neighbouring Spitalfields market, and in and near to Liquorpond-street. As at the more general or miscellaneous swag-shops, the crock-swags make no display. In one of the most extensive, indeed, two large windows are filled with goods. Here are spirit-stands, with the invariable three bottles (invariable in the cheap trade), blue, green, or uncoloured; some lettered “gin,” “rum,” “brandy,” but most of them unlabelled. Here, too, are cruet-stands, and “pot” or spar figures under glass shades; and a number of many-coloured flower-glasses, some of them profusely gilded; and small china vases; but the glass wares greatly predominate. Although there are glass and colour and gilding enough to make “an imposing display,” the display is nevertheless anything but showy; the goods look dingy, and, if I may so speak of such things, faded. Some of the coloured glass seems to be losing its colour, and few of the wares have the bright look of newness.

The windows of these shops are, for the most part, literally packed to a certain height, so as almost to exclude the light, with pitchers, and basins, and cups, and jugs, and the sundry smaller articles of this multifarious trade, all undusted, and seemingly uncared for. In one “large concern” I saw a number of glass salt-cellars wrapped severally in paper, which had changed from white to a dusty brown, and which from age, and perhaps damp, seemed about to fall to tatters.

The “interiors” of some of these warehouses are very spacious. I saw one large and lofty shop, into which two apartments and a yard had been flung, the partitions having been taken down, and the ceilings supported by pillars, in order to “extend the premises.” It was really a hall of pots. On the floor were large crates, the tops removed so that the goods might be examined, packed, one with cups, another with saucers, a third with basins, and packed as only a potter could pack them. Intermixed with them were piles of blue-and-white dishes and plates, and, beside them, washing-pans, fitted one into another like the old hats on a Jew’s head. The pillars had their festoons of crockery, being hung with children’s white and gold mugs “for a good boy,” and with white metal-lidded and brown-bodied mustard pots, as well as other minor articles. The shelves were loaded with tea-services of many shapes and hues, while the unoccupied space was what sufficed to allow the warehousemen and the customers to thread the mazes of this labyrinth of crockerywares. Of the glass goods there was little display, as they are generally kept in cases and other packages, to preserve their freshness of appearance.

The crockery of the swag-shops is made in Staffordshire; the glass principally in Lancashire. At none of these establishments do they issue circulars of prices, such as I have cited of the general swag-shops. The articles are so very many, I was told, that to specify all the sizes and prices “would take a volume and a half.” I give a statement, however, of the prices of the goods most in demand, on the occasions when the street vendors sell them without barter, and the prices at which they are purchased wholesale: Blue-edged plates sold at 1_d._ each cost 1_s._ 8_d._ the dozen; this would appear to entail a loss of 8_d._ on every dozen sold, but in this article “30 is a dozen.” Dishes are bought at the “swag-crocks” in “nests,” which comprise 10 dishes, or 5 pairs, of different sizes. These the street crockman sells, if possible, in pairs, but he will sell them singly, for he can always make up the complement of his “nest” at the warehouse. The prices run, chiefly according to size, from 8_d._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ (sometimes 1_s._ 8_d._) the pair. “The 8_d._ a pair,” said one street crock-seller, “costs me 6_d._, not a farthing under, and the 18_d._ a pair--it’s very seldom we can ‘draw’ 1_s._ 8_d._--costs 1_s._ 2_d._ That’s all, sir; and the profit’s so small, it makes us keen to swop. I’ll swop for old clothes, or dripping, or grease, or anything. You see the profit, when you sells downright down, must be small, ’cause there’s so many pot-shops with prices marked on the plates and other things. They can buy better than us sometimes, and they’re hard to stand up against. If a woman says to me--for I very seldom deal with men--‘Why, they’re cheaper at D----’s, in Oxford-street,’--I answers, ‘And worser. I’ll tell you what it is, ma’am. The cheapest place was in two houses, painted all red, in the London-road. But one fine morning them two houses fell, and the pots was smashed as a matter of course. It was a judgment on their bad pots.’ But it’s a fact, sir, that these houses fell, about 7 or 8 years ago, I think, and I’ve seen goods, with one or two of ’em broken, offered for sale when the place was re-built, having been ‘rescued from the ruins; and at less than half price.’ Of course that was gammon. I’ve cracked and broke a few plates, myself, and sold them in the New Kent-road, and in Walworth and Newington, at half price, from the ruins, and at a very tidy profit.” A stone china tea-service, of 32 pieces--12 cups, 12 saucers, 4 bread-and-butter plates, a tea-pot, a sugar-basin, a slop-basin, and a cream-jug--is bought for 6_s._ 9_d._ while 9_s._ is asked for it, and sometimes obtained. A “china set” costs, as the general price, 10_s._ 6_d._, and for it 14_s._ is asked.

The glass wares are so very rarely sold--being the most attractive articles of barter--that I could hardly get any street-seller to state his prices. “Swop, sir,” I was told repeatedly, “they all goes in swop.” The glass goods, however, which are the most sold in the streets, I ascertained to be cream-jugs, those vended at 6_d._ each, costing 4_s._ the dozen; and flower-glasses, the most frequent price being 1_s._ a pair, the prime cost 7_d._

I have estimated the sum turned over by the general swag-shops at 3000_l._ each. From what I can learn, the crock swag-shops, averaging the whole, turn over a larger sum, for their profits are smaller, ranging from 10 to 30 per cent., but rarely 30. Calculating, then, that each of these swag-shops turns over 4000_l._ yearly, we find 80,000_l._ expended, but this includes the sales to shopkeepers and to shippers, as well as to street-folk.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF SPAR AND CHINA ORNAMENTS, AND OF STONE FRUIT.

“Spars,” as spar ornaments are called by the street-sellers, are sold to the retailers at only four places in London, and two in Gravesend (where the hawkers are for the most part supplied). The London spar-houses are--two in Westminster, one in Shoreditch, and one on Battle-bridge. None of them present any display of their goods which are kept in large drawers, closets, and packages. At Gravesend the spar-shops are handsome.

These wares are principally of Derbyshire spar, and made in Matlock; a few are German. The “spars” are hawked on a round, and are on fine Saturday nights offered for sale in the street and markets. The trade was unknown as a street, or a hawking trade in London, I am informed, until about twenty-five years ago, and then was not extensive, the goods, owing to the cost of carriage, &c., being high-priced. As public conveyance became more rapid, certain and cheap, the trade in spars increased, and cheaper articles were prepared for the London market. From ten to fifteen years ago the vendors of spars “did well in swop” (as street-sellers always call barters). The articles with which they tempted housewives were just the sort of article to which it was difficult for inexperienced persons to attach a value. They were massive and handsome ornaments, and the spar-sellers did not fail to expatiate on their many beauties. “God rest Jack Moody’s soul,” said an Irishman, now a crock-seller, to me; “Jack Moody was only his nick-name, but that don’t matter; God rist his sowl and the hivens be his bid. He was the boy to sell the spar-r’s. They was from the cavrents at the bottom of the say, he towld them, or from a new island in the frozen ocean. He did well; God rist him; but he died young.” The articles “swopped” were such as I have described in my account of the tradings of the crock-sellers; and if the “swop” were in favour of the spar-seller, still the customer became possessed of something solid, enduring, and generally handsome.

At the outset of the street or hawking trade, the spar-sellers carried their goods done up in paper, in strong baskets on their heads; the man’s wife sometimes carrying a smaller basket, with less burdensome articles, on her arm. Men have been known to start on a round, with a basket of spars, which would weigh from 1 cwt. to 1-1/2 cwt. (or 12 stone). This, it must be remembered, might have to be borne for three or four miles into the suburbs, before its weight was diminished by a sale. One of these traders told me that twelve years ago he had sold spar watch-stands, weighing above 15 lbs. These stands were generally of a square form; the inner portion being open, except a sort of recess for the watch. “The tick sounds well on spar, I’ve often heard,” said one spar-seller.

Some of the spar ornaments are plain, white, and smooth. Of these many have flowers, or rims, or insects, painted upon them, and in brilliant colours. Those which are now in demand for the street sales, or for itinerant barterings, are--Small microscopes, candlesticks, inkstands, pin-cushions, mugs, paper-holders, match perfumery, and shaving-boxes, etc. The general price of these articles is 6_d._ to the street-seller or hawker, some of the dealers being licensed hawkers. The wholesale price varies from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 5_s._ per dozen; or an average of 3_s._ 9_d._ or 4_s._ Of the larger articles the most saleable are candlesticks, at from 1_s._ to 2_s._ 6_d._ each; from 1_s._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ being the most frequent price. Watch-stands and vases are now, I am told, in small demand. “People’s got stocked, I think,” one man said, “and there’s so much cheap glass and chaney work, that they looks on spars as heavy and old-fashioned.”

Some street-sellers have their spars in covered barrows, the goods being displayed when the top of the barrow is removed, so that the conveyance is serviceable whether the owner be stationary or itinerant. The spar-sellers, however, are reluctant to expose their goods to the weather, as the colours are easily affected.

In this trade I am informed that there are now twelve men, nine of whom are assisted by their wives, and that in the summer months there are eighteen. Their profits are about 15_s._ per week on an average of the whole year, including the metropolis and a wide range of the suburbs. What amount of money may be expended by the public in the street purchase of “spars” I am unable to state, so much being done in the way of barter; but assuming that there are fourteen sellers throughout the year, and that their profits are cent. per cent., there would appear to be about 1000_l._ per annum thus laid out.

Of stone fruit there are now usually six street sellers, and in fine weather eight. Eight or ten years ago there were twenty. The fruit is principally made at Chesterfield in Derbyshire, and is disposed of to the London street-sellers in the swag-shops in Houndsditch. Some of the articles, both as regards form and colour, are well executed; others are far too red or too green; but that, I was told, pleased children best. The most saleable fruits are apples, pears, peaches, apricots, oranges, lemons and cucumbers. The cucumbers, which are sometimes of pot as well as of stone, are often hollow, and are sometimes made to serve for gin-bottles, holding about a quartern.

The price at the swag-shops is 4_s._ 3_d._ for a gross of fruit of all kinds in equal quantities; for a better quality the price is 7_s._ 6_d._ The street-seller endeavours to get 1_d._ each for the lower priced, and 2_d._ for the higher, but has most frequently to be content with 1/2_d._ and 1_d._ The stone fruitmen are itinerant during the week and stationary in the street markets on Saturday, and sometimes other evenings. They carry their stock both in baskets and barrows. One man told me that he always cried, “Pick ’em out! pick ’em out! Half-penny each! Cheapest fruit ever seen! As good to-morrow as last week! Never lose flavour! Ever-lasting fruit.”

Supposing that there are six persons selling stone fruit in the streets through the year, and that each earns--and I am assured that is the full amount--9_s._ weekly (one man said 7_s._ 6_d._ was the limit of his weekly profits in fruit), we find 140_l._ received as profit on these articles, and calculating the gains at 33 per cent., an outlay of 420_l._

The trade in China ornaments somewhat differs from the others I have described under the present head. It is both a street and a public-house trade, and is carried on both in the regular way and by means of raffles. At some public-houses, indeed, the China ornament dealers are called “rafflers.”

The “ornaments” now most generally sold or raffled are Joy and Grief (two figures, one laughing and the other crying); dancing Highlanders; mustard pots in the form of cottages, &c.; grotesque heads, one especially of an old man, which serves as a pepper-box, the grains being thrown through the eyes, nose, and mouth; Queen and Alberts (but not half so well as the others); and, until of late, Smith O’Briens. There are others, also, such as I have mentioned in my account of the general swag-shops, to the windows of many of which they form the principal furniture. Some of these “ornaments” sold “on the sly” can hardly be called obscene, but they are dirty, and cannot be further described.

The most lucrative part of the trade is in the raffling. A street-seller after doing what business he can, on a round or at a stand, during the day, will in the evening resort to public-houses, where he is known, and is allowed to offer his wares to the guests. The ornaments, in public-house sale, are hardly ever offered for less than 6_d._ each, or 6_d._ a pair. The raffling is carried on rapidly and simply. Dice are very rarely used new, and when used, provoke many murmurs from the landlords. The raffler of the China ornaments produces a portable roulette box or table--these tables becoming an established part of the street traffic--eight or ten inches in diameter. What may be called “the board” of some of these “roulettes” is numbered to thirty-two. It is set rapidly spinning on a pivot, a pea is then slipped through a hole in the lid of the box, and, when the motion has ceased, the pea is found in one of the numbered partitions. “Now, gentlemen,” a raffler told me he would say, “try your luck for this beautiful pair of ornaments; six of you at 1_d._ a piece. If you go home rather how came you so, show what you’ve bought for the old lady, and it’ll be all right and peaceful.” If six persons contribute 1_d._ each, the one “spinning” the highest number gains the prize, and is congratulated by the ornament seller on having gained for 1_d._ what was only too cheap at 6_d._ “Why, sir,” said a man who had recently left the trade for another calling, and who was anxious that I should not give any particular description of him, “in case he went back to the raffling,”--“Why, sir, I remember one Monday evening four or five months back, going into a parlour, not a tap-room, mind, where was respectable mechanics. They got to play with me, and got keen, and played until my stock was all gone. If one man stopped raffling, another took his place. I can’t recollect how many ornaments I raffled, but I cleared rather better than 3_s._ 6_d._ When there was no ornaments left they gave me 1_d._ a piece--there was eleven of them then--and a pint of beer to let them have the roulette till 12 o’clock; and away they went at it for beer and screws, and bets of 1_d._ and 2_d._ One young man that had been lucky in winning the ornaments got cleaned out, and staked his ornaments for 2_d._, or for a 1_d._ rather than not play. That sort of thing only happened to me once, to the same extent. If the landlord came into the room, of course they was only playing for drink, or he might have begun about his licence.”

The ornaments are bought at the swag shops I have described, and are nearly all of German make. They are retailed from 1_d._ and sometimes 1/2_d._ to 1_s._ each, and the profit is from 25 to 75 per cent. There are, I am informed, about thirty persons in this trade, two-thirds of them being rafflers, and their receipts being from 25_s._ to 30_s._ weekly. Most of them mix “fancy glass” goods and spars, and other articles, with their “ornament” trade, so that it is not easy to ascertain what is expended upon the china ornaments independently of other wares. If we calculate it at 10_s._ weekly (a low average considering the success of some of the raffles), we find 780_l._ expended in the streets in these ornamental productions.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF TEXTILE FABRICS.

These street-folk present perhaps as great a diversity of character as any of which I have been called upon to treat.

Among them are the strong persevering men, who carry rolls of linen or cotton manufacture in packs on their backs, and trudge along holding a yard-wand by the middle, which--it is a not uncommon joke against them--is always worn down an inch or two, by being used as a walking-stick in their long pedestrian journeys. Such, however, is not the case, for the packman--when measuring is resorted to--generally shows the justice of his measure, or invites the purchaser to use her own yard-wand (for women are now their most frequent customers). Some of these men love to tell of the many hundreds of miles they have walked in their time, and in the three kingdoms. The most of those who make London, or any large town their head-quarters, and take regular journeys into the country, are licensed hawkers; those who confine their sales exclusively to London and its immediate vicinity, frequently conduct their business without incurring the annual cost of a licence. The penalty for hawking without a licence is 10_l._, or an imprisonment (in default of payment) not exceeding three months, with a discretionary power of mitigation to the magistrates. Some of these men may be styled hereditary hawkers, having first accompanied and then succeeded their parents on a round; some were in their youth assistants to hawkers; some had been unsuccessful as tallymen when shopkeepers, or travellers for tally-shops, and have resorted to hawking or street-trading, occasionally, in their transactions with different parties, blending the tally system with the simple rules of sale for ready money.

In striking contrast to these sturdy and often astute traders are the street-sellers of lace and millinery, the majority of whom are women. A walk through a street-market, especially on a Saturday evening, will show any one the frequent difference of the established street-milliner to the other female traders surrounding her stall. The milliner, as she is commonly called by the street-folk, wears a clean, and often tasty cap, beneath her closely-fitting bonnet, a cap in which artificial flowers are not wanting, should she sell those adornments. Her shawl is pinned beneath her collar; her gown, if it be old or of poor material, is clean; and she is rarely to be seen in boots or shoes made for men’s wear. Near her stall are stout, coarse-looking Irish girls, with unstringed bonnets, half-ragged shawls, thrown loose round their shoulders, necks red from exposure to the weather, coarse and never brushed, but sometimes scraped, shoes, when shoes are worn, and a general dirtiness of apparel. The street-milliners have been ladies’-maids, working milliners and dress-makers, the wives of mechanics who have been driven to the streets, and who add to the means of the family by conducting a street-trade themselves, with a sprinkling from other classes.

The street-sellers of lace are of the same class as the milliners, but with perhaps less smartness, and carrying on an inferior trade both as regards profit and display.

The street-sellers of boot and stay-laces and of such things as sewing cotton, threads and tapes, when sold separately from more valuable articles, are children and old people, some of whom are infirm, and some blind. The children have, in some instances, been bred to the streets; the old people probably are worn out in street-trades requiring health and strength, and so adopt a less laborious calling, or else they have been driven to it, either from comparatively better circumstances, or by some privation or affliction, in order to avoid the workhouse.

The sale of belts, stockings, braces, straps and garters, is mostly in the hands of men, who, from all that I can learn, are regular street-sellers, who “turn their hands first to this and then to that,” but this portion of street-traffic is often combined with the sale of dog-collars, chains, &c. The trade is more a public-house than a distinct traffic in the street. The landlord of a well-frequented inn in Lambeth told me that every day at least 100 of such street-sellers--not including match-girls and women--entered his house to offer their wares; the greatest number of such sellers was in the evening.

I have so far described what may be called the fair traders, but to them the street-sellers of textile fabrics are not confined. There are besides these, two other classes known as “Duffers” and as “Lumpers,” and sometimes the same man is both “Duffer” and “Lumper.” The two names are often confounded, but an intelligent street-seller, versed in all the arts and mysteries of this trade, told me that he understood by a “Duffer,” a man who sold goods under false pretences, making out that they were smuggled, or even stolen, so as to enhance the idea of their cheapness; whereas a “Lumper” would sell linens, cottons, or silks, which might be really the commodities represented; but which, by some management or other, were made to appear new when they were old, or solid when they were flimsy.

OF THE HABERDASHERY SWAG-SHOPS.

By this name the street-sellers have long distinguished the warehouses, or rather shops, where they purchase their goods. The term Swag, or Swack, or Sweg, is, as was before stated, a Scotch word, meaning a large collection, a “lot.” The haberdashery, however, supplied by these establishments is of a very miscellaneous character; which, perhaps, can best be shown by describing a “haberdashery swag,” to which a street-seller, who made his purchases there, conducted me, and which, he informed me, was one of the most frequented by his fraternity, if not the most frequented, in the metropolis.

The window was neither dingy, nor, as my companion expressed it, “gay.” It was in size, as well as in “dressing,” or “show”--for I heard the arrangement of the window goods called by both those names by street people--half-way between the quiet plainness of a really wholesale warehouse, and the gorgeousness of a retail drapery concern, when a “tremendous sacrifice” befools the public. Not a quarter of an inch of space was lost, and the announcements and prices were written many of them in a bungling school-boy-like hand, while others were the work of a professional “ticket writer,” and show the eagerness of so many of this class of trade to obtain custom. In one corner was this announcement: “To boot-makers. Boot fronts cut to any size or quality.” There was neither boot nor shoe visible, but how a boot front can be cut “to any quality,” is beyond my trade knowledge. Half hidden, and read through laces, was another announcement, sufficiently odd, in a window decorated with a variety of combustible commodities: “Hawkers supplied with fuzees cheaper than any house in London.” On the “ledge,” or the part shelving from the bottom of the window, within the shop, were paper boxes of steel purses with the price marked so loosely as to leave it an open question whether 1_s._ 0-3/4_d._ or 10-3/4_d._ was the cost. There was also a good store of silk purses, marked 2-1/2_d._; bright-coloured ribbons, in a paper box, and done up in small rolls, 1-1/2_d._; cotton reels, four a penny; worsted balls, three a penny; girls’ night-caps, 1-3/4_d._; women’s caps, from 2-3/4_d._ to 7-3/4_d._; (the 3/4_d._ was always in small indistinct characters, but it was a very favourite adjunct); diamond patent mixed pins--London and Birmingham--1_d._ an oz. My companion directed my attention to the little packets of pins: “They’re well done up, sir, as you can see, and in very good and thick and strong pink papers, with ornamental printers’ borders, and plenty of paper for three ounces. The paper’s weighed with the pins, and the price is 1_d._ an oz.; so the paper fetches 1_s._ 4_d._ a pound.” There were also many papers of combs, and one tied outside the packet as a specimen, without a price marked upon them. “The price varies, sir;” said my guide and informant, and I heard the same account from others; “it varies from 1_d._ a pair to such as me; up to 6_d._ or perhaps 1_s._ to a servant-maid what looks innocent.”

From what appeared to be slender rods fitted higher up to the breadth of the window depended “black lace handkerchiefs, 4-3/4_d._;” and cap fronts, some being a round wreath of gauze ornamented with light rose-coloured artificial flowers, and marked “only 5-1/2_d._;” together with lace (or edgings) which hung in festoons, and filled every vacancy. Higher up were braces marked 5_d._; and more lace; and to the back of all was a sort of screen--for it shuts out all view of the inside of the shop--of big-figured shawls (the figures in purple, orange, and crimson) and of silk handkerchiefs: “They’re regular duffers,” I was told, “and very tidy duffers too--very, for it’s a respectable house.”

In the centre of the window ledge was a handsome wreath of artificial flowers, marked 2-1/2_d._ “If a young woman was to go in to buy it at 2-1/2_d._, I’ve seen it myself, sir,” said the street-seller “she’s told that the ticket has got out of its place, for it belonged to the lace beneath, but as she’d made a mistake without thinking of the value, the flowers was 1_s._ 6_d._ to her, though they was cheap at 2_s._ 6_d._”

From this account it will be seen that the swag or wholesale haberdashers are now very general traders; and that they trade “retail” as well as “wholesale.” Twenty or twenty-five years ago, I am informed, the greater part of these establishments were really haberdashery swags; but so fierce became the competition in the trade, so keen the desire “to do business,” that gradually, and more especially within these four or five years, they became “all kinds of swags.”

A highly respectable draper told me that he never could thoroughly understand where hosiery, haberdashery, or drapery, began or ended; for hosiers now were always glovers, and often shirt-makers; haberdashers were always hosiers (at the least), and drapers were everything; so that the change in the character of the shops from which the street-sellers of textile fabrics procure their supplies, is but in accordance with the change in the general drapery trade. The literal meaning of the word haberdashery is unknown to etymologists.

There are now about fifty haberdashery swags resorted to by street-sellers, but only a fifth part of them make the trade to street-sellers a principal, while none make it a sole feature of their business. In the enumeration of the fifty haberdashery “swags,” five are large and handsome shops carried on by “cutting” drapers. Some of these--one in the borough, especially--do not “serve” the street-sellers, except at certain hours, generally from four to six.

There is another description of shops from which a class of street traders derive their supplies of stock. These are the “print-brokers,” who sell “gown-pieces” to the hawkers or street-traders. Only about a dozen of such shops, and those principally in the borough and in Wormwood-street, Bishopsgate, are frequented by the London street-sellers. One man showed me a draper’s shop, at which hawkers were “supplied,” but without an announcement of such a thing, as it might affect the character of the concern for gentility. The gown-pieces were rolled loosely together, and to each was attached a ticket, 2_s._ 11_d._ or 3_s._ 11_d._, with intermediate prices, but those here mentioned were the most frequent. The 11_d._ was in pencil, so that it could be altered at any time, without the expense of a new ticket being incurred. “That one marked 2_s._ 11_d._,” said the street-seller, “would be charged to me 2_s._ 2_d._, and the 3_s._ 11_d._ in the same way 3_s._ 2_d._, or I might get it at 3_s._ If those gown-pieces don’t take--and they are almost as thin as silver-paper,--they’ll be marked down to 2_s._ 2_d._ and 3_s._ 2_d._, just by degrees, as you see them shown in the window.” The regular “print-brokers” make no display in their windows or premises.

The “duffers” and “lumpers” are supplied almost entirely at one shop in the east end. The proprietor has the sham, or inferior, silk handkerchiefs manufactured for the purpose; and for the supply of his other silk-goods, he purchases any silk “miscoloured” in the dyeing, or faded from time. “A faded lavender,” one of his customers told me, “he’ll get dyed black, and made to look quite new and fresh. Sometimes it’s good silk, but it’s mostly very dicky.” This tradesman is also a retailer.

Such things as braces and garters are sold to the street people at the general as well as the haberdashery swag-shops; and are more frequently sold wholesale than other goods; indeed the general swag-shop keepers sell them by no other way; but the “wholesale haberdashers” will sell a single pair, though not, of course, at wholesale price. Some houses again supply the more petty street-sellers, solely with such articles as are known in Manchester by the name of small-ware, including thread, cotton, tapes, laces, &c.

OF HAWKERS, PEDLARS, AND PETTY CHAPMEN.

The machinery for the distribution of commodities has, in this and in all other “progressive” countries, necessarily undergone many changes; but whether these changes have been beneficial to the community, or not, this is not the place for me to inquire; all I have to do here is to set forth the order of such changes, and to show the position that the hawker and pedlar formerly occupied in the state.

The “distributor” of the produce of the country is necessarily a kind of go-between, or middleman, introduced for the convenience of bringing together the producer and consumer--the seller and the buyer of commodities. The producer of a particular commodity being generally distinct from the consumer, it follows, that either the commodity must be carried to the consumer, or the consumer go to the commodity. To save time and trouble to both parties, it seems to have been originally arranged that producer and consumer should meet, periodically, at appointed places. Such periodical meetings of buyers and sellers still exist in this and many other countries, and are termed either fairs or markets, according as they are held at long or short intervals--the fair being generally an annual meeting, and the market a weekly one. In the olden time the peculiar characteristic of these commercial congregations was, that the producer and consumer came into immediate contact, without the intervention of any middleman. The fair or market seemed to be a compromise between the two, as to the inconvenience of either finding the other when wanted. The producer brought his goods, so to speak, half way to the consumer, while the consumer travelled half way to the goods. “There would be a great waste of time and trouble,” says Stewart Mill, “and an inconvenience often amounting to impracticability, if consumers could only obtain the article they want by treating directly with the producers. Both producers and consumers are too much scattered, and the latter often at too great a distance from the former.”

“To diminish this loss of time and labour,” continues Mr. Mill, “the contrivance of fairs and markets was early had recourse to, where consumers and producers might periodically meet, without any intermediate agency; and this plan still answers tolerably well for many articles, especially agricultural produce--agriculturists having at some seasons a certain quantity of spare time on their hands. But even in this case, attendance is often very troublesome and inconvenient to buyers who have other occupations, and do not live in the immediate vicinity; while, for all articles the production of which requires continuous attention from the producers, these periodical markets must be held at such considerable intervals, and the wants of the consumers must either be provided for so long beforehand, or must remain so long unsupplied, that even before the resources of society permitted the establishment of shops, the supply of those wants fell universally into the hands of itinerant dealers, the pedlars who might appear once a month, being preferred to the fair, which only returned once a year. In country districts, remote from towns or large villages, the vocation of the pedlar is not yet wholly superseded. But a dealer who has a fixed abode, and fixed customers,” continues Mr. Mill, “is so much more to be depended on, that customers prefer resorting to him, if he is conveniently accessible; and dealers, therefore, find their advantage in establishing themselves in every locality where there are sufficient consumers near at hand to afford them remuneration.”

Thus we see that the pedlar was the original distributor of the produce of the country--the primitive middleman, as well as the prime mover in extending the markets of particular localities, or for particular commodities. He was, as it were, the first “free-trader;” increasing the facilities for the interchange of commodities, without regard to market dues or tolls, and carrying the natural advantages of particular districts to remote and less favoured places; thus enabling each locality to produce that special commodity for which it had the greatest natural convenience, and exchanging it for the peculiar produce of other parts.

Now, this extension of the markets necessarily involved some machinery for the conveyance of the goods from one district to another. Hence, the pedlar was not only the original merchant, but the primitive carrier--to whom, perhaps, we owe both our turnpike-roads and railways. For, since the peculiar characteristic of the pedlar was the carrying the produce to the consumer, rather than troubling the consumer to go after the produce, of course it soon became necessary, as the practice increased, and increased quantities of goods had to be conveyed from one part of the country to another, that increased facilities of transit should be effected. The first change was from the pack-man to the pack-horse: for the former a foot-way alone was required; while the latter necessitated the formation of some kind of a road. Some of these ancient pack-horse roads existed till within these few years. Hagbush-lane, which was described by William Hone only twenty years ago, but which has now vanished, was the ancient bridle or pack-horse road from London to the North, and extended by the Holloway back road as far as the City-road, near Old-street. “Some parts of Hagbush-lane,” says Hone, “are much lower than the meadows on either side.” At one time a terraced ridge, at another a deep rut, the pack-horse road must have been to the unaccustomed traveller a somewhat perilous pass. The historian of Craven, speaking of 1609, says, “At this time the communication between the north of England and the Universities was kept up by the carriers, who pursued their long but uniform route with trains of pack-horses. To their care were consigned packages, and not unfrequently the persons of young scholars. It was through their medium, also, that epistolary correspondence was managed; and as they always visited London, a letter could scarcely be exchanged between Yorkshire and Oxford in less time than a month.” The General Post Office was established by Act of Parliament in the year 1660, and all letters were to be sent through this office, “except such letters as shall be sent by coaches, common-known carriers of goods by carts, waggons, and pack-horses, and shall be carried along with their carts, waggons, and pack-horses respectively.”

“There is no such conveyance as a waggon in this country” (Scotland), says Roderick Random, referring to the beginning of the last century, “and my finances were too weak to support the expense of hiring a horse. I determined therefore to set out with the carriers, who transport goods from one place to another on horseback; and this scheme I accordingly put in execution on the 1st day of November, 1739, sitting on a pack-saddle between two baskets, one of which contained my goods in a knapsack. But by the time we arrived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, I was so fatigued with the tediousness of the carriage, and benumbed with the coldness of the weather, that I resolved to travel the rest of my journey on foot, rather than proceed in such a disagreeable manner.”

The present mode of travelling, compared with that of the pack-horse means of conveyance as pursued of old, forms one of the most striking contrasts, perhaps, in all history.

Hence we see that the pedlar was originally both carrier and seller; first conveying his pack on his back, and then, as it increased in bulk, transferring it to the back of “the pack-horse.” But as soon as the practice of conveying the commodities to the buyers, instead of compelling the buyers to go to the commodities, was found to be advantageous to both consumer and producer, it was deemed expedient that the two distinct processes of carriage and sale, which are included in the distribution of commodities, should be conducted by distinct persons, and hence the carrying and selling of goods became separate vocations in the State; and such is now the machinery by which the commodities of different parts of this country, as well as of others, are at present diffused over the greater portion of this kingdom. In remote districts however, and the poorer neighbourhoods of large towns, where there are either too few consumers, or too few commodities required now to support a fixed distributor with a distinct apparatus of transit, the pedlar still continues to be the sole means of diffusing the produce of one locality among the inhabitants of another; and it is in this light--as the poor man’s merchant--that we must here consider him.

Among the more ancient of the trades, then, carried on in England is that of the hawker or pedlar. It is generally considered, as I said before, that hawking “is as ancient a mode of trade as that carried on in fairs and markets, towns and villages, as well as at the castles of the nobles or the cottages of their retainers.” To fix the origin of fairs is impossible, for, in ancient and mediæval times, every great gathering was necessarily a fair. Men--whom it is no violence to language to call “hawkers”--resorted alike to the Olympic games and to the festivals of the early Christian saints, to sell or barter their wares. Of our English fairs Mr. Jacob says, in his “Law Dictionary”--“Various privileges have been annexed to them, and numerous facilities afforded to the disposal of property in them. To give them a greater degree of solemnity, they were originally, both in the ancient and modern world, associated with religious festivals. In most places, indeed, they are still held on the same day with the wake or feast of the saint to whom the church is dedicated; and till the practice was prohibited, it was customary in England to hold them in churchyards. This practice, I may add, was not fully prohibited until the reign of Charles II., although it had long before fallen into disuse. Thus the connection between church and market is shown to be of venerable antiquity.”

The hawker dealt, in the old times, more in textile fabrics than in anything else. Indeed, Shakspere has dashed off a catalogue of his wares, in the song of Autolycus:

“Lawn as white as driven snow, Cyprus black as e’er was crow.”

In the reigns succeeding the termination of the Wars of the Roses, and down to the Commonwealth, the hawker’s pack was often stocked with costly goods; for great magnificence in dress was then the custom of the wealthy, and even the burgesses on public occasions wore velvet, fine cambric ruffs, and furs. The hawker was thus often a man of substance and frequently travelled on horseback, with his wares slung in bags on his horse’s side, or fitted to the crupper or pommell of his saddle. He was often, moreover, attended by a man, both for help in his sales, and protection in travelling. In process of time an established hawker became the medium of news and of gossip, and frequently the bearer of communications from town to town. His profits were often great, but no little trust seems to have been reposed in him as to the quality and price of his goods; and, until the present century or so, slop goods were little manufactured, so that he could not so well practise deceptions. Neither, during the prosperity of the trade, does it appear that any great degree of dishonesty characterized the hawker, though to this there were of course plenty of minor exceptions as well as one glaring contradiction. The wreckers of our southern coasts, who sometimes became possessed of rich silks, velvets, laces, &c.--(not unfrequently murdering all the mariners cast on shore, and there was a convenient superstition among the wreckers, that it was unlucky to offer help to a drowning man)--disposed of much of their plunder to the hawkers; and as communication was slow, even down to Mr. Palmer’s improvements in the Post Office in 1784, the goods thus rescued from the deep, or obtained by the murder of the mariners, were disposed of even before the loss of the vessel was known at her destination; for we are told that there was generally a hawker awaiting a wreck on the most dangerous shores of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, and Sussex.

During the last century, and for the first ten years of the present, the hawker’s was a profitable calling. He usually in later times travelled with horse and covered cart, visiting fairs, markets, and private houses, more especially in the country. In some parts the calling was somewhat hereditary, son succeeding to father after having officiated as his assistant, and so becoming known to the customers. The most successful of the class, alike on both sides of the border, were Scotchmen.

In 1810 the prosperity of this trade experienced a check. In that year “every hawker, pedlar, or petty chapman going from town to town, or to other men’s houses, and travelling on foot, carrying to sell or exposing for sale any goods” was required to pay a yearly licence of 4_l._, with an additional 4_l._ for every horse, ass, or mule, used in the business. Nothing, however, in the Act in question, 50 Geo. III. c. 41, as I have before intimated, “extended to prohibit” the hawking for sale of “any fish, fruit, or victuals” without licence. Neither is there any extension of the prohibition to the unlicensed workers or makers of any goods or wares, or their children or servants resident with them, hawking such goods, and selling them “in every city, borough, town corporate, or market town,” but not in villages or country places. “Tinkers, coopers, glaziers, plumbers, and harness-menders,” are likewise permitted to carry about with them the proper materials necessary for their business, no licence being necessary.

The passing of this Act did not materially check the fraudulent practices of which the hawkers were accused, and of which a portion of them were doubtlessly guilty; indeed some of the manufacturers, whose names were pirated by the hawkers, were of opinion that the licensing for ten or twenty years facilitated fraud, as many people, both in London and the country, thought they were safe in dealing with a “licensed” hawker, since he could not procure a licence without a certificate of his good character from the clergyman of his place of residence, and from two “reputable inhabitants.” Linen of good quality used to be extensively hawked, but from 1820 to 1825, or later in some parts, the hawkers got to deal in an inferior quality, “unions” (a mixture of linen and cotton), glazed and stiffened, and set off with gaudy labels bearing sometimes the name of a well-known firm, but altered in spelling or otherwise, and expressed so as to lead to the belief that such a firm were the manufacturers of the article. Jews, moreover, as we have seen, travelled in all parts with inferior watches and jewellery, and sometimes “did well” by persuading the possessors of old solid watches, or old seals or jewellery, that they were ridiculously out of fashion, and so inducing them to give money along with the old watch for a watch or other article of the newest fashion, which yet was intrinsically valueless compared with the other. These and other practices, such as selling inferior lace under pretence of its having been smuggled from France, and of the choicest quality, tended to bring the hawker’s trade into disrepute, and the disrepute affected the honest men in the business. Some sank from the possession of a good horse and cart to travelling on foot, as of yore, forwarding goods from place to place by the common carriers, and some relinquished the itinerant trade altogether. The “cutting” and puffing shopkeepers appeared next, and at once undersold the “slop” hawker, and foiled him on his own ground of pushing off inferior wares for the best. The numbers of the hawkers fell off considerably, but notwithstanding I find, in the last census tables (1841), the following returns as to the numbers of “hawkers, hucksters, and pedlars,” distributed throughout Great Britain. The Government returns, however, admit of no comparison being formed between these numbers and those of any previous time.

ENGLAND AND WALES. Bedford 79 Berks 160 Bucks 129 Cambridge 139 Chester 362 Cornwall 175 Cumberland 217 Derby 427 Devon 230 Dorset 97 Durham 301 Essex 339 Gloucester 437 Hereford 44 Hertford 137 Huntingdon 45 Kent 284 Lancaster 1862 Leicester 292 Lincoln 435 Middlesex 1597 Monmouth 163 Norfolk 431 Northampton 214 Northumberland 426 Nottingham 267 Oxford 94 Rutland 23 Salop 240 Somerset 201 Southampton 226 Stafford 472 Suffolk 288 Surrey 609 Sussex 238 Warwick 476 Westmorland 44 Wilts 109 Worcester 247 City of York 63 East Riding of York 200 North Riding 187 West Riding 1039 ------ 14,038

WALES. Anglesey 14 Brecon 63 Cardigan 38 Carmarthen 49 Carnarvon 32 Denbigh 69 Flint 35 Glamorgan 202 Merioneth 25 Montgomery 31 Pembroke 46 Radnor 20 --- 624

Island in the British Seas 47

SCOTLAND. Aberdeen 105 Argyll 44 Ayr 144 Banff 33 Berwick 41 Bute 17 Caithness 4 Clackmannan 18 Dumbarton 29 Dumfries 72 Edinburgh 401 Elgin, or Moray 37 Fife 77 Forfar 108 Haddington 54 Inverness 33 Kincardine 27 Kinross 9 Kirkcudbright 46 Lanark 677 Linlithgow 33 Nairn 2 Orkney and Shetland 10 Peebles 13 Perth 119 Renfrew 107 Ross and Cromarty 11 Roxburgh 96 Selkirk 18 Stirling 95 Sutherland 5 Wigtown 36 ---- 2561

Thus we find that, in 1841, there were of these trades in

England 14,038 Wales 624 British Isles 47 Scotland 2,561 ------ Total in Great Britain 17,270

The counties in which the hawkers, hucksters, and pedlars most abound appear to be--1st, Lancaster; 2nd, Middlesex; 3rd, Yorkshire (West Riding); 4th, Lanark; and 5th, Surrey.

What rule, if any rule, was observed in classing these “hawkers, hucksters, and pedlars,” or what distinction was drawn between a hawker and a huckster, I am unable to say, but it is certain that the number of “licensed hawkers” was within one-half of the 17,270; for, in 1841, the hawkers’ duty realized only 32,762_l._ gross revenue, and waiving the amount paid for the employment of horses, &c., the official return, reckoning so many persons paying 4_l._ each, shows only 8190 licensed hawkers in 1841.

The hawker’s business has been prosecuted far more extensively in country than in town, but he still continues to deal in London.

OF THE PACKMEN, OR HAWKERS OF SOFT WARES.

The packman, as he is termed, derives his name from carrying his merchandise or pack upon his back. These itinerant distributors are far less numerous than they were twenty or twenty-five years since. A few years since, they were mostly Irishmen, and their principal merchandise, Irish linens--a fabric not so generally worn now as it was formerly.

The packmen are sometimes called Manchester-men. These are the men whom I have described as the sellers of shirtings, sheetings, &c. One man, who was lately an assistant in the trade, could reckon twenty men who were possessed of good stocks, good connections, and who had saved money. They traded in an honourable manner, were well known, and much respected. The majority of them were natives of the north of Ireland, and two had been linen manufacturers. It is common, indeed, for all the Irishmen in this trade to represent themselves as having been connected with the linen manufacture in Belfast.

This trade is now becoming almost entirely a country trade. There are at present, I am told, only five pursuing it in London, none of them having a very extensive connection, so that only a brief notice is necessary. Their sale is of both cottons and linens for shirts. They carry them in rolls of 36 yards, or in smaller rolls, each of a dozen yards, and purchase them at the haberdashery swag-shops, at from 9_d._ to 18_d._ a yard. I now speak of good articles. Their profits are not very large--as for the dozen yards, which cost them 9_s._, they often have a difficulty in getting 12_s._--while in street-sale, or in hawking from house to house, there is great delay. A well-furnished pack weighs about one cwt., and so necessitates frequent stoppages. Cotton, for sheetings, is sold in the same manner, costing the vendors from 6_d._ to 1_s._ 3_d._ a yard.

Of the tricks of the trade, and of the tally system of one of these chapmen, I had the following account from a man who had been, both as principal and assistant, a travelling packman, but was best acquainted with the trade in and about London.

“My master,” he said, “was an Irishman, and told everybody he had been a manager of a linen factory in Belfast. I believe he was brought up to be a shoemaker, and was never in the north of Ireland. Anyhow, he was very shy of talking about Irish factories to Irish gentlemen. I heard one say to him, ‘Don’t tell me, you have the Cork brogue.’ I know he’d got some knowledge of linen weaving at Dundee, and could talk about it very clever; indeed he was a clever fellow. Sometimes, to hear him talk, you’d think he was quite a religious man, and at others that he was a big blackguard. It wasn’t drink that made the difference, for he was no drinker. It’s a great thing on a round to get a man or woman into a cheerful talk, and put in a joke or two; and that he could do, to rights. I had 12_s._ a week, standing wages, from him, and bits of commissions on sales that brought me from 3_s._ to 5_s._ more. He was a buyer of damaged goods, and we used to ‘doctor’ them. In some there was perhaps damages by two or three threads being out all the way, so the manufacturers wouldn’t send them to their regular customers. My master pretended it was a secret where he got them, but, lord, I knew; it was at a swag-shop. We used to cut up these in twelves (twelve yards), sometimes less if they was very bad, and take a Congreve, and just scorch them here and there, where the flaws was worst, and plaster over other flaws with a little flour and dust, to look like a stain from street water from the fire-engine. Then they were from the stock of Mr. Anybody, the great draper, that had his premises burnt down--in Manchester or Glasgow, or London--if there’d been a good fire at a draper’s--or anywhere; we wasn’t particular. They was fine or strong shirtings, he’d say--and so they was, the sound parts of them--and he’d sell as cheap as common calico. I’ve heard him say, ‘Why, marm, sure marm, with your eyes and scissors and needle, them burns--ah! fire’s a dreadful judgment on a man--isn’t the least morsel of matter in life. The stains is cured in a wash-tub in no time. It’s only touched by the fire, and you can humour it, I know, in cutting out as a shirt ought to be cut; it should be as carefully done as a coat.’ Then we had an Irish linen, an imitation, you know, a kind of ‘Union,’ which we call double twist. It is made, I believe, in Manchester, and is a mixture of linen and cotton. Some of it’s so good that it takes a judge to tell the difference between it and real Irish. He got some beautiful stuff at one time, and once sold to a fine-dressed young woman in Brompton, a dozen yards, at 2_s._ 6_d._ a yard, and the dozen only cost him 14_s._ Then we did something on tally, but he was dropping that trade. The shopkeepers undersold him. ‘If you get 60_l._ out of 100_l._, in tally scores,’ he often said, ‘it’s good money, and a fair living profit;’ but he got far more than that. What was worth 8_s._ was 18_s._ on tally, pay 1_s._ a week. He did most that way with the masters of coffee-shops and the landlords of little public-houses. Sometimes, if they couldn’t pay, we’d have dinner, and that went to account, and he’d quarrel with me after it for what was my share. There’s not much of this sort of trade now, sir. I believe my old master got his money together and emigrated.”

“Do you want any ginuine Irish linin, ma’am?” uttered in unmistakable brogue, seemed to authenticate the fact, that the inquirer (being an Irishman) in all likelihood possessed the legitimate article; but as to their obtaining their goods from Coleraine and other places in the Emerald Isle, famed for the manufacture of linen, it was and is as pure fiction as the Travels of Baron Munchausen.

The majority of these packmen have discontinued dealing in linens exclusively, and have added silks, ladies’ dresses, shawls and various articles connected with the drapery business. The country, and small towns and villages, remote from the neighbourhood of large and showy shops, are the likeliest markets for the sale of their goods. In London the Irish packmen have been completely driven out by the Scotch tallymen, who indeed are the only class of packmen likely to succeed in London. If the persevering Scotch tallyman can but set foot in a decent-looking residence, and be permitted to display his tempting finery to the “lady of the house,” he generally manages to talk her into purchasing articles that perhaps she has no great occasion for, and which serve often to involve her in difficulties for a considerable period--causing her no little perplexity, and requiring much artifice to keep the tallyman’s weekly visits a secret from her husband--to say nothing of paying an enormous price for the goods; for the many risks which the tallyman incurs, necessitates of course an exorbitant rate of profit.

“The number of packmen or hawkers of shawls, silks, &c., I think” (says one of their own body) “must have decreased full one-half within the last few years. The itinerant haberdashery trade is far from the profitable business that it used to be, and not unfrequently do I travel a whole day without taking a shilling: still, perhaps, one day’s good work will make up for half a dozen bad ones. All the packmen have hawkers’ licences, as they have mostly too valuable a stock to incur the risk of losing it for want of such a privilege. Some of the fraternity” (says my informant) “do not always deal ‘upon the square;’ they profess to have just come from India or China, and to have invested all their capital in silks of a superior description manufactured in those countries, and to have got them on shore ‘unbeknown to the Custom-house authorities.’ This is told in confidence to the servant-man or woman who opens the door--‘be so good as tell the lady as much,’ says the hawker, ‘for really I’m afraid to carry the goods much longer, and I have already sold enough to pay me well enough for my spec--go, there’s a good girl, tell your missus I have splendid goods, and am willing almost to give them away, and if we makes a deal of it, why I don’t mind giving you a handsome present for yourself.’” This is a bait not to be resisted. Should the salesman succeed with the mistress, he carries out his promise to the maid by presenting her with a cap ribbon, or a cheap neckerchief.

The most primitive kind of packmen, or hawkers of soft-wares, who still form part of the distributing machinery of the country, traverse the highlands of Scotland. They have their regular rounds, and regular days of visiting their customers; their arrival is looked for with interest by the country people; and the inmates of the farm-house where they locate for the night consider themselves fortunate in having to entertain the packman; for he is their newsmonger, their story-teller, their friend, and their acquaintance, and is always made welcome. His wares consist of hose--linsey wolsey, for making petticoats--muslins for caps--ribbons--an assortment of needles, pins, and netting-pins--and all sorts of small wares. He always travels on foot. It is suspected that he likewise does a little in the “jigger line,” for many of these Highlanders have, or are supposed to have, their illicit distilleries; and the packmen are suspected of trafficking without excise interference. Glasgow, Dundee, Galashiels, and Harwick are the principal manufacturing towns where the packman replenishes his stock. “My own opinion,” says an informant of considerable experience, “is that these men seldom grow rich; but the prevailing idea in the country part of Scotland is, that the pedlar has an unco lang stockin wi’ an awfu’ amount o goden guineas in it, and that his pocket buik is plumped out wi’ a thick roll of bank notes. Indeed there are many instances upon record of poor packmen having been murdered--the assassins, doubtlessly, expecting a rich booty.” It scarcely ever costs the packman of Scotland anything for his bed and board. The Highlanders are a most hospitable people with acquaintances--although with strangers at first they are invariably shy and distant. In Ireland there is also the travelling pedlar, whose habits and style of doing business are nearly similar to that of the Scotchman. Some of the packmen of Scotland have risen to eminence and distinction. A quondam lord provost of Glasgow, a gentleman still living, and upon whom the honour of knighthood has been conferred, was, according to common report, in his earlier days a packman; and rumour also does the gentleman the credit to acknowledge that he is not ashamed to own it.

I am told by a London hawker of soft goods, or packman, that the number of his craft, hawking London and its vicinity, as far as he can judge, is about 120 (the census of 1841 makes the London hawkers, hucksters and pedlars amount to 2041). In the 120 are included the Irish linen hawkers. I am also informed that the fair trader’s profits amount to about 20 per cent., while those of the not over-particular trader range from 80 to 200 per cent. In a fair way of business it is said the hawker’s taking will amount, upon an average, to 7_l._ or 8_l._ per week; whereas the receipts of the “duffer,” or unfair hawker, will sometimes reach to 50_l._ per week. Many, however, travel days, and do not turn a penny.

STATEMENT OF A PACKMAN.

Of the way of trading of a travelling-pedlar I had the following account from one of the body. He was well dressed, and a good but keen-looking man of about thirty-five, slim, and of rather short stature, with quick dark eyes and bushy whiskers, on which it was evident no small culture was bestowed. His manners were far from obtrusive or importunate--to those whom he sought to make customers--for I happened to witness a portion of his proceedings in that respect; but he had a quiet perseverance with him, which, along with perfect civility, and something like deference, might be the most efficient means of recommending himself to the maid-servants, among whom lay his chief customers. He showed a little of the pride of art in describing the management of his business, but he would not hear that he “pattered:” he talked to his customers, he declared, as any draper, who knew his business well, might talk to his.

When I saw him, his pack, which he carried slung over one shoulder, contained a few gown-pieces of printed cotton, nearly all with pink grounds; a few shawls of different sizes; and three rolls firmly packed, each with a card-label on which was neatly written, “French Merino. Full duty paid. A.B.--L.F.--18--33--1851. French Chocolate.” There were also six neat paper packages, two marked “worked collars,” three, “gauze handkerchiefs,” and the other “beautiful child’s gros de naples.” The latter consisted of 4-1/2 yards of black silk, sufficient for a child’s dress. He carried with him, moreover, 5 umbrellas, one inclosed in a bright glazed cover, while from its mother-of-pearl handle hung a card addressed--“The Lady’s Maid, Victoria Lodge, 13_s._ 6_d._”

“This is a very small stock,” he said, “to what I generally carry, but I’m going on a country round to-morrow, and I want to get through it before I lay in a new one. I tell people that I want to sell off my goods cheap, as they’re too good for country sale; and that’s true, the better half of it.”

On my expressing some surprise that he should be leaving London at this particular time, he answered:--

“I go into the country because I think all the hawkers will be making for town, and there’ll be plenty of customers left in the country, and fewer to sell to them at their own places. That’s my opinion.”

“I sell to women of all sorts. Smart-dressing servant-maids, perhaps, are my best customers, especially if they live a good way from any grand ticketing shop. I sold one of my umbrellas to one of them just before you spoke to me. She was standing at the door, and I saw her give half a glance at the umbrellas, and so I offered them. She first agreed to buy a very nice one at 3_s._ 3_d._ (which should have been 4_s._), but I persuaded her to take one at 3_s._ 9_d._ (which should have been 4_s._ 6_d._). ‘Look here, ma’am,’ said I, ‘this umbrella is much bigger you see, and will carry double, so when you’re coming from church of a wet Sunday evening, a friend can have share of it, and very grateful he’ll be, as he’s sure to have his best hat on. There’s been many a question put under an umbrella that way that’s made a young lady blush, and take good care of her umbrella when she was married, and had a house of her own. I look sharp after the young and pretty ladies, Miss, and shall as long as I’m a bachelor.’ ‘O,’ says she, ‘such ridiculous nonsense because it’s often so windy about here, and then one must have a good cover if it rains as well.’

“That’s my way, sir. I don’t mind telling that, because they do the same in the shops. I’ve heard them, but they can’t put love and sweet-hearting so cleverly in a crowded shop as we can in a quiet house. It’s that I go for, love and sweet-hearting; and I always speak to any smart servant as if I thought she was the mistress, or as if I wasn’t sure whether she was the mistress or the lady’s-maid; three times out of four she’s house-maid or maid of all work. I call her ‘ma’am,’ and ‘young lady,’ and sometimes ‘miss.’ It’s no use offering to sell until a maid has tidied herself in the afternoon--not a bit. I should make a capital draper’s shopman, I know, only I could never bear the confinement. I never will hear such words as ‘I don’t want it,’ or, ‘nothing more to-day,’ no more than if I was behind a counter.

“The great difficulty I have is to get a chance of offering my goods. If I ring at a gate--for I always go a little way out of town--they can see who it is, and I may ring half an hour for nothing. If the door’s opened it’s often shut again directly, and I just hear ‘bother.’ I used to leave a few bills, and I do so still in some parts of the country, with a list of goods, and ‘this bill to be called for’ printed at the bottom. But I haven’t done that in town for a long time; it’s no good. People seem to think it’s giving double trouble. One of the prettiest girls I ever saw where I called one evening, pointed--just as I began to say, ‘I left a bill and’--to some paper round a candle in a stick, and shut the door laughing.

“In selling my gown-pieces I say they are such as will suit the complexion, and such like; and I always use my judgment in saying so. Why shouldn’t I? It’s the same to me what colour I sell. ‘It’s a genteel thing, ma’am,’ I’ll say to a servant-maid, ‘and such as common people won’t admire. It’s not staring enough for them. I’m sure it would become you, ma’am, and is very cheap; cheaper than you could buy at a shop; for all these things are made by the same manufacturers, and sold to the wholesale dealers at the same price, and a shopkeeper, you know, has his young men, and taxes, and rates, and gas, and fine windows to pay for, and I haven’t, so it don’t want much judgment to see that I must be able to sell cheaper than shopkeepers, and I think your own taste, ma’am, will satisfy you that these here are elegant patterns.’

“That’s the way I go on. No doubt there’s others do the same, but I know and care little about them. I have my own way of doing business, and never trouble myself about other people’s patter or nonsense.

“Now, that piece of silk I shall, most likely, sell to the landlady of a public-house, where I see there’s children. I shall offer it after I’ve got a bit of dinner there, or when I’ve said I want a bit. It’s no use offering it there, though, if it isn’t cheap; they’re too good judges. Innkeepers aren’t bad customers, I think, taking it altogether, to such as me, if you can get to talk to them, as you sometimes can at their bars. They’re generally wanting something, that’s one step. I always tell them that they ought to buy of men, in my way, who live among them, and not of fine shop-keepers, who never came a-near their houses. I’ve sold them both cottons and linens, after such talk as that. I live at public-houses in the country. I sleep nowhere else.

“My trade in town is nothing to what it was ten or a dozen years back. I don’t know the reason exactly. I think so many threepenny busses is one; for they’ll take any servant, when she’s got an afternoon, to a thoroughfare full of ticket-shops, and bring her back, and her bundle of purchases too, for another 3_d._ I shall cut it altogether, I think, and stick to the country. Why, I’ve known the time when I should have met from half-a-dozen to a dozen people trading in my way in town, and for these three days, and dry days too, I haven’t met one. My way of trading in the country is just the same as in town. I go from farm-house to farm-house, or call at gentlemen’s grand seats--if a man’s known to the servants there, it may be the best card he can play--and I call at every likely house in the towns or villages. I only go to a house and sell a mistress or maid the same sort of goods (a little cheaper, perhaps), and recommend them in the same way, as is done every day at many a fine city, and borough, and West-End shop. I never say they’re part of a bankrupt’s stock; a packfull would seem nothing for that. I never pretend that they’re smuggled. Mine’s a respectable trade, sir. There’s been so much dodging that way, it’s been a great stop to fair trading; and I like to go on the same round more than once. A person once taken-in by smuggled handkerchiefs, or anything, won’t deal with a hawker again, even though there’s no deception. But ‘duffing,’ and all that is going down fast, and I wish it was gone altogether. I do nothing in tally. I buy my goods; and I’ve bought all sorts, in wholesale houses, of course, and I’d rather lay out 10_l._ in Manchester than in London. O, as to what I make, I can’t say it’s enough to keep me (I’ve only myself), and escape the income-tax. Sometimes I make 10_s._ a week; sometimes 20_s._; sometimes 30_s._; and I have made 50_s._; and one week, the best I ever did, I made as much as 74_s._ 6_d._ That’s all I can say.”

Perhaps it may be sufficiently accurate to compute the average weekly earnings of a smart trader like my informant, at from 21_s._ to 25_s._ in London, and from 25_s._ to 30_s._ in the country.

OF THE TALLY PACKMAN.

The pedlar tallyman is a hawker who supplies his customers with goods, receiving payment by weekly instalments, and derives his name from the tally or score he keeps with his customers. Linen drapery--or at least the general routine of linen-draper’s stock, as silk-mercery, hosiery, woollen cloths, &c.--is the most prevalent trade of the tallyman. There are a few shoemakers and some household furniture dealers who do business in the tally or “score” system; but the great majority are linen-drapers, though some of them sell household furniture as well. The system is generally condemned as a bad one; as leading to improvidence in the buyer and rapacity in the seller. There are many who have incurred a tally debt, and have never been able to “get a-head of it,” but have been kept poor by it all their lives. Some few, however, may have been benefited by the system, and as an outfit for a young man or woman entering service is necessary--when the parties are too poor to pay ready money--it is an accommodation. I have never heard any of the tallyman’s customers express an opinion upon the subject, other than that they wish they had done with the tallyman, or could do without him.

The system does not prevail to so great an extent as it did some years back. The pedlar or hawking tallyman travels for orders, and consequently is said not to require a hawker’s licence. The great majority of the tally-packmen are Scotchmen. The children who are set to watch the arrival of the tallyman, and apprise the mother of his approach, when not convenient to pay, whisper instead of “Mother, here’s the Tallyman,” “Mother, here’s the Scotchman.” These men live in private houses, which they term their warehouse; they are many of them proprietors themselves in a small way, and conduct the whole of their business unassisted. Their mode of doing business is as follows:--they seldom knock at a door except they have a customer upon whom they call for the weekly instalment, but if a respectable-looking female happens to be standing at her door, she, in all probability, is accosted by the Scotchman, “Do you require anything in my way to-day, ma’am?” This is often spoken in broad Scotch, the speaker trying to make it sound as much like English as possible. Without waiting for a reply, he then runs over a programme of the treasures he has to dispose of, emphasising all those articles which he considers likely to suit the taste of the person he addresses. She doesn’t want perhaps any--she has no money to spare then. “She may want something in his way another day, may-be,” says the tallyman. “Will she grant him permission to exhibit some beautiful shawls--the last new fashion? or some new style of dress, just out, and an extraordinary bargain?” The man’s importunities, and the curiosity of the lady, introduces him into the apartment,--an acquaintance is called in to pass her opinion upon the tallyman’s stock. Should she still demur, he says, “O, I’m sure your husband cannot object--he will not be so unreasonable; besides, consider the easy mode of payment, you’ll only have to pay 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for every pound’s worth of goods you take; why it’s like nothing; you possess yourself of respectable clothing and pay for them in such an easy manner that you never miss it; well, I’ll call next week. I shall leave you this paper.” The paper left is a blank form to be filled up by the husband, and runs thus:--“I agree on behalf of my wife to pay, by weekly instalments of 1_s._ 6_d._ upon every pound’s worth of good she may purchase.” This proceeding is considered necessary by the tallymen, as the judges in the Court of Requests now so frequently decide against him, where the husband is not cognisant of the transaction.

These preliminaries being settled, and the question having been asked what business the husband is--where he works--and (if it can be done without offence) what are his wages? The Scotchman takes stock of the furniture, &c.; the value of what the room contains gives him a sufficiently correct estimate of the circumstances of his customers. His next visit is to the nearest chandler’s shop, and there as blandly as possible he inquires into the credit, &c., of Mr. ----. If he deal, however, with the chandler, the tallyman accounts it a bad omen, as people in easy circumstances seldom resort to such places. “It is unpleasant to me,” he says to the chandler, “making these inquiries; but Mrs. ---- wishes to open an account with me, and I should like to oblige them if I thought my money was safe.” “Do you trust them, and what sort of payers are they?” According to the reply--the tallyman determines upon his course. But he rarely stops here; he makes inquiries also at the greengrocer’s, the beer shop, &c.

The persons who connect themselves with the tallyman, little know the inquisition they subject themselves to.

When the tallyman obtains a customer who pays regularly, he is as importunate for her to recommend him another customer, as he originally was to obtain her custom. Some tallymen who keep shops have “travellers” in their employ, some of whom have salaries, while others receive a percentage upon all payments, and do not suffer any loss upon bad debts. Notwithstanding the caution of the tallyman, he is frequently “victimised.” Many pawn the goods directly they have obtained them, and in some instances spend the money in drink. Their many losses, as a matter of course, somebody must make good. It therefore becomes necessary for them to charge a higher price for their commodities than the regular trader.

However charitably inclined the tallyman may be at first, he soon becomes, I am told, inured to scenes of misery, while the sole feeling in his mind at length is, “I will have my money;” for he is often tricked, and in some cases most impudently victimised. I am told by a tallyman that he once supplied goods to the amount of 2_l._, and when he called for the first instalment, the woman said she didn’t intend to pay, the goods didn’t suit her, and she would return them. The tallyman expressed his willingness to receive them back, whereupon she presented him a pawnbroker’s duplicate. She had pledged them an hour after obtaining them. This was done in a court in the presence of a dozen women, who all chuckled with delight at the joke.

The principal portion of the tallyman’s customers are poor mechanics. When the appearance of the house, and the inquiries out of doors are approved of, no security is required; but the tallyman would at all times rather add a security, when attainable. Servant-girls who deal with tallymen must find the security of a housekeeper; and when such housekeeper agrees to be responsible for the payments, the same inquisitorial proceedings are adopted, in order to ascertain the circumstances of the surety. There are about fifty drapery shops in London where the tally-trade is carried on; and about 200 Scotchmen, besides fifty others (part English, part Irish), are engaged in the trade. A clerk of a tally-shop, at the West-end, informs me that there are ten collectors and canvassers for customers, out each day, from that one establishment; and that, until lately, they were accustomed to collect moneys on Sundays. Some collect as much as 12_l._ or 14_l._ a day; and some not more than 2_l._ or 3_l._ The average sum collected may be about 5_l._ each, or 50_l._ per day by the whole. The profits are 30 per cent., the bad debts 10 per cent., thus leaving 20 per cent. net.

The Scotchman who does not choose to extend his business beyond his own cautious superintendence, is content with smaller profits, perhaps 20 per cent., and his bad debts may be estimated at 2-1/2 per cent. One of the body informed me that he had been in the tally-trade about five years; that he commenced with a capital of only 10_l._, and that now his collections average 30_l._ per week. He never bought, he said, on credit; and his stock on hand is worth nearly 200_l._ cost price, while his outstanding debts are nearly 200_l._ also. “This is a flourishing state of affairs,” he remarked; “I do not owe a penny in the world, and I have accomplished all this in little less than five years.” This man had served his apprenticeship to a draper in Glasgow, and had originally arrived in London with 20_l._ in his pocket. After some weeks’ fruitless endeavour to obtain a situation, his money dwindling away the while, he was advised, by a fellow-countryman, who was a tallyman, to try the tally-trade. For a few days previous to adopting the business, he went the “rounds” with his friend, for the purpose of getting initiated, and the week after started on his own account. Notwithstanding his having no hawker’s licence, he tried to effect sales for ready money, and, to a trifling extent, succeeded. The first week he obtained three tally customers. He could have got, he said, a dozen; but he selected three whom he considered good, and he was not deceived, for they continued to be customers of his to this day. The amount of goods that each of these took of him was 20_s._; and the three instalments of 1_s._ 6_d._ each (4_s._ 6_d._ per week) the tallyman determined to subsist upon, though his lodging and washing cost him 2_s._ per week. He lived principally upon “parritch” and skim milk, indulging now and then in the luxury of a herring and a few potatoes. In twelve weeks he had added only one more credit customer to his books. He had hawked for ready money, and had succeeded so far as to increase his stock to 15_l._ in value. His first three customers had, by this time, paid their accounts, and again patronized him. In the course of a little time his fourth customer had also paid up, and had another supply of goods; he then added two more tally customers, and commenced indulging (though very seldom) in a mutton chop. He progressed slowly, and is now in flourishing circumstances. He states that he has met with only one loss during his connection with the tally-trade, and that but a trifling one. It is those who wish to drive a very extensive business, he says, who are principally victimised. The most industrious of the packmen tallymen seldom travel less than twenty miles a day, carrying a burthen upon their backs of from 100 to 120 lbs. They used to carry merely patterns to their customers, but they find that the full-length article is more likely to secure purchasers and customers. Those who keep shops do not carry goods with them; the would-be customer is invited to the shop.

The best day for business in the tally-trade is Monday, and most of these shops upon that day are crowded. Sometimes an unsolicited customer (mostly a female) presents herself, and wishes to be supplied with goods on tally. “Who recommended you?” inquires the tallyman. “Oh, Mrs. ----, sir, a customer of yours.” “Ah! indeed, very much obliged to Mrs. ----,” is the answer. The articles required are shown, selected, and cut. The new customer is treated most civilly by the tallyman, who further inquires her name and abode. The purchaser, of course, expects the next process will be to deliver up the parcel to her, when she is informed that they “will send it home for her.” “Oh,” she replies, “I won’t trouble you, I can carry it myself.” “Our rule, ma’am,” returns the tallyman, “is always to send parcels home. We certainly cannot doubt your respectability, but we never deviate from our practice.” The disappointed female departs, and if the inquiries do not prove satisfactory, she never hears further from the tallyman. The goods which she selected, and which were cut expressly for her, find their way to the shelves of the establishment. If, however, a good customer accompanies a friend whom she wishes to recommend, the parcels are delivered when purchased, if required. The tallyman (to good customers) often extends his civilities to a glass of wine; or, if the “Ladies” prefer it (which it must be confessed they mostly do), a glass of gin.

There is another class of tallymen who sell clocks, receiving payment by weekly instalments. These are content with an instalment of 1_s._ in the pound per week. They are principally Germans who can speak English. Their proceedings altogether are similar to the tally linen-draper.

I have given the rise and progress of a Scotch tallyman, and will now relate the downfall of another--an Englishman. He commenced a tally-shop in the neighbourhood of ----, and was carrying on a prosperous and daily increasing trade. At one time, a bill in the shop window announced that an errand boy was wanted--an applicant soon presented himself--was engaged, and proved a steady lad. In the course of a few weeks, this youth was promoted to the office of serving in the shop, and afterwards became collecting clerk. “George,” said his master one day, “we have three days in the week unemployed; suppose you try and form a connection around Finchley, Highgate, Hampstead, and that neighbourhood.” George was quite willing to make the experiment, and succeeded beyond expectation. The country connection soon surpassed the town trade; and George, the errand boy, became a man of some consequence in the establishment. The principal of the firm was what is termed “gay.” He was particularly fond of attending public entertainments. He sported a little as well, and delighted in horse-racing. His business, though an excellent one, was neglected; the books got out of order; and he became involved in difficulties. An examination of his affairs took place; and a Mr. R---- was engaged from a wholesale house in the city to assist in making up the accounts, &c. During this person’s sojourn in the shop, he saw that George (the quondam errand boy) was the chief support of the concern. The country customers had never seen any other person, and a partnership was proposed. The proposal was accepted, and the firm R---- and W---- became one of the most prosperous tally-shops in the neighbourhood of Tottenham-court-road. George’s master was made bankrupt, and is now a street-seller in Fitzroy-market--vending sandwiches, &c.

The cases are not a few where ruin has followed a connection with the tallymen. I will particularize one instance related to me on good authority. A lawyer’s clerk married, when young, a milliner; his salary was a guinea per week, and he and his wife had agreed to “get on in the world.” They occupied furnished lodgings at first, but soon accumulated furniture of their own, and every week added some little useful article towards their household stock. “At the end of a year,” said the individual in question, “I had as comfortable a little home as any man would wish to possess; I was fond of it too, and would rather have been there than anywhere else. My wife frequently wished to obtain credit; ‘it would be so easy,’ said she, ‘to pay a trifling instalment, and then we could obtain immediately whatever we might want.’ I objected, and preferred supplying our wants gradually, knowing that for ready money I could purchase to much better advantage. Consequently we still kept progressing, and I was really happy. Judge my astonishment one day, when I came home, and found an execution was in the house. My wife had run in debt with the tallyman unknown to me. Summonses had been served, which by some means she had concealed from me. The goods which I had taken so much pains to procure were seized and sold. But this was not all. My wife grew so much alarmed at the misery she had caused that she fled from me, and I have never seen her but once since. This occurred seven years ago, and she has been for some time the companion of those who hold their virtue of little worth. For some time after this I cared not what became of me; I lost my situation, and sunk to be a supernumerary for 1_s._ a night at one of the theatres. Here, after being entrusted with a line to speak, I eventually rose to a ‘general utility man,’ at 12_s._ per week. With this and some copying, that I occasionally obtain from the law-stationers, I manage to live, but far from comfortably, for I never think of saving now, and only look out for copying when I stand in need of more money. I am always poor, and scarcely ever have a shilling to call my own.”

Some of the principal establishments, “doing largely” in the tally-trade, are in or about Red Lion-square and street, the higher part of High Holborn, the vicinity of Tottenham-court-road, the Blackfriars, Waterloo, Westminster, St. George’s, Walworth, New Kent, and Dover roads.

At some of these tally-shops horses and carts are kept to carry out the goods ordered of the “travellers,” especially when furniture is supplied as well as drapery; while in others the “travellers” are resident on the premises, and are occasionally shopmen, for a “large” tally-master not unfrequently carries on a retail trade in addition to his tally-business.

The tallymen not concerned with these large establishments, but carrying on trade on their own account, reside generally in the quieter streets in the neighbourhood of the thoroughfares I have mentioned, and occupy perhaps the ground-floor, letting (for the house is generally their own) the other apartments. Sometimes a piece of cotton-print is placed in their parlour-window, and sometimes there is no indication whatever of any business being carried on within, for the hawking tallymen do not depend in any measure upon situation or display, but solely on travelling and personal solicitations at people’s own residences.

OF THE “DUFFERS” OR HAWKERS OF PRETENDED SMUGGLED GOODS.

Of “duffers” and “lumpers,” as regards the sale of textile fabrics, there are generally, I am informed, about twenty in London. At such times as Epsom, Ascot-heath, or Goodwood races, however, there is, perhaps, not one. All have departed to prey, if possible, upon the countrymen. Eight of them are Jews, and the majority of the others are Irishmen. They are generally dressed as sailors, and some wear either fur caps, or cloth ones, with gilt bands round them, as if they were the mates or stewards of ships. They look out for any likely victim at public-houses, and sometimes accost persons in the streets--first looking carefully about them, and hint that they are smugglers, and have the finest and cheapest “Injy” handkerchiefs ever seen. These goods are now sold in “pieces” of three handkerchiefs. When times were better, I was told, they were in pieces of four, five, and six. One street-seller said to me, “Yes, I know the ‘duffers;’ all of them. They do more business than you might think. Everybody likes a smuggled thing; and I should say these men, each of the ‘duffers,’ tops his 1_l._ a week, clear profit.” I am assured that one of the classes most numerously victimised is a body who generally account themselves pretty sharp, viz. gentlemen’s grooms, and coachmen at the several mews. Sailors are the best customers, and the vicinity of the docks the best locality for this trade; for the hawker of pretended smuggled goods always does most business among the “tars.” The mock handkerchiefs are damped carefully with a fine sponge, before they are offered for sale; and they are often strongly perfumed, some of the Jews supplying cheap perfumes, or common “scents.” When the “duffer” thinks he may venture upon the assertion, he assures a customer that this is “the smell the handkerchiefs brought with ’em from foreign parts, as they was smuggled in a bale of spices!” The trade however is not without its hazards; for I am informed that the “duffers” sometimes, on attempting their impositions imprudently, and sometimes on being discovered before they can leave the house, get soundly thrashed. They have, of course, no remedy.

The “pieces” of three handkerchiefs sold by the “duffers” are purchased by them in Houndsditch, at from 3_s._ to 7_s._; but 7_s._ is only given when there is a design to palm off the 3_s._ goods along with them. Cent. per cent. is a low profit in this trade.

One intelligent street-trader, to whom I am indebted for carefully-considered information, said to me very quietly: “I’ve read your work, sir, at a coffee-shop; for I can’t afford to take it in. I know you’re going to open the eyes of the public as to the ‘duffer’s’ tricks, now. All right, sir, they’re in honest men’s ways. But, sir, when are you going to say something about the rich shopkeepers as sells, and the rich manufacturers as makes, the ‘duffer’s’ things? Every man of them knows it’s for roguery.”

There is a peculiar style among the “duffers;” they never fold their goods neatly--the same as drapers do, but thrust them into the pack, in a confused heap, as if they did not understand their value--or their business. There are other classes of “duffers” whose calling is rather more hazardous than the licensed-hawker “duffer.” “I have often thought it strange,” says a correspondent, “that these men could induce any one to credit the fact of their being sailors, for, notwithstanding the showy manner in which they chew their quid, and the jack-tar like fashion in which they suffer their whiskers to grow, there is such a fresh-waterfied appearance about them, that they look no more like a regular mariner than the supernumerary seamen in a nautical drama, at the Victoria Theatre. Yet they obtain victims readily. Their mode of proceeding in the streets is to accost their intended dupes, while walking by their side; they usually speak in a half whisper, as they keep pace with them, and look mysteriously around to see if there be any of ‘them ere Custom-house sharks afloat.’ They address the simple-looking passers by thus: ‘Shipmate’ (here they take off their fur-cap and spit their quid into it)--‘shipmate, I’ve just come ashore arter a long voyage--and splice me but I’ve something in the locker that’ll be of service to you; and, shiver my timbers’ (they are very profuse in nautical terms), ‘you shall have it at your own price, for I’m determined to have a spree, and I haven’t a shot in the locker; helm’s a-lee; just let’s turn into this creek, and I’ll show you what it is’ (perhaps he persuades his dupe down a court, or to a neighbouring public-house). ‘Now here is a beautiful piece of Ingy handkerchiefs.’ (They are the coarsest description of spun not thrown silk, well stiffened into stoutness, and cost the “duffer” perhaps 15_d._ each; but as business is always done on the sly, in a hurry, and to escape observation, an examination seldom or never takes place). ‘I got ’em on shore in spite of those pirates, the Custom-house officers. You shall have ’em cheap, there’s half a dozen on ’em, they cost me 30_s._ at Madras, you shall have ’em for the same money.’ (The victim, may be, is not inclined to purchase. The pretended tar, however, must have money.) ‘Will you give me 25_s._ for them?’ he says; ‘d--n it, a pound? Shiver my topsails, you don’t want them any cheaper than that, do you!’ The ‘duffer’ says this to make his dupe believe that he really does want the goods, or has offered a price for them. Perhaps if the ‘duffer’ cannot extort more he takes 10_s._ for the half dozen ‘Ingy’ handkerchiefs, the profit being thus about 2_s._ 6_d._; but more frequently he gets 100 and even 200 per cent. on his transactions according to the gullibility of his customers. The ‘duffer’ deals also in cigars; he accosts his victim in the same style as when selling handkerchiefs, and gives himself the same sailor-like airs.

“Sometimes the ‘duffers’ visit the obscure streets in London, where there are small chandlers’ shops; one of them enters, leaving his mate outside to give him the signal in case the enemy heaves in sight. He requests to be served with some trifling article--when if he approve of the physiognomy of the shopkeeper, and consider him or her likely to be victimised--he ventures an observation as to how enormously everything is taxed (though to one less innocent it might appear unusual for a sailor to talk politics); ‘even this ’ere baccy’ he says, taking out his quid, ‘I can’t chew, without paying a tax; but,’ he adds, chuckling--‘us sailor chaps sometimes shirks the Custom-house lubbers, sharp as they are.’ (Here his companion outside puts his head in at the door, and, to make the scene as natural as possible, says, ‘Come, Jack, don’t stop there all night spinning your yarns; come, bear a hand, or I shall part convoy.’) ‘Oh, heave to a bit longer, my hearty,’ replies the ‘duffer,’ ‘I will be with you in the twinkling of a marling spike. I’ll tell you what we’ve got, marm, and if you likes to buy it you shall have it cheap, for me and my mate are both short of rhino. We’ve half-a-dozen pounds of tea--you can weigh it if you like--and you shall have the lot for 12_s._’ Perhaps there is an immediate purchase, but if 12_s._ is refused, then 10_s._ 8_s._ or 6_s._ is asked, until a sale be effected, after which the sailors make their exit as quickly as possible. Then the chandler’s-shop keeper begins to exult over the bargain he or she has made, and to examine more minutely the contents of the neatly packed, and tea-like looking packet thus bought. It proves to be lined with a profuse quantity of tea lead, and though some Chinese characters are marked on the outside, it is discovered on opening to contain only half-a-pound of tea, the remainder consisting principally of chopped hay. The ‘duffers’ enact the same part, and if a purchaser buy 10 lbs. of the smuggled article, then 9 lbs. at least consist of the same chopped hay.

“Sometimes the ‘duffers’ sell all their stock to one individual. No sooner do they dispose of the handkerchiefs to a dupe, than they introduce the smuggled tobacco to the notice of the unsuspecting customer; then they palm off their cigars, next their tea, and lastly, as the ‘duffer’ is determined to raise as much money as he can ‘to have his spree;’ ‘why d--e,’ he exclaims to his victim--‘I’ll sell you my watch. It cost me 6_l._ at Portsmouth--give me 3_l._ for it and it’s yours, shipmate. Well, then, 2_l._----1_l._’ The watch, I need not state, is made solely for sale.

“It is really astonishing,” adds my informant, “how these men ever succeed, for their look denotes cunning and imposition, and their proceedings have been so often exposed in the newspapers that numbers are alive to their tricks, and warn others when they perceive the “duffers” endeavouring to victimise them; but, as the thimble-men say, “There’s a fool born every minute.”

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF “SMALL-WARE,” OR TAPE, COTTON, ETC.

The street-sellers of tape and cotton are usually elderly females; and during my former inquiry I was directed to one who had been getting her living in the street by such means for nine years. I was given to understand that the poor woman was in deep distress, and that she had long been supporting a sick husband by her little trade, but I was wholly unprepared for a scene of such startling misery, sublimed by untiring affection and pious resignation, as I there discovered.

I wish the reader to understand that I do not cite this case as a type of the sufferings of this particular class, but rather as an illustration of the afflictions which frequently befall those who are solely dependent on their labour, or their little trade, for their subsistence, and who, from the smallness of their earnings, are unable to lay by even the least trifle as a fund against any physical calamity.

The poor creatures lived in one of the close alleys at the east end of London. On inquiring at the house to which I had been directed, I was told I should find them in “the two-pair back.” I mounted the stairs, and on opening the door of the apartment I was terrified with the misery before me. There, on a wretched bed, lay an aged man in almost the last extremity of life. At first I thought the poor old creature was really dead, but a tremble of the eyelids as I closed the door, as noiselessly as I could, told me that he breathed. His face was as yellow as clay, and it had more the cold damp look of a corpse than that of a living man. His cheeks were hollowed in with evident want, his temples sunk, and his nostrils pinched close. On the edge of the bed sat his heroic wife, giving him drink with a spoon from a tea-cup. In one corner of the room stood the basket of tapes, cottons, combs, braces, nutmeg-graters, and shaving-glasses, with which she strove to keep her old dying husband from the workhouse. I asked her how long her good man had been ill, and she told me he had been confined to his bed five weeks last Wednesday, and that it was ten weeks since he had eaten the size of a nut in solid food. Nothing but a little beef-tea had passed his lips for months. “We have lived like children together,” said the old woman, as her eyes flooded with tears, “and never had no dispute. He hated drink, and there was no cause for us to quarrel. One of my legs, you see, is shorter than the other,” said she, rising from the bed-side, and showing me that her right foot was several inches from the ground as she stood. “My hip is out. I used to go out washing, and walking in my pattens I fell down. My hip is out of the socket three-quarters of an inch, and the sinews is drawn up. I am obliged to walk with a stick.” Here the man groaned and coughed so that I feared the exertion must end his life. “Ah, the heart of a stone would pity that poor fellow,” said the good wife.

“After I put my hip out, I couldn’t get my living as I’d been used to do. I couldn’t stand a day if I had five hundred pounds for it. I must sit down. So I got a little stall, and sat at the end of the alley here with a few laces and tapes and things. I’ve done so for this nine year past, and seen many a landlord come in and go out of the house that I sat at. My husband used to sell small articles in the streets--black lead and furniture paste, and blacking. We got a sort of a living by this, the two of us together. It’s very seldom though we had a bit of meat. We had 1_s._ 9_d._ rent to pay--Come, my poor fellow, will you have another little drop to wet your mouth?” said the woman, breaking off. “Come, my dearest, let me give you this,” she added, as the man let his jaw fall, and she poured some warm sugar and water flavoured with cinnamon--all she had to give him--into his mouth. “He’s been an ailing man this many a year. He used to go of errands and buy my little things for me, on account of my being lame. We assisted one another, you see. He wasn’t able to work for his living, and I wasn’t able to go about, so he used to go about and buy for me what I sold. I am sure he never earned above 1_s._ 6_d._ in the week. He used to attend me, and many a time I’ve sat for ten and fourteen hours in the cold and wet and didn’t take a sixpence. Some days I’d make a shilling, and some days less; but whatever I got I used to have to put a good part into the basket to keep my little stock.” [A knock here came to the door; it was for a halfpenny-worth of darning cotton.] “You know a shilling goes further with a poor couple that’s sober than two shillings does with a drunkard. We lived poor, you see, never had nothing but tea, or we couldn’t have done anyhow. If I’d take 18_d._ in the day I’d think I was grandly off, and then if there was 6_d._ profit got out of that it would be almost as much as it would. You see these cotton braces here” (said the old woman, going to her tray). “Well, I gives 2_s._ 9_d._ a dozen for them here, and I sells ’em for 4-1/2_d._, and oftentimes 4_d._ a pair. Now, this piece of tape would cost me seven farthings in the shop, and I sells it at six yards a penny. It has the name of being eighteen yards. The profit out of it is five farthings. It’s beyond the power of man to wonder how there’s a bit of bread got out of such a small way. And the times is so bad, too! I think I could say I get 8_d._ a day profit if I have any sort of custom, but I don’t exceed that at the best of times. I’ve often sat at the end of the alley and taken only 6_d._, and that’s not much more than 2_d._ clear--it an’t 3_d._ I’m sure. I think I could safely state that for the last nine year me and my husband has earned together 5_s._ a week, and out of that the two of us had to live and pay rent--1_s._ 9_d._ a week. Clothes I could buy none, for the best garment is on me; but I thank the Lord still. I’ve paid my rent all but three weeks, and that isn’t due till to-morrow. We have often reckoned it up here at the fire. Some weeks we have got 5_s._ 3_d._, and some weeks less, so that I judge we have had about 3_s._ to 3_s._ 6_d._ a week to live upon the two of us, for this nine year past. Half-a-hundred of coals would fit me the week in the depths of winter. My husband had the kettle always boiling for me against I came in. He used to sit here reading his book--he never was fit for work at the best--while I used to be out minding the basket. He was so sober and quiet too. His neighbours will tell that of him. Within the last ten weeks he’s been very ill indeed, but still I could be out with the basket. Since then he’s never earnt me a penny--poor old soul, he wasn’t able! All that time I still attended to my basket. He wasn’t so ill then but what he could do a little here in the room for hisself; but he wanted little, God knows, for he couldn’t eat. After he fell ill, I had to go all my errands myself. I had no one to help me, for I’d nothing to pay them, and I’d have to walk from here down to Sun-street with my stick, till my bad leg pained me so that I could hardly stand. You see the hip being put out has drawn all the sinews up into my groin, and it leaves me oncapable of walking or standing constantly; but I thank God that I’ve got the use of it anyhow. Our lot’s hard enough, goodness knows, but we are content. We never complain, but bless the Lord for the little he pleases to give us. When I was away on my errands, in course I couldn’t be minding my basket; so I lost a good bit of money that way. Well, five weeks on Wednesday he has been totally confined to his bed, excepting when I lifted him up to make it some nights; but he can’t bear that now. Still the first fortnight he was bad, I did manage to leave him, and earn a few pence; but, latterly, for this last three weeks, I haven’t been able to go out at all, to do anything.”

“She’s been stopping by me, minding me here night and day all that time,” mumbled the old man, who now for the first time opened his gray glassy eyes and turned towards me, to bear, as it were, a last tribute to his wife’s incessant affection. “She has been most kind to me. Her tenderness and care has been such that man never knew from woman before, ever since I lay upon this sick bed. We’ve been married five-and-twenty years. We have always lived happily--very happily, indeed--together. Until sickness and weakness overcome me I always strove to help myself a bit, as well as I could; but since then she has done all in her power for me--worked for me--ay, she has worked for me, surely--and watched over me. My creed through life has been repentance towards God, faith in Jesus Christ, and love to all my brethren. I’ve made up my mind that I must soon change this tabernacle, and my last wish is that the good people of this world will increase her little stock for her. She cannot get her living out of the little stock she has, and since I lay here it’s so lessened, that neither she nor no one else can live upon it. If the kind hearts would give her but a little stock more, it would keep her old age from want, as she has kept mine. Indeed, indeed, she does deserve it. But the Lord, I know, will reward her for all she has done to me.” Here the old man’s eyelids dropped exhausted.

“I’ve had a shilling and a loaf twice from the parish,” continued the woman. “The overseer came to see if my old man was fit to be removed to the workhouse. The doctor gave me a certificate that he was not, and then the relieving officer gave me a shilling and a loaf of bread, and out of that shilling I bought the poor old fellow a sup of port wine. I bought a quartern of wine, which was 4_d._, and I gave 5_d._ for a bit of tea and sugar, and I gave 2_d._ for coals; a halfpenny rushlight I bought, and a short candle, that made a penny--and that’s the way I laid out the shilling. If God takes him, I know he’ll sleep in heaven. I know the life he’s spent, and am not afraid; but no one else shall take him from me--nothing shall part us but death in this world. Poor old soul, he can’t be long with me. He’s a perfect skeleton. His bones are starting through his skin.”

I asked what could be done for her, and the old man thrust forth his skinny arm, and laying hold of the bed-post, he raised himself slightly in his bed, as he murmured “If she could be got into a little parlour, and away from sitting in the streets, it would be the saving of her.” And, so saying, he fell back overcome with the exertion, and breathed heavily.

The woman sat down beside me, and went on. “What shocked him most was that I was obligated in his old age to go and ask for relief at the parish. You see, he was always a spiritful man, and it hurted him sorely that he should come to this at last, and for the first time in his lifetime. The only parish money that ever we had was this, and it does hurt him every day to think that he must be buried by the parish after all. He was always proud, you see.”

I told the kind-hearted old dame that some benevolent people had placed certain funds at my disposal for the relief of such distress as hers; and I assured her that neither she nor her husband should want for anything that might ease their sufferings.

The day after the above was written, the poor old man died. He was buried out of the funds sent to the “Morning Chronicle,” and his wife received some few pounds to increase her stock; but in a few months the poor old woman went mad, and is now, I believe, the inmate of one of the pauper lunatic asylums.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF LACE.

This trade is carried on both by itinerants and at stands, or “pitches.” The itinerants, of whom I will first treat, are about forty in number (thirty women and ten men). They usually carry their lace in boxes, or cases. It is not uncommon for the women to represent themselves as lacemakers from Marlow, or some other place in Buckinghamshire, or from Honiton, in Devonshire, while the men assert they are from Nottingham. I am informed that there are among these itinerant lace-sellers two women and one man who really have been lacemakers. They all buy their wares at the haberdashery swag-shops.

The lace, which is the principal staple of this trade, is “edgings,” or the several kinds of cheap lace used for the bordering of caps and other female requirements. Among street-people the lace is called “driz,” and the sellers of it “driz-fencers.” It gained this slang name, I was informed, many years ago, when it was sold, and often to wealthy ladies, as rare and valuable lace, smuggled from Mechlin, Brussels, Valenciennes, or any foreign place famous, or once famous, for its manufacture. The pretended smuggled lace trade is now unknown in London, and is very little practised in the country. There is, however, still some smuggling connected with lace-selling. Two, and sometimes three, female lace-sellers are also “jigger-workers.” They carry about their persons pint bladders of “stuff,” or “jigger stuff” (spirit made at an illicit still). “I used to supply them with it until lately,” one street-trader told me, “from a friend that kept a ‘jigger,’ and a tidy sale some of them had. Indeed, I’ve made the stuff myself. I knew one woman, six or seven years back, that did uncommon well at first, but she got too fond of the stuff, and drank herself into the work’us. They never carried gin, for brandy was most asked for. They sold the brandy at 2_s._ 6_d._ the pint; rum at 1_s._ 6_d._; and whiskey at 2_s._; sometimes higher, and always trying for 6_d._ a pint profit, at least. O yes, sir; I know they got the prices I’ve mentioned, though they seem high; for you must remember that the jigger spirit is above proof, and a pint will make two pints of gin-palace stuff. They sold it, I’ve heard them say, to ladies that liked a drop on the sly; and to some as pretended they bought that way for economy; yes, and to shopkeepers and publicans too. One old lady used to give 3_s._ for three yards of driz, and it was well enough understood, without no words, that a pint of brandy was part of them three yards. But the trade that way is nothing to what it was, and gets less and less every year.”

From a middle-aged woman selling laces I had the following account:--

“I’ve been in the trade about six years, sir. Ten years back or more I was in place, and saved a little money, as a servant of all work. I married a house-painter, but trade got bad, and we both had illnesses; and my husband, though he’s as good a man as need be, can’t stick to anything very long at a time.” (A very common failing, by the bye, with the street-folk.) “It seems not in his nature. When we was reduced very low he got on a cab--for he can turn his hand to almost anything--and after that we came to street-selling. He’s now on jewellery, and I think it suits him as well or better than anything he’s tried; I do my part, and we get on middling. If we’re ever pushed it’s no use fretting. We had one child, and he died when he wanted just a month of three years old, and after I’d lost him I said I would never fret for trifles no more. My heart was broke for a long time--it was indeed. He was the loveliest boy ever seen, and everybody said so. I went into lace, because my husband got to know all about it, and I had no tie at home then. I was very shy and ashamed at first to go into houses, but that wears off, and I met with some nice people that bought of me and was very civil, so that encourages one. I sell nothing but lace. I never cleared more than 2_s._ 6_d._ in a day, and that only once. I suppose I clear from 3_s._ 6_d._ to 4_s._ 6_d._ a week now; perhaps, take it altogether, rather more than 4_s._ I have a connection, and go to the houses in and about the Regent’s Park, and all the small streets near it, and sometimes Maida Hill way. I once tried a little millinery made-up things, but it didn’t suit somehow, and I didn’t stick to it. You see, sir, I sell my lace to very few but servant maids and small shopkeepers’ wives and daughters; but then they’re a better sort of people than those as has to buy everything ready made like servants has. They can use their own needles to make themselves nice and smart, and they buy of such as me to do it cheap, and they’re not often such beaters down as them that buys the ready-made. I can do nothing, or next to nothing, in very wet weather. If I’m in the habit of going into a nice kitchen, perhaps the housemaid flies at me for ‘bringing in all that dirt.’ My husband says all women is crossest in bad weather, and perhaps servants is.

“I buy my lace near Shoreditch. It’s a long walk, but I think I’m best used there. I buy generally a dozen yards, from 3-1/2_d._ to 1_s._, and sometimes up to 2_s._ I sell the commoner at 1_d._ a yard, and three yards 2_d._; and the better at 2_d._ and 3_d._ a yard. It’s a poor trade, but it’s doing something. My husband seldom earns less than 12_s._ a week, for he’s a good salesman, and so we pay 2_s._ rent regular every Monday for an unfurnished room, and has the rest to live on. I have sold in the Brill on a Saturday night, but not often, nor lately I don’t like it; I haven’t tongue enough.”

In addition to the itinerants there are about seventy stationary lace sellers, and not less than eighty on the Saturday evenings. The best pitches are, I am told, near the Borough-market; in Clare-market; the New Cut (on Saturday nights); Walworth-road; Tooley-street; and Dockhead, Bermondsey. From the best information at my command, it appears that at least half of these traders sell only lace, or rarely anything else. The others sell also net for making caps and “cauls,” which are the plain portion at the back, to be trimmed or edged according to the purchaser’s taste. Some sell also, with their lace, cap ribbons--plain or worked collars--and muslin, net, or worked undersleeves. Braid and gimp were formerly sold by them, but are now in no demand. The prices run from 2_d._ to 6_d._ for lace articles, and about the same for net, &c. per yard; the lowest priced are most sold.

In this stationary trade are as many men and youths as women and girls. One woman, who had known street-selling for upwards of twenty years, said she could not do half so well now as she could twenty years ago, for the cheaper things got the cheaper people would have them. “Why, twenty year ago,” she exclaimed, “I bought a lot of ‘leno’ cheap--it was just about going out of fashion for caps then, I think--and one Saturday night in the Cut, I cleared 15_s._ on it. I don’t clear that in a fortnight now. I have sold to women of the town, as far as I’ve known them to be of that sort, but very seldom. It’s not often you’ll catch them using a needle for theirselves. They do use their needles, I know. You can see some of them sewing at their doors and windows in Granby-street, Waterloo-road, or could lately--for I haven’t passed that way for some time--but I believe it’s all for money down, for the slop-shops. It suits the slop-shops to get work cheap anyway; and it suits the women to have some sort of occupation, which they needn’t depend upon for their living.”

The stationary lace sellers, for the most part, display their goods on stalls, but some spread them on a board, or on matting on the ground. Some of the men gather an audience by shouting out, “Three yards a penny, edging!” As at this rate the lace-seller would only clear 1/2_d._ in a dozen yards, the cry is merely uttered to attract attention. A few who patter at the trade--but far fewer than was once the case--give short measure. One man, who occasionally sold lace, told me, that when he was compelled to sell for “next to no profit, and a hungry Sunday coming,” he gave good shop measure, thirty full inches to a yard. His yard wand was the correct length, “but I can do it, sir,” he said with some exultation, “by palming,” and he gave a jerk to his fingers, to show how he caught in the lace, and “clipped it short.”

Calculating that 100 persons in this trade each take 10_s._ 6_d._ weekly, the profit being about cent. per cent., we find 2,730_l._ expended in the streets in lace and similar commodities.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF JAPANNED TABLE-COVERS.

This trade, like several others, as soon as the new commodities became in established demand, and sufficiently cheap, was adopted by street-sellers. It has been a regular street-trade between four and five years. Previously, when the covers were dearer, the street-sellers were afraid to speculate much in them; but one man told me that he once sold a table-cover for 8_s._, and at another time for 10_s._

The goods are supplied to the street-folk principally by three manufacturers--in Long-lane, Smithfield, Whitechapel-road, and Petticoat-lane. The venders of the glazed table-covers are generally considered among the smartest of the street-folk, as they do not sell to the poor, or in poor neighbourhoods, but “at the better sort of houses, and to the wealthier sort of people.” Table-covers are now frequently disposed of by raffle. “I very seldom sell in the streets,” said one man, “though I one evening cleared 4_s._ by standing near the Vinegar-works, in the City-road, and selling to gents on their way home from the city. The public-house trade is the best, and indeed in winter evenings, and after dark generally, there’s no other. I get rid of more by raffling than by sale. On Saturday evening I had raffles for two covers, which cost me 1_s._ 4_d._ each. I had some trouble to get 1_s._ 9_d._ for one; but I got up a raffle for the other, and it brought me 2_s._; six members at 4_d._ each. It’s just the sort of thing to get off in a raffle on Saturday night, or any time when mechanics have money. A man thinks--leastways I’ve thought so myself, when I’ve been in a public-house raffle--now I’ve spent more money than I ought to, and there’s the old woman to face; but if I win the raffle, and take the thing home, why my money has gone to buy a nice thing, and not for drink.” I may remark that in nearly all raffles got up in this manner, the article raffled for is generally something coveted by a working man, but not so indispensably necessary to him, that he feels justified in expending his money upon it. This fact seems well enough known to the street-sellers who frequent public-houses with their wares. I inquired of the informant in question if he had ever tried to get up a raffle of his table-covers in a coffee-shop as well as a public-house. “Never, with table-covers,” he said, “but I have with other things, and find it’s no go. In a coffee-shop people are quiet, and reading, unless it’s one of them low places for young thieves, and such like; and they’ve no money very likely, and I wouldn’t like to trust them in a raffle if they had. In public-houses there’s talk and fun, and people’s more inclined for a raffle, or anything spicy that offers.”

There are now fifteen regular street-sellers, or street-hawkers of these table-covers, in London, four of whom are the men’s wives, and they not unfrequently go a round together. Sometimes, on fine days, there are twenty. I heard of one woman who had been very successful in bartering table-covers for old clothes. “I’ve done a little that way myself,” said a man in the trade, “but nothing to her, and people sees into things so now, that there’s hardly a chance for a crust. The covers is so soft and shiny, and there’s such fine parrots and birds of paradise on them, that before the price was known there was a chance of a good bargain. I once got for a cover that cost me 2_s._ 9_d._ a great coat that a Jew, after a hard bargaining, gave me 6_s._ 3_d._ for.”

The prices of the table-covers (wholesale) run from 8_s._ a dozen to 30_s._; but the street-sellers rarely go to a higher price than 18_s._ They can buy a dozen, or half a dozen--or even a smaller quantity--of different sizes. Some of these street-traders sell, with the table-covers, a few wash-leathers, of the better kind. Calculating that fifteen street-sellers each take 25_s._ weekly the year round--one-half being the profit, including their advantages in bartering and raffling--we find 975_l._ expended yearly upon japanned table-covers, bought in the streets.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF BRACES, BELTS, HOSE, TROWSER-STRAPS, AND WAISTCOATS.

The street-sellers of braces are a numerous and a mixed class. They are nearly all men, and the majority are Irishmen; but this relates only to the itinerant or public-house brace-sellers. These wares are sold also by street-traders, who make other articles the staple of their trade--such as the dog-collar-sellers.

The braces sold thirty years ago were of a very different manufacture from those vended in the streets at present. India-rubber web was then unknown as a component part of the street braces. The braces, which in some parts of the country are called “gallowses,” were, at the time specified, made of a woollen web, both washable and durable. “One pair of such braces, good ones,” said an old tailor with whom I had some talk on the subject, “would last a poor man his lifetime. Now they’re in a rope or in rags in no time.” These woollen braces were sold at from 1_s._ to 2_s._ the pair in the streets; the straps being of good firm leather. Not long after this period a much cheaper brace-web was introduced--a mixture of cotton with the woollen--and the cheap manufacture gradually supplanted the better article, as respects the street trade. The cheaper braces were made with sheepskin straps, which soon yielded to friction, and were little serviceable. The introduction of the India-rubber web was another change in the trade, and the manufacture has become lower and lower-priced until the present time.

The braces sold in the streets, or hawked in the public-houses, are, however, not all of the very inferior manufacture. Some are called “silk,” others “buck-leather,” and others “knitted cotton.” The “silk” are of a silken surface, with an admixture of cotton and India-rubber; the “buck-leather” (a kind now very little known in street sale) are of strong sheepskin, dressed buck-leather fashion; and the “knitted” cotton are woven, some kinds of them being very good and strong.

The street brace-sellers, when trying to do business in the streets, carry their goods generally with a few belts, and sometimes with hose in their hands and across their arms. They stretch them from end to end, as they invite the custom of passers by, to evince the elasticity and firmness of the web. Sometimes the braces are slung from a pole carried on the shoulder. The sellers call at the public-house bars and tap-rooms; some are admitted into the parlours; and at a well-frequented gin-palace, I was informed by a manager of one, a brace-seller will call from twelve to twenty times a day, especially on a Monday; while on a Saturday evening they will remain two, three, or four hours, accosting fresh customers. At the gin-palaces, the young and strong Irishmen offering these wares--and there are many such--are frequently scoffed at for selling “braces and things a baby can carry.”

The following account, which I received from a street brace-seller, shows the class who purchase such articles:--

“I was put to a carriage-lamp maker,” the man said, “at Birmingham, but soon ran away. Nobody saw after me, for I had only an uncle, and he left me to the parish. It was all my own fault. I was always after some idle end, though I can read very well. It seems as if I couldn’t help it, being wild, I mean. I ran away to Worcester, without knowing where I was going, or caring either. I was half starved in Worcester, for I lived as I could. I found my way to London afterwards. I’ve been in the streets ever since, at one thing or the other; how many years I can’t say. Time goes so quick sometimes, and sometimes so slow, and I’m never long in one place. I’ve sold braces off and on ever since Amato won the Derby, if you know when that was. I remember it because I went to Epsom races that year to sell race cards. When I came to London after the races I laid out 12_s._ in braces. I hardly remember how many pairs I bought for it, but they wasn’t such common things as I’m carrying now. I could sell a few then at from 9_d._ to 1_s._ 3_d._ a pair, to the ‘cads’ and people at such places as the ‘Elephant,’ and the ‘Flower Pot’ in Bishopsgate-street, which was a great ‘’bus’ place then. I used to sell, too, to the helpers in inn-yards, and a few in the mews. The helpers in the mews mostly buys knitted cotton. I’ve got 1_s._ and sometimes 1_s._ 6_d._ for an extra article from them, but now I don’t carry them; there’s no demand there. You see, many of them work in their shirts, and the head coachmen and grooms, which is often great Turks, would blow up if the men had dirty braces hanging to their buttons, so they uses what’ll wash. Nearly all my business now is done at public-houses. I go from one tavern to another on my round all day long, and sell in the street when I can. I think I sell as many at 5_d._ and at 10_d._ as at all other prices together, and most at 5_d._; but when I have what I call a full stock I carry ’em from 4_d._ to 20_d._ The poorer sort of people, such as wears braces--for there’s a many as does without ’em--likes the 1_d._ out of 6_d._, and the others the 2_d._ out of the 1_s._; it tempts them. It’s a tiresome life, and not so good as costermongering, for I once did tidy well in apples. But in the brace trade you ar’n’t troubled with hiring barrows, and it’s easy carried on in public-houses in wet weather, and there’s no stock to spoil. I sell all to working-people, I think. Sometimes an odd pair or two at 1_s._ 6_d._, or so, to a tradesman, that may happen to be in a bar, and likes the look and the price; or to a gentleman’s servant. I make from 1_s._ to 1_s._ 6_d._ a day; full 1_s._ 6_d._ if I stick close to it. I may make 2_s._ or 2_s._ 6_d._ a week, too, in selling belts and stockings; but I only sometimes carry stockings. Perhaps I clear 9_s._ a week the year round. There’s lots in the trade don’t clear 1_s._ a day, for they only carry low-priced things. I go for 4_d._ profit on every shilling’s worth I sell. I’ve only myself to keep. I pay 3_d._ a night at a lodging-house, and nothing on Sundays. I had a young woman with me when I was a coster, but we didn’t agree, and parted. She was too fond of lifting her hand to her mouth (‘tippling’) to please me. I mean to live very near this week, and get a few shillings if I can to try something at Greenwich next Monday.” This was said on the Tuesday in Passion-week.

The braces are bought by the street-sellers at the swag-shops I have described. The prices range from 1_s._ 6_d._ (for common children’s) to 12_s._ a dozen; 3_s._, 3_s._ 6_d._, 6_s._ 6_d._, and 7_s._ being the most frequent prices. Higher-priced articles are also sold at the swags and by the street-sellers, but not one in twenty of these compared with the lower priced.

In London and its suburbs, and on “rounds,” of which the metropolis forms the central point, and at stands, there are, I am assured, not fewer than 500 persons vending braces. Of these a twentieth portion may be women, and a tenth old and sometimes infirm men. There are few children in the trade. The stall-keepers, selling braces with other articles, are about 100, and of the remainder of this class, those who are not Irishmen are often impoverished mechanics, such as tailors--brace-vending being easily resorted to, and carried on quietly in public-houses, and it does not entail the necessity of bawling aloud, to which a working-man, driven to a street-life, usually feels repugnance. Calculating that 500 brace-sellers clear 5_s._ a week each on those articles alone, and estimating the profit at 33 per cent., it shows a street expenditure of 3900_l._ One brace-seller considered that 500 such sellers was too low a number; but the most intelligent I met with agreed on that estimate.

The Belts sold in the street are nearly all of stout cotton web, “with India-rubber threads,” and usually of a drab colour, woollen belts being rarely ever seen now. They are procured in the same way, and sold by the same parties, as are braces. The amount expended on belts is, from the best information I can command, about an eighth of that expended on braces. The belts are sold at 1_s._ each, and cost 8_s._ the dozen, or 9_d._ each, if only one be purchased.

The street-sale of hose used to be far more considerable than it is now, and was, in a great measure, in the hands of a class who had personal claims to notice, independent of the goodness of their wares. These were old women, wearing, generally, large white aprons, and chintz-patterned gowns, and always scrupulously clean. They carried from door to door, in the quieter streets, and in the then suburbs, stockings of their “own knitting.” Such they often were; and those which were not were still knitted stockings, although they might be the work of old women in the country, who knitted by the fireside, needing no other light on winter evenings and at the doors of their cottages in the sunshine in summer. Of these street-sellers some were blind. Between thirty and forty years ago, I am told, there were from twelve to twenty blind knitters, but my informant could not speak with certainty, as he might probably observe the same women in different parts. The blind stocking-sellers would knit at a door as they waited. The informant I have quoted thought that the last of these knitters and street-sellers disappeared upwards of twenty years ago, as he then missed her from his door, at which she used to make her regular periodical appearance. The stockings of this trade were most frequently of white lamb’s-wool, and were sold at from 3_s._ 6_d._ to 5_s._ 6_d._ They were long in the leg, and were suited “for gentle-people’s winter wear.” The women-sellers made in those days, I am assured, a comfortable livelihood.

The sale of stockings is now principally in the hands of the men who vend braces, &c. The kind sold is most frequently unbleached cotton. The price to a street-buyer is generally from 6_d._ to 9_d._; but the trade is of small extent. “It’s one of the trades,” a street-seller said to me, “that we can’t compete with shop-keepers in. You shall go to a haberdashery swag-shop, and though they have ‘wholesale haberdashers,’ and ‘hawkers supplied’ on the door-post, you’ll see a pair of stockings in the window marked with a very big and very black 6, and a very little and not half black 3/4; and if I was to go in, they’d very likely ask me 6_s._ 6_d._ a dozen for an inferior thing. They retail themselves, and won’t be undersold if they can help it, and so they don’t care to accommodate us in things that’s always going.”

A few pairs of women’s stockings are hawked by women, and sold to servant-maids; but the trade in these goods, I am informed, including all classes of sellers--of whom there may be fifty--does not exceed (notwithstanding the universality of the wear), the receipt of 6_s._ weekly per individual, with a profit of from 1_s._ 4_d._ to 2_s._, and an aggregate expenditure of about 800_l._ in the year. The trade is an addition to some other street trade.

The brace-sellers used to carry with their wares another article, of which India-rubber web formed the principal part. These were trowser-straps, “with leather buttonings and ingy-spring bodies.” It was only, however, the better class of brace-sellers who carried them; those who, as my informant expressed it, “had a full stock;” and their sale was insignificant. At one time, the number of brace-sellers offering these straps was, I am informed, from 70 to 100. “It was a poor trade, sir,” said one of the class. “At first I sold at 4_d._, as they was 6_d._ in middling shops, and 1_s._ in the toppers, if not 1_s._ 6_d._; but they soon came down to 3_d._, and then to 2_d._ My profit was short of 3_d._ in 1_s._ My best customers for braces didn’t want such things; plain working-men don’t. And grooms, and stable-keepers generally, wears boots or knee-gaiters, and footmen sports knee-buckles and stockings. All I did sell to was, as far as I can judge, young mechanics as liked to turn out like gents on a Sunday or an evening, and real gents that wanted things cheap. I very seldom cleared more than 1_s._ a week on them. The trade’s over now. If you see a few at a stand, it’s the remains of an old stock, or some that a swag-shop has pushed out for next to nothing to be rid of them.”

The sale of waistcoats is confined to Smithfield, as regards the class I now treat of--the sellers of articles made by others. Twelve or fourteen years back, there was a considerable sale in what was a branch of duffing. Waistcoats were sold to countrymen, generally graziers’ servants, under the pretence that they were of fine silk plush, which was then rather an object of rustic Sunday finery. A drover told me that a good many years ago he saw a countryman, with whom he was conversing at the time, pay 10_s._ 6_d._ for a “silk plush waistcoat,” the vendor having asked 15_s._, and having walked away--no doubt remarking the eagerness of his victim--when the countryman refused to give more than 10_s._ “He had a customer set for it,” he said, “at half-a-guinea.” On the first day the waistcoat was worn--the drover was afterwards told by the purchaser--it was utterly spoiled by a shower of rain; and when its possessor asked the village tailor the value of the garment, he was told that it had no value at all; the tailor could not even tell what it was made of, but he never saw anything so badly made in his life; never. Some little may be allowed for the natural glee of a village tailor on finding one of his customers, who no doubt was proud of his London bargain, completely taken in; but these waistcoats, I am assured by a tailor who had seen them, were the veriest rubbish. The trade, however, has been unknown, unless with a few rare exceptions at a very busy time--such as the market for the show and sale of the Christmas stock--since the time specified.

The waistcoats now sold in Smithfield market, or in the public-houses connected with it, are, I am told, and also by a tailor, very paltry things; but the price asked removes the trade from the imputation of duffing. These garments are sold at from 1_s._ to 4_s._ 6_d._ each; but very rarely 4_s_. 6_d_. The shilling waistcoats are only fit for boys--or “youths,” as the slop-tailors prefer styling them--but 1_s._ 6_d._ is a common price enough; and seven-eighths of the trade, I am informed, is for prices under, or not exceeding, 2_s._ The trade is, moreover, very small. There are sometimes no waistcoat-sellers at all; but generally two, and not unfrequently three. The profits of these men are 1_s._ on a bad, and 2_s._ 6_d._ on a good day. As, at intervals, these street-sellers dispose of a sleeve-waistcoat (waistcoat with sleeves) at from 4_s._ 6_d._ to 6_s._, we may estimate the average earnings in the trade at 5_s._ per market day, or 10_s._ in the week. This shows an outlay of 78_l._ in the year, as the profits of these street traders may be taken at 33 per cent.; or, as it is almost invariably worded by such classes, “4_d._ in the 1_s._” The material is of a kind of cotton made to look as stout as possible, the back, &c., being the commonest stuff. They are supplied by a slop-house at the East End, and are made by women, or rather girls.

The sale of waistcoats in the street, markets, &c., is of second-hand goods, or otherwise in the hands of a distinct class. There are other belts, and other portions of wearing apparel, which, though not of textile fabrics, as they are often sold by the same persons as I have just treated of, may be described here. These are children’s “patent leather” belts, trowser-straps, and garters.

The sellers of children’s and men’s belts and trowser-straps are less numerous than they were, for both these things, I am told, but only on street authority, are going out of fashion. From one elderly man who had “dropped belts, and straps, and all that, for oranges,” I heard bitter complaints of the conduct of the swag shop-keepers who supplied these wares. The substance of his garrulous and not very lucid complaint was that when boys’ patent leather belts came into fashion, eleven, twelve, or thirteen years back, he could not remember which, the usual price in the shops was 1_s._, and they were soon to be had in the streets for 6_d._ each. The belt-sellers “did well” for a while. But the “swags” who, according to my informant, at first supplied belts of patent horse-leather, came to substitute patent sheep-leather for them, which were softer, and looked as well. The consequence was, that whenever the sheep-leather belts were wet, or when there was any “pull” upon them, they stretched, and “the polish went to cracks.” After having been wet a few times, too, they were easily torn, and so the street trade became distrusted. It was the same with trowser-straps.

The belt trade is now almost extinct in the streets, and the strap trade, which was chiefly in the hands of old and infirm, and young people, is now confined to the sellers of dog-collars, &c. The trowser-straps are not glazed or patent-leather, now, but “plain calf;” sold at 2_d._ a pair generally, and bought at from 1_s._ 2_d._ to 1_s._ 4_d._ the dozen pairs. Many readers will remember how often they used to hear the cry, “Three pair for sixpence! Three pair for sixpence!” A cry now, I believe, never heard.

Among the belt and strap-sellers were some blind persons. One man counted to me three blind men whom he knew selling them, and one sells them still, attached to the rails by St. Botolph’s church, Bishopsgate.

The same persons who sold straps, &c., not including the present sellers, the dog-collar men, &c., had lately no small traffic in the vending of garters. The garter-sellers were, however, far more numerous than ever were the strap-sellers. At one time, I am told, there were 200 garter sellers; all old or infirm, or poor women, or children, and chiefly Irish children. As these children were often stockingless and shoeless, their cry of “Penny a pair! India-rubber garters, penny a pair!” was sometimes pitiful enough, as they were offering a cheap article, unused by themselves. The sudden influx of garters, so to speak, was owing, I am told, to a manufacturer having discovered a cheap way of “working the India-rubber threads,” and having “thrown a lot into the market through the swag shops.” The price was at first 8_s._ a gross (8_d._ a dozen), but as the demand increased, it was raised to 9_s._ and 9_s._ 6_d._ The trade continued about six weeks, but has now almost entirely ceased. The stock of garters still offered for sale is what stall-keepers have on hand, or what swag shop-keepers tempt street-sellers to buy by reducing the price. The leather garter-trade, 1_d._ a pair being the usual price for sheep-skin garters, is now almost unknown. It was somewhat extensive.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF BOOT AND STAY-LACES, &C.

Like many street-callings which can be started on the smallest means, and without any previous knowledge of the article sold being necessary to the street-vendor, the boot and stay-lace trade has very many followers. I here speak of those who sell boot-laces, and subsist, or endeavour to subsist, by the sale, without mixing it up with begging. The majority, indeed the great majority, of these street traders are women advanced in years, and, perhaps, I may say the whole of them are very poor. An old woman said to me, “I just drag on, sir, half-starving on a few boot-laces, rather than go into the workhouse, and I know numbers doing the same.”

The laces are bought at the haberdashery swag-shops I have spoken of, and amongst these old women I found the term “swag-shop” as common as among men who buy largely at such establishments. The usual price for boot-laces to be sold in the streets is 1_d._ a dozen. Each lace is tagged at both ends, sufficing for a pair of boots. The regular retail price is three a penny, but the lace-sellers are not unfrequently compelled to give four, or lose a customer. A better quality is sold at 1-1/2_d._ and 2_d._ a dozen, but these are seldom meddled with by the street lace-sellers. It is often a matter of strong endeavour for a poor woman to make herself mistress of 11_d._, the whole of which she can devote to the purchase of boot-laces, as for 11_d._ she can procure a gross, so saving 1_d._ in twelve dozen.

The stay-laces, which are bought at the same places, and usually sold by the same street-traders, are 2_d._ and 2-1/2_d._ the dozen. I am told that there are as many of the higher as of the lower priced stay-laces bought for street sale, “because,” one of the street-sellers told me “there’s a great many servant girls, and others too, that’s very particular about their stay-laces.” The stay-laces are retailed at 1/2_d._ each.

These articles are vended at street-stalls, along with other things for female use; but the most numerous portion of the lace-sellers are itinerant, walking up and down a street market, or going on a round in the suburbs, calling at every house where they are known, or where, as one woman expressed it, “we make bold to venture.” Those frequenting the street-markets, or other streets or thoroughfares, usually carry the boot-laces in their hands, and the stay-laces round their necks, and offer them to the females passing. Their principal customers are the working-classes, the wives and daughters of small shop-keepers, and servant-maids. “Ladies, of course,” said one lace-seller, “won’t buy of us.” Another old woman whom I questioned on the subject, and who had sold laces for about fourteen years, gave me a similar account; but she added:--“I’ve sold to high-up people though. Only two or three weeks back, a fine-dressed servant maid stopped me and said, ‘Here, I must have a dozen boot-laces for mistress, and she says, she’ll only give 3_d._ for them, as it’s a dozen at once. A mean cretur she is. It’s grand doings before faces, and pinchings behind backs, at our house.’”

Among the lace-sellers having rounds in the suburbs are some who “have known better days.” One old woman had been companion and housekeeper to a lady, who died in her arms, and whose legacy to her companion-servant enabled her to furnish a house handsomely. This she let out in apartments at “high-figures,” and anything like a regular payment by her lodgers would have supplied her with a comfortable maintenance. But fine gentlemen, and fine ladies too, went away in her debt; she became involved, her furniture was seized, and step by step she was reduced to boot-lace selling. Her appearance is still that of “the old school;” she wears a very large bonnet of faded black silk, a shawl of good material, but old and faded, and always a black gown. The poor woman told me that she never ventured to call even at the houses where she was best received if she saw any tax-gatherer go to or from the house: “I know very well what it is,” she continued, “it’s no use my calling; they’re sure to be cross, and the servants will be cross too, because their masters or mistresses are cross with them. If the tax-gatherer’s not paid, they’re cross at being asked; if he is paid, they’re cross at having had to part with their money. I’ve paid taxes myself.”

The dress of the boot lace-sellers generally is that of poor elderly women, for the most part perhaps a black chip, or old straw bonnet (often broken) and a dark-coloured cotton gown. Their abodes are in the localities in all parts of the metropolis, which I have frequently specified as the abodes of the poor. They live most frequently in their own rooms, but the younger, and perhaps I may add, coarser, of the number, resort to lodging-houses. It is not very uncommon, I was told by one of the class, for two poor women, boot-lace sellers or in some similar line, “to join” in a room, so saving half the usual rent of 1_s._ 6_d._ for an unfurnished room. This arrangement, however, is often of short duration. There is always arising some question, I was told, about the use or wear of this utensil or the other, or about washing, or about wood and coals, if one street-seller returned an hour or two before her companion. This is not to be wondered at, when we bear in mind that to these people every farthing is of consequence. From all that I can learn, the boot-lace sellers (I speak of the women) are poor and honest, and that, as a body, they are little mixed up with dishonest characters and dishonest ways. The exceptions are, I understand, among some hale persons, such as I have alluded to as sojourning in the lodging-houses. Some of these traders receive a little parochial relief.

One intelligent woman could count up 100 persons depending chiefly upon the sale of boot and stay-laces, in what she called her own neighbourhood. This comprised Leather-lane, Holborn, Tottenham Court-road, the Hampstead-road, and all the adjacent streets. From the best data at my command, I believe there are not fewer than 500 individuals selling these wares in London. Several lace-sellers agreed in stating that they sold a dozen boot-laces a-day, and a dozen stay-laces, and 2 dozen extra on Saturday nights; but the drawbacks of bad weather, &c., reduce the average sale to not more than 6 dozen a week, or 1,872,000 boot-laces in a year, at an outlay to the public of 3,900_l._ yearly; from a half to three-fourths of the receipts being the profit of the street-sellers.

The same quantity of stay-laces sold at 6_d._ a dozen shows an outlay of 3,900_l._, with about an equally proportional profit to the sellers.

Most of these traders sell tapes and other articles as well as laces. The tapes cost 3_d._ and 3-1/2_d._ the dozen, and are sold at 1/2_d._ a knot. A dozen in 2 days is an average sale, but I have treated more expressly of those who depend principally upon boot-lace selling for their livelihood. Their average profits are about 3_s._ a week, on laces alone. The trade, I am told, was much more remunerative a few years back, and the decline was attributed “to so many getting into the trade, and the button boots becoming as fashionable as the Adelaides.”

OF A BLIND FEMALE SELLER OF “SMALL-WARES.”

I now give an account of the street-trade, the feelings, and the life of a poor blind woman, who may be seen nearly every fine day, selling what is technically termed “small-ware,” in Leather-lane, Holborn. The street “small-wares” are now understood to be cotton-tapes, pins, and sewing cotton; sometimes with the addition of boot and stay-laces, and shirt-buttons.

I saw the blind small-ware seller enter her own apartment, which was on the first floor of a small house in a court contiguous to her “pitch.” The entrance into the court was low and narrow; a tall man would be compelled to stoop as he entered the passage leading into the court. Here were unmistakeable signs of the poverty of the inhabitants. Soapsuds stood in the choked gutter, old clothes were hung out to dry across the court, one side being a dead wall, and the windows were patched with paper, sometimes itself patched with other paper. In front of one window, however, was a rude gate-work, behind which stood a root of lavender, and a campanula, thriving not at all, but yet, with all their dinginess, presenting a relief to the eye.

The room of the blind woman is reached by a very narrow staircase, on which two slim persons could not pass each other, and up old and worn stairs. Her apartment may be about ten feet square. The window had both small and large panes, with abundance of putty plastering. The furniture consisted of a small round deal table (on which lay the poor woman’s stock of black and white tapes, of shirt-buttons, &c.), and of four broken or patched chairs. There were a few motley-looking “pot” ornaments on the mantel-shelf, in the middle of which stood a doctor’s bottle. The bust of a female was also conspicuous, as was a tobacco-pipe. Above the mantel-piece hung some pictureless frames, while a pair of spectacles were suspended above a little looking-glass. Over a cupboard was a picture of the Ethiopian serenaders, and on the uncoloured walls were engravings of animals apparently from some work on natural history. There were two thin beds, on one of which was stowed a few costermonger’s old baskets and old clothes (women’s and boys’), as if stowed away there to make room to stir about. All the furniture was dilapidated. An iron rod for a poker, a pair of old tongs, and a sheet-iron shovel, were by the grate, in which glimmered a mere handful of fire. All showed poverty. The rent was 1_s._ a week (it had been 1_s._ 9_d._), and the blind woman and a lodger (paying 6_d._ of the rent) slept in one bed, while a boy occupied the other. A wiry-haired dog, neither handsome nor fat, received a stranger (for the blind woman, and her guide and lodger, left their street trade at my request for their own room) with a few querulous yelps, which subsided into a sort of whining welcome to me, when the animal saw his mistress was at ease. The pleasure with which this poor woman received and returned the caresses of her dog was expressed in her face. I may add that owing to a change of street names in that neighbourhood, I had some difficulty in finding the small-ware seller, and heard her poor neighbours speak well of her as I inquired her abode; usually a good sign among the poor.

The blind tape-seller is a tall and somewhat strongly-formed woman, with a good-humoured and not a melancholy expression of face, though her manner was exceedingly quiet and subdued and her voice low. Her age is about 50. She wore, what I understand is called a “half-widow’s cap;” this was very clean, as indeed was her attire generally, though worn and old.

I have already given an account of a female small-ware seller (which account formerly appeared in one of my letters in the Morning Chronicle) strongly illustrating the vicissitudes of a street life. It was the statement, however, of one who is no longer in the streets, and the account given by the blind tape and pin seller is further interesting as furnishing other habitudes or idiosyncracies of the blind (or of an individual blind woman), in addition to those before detailed; more especially in its narrative of the feelings of a perhaps not very sensitive woman who became “dark” (as she always called it) in mature age.

“It’s five years, sir,” she said, “since I have been quite dark, but for two years before that I had lost the sight of one eye. Oh, yes, I had doctors but they couldn’t save my eyesight. I lost it after illnesses and rheumatics, and from want and being miserable. I felt very miserable when I first found myself quite dark, as if everything was lost to me. I felt as if I’d no more place in the world; but one gets reconciled to most things, thank God, in time; but I’m often low and sad now. Living poorly and having a sickly boy to care about may be one reason, as well as my blindness and being so bad off.

“I was brought up to service, and was sent before that to St. Andrew’s school. I lost my parents and friends (relatives) when I were young. I was in my first place eighteen months, and was eight or nine years in service altogether, mostly as maid of all work. I saved a little money and married. My husband was a costermonger, and we didn’t do well. Oh, dear no, sir, because he was addicted to drinking. We often suffered great pinching. I can’t say as he was unkind to me. He died nine years or more since. After that I supported myself, and two sons we had, by going out to wash and ‘chair.’ I did that when my husband was living. I had tidy work, as I ‘chaired’ and washed for one family in Clerkenwell for ten years, and might again if I wasn’t dark. My eldest son’s now a soldier and is with his regiment at Dover. He’s only eighteen, but he could get nothing to do as hard as he tried; I couldn’t help him; he knew no trade; and so he ’listed. Poor fellow! perhaps I shall never see him again. Oh, see him! That I couldn’t if he was sitting as near me as you are, sir; but perhaps I may never hear his voice again. Perhaps he’ll have to go abroad and be killed. It’s a sad thought that for a blind widow; I think of it both up and in bed. Blind people thinks a great deal, I feel they does. My youngest son--he’s now fourteen--is asthmatical; but he’s such a good lad, so easily satisfied. He likes to read if he can get hold of a penny book, and has time to read it. He’s at a paper-stainer’s and works on fancy satin paper, which is very obnicious” (the word she used twice for pernicious or obnoxious) “to such a delicate boy. He has 5_s._ a week, but, oh dear me, it takes all that for his bit of clothes, and soap for washing, and for shoes, and then he must carry his dinner with him every day, which I makes ready, and as he has to work hard, poor thing, he requires a little meat. I often frets about his being so weakly; often, as I stands with my tapes and pins, and thinks, and thinks. But, thank God, I can still wash for him and myself, and does so regularly. No, I can’t clean my room myself, but a poor woman who lives by selling boot-laces in the streets has lodged with me for many years, and she helps me.”

“Lives!” interrupted the poor boot-lace woman, who was present, “starves, you mean; for all yesterday I only took a farthing. But anything’s better than the house. I’ll live on 4_d._ a day, and pay rent and all, and starve half my time, rather nor the great house” (the Union).

“Yes, indeed,” resumed the blind woman, “for when I first went dark, I was forced to send to my parish, and had 6_d._ twice a week, and a half-quartern loaf, and that was only allowed for three weeks, and then there was the house for me. Oh dear, after that I didn’t know what I could do to get a bit of bread. At first I was so frightened and nervous, I was afraid of every noise. That was when I was quite dark; and I am often frightened at nothing still, and tremble as I stand in the lane. I was at first greatly distressed, and in pain, and was very down-hearted. I was so put about that I felt as if I was a burden to myself, and to everybody else. If you lose your sight as I did, sir, when you’re not young, it’s a long time before you learns to be blind. [So she very expressly worded it.] A friend advised me to sell tapes and cottons, and boot-laces, in the street, as better than doing nothing; and so I did. But at first I was sure every minute I should be run on. The poor woman that lodges with me bought some things for me where she buys her own--at Albion-house, in the Borough. O, I does very badly in my trade, very badly. I now clear only 2_d._, 3_d._, or 4_d._ a day; no, I think not more than 1_s._ 6_d._ a week; that is all. Why, one day this week I only sold a ha’porth of pins. But what I make more than pays my rent, and it’s a sort of employment; something to do, and make one feel one’s not quite idle. I hopes to make more now that nights are getting long, for I can then go into the lane (Leather-lane) of an evening, and make 1_d._ or 2_d._ extra. I daren’t go out when it’s long dark evenings, for the boys teases me, and sometimes comes and snatches my tapes and things out of my hands, and runs away, and leaves me there robbed of my little stock. I’m sure I don’t know whether it’s young thieves as does it, or for what they calls a lark. I only knows I loses my tapes. Do I complain to the police, do you say, sir? I don’t know when a policeman’s passing, in such a crowded place. Oh yes, I could get people to complain for me, but perhaps it would be no good; and then I’m afraid of the police; they’re so arbitry. [Her word.] It’s not very long since one of them--and I was told afterwards he was a sergeant, too--ordered me to move on. ‘I can’t move on, sir,’ said I, ‘I wish I could, but I must stand still, for I’m blind.’ ‘I know that,’ says he, ‘but you’re begging.’ ‘No, I’m not,’ says I, ‘I’m only a trying to sell a few little things, to keep me out of the work’us.’ ‘Then what’s that thing you have tied over your breast?’ says he. ‘If you give me any more of your nonsense, I’ll lock you up;’ and then he went away. I’m terrified to think of being taken to the station.”

The matter which called forth the officer’s wrath, was a large card, tied from the poor woman’s shoulders, on which was printed, in large letters, “PLEASE TO BUY OF THE POOR BLIND.” “Ay,” said the blind woman’s companion, with a bitterness not uncommon on the part of street-sellers on such occasions, “and any shopkeeper can put what notice he likes in his window, that he can, if it’s ever such a lie, and nothing’s said if he collects a crowd; oh dear, no. But we mus’n’t say our lives is our own.”

“Yes, sir,” said the blind woman, as I questioned her further, “there I stands, and often feels as if I was half asleep, or half dreaming; and I sometimes hardly knows when I dreams, and what I thinks; and I think what it was like when I had my eyesight and was among them, and what it would be like if I had my eyesight again; all those people making all that noise, and trying to earn a penny, seems so queer. And I often thinks if people suffered ever so much, they had something to be thankful for, if they had their eyesight. If I’d been dark from a child, I think I shouldn’t have felt it so much. It wouldn’t have been like all that lost, and I should be handier, though I’m not bad that way as it is, but I’m afraid to go out by myself. Where I lives there’s so many brokers about, I should run against their furniture. I’m sometimes not spoken to for an hour and more. Many a day I’ve only took 1_d._ Then I thinks and mopes about what will become of me, and thinks about my children. I don’t know who buys of me, but I’m sure I’m very thankful to all as does. They takes the things out of my hands, and puts the money into them. I think they’re working-people as buys of me, but I can’t be sure. Some speaks to me very kind and pleasant. I don’t think they’re ladies that speaks kind. My husband used to say that if ladies went to places like the Lane, it was on the sly, to get something cheap, and they did’nt want to be seen there, or they might be counted low. I’m sure he was right. And it ain’t such as them as buys of a poor blind woman out of kindness. No, sir, it’s very seldom indeed that I get more than the regular price. A halfpenny a knot for my tapes; and a halfpenny and a farthing for pins; and a halfpenny and a penny a dozen for shirt-buttons; and three a penny when I sells boot-laces; and a halfpenny a piece when I has stay-laces. I sells good things, I know, for the friend as gets them wouldn’t deceive me, and I never has no complaints of them.

“I don’t know any other blind woman in the trade besides myself. No, I don’t associate with blind people. I wasn’t brought up, like, to such a thing, but am in it by accident. I can’t say how many blind women there may be in my line in the streets. I haven’t the least notion. I took little notice of them, God forgive me, when I had my eyesight, and I haven’t been thrown among them since. Whether there’s many of them or not, they’re all to be pitied.

“On a Sunday I never stirs out, except to chapel, with my lodger or my son. No, sir, not a Roman Catholic chapel, but a Protestant. When it’s not very fine weather we goes to the nearest, but you hears nothing but what’s good in any of them. Oh dear, no.

“I lives on tea and bread and butter all the week--yes, I can make it ready myself--except on Sundays, when my son has his dinner here, and we has a bit of cheap meat; not often fish; it’s troublesome. If bread and things wasn’t cheap I couldn’t live at all, and it’s hardly living as it is. What can any one do on all that I can earn? There’s so many in the streets, I’m told, in my line, and distress drives more and more every week--everybody says so, and wages is so bad, and there’s such under-selling, that I don’t know whatever things will come to. I’ve no ’spectation of anything better in the time that has to come, nothing but misery, God help me. But I’m sure I should soon fret to death in a work’us.”

The poor woman lodging with the blind street-seller is herself in the same trade, but doing most in boot and stay-laces. She has a sharp and pinched outline of countenance, as if from poverty of diet, and is indeed wretchedly poor, earning only about 6_d._ a day, if so much. She is about the same age as her landlady, or somewhat younger, and has apparently been good-looking, and has still an intelligent expression. She lodged with the blind woman during her husband’s lifetime, when he rented two rooms, letting her one, and she had lived with the present widow in this way about fourteen years. She speaks cheerfully and seems an excellent companion for a blind person. On my remarking that they could neither of them be very cross-tempered to have lived so long together, the lodger said, laughingly, “O, we have a little tiff now and then, sir, as women will, you know; but it’s not often, and we soon are all right again. Poor people like us has something else to think of than tiffs and gossipping.”

THE BLIND STREET-SELLER OF BOOT-LACES.

The character, thoughts, feelings, regrets, and even the dreams, of a very interesting class of street-folk--the blind--are given in the narratives I now proceed to lay before the reader, from blind street-folk; but a few words of general introduction are necessary.

It may be that among the uneducated--among those whose feelings and whose bodies have been subjected to what may be called the wear and tear of poverty and privation--there is a tendency, even when misfortunes the most pitiable and undeserved have been encountered, to fall from misery into mendicancy. Even the educated, or, as the street people more generally describe them, those “who have seen better days,” sometimes, after the ordeal of the streets and the low lodging-houses, become trading mendicants. Among such people there may be, in one capacity or other, the ability and sometimes the opportunity to labour, and yet--whether from irrepressible vagabondism, from utter repugnance to any settled mode of subsistence (caused either by the natural disposition of the individual, or by the utter exhaustion of mind and body driving him to beg)--yet, I say, men of this class become beggars and even “lurkers.”

As this is the case with men who have the exercise of their limbs, and of the several senses of the body, there must be some mitigating plea, if not a full justification, in the conduct of those who beg directly or indirectly, because they cannot and perhaps never could labour for their daily bread--I allude to those afflicted with blindness, whether “from their youth up” or from the calamity being inflicted upon them in maturer years.

By the present law, for a blind man to beg is to be amenable to punishment, and to be subjected to perhaps the bitterest punishment which can be put upon him--imprisonment; to a deprivation of what may be his chief solace--the enjoyment of the fresh air; and to a rupture of the feeling, which cannot but be comforting to such a man, that under his infirmity he still has the sympathies of his fellow-creatures.

It appears to me, then, that the blind have a right to ask charity of those whom God has spared so terrible an affliction, and who in the terms best understood by the destitute themselves, are “well to do;” those whom--in the canting language of a former generation of blind and other beggars--“Providence has blessed with affluence.” This right to solicit aid from those to whom such aid does not even approach to the sacrifice of any idle indulgence--to say nothing of any necessary want--is based on their helplessness, but lapses if it becomes a mere business, and with all the trickiness by which a street business is sometimes characterised.

On this question of moral right, as of political expediency, I quote an authority which must command attention, that of Mr. Stuart Mill:--

Apart from any metaphysical considerations respecting the foundation of morals or of the social union, he says, “It will be admitted to be right, that human beings should help one another; and the more so, in proportion to the urgency of the need; and none needs help so urgently as one who is starving. The claim to help, therefore, created by destitution, is one of the strongest which can exist; and there is primâ facie the amplest reason for making the relief of so extreme an exigency as certain, to those who require it, as, by any arrangements of society, it can be made.

“On the other hand, in all cases of helping, there are two sets of consequences to be considered; the consequences of the assistance itself, and the consequences of relying on the assistance. The former are generally beneficial, but the latter for the most part injurious; so much so, in many cases, as greatly to outweigh the value of the benefit. And this is never more likely to happen than in the very cases where the need of help is the most intense. There are few things for which it is more mischievous, that people should rely on the habitual aid of others, than for the means of subsistence, and unhappily there is no lesson which they more easily learn.” I may here mention, in corroboration of this statement, that I was told by an experienced parochial officer, that there was truth in the saying, “Once a pauper, and always a pauper;” which seems to show that the lesson of relying on the habitual aid of others may not only be learned with ease, but is forgotten with difficulty. “The problem to be solved,” continues Mr. Mill, “is, therefore, one of peculiar nicety, as well as importance; how to give the greatest amount of needful help, with the smallest encouragement to undue reliance on it.

“Energy and self-dependence are, however,” Mr. Mill proceeds to argue, and, in this respect, it seems to me, to argue to demonstration, “liable to be impaired by the absence of help, as well as by its excess. It is even more fatal to exertion to have no hope of succeeding by it, than to be assured of succeeding without it. When the condition of any one is so disastrous that his energies are paralyzed by discouragement, assistance is a tonic, not a sedative: it braces, instead of relaxing the active faculties: always provided that the assistance is not such as to dispense with self-help, by substituting itself for the person’s own labour, skill, and prudence, but is limited to affording him a better hope of attaining success by those legitimate means. This, accordingly, is a test to which all plans of philanthropy and benevolence should be brought, whether intended for the benefit of individuals or of classes, and whether conducted on the voluntary or on the government principle.

“In so far as the subject admits of any general doctrine or maxim, it would appear to be this--that if assistance is given in such a manner that the condition of the person helped is rendered as desirable as that of another (in a similar grade of society) who succeeds in maintaining himself without help, the assistance, if systematic and capable of being previously calculated upon, is MISCHIEVOUS: but if, while available to everybody, it leaves to all a strong motive to do without it if they can, it is then for the most part BENEFICIAL.”

That the workhouse should bring less comfort and even greater irksomeness and restraint to any able-bodied inmate, than is felt by the poorest agricultural labourer in the worst-paid parts of the country, or the most wretched slop tailor, or shoe-maker, or cabinet maker in London, who supports himself by his own labour, is, I think, a sound principle. However wretched the ploughman may be in his hut, or the tailor in his garret, he is what I have heard underpaid mechanics call, still “his own man.” He is supported by his labour; he has escaped the indignity of a reliance on others.

I need not now enter into the question whether or not the workhouse system has done more harm than good. Some harm it is assuredly doing, for its over-discipline drives people to beg rather than apply for parish relief; and so the public are twice mulct, by having to pay compulsorily, in the form of poor’s-rate, and by being induced to give voluntarily, because they feel that the applicant for their assistance deserves to be helped.

But although the dogma I have cited, respecting the condition of those in a workhouse, may be sound in principle as regards the able-bodied, how does it apply to those who are not able-bodied? To those who cannot work? And above all how does it apply to those to whom nature has denied even the capacity to labour? To the blind, for instance? Yet the blind man, who dreads the injustice of such a creed applied to his misfortune, is subject to the punishment of the mendacious beggar, should he ask a passer-by to pity his afflictions. The law may not often be enforced, but sometimes it is enforced--perhaps more frequently in country than in town--and surely it is so enforced against abstract right and political morality. The blind beggar, “worried by the police,” as I have heard it described, becomes the mendacious beggar, no longer asking, in honesty, for a mite to which a calamity that no prudence could have saved him gave him a fair claim, but resorting to trick in order to increase his precarious gains.

That the blind resort to deceitful representations is unquestionable. One blind man, I am informed, said to Mr. Child the oculist, when he offered to couch him, “Why, that would ruin me!” And there are many, I am assured, who live by the streets who might have their eyesight restored, but who will not.

The public, however, must be warned to distinguish between those determined beggars and the really deserving and helpless blind. To allow their sympathies to be blunted against all, because some are bad, is a creed most consolatory to worldly successful selfishness, and alien to every principle of pure morals, as well as to that of more than morals--the spirit of Christianity.

The feelings of the blind, apart from their mere sufferings as poor men, are well described in some of the narratives I give, and the account of a blind man’s dreams is full of interest. Man is blessed with the power of seeing dreams, it should be remembered, visionally; but the blind man, to whose statement I invite attention, dreams, it will be seen, like the rest of his fraternity, through the sense of hearing, or of feeling, best known as “touching;” that is to say, by audible or tactile representations.

Some of the poor blind, he told me, are polishers’ wheel-turners, but there is not employment for one in one hundred at this. My informant only knew two so engaged. People, he says, are glad to do it, and will work at as low wages as the blind. Some of the blind, too, blow blacksmiths’ forges at foundries; others are engaged as cutlers’ wheel-turners. “There was one talking to me the other day, and he said he’d get me a job that way.” Others again turn mangles, but at this there is little employment to be had. Another blind acquaintance of my informant’s chops chaff for horses. Many of the blind are basket-makers, learning the business at the blind school, but one-half, I am told, can’t make a living at this, after leaving the school; they can’t do the work so neatly, and waste more rods than the other workers. Other blind people are chair-bottomers, and others make rope mats with a frame, but all of these can scarcely make a living. Many blind people play church organs. Some blind men are shoemakers, but their work is so inferior, it is almost impossible to live by it.

The blind people are forced to the streets because, they say, they can do nothing else to get a living; at no trade, even if they know one, can they get a living, for they are not qualified to work against those who can see; and what’s more, labourers’ wages are so low that people can get a man with his eyesight at the same price as they could live upon. “There’s many a blind basket-weaver playing music in the streets ’cause he can’t get work. At the trade I know one blind basket-maker can make 15_s._ a-week at his trade, but then he has a good connection and works for hisself; the work all comes home. He couldn’t make half that working for a shop. At turning wheels there’s nothing to be done; there’s so many seeing men out of employment that’s glad to do the work at the same price as the blind, so that unless the blind will go into the workhouse, they must fly to the streets. The police, I am told, treat the blind very differently: some of the force are very good to them, and some has no feeling at all--they shove them about worse than dogs; but the police is just like other men, good and bad amongst them. They’re very kind to me,” said my blind informant, “and they have a difficult duty to perform, and some persons, like Colonel Cavendish, makes them harsher to us than they would be.” I inquired whether my blind informant had received one of the Census papers to fill up, and he told me that he had heard nothing about them, and that he had certainly made no return to the government about his blindness; but what it was to the government whether he was blind or not, he couldn’t tell. His wife was blind as well as himself, and there was another blind man living in his room, and none of his blind friends, that he had heard of, had ever received any of the papers.

“Some blind people in the streets carry laces. There are some five men and one woman at the West-end do this, and three of these have dogs to lead them; one stands always on Langham-place. One carries cabbage-nets, he is an old man of seventy year, with white hair, and is likewise led by a dog. Another carries matches (he has a large family), and he is often led by one of his boys. There is a blind woman who always sits by the Polytechnic, and has indeed done so since it was built. She gets her living by sewing, making caps and things for ladies. Another blind woman obtains a livelihood by knitting garters and covers for bread trays and backs of chairs. She generally walks about in the neighbourhood of Baker-street, and Portman-square. Many recite a lamentation as they go along, but in many parts of London the police will not allow them to do so.

“It’s a very jealous place, is London. The police is so busy; but many recites the lamentation for all that. It’s a feeling thing--Oh, they’re very touching words.”

The greater part in the streets are musicians; five to one are, or ten to one. My informant thinks, last Thursday week, there were seven blind musicians all playing through the streets together in one band. There are four living in York-court; two in Grafton-court; two in Clement’s-lane; one in Orchard-place; two in Gray’s-buildings; two in Half-Moon-street, in the City, and two in a court hard by; one up by Ball’s-pond; two in Rose-court, Whitechapel; three in Golden-lane; two at Chelsea; three in Westminster; one up at Paddington; one (woman) in Marylebone; one in Westminster; one in Gray’s-inn-lane; one in Whitechapel: in all thirty-one; but my informant was satisfied there must be at least as many more, or sixty blind musicians in all.

In the course of a former inquiry into the character and condition of street performers, I received the following account from a blind musician:--

“The street blind tried, some years back, to maintain a burying and sick club of our own; but we were always too poor. We live in rooms. I don’t know one blind musician who lives in a lodging-house. I myself know a dozen blind men now performing in the streets of London. The blind musicians are chiefly married men. I don’t know one who lives with a woman unmarried. The loss of sight changes a man, he doesn’t think of women, and women don’t think of him. We are of a religious turn, too, generally.

“When we agreed to form the blind club there was not more than a dozen members. These consisted of two basket-makers; one mat-maker; four violin players; myself; and my two mates; and this was the number when it dropped for want of funds; that’s now sixteen years ago. We were to pay 1_s._ a month, and sick members were to have 5_s._ a week when they had paid two years. Our other rules were the same as other clubs. There’s a good many blind who play at sailors dances, Wapping and Deptford way. We seldom hire children to lead us in the streets; we have plenty of our own generally. I have five. Our wives are generally women that have their eyesight; but some blind men marry blind women.”

My informant was satisfied that there were at least 100 blind men and women getting their living in the streets, and about 500 throughout the country. There are many who stay continually in Brighton, Bristol, Liverpool, Birmingham, Manchester, Newcastle-on-Tyne, Plymouth, and indeed all large towns. “There are a great many blind people, I am told,” he said, “in Cornwall. It’s such a humane place for them; the people has great feeling for the blind; they’re very religious there, and a many lose their sight in the mines, and that’s what makes them have a feeling for others so.” This man heard a calculation made some time back, that there were 5000 blind people, including those in schools and asylums, within five miles round St. Paul’s. The most of the blind have lost their sight by the small-pox--nine out of every ten of the musicians have done so; since the vaccination has been discovered, I am told the cases of blindness from small-pox have been considerably increased. “Oh, that was a very clever thing--very,” said the blind boot-lace seller to me. Those who have not lost their sight by the small-pox, have gone blind from accidents, such as substances thrown or thrust in the eyes, or inflammation induced from cold and other ailments. My informant was not acquainted with one blind person in the streets who had been born blind. One of his acquaintance who had been blind from birth caught the small-pox, and obtained his sight after recovery at eight years old. “The great majority have lost their sight at an early age--when mere children, indeed; they have consequently been trained to no employment; those few who have” (my informant knew two) “been educated in the blind schools as basket-makers, are unable to obtain employment at this like a seeing person. Why, the time that a blind man’s feeling for the hole to have a rod through, a seeing man will have it through three or four times. The blind people in the streets mostly know one another; they say they have all a feeling of brotherly love for another, owing to their being similarly afflicted. If I was going along the street, and had a guide with me that could see, they would say, ‘Here’s a blind man or blind woman coming;’ I would say, ‘Put me up to them so as I’ll speak to them;’ then I should say, as I laid my hand upon them, ‘Holloa, who’s this?’ they’d say, ‘I’m blind.’ I should answer, ‘So am I.’ ‘What’s your name?’ would be the next question. ‘Oh, I have heard tell of you,’ most like, I should say. ‘Do you know so and so?’ I would say, ‘Yes, he’s coming to see me,’ or perhaps, ‘I’m going to see him on Sunday:’ then we say, ‘Do you belong to any of the Institutions?’ that’s the most particular question of all; and if he’s not a traveller, and we never heard tell of one another, the first thing we should ask would be, ‘How did you lose your sight?’ You see, the way in which the blind people in the streets gets to know one another so well, is by meeting at the houses of gentlemen when we goes for our pensions.”

The boot, shoe, and stay laces, are carried by the blind, I am told “seldom for sale;” for it’s very few they sell of them. “They have,” they say, “to prevent the police or mendicity from interfering with them, though the police do not often show a disposition to obstruct them.” “The officers of the Mendicity Society,” they tell me, “are their worst enemies.” These, however, have desisted from molesting them, because the magistrates object to commit a blind man to prison. The blind never ask anybody for anything, they tell me their cry is simply “Bootlace! Bootlace!” When they do sell, they charge 1-1/2_d._ per pair for the leather boot-laces, 1_d._ per pair the silk boot-laces, and 1/2_d._ per pair for the cotton boot-laces, and 1/2_d._ each for the stay-laces. They generally carry black laces only, because the white ones are so difficult to keep clean. For the stay-laces they pay 2_d._ a dozen, and for the boot-laces 5_d._ a dozen, for the leather or for the silk ones; and 1-1/4_d._ for the cotton; each of the boot-laces is double, so that a dozen makes a dozen pair. They buy them very frequently at a swag-shop in Compton-street. My informant carried only the black-cotton laces, and doesn’t sell six-penny worth in a week. He did not know of a blind boot lace-seller that sold more than he did.

“Formerly the blind people in the street used to make a great deal of money; up to the beginning of the peace, and during all the war, the blind got money in handfuls. Where there was one blind man travelling then, there’s ten now. If they didn’t take 2_l._ and 2_l._ 10_s._ a day in a large town, it was reckoned a bad day’s work for the musicianers. Almost all the blind people then played music. In war time there was only one traveller (tramp); there are 100 now. There was scarcely a common lodging-house then in one town out of the three; and now there’s not a village hardly in the country but what there’s one, and perhaps two or three. Why the lodging-houses coin money now. Look at a traveller’s house where there’s twenty beds (two in each bed), at 3_d._ each, and that’s 10_s._ you know. There was very few blind beggars then, and what there was done well. Certainly, done well; they could get hatfuls of money almost, but then money was of no valley scarcely; you could get nothing for it most; but now if you get a little, you can buy a plenty with it. What is worth 6_d._ now fetched 2_s._ then. I wasn’t in the streets then, I wish I had been, I should have made a fortin, I think I should. The blind beggars then could get 2_l._ a day if they went to look for it.” “I myself,” said one, “when I first began, have gone and sat myself down by the side of the road and got my 1_l._, all in half-pence. When I went to Braintree, I stood beside a public-house, the ‘Orange Tree,’ just by where the foot-people went on to the fair ground, and I took 15_s._ a day for two days only, standing there a pattering my lamentation from 1 o’clock till the dusk in the evening. This is what I said:--

‘You feeling Christians look with pity, Unto my grief relate-- Pity my misfortune, For my sufferings are great.

‘I’m bound in dismal darkness-- A prisoner I am led; Poor and blind, just in prime, Brought to beg my bread.

‘When in my pleasant youthful days In learning took delight,

(and when I was in the country I used to say)

And by the small-pox I lost my precious sight.

(some says by an inflammation)

‘I’ve lost all earthly comforts, But since it is God’s will, The more I cannot see the day, He’ll be my comfort still.

‘In vain I have sought doctors, Their learned skill did try, But they could not relieve me, Nor spare one single eye.

‘So now in dismal darkness For ever more must be, To spend my days in silent tears, Till death doth set me free.

‘But had I all the treasures That decks an Indian shore, Was all in my possession, I’d part with that wealthy store,

‘If I once more could gain my sight, And when could gladly view That glorious light to get my bread, And work once more like you.

‘Return you, tender Christians dear, And pity my distress; Relieve a helpless prisoner, That’s blind and comfortless.

‘I hope that Christ, our great Redeemer, Your kindness will repay, And reward you with a blessing On the judgment day.’

“Some say ‘pity the poor blind,’ but the lamentation is better. It’s a very feeling thing. Many people stands still and hears it right through, and gives a halfpenny. I’d give one myself any day to hear it well said. I’m sure the first time I heard it the very flesh crept on my bones. I larnt it to one blind man myself last summer.

“Now just to show you the difference of things two year afterwards: I went to the very same place where I had took 1_l._ by the road side, as I told, and all I got was 4_s._, so you can see how things was falling. The day I took the 1_l._, there was only one blind man in the town beside me; but when I got the 4_s._, there was three men blind there. But things now is much worse--bless you, a hundred times worse. If I went now to Braintree fair, I don’t think as I should take 3_s._ You see there’s so many blind men now about that I should’nt wonder if there’d be eight or ten at that very fair; they don’t know where to run to now to get a halfpenny; there’s so many blind people that persons makes game of them. If they see two near one another, they cries out, there’s opposition! See what things is come to. Twelve year ago I should have thought the town was completely done, and people quite tired of me. If I didn’t get my shilling going down only one side of a street, and now I may go up and down and not get a penny. If I get 3_d._ I am very well satisfied. But mind, I may perhaps sometimes meet a gentlemen who may give me a shilling, or one who may give me 2_s._ 6_d._; a person the other day tapped me on the shoulder, near Brook-street, and said, ‘Here’s half-a-crown for you.’ Why, even five year ago one gentleman gave me 1_l._ twice over within three months, and Prince Napoleon gave me a sovereign last 23rd June was two year. I know the date, because that’s the day the blind people goes to the Cloth Hall to get their quarter’s money, 25_s._, and I thought I was as good as they.” My informant told me he does better than any of them. “Not one does better than me,” he said, “because I sticks to it night and day. It’s 12 o’clock every night before I leave the streets. You know I leaves home by ten of a morning. I will have it to get a living. Many says they don’t know how I stand it to keep so long on my legs. I only has two meals a day--my breakfast, a bit of summat about five or six at a public-house--my dog though has plenty. I feeds him well, poor fellow. Many times I sleep as I go, and knock my stick just the same as if I was awake. I get a comfortable living--always a little in debt. I’ve got a very good kerackter, thank God--indeed all the blind men has--they can always get credit; and my dog gets me many a shilling that I wouldn’t get at all. But then it’s dreadful slavery. I’ve never no amusement--always out excepting on Sunday. Then I’ve got 5_l._ from Cloth Hall, besides a small pension of 1_s._, and 2_s._ 6_d._, and 5_s._ a year from different gentlemen, who allows us poor blind a small pension yearly. There are many gentleman do this at the West-end. Some will allow 10_s._ a year, and some only 1_s._ a year, to a stated number; and they all pay on a particular day that they may appoint. The Earl of Mansfield allows twenty-four destitute blind people 10_s._ 6_d._ a year; and his mother gives two blind 1_l._, and four 10_s._ The Baroness Rothschild gives to between seventy and eighty 5_s._ a piece once a year.” (“Bless her,” said my informant, most heartily, “she is a good woman.”) “The Earl Stanhope gives to between forty and fifty the same sum every year, and he’s a fine kind-hearted gentleman. The Earl of Cork’s brother gives eight or nine of us a shilling a piece once a year. Lady Otway Cave, she is very good to us; she gives seventy or eighty of us 1_s._ each every fust of May; but the butler, like a many more, I am told, takes advantage of the blind, and puts them off with 6_d._, and takes a receipt from them for 1_s._ The Earl of Normanton gives 2_s._ 6_d._ to ten of us. Mrs. Managan, of May-fair, gives three 2_s._ 6_d._ a piece. The Hon. Miss Brande 1_s._ a piece to eight. Lady Clements, Grosvenor-square, 2_s._ a piece to fifteen. The Marchioness of Aylesbury, 5_s._ a piece to about thirty. The Earl of Harrowby gives twelve 5_s._ a piece. Lord Dudley Stuart gives to seven or eight 5_s._ a piece. Mr. Gurney, 1_s._ a piece to forty. Mr. Ellis, Arlington-street, 2_s._ 6_d._ a piece to fourteen. The Marquis of Bute used to give 5_s._ a piece to sixty or seventy; but the Marchioness, since his death, has discontinued his allowance. The Dean of Westminster gives 1_s._ a piece to thirty on Boxing-day. Mr. Spottiswoode, 1_s._ a piece to about fourteen. Archbishop of Oxford, 5_s._ a piece to twelve. Rev. Sir Samuel Jarvis, 2_s._ 6_d._ a piece to five. Lady Dundas, 1_s._ a piece to about fourteen or fifteen. The Earl of Besborough, 1_s._ each to ten. Lord Stafford, 1_s._ each to about twenty; he used to give 2_s._ 6_d._, but, owing to his servant, I am told the sum has been reduced to 1_s._ Lady Isabella Thynne, 1_s._ to ten. The Countess of Carlisle, 2_s._ 6_d._ each to sixteen. Earl Fitzwilliam used to give 5_s._ to some, and 2_s._ 6_d._ to others, to about twenty. The Countess of Essex, 2_s._ 6_d._ each to three. Lord Hatherton, 2_s._ 6_d._ each to twelve. John Ashley Warr, Esq., 5_s._ each to twenty-four. Lord Tynemouth, 2_s._ 6_d._ each to forty. Miss Vaughan, 2_s._ 6_d._ each to forty (this is bequeathed for ever). Lord Saltoun, 5_s._ each to three. Mr. Hope, 1_s._ each to fifty. Mr. Warren (Bryanstone-square), 1_s._ each to twenty-five. Miss Howard (York-place), 1_s._ each to every blind person that calls on Boxing-day. Sir John Curtis, 1_s._ each to eighty (this is also a bequest). Lady Beresford, 1_s._ each to forty. Lord Robert Grosvenor gives 1_l._ each to some few. The Countess of Andover, 2_s._ 6_d._ a piece to ten. Lord Stanley used to give 3_s._ to about twelve; but two years ago the allowance was discontinued. The Marquis of Bristol gives 10_s._ to eighteen. The Bishop of London, 5_s._ to every one that can obtain a minister’s signature. Mr. Mackenzie (Devonshire-place), 2_s._ 6_d._ to ten. Mr. Deacon, 2_s._ 6_d._ to ten. Miss Sheriff (Manchester-square), 1_s._ to twenty. Miss Morrison (Cadogan-place), 1_s._ each to ten. Mrs. Kittoye (Wilton-crescent), 1_s._ to twenty. Mrs. Ferguson, 2_s._ 6_d._ each to seven. The Earl of Haddington, 10_s._ each to twelve.” I am assured that these are only half of the donors to the blind, and that, with the exception of Lady Liddledam, there is not one person living eastward of Tottenham Court-road, who allows the smallest pension to the blind. My informant told me that he knew of no attorneys, barristers, surgeons, physicians, soldiers or sailors, who distributed any money to the blind, nor one tradesman. “I think I get 10_s._ a week regular,” he said. “While the quality’s in town I’m safe. For other times I can’t count above 5_s._ a week at the outside--if it’s the least damp in the world, the quality will not come out. The musicians, you see, have got the chance of a damp day, for then all the best people’s at home; but such as me does well only when they’re out. If it wasn’t for the pensions that the quality gives to the blind during the winter, they couldn’t do at all. The blind people who have guides pay them no wages, they find them their victuals and clothes; but the guides are mostly children, and the blind are very good to them; many that I know spoils them.”

The blind people are mostly all of a religious turn of mind. They all make a point of attending divine service; and the majority of them are Catholics. My informant knew only five among his blind neighbours who were Protestants--and two of these were Presbyterians, one a Methodist, and two Churchmen; and on the other hand he numbered up fourteen Catholics, all going to the same chapel, and living within a short distance of himself. They are peculiarly distinguished by a love of music. “It’s a sure bit of bread to the most; besides, it makes them independent, you see, and that’s a great thing to people like us.” There is not one teetotaller, I am told, among the street blind, but they are not distinguished by a love of drink. The blind musicians often, when playing at public-houses, are treated to drink, and, indeed, when performing in the streets, are taken by drunken men to play at taverns, and there supplied with liquor; but they do not any of them make a habit of drinking. There is, however, one now in prison who is repeatedly intoxicated; and this, the blind say, is a great injury to them; for people who see one of them drunk in the streets, believe that they are all alike; and there is one peculiarity among them all--being continually mistaken for one another. However different they may be in features, still, from the circumstance of their being blind, and being mostly accompanied by a dog, or a guide, few persons can distinguish one from another. They are mostly very jealous, they tell me, because they say every one takes advantage of their affliction, even their own children, and their own wives. “Some of the wives dress themselves very gaily, because they know their husbands can’t see their fine clothes, particularly those that have got no children--then there’s none to tell. But, pray mind I only speaking of some of them--don’t blame the whole. People never took no money out of my dog’s basket--two gals of the town once did try to steal a shilling out of it, that some gentleman had dropped in, but the dog barked, and they gave a scream, and run away. Many of the blind men have married blind women--they say that they don’t like seeing women. If seeing men find it a hard job to take care of seeing women, how are blind men to do it?” My informant knows six blind men who have married blind wives--the blind wives, I am told, stick closer to home--and do not want to go to plays, or dances, or shows, and have no love of dress--and they are generally more sober than those who can see. “A blind person,” says one, “has no reason to be as wicked as those that can see--there’s not half the temptation, you know. The women do all their household duties as well as if they had their eyesight. They make puddings and pies, and boil them, or send them to the oven, as well, as quick, and as handy as a woman that can see. They sweep the floor without leaving a speck; and tidy the room, and black-lead the grate, and whiten the hearth, and dress the chimney-piece off quite handsome, I can tell you. They take great pride in their chimney-piece--they like other people to see it--and they take great pride in having their house quite clean and neat. Where I live it’s the remark of all, that they who can’t see have their houses the cleanest. I don’t know of any blind person that has a looking-glass over the mantelpiece, though. I’m sure that many would, if they had the money, just to please their friends. And, what’s more strange, the blind wives will wash their husbands’ shirts quite clean.” “The blind are very fond of their children, you see, sir,” said one; “we owe so much to them, they’re such helps to us, even from their very infancy. You’ll see a little thing that can hardly walk, leading her blind father about, and then, may be, our affliction makes them loves us the more. The blind people are more comfortable at home--they are more together, and more dependent on one another, and don’t like going out into company as others do. With women a love of company is mostly of a love of seeing others, and being seen themselves, so the blind wives is happy and contented at home. No man that could see, unless he was a profligate, would think of marrying a blind woman; and the blind women knows this, and that’s why they love their blind husbands the more--they pity one another, and so can’t help liking each other.” Now, it’s strange, that with so many blind couples living together, no one ever heard of any accident from fire with blind people--the fact is, their blindness makes them so careful, that there’s no chance of it: besides, when there’s two blind people together, they never hardly light a candle at all, except when a stranger comes in, and then they always ask him, before he leaves, to put the light out.

The blind people generally are persons of great feeling; they are very kind and charitable to persons who are in any way afflicted, or even to poor persons. Many of those who live on charity themselves are, I am assured, very generous to those that want. One told me that “a beggar had come to his house, and he had made him cry with his story; my heart” he said, “was that full I was ashamed.” They’re not particularly proud, though they like to be well-dressed, and they say that no one can get a wife so soon as a blind man. One assured me that he’d go into any lodging-house in the country and get two or three if he wanted--only they’d fight, he said. “You see in the lodging-houses there are many woman whose husbands (but they’re not married, you know) have told them to go on and said they would follow them, which of course they don’t; or there’s many in such places as wants a companion. When a blind man goes into one of these houses, a woman is sure to say to him, ‘Can I fetch you anything, master?’ Half an ounce of tea may be, and when they’ve got it, of course, they’re invited to have a cup, and that does the business. She becomes the blind man’s guide after that. The next morning, after telling one another where to meet--‘I’m going such a road,’ they whisper to each other,--away they starts. I’ve known many a blind man run away with a seeing man’s wife. The women, I think, does it for a living, and that’s all.

“I can’t see the least light in the world--not the brightest sun that ever shone. I have pressed my eye-balls--they are quite decayed, you see; but I have pushed them in, and they have merely hurt me, and the water has run from them faster than ever. I have never seen any colours when I did so.” (This question was asked to discover whether the illusion called “peacock’s feathers” could still be produced by pressure on the nerve). “I have been struck on the eye since I have been blind, and then I have seen a flash of fire like lightning. I know it’s been like that, because I’ve seen the lightning sometimes, when it’s been very vivid, even since I was stone blind. It was terrible pain when I was struck on the eye. A man one day was carrying some chairs along the street, and struck me right in the eye-ball with the end of the leg of one of the chairs; and I fell to the ground with the pain. I thought my heart was coming out of my mouth; then I saw the brightest flash that ever I saw, either before or since I was blind.” (I irritated the ball of the eye with the object of discovering whether the nerve was decayed, but found it impossible to produce any luminous impression--though I suspect this arose principally from the difficulty of getting him to direct his eye in the proper direction). “I know the difference of colours, because I remember them; but I can’t distinguish them by my touch, nor do I think that any blind man in the world ever could. I have heard of blind people playing at cards, but it’s impossible they can do so any other way than by having them marked. I know many that plays cards that way.” He was given two similar substances, but of different colours, to feel, but could not distinguish between them--both were the same to him, he said, “with the exception that one felt stiffer than the other. I know hundreds of people myself--and they know hundreds more--and none of us has ever heard of one that could tell colours by the feel. There’s blind people in the school can tell the colours of their rods; but they do so by putting their tongue to them, and so they can distinguish them that’s been dipped in copperas from them that hasn’t. I know blind people can take a clock to pieces, and put it together again, as well as any person that can see. Blind people gets angry when they hear people talk of persons seeing with their fingers. A man has told me that a blind person in St. James’s workhouse could read the newspaper with his fingers, but that, the blind know, is quite impossible.”

Many blind men can, I am told, distinguish between the several kinds of wood by touch alone. Mahogany, oak, ash, elm, deal, they say, have all a different feel. They declare it is quite ridiculous, the common report, that blind people can discern colours by the touch. One of my informants, who assured me that he was considered to be one of the cleverest of blind people, told me that he had made several experiments on this subject, and never could distinguish the least difference between black or red, or white, or yellow, or blue, or, indeed, any of the mixed colours. “My wife,” said one, “went blind so young, that she doesn’t never remember having seen the light; and I am often sorry for her that she has no idea of what a beautiful thing light or colours is. We often talk about it together, and then she goes a little bit melancholy, because I can’t make her understand what the daylight is like, or the great delight that there is in seeing it. I’ve often asked whether she knows that the daylight and the candlelight is of different colours, and she has told me she thinks they are the same; but then she has no notion of colours at all. Now, it’s such people as these I pities.” I told the blind man of Sanderson’s wonderful effect of imagination in conceiving that the art of seeing was similar to that of a series of threads being drawn from the distant object to the eye; and he was delighted with the explanation, saying, “he could hardly tell how a born blind man could come at such an idea.” On talking with this man, he told me he remembered having seen a looking-glass once--his mother was standing putting her cap on before it, and he thought he never saw anything so pretty as the reflection of the half-mourning gown she had on, and the white feathery pattern upon it (he was five years old then). He also remembered having seen his shadow, and following it across the street; these were the only two objects he can call to mind. He told me that he knew many blind men who could not comprehend how things could be seen, round or square, all at once; they are obliged, they say, to pass their fingers all over them; and how it is that the shape of a thing can be known in an instant, they cannot possibly imagine. I found out that this blind man fancied the looking-glass reflected only one object at once--only the object that was immediately in front of it; and when I told him that, looking in the glass, I could see everything in the room, and even himself, with my back turned towards him, he smiled with agreeable astonishment. He said, “You see how little I have thought about the matter.” There was a blind woman of his acquaintance, he informed me, who could thread the smallest needle with the finest hair in a minute, and never miss once. “She’ll do it in a second. Many blind women thread their needles with their tongues; the woman who stitches by the Polytechnic always does so.” My informant was very fond of music. One of the blind makes his own teeth, he told me; his front ones have all been replaced by one long bit of bone which he has fastened to the stumps of his two eye teeth: he makes them out of any old bit of bone he can pick up. He files them and drills a hole through them to fasten them into his head, and eats his food with them. He is obliged to have teeth because he plays the clarionet in the street. “Music,” he said, “is our only enjoyment, we all like to listen to it and learn it.” It affects them greatly, they tell me, and if a lively tune is played, they can hardly help dancing. “Many a tune I’ve danced to so that I could hardly walk the next day,” said one. Almost all of the blind men are clever at reckoning. It seems to come natural to them after the loss of their sight. By counting they say they spend many a dull hour--it appears to be all mental arithmetic with them, for they never aid their calculations by their fingers or any signs whatever. My informant knew a blind man who could reckon on what day it was new moon for a hundred years back, or when it will be new moon a century to come--he had never had a book read to him on the subject in his life--he was one of the blind wandering musicians. My informant told me he often sits for hours and calculates how many quarters of ounces there are in a ship-load of tea, and such like things. Many of the blind are very partial to the smell of flowers. My informant knew one blind man about the streets who always would have some kind of smelling flowers in his room.

“The blind are very ingenious; oh, very!” said one to me, “they can do anything that they can feel. One blind man who kept a lodging-house at Manchester and had a wife fond of drink, made a little chest of drawers (about two feet high), in which he used to put his money, and so cleverly did he arrange it that neither his wife nor any one else could get at the money without breaking the drawers all to pieces. Once while her blind husband was on his travels, she opened every drawer by means of false keys, and though she took each one out, she could find no means to get at the money, which she could hear jingling inside when she shook it. At last she got so excited over it that she sent for a carpenter, and even he was obliged to confess that he could not get to it without taking the drawers to pieces. The same blind man had a great fancy for white mice, and made a little house for them out of pieces of wood cut into the shape of bricks: there were doors, windows, and all,” said my informant. The blind are remarkable for the quickness of their hearing--one man assured me he could hear the lamp-posts in the streets, and, indeed, any substance (any solid thing he said) that he passed in the street, provided it be as high as his ear; if it were below that he could not hear it so well.

“Do you know, I can hear any substance in the street as I pass it by, even the lamp-post or a dead wall--anything that’s the height of my head, let it be ever so small, just as well, and tell what it is as well as you as can see. One night I was coming home--you’ll be surprised to hear this--along Burlington-gardens, between twelve and one o’clock, and a gentleman was following me. I knew he was not a poor man by his walk, but I didn’t consider he was watching me. I just heerd when I got between Sackville-street and Burlington-street. Oh, I knows every inch of the street, and I can go as quick as you can, and walk four mile an hour; know where I am all the while. I can tell the difference of the streets by the sound of my ear--a wide street and a narrow street--I can’t tell a long street till I get to the bottom of it. I can tell when I come to an opening or a turning just by the click on the ear, without either my touching with hand or stick. Well, as I was saying, this gentleman was noticing me, and just as I come to turn up Cork-street, which, you know, is my road to go into Bond-street, on my way home; just as I come into Cork-street, and was going to turn round the corner, the sergeant of police was coming from Bond-street, at the opposite corner of Cork-street, I heerd him, and he just stopped to notice me, but didn’t know the gentleman was noticing me too. I whipped round the corner as quick as any man that had his sight, and said, ‘Good night, policeman.’ I can tell a policeman’s foot anywhere, when he comes straight along in his regular way while on his beat, and they all know it too. I can’t tell it where there’s a noise, but in the stillness of the night nothing would beat me. I can’t hear the lamp-posts when there’s a noise. When I said, ‘Good night, policeman,’ the gentleman whipped across to him, and says, ‘Is that man really blind?’ and by this time I was half way up Cork-street, when the gentleman hallooed to me to stop; and he comes up, and says, says he, ‘Are you really blind?’ The sergeant of police was with him, and he says, ‘Yes, he is really blind, sir;’ and then he says, ‘How is it that you go so cleverly along the street if you’re blind?’ Well, I didn’t want to stop bothering with him, so I merely says, ‘I do far cleverer things than that. I can hear the lamp-post as well as you that can see it.’ He says, ‘Yes, because you know the distance from one to another.’ The sergeant stood there all the time, and he says, ‘No, that can’t be, for they’re not a regular distance one from another.’ Then the gentleman says, ‘Now, could you tell if I was standing in the street when you passed me by?’ I said, ‘Yes; but you mustn’t stand behind the lamp-post to deceive me with the sound of the substance.’ Then he went away to try me, and a fine try we had. He will laugh when he sees that they’re all put down. When he went away I recollected that if he didn’t stand as near to the pavement as the lamp-post is, and remain still, he’d deceive me. Oh, certainly, I couldn’t hear him if he was far off, and I shouldn’t hear him in the same way as I can hear the lamp-posts if he didn’t stand still. The policeman hallooed after him, and told him that he mustn’t deceive me; but he wouldn’t make no answer, for fear I should catch the sound of his voice and know where he was. I had agreed to touch every substance as I went along and round the street to look for him; we always call it looking though we are blind. Well, when he had stood still the sergeant told me to go; he’s the sergeant of St. James’ station-house, and has been often speaking to me since about it; and on I went at the rate of about three mile an hour, and touched every lamp-post without feeling for them, but just struck them with my stick as I went by, without stopping, and cried out, ‘There’s a substance.’ At last I come to him. There’s a mews, you know, just by the hotel in Cork-street, and the gentleman stood between the mews and Clifford-street, in Cork-street; and when I come up to him, I stopped quite suddenly, and cried out ‘There’s a substance.’ As I was offering to touch him with my stick, he drew back very softly, just to deceive me. Then he would have another try, but I picked him out again, but that wouldn’t satisfy him, and he would try me a third time; and then, when I come up to him, he kept drawing back, right into the middle of the road. I could hear the stones scrunch under his feet; so I says, ‘Oh, that’s not fair;’ and he says, ‘Well, I’m bet.’ Then he made me a present, and said that he would like to spend an hour some night with me again. I don’t think he was a doctor, ’cause he never took no notice of my eyes, but he was a real gentleman--the sergeant said so.

“When I dream, it’s just the same as I am now, I dream of hearing and touching. The last dream that I had was about a blind man--that’s in prison just now. I went into his wife’s house, I knew it was her house by the sound of my foot in it. I can tell whether a place is clean or dirty by the sound. Then I heard her say, ‘Well, how do you get on?’ and I said ‘Very well;’ and she said ‘Sit down,’ and after sitting there a little while, I heard a voice at the door, and I said to her, ‘Bless me, wouldn’t you think that was John;’ she said, ‘Yes, I would,’ but she took no farther notice, and I heard his voice repeatedly. I thought he was speaking to a child, and I got up and went to the door, and says, ‘Halloa! is this you;’ I was quite surprised and took him by the arm (laying his hand on his own) and he was in his shirt sleeves. I knew that by the feel. Then I was kind of afeard of him, though I am not afeard of anything. I was rather surprised that he should come out three weeks before his time. Then I dreamt that he tried to frighten and pushed me down on the floor, that way (making the motion sideways), to make me believe he was a ghost. I felt it as plain as I should if you were to do the same to me now. I says to him ‘Don’t be so foolish, sit down’, and I pushed him away and got up. When I got up, his wife says to him, ‘Sit down, John, and don’t be so foolish; sit down, and behave yourself;’ and then we set down the two of us, just on the edge of the bed (here he moved his hand along the edge of the table). I thought it was turned down. He’s a very resolute man and a wicked one, this blind man is, so I would like to have been out from him, but I was afeard to go, for he’d got a hold of me; after that I waked and I heerd no more. But it’s my real opinion that he’s dead now, it is indeed, through having such dreams of him I think so; and the same night his wife dreamt that I was killed and all knocked into about a hundred pieces; and those two dreams convince me something’s come to him. Oh, I do firmly believe in dreams, that I do; they’re sent for people to foresee things, I’m certain of it, if people will only take notice of ’em. I have been many times in prison myself, while I’ve been travelling the country. You know in many towns they comes and takes you up without given you never no warning if they catches you begging. I was took up once in Liverpool, once in Hull, once in Exeter, and once in Biddeford, in Devonshire. Most of the times I had a month, and one of them only seven days. I think that’s very unjust--never to say you mustn’t do it; but to drag you off without never no warning. Every time before I was put in quod I had always dreamt that my father was starving to death for want of victuals, and at last I got to know whenever I dreamt that, I was sure of going to prison. I never dreamt about my mother; she died, you see, when I was very young, and I never remember hearing her speak but once or twice. My father never did the thing that was right to me, and I didn’t care much about him. When I was at home I was very fond of pigeons, and my mind went so much upon them, that I used to dream of it the night before, always when they had eggs, and when my rabbits had young ones too. I know when I wake in the morning that I am awake by my thoughts. Sometimes I dream I’ve got a lot of money in my hand, and when I wake and put my hand to feel it, it’s gone, there’s none there, and so I know it’s been only a dream. I’m much surprised at my disappointment though.”

Many of the blind are very fond of keeping birds and animals; some of them keep pigeons in one of their rooms, others have cocks and hens, and others white mice and rabbits, and almost all have dogs, though all are not led about by them. Some blind men take delight in having nothing but bull-dogs, not to lead them, but solely for fancy. Nobody likes a dog so much as a blind man, I am told--“they can’t--the blind man is so much beholden to his dog, he does him such favours and sarvices.” “With my dog I can go to any part of London as independent as any one who has got his sight. Yesterday afternoon when I left your house, sir, I was ashamed of going through the street. People was a saying, ‘Look’ee there, that’s the man as says he’s blind.’ I was going so quick, it was so late you know, they couldn’t make it out, but without my dog I must have crawled along, and always be in great fear. The name of my present dog is ‘KEEPER;’ he is a mongrel breed; I have had him nine years, and he is with me night and day, goes to church with me and all. If I go out without him, he misses me, and then he scampers all through the streets where I am in the habit of going, crying and howling after me, just as if he was fairly out of his mind. It’s astonishing. Often, before my first blind wife died (for I’ve been married twice to blind women, and once to a seeing woman), I used to say I’d sooner lose my wife than my dog; but when I did lose her I was sorry that ever I did say so. I didn’t know what it was. I’m sorry for it yet, and ever will be sorry for it; she was a very good woman, and had fine principles. I shall never get another that I liked so much as the first. My dog knows every word I say to him. Tell him to turn right or left, or cross over, and whip! round he goes in a moment. Where I go for my tobacco, at the shop in Piccadilly, close to the Arcade--it’s down six or seven steps, straight down--and when I tells Keeper to go to the baccy shop, off he is, and drags me down the steps, with the people after me, thinking he’s going to break my neck down the place, and the people stands on top the steps making all kinds of remarks, while I’m below. If he was to lose me to-night or to-morrow, he’d come back here and rise the whole neighbourhood. He knows any public-house, no matter whether he was there before or not; just whisper to him, go to the public-house, and away he scampers and drags me right into the first he comes to. Directly I whisper to him, go to the public-house, he begins playing away with the basket he has in his mouth, throwing it up and laying it down--throwing it and laying it down for pleasure; he gets his rest there, and that’s why he’s so pleased. It’s the only place I can go to in my rounds to sit down. Oh, he’s a dear clever fellow. Now, only to show you how faithful he is, one night last week I was coming along Burlington-gardens, and I stopped to light my pipe as I was coming home, and I let him loose to play a bit and get a drink; and after I had lit my pipe I walked on, for I knew the street very well without any guide. I didn’t take notice of the dog, for I thought he was following me. I was just turning into Clifford-street when I heard the cries of him in Burlington-gardens. I know his cry, let him be ever so far away; the screech that he set up was really quite dreadful; it would grieve anybody to hear him. So I puts my fingers in my mouth and gives a loud whistle; and at last he heard me, and then up he comes tearing along and panting away as if his heart was in his mouth; and when he gets up to me he jumped up to me right upon my back, and screams like--as if really he wanted to speak--you can’t call it panting, because it’s louder than that, and he does pant when he a’n’t tired at all; all I can say is, it’s for all the world like his speaking, and I understands it as such. If I say a cross word to him after he’s lost--such as, ah, you rascal, you--he’ll just stand of one side, and give a cry just like a Christian. I’ve known him break the windows up two story high when I’ve left him behind, and down he would have been after me only he durstn’t jump out. I’ve had Keeper nine year. The dog I had before him was Blucher; he was a mongrel too; he had a tail like a wolf, an ear like a fox, and a face black like a monkey. I had him thirteen year. He was as clever as Keeper, but not so much loved as he is. At last he went blind; he was about two year losing his sight. When I found his eyes was getting bad I got Keeper. The way I first noticed him going blind was when I would come to cross a street on my way home; at nightfall the shade of the house on the opposite side, as we was crossing, would frighten him and drive him in the middle of the road; and he wouldn’t draw to the pavement till he found he was wrong; and then after that he began to run again the lamp-posts in the dark; when he did this he’d cry out just like a Christian. I was sorry for him, and he knowed that, for I used to fret. I was sorry for him on account of my own affliction. At last I was obligated to take to Keeper. I got him of another blind man, but he had no larning in him when he come to me. I was a long time teaching him, for I didn’t do it all at once. I could have teached him in a week, but I used to let the old dog have a run, while I put Keeper into the collar for a bit” (here the blind man was some time before he could proceed for his tears), “and so he larnt all he knows, little by little. Now Keeper and Blucher used to agree pretty well; but I’ve got another dog now, named Dash, and Keeper’s as jealous of him as a woman is of a man. If I say, ‘Come Keeper, come and have the collar on,’ I may call twenty times before he’ll come; but if I say, ‘Dash, come and have the collar on,’ Keeper’s there the first word, jumping up agin me, and doing anything but speak. At last my old Blucher went stone blind, as bad as his master; it was, poor thing; and then he used to fret so when I went out without him that I couldn’t bear it, and so got at length to take him always with me, and then he used to follow the knock of my stick. He done so for about six months, and then I was one night going along Piccadilly and I stops speaking to a policeman, and Blucher misses me; he couldn’t hear where I was for the noise of the carriages. He didn’t catch the sound of my stick, and couldn’t hear my voice for the carriages, so he went seeking me into the middle of the road, and there a buss run over him, poor thing. I heerd him scream out and I whistled to him, and he came howling dreadful on to the pavement again. I didn’t think he was so much hurt then, for I puts the collar on him to take him safe back, and he led me home blind as he was. The next morning he couldn’t rise up at all, his hind parts was useless to him. I took him in my arms and found he couldn’t move. Well, he never eat nor drink nothing for a week, and got to be in such dreadful pain that I was forced to have him killed. I got a man to drown him in a bag. I could’nt have done it myself for all the world. It would have been as bad to me as killing a Christian. I used to grieve terribly after I’d lost him. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I had had him so many years, and he had been with me night and day, my constant companion, and the most faithful friend I ever had, except Keeper: there’s nothing in the world can beat Keeper for faithfulness--nothing.”

OF THE LIFE OF A BLIND BOOT-LACE SELLER.

The blind boot lace-seller who gave me the following history of his life was the original of the portrait given in No. 17. He was a tall, strongly-built man. In face he was ghastly, his cheek bones were sharp and high, his nose flat to his face, and his eyes were so deeply sunk in that he had more the appearance of a death’s head than of a living man. His shirt was scrupulously clean. He wore a bright red cotton neckerchief and a plaid waistcoat of many colours. His dog accompanied him and never left his master’s side one moment.

“It’s very sorrowful--very sorrowful indeed to hear that,” said the boot-lace seller to me, on my reading him the account of the blind needle-seller; “it touches me much to hear that. But you see I don’t grieve for the loss of my sight as he do, poor man. I don’t remember ever seeing any object. If there was a thing with many colours in it, I could dissarn the highest colour. I couldn’t tell one from another, but only the highest.

“I was born in Northumberland,” he said, “about five-and-fifty years ago. My father was a grocer and had 1,000_l._ worth of freehold property besides his business, which was very large for a small town; his was the principal shop, and in the general line. He had a cart of his own, in which he attended market. I was very comfortably brought up, never wanted for nothing, and had my mother lived I should have had an independent fortune. At five years old, while mother was still alive, I caught the small pox. I had four sisters and one brother, and we all six had it at once; that was before the vaccination was properly established. I’ve heerd said that father did not want to have us inoculated, because of the people coming backwards and forwards to the shop. I only wish vaccination had been in vogue then as it is now, and I shouldn’t have lost my eyes. God bless the man who brought it up, I say; people doesn’t know what they’ve got to thank him for. Well, all my sisters and brothers had not a mark upon them. It laid hold of only me. They couldn’t lay a finger upon me, they was obligated to lift me up in one of my father’s shirts, by holding the corners of it like a sheet. As soon as ever the pock began to decay it took away my eyes altogether. I didn’t lose both my eyeballs till about twenty years after that, though my sight was gone for all but the shadow of daylight and any high colours. At sixteen years of age my left eye bursted; I suffered terribly then--oh terribly! yes, that I did. The black-and-white like all mixed together, the pock came right through the star of the eye the doctor said; and when I was five-and-twenty my other eye-ball bursted, and then my eyes was quite out of my head. Till that time I could see a little bit; I could tell the daylight, and I could see the moon, but not the shape of it. I never could see a star, and do you know I grieved about the loss of that little bit of sight as much as if I was losing the whole of it. As my eye-ball sloughed day by day, I could see the light going away by little, every day till the week’s end. When I looked at the daylight just before it all went, I could see the light look as red as fire--as red as blood; and when it all left me, oh, I was dreadful sorrowful, I thought I was lost altogether. But, I shouldn’t have been so bad off, as I said, if mother had lived, but she died when I was about six year old. I didn’t care much about her, indeed I took a dreadful dislike to her. I heerd her say one day to a person in the shop, that she would sooner see me dead and buried than be as I was, but now I know that it was her fondness for me. Mother catched a cold, and died after six day’s illness. When she was gone, father got to neglect his business. He had no one then to attend to it, and he took and shut up the shop. He lost heart, you see. He took and turned all the tenants out of his property, and furnished all the rooms of a large house suitable for the quality that used to come to the town to bathe. He mortgaged the place for 250_l._ to buy the furniture, and that was the ruin of him. Eighteen years afterwards the lawyers got the better of him, and all the family was turned out of the door without a penny. My father they’d put in jail before. He died a few years afterwards in the workhouse. When the family was turned out, there was only my eldest brother away at sea, and my eldest sister in sarvice; so me and my three sisters was sent in the wide world without the means of getting a crust or a place to put our heads in. All my sisters after that got into sarvice, and I went to drive some coal carts at North Shields. The coal carts was father’s, and they was all he had left out of his property; so I used to go to Wall’s End and fill the carts, then take them down to North Shields and sell them at the people’s doors. We never used to sell less than the load. I did all this, blind as I was, without a person to guide, and continued at it night and day for about fifteen year. It was well known to the whole country side. I was the talk for miles round. They couldn’t believe I was blind; though they see my eyes was gone, still they couldn’t hardly believe. Then, after the fifteen year, me and my father had a complete fall out. He took an advantage of my sister. He had borrowed 20_l._ of her, and when he could he wouldn’t pay her. He behaved as bad as father could, and then I broke with him.” (He then went over the whole story, and was affected, even to speechlessness, at the remembrance of his family troubles. Into these there is no necessity to enter here; suffice it, the blind man appears to have behaved very nobly.) “I came away and went to my brother, who was well off at Hull; when I got there, I found he had gone to Russia and died there that very spring. While I was on my way to Hull, I used to go to sleep at the lodging-houses for travellers. I had never been in one before, and there I got to think, from what I heerd, that a roving life was a fine pleasant one. The very first lodging-house I went into was one in Durham, and there persons as was coming the same road persuaded me to go and beg with them, but I couldn’t cheek it; it was too near hand at home. We came on to Darlington, that was 18 miles further, that day. They still kept company with me, and wanted me to beg, but I wouldn’t; I couldn’t face it. I thought people would know me. The next day we started on our way to Northallerton, and then my few shillings was all gone; so that night we went to seek relief, and got a pennyworth of milk, and a penny loaf each and our bed. The parish gave us a ticket to a lodging-house. The next morning we started from Northallerton, and then I was very hungry; all I had the day before was the pennyworth of bread I got from the parish. Then as we got about a mile out of the town, there was a row of houses, and the Scotchman who was with me says, ‘If ye’ll gang up wi’ me, I’ll speak for ye.’ Well, we went up and got 3_d._, and plenty of bread and butter; almost every house we got something at; then I was highly delighted; thinks I, this is a business--and so I did. We shared with the other man who had come on the road with us, and after that we started once more, and then I was all eager to go on with the same business. You see I’d never had no pleasure, and it seemed to me like a new world--to be able to get victuals without doing anything--instead of slaving as I’d been with a couple of carts and horses at the coal-pits all the time. I didn’t think the country was half so big, and you couldn’t credit the pleasure I felt in going about it. I felt as if I didn’t care for nothing; it was so beautiful to be away there quite free, without any care in the world, for I could see plainly I could always get the best of victuals, and the price of my lodgings. There’s no part in all England like Yorkshire for living. We used to go to all the farm-houses, we wouldn’t miss one if it was half a mile off the road; if the Scotchman who was with me could only see a road he’d take me up it, and we got nice bits of pie and meat, and bread and cake, indeed as much as would serve four people, when we got to the lodging-house at night and a few shillings beside. I soon got not to care about the loss of my brother. At last we got to make so much money that I thought it was made to chuck about the streets. We got it so easy, you see. It was only 4_s._ or 5_s._, but then I was only a flatty or I could have made 14_s._ or 15_s._ at least. This was in Borough-bridge, and there at a place called, I think, Bridely-hill, there was a lodging-house without never a bed in it at all; but only straw littered on the ground, and here I found upwards of sixty or seventy, all tramps, and living in different ways, pattering, and thieving, and singing, and all sorts; and that night I got to think it was the finest scene I had ever known. I grew pleaseder, and pleaseder, with the life, and wondered how any one could follow any other. There was no drunkenness, but it was so new and strange, and I’d never known nothing of life before, that I was bewildered, like, with over-joy at it. Then I soon got to think I’d have the summer’s pleasure out and wouldn’t go near Hull till the back end of the year, for it was the month of May, that what I’m talking about took place; and so things went on. I never thought of home, or sisters, or anything, indeed. I was so over-joyed that I could think of nothing else. Whenever I got to a new county it seemed like getting into a new nation, and when I heard we were close upon a new place I used to long and long to get into it. At last I left the Scotchman and took up with an old sailor, a man-of-warsman, who was coming up to London to get his pension, and he was a regular ‘cadger’ like the other who had put me ‘fly to the dodge,’ though none of us wer’nt ‘fly’ to nothing then. I can’t tell you, I wanted to, how I longed to be in town, and, as I came through the streets with him, I didn’t know whether I carried the streets or they carried me. You see I had heard people talk about London in North Shields, and I thought there was no poor people there at all--none but ladies and gentlemen and sailors. In London the sailor drew his pension, and he and me got robbed, and then the sailor left me, and then I started off without a penny into the country; and at Stratford-le-Bow I began, for the first time, to say, ‘Pity the poor blind.’ Up to this time I had never axed no one--never spoke, indeed--the cadgers who had been with me had done this for me, and glad to have the chance of sharing with me. A blind man can get a guide at any place, because they know he’s sure to get something. I took only 5_d._ at Stratford-le-Bow, and then started on my way to Romford; and there, in the lodging-house, I met a blind man, who took me in partnership with him, and larnt me my business complete--that he just did, and since then I’ve been following it, and that’s about two or three and twenty year ago. Since I’ve been in London, and that’s fourteen year, I’ve lived very regular, always had a place, and attended my church. If it hadn’t been for the lodging-houses I should never, may be, have been as I am; though, I must confess, I always had a desire to find out travelling, but couldn’t get hold of any one to put me in the way of it. I longed for a roving life and to shake a loose leg, still I couldn’t have done much else after my quarrel with my father. My sister had offered to lend me money enough to buy a horse and cart for myself, but I didn’t like that, and thought I’d get it of my brother at Hull; and that and the padding kens is solely the cause of my being as I am; and since I first travelled there’s more now than ever--double and treble as many.”

OF THE LOW LODGING-HOUSES.

The revelations of the Blind Boot-Lace Seller concerning the low lodging-houses make me anxious to arouse the public to a full sense of the atrocities committed and countenanced in those infamous places. It will have been noticed that the blind man frankly tells us that he was “taught his business” as a mendicant in one of these houses of call for vagabonds of all kinds--beggars, prostitutes, cheats, and thieves. Up to the time of his starting to see his brother at Hull, he appears to have had no notion of living but by his labour, and, more especially, no wish to make a trade of his affliction. Till then he seems to have been susceptible of some of the nobler impulses of humanity, and to have left his home solely because he refused to be party to a fraud on his own sister. Unfortunately, however, on his way to carry out his generous purposes, he put up for the night at the “travellers’” house in the town where he arrived, at the end of his first day’s journey; from the very minute that he set foot in the place he was a lost man. Here were assembled scores of the most degraded and vicious members of society, lying in ambush, as it were, like tigers in the jungle, ready to spring upon and make a prey of any one who came within the precincts of their lair. To such as these--sworn to live on the labours of others, and knowing almost to a sixpence the value of each human affliction as a means of operating upon both the heart-strings and the purse-strings of the more benevolent of the industrious or the affluent--to such as these, I say, a blind man, unskilled in the art and system of mendicancy, was literally a God-send. A shipwreck or a colliery explosion, as they too well knew, some of the more sceptical of the public might call in question, but a real blind man, with his eye-balls gone, was beyond all doubt; and to inspire faith, as they were perfectly aware, was one of the most important and difficult processes of the beggar’s craft. Besides, of all misfortunes, blindness is one which, to those who have their sight, appears not only the greatest of human privations, but a privation which wholly precludes the possibility of self-help, and so gives the sufferer the strongest claim on our charity. In such a place, therefore, as a low lodging-house, the common resort of all who are resolved not to work for their living, it was almost impossible for a blind man to pass even an hour without every virtuous principle of his nature being undermined, and overtures of the most tempting character being made to him. To be allowed to go partners in so valuable a misfortune was a privilege that many there would strive for; accordingly, as we have seen, the day after the blind man entered the low lodging-house, he who, up to that time, had been, even in his affliction, earning his living, was taken out by one of the “travellers,” and taught how much better a living--how much more of the good things of this world--he could get by mendicancy than by industry; and from the very hour when the blind man learnt this, the most dangerous lesson that any human being can possibly be taught, he became, heart and soul, an ingrained beggar. His description of the delight he felt when he found that he had no longer any need to work--that he could rove about the country as he pleased--without a care, without a purpose--with a perfect sense of freedom, and a full enjoyment of the open air in the day, and the wild licence of the lodging-house society at night, satisfied that he could get as much food and drink, and even money as he needed, solely for the asking for it; his description of this is a frank confession of a few of the charms of vagabondism--charms to which the more sedate are not only strangers, but of which they can form no adequate conception. The pleasure of “shaking a loose leg,” as the vagrants themselves call it, is, perhaps, known only in its intensity by those wayward spirits who object to the restraint of work or the irksomeness of any settled pursuit. The perfect thoughtlessness that the blind man describes as the first effect produced upon him by his vagabondism is the more remarkable, because it seems to have effaced from his mind all regard, even for the sister for whose sake he had quitted his home--though to those who have made a study of the vagrant character it is one of those curious inconsistencies which form the principal feature in the idiosyncrasy of the class, and which, indeed, are a necessary consequence of the very purposelessness, or want of some permanent principle or feeling, which constitutes, as it were, the mainspring of vagabondism. Indeed, the blind man was a strange compound of cunning and good feeling; at one moment he was weeping over the afflictions of others--he was deeply moved when I read to him the sufferings of the Crippled Nutmeg-Grater Seller; and yet, the next minute he was grinning behind his hand, so that his laughter might be concealed from me, in a manner that appeared almost fiendish. Still, I am convinced that at heart he was far from a bad man; there was, amid the degradation that necessarily comes of habitual mendicancy, a fine expression of sympathy, that the better class of poor always exhibit towards the poor; nor could I help wondering when I heard him--the professed mendicant--tell me how he had been moved to tears by the recital of the sufferings of another mendicant--sufferings that might have been as profitable a stock in trade to the one as his blindness was to the other; though it is by no means unusual for objects of charity to have their objects of charity, and to be imposed upon by fictitious or exaggerated tales of distress, almost as often as they impose upon others by the very same means.

I now invite the reader’s attention to the narratives given below as to the character of the low lodging-houses. The individuals furnishing me with those statements, it should be observed, were not “picked” people, but taken promiscuously from a number belonging to the same class. I shall reserve what else I may have to remark on the subject till the conclusion of those statements.

Prisons, tread-mills, penal settlements, gallows, I said, eighteen months ago, in the ‘Morning Chronicle,’ are all vain and impotent as punishments--and Ragged Schools and City missions are of no avail as preventives of crime--so long as the wretched dens of infamy, brutality, and vice, termed “padding-kens” continue their daily and nightly work of demoralization. If we would check the further spread of our criminals--and within the last four years they have increased from 24,000 to 30,000--we must apply ourselves to the better regulation and conduct of these places. At present they are not only the preparatory schools, but the finishing academies for every kind of profligacy and crime.

“The system of lodging-houses for travellers, otherwise trampers,” says the Constabulary Commissioners’ Report, “requires to be altogether revised; at present they are in the practice of lodging all the worst characters unquestioned, and are subject to no other control than an occasional visit of inspection from the parish officers, accompanied by the constables, whose power of interference--if they have a legal right of entry--does not extend to some of the most objectionable points connected with those houses, as they can merely take into custody such persons as they find in commission of some offence. The state in which those houses are found on the occasion of such visit, proves how much they require interference. The houses are small, and yet as many as thirty travellers, or even thirty-five, have been found in one house; fifteen have been found sleeping in one room, three or four in a bed--men, women, and children, promiscuously: beds have been found occupied in a cellar. It is not necessary to urge the many opportunities of preparing for crime which such a state of things presents, or the actual evils arising from such a mode of harbouring crowds of low and vicious persons.”

According to the report of the Constabulary Commissioners, there were in 1839--

Total No. Mendicants’ of Lodging-houses. Lodgers. Inmates.

In London 221 average 11 or 2,431 In Liverpool 176 6 1,056 Bristol 69 7 483 Bath 14 9 126 Kingston-on-Hull 11 3 33 Newcastle-on-Tyne 78 3 234 Chester (see Report, p. 35) 150 3 450 --- ----- 619 4,813

Moreover, the same Report tells us, at p. 32, that there is a low lodging-house for tramps in every village. By the Post-office Directory there are 3823 postal towns in England and Wales; and assuming that in each of these towns there are two “travellers’” houses, and that each of these, upon an average, harbours every night ten tramps (in a list given at p. 311, there were in 83 towns no less than 678 low lodging-houses, receiving 10,860 lodgers every night; this gives, on an average, 8 such houses to each town, and 16 lodgers to each such house), we have thus 76,460 for the total number of the inmates of such houses.

To show the actual state of these lodging-houses from the testimony of one who had been long resident in them, I give the following statement. It was made to me by a man of superior education and intelligence (as the tone of his narrative fully shows), whom circumstances, which do not affect the object of my present letter, and therefore need not be detailed, had reduced from affluence to beggary, so that he was compelled to be a constant resident in those places. All the other statements that I obtained on the subject--and they were numerous--were corroborative of his account to the very letter:--