From the bird-seller whose portrait will be given in the next number
of this work I have received the following account. The statement
previously given was that of a catcher and street-seller, as are the
great majority in the trade; the following narrative is that of one
who, from his infirmities, is merely a street-_seller_.
[Illustration: THE CRIPPLED STREET BIRD-SELLER.
[_From a Daguerreotype by_ BEARD.]]
The poor man’s deformity may be best understood by describing it in his
own words: “I have no ancle.” His right leg is emaciated, the bone is
smaller than that of his other leg (which is not deformed), and there
is no ancle joint. The joints of the wrists and shoulders are also
defective, though not utterly wanting, as in the ancle. In walking
this poor cripple seems to advance by means of a series of jerks. He
uses his deformed leg, but must tread, or rather support his body,
on the ball of the misformed foot, while he advances his sound leg;
then, with a twist of his body, after he has advanced and stands upon
his undeformed leg and foot, he throws forward the crippled part of
his frame by the jerk I have spoken of. His arms are usually pressed
against his ribs as he walks, and convey to a spectator the notion
that he is unable to raise them from that position. This, however, is
not the case; he can raise them, not as a sound man does, but with an
effort and a contortion of his body to humour the effort. His speech
is also defective, his words being brought out, as it were, by jerks;
he has to prepare himself, and to throw up his chin, in order to
converse, and then he speaks with difficulty. His face is sun-burnt and
healthy-looking. His dress was a fustian coat with full skirts, cloth
trowsers somewhat patched, and a clean coarse shirt. His right shoe was
suited to his deformity, and was strapped with a sort of leather belt
round the lower part of the leg.
A considerable number of book-stall keepers, as well as costermongers,
swag-barrowmen, ginger-beer and lemonade sellers, orange-women,
sweet-stuff vendors, root-sellers, and others, have established their
pitches--some of them having stalls with a cover, like a roof--from
Whitechapel workhouse to the Mile End turnpike-gate; near the gate they
are congregated most thickly, and there they are mixed with persons
seated on the forms belonging to adjacent innkeepers, which are placed
there to allow any one to have his beer and tobacco in the open air.
Among these street-sellers and beer-drinkers is seated the crippled
bird-seller, generally motionless.
His home is near the Jews’ burial-ground, and in one of the many
“places” which by a misnomer, occasioned by the change in the
character and appearance of what _were_ the outskirts, are still
called “Pleasant.” On seeking him here, I had some little difficulty
in finding the house, and asking a string of men, who were chopping
fire-wood in an adjoining court, for the man I wanted, mentioning
his name, no one knew anything about him; though when I spoke of his
calling, “O,” they said, “you want Old Billy.” I then found Billy at
his accustomed pitch, with a very small stock of birds in two large
cages on the ground beside him, and he accompanied me to his residence.
The room in which we sat had a pile of fire-wood opposite the door;
the iron of the upper part of the door-latch being wanting was
replaced by a piece of wood--and on the pile sat a tame jackdaw, with
the inquisitive and askant look peculiar to the bird. Above the pile
was a large cage, containing a jay--a bird seldom sold in the streets
now--and a thrush, in different compartments. A table, three chairs,
and a hamper or two used in the wood-cutting, completed the furniture.
Outside the house were cages containing larks, goldfinches, and a very
fine starling, of whose promising abilities the bird-seller’s sister
had so favourable an opinion that she intended to try and teach it to
talk, although that was very seldom done now.
The following is the statement I obtained from the poor fellow. The
man’s sister was present at his desire, as he was afraid I could not
understand him, owing to the indistinctness of his speech; but that was
easy enough, after awhile, with a little patience and attention.
“I was born a cripple, sir,” he said, “and I shall die one. I was born
at Lewisham, but I don’t remember living in any place but London. I
remember being at Stroud though, where my father had taken me, and
bathed me often in the sea himself, thinking it might do me good. I’ve
heard him say, too, that when I was very young he took me to almost
every hospital in London, but it was of no use. My father and mother
were as kind to me and as good parents as could be. He’s been dead
nineteen years, and my mother died before him. Father was very poor,
almost as poor as I am. He worked in a brick-field, but work weren’t
regular. I couldn’t walk at all until I was six years old, and I was
between nine and ten before I could get up and down stairs by myself.
I used to slide down before, as well as I could, and had to be carried
up. When I could get about and went among other boys, I was in great
distress, I was teased so. Life was a burthen to me, as I’ve read
something about. They used to taunt me by offering to jump me” (invite
him to a jumping match), “and to say, I’ll run you a race on one leg.
They were bad to me then, and they are now. I’ve sometimes sat down and
cried, but not often. No, sir, I can’t say that I ever wished I was
dead. I hardly know why I cried. I suppose because I was miserable. I
learned to read at a Sunday school, where I went a long time. I like
reading. I read the Bible and tracts, nothing else; never a newspaper.
It don’t come in my way, and if it did I shouldn’t look at it, for I
can’t read over well and it’s nothing to me who’s king or who’s queen.
It can never have anything to do with me. It don’t take my attention.
There’ll be no change for me in this world. When I was thirteen my
father put me into the bird trade. He knew a good many catchers. I’ve
been bird-selling in the streets for six-and-twenty years and more,
for I was 39 the 24th of last January. Father didn’t know what better
he could put me to, as I hadn’t the right use of my hands or feet,
and at first I did very well. I liked the birds and do still. I used
to think at first that they was like me; they was prisoners, and I
was a cripple. At first I sold birds in Poplar, and Limehouse, and
Blackwall, and was a help to my parents, for I cleared 9_s._ or 10_s._
every week. But now, oh dear, I don’t know where all the money’s gone
to. I think there’s very little left in the country. I’ve sold larks,
linnets, and goldfinches, to captains of ships to take to the West
Indies. I’ve sold them, too, to go to Port Philip. O, and almost all
those foreign parts. They bring foreign birds here, and take back
London birds. I don’t know anything about foreign birds. I know there’s
men dressed as sailors going about selling them; they’re duffers--I
mean the men. There’s a neighbour of mine, that’s very likely never
been 20 miles out of London, and when he hawks birds he always dresses
like a countryman, and duffs that way.
“When my father died,” continued the man, “I was completely upset;
everything in the world was upset. I was forced to go into the
workhouse, and I was there between four and five months. O, I hated
it. I’d rather live on a penny loaf a day than be in it again. I’ve
never been near the parish since, though I’ve often had nothing to
eat many a day. I’d rather be lamer than I am, and be oftener called
silly Billy--and that sometimes makes me dreadful wild--than be in the
workhouse. It was starvation, but then I know I’m a hearty eater, very
hearty. Just now I know I could eat a shilling plate of meat, but for
all that I very seldom taste meat. I live on bread and butter and tea,
sometimes bread without butter. When I have it I eat a quartern loaf
at three meals. It depends upon how I’m off. My health’s good. I never
feel in any pain now; I did when I first got to walk, in great pain.
Beer I often don’t taste once in two or three months, and this very hot
weather one can’t help longing for a drop, when you see people drinking
it all sides of you, but they have the use of their limbs.” [Here two
little girls and a boy rushed into the room, for they had but to open
the door from the outside, and, evidently to tease the poor fellow,
loudly demanded “a ha’penny bird.” When the sister had driven them
away, my informant continued.] “I’m still greatly teased, sir, with
children; yes, and with men too, both when they’re drunk and sober.
I think grown persons are the worst. They swear and use bad language
to me. I’m sure I don’t know why. I know no name they call me by in
particular when I’m teased, if it isn’t ‘Old Hypocrite.’ I can’t say
why they call me ‘hypocrite.’ I suppose because they know no better.
Yes, I think I’m religious, rather. I would be more so, if I had
clothes. I get to chapel sometimes.” [A resident near the bird-seller’s
pitch, with whom I had some conversation, told me of “Billy” being
sometimes teased in the way described. Some years ago, he believed it
was at Limehouse, my informant heard a gentlemanly-looking man, tipsy,
d--n the street bird-seller for Mr. _Hobbler_, and bid him go to the
Mansion House, or to h--l. I asked the cripple about this, but he had
no recollection of it; and, as he evidently did not understand the
allusion to Mr. Hobbler, I was not surprised at his forgetfulness.]
“I like to sit out in the sunshine selling my birds,” he said. “If it’s
rainy, and I can’t go out, because it would be of no use, I’m moped to
death. I stay at home and read a little; or I chop a little fire-wood,
but you may be very sure, sir, its little I can do that way. I never
associate with the neighbours. I never had any pleasure, such as going
to a fair, or like that. I don’t remember having ever spent a penny in
a place of amusement in my life. Yes, I’ve often sat all day in the
sun, and of course a deal of thoughts goes through my head. I think,
shall I be able to afford myself plenty of bread when I get home? And
I think of the next world sometimes, and feel quite sure, quite, that
I shan’t be a cripple there. Yes, that’s a comfort, for this world
will never be any good to me. I feel that I shall be a poor starving
cripple, till I end, perhaps, in the workhouse. Other poor men can
get married, but not such as me. But I never was in love in my life,
never.” [Among the vagrants and beggars, I may observe, there are men
more terribly deformed than the bird-seller, who are married, or living
in concubinage.] “Yes, sir,” he proceeded, “I’m quite reconciled to my
lameness, quite; and have been for years. O, no, I never fret about
that now; but about starving, perhaps, and the workhouse.
“Before father died, the parish allowed us 1_s._ 6_d._ and a quartern
loaf a week; but after he was buried, they’d allow me nothing; they’d
only admit me into the house. I hadn’t a penny allowed to me when I
discharged myself and came out. I hardly know how ever I _did_ manage
to get a start again with the birds. I knew a good many catchers, and
they trusted me. Yes, they was all poor men. I did pretty tidy by bits,
but only when it was fine weather, until these five years or so, when
things got terrible bad. Particularly just the two last years with
me. Do you think times are likely to mend, sir, with poor people? If
working-men had only money, they’d buy innocent things like birds to
amuse them at home; but if they can’t get the money, as I’ve heard them
say when they’ve been pricing my stock, why in course they can’t spend
it.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the sister, “trade’s very bad. Where my husband and
I once earned 18_s._ at the fire-wood, and then 15_s._, we can’t now
earn 12_s._ the two of us, slave as hard as we will. I always dread the
winter a-coming. Though there may be more fire-wood wanted, there’s
greater expenses, and it’s a terrible time for such as us.”
“I dream sometimes, sir,” the cripple resumed in answer to my question,
“but not often. I often have more than once dreamed I was starving and
dying of hunger. I remember that, for I woke in a tremble. But most
dreams is soon forgot. I’ve never seemed to myself to be a cripple in
my dreams. Well, I can’t explain how, but I feel as if my limbs was
all free like--so beautiful. I dream most about starving I think, than
about anything else. Perhaps that’s when I have to go to sleep hungry.
I sleep very well, though, take it altogether. If I had only plenty to
live upon there would be nobody happier. I’m happy enough when times
is middling with me, only one feels it won’t last. I like a joke as
well as anybody when times is good; but that’s been very seldom lately.
“It’s all small birds I sell in the street now, except at a very odd
time. That jackdaw there, sir, he’s a very fine bird. I’ve tamed him
myself, and he’s as tame as a dog. My sister’s a very good hand among
birds, and helps me. She once taught a linnet to say ‘Joey’ as plain
as you can speak it yourself, sir. I buy birds of different catchers,
but haven’t money to buy the better kinds, as I have to sell at 3_d._,
and 4_d._, and 6_d._ mostly. If I had a pound to lay out in a few nice
cages and good birds, I think I could do middling, this fine weather
particler, for I’m a very good judge of birds, and know how to manage
them as well as anybody. Then birds is rather dearer to buy than they
was when I was first in the trade. The catchers have to go further,
and I’m afeared the birds is getting scarcer, and so there’s more time
taken up. I buy of several catchers. The last whole day that I was at
my pitch I sold nine birds, and took about 3_s._ If I could buy birds
ever so cheap, there’s always such losses by their dying. I’ve had
three parts of my young linnets die, do what I might, but not often so
many. Then if they die all the food they’ve had is lost. There goes
all for nothing the rape and flax-seed for your linnets, canary and
flax for your goldfinches, chopped eggs for your nightingales, and
German paste for your sky-larks. I’ve made my own German paste when
I’ve wanted a sufficient quantity. It’s made of pea-meal, treacle,
hog’s-lard, and moss-seed. I sell more goldfinches than anything else.
I used to sell a good many sparrows for shooting, but I haven’t done
anything that way these eight or nine years. It’s a fash’nable sport
still, I hear. I’ve reared nightingales that sung beautiful, and have
sold them at 4_s._ a piece, which was very cheap. They often die when
the time for their departure comes. A shopkeeper as supplied such
as I’ve sold would have charged 1_l._ a piece for them. One of my
favouritest birds is redpoles, but they’re only sold in the season.
I think it’s one of the most knowingest little birds that is; more
knowing than the goldfinch, in my opinion.
“My customers are all working people, all of them. I sell to nobody
else; I make 4_s._ or 5_s._; I call 5_s._ a good week at this time
of year, when the weather suits. I lodge with a married sister; her
husband’s a wood-chopper, and I pay 1_s._ 6_d._ a week, which is cheap,
for I’ve no sticks of my own. If I earn 4_s._ there’s only 2_s._ 6_d._
left to live on the week through. In winter, when I can make next to
nothing, and must keep my birds, it is terrible--oh yes, sir, if you
believe me, terrible!”