She is the widow of a sweep--“as respectable and ’dustrious a man,”
I was told, “as any in the neighbourhood of the ‘Borough;’ he was a
short man, sir,--very short,” said my informant, “and had a weakness
for top-boots, white hats, and leather breeches,” and in that
unsweeplike costume he would parade himself up and down the Dover and
New Kent-roads. He had a capital connexion (or, as his widow terms it,
“seat of business”), and left behind him a good name and reputation
that would have kept the “seat of business” together, if it had not
been for the misconduct of the children, two of whom (sons) have been
transported, while a daughter “went wrong,” though she, wretched
creature, paid a fearful penalty, I learnt, for her frailties, having
been burnt to death in the middle of the night, through a careless
habit of smoking in bed.
The old sweeper herself, eighty years of age, and almost beyond labour,
very deaf, and rather feeble to all appearance, yet manages to get
out every morning between four and five, so as to catch the workmen
and “time-keepers” on their way to the factories. She has the true
obsequious curtsey, but is said to be very strong in her “likes and
dislikes.”
She bears a good character, though sometimes inclining, I was informed,
towards “the other half-pint,” but never guilty of any excess. She is
somewhat profuse in her scriptural ejaculations and professions of
gratitude. Her statement was as follows:--
“Fifteen years I’ve been on the crossing, come next Christmas. My
husband died in Guy’s Hospital, of the cholera, three days after he got
in, and I took to the crossing some time after. I had nothing to do.
I am eighty years of age, and I couldn’t do hard work. I have nothing
but what the great God above pleases to give me. The poor woman who had
the crossing before me was killed, and so I took it. The gentleman who
was the foreman of the road, gave me the grant to take it. I didn’t
ask him, for poor people as wants a bit of bread they goes on the
crossings as they likes, but he never interfered with me. The first day
I took sixpence; but them good times is all gone, they’ll never come
back again. The best times I used to take a shilling a-day, and now I
don’t take but a few pence. The winter is as bad as the summer, for
poor people haven’t got it to give, and gentlefolks get very near now.
People are not so liberal as they used to be, and they never will be
again.
“To do a hard day’s washing, I couldn’t. I used to go to a lady’s house
to do a bit of washing when I had my strength, but I can’t do it now.
“People going to their offices at six or seven in the morning gives me
a ha’penny or a penny; if they don’t, I must go without it. I go at
five, and stand there till eleven or twelve, till I find it is no use
being there any longer. Oh, the gentlemen give me the most, I’m sure;
the ladies don’t give me nothing.
“At Christmas I get a few things--a gentleman gave me these boots I’ve
got on, and a ticket for a half-quartern loaf and a hundred of coals. I
have got as much as five shillings at Christmas--but those times will
never come back again. I get no more than two shillings and sixpence at
Christmas now.
“My husband, Thomas ---- was his name, was a chimley-sweep. He did a
very good business--it was all done by his sons. We had a boy with
us, too, just as a friendly boy. I was a mother and a mistress to
him. I’ve had eleven children. I’m grandmother to fifteen, and a
great-grandmother, too. They won’t give me a bite of bread, though, any
of ’em, I’ve got four children living, as far as I know, two abroad
and two home here with families. I never go among ’em. It is not in my
power to assist ’em, so I never go to distress ’em.
“I get two shilling a-week from the parish, and I have to pay out of
that for a quartern loaf, a quartern of sugar, and an ounce of tea. The
parish forces it on me, so I must take it, and that only leaves me one
shilling and fourpence. A shilling of it goes for my lodging. I lodge
with people who knew my family and me, and took a liking to me; they
let me come there instead of wandering about the streets.
“I stand on my crossing till I’m like to drop over my broom with
tiredness. Yes, sir, I go to church at St. George’s in the Borough. I
go there every Sunday morning, after I leave my roads. They’ve taken
the organ and charity children away that used to be there when I was a
girl, so it’s not a church now, it’s a chapel. There’s nothing but the
preacher and the gentlefolks, and they sings their own psalms. There
are gatherings at that church, but whether it’s for the poor or not I
don’t know. _I_ don’t get any of it.
“It was a great loss to me when my husband died; I went all to ruin
then. My father belonged to Scotland, at Edinboro’. My mother came from
Yorkshire. I don’t know where Scotland is no more than the dead. My
father was a gentleman’s gardener and watchman. My mother used to go
out a-chairing, and she was drowned just by Horsemonger Lane. She was
coming through the Halfpenny Hatch, that used to be just facing the
Crown and Anchor, in the New Kent-road; there was an open ditch there,
sir. She took the left-hand turning instead of the right, and was
drownded. My father died in St. Martin’s Workhouse. He died of apoplexy
fit.
“I used to mind my father’s place till mother died. His housekeeper
I was--God help me! a fine one too. Thank the Lord, my husband was a
clever man; he had a good seat of business. I lost my right hand when
he died. I couldn’t carry it on. There was my two sons went for sogers,
and the others were above their business. He left a seat of business
worth a hundred pound; he served all up the New Kent-road. He was
beloved by all his people. He used to climb himself when I first had
him, but he left it off when he got children. I had my husband when I
was fifteen, and kept him forty years. Ah! he was well-beloved by all
around, except his children, and they behaved shameful. I said to his
eldest son, when he lay in the hospital, (asking your pardon, sir,
for mentioning it)--I says to his eldest son, ‘Billy,’ says I, ‘your
father’s very bad--why don’t you go to see him?’ ‘Oh,’ says he, ‘he’s
all right, he’s gettin’ better;’ and he was never the one to go and see
him once; and he never come to the funeral.
“Billy thought I should come upon him after his death, but I never
troubled him for as much as a crumb of bread.
“I never get spoken to on my roads, only some people say, ‘Good
morning,’ ‘There you are, old lady.’ They never asks me no questions
whatsomever. I never get run over, though I am very hard of hearing;
but I am forced to have my eyes here, there, and everywhere, to keep
out of the way of the carts and coaches.
“Some days I goes to my crossing, and earns nothink at all: other
days it’s sometimes fourpence, sometimes sixpence. I earned fourpence
to-day, and I had a bit of snuff out of it. Why, I believe I did
yearn fivepence yesterday--I won’t tell no story. I got ninepence on
Sunday--that was a good day; but, God knows, that didn’t go far. I
yearned so much I couldn’t bring it home on Saturday--it almost makes
me laugh,--I yearned sixpence.
“I goes every morning, winter or summer, frost or snow; and at the same
hour (five o’clock); people certainly don’t think of giving so much in
fine weather. Nobody ever mislested me, and I never mislested nobody.
If they gives me a penny, I thanks ’em; and if they gives me nothing, I
thanks ’em all the same.
“If I was to go into the House, I shouldn’t live three days. It’s not
that I eat much--a very little is enough for me; but it’s the air I
should miss: to be shut up like a thief, I couldn’t live long, I know.”