Three halfpennies are thrown up, and when they fall all “heads” or all
“tails,” it is a mark; and the man who gets the greatest number of
marks out of a given amount--three, or five, or more--wins. “Three-up”
is played fairly among the costermongers; but is most frequently
resorted to when strangers are present to “make a pitch,”--which is, in
plain words, to cheat any stranger who is rash enough to bet upon them.
“This is the way, sir,” said an adept to me; “bless you, I can make
them fall as I please. If I’m playing with Jo, and a stranger bets with
Jo, why, of course, I make Jo win.” This adept illustrated his skill
to me by throwing up three halfpennies, and, five times out of six,
they fell upon the floor, whether he threw them nearly to the ceiling
or merely to his shoulder, all heads or all tails. The halfpence were
the proper current coins--indeed, they were my own; and the result
is gained by a peculiar position of the coins on the fingers, and a
peculiar jerk in the throwing. There was an amusing manifestation of
the pride of art in the way in which my obliging informant displayed
his skill.
“Skittles” is another favourite amusement, and the costermongers class
themselves among the best players in London. The game is always for
beer, but betting goes on.
A fondness for “sparring” and “boxing” lingers among the rude members
of some classes of the working men, such as the tanners. With the great
majority of the costermongers this fondness is still as dominant as it
was among the “higher classes,” when boxers were the pets of princes
and nobles. The sparring among the costers is not for money, but for
beer and “a lark”--a convenient word covering much mischief. Two out
of every ten landlords, whose houses are patronised by these lovers of
“the art of self-defence,” supply gloves. Some charge 2_d._ a night
for their use; others only 1_d._ The sparring seldom continues long,
sometimes not above a quarter of an hour; for the costermongers, though
excited for a while, weary of sports in which they cannot personally
participate, and in the beer-shops only two spar at a time, though
fifty or sixty may be present. The shortness of the duration of this
pastime may be one reason why it seldom leads to quarrelling. The stake
is usually a “top of reeb,” and the winner is the man who gives the
first “noser;” a _bloody_ nose however is required to show that the
blow was veritably a noser. The costermongers boast of their skill in
pugilism as well as at skittles. “We are all handy with our fists,”
said one man, “and are matches, aye, and more than matches, for anybody
but reg’lar boxers. We’ve stuck to the ring, too, and gone reg’lar to
the fights, more than any other men.”
“Twopenny-hops” are much resorted to by the costermongers, men and
women, boys and girls. At these dances decorum is sometimes, but not
often, violated. “The women,” I was told by one man, “doesn’t show
their necks as I’ve seen the ladies do in them there pictures of high
life in the shop-winders, or on the stage. Their Sunday gowns, which
is their dancing gowns, ain’t made that way.” At these “hops” the
clog-hornpipe is often danced, and sometimes a collection is made
to ensure the performance of a first-rate professor of that dance;
sometimes, and more frequently, it is volunteered gratuitously. The
other dances are jigs, “flash jigs”--hornpipes in fetters--a dance
rendered popular by the success of the acted “Jack Sheppard”--polkas,
and country-dances, the last-mentioned being generally demanded by
the women. Waltzes are as yet unknown to them. Sometimes they do the
“pipe-dance.” For this a number of tobacco-pipes, about a dozen, are
laid close together on the floor, and the dancer places the toe of his
boot between the different pipes, keeping time with the music. Two
of the pipes are arranged as a cross, and the toe has to be inserted
between each of the angles, without breaking them. The numbers present
at these “hops” vary from 30 to 100 of both sexes, their ages being
from 14 to 45, and the female sex being slightly predominant as to the
proportion of those in attendance. At these “hops” there is nothing
of the leisurely style of dancing--half a glide and half a skip--but
vigorous, laborious capering. The hours are from half-past eight to
twelve, sometimes to one or two in the morning, and never later than
two, as the costermongers are early risers. There is sometimes a good
deal of drinking; some of the young girls being often pressed to drink,
and frequently yielding to the temptation. From 1_l._ to 7_l._ is
spent in drink at a hop; the youngest men or lads present spend the
most, especially in that act of costermonger politeness--“treating
the gals.” The music is always a fiddle, sometimes with the addition
of a harp and a cornopean. The band is provided by the costermongers,
to whom the assembly is confined; but during the present and the last
year, when the costers’ earnings have been less than the average, the
landlord has provided the harp, whenever that instrument has added to
the charms of the fiddle. Of one use to which these “hops” are put I
have given an account, under the head of “Marriage.”
[Illustration: THE LONDON COSTERMONGER.
“Here Pertaters! Kearots and Turnups! Fine Brockello-o-o!”
[_From a Daguerreotype by_ BEARD.]]
The other amusements of this class of the community are the theatre
and the penny concert, and their visits are almost entirely confined
to the galleries of the theatres on the Surrey-side--the Surrey, the
Victoria, the Bower Saloon, and (but less frequently) Astley’s. Three
times a week is an average attendance at theatres and dances by the
more prosperous costermongers. The most intelligent man I met with
among them gave me the following account. He classes himself with the
many, but his tastes are really those of an educated man:--“Love and
murder suits us best, sir; but within these few years I think there’s
a great deal more liking for deep tragedies among us. They set men a
thinking; but then we all consider them too long. Of _Hamlet_ we can
make neither end nor side; and nine out of ten of us--ay, far more
than that--would like it to be confined to the ghost scenes, and the
funeral, and the killing off at the last. _Macbeth_ would be better
liked, if it was only the witches and the fighting. The high words in a
tragedy we call jaw-breakers, and say we can’t tumble to that barrikin.
We always stay to the last, because we’ve paid for it all, or very few
costers would see a tragedy out if any money was returned to those
leaving after two or three acts. We are fond of music. Nigger music was
very much liked among us, but it’s stale now. Flash songs are liked,
and sailors’ songs, and patriotic songs. Most costers--indeed, I can’t
call to mind an exception--listen very quietly to songs that they don’t
in the least understand. We have among us translations of the patriotic
French songs. ‘Mourir pour la patrie’ is very popular, and so is the
‘Marseillaise.’ A song to take hold of us must have a good chorus.”
“They like something, sir, that is worth hearing,” said one of my
informants, “such as the ‘Soldier’s Dream,’ ‘The Dream of Napoleon,’ or
‘I ’ad a dream--an ’appy dream.’”
The songs in ridicule of Marshal Haynau, and in laudation of Barclay
and Perkin’s draymen, were and are very popular among the costers;
but none are more popular than Paul Jones--“A noble commander, Paul
Jones was his name.” Among them the chorus of “Britons never shall be
slaves,” is often rendered “Britons always shall be slaves.” The most
popular of all songs with the class, however, is “Duck-legged Dick,” of
which I give the first verse.
“Duck-legged Dick had a donkey,
And his lush loved much for to swill,
One day he got rather lumpy,
And got sent seven days to the mill.
His donkey was taken to the green-yard,
A fate which he never deserved.
Oh! it was such a regular mean yard,
That alas! the poor moke got starved.
Oh! bad luck can’t be prevented,
Fortune she smiles or she frowns,
He’s best off that’s contented,
To mix, sirs, the ups and the downs.”
Their sports, are enjoyed the more, if they are dangerous and require
both courage and dexterity to succeed in them. They prefer, if crossing
a bridge, to climb over the parapet, and walk along on the stone
coping. When a house is building, rows of coster lads will climb up the
long ladders, leaning against the unslated roof, and then slide down
again, each one resting on the other’s shoulders. A peep show with a
battle scene is sure of its coster audience, and a favourite pastime
is fighting with cheap theatrical swords. They are, however, true to
each other, and should a coster, who is the hero of his court, fall ill
and go to a hospital, the whole of the inhabitants of his quarter will
visit him on the Sunday, and take him presents of various articles so
that “he may live well.”
Among the men, rat-killing is a favourite sport. They will enter an
old stable, fasten the door and then turn out the rats. Or they will
find out some unfrequented yard, and at night time build up a pit with
apple-case boards, and lighting up their lamps, enjoy the sport. Nearly
every coster is fond of dogs. Some fancy them greatly, and are proud
of making them fight. If when out working, they see a handsome stray,
whether he is a “toy” or “sporting” dog, they whip him up--many of the
class not being _very_ particular whether the animals are stray or not.
Their dog fights are both cruel and frequent. It is not uncommon to see
a lad walking with the trembling legs of a dog shivering under a bloody
handkerchief, that covers the bitten and wounded body of an animal
that has been figuring at some “match.” These fights take place on the
sly--the tap-room or back-yard of a beer-shop, being generally chosen
for the purpose. A few men are let into the secret, and they attend to
bet upon the winner, the police being carefully kept from the spot.
Pigeons are “fancied” to a large extent, and are kept in lath cages on
the roofs of the houses. The lads look upon a visit to the Red-house,
Battersea, where the pigeon-shooting takes place, as a great treat.
They stand without the hoarding that encloses the ground, and watch for
the wounded pigeons to fall, when a violent scramble takes place among
them, each bird being valued at 3_d._ or 4_d._ So popular has this
sport become, that some boys take dogs with them trained to retrieve
the birds, and two Lambeth costers attend regularly after their
morning’s work with their guns, to shoot those that escape the ‘shots’
within.
A good pugilist is looked up to with great admiration by the costers,
and fighting is considered to be a necessary part of a boy’s education.
Among them cowardice in any shape is despised as being degrading and
loathsome, indeed the man who would avoid a fight, is scouted by the
whole of the court he lives in. Hence it is important for a lad and
even a girl to know how to “work their fists well”--as expert boxing
is called among them. If a coster man or woman is struck they are
obliged to fight. When a quarrel takes place between two boys, a ring
is formed, and the men urge them on to have it out, for they hold that
it is a wrong thing to stop a battle, as it causes bad blood for life;
whereas, if the lads fight it out they shake hands and forget all about
it. Everybody practises fighting, and the man who has the largest and
hardest muscle is spoken of in terms of the highest commendation. It
is often said in admiration of such a man that “he could muzzle half a
dozen bobbies before breakfast.”
To serve out a policeman is the bravest act by which a costermonger
can distinguish himself. Some lads have been imprisoned upwards of
a dozen times for this offence; and are consequently looked upon by
their companions as martyrs. When they leave prison for such an act,
a subscription is often got up for their benefit. In their continual
warfare with the force, they resemble many savage nations, from
the cunning and treachery they use. The lads endeavour to take the
unsuspecting “crusher” by surprise, and often crouch at the entrance of
a court until a policeman passes, when a stone or a brick is hurled at
him, and the youngster immediately disappears. Their love of revenge
too, is extreme--their hatred being in no way mitigated by time;
they will wait for months, following a policeman who has offended or
wronged them, anxiously looking out for an opportunity of paying back
the injury. One boy, I was told, vowed vengeance against a member of
the force, and for six months never allowed the man to escape his
notice. At length, one night, he saw the policeman in a row outside a
public-house, and running into the crowd kicked him savagely, shouting
at the same time: “Now, you b----, I’ve got you at last.” When the boy
heard that his persecutor was injured for life, his joy was very great,
and he declared the twelvemonth’s imprisonment he was sentenced to
for the offence to be “dirt cheap.” The whole of the court where the
lad resided sympathized with the boy, and vowed to a man, that had he
escaped, they would have subscribed a pad or two of dry herrings, to
send him into the country until the affair had blown over, for he had
shown himself a “plucky one.”
It is called “plucky” to bear pain without complaining. To flinch
from expected suffering is scorned, and he who does so is sneered at
and told to wear a gown, as being more fit to be a woman. To show a
disregard for pain, a lad, when without money, will say to his pal,
“Give us a penny, and you may have a punch at my nose.” They also
delight in tattooing their chests and arms with anchors, and figures
of different kinds. During the whole of this painful operation, the boy
will not flinch, but laugh and joke with his admiring companions, as if
perfectly at ease.
GAMBLING OF COSTERMONGERS.
It would be difficult to find in the whole of this numerous class, a
youngster who is not--what may be safely called--a desperate gambler.
At the age of fourteen this love of play first comes upon the lad, and
from that time until he is thirty or so, not a Sunday passes but he is
at his stand on the gambling ground. Even if he has no money to stake,
he will loll away the morning looking on, and so borrow excitement
from the successes of others. Every attempt made by the police, to
check this ruinous system, has been unavailing, and has rather given a
gloss of daring courage to the sport, that tends to render it doubly
attractive.
If a costermonger has an hour to spare, his first thought is to gamble
away the time. He does not care what he plays for, so long as he can
have a chance of winning something. Whilst waiting for a market to
open, his delight is to find out some pieman and toss him for his
stock, though, by so doing, he risks his market-money and only chance
of living, to win that which he will give away to the first friend he
meets. For the whole week the boy will work untiringly, spurred on by
the thought of the money to be won on the Sunday. Nothing will damp his
ardour for gambling, the most continued ill-fortune making him even
more reckless than if he were the luckiest man alive.
Many a lad who had gone down to the gambling ground, with a good warm
coat upon his back and his pocket well filled from the Saturday night’s
market, will leave it at evening penniless and coatless, having lost
all his earnings, stock-money, and the better part of his clothing.
Some of the boys, when desperate with “bad luck,” borrow to the
utmost limit of their credit; then they mortgage their “king’s-man”
or neck-tie, and they will even change their cord trousers, if better
than those of the winner, so as to have one more chance at the turn of
fortune. The coldest winter’s day will not stop the Sunday’s gathering
on the river-side, for the heat of play warms them in spite of the
sharp wind blowing down the Thames. If the weather be wet, so that the
half-pence stick to the ground, they find out some railway-arch or else
a beer-shop, and having filled the tap-room with their numbers, they
muffle the table with handkerchiefs, and play secretly. When the game
is very exciting, they will even forget their hunger, and continue
to gamble until it is too dark to see, before they think of eating.
One man told me, that when he was working the races with lemonade,
he had often seen in the centre of a group, composed of costers,
thimble-riggers and showmen, as much as 100_l._ on the ground at one
time, in gold and silver. A friend of his, who had gone down in company
with him, with a pony-truck of toys, lost in less than an hour his
earnings, truck, stock of goods, and great-coat. Vowing to have his
revenge next time, he took his boy on his back, and started off on the
tramp to London, there to borrow sufficient money to bring down a fresh
lot of goods on the morrow, and then gamble away his earnings as before.
It is perfectly immaterial to the coster with whom he plays, whether it
be a lad from the Lambeth potteries, or a thief from the Westminster
slums. Very often, too, the gamblers of one costermonger district,
will visit those of another, and work what is called “a plant” in this
way. One of the visitors will go before hand, and, joining a group of
gamblers, commence tossing. When sufficient time has elapsed to remove
all suspicion of companionship, his mate will come up and commence
betting on each of his pals’ throws with those standing round. By a
curious quickness of hand, a coster can make the toss tell favourably
for his wagering friend, who meets him after the play is over in the
evening, and shares the spoil.
The spots generally chosen for the Sunday’s sport are in secret
places, half-hidden from the eye of the passers, where a scout can
give quick notice of the approach of the police: in the fields about
King’s-cross, or near any unfinished railway buildings. The Mint, St.
George’s-fields, Blackfriars’-road, Bethnal-green, and Marylebone,
are all favourite resorts. Between Lambeth and Chelsea, the shingle
on the left side of the Thames, is spotted with small rings of lads,
half-hidden behind the barges. One boy (of the party) is always on
the look out, and even if a stranger should advance, the cry is given
of “Namous” or “Kool Eslop.” Instantly the money is whipped-up and
pocketed, and the boys stand chattering and laughing together. It is
never difficult for a coster to find out where the gambling parties
are, for he has only to stop the first lad he meets, and ask him where
the “erht pu” or “three up” is going on, to discover their whereabouts.
If during the game a cry of “Police!” should be given by the
looker-out, instantly a rush at the money is made by any one in the
group, the costers preferring that a stranger should have the money
rather than the policeman. There is also a custom among them, that
the ruined player should be started again by a gift of 2_d._ in every
shilling lost, or, if the loss is heavy, a present of four or five
shillings is made; neither is it considered at all dishonourable for
the party winning to leave with the full bloom of success upon him.
That the description of one of these Sunday scenes might be more
truthful, a visit was paid to a gambling-ring close to ----. Although
not twenty yards distant from the steam-boat pier, yet the little
party was so concealed among the coal-barges, that not a head could
be seen. The spot chosen was close to a small narrow court, leading
from the street to the water-side, and here the lad on the look-out
was stationed. There were about thirty young fellows, some tall
strapping youths, in the costers’ cable-cord costume,--others, mere
boys, in rags, from the potteries, with their clothes stained with
clay. The party was hidden from the river by the black dredger-boats
on the beach; and it was so arranged, that should the alarm be given,
they might leap into the coal-barges, and hide until the intruder
had retired. Seated on some oars stretched across two craft, was a
mortar-stained bricklayer, keeping a look-out towards the river, and
acting as a sort of umpire in all disputes. The two that were tossing
had been playing together since early morning; and it was easy to tell
which was the loser, by the anxious-looking eye and compressed lip. He
was quarrelsome too; and if the crowd pressed upon him, he would jerk
his elbow back savagely, saying, “I wish to C----t you’d stand backer.”
The winner, a short man, in a mud-stained canvas jacket, and a week’s
yellow beard on his chin, never spake a word beyond his “heads,” or
“tails;” but his cheeks were red, and the pipe in his mouth was unlit,
though he puffed at it.
In their hands they each held a long row of halfpence, extending to
the wrist, and topped by shillings and half-crowns. Nearly every one
round had coppers in his hands, and bets were made and taken as rapidly
as they could be spoken. “I lost a sov. last night in less than no
time,” said one man, who, with his hands in his pockets, was looking
on; “never mind--I musn’t have no wenson this week, and try again next
Sunday.”
The boy who was losing was adopting every means to “bring back his
luck again.” Before crying, he would toss up a halfpenny three times,
to see what he should call. At last, with an oath, he pushed aside the
boys round him, and shifted his place, to see what that would do; it
had a good effect, for he won toss after toss in a curiously fortunate
way, and then it was strange to watch his mouth gradually relax and
his brows unknit. His opponent was a little startled, and passing his
fingers through his dusty hair, said, with a stupid laugh, “Well, I
never see the likes.” The betting also began to shift. “Sixpence Ned
wins!” cried three or four; “Sixpence he loses!” answered another;
“Done!” and up went the halfpence. “Half-a-crown Joe loses!”--“Here
you are,” answered Joe, but he lost again. “I’ll try you a ‘gen’”
(shilling) said a coster; “And a ‘rouf yenap’” (fourpence), added the
other. “Say a ‘exes’” (sixpence).--“Done!” and the betting continued,
till the ground was spotted with silver and halfpence.
“That’s ten bob he’s won in five minutes,” said Joe (the loser),
looking round with a forced smile; but Ned (the winner) never spake a
word, even when he gave any change to his antagonist; and if he took
a bet, he only nodded to the one that offered it, and threw down his
money. Once, when he picked up more than a sovereign from the ground,
that he had won in one throw, a washed sweep, with a black rim round
his neck, said, “There’s a hog!” but there wasn’t even a smile at the
joke. At last Joe began to feel angry, and stamping his foot till the
water squirted up from the beach, cried, “It’s no use; luck’s set in
him--he’d muck a thousand!” and so he shifted his ground, and betted
all round on the chance of better fortune attending the movement. He
lost again, and some one bantering said, “You’ll win the shine-rag,
Joe,” meaning that he would be “cracked up,” or ruined, if he continued.
When one o’clock struck, a lad left, saying, he was “going to get an
inside lining” (dinner). The sweep asked him what he was going to have.
“A two-and-half plate, and a ha’p’orth of smash” (a plate of soup and
a ha’p’orth of mashed potatoes), replied the lad, bounding into the
court. Nobody else seemed to care for his dinner, for all stayed to
watch the gamblers.
Every now and then some one would go up the court to see if the lad
watching for the police was keeping a good look-out; but the boy never
deserted his post, for fear of losing his threepence. If he had, such
is the wish to protect the players felt by every lad, that even whilst
at dinner, one of them, if he saw a policeman pass, would spring up and
rush to the gambling ring to give notice.
When the tall youth, “Ned,” had won nearly all the silver of the group,
he suddenly jerked his gains into his coat-pocket, and saying, “I’ve
done,” walked off, and was out of sight in an instant. The surprise of
the loser and all around was extreme. They looked at the court where he
had disappeared, then at one another, and at last burst out into one
expression of disgust. “There’s a scurf!” said one; “He’s a regular
scab,” cried another; and a coster declared that he was “a trosseno,
and no mistake.” For although it is held to be fair for the winner to
go whenever he wishes, yet such conduct is never relished by the losers.
It was then determined that “they would have him to rights” the next
time he came to gamble; for every one would set at him, and win his
money, and then “turn up,” as he had done.
The party was then broken up, the players separating to wait for the
new-comers that would be sure to pour in after dinner.
“VIC. GALLERY.”
On a good attractive night, the rush of costers to the threepenny
gallery of the Coburg (better known as “the Vic”) is peculiar and
almost awful.