sell, unless it’s a few nettles that’s ordered. I believe they’re for
tea, sir. I gets the chickweed at Chalk Farm. I pay nothing for it. I
gets it out of the public fields. Every morning about seven I goes for
it. The grunsell a gentleman gives me leave to get out of his garden:
that’s down Battle-bridge way, in the Chalk-road, leading to Holloway.
I gets there every morning about nine. I goes there straight. After I
have got my chickweed, I generally gathers enough of each to make up
a dozen halfpenny bunches. The turfs I buys. A young man calls here
with them. I pay 2_d._ a dozen for ’em to him. He gets them himself.
Sometimes he cuts ’em at Kilburn Wells; and Notting-hill he goes to
sometimes, I believe. He hires a spring barrow, weekly, to take them
about. He pays 4_d._ a day, I believe, for the barrow. He sells the
turfs to the bird-shops, and to such as me. He sells a few to some
private places. I gets the nettles at Highgate. I don’t do much in
the nettle line--there ain’t much call for it. After I’ve gathered
my things I puts them in my basket, and slings ’em at my back, and
starts round London. Low Marrabun I goes to always of a Saturday and
Wednesday. I goes to St. Pancras on a Tuesday. I visit Clerkenwell, and
Russell-square, and round about there, on a Monday. I goes down about
Covent-garden and the Strand on a Thursday. I does High Marrabun on a
Friday, because I aint able to do so much on that day, for I gathers
my stuff on the Friday for Saturday. I find Low Marrabun the best of
my beats. I cry ‘chickweed and grunsell’ as I goes along. I don’t say
‘for young singing birds.’ It is usual, I know, but _I_ never did.
I’ve been at the business about eighteen year. I’m out in usual till
about five in the evening. I never stop to eat. I’m walking all the
time. I has my breakfast afore I starts, and my tea when I comes home.”
Here the woman shivered. I turned round and found the fire was quite
out. I asked them whether they usually sat without one. The answer
was, “We most generally raise a pennyworth, some how, just to boil the
kettle with.” I inquired whether she was cold, and she assured me she
wasn’t. “It was the blood,” she said, “that ran through her like ice
sometimes.” “I am a walking ten hours every day--wet or dry,” the man
continued. “I don’t stand nice much about that. I can’t go much above
one mile and a half an hour, owing to my right side being paralysed.
My leg and foot and all is quite dead. I goes with a stick.” [The
wife brought the stick out from a corner of the room to show me. It
was an old peculiarly carved one, with a bird rudely cut out of wood
for the handle, and a snake twisting itself up the stick.] “I walk
fifteen miles every day of my life, that I do--quite that--excepting
Sunday, in course. I generally sell the chickweed and grunsell and
turfs, all to the houses, not to the shops. The young man as cut the
turf gathers grunsell as well for the shops. They’re tradespeople and
gentlefolks’ houses together that I sells to--such as keeps canaries,
or goldfinches, or linnets. I charge 1/2_d._ a bunch for chickweed and
grunsell together. It’s the regular charge. The nettles is ordered in
certain quantities; I don’t get them unless they’re ordered: I sells
these in three-pennn’orths at a time. Why, Saturday is my best day,
and that’s the reason why I can’t spare time to gather on that day. On
Saturday I dare say I gets rid on two dozen bunches of chickweed and
grunsell. On the other days, sometimes, I goes out and don’t sell above
five or six bunches; at other times I get rid on a dozen; that I call
a tidy day’s work for any other day but a Saturday, and some days I
don’t sell as much as a couple of bunches in the whole day. Wednesday
is my next best day after Saturday. On a Wednesday, sometimes, I sell
a dozen and a half. In the summer I does much better than in winter.
They gives it more to the birds then, and changes it oftener. I’ve
seed a matter of eight or nine people that sell chickweed and grunsell
like myself in the fields where I goes to gather it. They mostly all
goes to where I do to get mine. They are a great many that sells
grunsell about the streets in London, like I do. I dare say there is a
hundred, and far more nor that, taking one place with another. I takes
my nettles to ladies’ houses. They considers the nettles good for the
blood, and drinks ’em at tea, mostly in the spring and autumn. In the
spring I generally sells three threepenn’orths of ’em a week, and in
the autumn about two threepenn’orths. The ladies I sell the nettles to
are mostly sickly, but sometimes they aint, and has only a breaking
out in the skin, or in their face. The nettles are mostly taken in Low
Marrabun. I gathers more than all for Great Titchfield-street. The
turfs I sell mostly in London-street, in Marrabun and John-street,
and Carburton-street, and Portland-street, and Berners, and all about
there. I sells about three dozen of turfs a week. I sells them at three
and four a penny. I charges them at three a penny to gentlefolks and
four a penny to tradespeople. I pays 2_d._ a dozen for ’em and so makes
from 1_d._ to 2_d._ a dozen out of ’em. I does trifling with these
in the winter--about two dozen a week, but always three dozen in the
summer. Of the chickweed and grunsell I sells from six to seven dozen
bunches a week in the summer, and about four or five dozen bunches
in the winter. I sells mostly to regular customers, and a very few
to chance ones that meet me in the street. The chance customers come
mostly in the summer times. Altogether I should say with my regular
and chance customers I make from 4_s._ to 5_s._ a week in the summer,
and from 3_s._ to 4_s._ in the winter. That’s as near as I can tell.
Last Monday I was out all day, and took 1-1/2_d._; Tuesday I took
about 5-1/2_d._; Wednesday I got 9-1/2_d._; Thursday I can’t hardly
recollect, not to tell the truth about it. But oh, dear me, yes I
wasn’t allowed to go out on that day. We was given to understand
nothing was allowed to be sold on that day. They told us it were the
Thanksgiving-day. I was obliged to fast on that day. We did have a
little in the morning, a trifle, but not near enough. Friday I came
home with nigh upon 6_d._, and Saturday I got 1_s._, and 3_d._ after
when I went out at night. I goes into Leather-lane every Saturday
night, and stands with my basket there, so that altogether, last week
I made 3_s._ 1-1/2_d._ But that was a slack week with me, owing to my
having lost Thursday. If it hadn’t been for that I should have made
near upon 4_s._ We felt the loss very severely. Prices have come down
dreadful with us. The same bunches as I sell now for 1/2_d._ I used to
get 1_d._ for nine or ten years ago. I dare say I could earn then, take
one day with another, such a thing as 7_s._ a week, summer and winter
through. There’s so many at it now to what there was afore, that it’s
difficult to get a living, and the ladies are very hard with a body.
They tries to beat me down, and particular in the matter of turfs. They
tell me they can buy half-a-dozen for 1_d._, so I’m obligated to let
’em have three or four. There’s a many women at the business. I hardly
know which is the most, men or women. There’s pretty nigh as much of
one as the other, I think. I am a bed-sacking weaver by trade. When I
worked at it I used to get 15_s._ a week regularly. But I was struck
with paralysis nearly nineteen years ago, and lost the use of all one
side, so I was obleeged to turn to summut else. Another grunseller
told me on the business, and what he got, and I thought I couldn’t do
no better. That’s a favourite linnet. We had that one stuffed there. A
young man that I knew stuffed it for me. I was very sorry when the poor
thing died. I’ve got another little linnet up there.” “I’m particular
fond of little birds,” said the wife. “I never was worse off than I am
now. I pays 2_s._ a week rent, and we has, take one time with another,
about 3_s._ for the four of us to subsist upon for the whole seven
days; yes, that, take one time with another, is generally what I do
have. We very seldom has any meat. This day week we got a pound of
pieces. I gave 4_d._ for ’em. Everything that will pledge I’ve got in
pawn. I’ve been obliged to let them go. I can’t exactly say how much
I’ve got in pledge, but you can see the tickets.” [The wife brought out
a tin box full of duplicates. They were for the usual articles--coats,
shawls, shirts, sheets, handkerchiefs, indeed almost every article
of wearing-apparel and bedding. The sums lent were mostly 6_d._ and
9_d._, while some ran as high as 2_s._ The dates of many were last
year, and these had been backed for three months.] “I’ve been paying
interest for many of the things there for seven years. I pay for the
backing 2-1/2_d._, that is 1_d._ for the backing, and 1-1/2_d._ for the
three months’ interest. I pay 6_d._ a year interest on every one of the
tickets. If its only 3_d._, I have to pay 1/2_d._ a month interest just
the same, but nothing for the ticket when we put it in.” The number of
duplicates was 26, and the gross sum amounted to 1_l._ 4_s._ 8_d._ One
of the duplicates was for 4_d._; nine were for 6_d._, two for 9_d._,
nine were for 1_s._, two for 1_s._ 6_d._, one for 1_s._ 3_d._, one for
1_s._ 7_d._ and two for 2_s._ “The greatest comfort I should like to
have would be something more on our beds. We lay dreadful cold of a
night, on account of being thin clad. I have no petticoats at all. We
have no blankets--of late years I haven’t had any. The warm clothing
would be the greatest blessing I could ask. I’m not at all discontented
at my lot. That wouldn’t mend it. We strive and do the best we can, and
may as well be contented over it. I think its God’s will we should be
as we are. Providence is kind to me, even badly off as we are. I know
it’s all for the best.”
There are no “pitches,” or stands, for the sale of groundsel in the
streets; but, from the best information I could acquire, there are now
1,000 itinerants selling groundsel, each person selling, as an average,
18 bunches a day. We thus have 5,616,000 bunches a year, which, at
1/2_d._ each, realise 11,700_l._--about 4_s._ 2_d._ per week per head
of sellers of groundsel. The “oldest hand” in the trade is the man
whose statement and likeness I give. The sale continues through the
year, but “the groundsel” season extends from April to September; in
those months 24 bunches, per individual seller, is the extent of the
traffic, in the other months half that quantity, giving the average of
18 bunches.
The capital required for groundsel-selling is 4_d._ for a brown
wicker-basket; leather strap to sling it from the shoulder, 6_d._; in
all, 10_d._ No knife is necessary; they pluck the groundsel.
Chickweed is only sold in the summer, and is most generally mixed with
groundsel and plantain. The chickweed and plantain, together, are but
half the sale of groundsel, and that only for five months, adding, to
the total amount, 2,335_l._ But this adds little to the profits of the
regular itinerants; for, when there is the best demand, there are the
greatest number of sellers, who in winter seek some other business. The
total amount of “green stuff” expended upon birds, as supplied by the
street-sellers, I give at the close of my account of the trade of those
purveyors.
Many of the groundsel and chickweed-sellers--for the callings are
carried on together--who are aged men, were formerly brimstone-match
sellers, who “didn’t like to take to the lucifers.”
On the publication of this account in the _Morning Chronicle_,
several sums were forwarded to the office of that journal for the
benefit of this family. These were the means of removing them to a
more comfortable home, of redeeming their clothing, and in a measure
realizing the wishes of the poor woman.
OF TURF CUTTING AND SELLING.
A man long familiar with this trade, and who knew almost every
member of it individually, counted for me 36 turf-cutters, to his
own knowledge, and was confident that there were 40 turf-cutters and
60 sellers in London; the addition of the sellers, however, is but
that of 10 women, who assist their husbands or fathers in the street
sales,--but no women cut turf,--and of 10 men who sell, but buy of the
cutters.
The turf is simply a sod, but it is considered indispensable that it
should contain the leaves of the “small Dutch clover,” (the shamrock
of the Irish), the most common of all the trefoils. The turf is
used almost entirely for the food and roosting-place of the caged
sky-larks. Indeed one turf-cutter said to me: “It’s only people that
don’t understand it that gives turf to other birds, but of course if
we’re asked about it, we say it’s good for every bird, pigeons and
chickens and all; and very likely it is if they choose to have it.”
The principal places for the cutting of turf are at present Shepherd’s
Bush, Notting Hill, the Caledonian Road, Hampstead, Highgate, Hornsey,
Peckham, and Battersea. Chalk Farm was an excellent place, but it is
now exhausted, “fairly flayed” of the shamrocks. Parts of Camden Town
were also fertile in turf, but they have been built over. Hackney was a
district to which the turf-cutters resorted, but they are now forbidden
to cut sods there. Hampstead Heath used to be another harvest-field
for these turf-purveyors, but they are now prohibited from “so much
as sticking a knife into the Heath;” but turf-cutting is carried on
surreptitiously on all the outskirts of the Heath, for there used
to be a sort of feeling, I was told, among some real Londoners that
Hampstead Heath yielded the best turf of any place. All the “commons”
and “greens,” Paddington, Camberwell, Kennington, Clapham, Putney, &c.
are also forbidden ground to the turf-cutter. “O, as to the parks and
Primrose Hill itself--round about it’s another thing--nobody,” it was
answered to my inquiry, “ever thought of cutting their turf there. The
people about, if they was only visitors, wouldn’t stand it, and right
too. I wouldn’t, if I wasn’t in the turf-cutting myself.”
The places where the turf is principally cut are the fields, or plots,
in the suburbs, in which may be seen a half-illegible board, inviting
the attention of the class of speculating builders to an “eligible
site” for villas. Some of these places are open, and have long been
open, to the road; others are protected by a few crazy rails, and the
turf-cutters consider that outside the rails, or between them and the
road, they have a _right_ to cut turf, unless forbidden by the police.
The fact is, that they cut it on sufferance; but the policeman never
interferes, unless required to do so by the proprietor of the land
or his agent. One gentleman, who has the control over a considerable
quantity of land “eligible” for building, is very inimical to the
pursuits of the turf-cutters, who, of course, return his hostility. One
man told me that he was required, late on a Saturday night, some weeks
ago, to supply six dozen of turfs to a very respectable shopkeeper, by
ten or eleven on the Sunday morning. The shopkeeper had an aristocratic
connection, and durst not disappoint his customers in their demands
for fresh turf on the Sunday, so that the cutter must supply it. In
doing so, he encountered Mr. ---- (the gentleman in question), who
was exceedingly angry with him: “You d--d poaching thief!” said the
gentleman, “if this is the way you pass your Sunday, I’ll give you
in charge.” One turf-cutter, I was informed, had, within these eight
years, paid 3_l._ 15_s._ fines for trespassing, besides losing his
barrow, &c., on every conviction: “But he’s a most outdacious fellor,”
I was told by one of his mates, “and won’t mind spoiling anybody’s
ground to save hisself a bit of trouble. There’s too many that way,
which gives us a bad name.” Some of the managers of the land to
be built upon give the turf-cutters free leave to labour in their
vocation; others sell the sods for garden-plots, or use them to set out
the gardens to any small houses they may be connected with, and with
them the turf-cutters have no chance of turning a sod or a penny.
I accompanied a turf-cutter, to observe the manner of his work. We
went to the neighbourhood of Highgate, which we reached a little
before nine in the morning. There was nothing very remarkable to be
observed, but the scene was not without its interest. Although it was
nearly the middle of January, the grass was very green and the weather
very mild. There happened to be no one on the ground but my companion
and myself, and in some parts of our progress nothing was visible
but green fields with their fringe of dark-coloured leafless trees;
while in other parts, which were somewhat more elevated, glimpses of
the crowded roof of an omnibus, or of a line of fleecy white smoke,
showing the existence of a railway, testified to the neighbourhood of
a city; but no sound was heard except, now and then, a distant railway
whistle. The turf-cutter, after looking carefully about him--the result
of habit, for I was told afterwards, by the policeman, that there was
no trespass--set rapidly to work. His apparatus was a sharp-pointed
table-knife of the ordinary size, which he inserted in the ground,
and made it rapidly describe a half-circle; he then as rapidly ran
his implement in the opposite half-circle, flung up the sod, and,
after slapping it with his knife, cut off the lower part so as to
leave it flat--working precisely as does a butcher cutting out a joint
or a chop, and reducing the fat. Small holes are thus left in the
ground--of such shape and size as if deep saucers were to be fitted
into them--and in the event of a thunder-shower in droughty weather,
they become filled with water, and have caused a puzzlement, I am
told, to persons taking their quiet walk when the storm had ceased, to
comprehend why the rain should be found to gather in little circular
pools in some parts, and not in others.
The man I accompanied cut and shaped six of these turfs in about a
minute, but he worked without intermission, and rather to show me
with what rapidity and precision he could cut, than troubling himself
to select what was saleable. After that we diverged in the direction
of Hampstead; and in a spot not far from a temporary church, found
three turf-cutters at work,--but they worked asunder, and without
communication one with another. The turfs, as soon as they are cut
and shaped, are thrown into a circular basket, and when the basket
is full it is emptied on to the barrow (a costermonger’s barrow),
which is generally left untended at the nearest point: “We can trust
one another, as far as I know,” said one turf-man to me, “and nobody
else would find it worth while to steal turfs.” The largest number
of men that my most intelligent informant had ever seen at work in
one locality was fourteen, and that was in a field just about to be
built over, and “where they had leave.” Among the turf-purveyors there
is no understanding as to where they are to “cut.” Wet weather does
not interfere with turf procuring; it merely adds to the weight, and
consequently to the toil of drawing the barrow. Snow is rather an
advantage to the street-seller, as purchasers are apt to fancy that
if the storm continues, turfs will not be obtainable, and so they buy
more freely. The turf-man clears the snow from the ground in any known
locality--the cold pinching his ungloved hands--and cuts out the turf,
“as green,” I was told, “as an April sod.” The weather most dreaded is
that when hoar frost lies long and heavy on the ground, for the turf
cut with the rime upon it soon turns black, and is unsaleable. Foggy
dark weather is also prejudicial, “for then,” one man said, “the days
clips it uncommon short, and people won’t buy by candlelight, no more
will the shops. Birds has gone to sleep then, and them that’s fondest
on them says, ‘We can get fresher turf to-morrow.’” The gatherers
cannot work by moonlight; “for the clover leaves then shuts up,” I was
told by one who said he was a bit of a botanist, “like the lid of a
box, and you can’t tell them.”
One of my informants told me that he cut 25 dozen turfs every Friday
(the great working turf-day) of the year on an average (he sometimes
cut on that day upwards of 30 dozen); 17 dozen on a Tuesday; and 6
dozen on the other days of the week, more or less, as the demand
justified--but 6 dozen was an average. He had also cut a few turfs on
a Sunday morning, but only at long intervals, sometimes only thrice a
year. Thus one man will cut 2,496 dozen, or 29,952 turfs in a year, not
reckoning the product of any Sunday. From the best information I could
acquire, there seems no doubt but that one-half of the turf-cutters
(20) exert a similar degree of industry to that detailed; and the
other 20 procure a moiety of the quantity cut and disposed of by their
stronger and more fortunate brethren. This gives an aggregate, for an
average year, of 598,560 turfs, or including Sunday turf-cutting, of
600,000. Each turf is about 6 inches diameter at the least; so that the
whole extent of turf cut for London birds yearly, if placed side by
side, would extend fifty-six miles, or from London to Canterbury.
In wet weather, 6 dozen turfs weigh, on an average, 1 cwt.; in dry
weather, 8 dozen weigh no more; if, therefore, we take 7 dozen as the
usual hundred-weight, a turf-cutter of the best class carries, in
basket-loads, to his barrow, and when his stock is completed, drags
into town from the localities I have specified, upwards of 3-1/2 cwt.
every Friday, nearly 2-1/2 every Tuesday, and about 7 cwt. in the
course of a week; the smaller traders drag half the quantity,--and the
total weight of turf disposed of for the cage-birds of London, every
year, is 546 tons.
Of the supply of turf, obtained as I have described, at least
three-fourths is sold to the bird-shops, who retail it to their
customers. The price paid by these shopkeepers to the labourers for
their turf trade is 2_d._ and 2-1/2_d._ a dozen, but rarely 2-1/2_d._
They retail it at from 3_d._ to 6_d._ a dozen, according to connection
and locality. The remainder is sold by the cutters on their rounds from
house to house, at two and three a penny.
None of the turf-cutters confine themselves to it. They sell in
addition groundsel, chickweed, plaintain, very generally; and a few
supply nettles, dandelion, ground-ivy, snails, worms, frogs, and toads.
The sellers of groundsel and chickweed are far more numerous, as I have
shown, than the turf-cutters--indeed many of them are incapable of
cutting turf or of dragging the weight of the turfs.
OF THE EXPERIENCE AND CUSTOMERS OF A TURF-CUTTER.
A short but strongly-built man, of about thirty, with a very English
face, and dressed in a smock-frock, wearing also very strong unblacked
boots, gave me the following account:--
“My father,” he said, “was in the Earl of ----’s service, and I was
brought up to stable-work. I was employed in a large coaching inn,
in Lancashire, when I was last employed in that way, but about ten
years ago a railway line was opened, and the coaching was no go any
longer; it hadn’t a chance to pay, so the horses and all was sold, and
I was discharged with a lot of others. I walked from Manchester to
London--for I think most men when they don’t know what in the world
to do, come to London--and I lived a few months on what little money
I had, and what I could pick up in an odd job about horses. I had
some expectations when I came up that I might get something to do
through my lord, or some of his people--they all knew me: but my lord
was abroad, and his establishment wasn’t in town, and I had to depend
entirely on myself. I was beat out three or four times, and didn’t
know what to do, but somehow or other I got over it. At last--it’s
between eight and nine years ago--I was fairly beat out. I was taking a
walk--I can’t say just now in what way I went, for it was all one which
way--but I remember I saw a man cutting turf, and I remembered then
that a man that lived near me lived pretty middling by turf-cutting.
So I watched how it was done, and then I inquired how I could get into
it, and as I’d paid my way I could give reference to show I might be
trusted; so I got a barrow on hire, and a basket, and bought a knife
for 3_d._ at a marine-shop, and set to work. At first I only supplied
shops, but in a little time I fell into a private round, and that pays
better. I’ve been at it almost every day, I may say, ever since. My
best customers are working people that’s fond of birds; they’re far
the best. It’s the ready penny with them, and no grumbling. I’ve lost
money by trusting noblemen; of course I blame their servants. You’d be
surprised, sir, to hear how often at rich folks’ houses, when they’ve
taken their turf or what they want, they’ll take credit and say, ‘O,
I’ve got no change,’ or ‘I can’t be bothered with ha’pence,’ or ‘you
must call again.’ There’s one great house in Cavendish-square always
takes a month’s credit, and pays one month within another (pays the
first month as the second is falling due), and not always that very
regular. They can’t know how poor men has to fight for a bit of bread.
Some people are very particular about their turfs, and look very sharp
for the small clover leaves. We never have turfs left on hand: in
summer we water them to keep them fresh; in wet weather they don’t
require it; they’ll keep without. I think I make on turf 9_s._ a week
all the year round; the summer’s half as good again as the winter.
Supposing I make 3_s._ a week on groundsel, and chickweed, and snails,
and other things, that’s 12_s._--but look you here, sir. I pay 3_s._
6_d._ a week for my rent--it’s a furnished room--and 1_s._ 6_d._ a week
for my barrow; that’s 5_s._ off the 12_s._; and I’ve a wife and one
little boy. My wife may get a day at least every week at charring; she
has 1_s._ for it and her board. She helps me when she’s not out, and if
she is out, I sometimes have to hire a lad, so it’s no great advantage
the shilling a day. I’ve paid 1_s._ 6_d._ a week for my barrow--it’s a
very good and big one--for four years. Before that I paid 2_s._ a week.
O yes, sir, I know very well, that at 1_s._ 6_d._ a week I’ve paid
nearly 14_l._ for a barrow worth only 2_l._ 2_s._; but I can’t help
it; I really can’t. I’ve tried my hardest to get money to have one of
my own, and to get a few sticks (furniture) of my own too. It’s no use
trying any more. If I have ever got a few shillings a-head, there’s a
pair of shoes wanted, or there’s something else, or my wife has a fit
of sickness, or my little boy has, or something’s sure to happen that
way, and it all goes. Last winter was a very hard time for people in my
way, from hoar frost and fogs. I ran near 3_l._ into debt; greater part
of it for house-rent and my barrow; the rest was small sums borrowed
of shopkeepers that I served. I paid all up in the summer, but I’m now
14_s._ in debt for my barrow; it always keeps me back; the man that
owns it calls every Sunday morning, but he don’t press me, if I haven’t
money. I would get out of the life if I could, but will anybody take a
groom out of the streets? and I’m not master of anything but grooming.
I can read and write. I was brought up a Roman Catholic, and was
christened one. I never go to mass now. One gets out of the way of such
things, having to fight for a living as I have. It seems like mocking
going to chapel, when you’re grumbling in your soul.”
OF PLANTAIN-SELLERS.