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.’”