for him, and but little patched, although old; he was in good spirits.
“I believe I’m between fifteen and sixteen,” he said, “and mother died
more than two year ago, nearer three, perhaps. Father had gone dead a
long time afore; I don’t remember him.” [I am inclined to think that
this story of the death of the father is often told by the mother of
an illegitimate child to her offspring, through a natural repugnance
to reveal her shame to her child. I do not know, however, that it was
the case in this instance.] “I don’t remember about mother’s funeral,
for I was ill myself at the time. She worked with her needle; sometimes
for a dressmaker, on “skirts,” and sometimes for a tailor, on flannels.
She sometimes worked all night, but we was wery badly off--we was so.
She had only me. When mother died there was nothing left for me, but
there was a good woman--she was a laundress and kept a mangle--and she
said, ‘well, here’s a old basket and a few odd things; give the kid the
basket and turn the bits of old traps into money, and let him start on
muffins, and then he must shift for hisself.’ So she tuk me to a shop
and I was started in the muffin line. I didn’t do so bad, but it’s on’y
a winter trade, isn’t muffins. I sold creases next--no, not creases,
cherries; yes, it was creases, and then cherries, for I remembers as
’ow ’Ungerford was the first market I ever was at; it was so. Since
then, I’ve sold apples, and oranges, and nuts, and chestnuts--but
_they_ was dear the last time as I had ’em--and spring garters a penny
a pair, and glass pens; yes, and other things. I goes to market, mostly
to Common Gard’n, and there’s a man goes there what buys bushels and
bushels, and he’ll let me have any little lot reas’nable; he will
so. There’s another will, but he ain’t so good to a poor kid. Well,
I doesn’t know as ’ow one trade’s better nor another; I think I’ve
done as much in one as in another. But I’ve done better lately; I’ve
sold more oranges, and I had a few sticks of rhubarb. I think times is
mending, but others says that’s on’y my luck. I sleeps with a boy as is
younger nor I am, and pays 9_d._ a week. Tom’s father and mother--he’s
a coal-heaver, but he’s sometimes out of work--sleeps in the same
room, but we has a good bed to ourselves. Tom’s father knew my mother.
There’s on’y us four. Tom’s father says sometimes if his rheumatics
continues, he and all on ’em must go into the house. Most likely I
should then go to a lodging-house. I don’t know that some on ’em’s bad
places. I’ve heer’d they was jolly. I has no amusements. Last year I
helped a man one day, and he did so well on fruit, he did so, for he
got such a early start, and so cheap, that he gave me 3_d._ hextra to
go to the play with. I didn’t go. I’d rather go to bed at seven every
night than anywhere else. I’m fond of sleep. I never wakes all night.
I dreams now and then, but I never remembers a dream. I can’t read or
write; I wish I could, if it would help me on. I’m making 3_s._ 6_d._ a
week now, I think. Some weeks in winter I didn’t make 2_s._”
This boy, although an orphan at a tender age, was yet assisted to the
commencement of a business by a friend. I met with another lad who
was left under somewhat similar circumstances. The persons in the
house where his mother had died were about to take him to the parish
officers, and there seemed to be no other course to be pursued to save
the child, then nearly twelve, from starvation. The lad knew this and
ran away. It was summer time, about three years ago, and the little
runaway slept in the open air whenever he could find a quiet place.
Want drove him to beg, and several days he subsisted on one penny
which he begged. One day he did not find any one to give him even a
halfpenny, and towards the evening of the second he became bold, or
even desperate, from hunger. As if by a sudden impulse he went up to
an old gentleman, walking slowly in Hyde-park, and said to him, “Sir,
I’ve lived three weeks by begging, and I’m hungering now; give me
sixpence, or I’ll go and steal.” The gentleman stopped and looked at
the boy, in whose tones there must have been truthfulness, and in whose
face was no doubt starvation, for without uttering a word he gave the
young applicant a shilling. The boy began a street-seller’s life on
lucifer-matches. I had to see him for another purpose a little while
ago, and in the course of some conversation he told me of his start
in the streets. I have no doubt he told the truth, and I should have
given a more detailed account of him, but when I inquired for him,
I found that he had gone to Epsom races to sell cards, and had not
returned, having probably left London on a country tour. But for the
old gentleman’s bounty he would have stolen something, he declared, had
it been only for the shelter of a prison.
OF THE LIFE OF AN ORPHAN GIRL, A STREET-SELLER.
“Father was a whitesmith,” she said, “and mother used to go out
a-washing and a-cleaning, and me and my sister (but she is dead now)
did nothing; we was sent to a day school, both of us. We lived very
comfortable; we had two rooms and our own furniture; we didn’t want for
nothing when father was alive; he was very fond on us both, and was a
kind man to everybody. He was took bad first when I was very young--it
was consumption he had, and he was ill many years, about five years,
I think it was, afore he died. When he was gone mother kept us both;
she had plenty of work; she couldn’t a-bear the thought of our going
into the streets for a living, and we was both too young to get a place
anywhere, so we stayed at home and went to school just as when father
was alive. My sister died about two year and a half ago; she had the
scarlet-fever dreadful, she lay ill seven weeks. We was both very fond
of her, me and mother. I often wish she had been spared, I should not
be alone in the world as I am now. We might have gone on together, but
it is dreadful to be quite alone, and I often think now how well we
could have done if she was alive.
“Mother has been dead just a year this month; she took cold at the
washing and it went to her chest; she was only bad a fortnight; she
suffered great pain, and, poor thing, she used to fret dreadful, as she
lay ill, about me, for she knew she was going to leave me. She used to
plan how I was to do when she was gone. She made me promise to try to
get a place and keep from the streets if I could, for she seemed to
dread them so much. When she was gone I was left in the world without
a friend. I am quite alone, I have no relation at all, not a soul
belonging to me. For three months I went about looking for a place,
as long as my money lasted, for mother told me to sell our furniture
to keep me and get me clothes. I could have got a place, but nobody
would have me without a character, and I knew nobody to give me one. I
tried very hard to get one, indeed I did; for I thought of all mother
had said to me about going into the streets. At last, when my money
was just gone, I met a young woman in the street, and I asked her to
tell me where I could get a lodging. She told me to come with her, she
would show me a respectable lodging-house for women and girls. I went,
and I have been there ever since. The women in the house advised me to
take to flower-selling, as I could get nothing else to do. One of the
young women took me to market with her, and showed me how to bargain
with the salesman for my flowers. At first, when I went out to sell, I
felt so ashamed I could not ask anybody to buy of me; and many times
went back at night with all my stock, without selling one bunch. The
woman at the lodging-house is very good to me; and when I have a bad
day she will let my lodging go until I can pay her. She always gives
me my dinner, and a good dinner it is, of a Sunday; and she will often
give me a breakfast, when she knows I have no money to buy any. She is
very kind, indeed, for she knows I am alone. I feel very thankful to
her, I am sure, for all her goodness to me. During the summer months
I take 1_s._ 6_d._ per day, which is 6_d._ profit. But I can only
sell my flowers five days in the week--Mondays there is no flowers in
the market: and of the 6_d._ a day I pay 3_d._ for lodging. I get a
halfpenny-worth of tea; a halfpenny-worth of sugar; one pound of bread,
1-1/2_d._; butter, 1/2_d._ I never tastes meat but on Sunday. What I
shall do in the winter I don’t know. In the cold weather last year,
when I could get no flowers, I was forced to live on my clothes, I have
none left now but what I have on. What I shall do I don’t know--I can’t
bear to think on it.”
OF TWO RUNAWAY STREET-BOYS.
I endeavoured to find a boy or girl who belonged to the _well_-educated
classes, had run away, and was now a street-seller. I heard of boys of
this class--one man thought he knew five, and was sure of four--who
now lived by street-selling, my informant believed without having
any recourse to theft, but all these boys were absent; they had not
returned from Epsom, or had not returned to their usual haunts, or else
they had started for their summer’s excursion into the country. Many
a street-seller becomes as weary of town after the winter as a member
of parliament who sits out a very long session; and the moment the
weather is warm, and “seems settled,” they are off into the country. In
this change of scene there is the feeling of independence, of freedom;
_they_ are not “tied to their work;” and this feeling has perhaps even
greater charms for the child than the adult.
The number of lads of a _well-educated class_, who support themselves
by street-selling, is not large. I speak of those whom I have classed
as children under fifteen years of age. If a boy run away, scared and
terrified by the violence of a parent, or maddened by continuous and
sometimes excessive severity, the parent often feels compunction, and I
heard of persons being sent to every lodging-house in London, and told
to search every dry arch, to bring back a runaway. On these occasions
the street-sellers willingly give their aid; I have even heard of
women, whose degradation was of the lowest, exerting themselves in the
recovery of a runaway child, and that often unsolicited and as often
unrecompensed.
The children who are truants through their own vicious or reckless
propensities, or through the inducements of their seniors, become far
more frequently, thieves or lurkers, rather than street-sellers. As to
runaway girls of a well-educated class, and under fifteen, I heard of
none who were street-sellers.
I now give instances of two runaway lads, who have been dishonest, and
honest.
The one, when he told me his history, was a slim and rather tall
young man of 23 or 24, with a look, speech, and air, anything but
vulgar. He was the son of a wealthy jeweller, in a town in the West
of England, and ran away from home with an adult member of his
father’s establishment, who first suggested such a course, taking with
them money and valuables. They came to London, and the elder thief,
retaining all the stolen property, at once abandoned the child, then
only ten, and little and young-looking for his age. He fell into
the hands of some members of the swell-mob, and became extremely
serviceable to them. He was dressed like a gentleman’s son, and was
innocent-looking and handsome. His appearance, when I saw him, showed
that this must have been the case as regards his looks. He lived with
some of the swell-mobsmen--then a more prosperous people than they
are now--in a good house in the Southwark-Bridge-road. The women who
resided with the mobsmen were especially kind to him. He was well fed,
well lodged, well clad, and petted in everything. He was called “the
kid,” a common slang name for a child, but he was _the_ kid. He “went
to work” in Regent-street, or wherever there were most ladies, and his
appearance disarmed suspicion. He was, moreover, highly successful in
church and chapel practice. At length he became “spotted.” The police
got to know him, and he was apprehended, tried, and convicted. He was,
however--he believed through the interest of his friends, of whose
inquiries concerning him he had heard, but of that I know nothing--sent
to the Philanthropic Asylum, then in St. George’s-road. Here he
remained the usual time, then left the place well clothed, and with a
sum of money, and endeavoured to obtain some permanent employment. In
this endeavour he failed. Whether he exerted himself strenuously or not
I cannot say, but he told me that the very circumstance of his having
been “in the Philanthropic” was fatal to his success. His “character”
and “recommendations” necessarily showed where he had come from, and
the young man, as he then was, became a beggar. His chief practice was
in “screeving,” or writing on the pavement. Perhaps some of my readers
may remember having noticed a wretched-looking youth who hung over the
words “I AM STARVING,” chalked on the footway on the Surrey side of
Waterloo Bridge. He lay huddled in a heap, and appeared half dead with
cold and want, his shirtless neck and shoulders being visible through
the rents in his thin jean jacket; shoe or stocking he did not wear.
This was the rich jeweller’s son. Until he himself told me of it--and
he seemed to do so with some sense of shame--I could not have believed
that the well-spoken and well-looking youth before me was the piteous
object I had observed by the bridge. What he is doing now I am unable
to state.
Another boy, who thought he was not yet fifteen, though he looked
older, gave me the following account. He was short but seemed strong,
and his career, so far, is chiefly remarkable for his perseverance,
exercised as much, perhaps, from insensibility as from any other
quality. He was sufficiently stupid. If he had parents living, he
said, he didn’t know nothing about them; he had lived and slept with
an old woman who said she was his grandmother, and he’d been told that
she weren’t no relation; he didn’t trouble himself about it. She sold
lucifer-boxes or any trifle in the streets, and had an allowance of
2_s._ weekly, but from what quarter he did not know. About four years
ago he was run over by a cab, and was carried to the workhouse or the
hospital; he believed it was Clerkenwell Workhouse, but he weren’t
sure. When he recovered and was discharged he found the old woman was
dead, and a neighbour went with him to the parish officers, by whom--as
well as I could understand him--he was sent to the workhouse, after
some inquiry. He was soon removed to Nor’ud. On my asking if he meant
Norwood, he replied, “no, Nor’ud,” and there he was with a number of
other children with a Mr. Horbyn. He did not know how long he was
there, and he didn’t know as he had anything much to complain of, but
he ran away. He ran away because he thought he would; and he believed
he could get work at paper-staining. He made his way to Smithfield,
near where there was a great paper-stainer’s, but he could not get any
work, and he was threatened to be sent back, as they knew from his
dress that he had run away. He slept in Smithfield courts and alleys,
fitting himself into any covered corner he could find. The poor women
about were kind to him, and gave him pieces of bread; some knew that he
had run away from a workhouse and was all the kinder. “The fust browns
as ivver I yarned,” he said, “was from a drover. He was a going into
the country to meet some beasts, and had to carry some passels for
somebody down there. They wasn’t ’evvy, but they was orkerd to grip.
His old ’oman luk out for a young cove to ’elp her old man, and saw
me fust, so she calls me, and I gets the job. I gived the greatest of
satisfaction, and had sixpence giv me, for Jim (the drover) was well
paid, as they was vallyble passels, and he said he’d taken the greatest
of care on ’em, and had engaged a poor lad to ’elp him.” On his return
the child slept in a bed, in a house near Gray’s-inn-lane, for the
first time since he had run away, he believed about a fortnight. He
persevered in looking out for odd jobs, without ever stealing, though
he met some boys who told him he was a fool not to prig. “I used to
carry his tea from his old ’oman,” he went on, “to a old cove as had
a stunnin’ pitch of fruit in the City-road. But my best friend was
Stumpy; he had a beautiful crossin’ (as a sweeper) then, but he’s dead
now and berried as well. I used to talk to him and whistle--I _can_
just whistle” [here he whistled loud and shrill, to convince me of
his perfection in that street accomplishment] “--and to dance him the
double-shuffle” [he favoured me with a specimen of that dance], “and
he said I hinterested him. Well, he meant he liked it, I s’pose. When
he went to rest hisself, for he soon got tired, over his drop of beer
to his grub, I had his crossin’ and his broom for nuff’n. One boy used
to say to Stumpy, ‘I’ll give you 1_d._ for your crossin’ while you’s
grubbin.’ But I had it for nuff’n, and had all I yarned; sometimes
1_d._, sometimes 2_d._, but only once 3-1/2_d._ I’ve been ’elping Old
Bill with his summer cabbages and flowers (cauliflowers), and now he’s
on live heels. I can sing ’em out prime, but you ’eared me. I has my
bit o’ grub with him, and a few browns, and Old Bill and Young Bill,
too, says I shall have better to do, but I can’t until peas. I sleeps
in a loft with ’ampers, which is Old Bill’s; a stunnin’ good bed. I’ve
cried for and ’elped other costers. Stumpy sent me to ’em. I think he’d
been one hisself, but I was always on the look-out. I’ll go for some
bunse soon. I don’t know what I shall do time to come, I nivver thinks
on it. I could read middlin’, and can a little now, but I’m out of
practice.”
I have given this little fellow’s statement somewhat fully, for I
believe he is a type of the most numerous class of runaway urchins who
ripen, so to speak, into costermongers, after “helping” that large body
of street-traders.
I heard of one boy who had been discharged from Brixton, and had
received 6_d._ to begin the world with, as it was his first offence, on
his way back to London, being called upon suddenly as soon as he had
reached the New Cut (then the greatest of all the street-markets) to
help a costermonger. This gave the boy a start, and he had since lived
honestly.
OF THE CAPITAL AND INCOME OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED
ARTICLES.
Before giving a Summary of the Capital and Income of the
above-mentioned class, I shall endeavour to arrive at some notion as
to the number of persons belonging to this division of the London
Street-sellers.
As far as I am able to ascertain, the following estimate may be taken
as an approximation to the truth. There are in the metropolis 100
hardware-sellers, 6 cheap Johns, 30 sellers of cutlery, 6 sellers of
tailors’ needles, 20 sellers of metal spoons, 500 sellers of jewellery,
2 sellers of card counters, 15 sellers of medals, 6 sellers of rings
and sovereigns for a wager, 25 sellers of children’s gilt watches, 100
sellers of tin-ware, 100 swag-barrowmen, 12 sellers of dog-collars,
&c., 40 sellers of tools, 380 sellers of crockery and glass-wares, 12
sellers of spar-ornaments, 30 sellers of China-ornaments, 6 sellers
of stone-fruit, 120 packmen and duffers or hawkers of soft wares,
500 sellers of tapes, cottons, &c., 100 sellers of lace, 15 sellers
of japanned table covers, 500 brace and belt-sellers, 50 sellers of
hose, 3 sellers of waistcoats, 230 sellers of blacking, 125 sellers of
black-lead, 5 sellers of French polish, 7 sellers of grease-removing
composition, 4 sellers of plating-balls, 8 sellers of corn-salve, 4
sellers of China and glass cement, 6 sellers of razor paste, 55 sellers
of crackers and detonating-balls, 200 sellers of Lucifer matches, 100
sellers of cigar-lights, 30 sellers of gutta-percha heads, 50 sellers
of fly-papers and beetle-wafers, 25 sellers of poison for rats, 35
sellers of walking-sticks, 30 sellers of whips, 4 sellers of clay
and Meerschaum pipes, 15 sellers of tobacco-boxes, snuff-boxes, and
cigar-cases, 100 sellers of cigars, 50 sellers of sponge, 200 sellers
of wash-leathers, 35 sellers of spectacles, and eye-glasses, 50 sellers
of dolls, 50 lot-sellers, 2 sellers of Roulette tables, 4 sellers
of rhubarb, 100 rat-catchers, 50 sellers of combs, 50 sellers of
money-bags, 70 sellers of coat-studs; making altogether a total of 4272.
Some few of the above trades are, however, of only a temporary
character; as, for instance, such as are engaged in the street-sale
of crackers and detonating-balls--the month of November and the
Christmas week being the only regular periods, with the exception of
fairs and races, for the vending of those articles. The fly-papers
and beetle-wafers are other instances of the same kind--summer
being the only season in which there is a demand for such things.
Making due allowance therefore for the temporary character of some
of the callings, as well as for the itinerancy and unsettledness of
other trades or traders, we may, I think, safely assume that the
street-sellers connected with this class are about 4000 in number.
Concerning the amount of capital invested in this branch of the
street-traffic as well as the income derived therefrom, the following
tables are given as being somewhat near the truth.
METAL.
_Street-Sellers of Hardware._
£ _s._ _d._
Stock-money for 100 vendors at 10_s._
each 50 0 0
_Cheap Johns._
6 carts 30_l._ each, and stock-money
for the same, 50_l._ each 480 0 0
_Street-Sellers of Cutlery._
Stock-money for 30 vendors at
1_s._ 6_d._ each 2 5 0
_Blind Street-Sellers of Tailors’ Needles._
6 boxes at 1_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money
for 6 vendors at 2_s._ each 1 1 0
_Street-Sellers of Metal Spoons, &c., at Public-Houses._
Stock-money for 20 vendors at
2_s._ 6_d._ each 2 10 0
_Street-Sellers of Jewellery._
500 boxes at 3_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money
for 500 vendors at 15_s._ each 462 10 0
_Street-Sellers of Card-Counters, Medals, &c._
17 boxes at 3_s._ each; stock-money
for 17 vendors at 2_s._ 6_d._ each 4 13 6
_Street-Sellers of Rings and Sovereigns for Wagers._
Stock-money for 6 vendors at 2_s._ 6_d._
each 0 15 0
_Street-Sellers of Children’s Gilt Watches._
Stock-money for 25 vendors at 5_s._
each 6 5 0
_Street-Sellers of Tin-Ware._
50 stalls, at 3_s._ each; stock-money
for 100 vendors, averaging 6_s._ each 37 10 0
_Street Swag-barrowmen._
100 barrows, at 1_l._ each; stock-money
for 150 swag-barrowmen, at 10_s._ each 175 0 0
_Street-Sellers of Dog-collars, Key-rings, &c._
6 stalls, at 3_s._ each; stock-money
for 12 vendors, at 5_s._ each 3 18 0
_Street-Sellers of Tools._
6 stalls, at 3_s._ each; stock-money
for 40 vendors, at 10_s._ each 20 18 0
CROCKERY AND GLASS.
_Street-Sellers of Crockery and Glass-Wares._
100 barrows, at 1_l._ each; 280 baskets,
at 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 280 linen bags,
at 1_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money for 380
vendors, at 10_s._ each 346 0 0
_Street-Sellers of Spar and China-Ornaments,
and Stone-Fruit._
16 barrows, at 1_l._ each; stock-money
for 12 vendors of spar-ornaments,
at 15_s._ each; 16 baskets, at
2_s._ 6_d._ each; 16 stalls, at 3_s._ each;
stock-money for 6 vendors of stone-fruit,
at 10_s._ each; and 20 roulette
tables, at 2_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money
for 30 sellers of China-ornaments, at
5_s._ each 42 8 0
TEXTILE.
_Packmen and Duffers, or Hawkers of Soft Wares._
120 wrappers, at 2_s._ each; stock-money
for 120 hawkers, at 5_l._ each 612 0 0
_Street-Sellers of Small Ware, or Tapes,
Cottons, &c._
500 boxes, at 1_s._ 6_d._ each; stock-money
for 500 vendors, at 1_s._ each 62 10 0
_Street-Sellers of Lace._
20 baskets, at 2_s._ 6_d._ each; 20
boxes, at 3_s._ each; 60 stalls, at 3_s._
each; stock-money for 100 vendors,
averaging 2_s._ 6_d._ each 27 0 0
_Street-Sellers of Japan Table-Covers._
Stock-money for 15 sellers, at 10_s._ each 7 10 0
_Street-Sellers of Braces and Belts, Hose,
Trowser-straps, and Waistcoats._
100 stalls, at 4_s._ each; 300 rods,
with hooks to hang the braces upon,
at 3_d._ each; stock-money for 500
brace-sellers, at 5_s._ each 148 15 0
_Street-Sellers of Hose._
Stock-money for 50 vendors, at
10_s._ each 25 0 0
_Street-Sellers of Waistcoats._
Stock-money for 3 vendors,
at 15_s._ each 2 5 0
CHEMICALS.
_Street-Sellers of Blacking._
200 boxes, at 6_d._ each; 30 bags,
at 1_s._ each; stock-money for 230
vendors, averaging 2_s._ each 29 10 0
_Street-Sellers of Black-Lead._
Stock-money for 125 vendors, at
1_s._ each 6 5 0
_Street-Sellers of French Polish._