Ah! ketch um by supprize,
An send um off where nub'dy knows,
Or _baak um up in pies_."
It was ever a safe piece of comic business with Old Joey Grimaldi and his
favourite pupil and successor, Tom Matthews, together with all other
stage clowns following them, that a penny pieman and the bright shining
block-tin can should be introduced into every Christmas pantomime. The
pataloon is made to be tossing the safe game of--"heads I win, tails you
lose" with the stage pieman, while the roguish clown is adroitly managing
to swallow the whole of the stock of pies from the can, and which are made
by the stage property-man for the occasion out of tissue-paper painted in
water-colours. Then follows the wry faces and spasmodic stomach-pinchings
of the clown, accompanied with the echoing cries of "_Mee, mee, mow,
woo!_" while the pantaloon takes from the pieman's can some seven or eight
fine young kittens and the old tabby-cat--also the handy-work of the stage
property-man. The whole scene usually finishes by the pantaloon pointedly
sympathizing with the now woebegone clown to the tune of "Serve ye
right--Greedy! greedy!! greedy!!!" when enter six supernumeraries dressed
as large and motherly-looking tabbies with aprons and bibs, and bedizened
with white linen night caps of the pattern known in private life to
middle-aged married men only. The clown and pantaloon then work together
in hunting down, and then handing over the poor pieman to the tender
mercies and talons of the stage-cats, who finish up the "business" of the
scene by popping the pieman into what looks like a copper of boiling
water.
Mr. Samuel Weller,--_otherwise_, Veller, that great modern authority on
Y{e} Manners and Y{e} Customs, of Y{e} English in general, and of London
Life wery Particular:--for "Mr. Weller's knowldge of London was extensive
and peculiar"--has left us his own ideas of the baked "mysteries" of the
pieman's ware:--
"Weal pie," said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the
eatables on the grass. "Werry good thing is a weal pie, when you know
the lady as made it, and is quite sure it an't kittens; and arter all,
though, where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery
piemen themselves don't know the difference?"
"Don't they, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Not they, sir," replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. "I lodged in
the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he
was--reg'lar clever chap too--made pies out o' anything, he could.
'What a number o' cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,' says I, when I'd got
intimate with him. 'Ah,' says he, 'I do--a good many,' says he. 'You
must be wery fond o' cats,' says I. 'Other people is,' says he, a
winkin' at me; 'they an't in season till the winter though,' says he.
'Not in season!' says I. 'No,' says he, 'fruits is in, cats is out.'
'Why, what do you mean?' says I. 'Mean?' says he. 'That I'll never be
a party to the combination o' the butchers, to keep up the prices o'
meat,' says he. 'Mr. Weller,' says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard,
and vispering in my ear--'don't mention this here agin--but it's the
seasonin' that does it. They're all made o' them noble animals,' says
he, a pointin' to a wery nice little tabby kitten, 'and I seasons 'em
for beef-steaks, weal, or kidney, 'cordin to demand. And more than
that,' says he, 'I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a
kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the
market changes, and appetites wary!"
"He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam," said Mr.
Pickwick, with a slight shudder.
"Just was, sir," replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of
emptying the basket, "_and the pies was beautiful_."
The "gravy" given with the meat-pies is poured out of an oil-can and
consists of a little salt and water browned. A hole is made with the
little finger in the top of the pie and the "gravy" poured in until the
crust rises sufficiently to satisfy the young critical gourmand's taste.
"The London piemen," says Mr. Henry Mayhew, "May be numbered at about
forty in winter, and twice that number in summer." Calculating that there
are only fifty plying their trade the year through, and their average
earnings at 8s. a week, we find a street expenditure exceeding L1,040, and
a street consumption of pies amounting to nearly three quarters of a
million yearly.
[Illustration: YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.
Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell.
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I'd not come here with young lambs to sell!
Dolly and Molly, Richard and Nell,
Buy my young lambs, and I'll use you well!]
The engraving represents an old "London Crier," one William Liston, from a
drawing for which he purposely _stood_ in 1826.
This "public character" was born in the City of Glasgow. He became a
soldier in the waggon-train commanded by Colonel Hamilton, and served
under the Duke of York in Holland, where, on the 6th of October, 1799, he
lost his right arm and left leg, and his place in the army. His
misfortunes thrust distinction upon him. From having been a private in the
ranks, where he would have remained undistinguished, he became one of the
popular street-characters of his day.
In Miss Eliza Cook's Poem "Old Cries" she sings in no feeble strain the
praises of the old man of her youthful days, who cried--"Merry and free as
a marriage bell":--
YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.
There was a man in olden time,
And a troubador was he;
Whose passing chant and lilting rhyme
Had mighty charms for me.
My eyes grew big with a sparkling stare,
And my heart began to swell,
When I heard his loud song filling the air
About "Young lambs to sell!"
His flocks were white as the falling snow,
With collars of shining gold;
And I chose from the pretty ones "all of a row,"
With a joy that was untold.
Oh, why did the gold become less bright,
Why did the soft fleece lose its white,
And why did the child grow old?
'Twas a blithe, bold song the old man sung;
The words came fast, and the echoes rung,
Merry and free as "a marriage bell;"
And a right, good troubadour was he,
For the hive never swarmed to the chinking key,
As the wee things did when they gathered in glee
To his musical cry--"Young lambs to sell!"
Ah, well-a-day! it hath passed away,
With my holiday pence and my holiday play--
I wonder if I could listen again,
As I listened then, to that old man's strain--
All of a row--"Young lambs to sell."
[Illustration: THE LONDON BARROW-WOMAN.
Round and sound,
Two-pence a pound.
Cherries, rare ripe cherries!
Cherries a ha'penny a stick
Come and pick! come and pick!
Cherries big as plums! who comes, who comes.]
The late George Cruikshank, whose pencil was ever distinguished by power
of decision in every character he sketched, and whose close observation of
passing men and manners was unrivalled by any artist of his day,
contributed the "London Barrow-woman" to the pages of Hone's _Every-Day
Book_ in 1826 from his own recollection of her.
[Illustration: BUY A BROOM.
These poor "Buy-a-Broom girls" exactly dress now,
As Hollar etch'd such girls two cent'ries ago;
All formal and stiff, with legs, only at ease--
Yet, pray, judge for yourself; and don't if you please,
* * * * *
But ask for the print, at old print shops--they'll show it,
And look at it, "with your own eyes," and you'll _know_ it.]
Buy a Broom? was formerly a very popular London-cry, when it was usually
rendered thus:--"_Puy a Proom, puy a prooms? a leetle von for ze papy, and
a pig vons for ze lady: Puy a Proom_." Fifty years ago Madame Vestris
charmed the town by her singing and displaying her legs as a _Buy-a-Broom
Girl_.
Buy a broom, buy a broom,
Large broom, small broom,
No lady should e'er be without one, &c.
But time and fashion has _swept_ both the brooms and the girls from our
shores.--Madame Vestris lies head-to-head with Charles Mathews in Kensal
Green Cemetery. _Tempus omnia revelat._
[Illustration: THE LADY AS CRIES CATS' MEAT.
Old Maids, your custom I invites,
Fork out, and don't be shabby,
And don't begrudge a bit of lights
Or liver for your Tabby.
Hark! how the Pusses make a rout--
To buy you can't refuse;
So may you never be without
The _music_ of their _mews_.
Here's famous meat--all lean, no fat--
No better in Great Britain;
Come, buy a penn'orth for your Cat--
A happ'orth for your Kitten.
Come all my barrow for a bob!
Some charity diskivir;
For faith, it ar'n't an easy job
To _live_ by selling _liver_.
Who'll buy? who'll buy of Catsmeat-Nan!
I've bawl'd till I am sick;
But ready money is my plan;
I never gives no tick.
I've got no customers as yet--
In wain is my appeal--
And not to buy a single bit
Is werry ungenteel!]
[Illustration: OUR DANDY CATS' AND DOGS' MEAT MAN.]
Every morning as true as the clock--the quiet of "Our Village Green" is
broken by a peculiar and suggestive cry. We do not hear it yet ourselves,
but Pincher, our black and tan terrier dog, and Smut, our black and white
cat, have both caught the well-known accents, and each with natural
characteristic--the one wagging his tail, the other with a stiff
perpendicular [dorsel appendage] sidles towards the door, demanding as
plainly as possible, to be let out. Yes, it is "Our Dandy Cats' and Dogs'
Meat Man," with his "_Ca' me-e-et--dogs' me yet--Ca' or do-args-me-a-yet,
me a-t--me-yett!!!_" that fills the morning air, and arouses exactly seven
dogs of various kinds, and exactly thirty-one responsive feline
voices--there is a cat to every house on "Our Village Green"--and causes
thirty-one aspiring cat's-tails to point to the zenith. We do not know how
it is, but the Cat's-meat man is the most unerring and punctual of all
those peripatetic functionaries who undertake to cater for the public. The
baker, the butcher, the grocer, the butterman, the fishmonger, and the
coster, occasionally forget your necessities, or omit to call for your
orders--the cat's-meat man never!
[Illustration: GUY FAWKES--GUY.]
There cannot be a better representation of "Guy Fawkes," as he was borne
about the metropolis in effigy in the days "When George the Third was
King," than the above sketch by George Cruikshank.
Please to remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot;
We know no reason, why gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot!
Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a!
A stick and a stake, for King George's sake,
A stick and a stump, for Guy Fawkes' rump!
Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a!
[Illustration: HENRY LEMOINE, The Literary and Pedestrian Bookseller and
Author, _A well known_ Eccentric Character of the City of London.]
[Illustration: ALL ROUND MY HAT I VEARS A GREEN VILLOW.]
All round my hat I vears a green villow,
All round my hat, for a twelvemonth and a day;
If any body axes me the reason vy I vears it,
I tells 'em that my own true love is far far away.
'Twas a going of my rounds, in the streets I first did meet her,
Oh, I thought she vos a hangel just come down from the sky;
SPOKEN.--She's a nice wegitable countenance; turnup nose, redish cheeks,
and carroty hair.
And I never knew a voice more louder or more sweeter,
Vhen she cried, buy my primroses, my primroses come buy.
SPOKEN.--Here's your fine colliflowers.
All round, &c.
O, my love she was fair, my love she was kind, too,
And cruel vos the cruel judge vot had my love to try:
SPOKEN.--Here's your precious turnups.
For thieving vos a thing she never vos inclined to:
But he sent my love across the seas, far far away.
SPOKEN.--Here's your hard-hearted cabbages.
All round, &c.
For seven long years my love and I is parted,
For seven long years my love is bound to stay.
SPOKEN.--It's a precious long time 'fore I does any trade to-day.
Bad luck to that chap vot'd ever be false-hearted,
Oh, I'll love my love for ever, tho' she's far far away.
SPOKEN.--Here's your nice heads of salary!
All round, &c.
There is some young men so preciously deceitful,
A coaxing of the young gals they vish to lead astray.
SPOKEN.--Here's your Valnuts; crack'em and try'em, a shilling a hundred!
As soon as they deceives'em, so cruelly they leaves 'em,
And they never sighs nor sorrows ven they're far far away!--
SPOKEN.--Do you vant any hingons to-day, marm?
All round, &c.
Oh, I bought my love a ring on the werry day she started,
Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me:
SPOKEN.--Bless her h-eyes,
And vhen she does come back, oh, ve'll never more be parted
But ve'll marry and be happy--oh, for ever and a day.
SPOKEN.--Here's your fine spring redishes.
All round, &c.
[Illustration: THE NEW LONDON CRIES.]
_Tune_--"The Night Coach."
Dear me! what a squalling and a bawling,
What noise, and what bustle in London pervades;
People of all sorts shouting and calling,
London's a mart, sure, for men of all trades.
The _chummy_ so black, sir, with bag on his back, sir,
Commences the noise with the cry of "sweep, sweep!"
Then Dusty and Crusty with voices so lusty,
Fish-men and green-men, their nuisances keep.
Dear me, &c.
Fine water cresses, two bunches a penny,
Fine new milk, two-pence ha'p'ny a quart!
Come buy my fine matches--as long as I've any,
Carrots and turnips, the finest e'er bought.
Dainty fresh salmon! _without_ any _gammon_,
Hare skins or rabbit skins! hare skins, cook I buy!
'Taters all sound, sir, two-pence six pounds, sir,
Coals ten-pence a bushel, buy them and try.
Dear me, &c.
Here's songs three yards for a penny!
Comic songs, love songs, and funny songs, too;
_Billy Barlow_,--_Little Mike_,--_Paddy Denny!_
_The Bailiffs are coming_--_The Hero of Waterloo_.
Eels four-pence a pound--pen knives here ground,
Scissors ground sharp, a penny a pair!
Tin kettles to mend, sir, your fenders here send, sir,
For six-pence a piece, I will paint 'em with care.
Dear me, &c.
Come buy my _old man_, a penny a root,
The whole true account of the murder last night!
Fine Seville oranges, ne'er was such fruit,
Just printed and published, the last famous fight.
Arrived here this morning--strange news from Greece,
A victory gain'd o'er the great Turkish fleet;
Chairs to mend--hair brooms, a shilling a piece!
Cap box, bonnet box--cats' and dogs' meat.
Dear me, &c.
Here's _inguns_ a penny a rope,
Pots and pans--old clothes, clo' for sale!
A dread storm near the Cape of Good Hope.
Greens two-pence a bunch--twenty-pence a new pail.
Sprats, a penny a plateful--I should feel werry grateful,
Kind friends for a ha'p'ny for my babe's sakes;
Shrimps, penny a pot--baked 'taters all hot!
Muffins and crumpets, or fine Yorkshire cakes.
Dear me, &c.
"Had I a _Garden_, a _Field_ and a _Gate_,
I would not care for the Duke of Bedford's estate;
That is, I would not care for the Duke of Bedford's estate,
If I had _Covent Garden_, _Smithfield_, and _Billingsgate_."
Billingsgate has from time immemorial had much to do with "The Cries of
London," and although a rough and unromantic place at the present day, has
an ancient legend of its own, that associates it with royal names and
venerable folk. Geoffrey of Monmouth deposeth that about 400 years before
Christ's nativity, Belin, a king of the Britons, built this gate and gave
it its name, and that when he was dead the royal body was burnt, and the
ashes set over the gate in a vessel of brass, upon a high pinnacle of
stone. The London historian, John Stow, more prosaic, on the other hand,
is quite satisfied that one Biling once owned the wharf, and troubles
himself no further.
Byllngsgate Dock is mentioned as an important quay in "Brompton's
Chronicle" (Edward III.), under the date 976, when King Ethelred, being
then at Wantage, in Berkshire, made laws for regulating the customs on
ships at Byllngsgate, then the only wharf in London. 1. Small vessels were
to pay one halfpenny. 2. Larger ones, with sails, one penny. 3. Keeles, or
hulks, still larger, fourpence. 4. Ships laden with wood, one log shall be
given for toll. 5. _Boats with fish_, according to size, a halfpenny. 6.
Men of Rouen, who came with wine or peas, and men of Flanders and Liege,
were to pay toll before they began to sell, but the Emperor's men (Germans
of the Steel Yard) paid an annual toll. 7. Bread was tolled three times a
week, cattle were paid for in kind, and butter and cheese were paid more
for before Christmas than after.
Hence we gather that at a very early period Billingsgate was not merely a
fish-market, but for the sale of general commodities. Paying toll in kind
is a curious fiscal regulation; though, doubtless, when barter was the
ordinary mode of transacting business, taxes must have been collected in
the form of an instalment of the goods brought to market.
Our ancestors four hundred years ago had, in proportion to the population
of London, much more abundant and much cheaper fish than we have now.
According to the "Noble Boke off Cookry," a reprint of which, from the
rare manuscript in the Holkham Collection, has just been edited by Mrs.
Alexander Napier, Londoners in the reign of Henry VII. could regale on
"baked porpois," "turbert," "pik in braissille," "mortins of ffishe,"
"eles in bruet," "fresh lamprey bak," "breme," in "sauce" and in "brasse,"
"soal in brasse," "sturgion boiled," "haddock in cevy," "codling haddock,"
"congur," "halobut," "gurnard or rocket boiled," "plaice or flounders
boiled," "whelks boiled," "perche boiled," "freeke makrell," "bace molet,"
"musculles," in "shelles" and in "brothe," "tench in cevy," and "lossenge
for ffishe daies." For the rich there were "potages of oysters," "blang
mang" and "rape" of "ffishe," to say nothing of "lampry in galantyn" and
"lampry bak." Our forefathers ate more varieties of fish, cooked it
better, and paid much less for it than we do, with all our railways and
steamboats, our Fisheries' Inspectors, our Fisheries Exhibion and new Fish
Markets with their liberal rules and regulations. To be sure, those same
forefathers of ours not only enacted certain very stringent laws against
"forestalling" and "regrating," but were likewise accustomed to enforce
them, and to make short work upon occasion of the forestalled and
regraters of fish, as of other commodities.
In Donald Lupton's "London and the Covntrey Carbonadoed and Quartred into
seuerall Characters. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes, 1632," the nymphs
of the locality are thus described:--
FISHERWOMEN:--These crying, wandering, and travelling creatures carry
their shops on their heads, and their storehouse is ordinarily
Byllyngsgate, or Ye Brydge-foot; and their habitation Turnagain Lane.
They set up every morning their trade afresh. They are easily
furnished; get something and spend it jovially and merrily. Five
shillings, a basket, and a good cry, are a large stock for them. They
are the merriest when all their ware is gone. In the morning they
delight to have their shop full; at evening they desire to have it
empty. Their shop is but little, some two yards compass, yet it holds
all sort of fish, or herbs, or roots, and such like ware. Nay, it is
not destitute often of nuts, oranges, and lemons. They are free in all
places, and pay nothing for rent, but only find repairs to it. If they
drink their whole stock, it is but pawning a petticoate in Long Lane,
or themselves in Turnbull Street, to set up again. They change daily;
for she that was for fish this day, may be to-morrow for fruit, next
day for herbs, another for roots; so that you must hear them cry
before you know what they are furnished withal. When they have done
their Fair, they meet in mirth, singing, dancing, and end not till
either their money, or wit, or credit be clean spent out. Well, when
on any evening they are not merry in a drinking house, it is thought
they have had bad return, or else have paid some old score, or else
they are bankrupt: they are creatures soon up and soon down.
The above quaint account of the ancient Billingsgate ladies answers
exactly to the costermonger's wives of the present day, who are just as
careless and improvident; they are merry over their rope of onions, and
laugh over a basketful of stale sprats. In their dealings and disputes
they are as noisy as ever, and rather apt to put decency and good manners
to the blush. Billingsgate eloquence has long been proverbial for coarse
language, so that low abuse is often termed, "_That's talking
Billingsgate!_" or, that, "_You are no better than a Billingsgate
fish-fag_"--_i.e._, You are as rude and ill-mannered as the women of
Billingsgate fish-market (Saxon, _bellan_, "to bawl," and _gate_, "quay,"
meaning the noisy quay). The French say "Maubert," instead of
Billingsgate, as "_Your compliments are like those of the Place
Maubert_"--_i.e._, No compliments at all, but vulgar dirt-flinging. The
"Place Maubert," has long been noted for its market.
[Illustration: THE CRIER OF POOR JOHN.
"It is well thou art not a fish, for then thou would'st have been _Poor
John_"--_Romeo and Juliet_.]
The introduction of steamboats has much altered the aspect of
Billingsgate. Formerly, passengers embarked here for Gravesend and other
places down the river, and a great many sailors mingled with the salesmen
and fishermen. The boats sailed only when the tide served, and the
necessity of being ready at the strangest hours rendered many taverns
necessary for the accommodation of travellers. The market formerly opened
two hours earlier than at present, and the result was demoralising and
exhausting. Drink led to ribald language and fighting, but the refreshment
now taken is chiefly tea or coffee, and the general language and behaviour
has improved. The fish-fags of Ned Ward's time have disappeared, and the
business is done smarter and quicker. As late as 1842 coaches would
sometimes arrive at Billingsgate from Dover or Brighton, and so affect the
market. The old circle from which dealers in their carts attended the
market, included Windsor, St. Alban's, Hertford, Romford, and other places
within twenty-five miles. Railways have now enlarged the area of
purchasers to an indefinite degree.
To see this market in its busiest time, says Mr. Mayhew, "the visitor
should be there about seven o'clock on a Friday morning." The market opens
at four, but for the first two or three hours it is attended solely by the
regular fishmongers and "bummarees," who have the pick of the best there.
As soon as these are gone the costermonger's sale begins. Many of the
costers that usually deal in vegetables buy a little fish on the Friday.
It is the fast day of the Irish, and the mechanics' wives run short of
money at the end of the week, and so make up their dinners with fish: for
this reason the attendance of costers' barrows at Billingsgate on a Friday
morning is always very great. As soon as you reach the Monument you see a
line of them, with one or two tall fishmongers' carts breaking the
uniformity, and the din of the cries and commotion of the distant market
begin to break on the ear like the buzzing of a hornet's nest. The whole
neighbourhood is covered with hand-barrows, some laden with baskets,
others with sacks. The air is filled with a kind of sea-weedy odour,
reminding one of the sea-shore; and on entering the market, the smell of
whelks, red herrings, sprats, and a hundred other sorts of fish, is almost
overpowering. The wooden barn looking square[14] where the fish is sold
is, soon after six o'clock, crowded with shiny cord jackets and greasy
caps. Everybody comes to Billingsgate in his worst clothes; and no one
knows the length of time a coat can be worn until they have been to a fish
sale. Through the bright opening at the end are seen the tangled rigging
of the oyster boats, and the red-worsted caps of the sailors. Over the hum
of voices is heard the shouts of the salesmen, who, with their white
aprons, peering above the heads of the mob, stand on their tables roaring
out their prices. All are bawling together--salesmen and hucksters of
provisions, capes, hardware, and newspapers--till the place is a perfect
Babel of competition.