[1] On mentioning this circumstance of the dish of stewed snakes
some months later to friends of mine in China, they insisted that
I must have been mistaken, as none of the South Sea Islanders were
snake-eaters. But that some of the tribes do eat snakes has been amply
proved since by Mr. C. M. Woodford, who visited the Solomon Group of
Islands several times, and lived for months on some of the smaller
islands. It appears that it is only certain tribes who eat the snakes;
and they are held in contempt by the other tribes who do not use
snakes. After my friends so persistently averred that I was mistaken,
I came to that conclusion myself; but now I have no longer a doubt
that I partook of boiled snake on that memorable day, and, as far as I
remember, I found it a toothsome dish, but I bar the oil it was cooked
in. That oil, I believe, was made from the blubber of shark.--THE
AUTHOR.
_Old Stone Signs of London._
THOUGH the predictions of John Dryden were not always fortunate, one
stanza in the "Annus Mirabilis," 1666, which refers to the future of
London City, may here be appropriately quoted:--
"More great than human now and more August,
New deified she from her fires does rise:
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies."
It may be observed that Augusta was the Roman name for London.
Now of the old stone signs of London yet extant, one or two only bear
date anterior to the Great Fire. Many of those which still remain,
fixed either on the outside walls or within the houses they originally
marked, are undated, but their age may be guessed with a tolerable
degree of accuracy. It is also known that the custom of denoting houses
by carved stone signs built into the outer walls did not come into
general use until the rebuilding of the city subsequent to the year
1666.
The inconvenience of the old swinging signs, which blocked the
daylight, and which, by their creaking noises, made day and night alike
hideous, had long been felt--nay, more, their danger to passers-by,
when wind and decay had caused a downfall, had been not a few times
painfully apparent. Hence the Act of Charles II., which forbade
swinging signboards, was both wise and salutary. The signboards,
however, died hard, and prints as late as the middle of the eighteenth
century show the streets full of them. But signs had their use in those
days of unnumbered streets, and it was not until the numbering of the
houses was enforced that the quaint, historic, and, in some cases, even
highly artistic, landmarks vanished.
As years have rolled by, the stone signs themselves, built though they
were into the walls of the houses, have in a great measure disappeared.
Some are luckily preserved in the Guildhall Library Museum, others
are in private hands, many have been carted away as rubbish during
rebuilding, and only a few now remain _in situ_. It is with these few
that this paper is now concerned, and of which illustrations are given.
[Illustration: BOY AND PANYER.]
The use of the curious sign known as the "Boy and Pannier," in
Panyer-alley, is threefold. It was a street sign, a trade sign, and
also, it would seem, a landmark. Stow, writing in 1598, mentions a
street sign there, probably the upper portion only of the present sign.
He writes, "... Is another passage out of Pater Noster row, and is
called, of such a sign, Panyer-Alley, which cometh out into the north
over against St. Martins Lane." Along this alley the bakers' boys
were wont to sit, with their baskets or panniers of bread exposed for
sale, the sale of loaves at the bakers' shops for some reasons being
prohibited by law. On the lower slab there yet remains a barely legible
inscription, which in modern English runs thus:--
When you have sought the city round,
Yet still this is the highest ground.
August 26, 1688.
Cheapside and its tributaries are, as times go, rather rich in stone
signs. On the external wall of No. 37 may be seen a well carved swan
with collar and chain. This is a sign of heraldic origin without
doubt; it was, in fact, one of the badges of Henry IV., and was also
heraldically one of the charges of Buckingham, Gloster, and others.
Hitherto, however, efforts to trace the exact history of this sign
have been without avail. Far different is it with the White Bear,
now to be seen within the house of business of Messrs. Gow, No. 47,
Cheapside. This most interesting sign was discovered while making
alterations as lately as 1882. The house itself stands at the corner
of Soper's-lane (modern designation, Queen-street), and was once the
shop of the far-famed merchant, Sir Baptist Hicks, Kt., subsequently
Viscount Campden. Baptist Hicks was the successful son of a wealthy
father, and succeeded to what was in those days a most thriving silk
mercer's business. His career is remarkable in more ways than one, for
though a favourite at Court, immensely wealthy and knighted, he was the
first London merchant who after knighthood took the resolution to still
continue in business.
[Illustration: THE SWAN.]
[Illustration: WHITE BEAR.]
It is also worthy of notice that the stone figure of the bear faces
in the opposite direction to all other heraldic signs now standing in
London. At No. 28, Budge-row, will be found one of the best preserved
of all the London signs, "The Leopard" (otherwise Lizard or Lazarde).
This is the crest of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, and as
Budge-row took its name from the skin of newly-born lamb, which was
termed Budge, the origin of this sign can be in no way a matter of
doubt. The Skinners' Hall, too, was close by, and quite early in the
fourteenth century it may be noted that enactments were in force
against the wearing of "cloth furred with Budge or Wool" by persons
(women) of inferior rank.
Lower Thames-street, known in the time of Stow as Stock
Fishmonger-street, still possesses two very good examples of signs:
one, the "Bear," with its collar and chain, carved in very high relief,
and surmounted by initials and date (1670).
[Illustration: THE LEOPARD.]
On the borders of Islington and Clerkenwell there are a group of signs
which belong to houses celebrated in past days. The first is the "Old
Red Lion." Here there are two carved shields, one of which only is
antique--_i.e._, that on the north gable. This house has memories and
traditions both literary and artistic. Within its walls Tom Paine wrote
the "Rights of Man." This is, however, a questionable honour. Here
Hogarth was wont to stay, and has even introduced its gables into one
of his prints--"Evening." The house, too, was the haunt at times of
Thomson, Goldsmith, and Johnson.
Another sign is the "Pelican," of which there is an example in
Aldermanbury. The fabulous story of the pelican "vulning" (_i.e._,
wounding) its breast to feed its young endured for ages, and even as
late as the reign of George I., at Peckham Fair, there was advertised
to be on view "A pelican that suckles her young with her heart's blood,
from Egypt." In the same district as the "Pelican," at the corner of
Addle-street, E.C., may be seen yet another "Bear"--how popular as
signs and how enduring these bears seem! This carving is dated 1670
(not 1610), and bears initials N.T.E. The N., which is the surname,
is reversed; the T. and the E. standing in all probability, as was
customary, for the Christian names of the builder and his wife. The
"Elephant and Castle," irreverently called the "Pig and Pepper-box,"
in Belle Sauvage-yard, is the crest of the Cutlers' Company, to whom
the house was left in 1568 by John Craythorne. The "Belle Sauvage Inn,"
over the origin of whose name and sign so much antiquarian ink has been
spilt, vanished years ago. This hostelry was memorable among other
things for being opposite the spot at which the rebel Wyat rested on
the occasion of his unsuccessful attempt to penetrate Ludgate. It was
also a celebrated stopping-place for the northern carriers. In Belle
Sauvage-yard for a time dwelt Grinling Gibbons, and there he carved,
according to Walpole, "a plot of flowers which shook surprisingly with
the motion of the coaches that passed by."
[Illustration: THE BEAR.]
[Illustration: THE OLD RED LION.]
[Illustration: THE PELICAN.]
[Illustration: BEAR AND CHAIN.]
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT AND CASTLE.]
Two or three outlying stone signs remain now to be mentioned. One is
the "Cock and Serpents," at No. 16, Churchlane, Chelsea. This sign,
evidently religious in its origin, is very remarkable, both in its
design and also from its date, 1652. It does not appear to have any
history, though the road in which it is to be found teems with memories
of not a few of England's worthies. Another, the sign of the "Dog and
Duck," now built into the garden wall of Bethlem Hospital in Southwark,
is important from the fact that it records the precise sport (duck
hunting) which was the attraction of the house, and also because on
the same stone, and dated 1716, we find the arms of the Borough and
Southwark--a conjunction of which the history of signboards offers no
other example.
[Illustration: COCK AND SERPENTS.]
[Illustration: DOG AND DUCK.]
One illustration is given of a sign which is not stone, _i.e._, the
"Leather Bottle," at the corner of Leather-lane, Hatton Garden. There
appear to be doubts whether the present sign is the original, but as
one branch of sign lore deals with signs appropriate to places, it
may be well to mention this one, which is certainly of respectable
antiquity, as an example. Space is wanting for more than mere mention
of the "Marygold" of Messrs. Child's, the "Golden Bottle" of Messrs.
Hoare's, and the three quaint iron squirrels of Messrs. Gosling's.
Nor can the traditions of the ancient "Cock" Tavern in Fleet-street,
with its carved wooden sign (possibly the work of Gibbons), be here
related. The writer, however, may perhaps be permitted in conclusion to
acknowledge with gratitude his indebtedness to the only standard book
on the subject, and also to kind assistance rendered to him by many
with whom he has come in contact while tramping the now modern streets
of our historic metropolis in search of its ancient signs.
[Illustration: THE LEATHER BOTTLE.]
_Captain Jones of the "Rose."_
By W. CLARK RUSSELL.
SEVEN men sat in a gloomy wooden cave. Under a massive beam that ran
athwart the ceiling swung a sort of coffee-pot, from the spout of which
sputtered a smoking and stinking flame, whose disgusting fumes were to
be everywhere tasted in the atmosphere of the darksome wooden cave. The
seven men were seated, not on morocco chairs or velvet sofas, but on
rude boxes, whose lids were scored by the cutting up of cake tobacco.
There were one or two pillars or stanchions in this gloomy wooden cave,
from which dangled several oilskin coats and oilskin leggings, and
under the ceiling hung a number of bags called hammocks, with here and
there a ragged blanket peeping over the edge, or an old shoe showing
through the nettles. In the midst of the ceiling was a square hole
called a hatch, down which this day there floated very little daylight,
owing partly to the hatch being small and partly to the sky being
overcast with clouds.
[Illustration: "SEVEN MEN SAT IN A GLOOMY WOODEN CAVE."]
Had those seven men seated in this interior been cleanly shaved, and
had they been apparelled in well-washed coloured shirts, sleeved
waistcoats, comfortable trousers, and caps with naval peaks, they would
have passed as a harmless, respectable body of seafaring men--persons
who would say "mum" to a lady when addressed by her, and answer
intelligently and respectfully when asked about the weather. But as
they now sat they looked as sulky and wild a set of fellows as one
could imagine, strangely and fearfully attired, grimy of face and
hairy, booted with half-Wellingtons and belted in Wapping fashion,
and timid people would have thought that they carried a murderous air
because each man wore a sheath upon his hip, in which lay a very sharp
blade.
The wooden cave in which these men sat, rose and fell as though it
were the extreme end of a long board violently see-saw'd; and this
motion, combined with the smell of the fumes of the slush-fed lamp and
a vapour rising out of a small tub of boiled pork, not to mention other
odours such as might be produced by well-worn, newly-greased sea-boots,
bedding which had made several voyages round the world, sooty clay
pipes, old ropes, stale salt water, and many mysteries of malodorous
commodities stowed below in the hold and forepeak, must instantly have
upset the stomach of any landsman who out of curiosity should have put
his head into the little hatch to see what was inside of it.
This cave was indeed a ship's forecastle, but the seven men who sat
in it were mariners who had for many years been tossed by the various
oceans of the world, and could not possibly have been sea-sick, even
though they should have been offered a handsome reward to try.
One of them was a large, strong man, with a shaggy head of hair and
a beard like rope-yarns. He looked as though he had taken a header
and come up again to blow crowned with black seaweed. This strong man
suddenly, and with a sulky fury of gesture, whipped the knife out of
the sheath that was strapped to his hip, and, plunging it into a lump
of pork, lifted the horrid block into the air, and cried out--
"Here it is agin!"
As he pronounced these words, the little square of hatch was obscured
by the interposition of a man's body.
[Illustration: "THIS IS SWEET MEAT TO PETER."]
"The smell of that there pork," said the voice belonging to the body in
the hatch, "is something to sit upon, something strong enough to lean
agin. Why, a man might turn to and chop them fumes into first-class
bunk-boards. Talk o' strength!"
"Come below, cook!" bawled one of the seven men.
"No; I've got to see to the capt'n's dinner. But I'm _of_ ye if there's
to be trouble. When I signed it was for wittles and a dry bottom and
a ship's company. Pump, pump, and nothen to eat! Nothen to eat and
pump, pump! Here's logic as don't tally with this covey's reckoning
for _one_." And the man, violently smiting himself upon the breast,
disappeared.
The powerful sailor who had held the pork aloft whilst the cook
discoursed, shook it off the blade into the tub again and spat.
"It's about time," said he, "that all hands was agreed."
"All hands is agreed," said one of the sailors, "'cepting that blooming
Dutchman Peter. But if he don't come into it it'll be a bad job for one
of us if, on some dark night, him and me happens to be aloft together."
"That there Peter," said a sailor, "was a-boasting to me that he'd ha'
shipped for a pound a month; d'ye know he'd eat a shipmate's shirt
if by so doing he thought he would airn a shilling by saving his
allowance."
"This is sweet meat to Peter," said one of the seven, pointing to the
pork, "and a pound a month is good money to Peter; and if Peter and the
likes of him could get their way, then if ye wanted to see what sort of
man an English sailor looked like ye'd have to ask the master of the
fust workhus as hove in sight to show ye him."
"What a blazing fool a fellow makes of hisself when he goes to sea!"
exclaimed a man with red hair and a broken nose. "I might ha' been a
market-gard'ner had I stayed ashore. Think o' that! What did I run away
from home for? For the likes of this for a parlour," said he, waving
his hand round the forecastle, "and for the likes of yon," pointing
to his hammock, "for a bed, and the likes of that muck," he added,
pointing to the pork, "for a meal. But no growling's allowed. Ho no!
Tell 'em that pickled dog ain't pork, and that wermin ain't ship's
bread, and you're taken afore the magistrate and committed, and locked
up, and left to rot whilst the blooming Dutchmen are getting all the
jobs, because pickled dog to them _is_ pork, and wermin a relish." He
struck his fist heavily upon the chest on which he sat, and fastened
his eyes upon his huge knuckles whilst he turned them about, as though
he were inspecting a sample of coal.
"No use keeping all on growling," exclaimed a quiet-looking seaman,
addressing the others over his folded arms. "What's to be the order of
the day?"
"A bust-up," answered the strong man, who bore the nickname of Black
Sam. "Here we are, sixteen days out, two hands overboard, and not
enough men by six able seamen to work the ship, wessel making water,
and requiring to be pumped every four hours, meat fit to make a wulture
ill, ship's bread old and wormy, and the rest of us men's stores
shop-sweepings. Now this being so, I'm agoing to knock off work for
one."
"And me for another----" "And me for another," went, in a growl, from
mouth to mouth.
"There's the mate and there's the carpenter," continued Black Sam. "If
the capt'n can work the ship with them two, well and good. But Peter he
shan't have. Rather than that cuss of a Dutchman should be agin us, and
on the capt'n's side, I'd--" He projected his arm, and seemed with his
powerful hairy hand to strangle something in the air.
At this point the square of hatchway was again darkened, and the salt,
husky voice of the carpenter called down: "Be--low there. Hain't the
starboard watch got their dinner yet? Tumble up! Tumble up! The wind's
drawed ahead, and the yards want trimming."
"Tumble up!" exclaimed Black Sam. "Don't you be holding your nose too
long over the hatch, or it'll be you as'll be tumbling down. Can't ye
smell it? Oh, it's nothen but us men's dinner. There's plenty left if
ye've a mind for a bite."
"Who's that a-jawing?" exclaimed Mr. Chips, who combined the duty of
second-mate with that of ship's carpenter. "Tumble up, I tell you. The
wind's drawed ahead."
"Catch it and smell it for yourself," shouted a seaman, plunging his
hand into the mess-kid and hurling a lump of pork through the hatch.
The sailors heard the hurried steps of Mr. Chips as he went aft.
"He'll be telling the old man," said Black Sam; "let's go on deck and
have it out, lads. I'll do the talking part, with your good leave.
We don't want no language. Civility's a trump card in these here
traverses. We all knows what we mean to get, and I'll say it for ye."
He led the way, his shipmates followed; they gained the forecastle and
stood in a group gazing at the after part of the ship.
The vessel was the _Rose_, from Liverpool to an East African port. She
was an old-fashioned, composite ship, but her lines were those of a
yacht's, and there were few vessels then afloat which could look at her
on a bowline. Her yards were immensely square, and she carried swinging
booms and main-skysail-mast, and her burthen was between six and seven
hundred tons. Such a ship as this demanded eighteen of a crew at least,
not to mention master, mates, and "idlers." Instead of eighteen the
_Rose_ had sailed with ten men in the forecastle, and a cook in the
galley, and the others were a carpenter, who acted as second-mate, an
Only Mate, and the captain. Of the slender crew, two had been swept
overboard in a gale of wind. They were foreigners, and the English
Jacks did not lament their shipmates' end, but on the contrary grinned
fiendishly when it was discovered that the foreigners were gone, and
they hideously wished that all Dutchmen who signed articles for the red
ensign of England would go and fall overboard as those two foreigners
had, and as promptly, too, so that nobody concerned might be kept
waiting.
During the gale in which the two Dutchmen had perished, the ship had
been so strained as to oblige the hands to serve the pumps every four
hours. Undermanned, leaky, the provisions rotten! There must be a limit
to patience and endurance, even though the sufferer be a sailor. The
seven seamen lumped together on the forecastle of the _Rose_ stood
staring aft. The cook, a pale man, lounged in his galley door, half
in and half out, and his face wore an expression of sour expectation.
The carpenter, as I may call him, was talking to the captain, and the
Only Mate was slowly rising through the companion hatch as the body of
seamen stood staring.
[Illustration: "IS THIS FOOD FOR A MAN?"]
The captain, whose name was Jones, was a tall, lean, gaunt man, his
face of the colour of sulphur, his appearance decidedly Yankee, though
he happened to belong to Limehouse. He wore square-toed boots, a cloak
that might have been taken from the shoulders of a stage bandit, and a
sugar-loafed hat. The hair on his face consisted of a beard that fell
from under his chin like a goat's, and his eyes were black, brilliant,
and restless.
The Only Mate, whose name was Johnson, was about half the captain's
height. The ocean had done its work with him, had withered up his face,
dried the marrow out of his bones, put a turn in either leg, so that
his walk was like a pantomime clown's. Instead of being an Only Mate,
he should have formed the eighth part of a mate. You would have thought
that eight at least of such men as Mr. Johnson should go to the making
of an Only Mate for the _Rose_, had you sent your glance from his
dried and kinked figure to the body of men forward, more particularly
to the giant Black Sam, who, with the rest, continued to gaze aft.
The carpenter, or second mate, was a brown-faced man of about fifty,
but brine had taken the place of blood in his veins, and he looked
sixty, with his white locks and rounded back and long, hanging arms,
whose fingers were curled in the manner of fish-hooks. At the wheel
stood the Scandinavian seaman, Peter, the like of whom you may see any
day blowing in a German band in the streets of London: veal-coloured,
freckled, yellow-haired, a figure loosely put together, and as
meaningless an expression of countenance as a dab's.
The captain was puffing at a long cigar that drooped between his lips.
Presently he pulled his cigar from his mouth, and shouted: "We don't
want all hands. The starboard watch can trim sail. Trim sail, the
starboard watch!" and replacing his cigar, he fell to swiftly striding
the quarter-deck to and fro.
The seven sailors marched aft, and came to a stand a little abaft the
mainmast. Black Sam advanced himself by a step, and exclaimed:--"Capt'n
Jones, us men don't mean to do no more work until our wrongs are
righted."
The captain, speaking with his cigar in his mouth, halted opposite
the men, and said: "What are your wrongs? Are ye too well fed? Are ye
growing too fat for the want of work? Say the word, and I'll right them
wrongs for you fast enough."
"Ye've got a sow under that there long-boat, Capt'n Jones," said Black
Sam. "Would ye give her the wittles us men have to live on and work
hard on? No. And vy? Because the life and health of a sow is of more
consequence to the likes of such men as you and the owners of this
wessel than the life and health of a sailor."
Captain Jones clenched his fist and glared. But what is the good of one
man clenching his fist and glaring at seven savage, hairy, resolved
British seamen, and the captain might well know that he was but one
man to the whole ship's company, for the Only Mate stood at the rail
looking over the side as though he were a passenger, willing to listen,
but rather anxious not to be "involved," whilst the carpenter had
stepped aft, and was dividing his attention between the compass-card
and the main-royal. The captain looked around him. He then puffed for
some moments in silence at his cigar, whilst an expression entered his
face that would have persuaded shrewder observers than the sailors he
confronted that he intended to keep his temper.
"What have you to complain of?"
Several sailors spoke at once. Black Sam elevated his immense, hairy
fist.
"We complain of this," said he; "first, the ship ain't seaworthy."
"Lie number one," said the captain.
"She ain't seaworthy," continued Black Sam, with a menacing note of
storm in his deepening voice. "You're as good a sailor as we are, I
suppose, and ye must know that a ship that needs to be pumped out every
four hours ain't seaworthy."
"Next?" said the captain.
"All the wittles is rotten to the heart. Is this food for a man?" and
Black Sam, putting his hand in his breast, pulled out a biscuit and
extended it to the captain. But the captain looked elsewhere, and Black
Sam, with his face full of blood, dashed the biscuit on to the deck at
the captain's feet, on which one of the sailors cried out, "See how
they run!"
"Lie number two," said the captain. "Next?"
"Your ship's stores are rotten to the heart," said Black Sam. "The
wessel's taking in water faster than she should, and you _know_ it. The
crew are about seven less than the complement of such a vessel ought
to be, and that you know also. And here we are to tell you this; that
we're willing to go on pumping the wessel out for the next three days
for our lives' sake, but not for yourn; but that we don't do another
stroke of work unless you shifts your hellum and heads for the nearest
port, where ye can ship more hands and wittles fit for men to eat.
But if at the end of three days nothen's done, then we shall give up
pumping, take the boats, and leave you, and Mr. Chips, and the mate to
keep the ship afloat by yourselves, if ye can. That's your mind, mates?"
"That's our mind!" was echoed in a hurricane chorus.
The captain looked up aloft at his canvas, then around at the sea,
then at his Only Mate, and at Chips the carpenter, and at Peter at the
wheel. His sulphur-coloured face was dark with temper. Nevertheless he
spoke deliberately:
"This ship's going to make her passage. The leak's nothing, the stores
are first-class, and there are more of you than are wanted to do the
work of the vessel."
He called to Mr. Johnson, the Only Mate, who approached him with a
glance at the men that was certainly not remarkable for spirit.
"Mr. Johnson," said the captain, "you've heard what's passed?"
"I have, sir," answered the Only Mate.
"These fellows will go forward," continued the captain; "they will
swing in their hammocks, and they will smoke their pipes; but no more
stores are to be served out to them--no, not so much as a fragment of
that excellent bread which lies wasted on the deck here--until they
consent to turn to. Then, I don't doubt, it will be all plain sailing
again. Go forward now!" he cried, in a voice the sudden ring of which
was like the report of a pistol. "Mr. Johnson, I'll take the wheel;
whilst you, Mr. Chips and Peter, trim sail."
"Peter!" roared Black Sam, "we men have knocked off work till we're
righted. If you lend the capt'n a hand, and side with him agin us----"
And again he advanced his enormous arm and caused his fist to writhe.
"Mr. Cheeps," said Peter, "take this vheel; I am onvell;" and letting
go the spokes, the Dutchman marched forward and joined his shipmates,
who roared out a defiant huzza as the whole eight of them, with the
cook in their wake, made their way to the forecastle and disappeared.
Sailors have no friends, and Captain Jones knew it. There are societies
in Great Britain for the prevention of the ill-usage of most things
living, from women to dogs, from children to dickybirds, but there is
no society for the prevention of cruelty to sailors. Captain Jones knew
that he had the power to starve his men into compliance. Nevertheless,
he passed a very uneasy night. When the morning broke, he and the Only
Mate and Mr. Chips were nearly dead of fatigue, for wind had risen
in the hours of darkness, and the ship was a big one, and there were
but two men, the third being at the wheel, to let go and clew up, and
haul down and make snug as best two men might. When the morning broke,
Captain Jones looked as if he had just come out of hospital; Mr. Chips,
who stood at the wheel, might readily have passed for a man of seventy;
and the Only Mate, who was lighting the galley-fire, showed as if he
had been towed overboard during the greater part of the night.
"Those blackguards in the forecastle will be wanting their breakfast,"
said the captain, "and you'll have them laying aft presently and asking
to turn to."
The men, however, did not show themselves. They perfectly understood
that the ship could not be navigated as things went, and that the
captain must come round to their views before the day had passed,
and, indeed, long before the day passed should a change of weather
happen presently, and they grinned man after man as they furtively
peeped through the scuttle and saw old Chips at the wheel looking
seventy years old, and Captain Jones as though he was just come out of
hospital, and the Only Mate as though he had been towed overboard; and
they preserved their grin, man after man, as they looked aloft and saw
the unfurled royals and topgallant-sails fluttering, and the staysails
hanging loose, and the yards very ill-braced indeed.
[Illustration: "MR. CHIPS STOOD AT THE WHEEL."]
"We've got yesterday's muck of pork," said Black Sam, "and the bread
barge ain't empty. If the old man were the devil himself, we'd weather
him out. But the ship mustn't be allowed to sink this side of three
days;" and forthwith the sailors grimly rose through the hatch, and
in silence walked to the pumps, which they plied until they sucked,
and then returned to the forecastle. But there was no novelty in this
proceeding, for they had kept their faith with the captain, and at
every four hours throughout the night a gang had turned out to pump the
ship.
Whilst Captain Jones, sitting on the skylight, was drinking some coffee
which the Only Mate had boiled, the carpenter (Mr. Chips) munching a
biscuit at his side, and the Only Mate munching another biscuit at the
wheel, a sail hove in view. The breeze was light and the sea smooth.
Captain Jones hoisted the English ensign union down, and at about
nine o'clock in the morning the two vessels were nearly abreast of
each other, the _Rose_ with her topsail to the mast, the yards having
been swung by Captain Jones and Mr. Chips taking the braces to the
quarter-deck capstan. The stranger was a large, light barque, painted
black. She, too, had backed her topsail.
"There is no use in hailing," said Captain Jones, addressing the Only
Mate; "lower that quarter-boat, Mr. Johnson, and go aboard with Mr.
Chips. Tell the captain of the barque that my men have refused duty;
and ask him if he can oblige us with the loan of a couple of hands to
carry the barque to ----," and he named a convenient port.
Forthwith a boat was lowered, and in a few minutes Mr. Chips and the
Only Mate were pulling away as for their lives for the big, light
barque. The captain, grasping the wheel, stood watching. Now and again
a hairy head showed in the forecastle hatch, and the noise of a hoarse
laugh floated aft to the ears of Captain Jones. The boat gained the
side of the barque, a rope's end was thrown, and the Only Mate made the
boat fast to it. Both men then clambered over the side of the vessel
and disappeared.
[Illustration: "NOW AND AGAIN A HEAD SHOWED IN THE FORECASTLE HATCH."]
The captain gazed eagerly, and whilst he stood looking a hoarse
voice roared the following weather-worn lines through the forecastle
scuttle:--
"You Parliament of England, you Lords and Commons too,
Consider well what you're about, and what you mean to do;
You're now at war with Yankees: I'm sure you'll rue the day
You roused the sons of Liberty in North Americay."
The time passed, Captain Jones stood at the wheel with his eyes
fixed upon the barque. Suddenly he ran to the companion way, picked
a telescope out of its brackets, and, kneeling at the rail, directed
the glass at the barque. He remained motionless with his eye at the
telescope for some minutes, then stood up and sent a glance aloft, and
a look that swept the wide platform of his own decks, and his hollow,
gaunt countenance wore an expression of perplexity, dismay, and wrath,
all combining in a look that made him appear more than ever as though
just out of hospital.
"By this and by that and by t'other," he roared, using words which,
as they cannot be described, must be left to the imagination, "who'd
ha' thought it of two such this and that and something else sniggering
whelps?" and even as he thus used language which cannot be written,
the barque swung her yards so as to fill upon the sails, and letting
go Captain Jones's boat, which dropped quietly rocking astern, slided
along her course, her flying jibboom end pointing at something west of
north.
Captain Jones stood looking as though bereft of his reason, and many
and awful were the sea-words which leapt from his lips. Again he looked
along his deserted decks. There was nothing to be seen in the shape of
human nature but a single head showing in the fore-scuttle, and this
head appeared to be graphically describing what its eyes beheld to
the hidden mob beneath, else how should Captain Jones account for the
continuous roar of derisive laughter which saluted his ears? He stood
alone upon his deck: either the Only Mate and the carpenter had been
kidnapped or they had deserted him; and Captain Jones was perfectly
right in not doubting for a moment that they _had_ deserted him.
He rushed forwards.
"Men," he bawled, "up with ye! You shall have your way. I'm a lonely
man. Don't stop to consider. Ye shall have your way, but you must bear
a hand."
Upon this, up through the hatch, with the agility of a seaman, sprang
Black Sam. He was followed by the cook and Peter, and in a jiffy all
hands were on deck.
"See that barque?" roared the captain. "The mate and Mr. Chips have
deserted me for her. They've stolen my boat. No! I'm not going to stop
to pick her up. She'll be fifteen pound against Mr. Johnson, and six
months atop of it for robbery. I'm going to follow that barque; I'm
going to get those two men out of her. If the barque don't surrender
'em I'm going to run her down. Turn to now, my lads, and you shall have
your way."
"Well, we see you're in a hurry, capt'n," said Black Sam, "and as ye
know what our wrongs is, and as ye mean to right 'em in the manner I
took the liberty of pointing out yesterday, vy, we'll turn to. Give
your orders, and you'll find us willing."
[Illustration: "SEE THAT BARQUE?"]
The captain forthwith gave his orders. His commands would not be
understood by the landsman. Enough if I say that in a very short time
the _Rose_, fully clothed in canvas, was standing with her head direct
for the barque, an able seaman at her wheel, the captain pacing the
quarter-deck, the cook preparing breakfast for the men in the galley,
and the sailors, each of them with a glass of grog in him, looking at
the distant figure of the barque over the bows.
The _Rose_, as I have said, was a clipper. The wind had somewhat
freshened, and in this pursuit the vessel brought it about a point
before the beam. Far ahead leaned the barque, tall and unsightly,
heeling out to the sun a space of green copper, whilst at this moment
a foretopmast studdingsail went slowly soaring to the yardarm. Captain
Jones gave a loud laugh of contempt. He knew that his ship could sail
three feet to the barque's one, even though the chase should heap the
canvas of a _Royal George_ upon herself. He went on to his forecastle
and sent a man aft for a large black board, upon which he wrote in
chalk:--
* * * * *
GIVE 'EM UP OR--I'LL
RUN YOU DOWN.
* * * * *
As the _Rose_ overhauled the barque--and had she been a steamer she
could not have overtaken her more swiftly--the black board was held
on high by a couple of seamen so that it could be read on board the
stranger. Captain Jones on the forecastle head watched the chase
through his glass. The words "_Martha M. Stubbs_, Windsor, N.S.," were
written in large white letters upon her stern. Nothing was to be seen
of Mr. Chips and the Only Mate. A man wearing a fur hat, resembling
Robinson Crusoe's, paced the short poop of the barque. He carried a
glass in his hand, and to judge by the frequent glances he directed
at the _Rose_, it was to be guessed that he had interpreted the
handwriting on the black board.
The breeze freshened. Sheets and tacks strained to the increased
pressure. The _Rose_, with foam midway to the hawsepipe, went shearing
alongside the barque within pistol shot.
"Hard up!" shrieked the man in the Robinson Crusoe cap, and the fellow
at the helm made the spokes spin like the driving wheel of a locomotive.
"Hard up and into him!" roared Captain Jones, and round fizzed the
wheel of the _Rose_ in true firework fashion.
For the next two hours the _Rose_ was occupied in endeavouring to
run down the barque, the barque on her side cutting a hundred nimble
nautical capers to evade the shearing stem of the enraged Jones. But
at the end of two hours it had become plain to the man in the Robinson
Crusoe hat that the _Rose_ was in earnest. He then gave up, backed
his maintopsail yard, and sent the Only Mate and Mr. Chips aboard the
_Rose_ in a boat pulled by two men. Captain Jones at once put Mr. Chips
into irons and sent the Only Mate to his cabin. He then called to the
two fellows who were sitting in the boat under the gangway: "Are ye
undermanned?"
"Fearful--ly," was the answer.
"I thought so," said Captain Jones. "Step on board, my livelies, and
have a glass of grog afore you return."
The two men cheerfully crawled over the side, but instead of giving
them a glass of grog apiece, Captain Jones ordered them forward to turn
to with the rest of his crew, and with his own hand let go the line
which held the barque's boat to the _Rose_. Sail was then trimmed, and
in less than three hours the barque was hull down, though still in
pursuit of the _Rose_.
The Only Mate admitted, with a countenance of hate and loathing, that
he was sick of the _Rose_, sick of Captain Jones, that he hadn't any
intention of working a big vessel of 700 tons single-handed with old
Chips, the carpenter, and that when he boarded the Nova Scotiaman
and heard that she was very short-handed, he accepted the captain's
handsome offer of a number of dollars for the rest of the run to
Windsor, as did Mr. Chips. The Only Mate added that both he and Mr.
Chips were in debt to the _Rose_ as it was, and that Captain Jones
would have been welcome to their clothes and nautical instruments had
the Nova Scotiaman succeeded in getting clear off.
Captain Jones's troubles were not yet at an end. He wished to put into
Lisbon, but the crew refused to work the ship unless he returned to
England.
[Illustration: "STEP ON BOARD, MY LIVELIES."]
"We're not going to be converted into blooming distressed mariners,"
said the crew of the _Rose_. "No Consuls for us. We know them gents.
They'll find everything all right, stores sweet, crew plentiful, ship
tight, and we know how it'll be: a blooming Portugee jail, then a trip
home, and a blooming magisterial inquiry, and six weeks' o' quod;" and
so blooming, they forced Captain Jones to sail his ship home.
He arrived at Swansea, and handed the Only Mate and Mr. Chips over
into the hands of justice. He offered to ship two more hands if his
old crew would sail with him, but they said no, not if he shipped two
hundred more hands; and so they were taken before the magistrates,
who found the captain in the right, and punished the men by a term of
imprisonment far in excess of any penalty of jail and hard labour which
they would have inflicted upon a man who had merely broken his wife's
skull with his heel, or who had only been systematically starving
and cruelly beating his child of ten ever since the neighbours could
remember.
Captain Jones shipped a fresh crew and another Only Mate and a new
carpenter, but though he stopped his leak he did not ship fresh stores.
He sailed out of Swansea Bay October 11, 1869, and has not since been
heard of.
_Child Workers in London._
THIS article does not profess to be an exhaustive account of all the
employments in which London children are engaged. The limits of a
magazine article do not allow of a full and detailed account of this
very comprehensive subject. No individual or body of individuals has
any precise information about the hundreds of children engaged as
ballet dancers, acrobats, models, and street venders, to give only a
few names in the vast army of child workers.
[Illustration: A CHILD NURSE.]
Nothing can be harder and drearier than the lot of little servants,
employed in many cases in lodging-houses. They are on their feet all
day long, at everyone's beck and call, and never expected to be tired
or to sit down properly for a meal; the food is of the poorest quality;
they have heavy weights to drag up and down stairs in the shape of
coal-scuttles, and the inevitable strapping baby; their sleeping
apartment is as often as not a disgraceful hole, and such requisites to
health as are generally considered necessary in the shape of exercise,
fresh air, and baths are unknown quantities. There is a strong
prejudice against the "factory girl" in many quarters, and "service"
is indiscriminately extolled as far more suitable for a respectable
girl of the lower classes. It would be, if there were any chance of
the docker's child or the coster's child obtaining a decent situation;
but, as a matter of fact, the life of the much-pitied match-worker is
infinitely easier than that of these little drudges. At eight o'clock
the factory girl is at any rate free to get out into the open air for
a couple of hours, or to sit down and rest. The little "general" is
never free. One child told me--she was the daughter of a docker who
was the happy owner of eleven children, and was herself an under-fed,
anæmic-looking creature--that she got up at six every morning to "make
the gen'l'm's brakfast--it was a lodging-house; after that there's the
steps, 'ouse work, peeling potatoes, and sich like, till dinner. I
never sits down till we 'ave a cup o' tea after the lodgers 'ave 'ad
their suppers. But the missis--oh, she is a nice, kind laidy, and she
works with me, she do."
"I suppose," I said, "you are able to get out on Sundays?"
"Once a month I goes 'ome, but I nusses the baby on Sunday, as we ain't
so busy. 'E's such a beauty; I'll ask missis if I can bring 'im down;
e' can't walk by 'isself." And off darted the little maid to the top
of the house as if she were not on her thin legs from morn to night,
returning presently with a huge and well-fed baby, about three times
as fat as herself. I am bound to say this girl seemed contented, and,
as lodging-house landladies go, her mistress seemed a fairly good one;
but what a life of exhaustive and unremitting labour, even under these
conditions, for a child of thirteen; and what a life of horrors if her
mistress had been a brutal or cruel woman! The usual payment is 2s.
6d. a week, but I found in a number of cases the girls only received
1s., or even 9d., their mistresses deducting the rest of their salary
for the payment of the clothes which they have been compelled to buy
for them on arrival, the little servant being too often in possession
of a hat with feathers, a fur boa, and a brass locket, which, with the
garments she stands up in, form her entire outfit. A pathetic little
story was told me about a bright-faced girl I happened to come across.
"I got to know of her," said my informant, a lady who does much quiet
good, and whose name is unknown to newspaper readers, "last year. A
friend of mine whose Sunday-school she attended in Deptford asked me to
look her up. I happened quite by chance to call in at the coffee-tavern
where she was to act as servant, a few moments after she had arrived,
and I was told I might go up to the 'bedroom.' Well, I won't go into
particulars about that 'bedroom.' It was nearly dark, and I found the
poor little soul sitting on the only available piece of furniture in
the room--her own little tin hat-box. I shall not easily forget that
dazed, bewildered look with which she met me. It was all so strange;
everyone had been too busy to attend to her, and, though she had come
from a wretched home, where the playful father had been in the habit of
making her a target for his boot-shying, still there had been familiar
faces round her. She seemed to realise in the sort of way young people
do not, as a rule, the intense loneliness of her lot; and, when I put
my arm round her, she clung to me with such sobs that I could hardly
help crying too."
Fortunately, sensitive child-servants are tolerably rare, and I am
bound to say I failed to find any answering to this description. They
were generally what one might describe as decidedly "independent!" One
girl--she was barely fifteen--told me she had been in six places.
"Are you so fond of change?" I asked.
"'Tain't that so much," returned the young lady; "but I can't put up
with 'cheek,' and some o' my missises do go on awful. I says: 'Ave yer
jaw, and 'ave done with it.'"
[Illustration: ON THE ROPE.]
This certainly was rather an awful specimen; but she could not have
been very bad, as her present mistress--who, I presume, has not up to
the present "cheeked" her--assured me that the girl handed over her
2s. 6d. a week regularly to her mother. This seems to be the usual
practice with the girls. Their mothers buy their clothes, and give them
a shilling on Bank Holidays and a few pence every week to spend on
themselves. A large proportion of these little drudges marry dockers
and labourers generally, and, as their training has not been exactly
of the kind to render them neat, thrifty housewives, it is perhaps not
surprising that their _cuisine_ and domestic arrangements altogether
leave much to be desired.
There is perhaps no form of entertainment more popular amongst a
large class of playgoers than that afforded by the clever acrobat,
of whose private life the public has only the vaguest knowledge. The
general impression, derived from sensational stories in newspapers and
romances, is that the profession of the gymnast is a disreputable one,
involving a constant danger of life and limb; and that young acrobats
can only be made proficient in the art by the exercise of severity and
cruelty on the part of trainers.
The actual facts are that the owners, or, as they are called,
"fathers," of "troupes" are, in a number of cases, respectable
householders, who, when not travelling over Europe and America, occupy
little villas in the neighbourhood of Brixton and Clapham; that the
danger is immensely exaggerated, particularly in the case of boys, who
are always caught when they fall; and that the training and discipline
need not be any severer than that employed by a schoolmaster to enforce
authority.
"Of course," said a trainer of long experience to me, "I sometimes get
an idle boy, just as a schoolmaster gets an idle pupil, and I have my
own methods of making him work. But I would lay a heavy wager that
even a lazy lad sheds less tears in his training with me than a dull
schoolboy at a public school. I have never met with a single boy who
didn't delight in his dexterity and muscle; and you will find acrobats
as a whole enjoy a higher average of health than any other class."
There are no "Schools of Gymnastics" for training acrobats in London,
the regular method being that the head of each troupe--which usually
consists of five or six persons, including one or more members of the
family, the acrobatic instinct being strongly hereditary--trains and
exhibits his own little company. The earlier a boy begins, of course,
the better; and, as a general rule, the training commences at seven or
eight years old. Many of the children are taken from the very lowest
dregs of humanity, and are bound over by their parents to the owner
of a troupe for a certain number of years. The "father" undertakes to
teach, feed, and clothe the boy, whilst the parents agree not to claim
him for a stipulated number of years. A boy is rarely of any good for
the first couple of years, and it takes from five to six years to turn
out a finished gymnast.
[Illustration: "ONE OF THE YOKOHAMA TROUPE."]
"Is it true," I asked of the head of the celebrated "Yokohama Troupe,"
"that the bones of the boys are broken whilst young?"
Mr. Edwin Bale, who is himself a fine specimen of the healthy
trapezist, smiled pityingly at my question, and asked me to come
and watch his troupe practise. All gymnasts practise regularly for
two hours or more every day. The "Yokohama Troupe" includes three
boys, all well-fed looking and healthy, one of them being Edwin,
the fifteen-year-old son of Mr. Bale, a strikingly handsome and
finely-developed boy, who has been in the profession since he was two.
[Illustration: "SHOULDER AND LEGS."]
[Illustration: "FULL SPREAD."]
The first exercise that young boys learn is "shoulder and legs," which
is practised assiduously till performed with ease and rapidity. After
this comes "splits." This exercise looks as if it ought to be not only
uncomfortable but painful; but a strong proof that it is neither
was afforded me involuntarily by one of the little boys. He did it
repeatedly for his own benefit when off duty! After this the boy learns
"flip-flap," "full-spread," and a number of intricate gymnastics with
which the public is familiar. In all these performances boys are very
much in request, partly because they are more popular with the public,
and partly because in a variety of these gymnastic exhibitions men are
disqualified from taking any part in them owing to their weight. In
the figure technically known as "full spread" (shown in illustration),
it is essential that the topmost boy shall be slightly made and light
in weight; but even under these conditions the strain on the principal
"supporter" is enormous. As regards danger, so far as I have been
able to learn from a good deal of testimony on the point, there is
very little of any kind. The only really dangerous gymnastic turn is
the "somersault," which may have serious results, unless done with
dexterity and delicacy. There is no doubt that exercise of this kind is
beneficial to the boys' health. Several boys in excellent condition,
with well-developed muscles and chests, assured me they were often in
the "'orspital" before they became acrobats.
[Illustration: THROWING KNIVES.]
Their improved physique is possibly in a great measure due to the
capital feeding they get, it being obviously to the advantage of the
"father" to have a robust, rosy-faced company. Master Harris, of the
"Yokohama Troupe," informed me that he generally has meat twice a day,
a bath every evening (gymnasts are compelled by the nature of their
work to keep their skins in good condition by frequent bathing), that
Mrs. Bale was as kind to him as his own mother, and that he thought
performing "jolly." He further informed me that he got three shillings
a week for pocket-money, which was put into the bank for him.
[Illustration: BALL EXERCISE.]
Another boy in the same troupe told me he had over £9 in the bank. Of
course, all companies are not so well looked after as the boys in Mr.
Bale's troupe; but I have failed to discover a single case where the
boys seemed ill-used. Where the troupe travelled about Europe, the lads
were exceptionally intelligent, and several of them could talk fair
French and German. A really well-equipped acrobat is nearly always
sure of work, and can often obtain as much as £30 a week, the usual
payment being from £20 to £25 a week. As a rule, the boys remain with
the master who has given them their training, and who finds it worth
while, when they are grown up, to pay them a good salary. A troupe
gets as much as £70 or £80 a day when hired out for fêtes or public
entertainments. There is one point which will possibly interest the
temperance folk, and which I must not forget. The boys have constantly
before them moderation in the persons of their elders.
"Directly an acrobat takes to drinking," said Mr. Bale, impressively,
"he is done for. I rarely take a glass of wine. I can't afford to have
my nerves shaky." Altogether there are worse methods of earning a
livelihood than those of the acrobat; and, _à propos_ of this point, an
instructive little story was told me which sentimental, fussy people
would do well to note. There was a certain little lad belonging to a
troupe the owner of which had rescued him from the gutter principally
out of charity. The boy was slight and delicate-looking, but good
feeding and exercise improved him wonderfully, and he was becoming
quite a decent specimen of humanity when some silly people cried out
about the cruelty of the late hours, and so on, and insisted that he
should be at school all day. The lad, who was well fed, washed, and
clothed, was handed back to the care of his parents. He now certainly
attends school during the day, but he is running about the gutter every
evening, barefooted, selling matches till midnight! On the subject of
ballet children there is also a great deal of wasted sentiment. All
sorts and descriptions of children are employed in theatres, from the
respectable tradesman's child to the coster's child in Drury-lane; but
the larger proportion are certainly of the very poorest class, and it
must be remembered that these children would not be tucked up safely
in their little beds, if they were not earning a few badly-wanted
shillings; they would be running about the London streets.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: FIRST STEPS.]
Mr. D'Auban--who has turned out a number of our best dancers, such
as Sylvia Grey, Letty Lind, and others--was kind enough to call a
rehearsal of his children, who are now performing at the Lyric, Prince
of Wales, Drury-Lane, and other theatres, so that I was enabled to see
a very representative gathering of these useful little bread-winners.
Whatever else may be urged against the employment of children in
theatres, there is not the least doubt that dancing is a pure pleasure
to them. Out of all the little girls I questioned, not a single one
would admit that she ever felt "tired." A good many of the children
belong to theatrical families, and have been on the stage since they
were babies; they were distinguished by a calmness and self-possession
which the other little ones lacked; but in the matter of dancing there
was very little difference, and it was difficult to believe that a
large proportion of the children now playing in "La Cigale," knew
nothing about dancing six months ago. Mr. D'Auban has no apprentices,
no agreements, and no charges, and he says he can make any child of
fair intelligence a good dancer in six months. The classes begin in
May, and, as soon as it is known that Mr. D'Auban wants children, he is
besieged by parents with little maids of all sizes. The School Board
only allows them to attend two days a week; but Mr. D'Auban says:
"Everything I teach them once is practised at home and brought back
perfect to me." The children wear their ordinary dress, and practising
shoes of any kind are allowed. First the positions are mastered, then
chassés, pirouettes, and all the rest of the rhythmic and delicate
movements of which ballets consist.
[Illustration: FINISHING STEPS.]
Many of these graceful little dancers are the real bread-winners of the
family. Little Minnie Burley, whose charming dancing in the "Rose and
the Ring" will be remembered, though only eleven years old, has for
more than a year practically supported herself and her mother by her
earnings. The mother suffers from an incurable spinal complaint, and,
beyond a little help which she gets from another daughter who is in
service, has nothing to live upon but the little one's earnings. During
the double performance of the "Rose and the Ring," Minnie earned £1 5s.
a week; now she is earning as a Maypole dancer in "Maid Marian" 12s.
a week; but her engagement will soon end, and the poor little maiden,
who has the sense and foresight of a woman of thirty, is getting rather
anxious.
She is a serious-faced, dark-eyed child, very sensible, very
self-possessed, and passionately fond of dancing. Her mother is devoted
to her, and keeps her exquisitely neat. I asked her whether she did not
feel a little nervous about the child coming home alone every night
from the Strand.
"No," said Mrs. Burley, "you see, she comes by 'bus, and she _knows
how_ to take care of herself--she knows she is not to let anyone talk
to her."
[Illustration: A FIGURE OF PAVANNE.]
Minnie is a type of dozens of other hard-working, modest little
girls who are supporting themselves, and very often their families,
by dancing. As a rule, the mothers fetch the children, or make
arrangements for several to come home together. Many of them, whose
husbands have been out of work, or who are widows, or deserted, have
assured me they could not possibly have got through the winter without
the children's earnings, whilst the children themselves are immensely
proud of "helping" mother. The pride they take in their parts is also
very amusing. One small girl ran after me the whole length of a street.
She reached me breathless, saying, "Don't forget I'm _principal_
butterfly." Another small mite gave me a most crushing reply. She made
some allusion to her mother, and I said innocently, "I suppose your
mother is a dresser?" She looked daggers at me, and said indignantly,
"My mother's a lady wots in the ballet."
[Illustration: AT PLAY.]
The wages of the children range from 6s. to 16s. a week, and, as their
engagements often last for four months at a time, it will be seen that
their money is a valuable, and in many instances an essential, addition
to the mother's purse.
[Illustration: AT TEA.]
Child models, being required almost exclusively in the daytime, are,
thanks to the vigilance of the School Board authorities, becoming
more and more scarce. The larger number of them comes from "model
families," the mother having sat herself, and having from an early
age accustomed her children to "sitting." The children of these
families have no difficulty in obtaining regular work; they get a
reputation in the painting world, and one artist recommends them to
another. In the neighbourhood of Fitzroy-square, Holland-park, and St.
John's Wood these families abound, and are mostly in very respectable
circumstances. A pretty little girl, whose mother is a well-known
model, and who has herself figured in several of Millais' pictures,
told me with condescension that she had so many engagements she didn't
know which artist to go to first.
[Illustration: AT THE LYRIC.]
Mary M----, whose face is familiar to admirers of Miss Kate Greenaway's
pictures, is, except for a couple of months in the summer, never out
of work. She is a beautiful child of fourteen, the daughter of a
cab-driver, who is not always in regular employment; and, as Mary has
a tribe of little brothers, her earnings are of the utmost usefulness.
For several months she has been sitting to three artists, and making
the very respectable sum of £1 10s. a week. In her spare moments Mary
takes music lessons, and her great ambition is to become an illustrator
in black and white. All her earnings are cheerfully handed over to her
mother, who is as careful of her little daughter's welfare as she can
be.
"I don't sit as a nude model," Mary said, "but only for my head, and
mother doesn't let me go into _any_ studio."
As a matter of fact, children are not used as nude models to any great
extent; they do not sit still enough, and their limbs are too thin and
unformed to be of much use. Besides the regular professional models,
who get 5s. a day, and are pretty sure of engagements, except in the
summer, there is a fairly large class of street children who call at
the different artists' studios, and are taken on occasionally.
"I get any number," said a well-known artist. "They come down to me,
and are kind enough to _suggest_ ideas. One small girl said to me the
other day, 'Could you do me in a blue dress, sir; mother says it would
go well with my golden 'air.'"
Many artists prefer these children to the regular model, who get a
stereotyped expression and artificial poses from long habit. Mr. T.
B. Kennington, whose pictures of poor London children are familiar to
the public, told me that he always actually paints from the class of
children that he depicts on his canvas. The boy who figured in that
painful and powerful picture of his, "Widowed and Fatherless," is a
real little London waif. His mother is said to have been pitched out
of the window by her husband, and the boy, whose sad face arrests the
attention of the most careless observer, lives with his grandmother,
who does washing.
"Do you make the children 'put on' this sad expression?" I asked Mr.
Kennington.
"No, indeed; my great difficulty is to make them smile, except
momentarily. Haven't you ever noticed how very melancholy children look
in repose?"
This may be true about children who are constantly half-starved and
ill-treated, but surely it is not true of children in general, or even
of the majority of children of the lower classes, who contrive to
wear an air of marvellous brightness, in spite of cold, hunger, and
even blows. "Sitting" does not seem to be an occupation that commends
itself to children, who naturally dislike keeping perfectly still in
one position. Nearly all the little models prefer ladies, who keep them
quiet by telling them stories, and bestowing sweets and cakes on them;
whereas male painters have less persuasive methods of making them do
what they want. These latter, however, make many attempts to reform
the manners and morals of their small models, many of whom, they say,
evince an appalling amount of depravity. Mr. F. W. Lawson, who painted
some veritable little slum waifs, in his series of pictures called
"Children of the Great Cities," told a good little story of one of
his attempts in this direction. His model was a small, bright-faced,
black-eyed street boy.
"Well, Fred, what have you been doing to-day?" asks Mr. Lawson.
"Playing on Battersea Bridge, sir, and chucking stones at mad old
Jimmy," was the reply of the urchin, who then proceeded with much gusto
to describe the details of this sport. Mr. Lawson, on learning that
mad old Jimmy added blindness to his other infirmities, spoke strongly
about the cruelty and cowardice of such an entertainment; and ended up
by telling the story of a heroic deed performed by a blind man. "When I
looked up," said Mr. Lawson, "I saw the boy's eyes were full of tears,
and I thought to improve the occasion by asking, 'And now, Freddy, what
will you do if you meet mad old Jimmy again?' The little scamp looked
up with a wink, and said, chuckling, 'Chuck stones at 'im, sir.'"
Professional models, especially those who have sat to eminent artists,
have an exaggerated idea of their comeliness, and they will draw your
attention to their good points with much frankness.
"I've got beautiful 'air," said one little girl, modestly pointing
to her curly chestnut locks; whilst a small boy, usually called the
"Saint," from having figured in several religious pictures, requested
me to observe his "fine froat," as if he had been a prize beast.
In London, owing to the numerous restrictions imposed upon employers,
there are only a comparatively small number of children working in
factories. Girls of thirteen and upward are employed in confectionery,
collar, jam, and match and other factories where skilled labour is
not required, whilst small boys are principally found at rope works,
foundries, and paper-mills, where their chief business is to attend to
the machinery. It is almost impossible to mistake the factory-girl, and
even at a glance one notes certain characteristics which distinguish
her from her sister workers. Contrast her, for instance, with the
theatre child out of Drury-lane. The little actress may be as poor as
the Mile-end factory-girl, but in nine cases out of ten she will be
very neatly clad, with spotless petticoats and well-made boots and
stockings. If you watch her, you will notice she walks gracefully,
and instinctively assumes, whenever she can, a picturesque and taking
attitude. The little factory-girl is decently enough attired so far as
her frock is concerned, but she, or her mother, cares nothing about her
boots, which are invariably cheap and untidy, whilst any superfluous
coin is devoted to the adornment of her hat, an article of great
importance amongst factory-girls--young as well as old. But a still
more characteristic feature, which, so far as I know, is peculiar to
factory-girls, is their curious method of walking, which is carefully
cultivated and imitated by the young ones. It is a sort of side "swing"
of the skirts, and has one of the ugliest effects that can be produced,
especially when executed by half a dozen young ladies walking abreast
on the pavement.
[Illustration: PACKING CHOCOLATE.]
[Illustration: PICKING SWEETS.]
At Messrs. Allen's chocolate and sweet factories, in Mile-end, some two
hundred women and girls are employed. Referring to the strike, I asked
a highly respectable, intelligent-looking girl why she joined it:
"Well, I don't hardly know," was the candid reply. "It was all done in
a rush, and the other girls asked me to come out."
This girl was earning, by the bye, 17s. a week.
[Illustration: FLOWER SELLER.]
The quite young girls are principally employed in packing chocolate
into boxes, covering it with silver paper, which operation they
perform with great dexterity, labelling, and other easy work of this
nature. The rooms are large and well ventilated, and each department
is under the care of a forewoman, who not only keeps a sharp look-out
on the work, but exercises what control she can over behaviour and
conversation. The discipline did not strike me as particularly severe,
considering that the girls left their work _en masse_, as soon as one
of their number had announced, referring to the artist, "She's takin'
Em'ly's likeness." The hours, from 8 to 7, are certainly too long for
girls in delicate health; but the work itself is light, and a capital
dining-room is provided on the premises, where the girls can cook their
dinners and make themselves tea. Nor are the prospects at all bad. Here
is Alice C----, a girl of fourteen, the daughter of a flower carman,
not always in work. She is a packer, and gets 6s. a week, which she
hands over to her mother. She says she likes doing things with her
hands, and would not like to be in service, as then she wouldn't
have her Sundays to herself. If she stays on at Messrs. Allen's, her
wages will be steadily raised to 18s. a week; and, if she ultimately
becomes a piece-worker, she may make as much as 24s. or 25s. a week.
Considering that a good many educated women are teaching in High
Schools for salaries of £65 per annum, this is surely not bad.
Of course all factories are not as well managed as these chocolate
works, and where the hardship comes in is where hands are turned
off at certain periods of the year, or when the work itself, like
match-making, is injurious to health.
Still more unfortunate is the lot of some of the little girl workers
who assist their mothers at home in tailoring, button-holing, and
dolls'-clothes making. The united work of mother and child yields only
a wretched pittance, and, carried on as it is in a room where sleeping,
eating, and living go on, is, of all forms of labour, the saddest and
most unhealthy. Meals consist of bread and tea, and work is prolonged
till midnight by the light of one candle, with the consequence that the
children are prematurely aged and diseased. This is the most painful
kind of child-labour that I have come across, and would be unbearable,
if it were not ennobled by the touching affection that almost
invariably exists between the worn-out mother and her old-woman-wise
little daughter.
The lot of the child-vender in the streets would be almost as hard, if
it were not, at any rate, healthier. Terrible as are the extremes of
weather to which the little flower-girl or newspaper boy is exposed,
the life is in the open air, and a hundred times preferable, even if it
results in death from exposure, to existence in a foul-smelling garret
where consumption works its deadly way slowly. Children find an endless
variety of ways of earning a living in the streets. There are the
boot-black boys, who form a useful portion of the community; newspaper
boys, of whom the better sort are careful little capitalists, with an
immense fund of intelligence and commercial instinct; "job chaps," who
hang about railway stations on the chance of earning a few pence in
carrying bags; flower-girls, match-girls, crossing-sweepers, who can
make a fair living, if they are industrious; and lastly, although this
enumeration by no means exhausts the list--street prodigies, such as
pavement painters and musicians. All Londoners must be familiar with
the figure of little Master Sorine, who sits perched up on a high stool
diligently painting away at a marine-scape in highly coloured chalks.
This clever little artist of eleven is the principal support of his
parents, who do a little in the waste-paper line when there is anything
to be done. As a rule, Master Sorine is _finishing_ his marine picture
or landscape when I pass by, so that I have not had an opportunity
of judging of his real ability; but his mother, who keeps guard over
him, assures me that he can draw "anything he has seen"--an assertion
which I shall one day test. The little fellow is kept warm by a pan
of hot charcoal under his seat, which would seem to suggest rather an
unequal distribution of heat. However, he seems to think it is "all
right." His artistic efforts are so much appreciated by the multitude
that on a "good day" he earns no less than 9s. or 10s., which mounts
up to a respectable income, as he "draws in public" three days a
week. Master Sorine, however, is exceptionally fortunate, and indeed
there is something particularly taking about his little stool, and
his little cap, and the business-like air with which he pursues his
art studies. Nothing can be said in praise of such "loafing" forms
of earning a livelihood as flower-selling, when the unhappy little
vender has nothing but a few dead flowers to cover her begging; or of
"sweeping," when the "crossing" of the young gentleman of the broom is
often dirtier than the surrounding country. Now and again one comes
across industrious, prosperous sweepers, who evince a remarkable
amount of acuteness and intelligence. It may have been chance, but
each of the three crossing-sweepers I questioned were "unattached,"
disdained anything in the way of families, and declined to name their
residences on the ground that they were "jes' thinkin' o' movin'." This
is a very precarious method of earning a livelihood, and is generally
supplemented by running errands and hopping in summer. In a wealthy
neighbourhood, frequented by several members of Parliament, who were
regular customers, a very diligent young sweeper told me he made on
an average in winter 2s. 6d. a week; but he added contemptuously:
"Business ain't what it used to be. Neighbour'ood's goin' down,
depend on it. I'm thinkin' of turnin' it up." This young gentleman
supplemented _his_ income by successful racing speculations, obtaining
his information about "tips" from his good-natured clients. It seems
sad to think how much good material is lost in these smart street
boys, whose ability and intelligence could surely be turned to better
account. The most satisfactory point--and one which no unprejudiced
person can fail to recognise--in connection with the subject of
child-labour is that healthy children do not feel it a hardship to
work; and that, therefore, considering, in addition, how materially
their earnings add to their own comfort, all legislation in the
direction of restriction and prohibition ought to be very carefully
considered.
I must express my best thanks to Mr. Redgrave, of the Home Office, for
his help in obtaining entrance to factories, and to Mr. Hugh Didcott,
the well-known theatrical agent, for his kind services in the matter of
acrobats.
[Illustration: MASTER SORINE.]
_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._