That we are a nation of shopkeepers I believe, not only on the evidence
of the first Napoleon, but from what I see and hear every day. There are
few people in the City who are born wealthy, compared with the number who
do manage in the course of a successful mercantile career to win for
themselves a fair share of this world’s goods. The other night I was
spending the evening at the West-End mansion of a City millionaire. As I
left, I asked a friend what was the secret of our host’s success, “Why,”
was the answer, “I have always understood he began life with borrowing
ten shillings.”
If that is all, thought I to myself, it is not difficult to make a
fortune, after all. Accordingly, I negotiated a loan of a sovereign,
thinking that if I failed with ten shillings I should be sure to succeed
with double that number. At present, I regret to say, the loan has not
been so successful in its results as I anticipated, and fortune seems as
far off as ever. Should it turn out otherwise, and my wild expectations
be realised, I will publish a book, and let the reader know how a
sovereign became ten thousand pounds. And yet I believe such a feat has
been often accomplished in the City and by City men. Everybody knows a
man who walked up to town with twopence-halfpenny in his pocket, who
lived to enjoy a nice fortune himself, and to leave his wife and family
well provided for.
I met the other day in the Gray’s Inn Road a master-builder, who told me
that he was going to retire from business and pass the evening of his
days in quiet. I had known the man since he was a boy. I knew his
father and his mother and all his family. If ever a fellow had a chance
of going to the bad that poor boy had. His father was a drunkard; the
poverty of the family was extreme; of schooling he had none whatever; yet
he left the little village in Suffolk where he was born, resolved, as he
told me, to be either a man or a mouse; and fortune favoured him beyond
his most sanguine expectations. Yes, the streets of London _are_ paved
with gold, but it is not everyone who has sense to see it or strength to
pick it up.
It is to be feared the large class who come into the streets to deal are
not of the class who mean to rise, but who have seen better days. For
instance, I often meet a porter selling Persian sherbet in the City, who
seems to have dropped into that situation from mere laziness. He had a
fair chance of getting on in life, but he never seems to have had pluck
enough to succeed. Another man I know held a respectable situation as
clerk; he appeared to me economical in his habits, he was always neatly
dressed, he was never the worse for liquor, nor did he seem to keep bad
company. All at once he left his situation, and rapidly went to the
dogs. For a little while he borrowed of his friends; but that was a
precarious source of existence, and now he may be seen dealing in small
articles, on which it is to be hoped for his own sake the profits are
large, as I fear the demand for them is small. Then there are the
restless characters who take up street-selling partly because they like
to gammon the public, partly because they dislike steady industry, and
partly because I fancy they cherish expectations of another sort. These
are the men who give away gold rings, who exhibit mice that have a
wonderful way of running up and down the arms, who sell gutta-percha
dolls which seem in their hands to have a power of vocalisation which
leaves them at once and for ever as soon as you have purchased the puppet
and paid for it and made it your own, who deal in cement which will make
an old jug better than new, who retail corn-plasters which are an
inevitable cure, and who occasionally deal in powders which are a sure
means of getting rid of certain objectionable specimens of the insect
tribe.
“But how do you use the powder?” asked a flat of a countryman who had
been deluded into the purchase of sixpenny-worth of the invaluable
powder. “How do you use it?” repeated the purchaser.
“Well, you see, you catch the animal and hold him by the back of the
neck, and then when his mouth opens, just shove in the powder, and he’ll
die fast enough.”
“But,” said the countryman, “I suppose I could kill the insect at once
when I’ve caught him?”
“Well,” said the salesman, “of course you can, but the powder is, I
repeat, fatal nevertheless.”
A little while ago there was an illustrated paper presumedly more fitted
for the moral atmosphere of New York than London. Its chief sale, before
it was suppressed by the law, was in the streets, where, with its
doubtful engravings, it was a bit of a nuisance. Of course, the sale of
Evening _Hechoes_, and _H_extra _Standards_, is a thing one is obliged to
put up with; nevertheless, one must often regret that so useful a trade
cannot be pushed in a quieter and less ostentatious way. The ingenious
youth, who devote themselves to the sale of a paper especially devoted to
the interests of matrimony, are a real nuisance. How they pester many a
lad that passes with their intimation that, by the purchase of their
trumpery paper, they can secure an heiress with a thousand a year, as if
such bargains were to be had any day, whereas, the truth is, that they
are rather scarce, and that—whether with that sum or without—matrimony is
a very serious affair. Unprotected females have to suffer a deal of
impudence from these fellows. I saw a respectable, decently-dressed,
manifest old maid, exceedingly annoyed and shocked by one of these
fellows pursuing her half way up Cheapside, with his shouts, “Want a
’usband, ma’am?” “Here’s a chance for you, ma’am,” “Lots of ’usbands to
be had,” and so on, in a way which she seemed to feel—and I quite
understood her feelings—was singularly indelicate. What an insult to
suppose that any virtuous and accomplished lady is in seed of a husband,
when she has only to raise a finger and she has, such is the chivalry of
the age, a score of adorers at her feet!
The newsboys are, of course, the most prominent of our street salesmen,
and they affect the City for many reasons. In the first place, in and
around the Mansion House there is a finer opening for business than
anywhere else; and in the second place, a City business is often a very
remunerative one. City men who have made their thousands on the Stock
Exchange or elsewhere are not particular in the matter of change; and a
fourpence or a sixpence is often the reward of the lad who is the first
to rush up to a City swell as he leaves his office with a “third hedition
of the _Hecho_” or a special _Standard_ with some important telegram. In
wet weather times go very hard with these poor fellows. On the contrary,
when it is fine, business is brisk. They rely much on sensational
telegrams. A war is a fine thing for them, and so is a case like that of
the Claimant, or a spicy divorce case, or an atrocious murder. It is
when such things as these occur that they flourish, and that their joy is
abounding. They must make a good deal of money, but it goes as fast as
it comes. An attempt was made to establish a news-room for these boys,
and very nice premises were taken in Gray’s Inn Lane. The coffee and
bread and butter were excellent, and the arrangements were all that could
be desired. Nevertheless the undertaking was a failure, because it was
not supported by the class for whose benefit it was especially intended.
The news-boys did not like the confinement, the regular hours, the decent
behaviour, the cleanliness and attention to little things required. They
wanted beer and ’baccy, and other little amusements, more in accordance
with their independent position in fife. As a rule I fancy they are
honest; they certainly never cheat a man if they think they will be found
out. I never had any difficulty in getting my change but once, and then
I was in an omnibus, and the chances were in the boy’s favour. What is
wonderful is that they do not meet with more accidents. How they rush
after omnibuses as they urge on their wild career! Some of them are
great radicals. “Allus reads _The Hecho_ of a Saturday,” said one of
them to me, “to see how it pitches into the haristocracy,” when the
articles signed “NOBLESSE OBLIGE” were being published. It is to be
wondered at now and then that their impertinence does not get them into
grief. For instance, to the young man who has any respect for the fair
sex, how disgusting to be told of women, good-looking, amiable and
accomplished, well-to-do, and apparently possessed of every virtue under
heaven, advertising for husbands. I suppose _The Matrimonial __News_ is
a success; but, if so, certainly that is not a pleasant sign of the
times. If people will buy it, the newsboys are not to be blamed for
hawking it about. They take up what they think the public will buy.
Last year they were retailing “The Devil,” price one penny, and this year
they have taken up _Town Talk_, and an ingenious puzzle, called, “How to
find out Lord Beaconsfield.” I wonder some of our publishers of real
good illustrated literature do not try to push the sale of it in this
way. I think it would pay. The public would then have the bane and the
antidote side by side. Mr. Smithies might do much to increase the sale
of _The British Workman_ if he had it hawked about the streets.
As to the costermongers, their name is legion; and that they are a real
service to the community must be evident to anyone who sees what their
prices are and what are those of the fruiterers in the shops. They bring
fruit within the reach of the community. In the summer-time we naturally
require fruit. It is good for grown-up men and women, it is good for
little children. In London they have no chance of tasting it were it not
for the costermonger who floods the streets with all that is desirable in
this respect; one day he has West India pineapples for sale; another
bananas or shaddocks; another grapes, and apples, and pears, and
apricots, and greengages, and plums. One day he deals in strawberries
and another in cherries; and then, when the autumn comes on, what a
tempting display he makes of filberts, and walnuts, and chestnuts! The
amount of fruit thus poured in upon the market, much of which would have
perished had it not been sold off at once, is really prodigious; and
infinitely indebted to him are the poor clerks who lay in a pennyworth of
apples or pears as they leave the office for the little ones at home. At
one time I had a prejudice against these rough and noisy dealers; that
prejudice has vanished since I have taken to dining in the City and
indulging in “a penny lot” after dinner. What I admire is the way in
which they do up strawberries, and cherries, and plums in little paper
bags, which seem to contain as much again as they really do.
Occasionally a man gets cheated, but that is when there is a woman in the
case.
Oh, the flower-girls of the streets, what deceiving creatures they are!
It is not that, like the flower-girls of Paris, they spoil a romance with
pecuniary views, but it is that they cheat you through thick and thin,
and sell you camellias made of turnips, and roses and azaleas equally
fair to see and equally false and vain. Can I ever forget my friend Dr.
R. and the little mishap that befell him when he assisted at a little
dinner—at which I had the honour to be a guest—given by a Scotch poet to
Scotch poets, and press-men, and barristers, in honour of the immortal
Robert Burns? Crossing by the Mansion House, in the dim light of a
winter evening, the doctor was accosted by a handsome lass, who offered
to sell him a camellia. The lady pressed her suit, and the doctor fell.
Granite in the discharge of duty, the doctor has a soft place in his
heart, and that woman finds out at once. It is the old tale—the woman
tempted and the doctor gave way. As he came proud and smiling into the
drawing-room, the splendour of the doctor’s camellia arrested every eye.
A near scrutiny was the result, and at length the doctor had to confess
that he had been the victim of misplaced confidence in a London street
flower-girl.
Then there are the men who deal in what they call pineapple sweetmeat;
their barrows are adorned with paintings representing dimly the riches
and luxuriance of the East.
Sunday brings with it its own peculiar dealers and trades. One of the
sights of poor neighbourhoods is that of a large barrel, painted red, on
wheels. At the top is a seat for the driver; at the other end there is a
small shelf on which are placed a tray of water and a row of glasses.
Some of these glasses look like porter with a head, and are retailed at
prices varying from a penny to twopence. Outside, in great gilt letters,
I read, “The Great Blood Purifier;” then we have another line,
“Sarsaparilla, Hilder, King’s Road, Chelsea.” Another line is devoted to
the announcement of “Dandelion and Sarsaparilla Pills.” Another
intimates that sarsaparilla is the “Elixir of Life.” At the back, the
door over the shelf contains a portrait of apparently a fine gay person,
female of course, who has received signal benefit from the ardour with
which she has swallowed the dandelion and sarsaparilla pills; and around
her, as witnesses and approvers of such conduct on her part, shines a row
of stars. The salesman is assisted by a small boy, who washes the
glasses and places them on the rack, and in other ways makes himself
generally useful. The salesman is by no means guilty of the trick of
underrating his wares. Accordingly, he lifts up his voice like a trumpet
as he deals out his pennyworths of the Elixir of Life. In some cases he
is familiar, in others argumentative, in others bold as brass; and he
gets a good many customers. The race of fools who rush in where angels
fear to tread is by no means extinct. As I watched the poor skinny
quadruped, groggy and footsore, I felt how hard it was that Sunday should
shine no day of rest for him; but he had a good deal more go in him than
you would have imagined from his appearance. All at once in the far
distance appeared two respected members of the City police; the gentleman
with the Elixir of Life closed his door, jumped up into his seat, pulled
his small boy up after him, and was off like lightening. This Arab steed
could run after him.