The first vagrant was one who had the thorough look of a
“professional.” He was literally a mass of rags and filth. He was,
indeed, exactly what in the Act of Henry VIII. is denominated a
“valiant beggar.” He stood near upon six feet high, was not more
than twenty five, and had altogether the frame and constitution of
a stalwart labouring man. His clothes, which were of fustian and
corduroy, tied close to his body with pieces of string, were black and
shiny with filth, which looked more like pitch than grease. He had no
shirt, as was plain from the fact that, where his clothes were torn,
his bare skin was seen. The ragged sleeves of his fustian jacket were
tied like the other parts of his dress, close to his wrists, with
string. This was clearly to keep the bleak air from his body. His cap
was an old, brimless “wide-awake,” and when on his head gave the man a
most unprepossessing appearance. His story was as follows:--
“I am a carpet-weaver by trade. I served my time to it. My father was a
clerk in a shoe-thread manufactory at ----. He got 35_s._ a-week, and
his house, coals, and candles found him. He lived very comfortably;
indeed, I was very happy. Before I left home, I knew none of the cares
of the world that I have known since I left him. My father and mother
are living still. He is still as well off as when I was at home. I know
this, because I have heard from him twice, and seen him once. He won’t
do anything to assist me. I have transgressed so many times, that he
won’t take me in hand any more. I will tell you the truth, you may
depend upon it; yes, indeed, I would, even if it were to injure myself.
He has tried me many times, but now he has given me up. At the age of
twenty-one he told me to go from home and seek a living for myself. He
said he had given me a home ever since I was a child, but now I had
come to manhood I was able to provide for myself. He gave me a good
education, and I might have been a better scholar at the present time,
had I not neglected my studies. He put me to a day-school in the town
when I was eight years old, and I continued there till I was between
twelve and thirteen. I learnt reading, writing, and ciphering. I was
taught the catechism, the history of England, geography, and drawing.
My father was a very harsh man when he was put out of his way. He
was a very violent temper when he was vexed, but kind to us all when
he was pleased. I have five brothers and six sisters. He never beat
me more than twice, to my remembrance. The first time he thrashed me
with a cane, and the last with a horsewhip. I had stopped out late
at night. I was then just rising sixteen, and had left school. I am
sure those thrashings did me no good, but made me rather worse than
before. I was a self-willed lad, and determined, if I couldn’t get my
will in one way, I would have it another. After the last thrashing he
told me he would give me some trade, and after that he would set me
off and get rid of me. Then I was bound apprentice as a carpet-weaver
for three years. My master was a very kind one. I runned away once.
The cause of my going off was a quarrel with one of the workmen that
was put over me. He was very harsh, and I scarce could do anything
to please him; so I made up my mind to leave. The first place I went
when I bolted was to Crewkerne, in Somersetshire. There I asked for
employment at carpet-weaving. I got some, and remained there three
days, when my father found out where I was, and sent my brother and a
special constable after me. They took me from the shop where I was at
work, and brought me back to ----, and would have sent me to prison
had I not promised to behave myself, and serve my time out as I ought.
I went to work again; and when the expiration of my apprenticeship
occurred, my father said to me, ‘Sam, you have a trade at your fingers’
ends: you are able to provide for yourself.’ So then I left home. I
was twenty-one years of age. He gave me money, 3_l._ 10_s._, to take
me into Wales, where I told him I should go. I was up for going about
through the country. I made my father believe I was going into Wales to
get work; but all I wanted was, to go and see the place. After I had
runned away once from my apprenticeship, I found it very hard to stop
at home. I couldn’t bring myself to work somehow. While I sat at the
work, I thought I should like to be away in the country: work seemed
a burden to me. I found it very difficult to stick to anything for a
long time; so I made up my mind, when my time was out, that I’d be off
roving, and see a little of life. I went by the packet from Bristol to
Newport. After being there three weeks, I had spent all the money that
I had brought from home. I spent it in drinking--most of it, and idling
about. After that I was obliged to sell my clothes, &c. The first thing
I sold was my watch; I got 2_l._ 5_s._ for that. Then I was obliged to
part with my suit of clothes. For these I got 1_l._ 5_s._ With this
I started from Newport to go farther up over the hills. I liked this
kind of life much better than working, while the money lasted. I was
in the public-house three parts of my time out of four. I was a great
slave to drink. I began to like drink when I was between thirteen and
fourteen. At that time my uncle was keeping a public-house, and I used
to go there, backwards and forward, more or less every week. Whenever
I went to see my uncle he gave me some beer. I very soon got to like
it so much, that, while an apprentice, I would spend all I could get
in liquor. This was the cause of my quarrels with my father, and when
I went away to Newport I did so to be my own master, and drink as much
as I pleased, without anybody saying anything to me about it. I got up
to Nant-y-glô, and there I sought for work at the iron-foundry, but I
could not get it. I stopped at this place three weeks, still drinking.
The last day of the three weeks I sold the boots off my feet to get
food, for all my money and clothes were now gone. I was sorry then that
I had ever left my father’s house; but, alas! I found it too late.
I didn’t write home to tell them how I was off; my stubborn temper
would not allow me. I then started off barefoot, begging my way from
Nant-y-glô to Monmouth. I told the people that I was a carpet-weaver
by trade, who could not get any employment, and that I was obliged to
travel the country against my own wish. I didn’t say a word about the
drink--that would never have done. I only took 2-1/2_d._ on the road,
19 miles long; and I’m sure I must have asked assistance from more than
a hundred people. They said, some of them, that they had ‘nout’ for me;
and others did give me a bit of ‘bara caws,’ or ‘bara minny’ (that is,
bread and cheese, or bread and butter). Money is very scarce among the
Welsh, and what they have they are very fond of. They don’t mind giving
food; if you wanted a bagful you might have it there of the working
people. I inquired for a night’s lodging at the union in Monmouth. That
was the first time I ever asked for shelter in a workhouse in my life.
I was admitted into the tramp-room. Oh, I felt then that I would much
rather be in prison than in such a place, though I never knew what the
inside of a prison was--no, not then. I thought of the kindness of my
father and mother. I would have been better, but I knew that, as I had
been carrying on, I never could expect shelter under my father’s roof
any more; I knew he would not have taken me in had I gone back, or I
would have returned. Oh, I was off from home, and I didn’t much trouble
my head about it after a few minutes; I plucked up my spirits and soon
forgot where I was. I made no male friends in the union; I was savage
that I had so hard a bed to lie upon; it was nothing more than the bare
boards, and a rug to cover me. I knew very well it wasn’t my bed, but
still I thought I ought to have a better. I merely felt annoyed at its
being so bad a place, and didn’t think much about the rights of it. In
the morning I was turned out, and after I had left I picked up with a
young woman, who had slept in the union over-night. I said I was going
on the road across country to Birmingham, and I axed her to go with me.
I had never seen her before. She consented, and we went along together,
begging our way. We passed as man and wife, and I was a carpet-weaver
out of employment. We slept in unions and lodging-houses by the way. In
the lodging-houses we lived together as man and wife, and in the unions
we were separated. I never stole anything during all this time. After I
got to Birmingham I made my way to Wolverhampton. My reason for going
to Wolverhampton was, that there was a good many weavers there, and I
thought I should make a good bit of money by begging of them. Oh, yes,
I have found that I could always get more money out of my own trade
than any other people. I did so well at Wolverhampton, begging, that I
stopped there three weeks. I never troubled my head whether I was doing
right or wrong by asking my brother-weavers for a portion of their
hard earnings to keep me in idleness. Many a time I have given part of
my wages to others myself. I can’t say that I would have given it to
them if I had known they wouldn’t work like me. I wouldn’t have worked
sometimes if I could have got it. I can’t tell why, but somehow it was
painful to me to stick long at anything. To tell the truth, I loved a
roving, idle life. I would much rather have been on the road than at my
home. I drank away all I got, and feared and cared for nothing. When
I got drunk over-night, it would have been impossible for me to have
gone to work in the morning, even if I could have got it. The drink
seemed to take all the work out of me. This oftentimes led me to think
of what my father used to tell me, that ‘the bird that can sing and
won’t sing ought to be made to sing.’ During my stay in Wolverhampton
I lived at a tramper’s house, and there I fell in with two men well
acquainted with the town, and they asked me to join them in breaking
open a shop. No, sir, no, I didn’t give a thought whether I was doing
right or wrong at it. I didn’t think my father would ever know anything
at all about it, so I didn’t care. I liked my mother best, much the
best. She had always been a kind, good soul to me, often kept me from
my father’s blows, and helped me to things unknown to my father. But
when I was away on the road I gave no heed to her. I didn’t think of
either father or mother till after I was taken into custody for that
same job. Well, I agreed to go with the other two; they were old hands
at the business--regular housebreakers. We went away between twelve and
one at night. It was pitch dark. My two pals broke into the back part
of the house, and I stopped outside to keep watch. After watching for
about a quarter of an hour, a policeman came up to me and asked what I
was stopping there for. I told him I was waiting for a man that was in
a public-house at the corner. This led him to suspect me, it being so
late at night. He went to the public-house to see whether it was open,
and found it shut, and then came back to me. As he was returning he saw
my two comrades coming through the back window (that was the way they
had got in). He took us all three in custody; some of the passers-by
assisted him in seizing us. The other two had six months’ imprisonment
each, and I, being a stranger, had only fourteen days. When I was sent
to prison, I thought of my mother. I would have written to her, but
couldn’t get leave. Being the first time I ever was nailed, I was very
downhearted at it. I didn’t say I’d give it up. While I was locked up,
I thought I’d go to work again, and be a sober man, when I got out.
These thoughts used to come over me when I was ‘on the stepper,’ that
is, on the wheel. But I concealed all them thoughts in my breast. I
said nothing to no one. My mother was the only one that I ever thought
upon. When I got out of prison, all these thoughts went away from
me, and I went again at my old tricks. From Wolverhampton I went to
Manchester, and from Manchester I came to London, begging and stealing
wherever I had a chance. This is not my first year in London. I tell
you the truth, because I am known here; and if I tell you a lie, you’ll
say ‘You spoke an untruth in one thing, and you’ll do so in another.’
The first time I was in London, I was put in prison fourteen days for
begging, and after I had a month at Westminster Bridewell, for begging
and abusing the policeman. Sometimes I’d think I’d rather go anywhere,
and do anything, than continue as I was; but then I had no clothes, no
friends, no house, no home, no means of doing better. I had made myself
what I was. I had made my father and mother turn their backs upon me,
and what could I do, but go on? I was as bad off then as I am now, and
I couldn’t have got work then if I would. I should have spent all I got
in drink then, I know. I wrote home twice. I told my mother I was hard
up; had neither a shoe to my foot, a coat to my back, nor a roof over
my head. I had no answer to my first letter, because it fell into the
hands of my brother, and he tore it up, fearing that my mother might
see it. To the second letter that I sent home my mother sent me an
answer herself. She sent me a sovereign. She told me that my father was
the same as when I first left home, and it was no use my coming back.
She sent me the money, bidding me get some clothes and seek for work. I
didn’t do as she bade. I spent the money--most part in drink. I didn’t
give any heed whether it was wrong or right. Soon got, soon gone; and I
know they could have sent me much more than that if they had pleased.
It was last June twelvemonth when I first came to London, and I stopped
till the 10th of last March. I lost the young woman when I was put
in prison in Manchester. She never came to see me in quod. She cared
nothing for me. She only kept company with me to have some one on the
road along with her; and I didn’t care for her, not I. One half of
my time last winter I stopped at the ‘Straw-yards,’ that is, in the
asylums for the houseless poor here and at Glasshouse. When I could get
money I had a lodging. After March I started off through Somersetshire.
I went to my father’s house then. I didn’t go in. I saw my father at
the door, and he wouldn’t let me in. I was a little better dressed than
I am now. He said he had enough children at home without me, and gave
me 10_s._ to go. He could not have been kind to me, or else he would
not have turned me from his roof. My mother came out to the garden in
front of the house, after my father had gone to his work, and spoke to
me. She wished me to reform my character. I could not make any rash
promises then. I had but very little to say to her. I felt myself at
that same time, for the very first time in my life, that I was doing
wrong. I thought, if I could hurt my mother so, it must be wrong to go
on as I did. I had never had such thoughts before. My father’s harsh
words always drove such thoughts out of my head; but when I saw my
mother’s tears, it was more than I could stand. I was wanting to get
away as fast as I could from the house. After that I stopped knocking
about the country, sleeping in unions, up to November. Then I came to
London again, and remained up to this time. Since I have been in town I
have sought for work at the floor-cloth and carpet manufactory in the
Borough, and they wouldn’t even look at me in my present state. I am
heartily tired of my life now altogether, and would like to get out of
it if I could. I hope at least I have given up my love of drink, and I
am sure, if I could once again lay my hand on some work, I should be
quite a reformed character. Well, I am altogether tired of carrying on
like this. I haven’t made 6_d._ a-day ever since I have been in London
this time. I go tramping it across the country just to pass the time,
and see a little of new places. When the summer comes I want to be
off. I am sure I have seen enough of this country now, and I should
like to have a look at some foreign land. Old England has nothing new
in it now for me. I think a beggar’s life is the worst kind of life
that a man can lead. A beggar is no more thought upon than a dog in the
street, and there are too many at the trade. I wasn’t brought up to a
bad life. You can see that by little things--by my handwriting; and,
indeed, I should like to have a chance at something else. I have had
the feelings of a vagabond for full ten years. I know, and now I am
sure, I’m getting a different man. I begin to have thoughts and ideas
I never had before. Once I never feared nor cared for anything, and
I wouldn’t have altered if I could; but now I’m tired out, and if I
haven’t a chance of going right, why I must go wrong.”
The next was a short, thick-set man, with a frequent grin on his
countenance, which was rather expressive of humour. He wore a very
dirty smock-frock, dirtier trousers, shirt, and neckerchief, and broken
shoes. He answered readily, and as if he enjoyed his story.
“I never was at school, and was brought up as a farm labourer at
Devizes,” he said, “where my parents were labourers. I worked that
way three or four years, and then ran away. My master wouldn’t give
me money enough--only 3_s._ 6_d._ a-week,--and my parents were very
harsh; so I ran away, rather than be licked for ever. I’d heard people
say, ‘Go to Bath,’ and I went there; and I was only about eleven
then. I’m now twenty-three. I tried to get work on the railway there,
and I did. I next got into prison for stealing three shovels. I was
hard-up, having lost my work, and so I stole them. I was ten weeks
in prison. I came out worse than I went in, for I mixed with the old
hands, and they put me up to a few capers. When I got out I thought I
could live as well that way as by hard work; so I took to the country.
I began to beg. At first I took ‘No’ for an answer, when I asked for
‘Charity to a poor boy;’ but I found that wouldn’t do, so I learned
to stick to them. I was forced, or I must have starved, and that
wouldn’t do at all. I did middling; plenty to eat, and sometimes a
drop to drink, but not often. I was forced to be merry, because it’s
no good being down-hearted. I begged for two years,--that is, steal
and beg together: I couldn’t starve. I did best in country villages
in Somersetshire; there’s always odds and ends to be picked up there.
I got into scrapes now and then. Once, in Devonshire, me and another
slopt at a farm-house, and in the morning we went egg-hunting. I must
have stowed three dozen of eggs about me, when a dog barked, and we
were alarmed and ran away, and in getting over a gate I fell, and there
I lay among the smashed eggs. I can’t help laughing at it still: but I
got away. I was too sharp for them. I have been twenty or thirty times
in prison. I have been in for stealing bread, and a side of bacon,
and cheese, and shovels, and other things; generally provisions. I
generally learn something new in prison. I shall do no good while I
stop in England. It’s not possible a man like me can get work, so I’m
forced to go on this way. Sometimes I haven’t a bit to eat all day. At
night I may pick up something. An uncle of mine once told me he would
like to see me transported, or come to the gallows. I told him I had
no fear about the gallows; I should never come to that end: but if I
were transported I should be better off than I am now. I can’t starve,
and I won’t; and I can’t ’list, I’m too short. I came to London the
other day, but could do no good. The London hands are quite a different
set to us. We seldom do business together. My way’s simple. If I see
a thing, and I’m hungry, I take it if I can, in London or anywhere. I
once had a turn with two Londoners, and we got two coats and two pair
of trousers; but the police got them back again. I was only locked
up one night for it. The country’s the best place to get away with
anything, because there’s not so many policemen. There’s lots live
as I live, because there’s no work. I can do a country policeman,
generally. I’ve had sprees at the country lodging-houses--larking, and
drinking, and carrying on, and playing cards and dominoes all night
for a farthing a game; sometimes fighting about it. I can play at
dominoes, but I don’t know the cards. They try to cheat one another.
Honour among thieves! why there’s no such thing; they take from one
another. Sometimes we dance all night--Christmas time, and such times.
Young women dance with us, and sometimes old women. We’re all merry;
some’s lying on the floor drunk; some’s jumping about, smoking; some’s
dancing; and so we enjoy ourselves. That’s the best part of the life.
We are seldom stopped in our merry-makings in the country. It’s no good
the policemen coming among us; give them beer, and you may knock the
house down. We have good meat sometimes; sometimes very rough. Some are
very particular about their cookery, as nice as anybody is. They must
have their pickles, and their peppers, and their fish-sauces (I’ve had
them myself), to their dishes. Chops, in the country, has the call;
or ham and eggs--that’s relished. Some’s very particular about their
drink, too; won’t touch bad beer; same way with the gin. It’s chiefly
gin (I’m talking about the country), very little rum; no brandy: but
sometimes, after a good day’s work, a drop of wine. We help one another
when we are sick, where we’re knowed. Some’s very good that way. Some
lodging-house keepers get rid of anybody that’s sick, by taking them to
the relieving-officer at once.”
A really fine-looking lad of eighteen gave me the following statement.
He wore a sort of frock-coat, very thin, buttoned about him, old
cloth trousers, and bad shoes. His shirt was tolerably good and clean,
and altogether he had a tidy look and an air of quickness, but not of
cunning:--
“My father,” he said, “was a bricklayer in Shoreditch parish, and my
mother took in washing. They did pretty well; but they’re dead and
buried two years and a half ago. I used to work in brick-fields at
Ball’s-pond, living with my parents, and taking home every farthing
I earned. I earned 18_s._ a-week, working from five in the morning
until sunset. They had only me. I can read and write middling; when my
parents died, I had to look out for myself. I was off work, attending
to my father and mother when they were sick. They died within about
three weeks of each other, and I lost my work, and I had to part with
my clothes; before that I tried to work in brick-fields, and couldn’t
get it, and work grew slack. When my parents died I was thirteen; and I
sometimes got to sleep in the unions; but that was stopped, and then I
took to the lodging-houses, and there I met with lads who were enjoying
themselves at push-halfpenny and cards; and they were thieves, and they
tempted me to join them, and I did for once--but only once. I then went
begging about the streets and thieving, as I knew the others do. I used
to pick pockets. I worked for myself, because I thought that would be
best. I had no fence at all--no pals at first, nor anything. I worked
by myself for a time. I sold the handkerchiefs I got to Jews in the
streets, chiefly in Field-lane, for 1_s._ 6_d._, but I have got as much
as 3_s._ 6_d._ for your real fancy ones. One of these buyers wanted to
cheat me out of 6_d._, so I would have no more dealings with him. The
others paid me. The ‘Kingsmen’ they call the best handkerchiefs--those
that have the pretty-looking flowers on them. Some are only worth 4_d._
or 5_d._, some’s not worth taking. Those I gave away to strangers,
boys like myself, or wore them myself, round my neck. I only threw one
away, but it was all rags, though he looked quite like a gentleman
that had it. Lord-mayor’s day and such times is the best for us. Last
Lord-mayor’s day I got four handkerchiefs, and I made 11_s._ There was
a 6_d._ tied up in the corner of one handkerchief; another was pinned
to the pocket, but I got it out, and after that another chap had him,
and cut his pocket clean away, but there was nothing in it. I generally
picked my men--regular swells, or good-humoured looking men. I’ve
often followed them a mile. I once got a purse with 3_s._ 6_d._ in it
from a lady when the Coal Exchange was opened. I made 8_s._ 6_d._ that
day--the purse and handkerchiefs. That’s the only lady I ever robbed.
I was in the crowd when Manning and his wife were hanged. I wanted
to see if they died game, as I heard them talk so much about them at
our house. I was there all night. I did four good handkerchiefs and a
rotten one not worth picking up. I saw them hung. I was right under
the drop. I was a bit startled when they brought him up and put the
rope round his neck and the cap on, and then they brought her out. All
said he was hung innocently; it was she that should have been hung by
herself. They both dropped together, and I felt faintified, but I soon
felt all right again. The police drove us away as soon as it was over,
so that I couldn’t do any more business; besides, I was knocked down
in the crowd and jumped upon, and I won’t go to see another hung in a
hurry. He didn’t deserve it, but she did, every inch of her. I can’t
say I thought, while I was seeing the execution, that the life I was
leading would ever bring me to the gallows. After I’d worked by myself
a bit, I got to live in a house where lads like me, big and little,
were accommodated. We paid 3_d._ a-night. It was always full; there was
twenty or twenty-one of us. We enjoyed ourselves middling. I was happy
enough: we drank sometimes, chiefly beer, and sometimes a drop of gin.
One would say, ‘I’ve done so much,’ and another, ‘I’ve done so much;’
and stand a drop. The best I ever heard done was 2_l._ for two coats
from a tailor’s, near Bow-church, Cheapside. That was by one of my
pals. We used to share our money with those who did nothing for a day,
and they shared with us when we rested. There never was any blabbing.
We wouldn’t do one another out of a farthing. Of a night some one would
now and then read hymns, out of books they sold about the streets--I’m
sure they were hymns; or else we’d read stories about Jack Sheppard and
Dick Turpin, and all through that set. They were large thick books,
borrowed from the library. They told how they used to break open the
houses, and get out of Newgate, and how Dick got away to York. We used
to think Jack and them very fine fellows. I wished I could be like
Jack (I did then), about the blankets in his escape, and that old
house in West-street--it is a ruin still. We played cards and dominoes
sometimes at our house, and at pushing a halfpenny over the table along
five lines. We struck the halfpenny from the edge of the table, and
according to what line it settled on was the game--like as they play
at the Glasshouse--that’s the ‘model lodging-house’ they calls it.
Cribbage was always played at cards. I can only play cribbage. We have
played for a shilling a game, but oftener a penny. It was always fair
play. That was the way we passed the time when we were not out. We used
to keep quiet, or the police would have been down upon us. They knew of
the place. They took one boy there. I wondered what they wanted. They
catched him at the very door. We lived pretty well; anything we liked
to get, when we’d money: we cooked it ourselves. The master of the
house was always on the look-out to keep out those who had no business
there. No girls were admitted. The master of the house had nothing to
do with what we got. I don’t know of any other such house in London; I
don’t think there are any. The master would sometimes drink with us--a
larking like. He used us pretty kindly at times. I have been three
times in prison, three months each time; the Compter, Brixton, and
Maidstone. I went down to Maidstone fair, and was caught by a London
policeman down there. He was dressed as a bricklayer. Prison always
made me worse, and as I had nothing given me when I came out, I had to
look out again. I generally got hold of something before I had been an
hour out of prison. I’m now heartily sick of this life. I wish I’d been
transported with some others from Maidstone, where I was tried.”
A cotton-spinner (who had subsequently been a soldier), whose
appearance was utterly abject, was the next person questioned. He was
tall, and had been florid-looking (judging by his present complexion).
His coat--very old and worn, and once black--would not button, and
would have hardly held together if buttoned. He was out at elbows, and
some parts of the collar were pinned together. His waistcoat was of a
match with his coat, and his trousers were rags. He had some shirt, as
was evident by his waistcoat, held together by one button. A very dirty
handkerchief was tied carelessly round his neck. He was tall and erect,
and told his adventures with heartiness.
“I am thirty-eight,” he said, “and have been a cotton-spinner, working
at Chorlton-upon-Medlock. I can neither read nor write. When I was a
young man, twenty years ago, I could earn 2_l._ 10_s._, clear money,
every week, after paying two piecers and a scavenger. Each piecer had
7_s._ 6_d._ a-week--they are girls; the scavenger--a boy to clean the
wheels of the cotton-spinning machine--had 2_s._ 6_d._ I was master
of them wheels in the factory. This state of things continued until
about the year 1837. I lived well and enjoyed myself, being a hearty
man, noways a drunkard, working every day from half-past five in the
morning till half-past seven at night--long hours, that time, master. I
didn’t care about money as long as I was decent and respectable. I had
a turn for sporting at the wakes down there. In 1837, the ‘self-actors’
(machines with steam power) had come into common use. One girl can mind
three pairs--that used to be three men’s work--getting 15_s._ for the
work which gave three men 7_l._ 10_s._ Out of one factory 400 hands
were flung in one week, men and women together. We had a meeting of the
union, but nothing could be done, and we were told to go and mind the
three pairs, as the girls did, for 15_s._ a-week. We wouldn’t do that.
Some went for soldiers, some to sea, some to Stopport (Stockport), to
get work in factories where the ‘self-actors’ wern’t agait. The masters
there wouldn’t have them--at least, some of them. Manchester was full
of them; but one gentleman in Hulme still won’t have them, for he says
he won’t turn the men out of bread. I ’listed for a soldier in the
48th. I liked a soldier’s life very well until I got flogged--100
lashes for selling my kit (for a spree), and 150 for striking a
corporal, who called me an English robber. He was an Irishman. I was
confined five days in the hospital after each punishment. It was
terrible. It was like a bunch of razors cutting at your back. Your
flesh was dragged off by the cats. Flogging was then very common in
the regiment. I was flogged in 1840. To this day I feel a pain in the
chest from the triangles. I was discharged from the army about two
years ago, when the reduction took place. I was only flogged the times
I’ve told you. I had no pension and no friends. I was discharged in
Dublin. I turned to, and looked for work. I couldn’t get any, and made
my way for Manchester. I stole myself aboard of a steamer, and hid
myself till she got out to sea, on her way from Dublin to Liverpool.
When the captain found me there, he gave me a kick and some bread,
and told me to work, so I worked for my passage twenty-four hours. He
put me ashore at Liverpool. I slept in the union that night--nothing
to eat and nothing to cover me--no fire; it was winter. I walked to
Manchester, but could get nothing to do there, though I was twelve
months knocking about. It wants a friend and a character to get work. I
slept in unions in Manchester, and had oatmeal porridge for breakfast,
work at grinding logwood in the mill, from six to twelve, and then
turn out. That was the way I lived chiefly; but I got a job sometimes
in driving cattle, and 3_d._ for it,--or 2_d._ for carrying baskets in
the vegetable markets; and went to Shoedale Union at night. I would
get a pint of coffee and half-a-pound of bread, and half-a-pound of
bread in the morning, and no work. I took to travelling up to London,
half-hungered on the road--that was last winter--eating turnips out
of this field, and carrots out of that, and sleeping under hedges and
haystacks. I slept under one haystack, and pulled out the hay to cover
me, and the snow lay on it a foot deep in the morning. I slept for all
that, but wasn’t I froze when I woke? An old farmer came up with his
cart and pitchfork to load hay. He said: ‘Poor fellow! have you been
here all night?’ I answered, ‘Yes.’ He gave me some coffee and bread,
and one shilling. That was the only good friend I met with on the
road. I got fourteen days of it for asking a gentleman for a penny;
that was in Stafford. I got to London after that, sleeping in unions
sometimes, and begging a bite here and there. Sometimes I had to walk
all night. I was once forty-eight hours without a bite, until I got
hold at last of a Swede turnip, and so at last I got to London. Here
I’ve tried up and down everywhere for work as a labouring man, or in
a foundry. I tried London Docks, and Blackwall, and every place; but
no job. At one foundry, the boiler-makers made a collection of 4_s._
for me. I’ve walked the streets for three nights together. Here, in
this fine London, I was refused a night’s lodging in Shoreditch and
in Gray’s-inn-lane. A policeman, the fourth night, at twelve o’clock,
procured me a lodging, and gave me 2_d._ I couldn’t drag on any longer.
I was taken to a doctor’s in the city. I fell in the street from hunger
and tiredness. The doctor ordered me brandy and water, 2_s._ 6_d._,
and a quartern loaf, and some coffee, sugar, and butter. He said, what
I ailed was hunger. I made that run out as long as I could, but I was
then as bad off as ever. It’s hard to hunger for nights together. I was
once in ‘Steel’ (Coldbath-fields) for begging. I was in Tothill-fields
for going into a chandler’s shop, asking for a quartern loaf and half
a pound of cheese, and walking out with it. I got a month for that. I
have been in Brixton for taking a loaf out of a baker’s basket, all
through hunger. Better a prison than to starve. I was well treated
because I behaved well in prison. I have slept in coaches when I had a
chance. One night on a dunghill, covering the stable straw about me to
keep myself warm. This place is a relief. I shave the poor people and
cut their hair, on a Sunday. I was handy at that when I was a soldier.
I have shaved in public-houses for halfpennies. Some landlords kicks
me out. Now, in the days, I may pick up a penny or two that way, and
get here of a night. I met two Manchester men in Hyde Park on Saturday,
skating. They asked me what I was. I said, ‘A beggar.’ They gave me
2_s._ 6_d._, and I spent part of it for warm coffee and other things.
They knew all about Manchester, and knew I was a Manchester man by my
talk.”
The statement I then took was that of a female vagrant--a young girl
with eyes and hair of remarkable blackness. Her complexion was of
the deepest brunette, her cheeks were full of colour, and her lips
very thick. This was accounted for. She told me that her father was a
mulatto from Philadelphia. She was short, and dressed in a torn old
cotton gown, the pattern of which was hardly discernible from wear. A
kind of half-shawl, patched and mended in several places, and of very
thin woollen texture, was pinned around her neck; her arms, which, with
her hands, were full and large, were bare. She wore very old broken
boots and ragged stockings. Her demeanour was modest.
“I am now eighteen,” she stated. “My father was a coloured man. He
came over here as a sailor, I have heard, but I never saw him; for my
mother, who was a white woman, was not married to him, but met him at
Oxford; and she married afterwards a box-maker, a white man, and has
two other children. They are living, I believe, but I don’t know where
they are. I have heard my mother say that my father--that’s my own
father--had become a missionary, and had been sent out to America from
England as a missionary, by Mr. ----. I believe that was fifteen years
ago. I don’t know who Mr. ---- was, but he was a gentleman, I’ve heard
my mother say. She told me, too, that my father was a good scholar,
and that he could speak seven different languages, and was a very
religious man. He was sent out to Boston, but I never heard whether he
was to stay or not, and I don’t know what he was to missionary about.
He behaved very well to my mother, I have heard her say, until she took
up with the other man (the box-maker), and then he left her, and gave
her up, and came to London. It was at Oxford that they all three were
then; and when my father got away, or came away to London, my mother
followed him (she told me so, but she didn’t like to talk about it),
as she was then in the family way. She didn’t find him; but my father
heard of her, and left some money with Mr. ---- for her, and she got
into Poland-street workhouse through Mr. ---- I’ve heard. While there,
she received 1_s._ 6_d._ a-week, but my father never came to see her
or me. At one time, my father used to live by teaching languages. He
had been in Spain, and France, and Morocco. I’ve heard, at any rate,
that he could speak the Moors’ language, but I know nothing more. All
this is what I’ve heard from my mother and my grandmother--that’s my
mother’s mother. My grandfather and grandmother are dead. He was a
sawyer. I have a great grandmother living in Oxford, now ninety-two,
supported by her parish. I lived with my grandmother at Oxford, who
took me out of pity, as my mother never cared about me, when I was four
months old. I remained with her until I was ten, and then my mother
came from Reading, where she was living, and took me away with her. I
lived with her and my stepfather, but they were badly off. He couldn’t
get much to do at his trade as a box-maker, and he drank a great deal.
I was with them about nine months, when I ran away. He beat me so; he
never liked me. I couldn’t bear it. I went to Pangbourne, but there
I was stopped by a man my stepfather had sent--at least I suppose
so--and I was forced to walk back to Reading--ten miles, perhaps. My
father applied to the overseer for support for me, and the overseer
was rather harsh, and my father struck him, and for that he was sent
to prison for three months. My mother and her children then got into
the workhouse, but not until after my stepfather had been some time in
prison. Before that she had an allowance, which was stopped; I don’t
know how much. I was in the workhouse twenty-one days. I wasn’t badly
treated. My mother sweared my parish, and I was removed to St. James’s,
Poland-street, London. I was there three weeks, and then I was sent to
New Brentford--it was called the Juvenile Establishment--and I went
to school. There was about 150 boys and girls; the boys were sent
to Norwood when they were fifteen. Some of the girls were eighteen,
kept there until they could get a place. I don’t know whether they all
belonged to St. James’s, or to different parishes, or how. I stayed
there about two years. I was very well treated, sufficient to eat;
but we worked hard at scrubbing, cleaning, and making shirts. We made
all the boys’ clothes as well, jackets and trousers, and all. I was
then apprenticed a maid-of-all-work, in Duke-street, Grosvenor-square,
for three years. I was there two years and a half, when my master
failed in business, and had to part with me. They had no servant
but me. My mistress was sometimes kind, pretty well. I had to work
very hard. She sometimes beat me if I stopped long on my errands.
My master beat me once for bringing things wrong from a grocer’s. I
made a mistake. Once my mistress knocked me down-stairs for being
long on an errand to Pimlico, and I’m sure I couldn’t help it, and my
eye was cut. It was three weeks before I could see well. [There is
a slight mark under the girl’s eye still.] They beat me with their
fists. After I left my master, I tried hard to get a place; I’m sure I
did, but I really couldn’t; so to live, I got watercresses to sell up
and down Oxford-street. I stayed at lodging-houses. I tried that two
or three months, but couldn’t live. My mother had been ‘through the
country,’ and I knew other people that had, through meeting them at the
lodging-houses. I first went to Croydon, begging my way. I slept in the
workhouse. After that I went to Brighton, begging my way, but couldn’t
get much, not enough to pay my lodgings. I was constantly insulted,
both in the lodging-houses and in the streets. I sung in the streets at
Brighton, and got enough to pay my lodgings, and a little for food. I
was there a week, and then I went to the Mendicity, and they gave me a
piece of bread (morning and night) and a night’s lodging. I then went
to Lewes and other places, begging, and got into prison at Tunbridge
Wells for fourteen days, for begging. I only used to say I was a poor
girl out of place, could they relieve me? I told no lies. I didn’t pick
my oakum one day, it was such hard stuff; three and a half pounds of
it to do from nine to half-past three: so I was put into solitary for
three days and three nights, having half a pound of bread and a pint
of cold water morning and night; nothing else, and no bed to sleep
on. I’m sure I tell you the truth. Some had irons on their hands if
they were obstropolous. That’s about two months ago. I’m sorry to say
that during this time I couldn’t be virtuous. I know very well what it
means, for I can read and write, but no girl can be so circumstanced
as I was. I seldom got money for being wicked; I hated being wicked,
but I was tricked and cheated. I am truly sorry for it, but what could
a poor girl do? I begged my way from London to Hastings, and got here
on Saturday last, and having no money, came here. I heard of this
asylum from a girl in Whitechapel, who had been here. I met her in a
lodging-house, where I called to rest in the daytime. They let us rest
sometimes in lodging-houses in the daytime. I never was in any prison
but Tunbridge Wells, and in Gravesend lock-up for being out after
twelve at night, when I had no money to get a lodging. I was there one
Saturday night, and got out on Sunday morning, but had nothing given me
to eat--I was in by myself. It’s a bad place--just straw to sleep on,
and very cold. I told you I could read and write. I learnt that partly
at Oxford, and finished my learning at the Juvenile Establishment at
Brentford. There I was taught, reading, writing, sums, marking, sewing,
and scrubbing. Once I could say all the multiplication table, but I’ve
forgot most of it. I know how to make lace, too, because I was taught
by a cousin in Oxford, another grandchild of my grandmother’s. I can
make it with knitting-needles. I could make cushion-lace with pins, but
I’m afraid I’ve forgot how now. I should like, if I could to get into
service again, here or abroad. I have heard of Australia, where I have
a cousin. I am sure I could and would conduct myself well in service,
I have suffered so much out of it. I am sure of it. I never stole
anything in my life, and have told all I have done wrong.”