STREET SIGHTS OF LONDON.
VERY strange sights are seen in London. No city that I have ever
visited will compare with London for the number of its street peddlers,
hawkers, booth proprietors, open-air performers, ballad singers,
mountebanks, and other street itinerants.
From daybreak until dark, and long into the night, in the ramification
of Streets and Lanes, Squares, Mews, and Ovals, the ear of the stranger
is saluted with the harshest and most discordant sounds which emanate
from the throats of a street-selling population of both sexes, large
enough alone to make the population of a fifth-rate city.
The London Cockney who has heard the same grating sounds from the days
of his earliest childhood, never stops in his walk to listen to the
cries, but the stranger in London is compelled by the very want of
melody or intelligibility in the hawker's cries to listen, yet it is
useless for him to attempt to solve the meaning of their uncouth and
barbarous gibberage.
For these seventy-five thousand men, women, and boys, as well as
girls, many of a tender age--have their several dialects, and signals,
and patois, which it would be madness to try to understand without
a thorough schooling in the rudiments of their language and several
occupations.
In another part of this work I have taken a glance at the London
Costermongers and their habits and amusements, such as they are.
Beside this, the largest and most hard-working class of street hawkers,
there are a hundred other branches of street merchandise, and all these
different branches have their followers, who navigate every quarter of
the metropolis, trying to pick up a shilling here and there from the
sale of their commodities, as luck or energy may chance to send the
shilling their way.
It is calculated that the gross receipts of the street peddlers of
London amount to as much as £5,000,000 a year. This would make an
average of £70 a year, or nearly $500 for each person engaged in street
peddling. Of course in this aggregate I must include all those who keep
stands or booths of a greater or lesser magnitude.
Some of these poor wretches may earn in good weeks about fifteen to
twenty shillings, while at other seasons when green stuff is scarce, it
is rarely that they exceed more than eight shillings on an average for
the same amount of labor and hawking.
Ten shillings, however, is a fair week's earning if that amount be
realized during the current year. It may be calculated that the profits
will average as high as £1,500,000 where the gross receipts for sales
are as high as £5,000,000.
A bitter hostility exists between the tradesmen who occupy shops and
pay what they consider to be exorbitant rents, and the street sellers.
No sooner has a street seller made a round of custom for himself and
advertised his wares sufficiently, than the blue-coated policeman is
sure to appear, armed with the authority which cannot be disobeyed, and
he is compelled to move his stand or barrow.
The hawker or peddler is forced to pay four or five pounds a year for
a license to sell in this precarious way, and yet in London he has no
legal right to occupy a stand or booth. He has always to move on, like
the boy Joe in Bleak House.
It is more than wonderful to think of the shifts made by the poor
classes of London to make a living.
[Sidenote: SECOND-HAND BOOTS AND SHOES.]
The rich man passes by objects in the crowded streets every day with
scorn or loathing, which serve to yield a sustenance to the indigent
population, and even the offal of the streets will bring a price when
offered for sale. The work of the class who gather this material is
generally done before daybreak, and in some cases their earnings are
considerable.
The second-hand metal and tool sellers are to be found chiefly as
proprietors of booths or barrows in the vicinity of Petticoat and
Rosemary Lanes. The street trade of the city is, to a great extent,
done by those who have barrows, and as it is convenient for them to
move their barrows from place to place, the costermongers are found all
over the metropolis.
I made it my business to go almost incessantly among those street
hawkers, and I got from them a vast amount of useful information, and a
great many statistics.
Some of them tell curious stories, and have considerable wit of
a coarse kind, but to the wandering American they are, with few
exceptions, very civil, and will relate their checkered life-histories
with great eagerness.
There are hundreds of old boot and shoe shops and stands, where a great
business is carried on in the mending, patching, and vending of old
shoes and boots.
In one branch of the street trade alone, it will be interesting to give
some statistics which may be deemed reliable, as having been collected
by Mr. Henry Mayhew. There are shops and stands included in this trade
alone--
In Drury Lane and streets adjacent, 50 shops.
Seven Dials, " " 100 "
Monmouth Street, " " 40 "
Hanway Court, Oxford Street, 4 "
Lisson-grove, " " 100 "
Paddington, " " 30 "
Petticoat Lane, " " 200 "
Somerstown, 50 "
Field Lane, Saffron Hill, 40 "
Clerkenwell, 50 "
Bethnal Green, Spitalfields, 100 "
Rosemary Lane and vicinity, 30 "
----
744 shops.
About two thousand five hundred men are employed mending and patching
shoes. Then there are hundreds of poor men and women who gain
subsistence, but barely subsistence, by collecting the old material of
all articles that are made of leather, and selling it to those who keep
shops or stands.
I visited the lodgings of a man, in Cutler street, who paid his
landlord a weekly rent of 1s. 8d. for the use of one bare room, which
had no furniture with the exception of a three-legged chair upon which
he sat--and a heap of straw and dirty rags, which served him as a bed.
On the bare mantel-piece was a broken loaf of brown-bread, and a cooked
kidney, with a broken mustard-pot.
The man was named Ferguson, and had only one eye, the other having
been obliterated by the small pox. He was a cheerful old fellow, this
peddler of second-hand boots and shoes, and seemed to take the world as
it came without thought of the morrow. I told him that I was in search
of information, and statistics in regard to the working people of
London, and he offered me very politely his only stool. I declined the
courtesy and sat on the heap of rags while he told his story.
"Ye need not be afeered of the bugs, yer honor, in the bed. The place
is not warm enough for them to stay here.
"Stistiks ye want is it? Well, I don't know how I can give ye stistiks,
but I can tell you my own story.
"I began life a shoemaker's apprentice, in Edinburgh, although I am by
birth an Englishman. My master's name was Mac Donald, and when he drank
whiskey his temper generally ruz, and the divil couldn't stand him or
get the better of him. So I listed for a soldier and went to furrin
parts, and after I sarved my time I came back a good deal wiser but not
a penny richer of it all.
[Sidenote: THE DOG FANCIER.]
"I had my ups and downs when I came back, but I didn't marry, as it
was too bad to bring another person into poverty besides myself. I've
smoked a pipe when I was troubled in mind and could not get a bite to
eat, or a drop of gin to drink, but how would it be if I had a young
daughter? What good would it do to smoke if she wos hungry and I had
nothing to eat for her. I used to sell cherries and strawberries, and
then I gave that up and went into the old shoe trade. It paid better,
but sometimes I hadn't a penny-piece for two days at a time, and I
would have to sell my stock to get my grub.
"The regular sort of men's shoes are not a werry good sale. I gets from
ten-pence to five shillings a pair, but the high priced ones is always
soled or heeled and covered with mud. I gets from one shilling to
two-and-sixpence for cloth in the shoes, when they are in decent trim.
Blucher's brings two shillings and upwards, and Wellington's about the
same. I have sold children's shoes as low as three-pence and as high
as one and sixpence. I carry a wooden seat with me so that a man who
wants to buy from me can sit down and try on a pair anywhere. People
who havn't got any money to throw away generally likes to get their
second-hand boots or shoes as big as you have them, cos wy, when they
take them in the rain if they are a tight fit they can't put them on."
On an average the one-eyed boot and shoe seller informed me that he
made about four to seven shillings a week, and he called it a very good
week when he managed to make ten shillings profit.
Dog-sellers, of whom there are about two hundred in London, always
choose the most public places for their stations.
Down in Parliament street, opposite the Horse Guards, in Trafalgar
square, at the base of Nelson's Monument, in Upper Regent street by the
Coliseum, on the steps of the Bank and the Royal Exchange, on Waterloo
Bridge and along the Thames Embankment, and in fact wherever a large
open space may be found, or a well known public building located, the
dog-fancier may be noticed with a poodle between his legs, a black and
tan under one arm and a spaniel under the other, and by his side, it is
more than probable that a basket will be placed full of live, kicking,
and sagacious pups, of different colors and of as many breeds.
These dog-sellers are the keenest street traders to be found in London,
and dramatists and playwrights are never weary of making sketches and
amusing characters of dog fanciers.
Some years ago, two rascals, bearing the names of "Ginger" and
"Carrots," made themselves famous for the number of dogs stolen by
them. At last it was impossible for any canine to escape these fellows,
and so industrious did they become in the pursuit of them that they
were arrested by the police and sent to the House of Correction for
six months, which is the penalty for stealing one dog, yet "Ginger"
and "Carrots" had, in their career, stolen thousands of unsuspecting
yelpers from their owners.
In one year 60 dogs were reported lost, 606 stolen, 38 persons were
charged with dog stealing, 18 of whom were convicted, and 20 discharged.
It is a fact worth noting, that, excepting in rare cases, the
dog stealers do not affiliate with or frequent the company of
house-breakers, or thieves of any other class. Dog stealing among
professionals is looked upon as a noble science, and deserving of long
and arduous practice.
On wet days, when pedestrians may be forced by the suddenness of the
rain gusts to seek refuge in some arcade or colonade, like those in
Piccadilly or the Regents' Quadrant, it is then that the dog fancier
suddenly emerges from his hibernation, and knowing that he will have
the attention of a group of people who are without occupation while in
shelter, he may be certain to dispose of his dogs to advantage. It is
upon old and timid ladies that these dog venders are sure to practice
their tricks.
Let an old maid but look longingly at some hairy poodle or woolly King
Charles,--then woe be to her if she attempt to escape without buying.
"Wot," said one heartless villain of a dog fancier to a spinster
wearing gold spectacles, who was trying to make her escape from his
alarming language, as he stood in the Strand with a pet poodle in his
arms, "does ye keep me 'ere a torkin for three blessed hours and then
ye goes hoff without buying this beutifool dorg as is dirt cheap at
twenty pounds and I hoffers it to ye for five sovs. I say, do take it
with ye and make a muff of hit, the precious dear. All ye have to do
is to get its legs and tail cut off, and get its insides scooped out,
and ye'll have a splendid muff. Wot, ye won't buy, hey? Pir-leece,
Pir-leece," and the fellow began to scream for the police as if the
poor frightened old maid had intended to rob him.
[Sidenote: WHO KEEP BIRDS.]
Bird-Sellers frequent the New Cut, Lambeth, Bermondsey, Whitechapel,
Billingsgate, and Smithfield, as well as the different streets of
Southwark and Blackfriars.
There are hundreds of these bird-sellers to be found hawking their
birds all over the city. They are shrewd, speculative men, and can tell
a bird's age and power of singing almost at a glance.
The smallest cage costs sixpence, and a thrush and cage of a common
kind is valued at 2s. 6d. A canary that sings well may fetch about
3s. The hens or female birds do not have a large sale, and the trade
in pigeons is decreasing, owing to the emigration of many of the
Spitalfield weavers, who had a great love for pigeons and were the
principal breeders of that bird in England.
The poorer the family, the more likely that a bird will be found in the
house; and stable boys, laborers, and the humbler class of artisans,
are in the habit of keeping birds in their dwellings.
It is also curious to notice the love formed by women who lead an
abandoned life, for all kinds of birds, chiefly, however, for those
that will sing. I noticed, in making a tour of inspection with the
police among the Slums of the Haymarket, that nearly every woman of
foreign extraction and of dissolute life had a linnet, canary, or
blackbird, in her room. Frenchwomen of this class are very fond of
canaries. Poor, lonely, forsaken wretches, it is the instinct of
deprived maternity which demands that they should have something to
love and make a pet of.
Sailors, who have returned from long voyages, will stop in the street
when they see a bird-seller's stand, look at it for a moment with open
mouth, and taking out a handful of silver, will give the bird-fancier
any price he chooses to ask for a sweet singing bird. The bird will
serve as a gift to some female relative, a wife, or as, in many cases,
some woman of the town will receive the cage and its occupant as a gift
from the drunken Jack-Tar.
About five thousand parrots are imported and sold annually in London.
They are chiefly brought from Africa, and a fine parrot will bring as
high as a pound. Quite a number of these birds die on the homeward
voyage, and this makes the price of parrots very high. Birds' nests are
also sold in the streets by Italian and Savoyard boys in great numbers.
Squirrels, rabbits, and gold and silver fish may be also found for sale
in the streets, the latter being bought to keep in glass globes as
ornaments.
At every railroad station, in and outside of London, a person can be
weighed for a penny. A man named Read has at least one hundred weighing
chairs, which he rents out to men and boys at a certain rate of the
gross receipts. On the different bridges cripples and retired soldiers
may be found with brass instruments for testing the lungs and power of
a man's arms, and also machines are to be found in front of well-known
public houses, and in the parks and squares, for measuring the height
of pedestrians.
There was one old fellow with whom I became acquainted, who kept a
measuring and a weighing machine.
His station was on the Middlesex side of the Waterloo Bridge. He told
me that he had been a pot-boy in a cheap eating house for five years,
and then was a helper in a gentleman's stable for six years. One of his
arms was rendered useless from an attack of paralysis, and finding that
he could not any longer work as a helper, he borrowed enough money to
purchase the weighing and measuring machines.
Having some curiosity to know the average weight and height of his many
customers, I made a bargain with him, as he could read and write, to
keep a record of his experience for three days of the physique of those
who patronized his machines.
His patrons were chiefly laboring men on the new Thames Embankment,
boatmen plying on the river, clerks going and coming to their business
over Waterloo Bridge, and soldiers.
[Sidenote: COKE SELLERS.]
His largest income was on Saturday nights, when the laboring people
were flush of copper pennies, and as nearly every third man was sure
to be drunk going over the bridge on Saturday night, he was certain to
reap a good harvest from their generous pockets.
In three days he had weighed one hundred and thirty-two persons of the
male sex, and eight women. The average weight of each person I found
was, including the women, one hundred and fifty-five pounds. The number
of persons measured for their height was sixty-four, and the average
tallness of each person, among which number was only one female, was
five feet eight inches. The soldiers were of course the tallest. These
figures speak well for the London Cockneys. One of the women, a cook,
measured six feet, and weighed one hundred and ninety-eight lbs. I gave
the venerable statistician a shilling and bade him good-bye, but not
before I had received his blessing in fervent tones.
[Illustration: COKE PEDDLER.]
The consumption of coke purchased from the various gas houses of the
city by peddlers and hawkers is enormous.
There are about two thousand persons concerned in this street trade,
one hundred of whom are women, and the aggregate includes boys. The
various gas companies realize a yearly sum equal to six million of
dollars from the sale of the coke. The peddlers distribute the coke to
their customers in large vans, wheelbarrows, donkey carts, hand carts,
and some of these strong limbed, broad chested fellows, carry the
coke from door to door in large sacks. A few of the women own routes,
and hire boys or men to sell the coke, giving them eight to twelve
shillings a week, according to their merits and enterprise as hawkers.
Coke is bought by these hawkers at the gas houses at from three to four
pence per bushel, and is sold by them again at eight pence per bushel.
In giving the rates which I will have occasion to quote from time to
time in this work, I shall generally give the prices in British money.
Salt is also vended in carts and wheelbarrows like coke, and some of
the peddlers of that much desired article for seasoning and preserving
food, sell in one day as much as five hundred pounds. The wholesale
price to the hawkers is about 2s. 6d. per hundred pounds, and it is
sold by them to the poor people in thickly populated districts, at a
penny a pound, or sometimes cheaper.
Sand is sold in large quantities to the keepers of publics and small
shops, and to those keeping stalls in the old markets, at twenty
shillings a load, and the sand peddlers pay a license of two pounds per
annum. In fact all the London peddlers pay a tax or license of some
kind or another.
One of the strangest sights in London is the "Bum Boat" of a "Purl,"
or warm beer seller, who may be found now and then of a dark foggy day
plying his vocation on the Thames.
Formerly there were hundreds of these beer peddlers upon the river, but
I believe that there are but a few, perhaps not more than five or six,
who still follow this occupation.
One day while pulling around the shipping below London bridge in a
small boat, I came across one of the "Bum Boat" men, who might, I
believe, be taken as a very fair specimen of his class, or calling,
once numerous, but now only a scattered remnant of their former numbers.
[Sidenote: STOCK IN TRADE.]
This fellow, a sun-browned-looking man of thirty years of age or
thereabout, was impelling a craft, a strongly constructed, broad
bottomed barge or yawl, in and out among the smoky looking coal
barges, fish and oyster craft and coasting steamers. He wore a dark
blue guernsey shirt and a yellow oil-skin jacket, with heavy water
boots which encased his large legs from the knees downward. An immense
"Sou'-wester" shaded his broad face, and he was trying to drive the fog
away by smoking a dreadful black clay pipe.
At the stern of the boat was a rough canvas awning, and under this the
"Purl" man told me that he slept for weeks and months, while his boat
lay at anchorage in some of the nooks of the busy river.
[Illustration: BUM BOAT MAN.]
He seldom or ever went ashore, excepting when necessity compelled him
to debark for the purpose of laying in beer and other stock for his
customers.
In the bottom of the boat were heaps of fresh onions, a bag of
potatoes, a couple of bushels of Swedish turnips, parsnips, carrots,
some packages of tea and coffee in small square brown parcels, tied
with white string, a tin box full of mutton chops and beef steaks, cut
ready for sale, and other articles of food that would be most relished
by seafaring men on their return from a voyage.
There were also in the boat a small patent sheet-iron furnace, two
little casks of beer, each containing about four gallons of that
beverage, a can with a gallon of gin of the cheap and fiery brand,
and two tin pannikins in which he warmed the beer, or "Purl," as it
is called, upon the small sheet-iron stove. This he sold hot to the
sailors, oystermen, and coal bargees, at four pence a pint. It was
most wonderful to see the dexterous manner in which this Bum Boat man
passed in and out between the numerous craft, paddling and ringing a
hand bell the while, without any collision or trouble, and then to hear
through the fog, the answering cries from the sailors who recognized
his welcome bell:
"Boat ahoy!"
"Bell ah-o-o-y!"
"P-i-n-t o' P-u-r-l a-h-o-o-y!"
Then for an instant the bell would cease, and the dark shapes of the
"Bum Boat" and its proprietor would be seen, as the latter stood up
to reach a noggin of gin to a bargee, or a pewter pint of foaming hot
"Purl" to some thirsty soul of a tar just arrived from Greenwich,
Glasgow, or Cork.
The "Bum Boat" man is one of the most picturesque sights of that most
picturesque of cities, London. The few who still ply their avocation
on the river, are in pretty comfortable circumstances, and their lives
are as happy as can be imagined, much more so, I have no doubt, than
they were when there were hundreds of them paddling about the river and
impoverishing themselves by a ruinous competition.
[Sidenote: HOW DICK GETS HIS PORRIDGE.]
I have often noticed miserable, wan, and half naked looking little
children, in and around the Regent's Circus, and in the neighborhood of
the Cafés and Pall Mall, with small bags made from the material used in
potato sacks, collecting cigar ends and crusts of bread from ash heaps
and dust bins. Wondering what use could be made of these disgusting
fragments, I one day accosted a lad of twelve years or thereabouts,
who was busily engaged in searching a dust bin near Simpson's Tavern
in the Strand, which is a resort for fashionable diners out.
I said to him, after giving him a penny, which will always unclose the
lips of the sauciest London street boy:
"Child, why do you collect these fragments of crusts and cigar ends?"
"Mister," said the half frightened child, who took me at the first
glance for a detective in plain clothes--and by the way, it seems as if
every poorly clad and hungry man and woman in London were suspicious
of the police, for the reason that they are poorly clad, and for that
reason alone--
[Illustration: "I GETS IT FOR CIGAR STUMPS."]
"Mister," said the hungry child, whose face was prematurely aged, "I
aint doing nothink; I was only grabbing the crusts for porridge."
"For porridge,--how do you make the porridge, my lad?"
"My mother--she is down in Milbank street, and has got the small pox,
but before she was sick she used to bile the crusts in hot water and
put a pennorth o' oat meal in the pot. She borrowed the pot from Mrs.
Clarke, she did."
"Who makes the porridge now, boy," said I to him.
"A gal--me big sister Mag--she makes ladies' shoes for a shop, and
wacks me when she's mad and I aint got no money for gin. I likes
porridge, and Mag she makes it so preshis 'ot. My name's Dick."
"Well, Dick, how do you get the 'pennorth' of oat meal for the
porridge?"
"I gets it for cigar stumps. I finds a lot on 'em and sells 'em, and
I gets ten browns for a pound on 'em. The tibbaccy man buys 'em, but
he wont buy the short ones, cause he says they are all wet and the
tibbaccy is all gone from them. I makes tuppence a day sometimes."
There are, I am told, fifty or sixty persons, men and boys, some of
whom are Irish, engaged in this branch of the Street Finders' vocation.
It would be tedious to give an account of all the different branches
of street selling and buying in London. Their number is legion, and
it would be the work of weeks to merely recapitulate all the strange
ways and means whereby wretchedness exists in the heart of surrounding
splendor, and what would seem to be, but is not--an all-pervading
charity.
But I cannot close this chapter without glancing at the street
performers--street "Peep" Shows, Reciters, Showmen, Strong Men, Dancing
boys and men, Tom Tom players, Street Clowns and Acrobats, Bagpipe
players, Negro Serenaders, Street Bands, Punch and Judy shows, and
other street folk, who are almost if not as numerous as the hawkers and
collectors.
There is to be seen on Saturday nights, in the vicinity of Farringdon
and the old London markets, now and then a stray Peep Show man, who
frequents the most crowded districts, where the poorer people have
money to spend. These Peep Shows are conveyed through the streets on
a low four wheeled wagon, sometimes by the performer or proprietor
in person, at other times by a donkey. Donkeys cost from two to five
pounds in London, according to their breed and tractability.
On the wagon a square box is generally placed, having a large glass
front, which is covered with green baize or a dirty velvet curtain.
[Illustration: STREET ACROBATS.]
This screen conceals the automaton figures that are set in motion
by the man in charge. Sometimes there is a hurdy gurdy, or hand
organ, attached, and while the exhibitor turns a crank to allow the
spectators to look at the revolving pictures of the "Capture of the
Malakoff," the "Death of Nelson," "Napoleon at Waterloo," or some
other historic picture, the hurdy gurdy will play "Old Dog Tray," "The
Lancashire Lass," or some other popular ditty. Representations of the
most horrible murders, or executions of well known criminals, are much
relished by the London mobs, and are well patronized. One of these men
told me that he was accustomed to take three and four shillings on
Saturday nights in Farringdon market or the New Cut, while during the
week he might not make four shillings altogether.
[Sidenote: STREET ACROBATS.]
Street acrobats, or posturers, are often met with in London. They are
to be found usually in streets which have one end closed, or near
the river. Thus the traffic is not impeded, owing to the absence of
vehicles; and a street like those which run off the Strand toward the
river will be quiet as the grave all day long until near the dusk,
when all at once, as if by magic, a curious crowd of men, women, and
children will collect around a man and boy or boys, who will in the
most business like fashion proceed to divest themselves of their
outward clothing, which of course is of a rather shabby kind, and
in a few moments they will appear in all the glory of flesh-colored
tights, just as they may be seen standing in the sawdust of a circus
arena. Their foreheads are glorious with silver tinsel or silk ribbon
fillets, their loins girt with strips of velvet, and their whole rig
of a theatrical character. Some of the children are really handsome,
and most exquisitely shaped, the results of athletic exercise and free
fresh air. But the men, poor devils, have all of them a haggard, worn,
fretful look, with hollowed cheek and straggling gray hair.
Having placed a piece of carpet, rather threadbare in appearance, in
the middle of the street, after selecting the cleanest spot for it,
these fellows (who are soon in the centre of a ring of people, from
whom coppers are collected while the acrobats are bounding in air), go
to work, and for half an hour will amaze, delight, edify, and instruct
the grown children, larking street boys, and nursery maids of the
neighborhood, and having collected perhaps ten pence or a shilling,
they will gather up the carpet, don their sober, shabby garments, and
find another quarter to do their trapeze, pyramid, and dancing feats.
Nearly all these street acrobats are bruised, or are in some way
injured, and many die young from falls.
Occasionally they will disappear from the crowded London streets, in
search of a scanty existence in some miserable provincial barn of
a theatre or music hall, and years may perhaps elapse before their
pinched cheeks and hungry eyes will again be encountered in the shabby
chop houses and dark, lanes of London. Six shillings a week is as much
as these poor wanderers, soiled by the glare of tallow candles in
crazy barns and sheds, can expect to make in the provincial towns and
villages. Therefore London, with all its misery, is very dear to them,
for with much less toil and labor they can realize twelve to fifteen
shillings per week in the Capital.
[Sidenote: PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW.]
But the great and lasting attraction among the multifarious street
scenes of London, is the Punch and Judy show, the delight of joyous
children, of the rich and poor, whether in Belgravia or St. Giles. And
indeed, Punch and Judy shows reap more profit in a poor and squalid
district than they will in the aristocratic quarters.
[Illustration: PUNCH AND JUDY.]
It is rarely that the police will disturb these street shows, unless
that householders should prefer a complaint that they were annoyed,
and then of course they are driven away. I have myself looked and
listened for many an hour to these absurdly humorous shows, to Punch
and Judy, the Dog, the Clown, and some negro characters selected for
the exhibition. Usually there is a man, his wife, and a boy to collect
the pennies thrown from windows or given by the crowd which assembles
to witness the performance.
The man plays the pipes, fastened at his breast, and the drum with his
elbow; and the woman keeps the figures in motion on the miniature
stage, the back of which is hidden by a green curtain or tent, placed
in the cart. Behind this screen the woman conceals herself and talks
for the little automaton figures. There is a set dialogue in which the
figures are supposed to converse, and as it is seldom changed, I give
the following portion of a comedy of conversation, as that chiefly used
for many years by the London Punch and Judy shows:
Enter Judy.
_Punch._ What a sweet creature! what a handsome nose and chin! (He
pats Judy on the face lovingly.)
_Judy._ Keep quiet, do! (Slapping him wickedly.)
_Punch._ Don't be cross, my ducky, but give me a kiss.
_Judy._ Oh, to be sure, my love. (They embrace and kiss.)
_Punch._ Bless your sweet lips. (Hugging her.) These are melting
moments. I'm very fond of my wife, I must have a dance.
_Judy._ Agreed. (Dancing.)
_Punch._ Get out of the way, you don't dance well enough for me. (Hits
her on the nose.) Go and fetch the baby, and mind and take care of it
and not hurt it. (Judy goes off.)
Judy. (Coming back with the baby.)
Take care of the baby while I go and cook the dumplings.
_Punch._ (Striking Judy with his hand.) Get out of the way! I'll take
care of the baby (and Judy goes out).
Punch. (Sits down and sings to the baby.)
"Hush a-bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down comes the baby, cradle and all."
(The baby cries and Punch throws it up and down violently.)
_Punch._ What a cross child! I can't abear cross children. (Shakes the
baby and pretends that he is about to kill it, and finally throws it
out of the window.)
Enter Judy.
_Judy._ Where is the baby?
[Sidenote: PUNCH IS EXECUTED.]
_Punch._ (In a lemoncholy tone.) I have had a misfortune; the
child was so terrible cross I throwed it out of the window, I did.
(Lamentation of Judy for her dear child. She goes into asterisks, and
then excites and fetches a cudgel, and commences beating Punch over
the head.)
_Punch._ Don't be cross, my dear, I didn't go to do it.
_Judy._ I'll pay yer for a throwin' the child out of the winder. (She
keeps a beatin him on the blessed head with the stick, but Punch
snatches the stick away, and commences a smashin of her blessed head.)
_Judy._ (Screaming like hanythink.) I'll go to the Constable and have
you locked up.
_Punch._ Go to the devil. I don't care where you go. Get out of the
way. (Judy goes hoff, and Punch sings, "Par Excellence," or, "Ten
Little Indians." N.B. All before is sentimental, but this here's
comic. Punch goes through his roo-too-to-rooey, and in comes the
Beadle hall in red.)
Then the "Clown" and "Jim Crow," the "Doctor," "Jack Ketch," the
hangman, with various characters, follow each other in quick succession
and enact their absurdities to the intense delight of the "juveniles,"
as the showman, in his printed book of the play calls the children.
Punch is tried and convicted of murder, and being sentenced to death,
is finally hung by Jack Ketch, at Newgate, as a punishment for his
crimes, and is then placed in a coffin and given to be dissected.
All through these performances I have frequently noticed that the child
spectators sympathized with Punch,--who is certainly a most notorious
criminal if we are to judge by his actions on the stage of the Punch
and Judy show,--and they always applauded when the Beadle got the worst
of the fight.
It is a strange instinct, that which rises and glows in the breast of a
child,--this resistance to the spirit or personification of authority.
The same instinct in the full-grown man, draws a mob of ragged blouses
after a Rochefort, in the streets of Paris, and builds barricades from
which they fire upon the hireling soldiery of a Bonaparte.