Every class in London has its particular pleasures. The gay have their
theatres--the philanthropic their Exeter Hall--the wealthy their "ancient
concerts"--the costermongers what they term their sing-song.
I once penetrated into one of these dens. It was situated in a very low
neighbourhood, not far from a gigantic brewery, where you could not walk
a yard scarcely without coming to a public house. The costermongers are
a numerous race. Walk the poor neighbourhoods on a Saturday night, and
hear the cries,--"Chestnuts all 'ot a penny a score," "Three a penny,
Yarmouth bloaters," "Penny a lot fine russets, a penny a lot," "Now's
your time, fine whelks, a penny a lot." Well, the itinerant vendors of
these delicacies are costermongers. Or in the daytime see the long carts
drawn by donkies loaded with greens and other vegetables, all announced
to the public in stentorian lungs--these men are costermongers. Listen
to those boys calling, "Ho, ho, hi, hi,--what do you think of this here?
a penny a bunch, a penny a bunch. Here's your turnips!" Those boys are
costermongers' lads. It is seldom they last long as men. They soon lose
their voice, and how they pick up a living then no one can tell. Their
talk is peculiar. Mr Mayhew tells us their slang consists merely in
pronouncing each word as if spelt backwards. "I say, Curly, will you do
a _top_ of _reeb_ (pot of beer)?" one costermonger may say to another.
"It's _on doog_, Whelkey, _on doog_" (no good, no good), the second may
reply; "I've had a regular _troseno_ (bad sort) to-day; I've been doing
_dab_ (bad) with my _tol_ (lot)--han't made a _yennep_ (penny), s' elp
me--." "Why, I've cleared a _flatchenorc_ (half a crown) a' ready."
Master Whelkey will answer perhaps, "But _kool_ the _esilop_ (look at the
police), _kool him_ (look at him). Curly: _Nommus_ (be off), I am going
_to do the tightner_" (have my dinner). Would you know more of them,
come with me.
Just look at the people in this public-house. A more drunken,
dissipated, wretched lot you never saw. There are one or two little
tables in front of the bar and benches, and on these benches are the most
wretched men and women possible to imagine. They are drinking gin and
smoking, and all have the appearance of confirmed sots. They are
shoemakers in the neighbourhood, and these women with them are their
wives. "Lor' bless you, sir," exclaims the landlord, "they spend all
they has in drink. They live on a penny roll and a ha'porth of sprats or
mussels, and they never buy any clothes, except once in three or four
years, and then they get some second-hand rubbish." And here, when they
are not at work, they sit spending their money. Are there none to save
them?--none to come here and pluck these brands from the burning? I know
they are short-lived; I see in their pale, haggard, blotched, and bloated
faces premature death. The first touch of illness will carry them off as
rotten leaves fall in November; but ere this be the case, can you not
reveal to them one glimpse of a truer and diviner life? But come
up-stairs into this concert-room, where about a hundred costermongers and
shoemakers are listening to the charms of song. Talk about the refining
influence of music! it is not here you will find such to be the case.
The men and women and lads sitting round these shabby looking tables have
come here to drink, for that is their idea of enjoyment; and whilst we
would not grudge them one particle of mirth, we cannot but regret that
their standard of enjoyment should be so low. The landlord is in the
chair, and a professional man presides at the piano. As to the songs,
they are partly professional and partly by volunteers. I cannot say much
for their character. The costermongers have not very strict notions of
_meum_ and _tuum_; they are not remarkable for keeping all the
commandments; their reverence for the conventional ideas of decency and
propriety is not very profound; their notions are not peculiarly polished
or refined, nor is the language in which they are clothed, nor the mode
in which they are uttered, such as would be recognised in Belgravia.
Dickens makes Mrs General in "Little Dorrit" remark, "Society never forms
opinions, and is never demonstrative." Well, the costermongers are the
reverse of all this, and as the pots of heavy and the quarterns of
juniper are freely quaffed, and the world and its cares are forgotten,
and the company becomes hourly more noisy and hilarious, you will
perceive the truth of my remarks. Anybody sings who likes; sometimes a
man, sometimes a female, volunteers a performance, and I am sorry to say
it is not the girls who sing the most delicate songs. The burdens of
these songs are what you might expect. In one you were recommended not
to go courting in the kitchen when the master was at home, but, instead,
to choose the "airey." One song, with a chorus, was devoted to the deeds
of "those handsome men, the French Grenadiers." Another recommended beer
as a remedy for low spirits; and thus the harmony of the evening is
continued till twelve, when the landlord closes his establishment, to the
great grief of the few who have any money left, who would only be too
happy to keep it up all night. Let me say a word about costermonger
literature. I see Mr Manby Smith calculates its pecuniary value at
twelve thousand a year. It is wretched in every way,--in composition, in
printing, in cuts, and paper. These street ballads--we are all familiar
with them--are sold by a class of men called patterers, and are written
so as to bear on the events of the day. Thus, at the last Lord Mayor's
day we had a song sung in the streets, of which the following is a
specimen:--
"Away they go, the high and low,
Such glorious sights was never seen,
But still the London Lord Mayor's show
Is not as it has former been,
When old Dick Whittington was mayor,
And our forefathers had to go;
They had not got no Peelers there,
To guard great London's Lord Mayor's show."