Her hair loose curl’d, the rest tuck’d up between
Her neatly frill’d mob-cap, was scarcely seen;
A black chip-hat, peculiarly her own,
With ribbon puff’d around the small flat crown
Pinn’d to her head-dress, gave her blooming face
A jaunty openness and winning grace.
*
On her legs were “women’s blacks,” or, in dry sunny weather, as at this
season, stockings of white cotton, with black high-heeled shoes, and a
pair of bright sparkling buckles; tight lacing distended her hips, which
were further enlarged by her flowered cotton or chintz gown being drawn
through the pocket-holes to balloon out behind, and display a quilted
glazed petticoat of black or pink stuff, terminating about four inches
above the ancles; she wore on her bosom, which was not so confined as to
injure its fullness, a light gauze or muslin kerchief. This was her full
dress, as she rolled through the street, and cried--
“Round and sound,
Two-pence a pound,
Cherries! rare ripe cherries!”
“Green and ripe gooseberries! amber-berries! ripe amber-berries!”
“Currants! rare ripe currants!” ending, as she began, with cherries:--
“Cherries a ha’penny a stick!
Come and pick! come and pick
Cherries! big as plums!
Who comes? who comes?”
Each side of her well-laden barrow was dressed nearly halfway along with
a row of sticks having cherries tied on them. To assist in retailing her
other fruit, there lay before her a “full alehouse measure” of clean
pewter, and a pair of shining brass scales, with thick turn-over rims,
and leaden weights, for the “real black-hearts” that dyed the white
cloth they lay on with purple stains. If she had an infant, she was
sometimes met with it, at a particular spot, for her to suckle. She was
then a study for a painter. Her hearty caresses of her child, while she
hastily sat down on the arm of her barrow, and bared her bountiful bosom
to give it nourishment; the frolic with which she tickled it; the
tenderness with which she looked into its young, up-turned eyes, while
the bland fluid overflowed its laughing mouth; her smothering kisses
upon its crowing lips after its nurture; and her loud affectionate “God
bless it!” when it was carried away, were indescribably beautiful.
As the seasons changed, so her wares varied. With the “rolling year,”
she rolled round to us its successive fruits; but cherry-time was the
meridian of her glory. Her clear and confident cry was then listened
for, in the distance, with as much anxiety to hear it, as the
proclamation of a herald, in the full authority of office, was awaited
in ancient times. “What can keep the barrow-woman so long?--Surely she
has not gone another way!--Hush! there she is; I hear her!” These were
tokens of her importance in the neighbourhood she circled; and good
housewives and servant girls came to the doors, with basins and dishes,
to await her approach, and make their purchases of fruit for their pies
and puddings. As she slowly trundled her barrow along the pavement, what
doating looks were cast upon its delicacies by boys with ever-ready
appetites! How he who had nothing to lay out envied him who a halfpenny
entitled to a perplexing choice amidst the tempting variety! If currants
were fixed on, the question was mooted, “Which are best--red or white?”
If cherries--“white hearts, or blacks?” If gooseberries--“red or
yellow?” Sometimes the decision as to the comparative merits of colour
was negatived by a sudden impulsive preference for “the other sort,” or
“something else;” and not seldom, after these deliberations, and being
“served,” arose doubts and regrets, and an application to be allowed to
change “these” for “them,” and perhaps the last choice was, in the end,
the least satisfactory. Indecisiveness is not peculiar to childhood;
“men are but children of a larger growth,” and their “conduct of the
understanding” is nearly the same.
* * * * *
Mr. George Cruikshank, whose pencil is distinguished by power of
decision in every character he sketches, and whose close observation of
passing manners is unrivalled by any artist of the day, has sketched the
barrow-woman for the _Every-Day Book_, from his own recollection of her,
aided somewhat by my own. It is engraved on wood by Mr. Henry White, and
placed at the head of this article.
* * * * *
Before barrow-women quite “went out,” the poor things were sadly used.
If they stopped to rest, or pitched their seat of custom where customers
were likely to pass, street-keepers, authorized by orders unauthorized
by law, drove them off, or beadles overthrew their fruit into the road.
At last, an act of parliament made it penal to roll a wheel or keep a
stand for the sale of any articles upon the pavement; and barrow-women
and fruit-stalls were “put down.”
_Fruit Stalls._
These daily purveyors to the refreshment of passengers in hot weather
are not wholly extinct; a few, very few, still exist by mere
sufferance--no more. Upon recollection of their number, and the grateful
abundance heaped upon them, I could almost exclaim, in the words of the
old Scotch-woman’s epitaph--
“Such desolation in my time has been
I have an end of all perfection seen!”
Ah! what a goodly sight was Holborn-hill in “_my_ time.” _Then_ there
was a comely row of fruit-stalls, skirting the edge of the pavement from
opposite the steps of St. Andrew’s church to the corner of Shoe-lane.
The fruit stood on tables covered with white cloths, and placed end to
end, in one long line. In autumn, it was a lovely sight. The pears and
apples were neatly piled in “ha’p’orths,” for there were then no
pennyworths; “a pen’orth” would have been more than sufficient for
moderate eating at one time. First, of the pears, came the “ripe
Kat’er’nes;” these were succeeded by “fine Windsors,” and “real
bergamys.” Apples “came in” with “green codlins;” then followed “golden
rennets,” “golden pippins,” and “ripe nonpareils.” These were the common
street-fruits. Such “golden pippins” as were then sold, three and four
for a halfpenny, are now worth pence a piece, and the true “golden
rennet” can only be heard of at great fruiterers. The decrease in the
growth of this delightful apple is one of the “signs of the times!”
The finest apples in Covent-garden market come from Kent. Growers in
that county, by leaving only a few branches upon the tree, produce the
most delicious kinds, of a surprisingly large size. For these they
demand and obtain very high prices; but instead of London in general
being supplied, as it was formerly, with the best apples, little else is
seen except swine-feed, or French, or American apples. The importations
of this fruit are very large, and under the almost total disappearance
of some of our finest sorts, very thankful we are to get inferior ones
of foreign growth. Really good English apples are scarcely within the
purchase of persons of moderate means.
* * * * *
“_Women’s Blacks._”
This is the name of the common black worsted stockings, formerly an
article of extensive consumption; they are now little made, because
little worn. One of the greatest wholesale dealers in “women’s blacks,”
in a manufacturing town, was celebrated for the largeness of his stock;
his means enabled him to purchase all that were offered to him for sale,
and it was his favourite article. He was an old-fashioned man, and while
the servant-maids were leaving them off, he was unconscious of the
change, because he could not believe it; he insisted it was impossible
that household work could be done in “white cottons.” Offers of
quantities were made to him at reduced prices, which he bought; his
immense capital became locked up in his favourite “women’s blacks;”
whenever their price in the market lowered, he could not make his mind
up to be quite low enough; his warehouses were filled with them; when he
determined to sell, the demand had wholly ceased; he could effect no
sales; and, becoming bankrupt, he literally died of a broken heart--from
an excessive and unrequited attachment to “women’s blacks.”
[207] Naogeorgus by Googe.
~July 5.~
_St. Peter_, of Luxemburg, Card. A. D. 1387. _St. Modwena_, 9th Cent.
_St. Edana_, of Elphim and Tuam.
* * * * *
There is a beautiful mention of flowers, at this season, in some lines
from the Italian of Louis Gonzago.
_With an Indian Perfume-box to Maria de Mancini_, 1648.
Oh! the Florence rose is freshe and faire,
And rich the young carnations blowe,
Wreathing in beauties’ ebonne haire,
Or sighing on her breaste of snowe,
But onlie violette shall twine
Thy ebonne tresses, ladye mine.
Oh! dazzling shines the noon-daye sunne,
So kinglye in his golden carre,
But sweeter ’tis when day is done,
To watche the evening’s dewye starre,
In silence lighting fielde and grove,
How like mye heart, how like mye love!
Then, ladye, lowlye at thy feete
I lay this gift of memorie,
All strange and rude, but treasures sweete
Within its gloomy bosome lie.
Trifles, Marie! may telle the tale,
When wisdom, witte, and courage faile.
_Pulci._
* * * * *