‘And here you repose and think?’ said I.
‘And think,’ said he, ‘of posters—walls—and hoardings.’
We were both silent, contemplating the vastness of the subject. I
remembered a surprising fancy of dear THOMAS HOOD’S, and wondered whether
this monarch ever sighed to repair to the great wall of China, and stick
bills all over it.
‘And so,’ said he, rousing himself, ‘it’s facts as you collect?’
‘Facts,’ said I.
‘The facts of bill-sticking,’ pursued His Majesty, in a benignant manner,
‘as known to myself, air as following. When my father was Engineer,
Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, he
employed women to post bills for him. He employed women to post bills at
the time of the riots of London. He died at the age of seventy-five
year, and was buried by the murdered Eliza Grimwood, over in the Waterloo
Road.’
As this was somewhat in the nature of a royal speech, I listened with
deference and silently. His Majesty, taking a scroll from his pocket,
proceeded, with great distinctness, to pour out the following flood of
information:—
‘“The bills being at that period mostly proclamations and declarations,
and which were only a demy size, the manner of posting the bills (as they
did not use brushes) was by means of a piece of wood which they called a
‘dabber.’ Thus things continued till such time as the State Lottery was
passed, and then the printers began to print larger bills, and men were
employed instead of women, as the State Lottery Commissioners then began
to send men all over England to post bills, and would keep them out for
six or eight months at a time, and they were called by the London
bill-stickers ‘trampers,’ their wages at the time being ten shillings per
day, besides expenses. They used sometimes to be stationed in large
towns for five or six months together, distributing the schemes to all
the houses in the town. And then there were more caricature wood-block
engravings for posting-bills than there are at the present time, the
principal printers, at that time, of posting-bills being Messrs. Evans
and Ruffy, of Budge Row; Thoroughgood and Whiting, of the present day;
and Messrs. Gye and Balne, Gracechurch Street, City. The largest bills
printed at that period were a two-sheet double crown; and when they
commenced printing four-sheet bills, two bill-stickers would work
together. They had no settled wages per week, but had a fixed price for
their work, and the London bill-stickers, during a lottery week, have
been known to earn, each, eight or nine pounds per week, till the day of
drawing; likewise the men who carried boards in the street used to have
one pound per week, and the bill-stickers at that time would not allow
any one to wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as they had a society
amongst themselves, and very frequently dined together at some
public-house where they used to go of an evening to have their work
delivered out untoe ’em.”’
All this His Majesty delivered in a gallant manner; posting it, as it
were, before me, in a great proclamation. I took advantage of the pause
he now made, to inquire what a ‘two-sheet double crown’ might express?
‘A two-sheet double crown,’ replied the King, ‘is a bill thirty-nine
inches wide by thirty inches high.’
‘Is it possible,’ said I, my mind reverting to the gigantic admonitions
we were then displaying to the multitude—which were as infants to some of
the posting-bills on the rotten old warehouse—‘that some few years ago
the largest bill was no larger than that?’
‘The fact,’ returned the King, ‘is undoubtedly so.’ Here he instantly
rushed again into the scroll.
‘“Since the abolishing of the State Lottery all that good feeling has
gone, and nothing but jealousy exists, through the rivalry of each other.
Several bill-sticking companies have started, but have failed. The first
party that started a company was twelve year ago; but what was left of
the old school and their dependants joined together and opposed them.
And for some time we were quiet again, till a printer of Hatton Garden
formed a company by hiring the sides of houses; but he was not supported
by the public, and he left his wooden frames fixed up for rent. The last
company that started, took advantage of the New Police Act, and hired of
Messrs. Grissell and Peto the hoarding of Trafalgar Square, and
established a bill-sticking office in Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and
engaged some of the new bill-stickers to do their work, and for a time
got the half of all our work, and with such spirit did they carry on
their opposition towards us, that they used to give us in charge before
the magistrate, and get us fined; but they found it so expensive, that
they could not keep it up, for they were always employing a lot of
ruffians from the Seven Dials to come and fight us; and on one occasion
the old bill-stickers went to Trafalgar Square to attempt to post bills,
when they were given in custody by the watchman in their employ, and
fined at Queen Square five pounds, as they would not allow any of us to
speak in the office; but when they were gone, we had an interview with
the magistrate, who mitigated the fine to fifteen shillings. During the
time the men were waiting for the fine, this company started off to a
public-house that we were in the habit of using, and waited for us coming
back, where a fighting scene took place that beggars description.
Shortly after this, the principal one day came and shook hands with us,
and acknowledged that he had broken up the company, and that he himself
had lost five hundred pound in trying to overthrow us. We then took
possession of the hoarding in Trafalgar Square; but Messrs. Grissell and
Peto would not allow us to post our bills on the said hoarding without
paying them—and from first to last we paid upwards of two hundred pounds
for that hoarding, and likewise the hoarding of the Reform Club-house,
Pall Mall.”’
His Majesty, being now completely out of breath, laid down his scroll
(which he appeared to have finished), puffed at his pipe, and took some
rum-and-water. I embraced the opportunity of asking how many divisions
the art and mystery of bill-sticking comprised? He replied,
three—auctioneers’ bill-sticking, theatrical bill-sticking, general
bill-sticking.
‘The auctioneers’ porters,’ said the King, ‘who do their bill-sticking,
are mostly respectable and intelligent, and generally well paid for their
work, whether in town or country. The price paid by the principal
auctioneers for country work is nine shillings per day; that is, seven
shillings for day’s work, one shilling for lodging, and one for paste.
Town work is five shillings a day, including paste.’
‘Town work must be rather hot work,’ said I, ‘if there be many of those
fighting scenes that beggar description, among the bill-stickers?’
‘Well,’ replied the King, ‘I an’t a stranger, I assure you, to black
eyes; a bill-sticker ought to know how to handle his fists a bit. As to
that row I have mentioned, that grew out of competition, conducted in an
uncompromising spirit. Besides a man in a horse-and-shay continually
following us about, the company had a watchman on duty, night and day, to
prevent us sticking bills upon the hoarding in Trafalgar Square. We went
there, early one morning, to stick bills and to black-wash their bills if
we were interfered with. We were interfered with, and I gave the word
for laying on the wash. It was laid on—pretty brisk—and we were all
taken to Queen Square: but they couldn’t fine me. I knew that,’—with a
bright smile—‘I’d only give directions—I was only the General.’ Charmed
with this monarch’s affability, I inquired if he had ever hired a
hoarding himself.
‘Hired a large one,’ he replied, ‘opposite the Lyceum Theatre, when the
buildings was there. Paid thirty pound for it; let out places on it, and
called it “The External Paper-Hanging Station.” But it didn’t answer.
Ah!’ said His Majesty thoughtfully, as he filled the glass,
‘Bill-stickers have a deal to contend with. The bill-sticking clause was
got into the Police Act by a member of Parliament that employed me at his
election. The clause is pretty stiff respecting where bills go; but he
didn’t mind where his bills went. It was all right enough, so long as
they was his bills!’
Fearful that I observed a shadow of misanthropy on the King’s cheerful
face, I asked whose ingenious invention that was, which I greatly
admired, of sticking bills under the arches of the bridges.
‘Mine!’ said His Majesty. ‘I was the first that ever stuck a bill under
a bridge! Imitators soon rose up, of course.—When don’t they? But they
stuck ’em at low-water, and the tide came and swept the bills clean away.
I knew that!’ The King laughed.
‘What may be the name of that instrument, like an immense fishing-rod,’ I
inquired, ‘with which bills are posted on high places?’
‘The joints,’ returned His Majesty. ‘Now, we use the joints where
formerly we used ladders—as they do still in country places. Once, when
Madame’ (Vestris, understood) ‘was playing in Liverpool, another
bill-sticker and me were at it together on the wall outside the Clarence
Dock—me with the joints—him on a ladder. Lord! I had my bill up, right
over his head, yards above him, ladder and all, while he was crawling to
his work. The people going in and out of the docks, stood and
laughed!—It’s about thirty years since the joints come in.’
‘Are there any bill-stickers who can’t read?’ I took the liberty of
inquiring.
‘Some,’ said the King. ‘But they know which is the right side up’ards of
their work. They keep it as it’s given out to ’em. I have seen a bill
or so stuck wrong side up’ards. But it’s very rare.’
Our discourse sustained some interruption at this point, by the
procession of cars occasioning a stoppage of about three-quarters of a
mile in length, as nearly as I could judge. His Majesty, however,
entreating me not to be discomposed by the contingent uproar, smoked with
great placidity, and surveyed the firmament.
When we were again in motion, I begged to be informed what was the
largest poster His Majesty had ever seen. The King replied, ‘A
thirty-six sheet poster.’ I gathered, also, that there were about a
hundred and fifty bill-stickers in London, and that His Majesty
considered an average hand equal to the posting of one hundred bills
(single sheets) in a day. The King was of opinion, that, although
posters had much increased in size, they had not increased in number; as
the abolition of the State Lotteries had occasioned a great falling off,
especially in the country. Over and above which change, I bethought
myself that the custom of advertising in newspapers had greatly
increased. The completion of many London improvements, as Trafalgar
Square (I particularly observed the singularity of His Majesty’s calling
that an improvement), the Royal Exchange, &c., had of late years reduced
the number of advantageous posting-places. Bill-Stickers at present
rather confine themselves to districts, than to particular descriptions
of work. One man would strike over Whitechapel, another would take round
Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City Road; one (the King said) would
stick to the Surrey side; another would make a beat of the West-end.
His Majesty remarked, with some approach to severity, on the neglect of
delicacy and taste, gradually introduced into the trade by the new
school: a profligate and inferior race of impostors who took jobs at
almost any price, to the detriment of the old school, and the confusion
of their own misguided employers. He considered that the trade was
overdone with competition, and observed speaking of his subjects, ‘There
are too many of ’em.’ He believed, still, that things were a little
better than they had been; adducing, as a proof, the fact that particular
posting places were now reserved, by common consent, for particular
posters; those places, however, must be regularly occupied by those
posters, or, they lapsed and fell into other hands. It was of no use
giving a man a Drury Lane bill this week and not next. Where was it to
go? He was of opinion that going to the expense of putting up your own
board on which your sticker could display your own bills, was the only
complete way of posting yourself at the present time; but, even to effect
this, on payment of a shilling a week to the keepers of steamboat piers
and other such places, you must be able, besides, to give orders for
theatres and public exhibitions, or you would be sure to be cut out by
somebody. His Majesty regarded the passion for orders, as one of the
most unappeasable appetites of human nature. If there were a building,
or if there were repairs, going on, anywhere, you could generally stand
something and make it right with the foreman of the works; but, orders
would be expected from you, and the man who could give the most orders
was the man who would come off best. There was this other objectionable
point, in orders, that workmen sold them for drink, and often sold them
to persons who were likewise troubled with the weakness of thirst: which
led (His Majesty said) to the presentation of your orders at Theatre
doors, by individuals who were ‘too shakery’ to derive intellectual
profit from the entertainments, and who brought a scandal on you.
Finally, His Majesty said that you could hardly put too little in a
poster; what you wanted, was, two or three good catch-lines for the eye
to rest on—then, leave it alone—and there you were!
These are the minutes of my conversation with His Majesty, as I noted
them down shortly afterwards. I am not aware that I have been betrayed
into any alteration or suppression. The manner of the King was frank in
the extreme; and he seemed to me to avoid, at once that slight tendency
to repetition which may have been observed in the conversation of His
Majesty King George the Third, and—that slight under-current of egotism
which the curious observer may perhaps detect in the conversation of
Napoleon Bonaparte.
I must do the King the justice to say that it was I, and not he, who
closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I became the subject of a
remarkable optical delusion; the legs of my stool appeared to me to
double up; the car to spin round and round with great violence; and a
mist to arise between myself and His Majesty. In addition to these
sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these unpleasant effects,
either to the paste with which the posters were affixed to the van: which
may have contained some small portion of arsenic; or, to the printer’s
ink, which may have contained some equally deleterious ingredient. Of
this, I cannot be sure. I am only sure that I was not affected, either
by the smoke, or the rum-and-water. I was assisted out of the vehicle,
in a state of mind which I have only experienced in two other places—I
allude to the Pier at Dover, and to the corresponding portion of the town
of Calais—and sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The procession had
then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for the King in several
other cars, but I have not yet had the happiness of seeing His Majesty.
‘BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON
MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is mine and Mrs.
Meek’s. When I saw the announcement in the Times, I dropped the paper.
I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked so noble that it
overpowered me.
As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to Mrs.
Meek’s bedside. ‘Maria Jane,’ said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), ‘you are
now a public character.’ We read the review of our child, several times,
with feelings of the strongest emotion; and I sent the boy who cleans the
boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen copies. No reduction was made
on taking that quantity.
It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been expected.
In fact, it had been expected, with comparative confidence, for some
months. Mrs. Meek’s mother, who resides with us—of the name of Bigby—had
made every preparation for its admission to our circle.
I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I know I am a
quiet man. My constitution is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and,
in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small. I have the
greatest respect for Maria Jane’s Mama. She is a most remarkable woman.
I honour Maria Jane’s Mama. In my opinion she would storm a town,
single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry it. I have never known her
to yield any point whatever, to mortal man. She is calculated to terrify
the stoutest heart.
Still—but I will not anticipate.
The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress, on the
part of Maria Jane’s Mama, was one afternoon, several months ago. I came
home earlier than usual from the office, and, proceeding into the
dining-room, found an obstruction behind the door, which prevented it
from opening freely. It was an obstruction of a soft nature. On looking
in, I found it to be a female.
The female in question stood in the corner behind the door, consuming
Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of that beverage pervading the
apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second glassful. She wore
a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was copious in figure. The
expression of her countenance was severe and discontented. The words to
which she gave utterance on seeing me, were these, ‘Oh, git along with
you, Sir, if you please; me and Mrs. Bigby don’t want no male parties
here!’
That female was Mrs. Prodgit.
I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I made no
remark. Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after dinner,
in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I cannot say. But,
Maria Jane’s Mama said to me on her retiring for the night: in a low
distinct voice, and with a look of reproach that completely subdued me:
‘George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your wife’s nurse!’
I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I, writing
this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate animosity
towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane? I am
willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit;
but, it is undeniably true, that the latter female brought desolation and
devastation into my lowly dwelling.
We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes exceedingly
so. But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and ‘Mrs. Prodgit!’
announced (and she was very often announced), misery ensued. I could not
bear Mrs. Prodgit’s look. I felt that I was far from wanted, and had no
business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit’s presence. Between Maria Jane’s Mama,
and Mrs. Prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret, understanding—a dark
mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I
appeared to have done something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit
called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room—where the temperature
is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year—and sat looking at my
frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my rack of boots; a
serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my opinion, an
exhilarating object. The length of the councils that were held with Mrs.
Prodgit, under these circumstances, I will not attempt to describe. I
will merely remark, that Mrs. Prodgit always consumed Sherry Wine while
the deliberations were in progress; that they always ended in Maria
Jane’s being in wretched spirits on the sofa; and that Maria Jane’s Mama
always received me, when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph
that too plainly said, ‘Now, George Meek! You see my child, Maria Jane,
a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied!’
I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day when
Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and the
ever-memorable midnight when I brought her to my unobtrusive home in a
cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a bandbox,
and a basket, between the driver’s legs. I have no objection to Mrs.
Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never can forget is the
parent of Maria Jane) taking entire possession of my unassuming
establishment. In the recesses of my own breast, the thought may linger
that a man in possession cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman
Mrs. Prodgit; but, I ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do.
Huffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but, I can bear them without
complaint. They may tell in the long run; I may be hustled about, from
post to pillar, beyond my strength; nevertheless, I wish to avoid giving
rise to words in the family.
The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus George,
my infant son. It is for him that I wish to utter a few plaintive
household words. I am not at all angry; I am mild—but miserable.
I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in our
circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger were a
criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on his arrival,
instead of a holy babe? I wish to know why haste was made to stick those
pins all over his innocent form, in every direction? I wish to be
informed why light and air are excluded from Augustus George, like
poisons? Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged into a
basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, with miniature sheets and
blankets, that I can only hear him snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down
under the pink hood of a little bathing-machine, and can never peruse
even so much of his lineaments as his nose?
Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the brushes of All
Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George? Am I to be told that his
sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have rashes brought out
upon it, by the premature and incessant use of those formidable little
instruments?
Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of sharp
frills? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yielding surface is to
be crimped and small plaited? Or is my child composed of Paper or of
Linen, that impressions of the finer getting-up art, practised by the
laundress, are to be printed off, all over his soft arms and legs, as I
constantly observe them? The starch enters his soul; who can wonder that
he cries?
Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a Torso? I
presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the usual practice.
Then, why are my poor child’s limbs fettered and tied up? Am I to be
told that there is any analogy between Augustus George Meek and Jack
Sheppard?
Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be agreed
upon, and inform me what resemblance, in taste, it bears to that natural
provision which it is at once the pride and duty of Maria Jane to
administer to Augustus George! Yet, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and
abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with systematically forcing Castor Oil on my
innocent son, from the first hour of his birth. When that medicine, in
its efficient action, causes internal disturbance to Augustus George, I
charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and
inconsistently administering opium to allay the storm she has raised!
What is the meaning of this?
If the days of Egyptian Mummies are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit require,
for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen that would carpet
my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires it? No! This morning,
within an hour, I beheld this agonising sight. I beheld my son—Augustus
George—in Mrs. Prodgit’s hands, and on Mrs. Prodgit’s knee, being
dressed. He was at the moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of
nature; having nothing on, but an extremely short shirt, remarkably
disproportionate to the length of his usual outer garments. Trailing
from Mrs. Prodgit’s lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or
bandage—I should say of several yards in extent. In this, I SAW Mrs.
Prodgit tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant, turning him over
and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now the back of
his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, and the bandage
secured by a pin, which I have every reason to believe entered the body
of my only child. In this tourniquet, he passes the present phase of his
existence. Can I know it, and smile!
I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but I feel
deeply. Not for myself; for Augustus George. I dare not interfere.
Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor? Any parent? Any body?
I do not complain that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby)
entirely alienates Maria Jane’s affections from me, and interposes an
impassable barrier between us. I do not complain of being made of no
account. I do not want to be of any account. But, Augustus George is a
production of Nature (I cannot think otherwise), and I claim that he
should be treated with some remote reference to Nature. In my opinion,
Mrs. Prodgit is, from first to last, a convention and a superstition.
Are all the faculty afraid of Mrs. Prodgit? If not, why don’t they take
her in hand and improve her?
P.S. Maria Jane’s Mama boasts of her own knowledge of the subject, and
says she brought up seven children besides Maria Jane. But how do _I_
know that she might not have brought them up much better? Maria Jane
herself is far from strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous
indigestion. Besides which, I learn from the statistical tables that one
child in five dies within the first year of its life; and one child in
three, within the fifth. That don’t look as if we could never improve in
these particulars, I think!
P.P.S. Augustus George is in convulsions.