London Labour and the London Poor, Vol. 1

by Henry Mayhew

Of the Recent Experience of a Running Patterer.

From the same man I had the following account of his vocation up to the present time:

“Well, sir,” he said, “I think, take them altogether, things hasn’t been so good this last year as the year before. But the Pope, God bless him! he’s been the best friend I’ve had since Rush, but Rush licked his Holiness. You see, the Pope and Cardinal Wiseman is a one-sided affair; of course the Catholics won’t buy anything against the Pope, but all religions could go for Rush. Our mob once thought of starting a cardinal’s dress, and I thought of wearing a red hat myself. I did wear a shovel hat when the Bishop of London was our racket; but I thought the hat began to feel too hot, so I shovelled it off. There was plenty of paper that would have suited to work with a cardinal’s hat. There was one,—‘Cardinal Wiseman’s Lament,’—and it was giving his own words like, and a red hat would have capped it. It used to make the people roar when it came to snivelling, and grumbling at little Jack Russell—by Wiseman, in course; and when it comes to this part—which alludes to that ’ere thundering letter to the Bishop of Durham—the people was stunned:

‘He called me a buffalo, bull, and a monkey,

And then with a soldier called Old Arthur conkey

Declared they would buy me a ninepenny donkey,

And send me to Rome to the Pope.’

“They shod me, sir. Who’s they? Why, the Pope and Cardinal Wiseman. I call my clothes after them I earn money by to buy them with. My shoes I call Pope Pius; my trowsers and braces, Calcraft; my waistcoat and shirt, Jael Denny; and my coat, Love Letters. A man must show a sense of gratitude in the best way he can. But I didn’t start the cardinal’s hat; I thought it might prove disagreeable to Sir Robert Peel’s dress lodgers.” [What my informant said further of the Pope, I give under the head of the Chaunter.] “There was very little doing,” he continued, “for some time after I gave you an account before; hardly a slum worth a crust and a pipe of tobacco to us. A slum’s a paper fake,—make a foot-note of that, sir. I think Adelaide was the first thing I worked after I told you of my tomfooleries. Yes it was,—her helegy. She weren’t of no account whatsomever, and Cambridge was no better nor Adelaide. But there was poor Sir Robert Peel,—he was some good; indeed, I think he was as good as 5s. a day to me for the four or five days when he was freshest. Browns were thrown out of the windows to us, and one copper cartridge was sent flying at us with 13½d. in it, all copper, as if it had been collected. I worked Sir Robert at the West End, and in the quiet streets and squares. Certainly we had a most beautiful helegy. Well, poor gentleman, what we earned on him was some set-off to us for his starting his new regiment of the Blues—the Cook’s Own. Not that they’ve troubled me much. I was once before Alderman Kelly, when he was Lord Mayor, charged with obstructing, or some humbug of that sort. ‘What are you, my man?’ says he quietly, and like a gentleman. ‘In the same line as yourself, my lord,’ says I. ‘How’s that?’ says he. ‘I’m a paper-worker for my living, my lord,’ says I. I was soon discharged; and there was such fun and laughing, that if I’d had a few slums in my pocket, I believe I could have sold them all in the justice-room.

“Haynau was a stunner, and the drayman came their caper just in the critical time for us, as things was growing very taper. But I did best with him in chaunting; and so, as you want to hear about chaunting, I’ll tell you after. We’re forced to change our patter—first running, then chaunting, and then standing—oftener than we used to.

ILLUSTRATIONS OF STREET-ART—No. I.

Horrible and Bar-bari-ous Murder of Poor
JAEL DENNY,
THE ILL-FATED VICTIM OF THOMAS DRORY.

“Then Calcraft was pretty tidy browns. He was up for starving his mother,—and what better can you expect of a hangman? Me and my mate worked him down at Hatfield, in Essex, where his mother lives. It’s his native, I believe. We sold her one. She’s a limping old body. I saw the people look at her, and they told me arterards who she was. ‘How much?’ says she. ‘A penny, marm,’ say I. ‘Sarve him right,’ says she. We worked it, too, in the street in Hoxton where he lives, and he sent out for two, which shows he’s a sensible sort of character in some points, after all. Then we had a ‘Woice from the Gaol! or the Horrors of the Condemned Cell! Being the Life of William Calcraft, the present Hangman.’ It’s written in the high style, and parts of it will have astonished the hangman’s nerves before this. Here’s a bit of the patter, now:

“Let us look at William Calcraft,” says the eminent author, “in his earliest days. He was born about the year 1801, of humble but industrious parents, at a little village in Essex. His infant ears often listened to the children belonging to the Sunday schools of his native place, singing the well-known words of Watt’s beautiful hymn,

‘When e’er I take my walks abroad,

How many poor I see, &c.’

But alas for the poor farmer’s boy, he never had the opportunity of going to that school to be taught how to shun ‘the broad way leading to destruction.’ To seek a chance fortune he travelled up to London where his ignorance and folorn condition shortly enabled that fell demon which ever haunts the footsteps of the wretched, to mark him for her own.”

“Isn’t that stunning, sir? Here it is in print for you. ‘Mark him for her own!’ Then, poor dear, he’s so sorry to hang anybody. Here’s another bit:

‘But in vain he repents, he has no real friend in the world but his wife, to whom he can communicate his private thoughts, and in return receive consolation, can any lot be harder than this? Hence his nervous system is fast breaking down, every day rendering him less able to endure the excruciating and agonizing torments he is hourly suffering, he is haunted by remorse heaped upon remorse, every fresh victim he is required to strangle being so much additional fuel thrown upon that mental flame which is scorching him.’

“You may believe me, sir, and I can prove the fact—the author of that beautiful writing ain’t in parliament! Think of the mental flame, sir! O, dear.

“Sirrell was no good either. Not salt to a herring. Though we worked him in his own neighbourhood, and pattered about gold and silver all in a row. ‘Ah!’ says one old woman, ‘he was a ’spectable man.’ ‘Werry, marm,’ says I.

“Hollest weren’t no good either, ’cause the wictim was a parson. If it had happened a little later, we’d have had it to rights; the newspapers didn’t make much of it. We’d have shown it was the ‘Commencement of a Most Horrid and Barbarious Plot got up by the Pope and Cardinal Wiseman for-r the Mas-ser-cree-ing of all good Protestant Ministers.’ That would have been the dodge, sir! A beautiful idear, now, isn’t it? But the murder came off badly, and you can’t expect fellows like them murderers to have any regard for the interest of art and literature. Then there’s so long to wait between the murder and the trial, that unless the fiend in human form keeps writing beautiful love-letters, the excitement can’t be kept up. We can write the love-letters for the fiend in human? That’s quite true, and we once had a great pull that way over the newspapers. But Lord love you, there’s plenty of ’em gets more and more into our line. They treads in our footsteps, sir; they follows our bright example. O! isn’t there a nice rubbing and polishing up. This here copy won’t do. This must be left out, and that put in; ’cause it suits the walk of the paper. Why, you must know, sir. I know. Don’t tell me. You can’t have been on the Morning Chronicle for nothing.

“Then there was the ‘Horrid and Inhuman Murder, Committed by T. Drory, on the Body of Jael Denny, at Donninghurst, a Village in Essex.’ We worked it in every way. Drory had every chance given to him. We had half-sheets, and copies of werses, and books. A very tidy book it was, setting off with showing how ‘The secluded village of Donninghurst has been the scene of a most determined and diabolical murder, the discovery of which early on Sunday, the 12th, in the morning has thrown the whole of this part of the country into a painful state of excitement.’ Well, sir, well—very well; that bit was taken from a newspaper. Oh, we’re not above acknowledging when we condescends to borrow from any of ’em. If you remember, when I saw you about the time, I told you I thought Jael Denny would turn out as good as Maria Martin. And without any joke or nonsense, sir, it really is a most shocking thing. But she didn’t. The weather coopered her, poor lass! There was money in sight, and we couldn’t touch it; it seemed washed away from us, for you may remember how wet it was. I made a little by her, though. For all that, I haven’t done with Master Drory yet. If God spares my life, he shall make it up to me. Why, now, sir, is it reasonable, that a poor man like me should take so much pains to make Drory’s name known all over the country, and walk miles and miles in the rain to do it, and get only a few bob for my labour? It can’t be thought on. When the Wile and Inhuman Seducer takes his trial, he must pay up my just claims. I’m not going to take all that trouble on his account, and let him off so easy.”

My informant then gave me an account of his sale of papers relating to the Pope and Cardinal Wiseman, but as he was then a chaunter, rather than a patterer (the distinction is shown under another head), I give his characteristic account, as the statement of a chaunter. He proceeded after having finished his recital of the street business relating to the Pope, &c.:

“My last paying caper was the Sloanes. They beat Haynau. I declare to you, sir, the knowingest among us couldn’t have invented a cock to equal the conduct of them Sloanes. Why, it’s disgusting to come near the plain truth about them. I think, take it altogether, Sloane was as good as the Pope, but he had a stopper like Pius the Ninth, for that was a one-sided affair, and the Catholics wouldn’t buy; and Sloane was too disgusting for the gentry, or better sort, to buy him. But I’ve been in little streets where some of the windows was without sashes, and some that had sashes had stockings thrust between the frames, and I’ve taken half a bob in ha’pennies. Oh! you should have heard what poor women said about him, for it was women that bought him most. They was more savage against him than against her. Why, they had fifty deaths for him. Rolling in a barrel, with lots of sharp nails inside, down Primrose-hill, and turned out to the women on Kennington-common, and boiled alive in oil or stuff that can’t be mentioned, or hung over a slow fire. ‘O, the poor dear girl,’ says they, ‘what she’s suffered.’ We had accounts of Mistress Sloane’s apprehension before the papers. We had it at Jersey, and they had it at Boulogne, but we were first. Then we discovered, because we must be in advance of the papers, that Miss Devaux was Sloane’s daughter by a former wife, and Jane Wilbred was Mrs. Sloane’s daughter by a former husband, and was entitled to 1,000l. by rights. Haynau was a fool to Sloane.

“I don’t know of anything fresh that’s in hand, sir. One of our authors is coming out with something spicy, against Lord John, for doing nothing about Wiseman; ’cause he says as no one thing that he’s written for Lord John ever sold well, something against him may.”