The Street-Sellers of Cutlery.
The cutlery sold in the streets of London consists of razors, pen-knives, pocket-knives, table and carving-knives and forks, scissors, shears, nail-filers, and occasionally (if ordered) lancets. The knives are of various kinds—such as sailors’ knives (with a hole through the handle), butchers’ knives, together with choppers and steels (sold principally at Newgate and Billinsgate Markets, and round about the docks), oyster and fish-knives (sold principally at Billinsgate and Hungerford Markets), bread-knives (hawked at the bakers’ shops), ham and beef knives (hawked at the ham and beef shops), cheese-knives with tasters, and ham-triers, shoemakers’ knives, and a variety of others. These articles are usually purchased at the “swag-shops,” and the prices of them vary from 2½d. to 1s. 1½d. each. They are bought either by the dozen, half-dozen, or singly, according to the extent of the street-seller’s stock-money. Hence it would appear that the street-seller of cutlery can begin business with only a few pence; but it is only when the swag-shop keeper has known the street-seller that he will consent to sell one knife alone “to sell again;” to street-sellers with whom he is unacquainted, he will not vend less than half-a-dozen. Even where the street-seller is known, he has, if “cracked-up,” to beg hard, I am told, before he can induce the warehouseman to let him have only one article. “The swag-shops won’t be bothered with it,” say the men—“what are our troubles to them? if the rain starves us out and makes us eat up all our stock-money, what is it to such folks? they wouldn’t let us have even a row of pins without the money for ’em—no, not if we was to drop down dead for want of bread in their shops. They have been deceived by such a many that now they won’t listen to none.” I subjoin a list of the prices paid and received by the street-sellers of cutlery for the principal articles in which they deal:
| Lowest price paid per half-dozen. | Sold at in the streets. | Highest price paid per half-dozen. | Sold at in the streets. | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| s. | d. | s. | d. | s. | d. | s. | d. | |
| Table-knives and forks | 1 | 3 | 2 | 0 | 5 | 0 | 7 | 6 |
| Ditto, without forks | 0 | 9 | 1 | 3 | 4 | 0 | 6 | 0 |
| Pocket-knives | 1 | 0 | 1 | 6 | 4 | 0 | 6 | 0 |
| Pen-knives | 1 | 9 | 2 | 6 | 2 | 6 | 3 | 9 |
| Razors | 1 | 9 | 2 | 6 | 5 | 0 | 7 | 6 |
| Scissors | 0 | 3½ | 0 | 6 | 1 | 9 | 2 | 6 |
Their usual rate of profit is 50 per cent., but rather than refuse a ready sale the street cutlery-seller will often take much less. Many of the sellers only pursue the trade for a few weeks in the year. A number of the Irish labourers take to it in the winter-time when they can get no work. Some few of the sellers are countrymen, but these mostly follow the business continuously. “I don’t see as there is hardly one upon the list as has ever been a cutler by trade,” said one street-seller to me, “and certainly none of the cutlery-sellers have ever belonged to Sheffield—they may say so, but its only a dodge.” The cutlery street-sellers are not one-quarter so numerous as they were two years back. “The reason is,” I am told, “that things are got so bad a man can’t live by the trade—mayhap he has to walk three miles now before he can sell for 1s. a knife that has cost him 8½d., and then mayhap he is faint, and what’s 3½d., sir, to keep body and soul together, when a man most likely has had no victuals all the day before.” If they had a good bit of stock they might perhaps get a crust, they say. “Things within the last two or three years,” to quote the words of one of my informants, “have been getting much worse in the streets; ’specially in the cutlery line. I can’t give no account for it, I’m sure, sir; the sellers have not been half as many as they were. What’s become of them that’s gone, I can’t tell; they’re in the workhouse, I dare say.” But, notwithstanding this decrease in the number of sellers, there is a greater difficulty to vend their goods now than formerly. “It’s all owing to the times, that’s all I can say. People, shopkeepers, and all says to me, I can’t tell why things is so bad, and has been so bad in trade; but so they is. We has to walk farther to sell our goods, and people beat us down so terrible hard, that we can’t get a penny out of them when we do sell. Sometimes they offers me 9d., yes, and often 6d. for an 8½d. knife; and often enough 4d. for one that stands you in 3¾d.—a ¼d. profit, think of that, sir. Then they say, ‘Well, my man, will you take my money?’ and so as to make you do so, they’ll flash it before your eyes, as if they knew you was a starving, and would be sure to be took in by the sight of it. Yes, sir, it is a very hard life, and we has to put up with a good deal—a good deal—starvation and hard-dealing, and insults and knockings about, and all. And then you see the swag-shops is almost as hard on us as the buyers. The swag-men will say, if you merely makes a remark, that a knife they’ve sold you is cracked in the handle, ‘Oh, is it; let me see whereabouts;’ and when you hands it to ’em to show it ’em, they’ll put it back where they took it from, and tell you, ‘You’re too particular by half, my man. You’d better go and get your goods somewhere else; here take your money, and go on about your business, for we won’t sarve you at all.’ They’ll do just the same with the scissors too, if you complains about their being a bit rusty. ‘Go somewhere else,’ they’ll say, ‘We won’t sarve you.’ Ah, sir, that’s what it is to be a poor man; to have your poverty flung in your teeth every minute. People says, ‘to be poor and seem poor is the devil;’ but to be poor, and be treated like a dog merely because you are poor, surely is ten thousand times worse. A street-seller now-a-days is looked upon as a ‘cadger,’ and treated as one. To try to get a living for one’s self is to do something shameful in these times.”
The man then gave me the following history of himself. He was a kindly-looking and hearty old man. He had on a ragged fustian jacket, over which he wore a black greasy-looking and tattered oilskin coat—the collar of this was torn away, and the green baize lining alone visible. His waistcoat was patched in every direction, while his trousers appeared to be of corduroy; but the grease and mud was so thick upon them, that it was difficult to tell of what material they were made. His shoes—or rather what remained of them—were tied on his feet with pieces of string. His appearance altogether denoted great poverty.
“My father was a farmer, sir. He had two farms, about 800 acres in all. I was one of eleven (ten sons and one daughter). Seven years before my father’s death he left his farm, and went to live on his money. He had made a good bit at farming; but when he died it was all gone, and we was left to shift as we could. I had little or no education. My brothers could read and write, but I didn’t take to it; I went a bird’s-nesting, boy-like, instead, so that what little I did larn I have forgot. I am very sorry for that now. I used to drive the plough, and go a harrowing for father. I was brought up to nothing else. When father died, I thought as I should like to see London. I was a mere lad—about 20—and so I strolled up to town. I had 10s. with me, and that, with a bundle, was all that I possessed in the world. When I got to London I went to lodge at a public-house—the Red Lion—in Great Wild-street; and while I was there I sought about for work, but could not get any; when all was gone, I was turned out into the streets, and walked about for two days and two nights, without a bed, or a bit to eat, unless what I picked out of the gutter, and eat like a dog—orange-peel and old cabbage-stumps, indeed anything I could find. When I was very hard put to it, I was coming down Drury-lane, and I looked in, quite casual like, to ask for a job of work at the shop of Mr. Bolton, the needle-maker from Redditch. I told him as how I was nigh starving, and would do anything to get a crust; I didn’t mind what I put my hand to. He said he would try me, and gave me two packets of needles to sell—they was the goolden-eyed ones of that time of day—and he said when I had got rid of them I was to come back to him, and I should have two packets more. He told me the price to ask—sixpence a paper—and away I went like a sand-boy, and got rid of the two in an hour and a half. Then I went back, and when I told him what I’d done, he shook hands with me, and said, as he burst out laughing, “Now, you see I’ve made a man of you.” Oh, he was an uncommon nice gentleman! Then he told me to keep the shilling I had taken, and said he would trust me with two more packets. I sold them, and two others besides, that day. Then, he says, ‘I shall give you something else,’ and he let me have two packets of tailors’ needles and half a dozen of tailors’ thimbles. He told me how to sell them, and where to go, and on them I did better. I went round to the tailors’ shops and sold a good lot, but at last they stopped me, because I was taking the bread out of the mouths of the poor blind needle-sellers what supplies the journeymen tailors at the West-end. Then Mr. Bolton sent me down to one of his relations, a Mr. Crooks, in Fetter Lane, who was a Sheffield man, and sold cutlery to the hawkers; and Mr. Crooks and Mr. Bolton sot me up between them, and so I’ve followed the line ever since. I dare say I shall continue in it to my dying day. After I got fairly set agoing, I used to make—take good and bad, wet and dry days together—18s. a week; three shillings a day was what I calculated on at the least, and to do that I was obligated to take between 2l. and 3l. a week, or about eight or nine shillings each day. I went on doing this for upwards of thirty year. I have been nearly forty years, altogether, in the streets, selling cutlery. I did very tidy till about 4 years back—I generally made from 18s. to 1l. a week up to that time. I used to go round the country—to Margate, Brighton, Portsmouth—I mostly travelled by the coast, calling at all the sea-port towns, for I always did best among the sailors. I went away every Spring time, and came to London again at the fall of the year. Sixteen year ago, I married the widow of a printer—a pressman—she had no money, but you see I had no home, and I thought I should be more comfortable, and so I have been—a great deal more comfortable—and so I should be now, if things hadn’t got so bad. Four year ago, as I was a telling you, it was just after the railways had knocked off work, things began to get uncommon bad—before then, I had as good as 30s. or 40s. stock, and when things got slack, it went away, little by little. I couldn’t make profit enough to support me and my old woman—she has got the rheumatics and can’t earn me a halfpenny or a farden in the world; she hasn’t done so for years. When I didn’t make enough to live upon, of course I was obligated to break into my stock; so there it kept going shilling by shilling, and sixpence by sixpence, until I had got nothing left to work upon—not a halfpenny. You see, four or five months ago, I was took very bad with the rheumatic fever and gout. I got wet through in the streets, and my clothes dried on me, and the next day I was taken bad with pains in my limbs, and then everything that would fetch me a penny went to the pawn-shop; all my own and my old woman’s clothes went to get us food—blankets, sheets and all. I never would go nigh the parish; I couldn’t bring myself to have the talk about it. When I got well and out into the streets again, I borrowed 2s. or 3s. of my landlady—I have lived with her these three years—to get my stock again, but you see that got me so few things, that I couldn’t fetch myself up. I lost the greater portion of my time in going backards and forrards to the shop to get fresh goods as fast as I sold them, and so what I took wasn’t enough to earn the commonest living for me and my missus. Since December we have been nearly starving, and that’s as true as you have got the pen in your very hand. Sunday after Sunday we have been without a bit of dinner, and I have laid a-bed all day because we have had no coal, and then been obligated to go out on Monday morning without a bit of victuals between my lips. I’ve been so faint I couldn’t hardly walk. I’ve picked the crusts off the tables of the tap-rooms where I have been to hawk my goods, and put them in my pocket to eat them on the sly. Wet and dry I’m obligated to be out; let it come down ever so hard I must be in it, with scarcely a bit of shoe, and turned 60 years old, as I am. Look here, sir,” he said, holding up his foot; “look at these shoes, the soles is all loose, you see, and let water. On wet days I hawk my goods to respectable shops; tap-rooms is no good, decent people merely get insulted there. But in most of the shops as I goes to people tells me, ‘My good man it is as much as we can do to keep ourselves and our family in these cutting times.’ Now, just to show you what I done last week. Sunday, I laid a-bed all day and had no dinner. Monday, I went out in the morning without a morsel between my lips, and with only 8½d. for stock-money; with that I bought a knife and sold it for a shilling, and then I got another and another after that, and that was my day’s work—three times 3½d. or 10½d. in all, to keep the two of us. Tuesday, I sold a pair of small scissors and two little pearl-handled knives, at 6d. each article, and cleared 10½d. on the whole, and that is all I did. Wednesday, I sold a razor-strop for 6d., a four-bladed knife for a shilling, and a small hone for 6d.; by these I cleared 10d. altogether. Thursday, I sold a pair of razors for a shilling, clearing by the whole 11½d. Friday, I got rid of a pair of razors for 1s. 9d., and got 9d. clear.” I added up the week’s profits and found they amounted to 4s. 3½d. “That’s about right,” said the man, “out of that I shall have to pay 1s. for my week’s rent; we’ve got a kitchen, so that I leave you to judge how we two can live out of what’s remaining.” I told him it would’nt average quite 6d. a day. “That’s about it,” he replied, “we have half a loaf of bread a day, and that thank God is only five farthings now. This lasts us the day, with two-penny-worth of bits of meat that my old woman buys at a ham-shop, where they pare the hams and puts the parings by on plates to sell to poor people; and when she can’t get that, she buys half a sheep’s head, one that’s three or four days old, for then they sells ’em to the poor for 1½d. the half; and these with ¾d. worth of tea, and ½d. worth of sugar, ¼d. for a candle, 1d. of coal—that’s seven pounds—and ¾d. worth of coke—that’s half a peck—makes up all we gets.” These items amount to 6½d. in all. “That’s how we do when we can get it, and when we can’t, why we lays in bed and goes without altogether.”