CHAPTER XXVI.
Daily life of the streets—The Chimney Sweep—Mrs. Montagu—Instances of the hard life of a “climbing boy”—The Milkmaid—Supply of milk to the Metropolis—“Hot loaves”—“Water cresses”—whence they came—Other cries.
LET US GO to authentic sources, and, in our imaginations, people the streets as they then were, following the example which Gay has so worthily given in his “Trivia.” Leaving aside the roysterers, and nightly bad characters, together with the watchmen, the first industrial perambulator, would probably be the Sweep. In the frontispiece to this volume, the “climbing boy,” as he was called, is faithfully depicted, drinking his early cup of saloop, the utensils of his trade, his brush, shovel, and scraper, lying by his side; in his cap is a brass plate containing his master’s name and address. Poor little fellows! their lives were harsh! With hard taskmasters, badly constructed chimneys, and flues to sweep, and laborious work, climbing with back and knees; with a foul atmosphere, and lungs choked with soot, their young days must have been joyless. Of course we cannot blame the people then living, because they had not sufficient mechanical knowledge to abolish the climbing boy’s raison d’être. It is pleasing to register within the decade I write of, one good and kind friend of these little fellows—a Mrs. Montagu, who died in March, 1800. She was a lady of good family, and an authoress (founder of the Blue Stocking Club), who even attempted so high a flight as an “Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakespeare.” In her practical benevolence, her heart felt for these little pariahs, and she annually regaled them on May-day, with roast beef and plum pudding. This conduct was so contrary to the general spirit of the age—which could see nothing more in a “climbing boy,” than a boy being utilized for his own good, and for that of the community, that her conduct was scarcely understood—so much so, that a web of romance had to be woven around her, in order to account for it. It was rumoured, and credibly believed, that she had lost a son, and found him again as a “climbing boy”; and, to mark her sense of gratitude for his restoration, she feasted all the boys in London on the sweep’s holiday—May-day. Of course, there is not an atom of foundation for such a story, but practical philanthropy was then so unusual, that a reason had to be found for its observance. After her death the following verses were written:
“And is all pity for the poor sweeps fled
Since Montagu is numbered with the dead?
She who did once the many sorrows weep,
That met the wanderings of the woe-worn sweep!
Who, once a year, bade all his griefs depart,
On May’s sweet morn would doubly cheer his heart!
Washed was his little form, his shirt was clean,
On that one day, his real face was seen.
His shoeless feet, now boasted pumps, and new.
The brush, and shovel, gaily held to view!
The table spread, his every sense was charmed,
And every savoury smell his bosom warmed;
His light heart joyed to see such goodly cheer.
And much he longed to taste the mantling beer:
His hunger o’er—the scene was little heaven—
If riches thus can bless, what blessings might be given
But she is gone! none left to soothe their grief,
Or, once a year, bestow their meed of beef!”
One instance, only, of the hard life of these little ones, will I give, and then pass on to pleasanter themes.
Morning Herald, October 1, 1802: “Great Marlborough Street. Wednesday, an interesting examination took place at this office, relative to a male child, about eight years old, charged to have been kidnapped by the foreman of Mrs. Bridges, a chimney-sweeper, in Swallow Street. It was stated by Mrs. Wilson, of No. 5 in the same street, that, on Saturday last, she was dreadfully alarmed by the cry of murder, and the screams of the child at Mrs. B.’s, which induced her to run into the house, where she found the child stripped, and the prisoner unmercifully beating him with two switches, or small sticks. She remonstrated with him, and demanded by what authority he so cruelly treated the child, as it was well known it had been inveigled from the street, and unlawfully detained by them. The prisoner threatened to strike the witness, who, nevertheless, persisted in taking away the child, and did actually take it to the workhouse, informing the committee there of the particulars, and the prisoner, in consequence, was indicted.
“WATER CRESSES! COME BUY MY WATER CRESSES!”
“The child, itself, told a very artless and moving tale of its own sufferings. The prisoner, it appears, used to strip him naked, and flog him in the dust cellar, to make him go up the chimney, to which, it seems, he had an utter aversion. When in the chimney, he was urged to proceed by the prisoner having a stick, at the top of which was fastened a pin, with which he goaded the poor infant; at other times he would make the poor child descend into vaults, and used other cruelties too shocking for recital. On inquiry at the workhouse, the child discovered that his father is a smith by trade, a poor man, with six children, living near Sloane Street. Its parents had used every means to discover their child, and, at length found him in the workhouse. The prisoner was committed to Tothill Fields Bridewell; and we suppose that Mrs. Bridges, as soon as she can safely leave her bed, will also be brought up to answer this charge.”
In 1803, if not before, there was in existence an “Association for Improving the Situation of Infant Chimney Sweepers,” of which John Julius Angerstein, Esq. (whose collection of pictures founded the National Gallery), was the chairman.
May-day was also sacred to another class of early morning workers—the Milkmaids. Curiously enough, the carriage and delivery of milk—by no means a light task, whether looked at from the distance walked, or the load carried—was entirely in the hands of women, strapping country wenches, principally recruited from Wales. The cows were kept in hovels in, and near, London, and a “milkmaid’s” daily life began at from 4 to 6 a.m. when the cows had to be milked; they then delivered the milk at the various houses until near ten. Then there were the dairy vessels to wash, and at noon, the cows again to be milked.
“HOT CROSS BUNS! TWO A PENNY BUNS!”
The delivery of milk again occupied them till nearly 6 p.m., when they had to wash up all cans, &c., for the morning. In 1808 it was reckoned that about 8,500 cows were kept in London and its vicinity; one cowkeeper at Islington owning between 800 and 900 cows. It is sad to read, however, in 1804, that “Milk is sold at fourpence per quart, or fivepence for a better sort; yet the advance of price does not insure its purity, for it is generally mixed in a great proportion with water, by the retailers before they leave the milk houses. The adulteration of the milk, added to the wholesale cost, leaves an average profit of cent. per cent., to the vendors of this useful article. Few retail trades are exercised with equal gains.”
“DO YOU WANT ANY BRICK-DUST?”
Following the milkwoman, would come the early Baker calling out “Hot loaves!” and ringing a bell: he would appear on the scene between 8 and 9 a.m., selling his rolls at one, or two, a penny—in winter he added, or substituted, muffins and crumpets.
Then, too, for breakfast, would be heard, either from male, or female, lips, the cry of “Water cresses!” which were sold in small bunches a penny each, or three for twopence. In those days, they were to be found growing wild in the ditches near London, and many a weary tramp of seven or eight miles, before breakfast, of a morning, did the sellers have, in order to get them fresh. There was generally a supply at Covent Garden Market—grown for sale; but these were considered inferior in flavour to the wild ones.
“BUY A TRAP! A RAT TRAP! BUY MY TRAP!”
From breakfast time, the cries of the miscellaneous dealers in small wares became general, and hardly any can claim pre-eminence, unless it be on a Good Friday—when the old pagan crossed cakes were vended, and evidently as much relished by the young folks as now. “Baking, or boiling apples” were sold by women, a charcoal stove accompanying their barrow, so that their customers might have them hot, and luscious. Then, too, might be seen a man with band-boxes, carried on either end of a pole, which rested on his shoulder. From 6d. to 3s. was their price; whilst boxes of slight deal, with a lock and key, might be purchased from 3s. 6d. to 6s. 6d. These boxes were of home manufacture, and gave employment to many industrious families.
Brickdust was carried about on donkey back, in small sacks, and retailed at the price of one penny per quart. A contemporary remarks, “As brickdust is scarcely used in London for any other purpose than that of knife cleaning, the criers are not numerous; but they are remarkable for their fondness, and their training, of bull dogs. This predilection they have in common with the lamplighters of the Metropolis.”
The accompanying sketch of a Rat-trap Dealer is graphic and good; and it shows one glimpse of the past, in the old cobbler (?) at his hutch, or low open door. This, or a cellar, always went as an accompaniment to this branch of the shoe-making trade.
To future antiquarians, it may be useful to know that, at the commencement of this century, our domestic animals had their “purveyors of food;” that cat’s, and dog’s meat, consisting of horse flesh, bullock’s livers, and tripe cuttings, were distributed by means of men, or preferably, women, all over London. The horse flesh, and bullock’s liver, was sold by weight at 2d. per lb.; the tripe, in bundles, at 1d. each.
“Baskets” were hawked about—not as we know them (rarer and rarer, year by year) in the gipsy caravans, but slung around the sellers—of good handy size, and durable make. One article of domestic economy has all but died out—the Bellows—and old specimens are almost worth their weight in silver; but the cry of “Bellows to mend!” was then heard commonly. The mender carried his tools in a bag on his back, and, like the chair-mender, plied his calling in front of his patron’s house, or at any convenient street corner.
“Chairs to mend!” might be met with anywhere. Nursery and common chairs, if not having seats of wood, were of rushes, cane being a later introduction. These rushes were, and are now, cut in our rivers, preferably in the early autumn, before they begin to rot, and sold by a peculiar measure—a bolt—which is as much as a man can clasp of rushes, when dried, within his arms. The repairs were executed before the house, and the charge for reseating a chair was very moderate—from 1s. 6d. to 2s. 6d.
“Door mats” were hawked about, as they are sometimes now, but Prisons and Industrial Schools had not then interfered in this trade, so that a poor man had a chance of getting rid of his handiwork, and the price for rush, and rope, mats, varied from 6d. to 4s. each.
If we can believe a contemporary account, the Dustmen of those days were the very pink of propriety. “Dust carts ply the streets through the morning in every part of the metropolis; two men go with each cart, ringing a large bell, and calling Dust O! These men, daily, if necessary, empty the dust bins of all the refuse that is thrown into them. They receive no gratuity from the inhabitants of the houses, the owner of the cart pays them, like other labourers, weekly wages; and the dust is carried to yards in the outskirts of the town, where a number of women and girls are employed in sifting it, and separating the cinders and bones from the ashes, and other refuse.” I much fear that this picture is as couleur de rose as the engraving which accompanies it, wherein the model dustman, with very clean face, is attired in a yellow jacket, green waistcoat, crimson knee-breeches, blue ribbed stockings, and brown gaiters.
The sale of “Turnery” was also a street occupation, and brooms, brushes, sieves, bowls, clothes horses and lines were thus vended. Some, the Aristos of their trade, had a cart; but the perambulating sellers could get a good living, as their wares yielded a good profit.
The Knife-grinder, immortalized by Canning, plied his trade in the sight of the people, and his charges for grinding, and setting, scissors, were a penny or twopence each; penknives, a penny a blade; table knives, 1s. 6d. or 2s. per dozen, according to the polish supplied.
“Lavender” was a cry redolent of the country, yet grown near London, at Mitcham. This was generally used in linen-presses, to counteract the abominably rank smell of the soap of those days. It was a favourite scent; as Isaac Walton says, “I’ll now lead you to an honest ale house, where we shall find a cleanly room, lavender in the windows, and twenty ballads stuck against the wall.”
Among the street cries, was that of “Mackerel”; and the sellers thereof might even expose them for sale, and cry them, on Sundays—a proud privilege which no other fish possessed. There never was a glut of them in the market, because they could only be brought to Billingsgate by smacks, so that they were never sold at the very cheap rates they now are, but were, as we should think, extremely dear. At first coming in they were sold for 1s. 6d. each, and they gradually dropped to 10d., 8d., 6d. each, or, if there was a great haul, three might be sold for a shilling.
“BUY MY GOOSE! MY FAT GOOSE!”
might probably bring to remembrance the quotation “Caveat emptor,” but these two purchasers seem quite able to take care of themselves.
It was but a month, or six weeks since, that I saw a sight I had not seen for some years—a man selling Rabbits slung on a pole, which he carried on his shoulder; yet this used to be the usual method of exposing them for sale, and these small dealers were called higglers. The price of Rabbits, thus sold, at the time of which I write, were “from ninepence to eighteenpence each, which is cheaper than they can be bought in the poulterers’ shops.”
“ALL A GROWING, A GROWING! HERE’S FLOWERS FOR YOUR GARDENS!”
shows the universal yearning of the dwellers in town, to make as good a rus in urbe of their surroundings, as possible. The atmosphere of London was then, undoubtedly purer than now, and flowers might then be grown in the open air, where, now, it would be an impossibility.
As an “Old Clothes” man the Jew was then paramount, the Irishman not having, as yet, entered into competition with him. Rosemary Lane (only sweet smelling in its name) was a thoroughfare now called Royal Mint Street leading from Tower Hill; and here was held a Mart, not only in shops, but all over the pavement and road, of old clothes, boots, &c., and it fully merited its name of Rag Fair. A market was built for the buyers and sellers, in which to transact their business; but old habits proved too strong, they would not use it, and “nothing less than military force constantly exercised would prevail over the obstinacy of habit.” The “high” market was from twelve to three.
It was a curious custom then, of course not in good houses, but in those of poor men, such as might be on the outskirts, and in the suburbs of the Metropolis, to strew the floor, say of the kitchen, and sometimes of the parlour, with silver sand. This kept the soles of dirty boots from actual contact with the newly scrubbed boards—and saved the housewife much exercise of temper. Sand, too, was plentifully used in scouring kitchen utensils, and it was sold, the red sand, at 2½d., and the white at 1¼d., per peck.
Fruit, in its season, was cried; and at night, among other employments, by which to earn an honest penny, there were the playbill sellers, and the link boys. The former were almost invariably women, who also sold oranges; and, if a purchaser could be found to go to the extent of buying six, a “Bill of the play” was given. Awful things were those playbills—none of your dainty, lace-edged, Rimmel-scented ones—but long strips of flimsy tissue paper, yet wet from the printers, smearing the hands with ink from the large capital letters employed. No time had they to dry them; there was usually a fresh play every night, and the playbills had to be fresh also.
