“That,” said Dashall, “is a sort of Commissary, a dealer in stores for the stomach—red hot pudding, all hot, and commonly called the Flying Pieman."{1}
1 James Sharpe Eglaud, more commonly known in the streets of the Metropolis by the appellation of the Flying Pieman, may fairly be held forth as an example of what may be effected by persevering industry and activity, especially in a large and populous city. Those qualities, joined with a moderate share of prudence, cannot fail to ensure to every man at least comfort and respectability, it” not competence and wealth, however humble his sphere, and however unpromising his beginnings. He was bred to the sedentary trade of a tailor, and worked for some years with his relation, Mr. Austerbury, of Friday Street, Cheapside; but love, which works so many changes, and which has ere now transformed blacksmiths into painters, and which induced Hercules to exchange his club for the distaff, caused this Knight of the Steel Bar to relinquish the shop-board and patch up his fortune by the patty-pan. He married his landlady, a widow, who resided in Turnmill Street, Clerkenwell. He had a soul above buttons, and abandoned the making of garments to cover the outside, in order to mould cakes, pies, and other small pastry, to comfort the internals. His active genius, however, could not brook the tedious task of serving his customers behind the counter; he therefore took up his eatables and went abroad in quest of them, and we doubt not he has found this practice, which he has continued ever since, very profitable. The neatness and cleanliness of his appearance at all times are truly pleasing. Hail, rain, or shine, he may be seen abroad without coat or hat; his hair powdered, his shirt sleeves turned up to his elbows, and a steel hanging on his apron-string. Originally he carried a tin case, something like a Dutch oven, in which he constantly kept a lire, but is now generally seen with a small tray. In serving a customer, he never touches his pudding with his hands, but has a knife for the purpose of presenting it to the purchasers, and his sale is so extensive, that he is obliged to replenish several times in a day; and in order to secure a regular and ready supply, his female partner and himself convey a quantity of pudding to a certain distance, and deposit their load at some public-house, where she takes care to keep it “all hot,” while Egland scours the neighbourhood in search of customers. The first cargo being disposed of he returns for more, and by this method he has it always fresh, and is never in want of goods. Many laughable anecdotes are told of this flying pieman, and perhaps a day's excursion in following him during his peregrinations would furnish much of curious and interesting amusement. We shall however select one, authenticated by his appearance at Marlborough Street Police Office on Monday, July 8, 1821, as most intimately connected with Real Life in London; when he preferred a serious charge against a Beggar, no other than the president of a smoking club in the Holy Land, and others, for stealing his mutton pies, cutting off his tail, and otherwise disfiguring his person. By the evidence of Egland, it appeared that he was introduced, with his goods for sale, to a company chiefly consisting of street beggars in St. Giles's, the chair at that moment being filled by a beggar without hands, well known in the vicinity of the Admiralty as a chalker of the pavement. The dignity of the chair was well sustained by this ingenious colourer, who was smoking a pipe as great as an alderman over a bason of turtle soup; but no sooner did Egland make his appearance, than the company seized upon his goods and crammed them down their throats, in spite of the repeated vociferations of “honour, honour, Gentlemen,” from the assailed. Resistance was vain, and Egland in this dilemma began to consider that his only safety lay in flight. This, however, he found equally impracticable; he was detained, and by way of consolation for his loss, was called upon for a song. His lungs were good, and although his spirits were not much exhilarated by the introductory part of the entertainment, he began to “tip 'em a stave;” but whilst he was chanting “The stormy winds do blow,” a fellow cut off his tail. This was worse than all the rest; it was, as it were, a part of his working tools, and the loss of it was likely to injure his business by an alteration of his appearance, and could not be tacitly submitted to. The magistrates gravely considering this a most serious charge of unprovoked attack upon an industrious individual, ordered the parties to find bail, in default of fully satisfying the inoffensive dealer in pastry, which was accordingly done. In the year 1804, scorning to be behindhand in loyalty as well as activity, he became a member of the Clerkenwell Volunteers, and was placed in the light company, in which capacity he obtained the character not only of being the cleanest man, but the best soldier in the regiment. It is said, that for amusement, or the gratification of a whim, he will sometimes walk a distance of fifty or a hundred miles from the Metropolis, and return the same way. On such occasions he always manages to take some companion or friend out with him, but was never known to come back in the same company; for so irresistibly are they allured forward by his inexhaustible fund of humour and sprightliness of conversation, that they seldom think of the distance till they find themselves too far from home to return on foot.
"Then,” said Bob, “he is not like some of the London dealers, who invite their customers to taste and try before they buy, for he scarcely seems to afford a chance of seeing what he sells.”
“You did not try him,” replied Tom, “nor would he have expected you to be a customer. He is a remarkable character, well known all over the Metropolis. Particularly noted for his activity in disposing of his goods; never standing still for a moment, but accosting with extraordinary ease and fluency every person who appears likely to be a purchaser; always ready with an answer to any question, but delivering it with so much volubility, that it is impossible to propose a second enquiry, suiting at the same time his answer to the apparent quality of the querist, though frequently leaving it unfinished in search of a customer, and moving on with so much rapidity, that you may almost find him at the same moment at Tower Hill, Billingsgate, and Spa Fields; at Smithfield, Temple Bar, and Piccadilly; indeed he may be said to be in all quarters of the town in a space of time incredibly short for a man who obtains a livelihood by seeking customers as he moves along.”
“Zounds,” cried Bob, “this walking genius, this credible incredible, and visible invisible pedestrian dealer in portable eatables, has almost blinded me.
“For, by this flying pieman, I've nearly lost an eye, man.”
“Come,” said Tom, “I've no fear of your eye while you can muster a couplet; so let us proceed.”
Crossing Black friars Bridge, and approaching the road, Bob, who had assuaged the pain of which he had previously been complaining, could not help admiring the extensive range of nouses on each side of the way, terminated by a handsome building in the distance.
“That Building,” said Dashall, “will be the extent of our journey, for very near to it is the habitation of Merrywell, where I entertain no doubt you will find enough for observation of a useful as well as a humorous nature: for an epitome of men and manners is there to be obtained.”
“Here are abundance of subjects worthy of inspection in this quarter,” replied Tom, “and we therefore ought not to exhaust too much time on one, so let us proceed: do you see that high wall to the right? That is the Magdalen Hospital,{1} established for the relief and