—Emerging from the dense mass of buildings on the line from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, appeared a continued succession of prominent public edifices; on the river Thames the scene was diversified by numerous wherries, gliding pleasurably on the rippling wave; some shooting under the arches of the elegant Waterloo, and others under the spacious span of the lofty iron bridge of Southwark,—while on either side the river, Labour was on the alert, and the busy and ceaseless hum of Industry resounded far and near.
?Twas low water, and the mud-larks now intent on their several vocations, engaged the eye of the Squire.—“What are those people about?” he asked, “What are they in search of?”
“These are mud-larks,” answered his friend, “in search of what chance may throw in their way; all's fish that comes to net! You have much to learn yet of Real Life in London, and must prolong your stay accordingly.—Willing to eat the bread of honesty, these poor people are in the daily practice of frequenting the shores of the Thames, to literally pick up a living. Nothing comes amiss; all that is portable, however insignificant in value, goes into the general repository. The mud-lark returns home, when his labours are ended, sorts the indiscriminate heterogeneous “mass of matter,” and disposes of it as well as he can."{1}
1 How many hundreds and thousands, in a metropolis like that of the British empire, obtain a subsistence, in a way of which those of its inhabitants who are not compelled to such an exercise of their ingenuity can have no idea! In the midst of a crowded city, man is much more closely cut off from all assistance on the part of his fellows, and is obliged to trust entirely for the support of life to the individual exertions of his strength, his talents, or his ingenuity. Various and singular are the expedients practised by numbers in the British capital. Among these the class of Mud-larks is not the least extraordinary, that is people, who, on the ebb of the tide re-pair to the river-side, in quest of any article that the water may have left behind in the mud. To this description of people belonged Peggy Jones, the well known Mud-lark at Black Friars. She was a woman, apparently about forty years of age, with red hair; the particular object of whose researches was the coals which accidentally fell from the sides of the lighters. Her constant resort was the neighbourhood of Blackfriars, where she was always to be seen, even before the tide was down, wading into the water, nearly up to the middle, and scraping together from the bottom, the coals which she felt with her feet. Numbers of passengers who have passed by that quarter, particularly over Blackfriars Bridge, have often stopped to contemplate with astonishment, a female engaged in an occupation apparently so painful and disagreeable. She appeared dressed in very short ragged petticoats, without shoes or stockings, and with a kind of apron made of some strong substance, that folded like a bag all round her, in which she collected whatever she was so fortunate as to find. In these strange habiliments, and her legs encrusted with mud, she traversed the streets of this metropolis. Sometimes she was industrious enough to pick up three, and at others even four loads a day; and as they consisted entirely of what are termed round coals, she was never at a loss for customers, whom she charged at the rate of eight- pence a load. In the collection of her sable treasure, she was frequently assisted by the coal-heavers, who, when she happened to approach the lighters, would, as if undesignedly, kick overboard a large coal, at the same time bidding her, with apparent surliness, go about her business. Peggy Jones was not exempt from a failing to which most individuals of the lower orders are subject, namely, inebriety. Her propensity to liquor was sometimes indulged to such a degree, that she would tumble about the streets with her load, to the no small amusement of mischievous boys, and others, who, on such occasions, never failed to collect around her. After concluding the labors of the day, she retired to a wretched lodging in Chick Lane. This woman carried on her extraordinary calling for many years, but about the month of February, 1805, she suddenly disappeared from her usual places of resort, and nobody can tell what is become of her. A man who has the appearance of a coal- heaver, has since stepped into her place, and adopted the profession which she so long followed.
“Thus it is that the Mud-lark earns a precarious and scanty subsistence, and in many other instances in this metropolis, Ingenuity and Perseverance overcome difficulties that in the country would prove insurmountable.”
Retracing their steps to Ludgate-hill, the associates passed into the Old Bailey, where the Squire seemed struck with surprise at the simple bill of fare of an eating-house, not inscribed on paper and exhibited against the window, but deeply engraven on brass, and conspicuously fixed by the side of the door, expressed in four syllables only, “The boil'd-beef house.”—“Compendious enough,” exclaimed his Cousin. “Multum in parvo,” rejoined the Squire; and immediately walking in, they were ushered into a snug room partly occupied by guests of apparent respectability, each actively employed in the demolition of buttock or flank with great seeming satisfaction. The two strangers intimating a desire to follow so laudable an example, the waiter submissively put the question, “Which would you please to have, gentlemen, buttock or flank, or a plate of both?” That the quality of each might be ascertained, plates of both were ordered, and presently brought in, piping hot, and in the first style of culinary perfection.{1}
It was amusing to observe the characteristic features of the different guests.
The young man hurrying over his meal, and frequently casting a look on the dial, indicated a tradesman's book-keeper, desirous of enjoying his pipe and pint ere the allotted dinner hour expired, when he must return to his desk.
Another, of meagre and cadaverous appearance, had his plate replenished, thrice repeated, and each time dispatched the contents with astonishing celerity. This man without doubt, was either a poet or a bookseller's hack, who, probably had not for sometime enjoyed the novelty of a dinner, and was thus making atonement to appetite accordingly.
One gentleman fashionably attired kept mincing his meat, and at long intervals supplying masticates that seemed not at all alert in the performance of their office.—His attention was given rather to the company than to his plate, and was particularly directed to Dashall and Tallyho, on whom it alternately settled with fixed and favourite regard.—This very polite personage was assiduously eager by every possible courtesy to ingratiate himself into the notice of our two friends; but Dashall was a knowing fish, so the bait wouldn't take; and the Squire happening to ejaculate the word Spunger, the stranger prudently took the hint, and withdrew.{2}