The only fish-market in London, to which the fishing-smacks bring their cargoes. Whoever goes to Billingsgate, at market-time, must expect to be pushed about and dirtied. The crowd is generally very great, and the people very noisy, and some are quite abusive to strangers.
There goes a tall fish-woman sounding her cry,
“Who’ll buy my fine flounders, and oysters who’ll buy?”
Poor flounder, he heaves up his fin with a sigh,
And thinks that he has most occasion to cry;
“Ah, neighbour,” says oyster, “indeed, so do I.”
It is supposed that more money is taken at this place for shell-fish, in a year, than there is at Smithfield for butchers’ meat in the same period. Within these few years, great quantities of salmon have been sent from Scotland to Billingsgate in summer-time, preserved in ice, which had been stored up in winter for that salutary purpose. The ice, when taken from the fish, is sold to confectioners and pastry-cooks, for forming ice-creams in summer.
6. The Scavenger.
I am glad to see this man, whose business it is to sweep up the mud and dirt from the streets, and collect it in a cart. Surely, no part of London needs this work more than Thames Street and Billingsgate; for, even in a dry season, the narrowness of the streets, and great traffic of men and women, with fish in wet baskets, &c. keep the pavement constantly dirty. When the cart is well laden, he empties it into some waste place in the outskirts of the town, or delivers it at some wharf by the water-side; and as it proves a very rich manure, he finds it a profitable and useful occupation.
“I’m very glad ’tis not my luck
To get my bread by carting muck;
I’m sure I never could be made
To work at such a dirty trade.”“Hold, little master, not so fast,
Some proud folks get a fall at last;
And you, young gentleman, I say,
May be a scavenger, one day.
All sober folks, who seldom play,
But get their bread some honest way,
Though not to wealth or honours born,
Deserve respect instead of scorn.
Such rude contempt they merit less,
Than those who live in idleness;
Who are less useful, I’m afraid,
Than this black mud that’s in my spade.”
7. The Bellman.
