The places where the turf is principally cut are the fields, or plots, in the suburbs, in which may be seen a half-illegible board, inviting the attention of the class of speculating builders to an “eligible site” for villas. Some of these places are open, and have long been open, to the road; others are protected by a few crazy rails, and the turf-cutters consider that outside the rails, or between them and the road, they have a right to cut turf, unless forbidden by the police. The fact is, that they cut it on sufferance; but the policeman never interferes, unless required to do so by the proprietor of the land or his agent. One gentleman, who has the control over a considerable quantity of land “eligible” for building, is very inimical to the pursuits of the turf-cutters, who, of course, return his hostility. One man told me that he was required, late on a Saturday night, some weeks ago, to supply six dozen of turfs to a very respectable shopkeeper, by ten or eleven on the Sunday morning. The shopkeeper had an aristocratic connection, and durst not disappoint his customers in their demands for fresh turf on the Sunday, so that the cutter must supply it. In doing so, he encountered Mr. —— (the gentleman in question), who was exceedingly angry with him: “You d—d poaching thief!” said the gentleman, “if this is the way you pass your Sunday, I’ll give you in charge.” One turf-cutter, I was informed, had, within these eight years, paid 3l. 15s. fines for trespassing, besides losing his barrow, &c., on every conviction: “But he’s a most outdacious fellor,” I was told by one of his mates, “and won’t mind spoiling anybody’s ground to save hisself a bit of trouble. There’s too many that way, which gives us a bad name.” Some of the managers of the land to be built upon give the turf-cutters free leave to labour in their vocation; others sell the sods for garden-plots, or use them to set out the gardens to any small houses they may be connected with, and with them the turf-cutters have no chance of turning a sod or a penny.
I accompanied a turf-cutter, to observe the manner of his work. We went to the neighbourhood of Highgate, which we reached a little before nine in the morning. There was nothing very remarkable to be observed, but the scene was not without its interest. Although it was nearly the middle of January, the grass was very green and the weather very mild. There happened to be no one on the ground but my companion and myself, and in some parts of our progress nothing was visible but green fields with their fringe of dark-coloured leafless trees; while in other parts, which were somewhat more elevated, glimpses of the crowded roof of an omnibus, or of a line of fleecy white smoke, showing the existence of a railway, testified to the neighbourhood of a city; but no sound was heard except, now and then, a distant railway whistle. The turf-cutter, after looking carefully about him—the result of habit, for I was told afterwards, by the policeman, that there was no trespass—set rapidly to work. His apparatus was a sharp-pointed table-knife of the ordinary size, which he inserted in the ground, and made it rapidly describe a half-circle; he then as rapidly ran his implement in the opposite half-circle, flung up the sod, and, after slapping it with his knife, cut off the lower part so as to leave it flat—working precisely as does a butcher cutting out a joint or a chop, and reducing the fat. Small holes are thus left in the ground—of such shape and size as if deep saucers were to be fitted into them—and in the event of a thunder-shower in droughty weather, they become filled with water, and have caused a puzzlement, I am told, to persons taking their quiet walk when the storm had ceased, to comprehend why the rain should be found to gather in little circular pools in some parts, and not in others.
The man I accompanied cut and shaped six of these turfs in about a minute, but he worked without intermission, and rather to show me with what rapidity and precision he could cut, than troubling himself to select what was saleable. After that we diverged in the direction of Hampstead; and in a spot not far from a temporary church, found three turf-cutters at work,—but they worked asunder, and without communication one with another. The turfs, as soon as they are cut and shaped, are thrown into a circular basket, and when the basket is full it is emptied on to the barrow (a costermonger’s barrow), which is generally left untended at the nearest point: “We can trust one another, as far as I know,” said one turf-man to me, “and nobody else would find it worth while to steal turfs.” The largest number of men that my most intelligent informant had ever seen at work in one locality was fourteen, and that was in a field just about to be built over, and “where they had leave.” Among the turf-purveyors there is no understanding as to where they are to “cut.” Wet weather does not interfere with turf procuring; it merely adds to the weight, and consequently to the toil of drawing the barrow. Snow is rather an advantage to the street-seller, as purchasers are apt to fancy that if the storm continues, turfs will not be obtainable, and so they buy more freely. The turf-man clears the snow from the ground in any known locality—the cold pinching his ungloved hands—and cuts out the turf, “as green,” I was told, “as an April sod.” The weather most dreaded is that when hoar frost lies long and heavy on the ground, for the turf cut with the rime upon it soon turns black, and is unsaleable. Foggy dark weather is also prejudicial, “for then,” one man said, “the days clips it uncommon short, and people won’t buy by candlelight, no more will the shops. Birds has gone to sleep then, and them that’s fondest on them says, ‘We can get fresher turf to-morrow.’” The gatherers cannot work by moonlight; “for the clover leaves then shuts up,” I was told by one who said he was a bit of a botanist, “like the lid of a box, and you can’t tell them.”
One of my informants told me that he cut 25 dozen turfs every Friday (the great working turf-day) of the year on an average (he sometimes cut on that day upwards of 30 dozen); 17 dozen on a Tuesday; and 6 dozen on the other days of the week, more or less, as the demand justified—but 6 dozen was an average. He had also cut a few turfs on a Sunday morning, but only at long intervals, sometimes only thrice a year. Thus one man will cut 2,496 dozen, or 29,952 turfs in a year, not reckoning the product of any Sunday. From the best information I could acquire, there seems no doubt but that one-half of the turf-cutters (20) exert a similar degree of industry to that detailed; and the other 20 procure a moiety of the quantity cut and disposed of by their stronger and more fortunate brethren. This gives an aggregate, for an average year, of 598,560 turfs, or including Sunday turf-cutting, of 600,000. Each turf is about 6 inches diameter at the least; so that the whole extent of turf cut for London birds yearly, if placed side by side, would extend fifty-six miles, or from London to Canterbury.
In wet weather, 6 dozen turfs weigh, on an average, 1 cwt.; in dry weather, 8 dozen weigh no more; if, therefore, we take 7 dozen as the usual hundred-weight, a turf-cutter of the best class carries, in basket-loads, to his barrow, and when his stock is completed, drags into town from the localities I have specified, upwards of 3½ cwt. every Friday, nearly 2½ every Tuesday, and about 7 cwt. in the course of a week; the smaller traders drag half the quantity,—and the total weight of turf disposed of for the cage-birds of London, every year, is 546 tons.
Of the supply of turf, obtained as I have described, at least three-fourths is sold to the bird-shops, who retail it to their customers. The price paid by these shopkeepers to the labourers for their turf trade is 2d. and 2½d. a dozen, but rarely 2½d. They retail it at from 3d. to 6d. a dozen, according to connection and locality. The remainder is sold by the cutters on their rounds from house to house, at two and three a penny.
None of the turf-cutters confine themselves to it. They sell in addition groundsel, chickweed, plaintain, very generally; and a few supply nettles, dandelion, ground-ivy, snails, worms, frogs, and toads. The sellers of groundsel and chickweed are far more numerous, as I have shown, than the turf-cutters—indeed many of them are incapable of cutting turf or of dragging the weight of the turfs.
Of the Experience and Customers of a Turf-Cutter.
A short but strongly-built man, of about thirty, with a very English face, and dressed in a smock-frock, wearing also very strong unblacked boots, gave me the following account:—
“My father,” he said, “was in the Earl of ——’s service, and I was brought up to stable-work. I was employed in a large coaching inn, in Lancashire, when I was last employed in that way, but about ten years ago a railway line was opened, and the coaching was no go any longer; it hadn’t a chance to pay, so the horses and all was sold, and I was discharged with a lot of others. I walked from Manchester to London—for I think most men when they don’t know what in the world to do, come to London—and I lived a few months on what little money I had, and what I could pick up in an odd job about horses. I had some expectations when I came up that I might get something to do through my lord, or some of his people—they all knew me: but my lord was abroad, and his establishment wasn’t in town, and I had to depend entirely on myself. I was beat out three or four times, and didn’t know what to do, but somehow or other I got over it. At last—it’s between eight and nine years ago—I was fairly beat out. I was taking a walk—I can’t say just now in what way I went, for it was all one which way—but I remember I saw a man cutting turf, and I remembered then that a man that lived near me lived pretty middling by turf-cutting. So I watched how it was done, and then I inquired how I could get into it, and as I’d paid my way I could give reference to show I might be trusted; so I got a barrow on hire, and a basket, and bought a knife for 3d. at a marine-shop, and set to work. At first I only supplied shops, but in a little time I fell into a private round, and that pays better. I’ve been at it almost every day, I may say, ever since. My best customers are working people that’s fond of birds; they’re far the best. It’s the ready penny with them, and no grumbling. I’ve lost money by trusting noblemen; of course I blame their servants. You’d be surprised, sir, to hear how often at rich folks’ houses, when they’ve taken their turf or what they want, they’ll take credit and say, ‘O, I’ve got no change,’ or ‘I can’t be bothered with ha’pence,’ or ‘you must call again.’ There’s one great house in Cavendish-square always takes a month’s credit, and pays one month within another (pays the first month as the second is falling due), and not always that very regular. They can’t know how poor men has to fight for a bit of bread. Some people are very particular about their turfs, and look very sharp for the small clover leaves. We never have turfs left on hand: in summer we water them to keep them fresh; in wet weather they don’t require it; they’ll keep without. I think I make on turf 9s. a week all the year round; the summer’s half as good again as the winter. Supposing I make 3s. a week on groundsel, and chickweed, and snails, and other things, that’s 12s.—but look you here, sir. I pay 3s. 6d. a week for my rent—it’s a furnished room—and 1s. 6d. a week for my barrow; that’s 5s. off the 12s.; and I’ve a wife and one little boy. My wife may get a day at least every week at charring; she has 1s. for it and her board. She helps me when she’s not out, and if she is out, I sometimes have to hire a lad, so it’s no great advantage the shilling a day. I’ve paid 1s. 6d. a week for my barrow—it’s a very good and big one—for four years. Before that I paid 2s. a week. O yes, sir, I know very well, that at 1s. 6d. a week I’ve paid nearly 14l. for a barrow worth only 2l. 2s.; but I can’t help it; I really can’t. I’ve tried my hardest to get money to have one of my own, and to get a few sticks (furniture) of my own too. It’s no use trying any more. If I have ever got a few shillings a-head, there’s a pair of shoes wanted, or there’s something else, or my wife has a fit of sickness, or my little boy has, or something’s sure to happen that way, and it all goes. Last winter was a very hard time for people in my way, from hoar frost and fogs. I ran near 3l. into debt; greater part of it for house-rent and my barrow; the rest was small sums borrowed of shopkeepers that I served. I paid all up in the summer, but I’m now 14s. in debt for my barrow; it always keeps me back; the man that owns it calls every Sunday morning, but he don’t press me, if I haven’t money. I would get out of the life if I could, but will anybody take a groom out of the streets? and I’m not master of anything but grooming. I can read and write. I was brought up a Roman Catholic, and was christened one. I never go to mass now. One gets out of the way of such things, having to fight for a living as I have. It seems like mocking going to chapel, when you’re grumbling in your soul.”