From which must, of course, be made the necessary deductions for the keep of the animals and the repair of vehicles, harness, &c.
The keep of a good horse is 10s. per week; a pony 6s. Three horses can be kept for the price of two, and so on; the more there are, the less cost for each.
The localities where the street-sellers of coals may most frequently be met with, are Blackwall, Poplar, Limehouse, Stepney, St. George’s East, Twig Folly, Bethnal Green, Spitalfields, Shoreditch, Kingsland, Haggerstone, and Islington. It is somewhat remarkable that they are almost unknown on the south side of the Thames, and are seldom or never to be encountered in the low streets and lanes in Westminster lying contiguous to the river, nor in the vicinity of Marylebone, nor in any place farther west than Shoreditch; this is on account of the distance from the Regent’s Canal basin precluding the possibility of their making more than one turn in the day, which would greatly diminish their profits, even though they might get a higher price for their commodity.
It may be observed that the foregoing statement in figures is rather under the mark than otherwise, as it is founded on the amount of coals purchased at a certain rate, and sold at a certain profit, without taking into account any of the “dodges” which almost all classes of coal dealers, from the highest to the lowest, are known to practise, so that the rate of profit arising from this business may be fairly supposed to amount to much more than the above account can show in figures.
I received the following statement from a person engaged in the street traffic:—
“I kept a coal-shed and greengrocer’s shop, and as I had a son grown up, I wanted to get something for him to do; so about six years ago, having a pony and cart, and seeing others selling coals through the street, I thought I’d make him try his hand at it. I went to Mr. B——’s, at Whiting’s wharf, and got the cart loaded, and sent my son round our own neighbourhood. I found that he soon disposed of them, and so he went on by degrees. People think we get a great deal of profit, but we don’t get near as much as they think. I paid 16s. a ton all the winter for coals and sold them for a shilling a hundred, and when I came to feed the horse I found that he’ll nearly eat it all up. A horse’s belly is not so easy to fill. I don’t think my son earns much more now, in summer, than feeds the horse. It’s different in winter; he does not sell more nor half a ton a day now the weather’s so warm. In winter he can always sell a ton at the least, and sometimes two, and on the Saturday he might sell three or four. My cart holds a ton; the vans hold from two to three tons. I can’t exactly tell how many people are engaged in selling coals in the street, but there are a great many, that’s certain. About eight o’clock what a number of carts and vans you’ll see about the Regent’s Canal! They like to get away before breakfast, because then they may have another turn after dinner. There’s a great many go to other places for coals. The people who have vans do much better than those with the carts, because they carry so much that they save time. There are no great secrets in our business; we haven’t the same chance of ‘doing the thing’ as the merchants have. They can mix the coals up as they like for their customers, and sell them for best; all we can do is to buy a low quality; then we may lose our customers if we play any tricks. To be sure, after that we can go to parts where we’re not known. I don’t use light weights, but I know it’s done by a good many, and they mix up small coals a good deal, and that of course helps their profits. My son generally goes four or five miles before he sells a ton of coals, and in summer weather a great deal farther. It’s hard-earned money that’s got at it, I can tell you. My cart is worth 12l.; I have a van worth 20l. I wouldn’t take 20l. for my horse. My van holds two tons of coals, and the horse draws it easily. I send the van out in the winter when there’s a good call, but in the summer I only send it out on the Saturday. I never calculated how much profit I made. I haven’t the least idea how much is got by it, but I’m sure there’s not near as much as you say. Why, if there was, I ought to have made a fortune by this time.” [It is right I should state that I received the foregoing account of the profits of the street trade in coals from one practically and eminently acquainted with it.] “Some in the trade have done very well, but they were well enough off before. I know very well I’ll never make a fortune at anything; I’ll be satisfied if I keep moving along, so as to keep out of the Union.”
As to the habits of the street-sellers of coals, they are as various as their different circumstances will admit; but they closely resemble each other in one general characteristic—their provident and careful habits. Many of them have risen from struggling costermongers, to be men of substance, with carts, vans, and horses of their own. Some of the more wealthy of the class may be met with now and then in the parlours of respectable public houses, where they smoke their pipes, sip their brandy and water, and are remarkable for the shrewdness of their remarks. They mingle freely with the respectable tradesmen of their own localities, and may be seen, especially on the Sunday afternoons, with their wives and showily-dressed daughters in the gardens of the New Globe, or Green Dragon—the Cremorne and Vauxhall of the east. I visited the house of one of those who I was told had originally been a costermonger. The front portion of the shop was almost filled with coals, he having added to his occupation of street-seller the business of a coal-shed man; this his wife and a little boy managed in his absence; while, true to his early training, the window-ledge and a bench before it were heaped up with cabbages, onions, and other vegetables. In an open space opposite his door, I observed a one-horse cart and two or three trucks with his name painted thereon. At his invitation, I passed through what may be termed the shop, and entered the parlour, a neat room nicely carpeted, with a round table in the centre, chairs ranged primly round the walls, and a long looking-glass reflecting the china shepherds and shepherdesses on the mantel-piece, while, framed and glazed, all around were highly-coloured prints, among which, Dick Turpin, in flash red coat, gallantly clearing the toll-gate in his celebrated ride to York, and Jack Sheppard lowering himself down from the window of the lock-up house, were most conspicuous. In the window lay a few books, and one or two old copies of Bell’s Life. Among the well thumbed books, I picked out the Newgate Calendar, and the “Calendar of Orrers,” as he called it, of which he expressed a very high opinion. “Lor bless you,” he exclaimed, “them there stories is the vonderfullest in the vorld! I’d never ha believed it, if I adn’t seed it vith my own two hies, but there can’t be no mistake ven I read it hout o’ the book, can there, now? I jist asks yer that ere plain question.”
Of his career he gave me the following account:—“I vos at von time a coster, riglarly brought up to the business, the times vas good then; but lor, ve used to lush at sich a rate! About ten year ago, I ses to meself, I say Bill, I’m blowed if this here game ’ill do any longer. I had a good moke (donkey), and a tidyish box ov a cart; so vot does I do, but goes and sees von o’ my old pals that gits into the coal-line somehow. He and I goes to the Bell and Siven Mackerels in the Mile End Road, and then he tells me all he knowed, and takes me along vith hisself, and from that time I sticks to the coals.
“I niver cared much about the lush myself, and ven I got avay from the old uns, I didn’t mind it no how; but Jack my pal vos a awful lushy cove, he couldn’t do no good at nothink, votsomever; he died they say of lirium trumans” [not understanding what he meant, I inquired of what it was he died]; “why, of lirium trumans, vich I takes to be too much of Trueman and Hanbury’s heavy; so I takes varnin by poor Jack, and cuts the lush; but if you thinks as ve don’t enjoy ourselves sometimes, I tells you, you don’t know nothink about it. I’m gittin on like a riglar house a fire.”