“As things were so bad at Bedford, we agreed to come up to London, and not stop the other two days of the fair. When I came down stairs in the morning at 9 o’clock, I found my mate had bolted by the five-o’clock train, and left me in the lurch. He’d paid the reckoning, but he hadn’t left me a shilling of the money that he owed me. I had very little money in my pocket, because he’d been cash-taker, and so I had to tramp the whole fifty miles to London. When I reached London, I found out where he lived, and succeeded in getting my money within a few shillings. The next thing I did was to join another man in opening a shop in London, in the profile line—he found capital and I found talent, and very well we did. Most of our customers were working people, and often they’d come and have two or three likenesses, to send to their friends who’d emigrated, because they’d go easy in a letter. There was one old gentleman that I had come to me regularly every morning, for nearly three months, and had three penny likenesses cut out, for which he would always pay sixpence. He had an excellent profile, and was easy to cut out; he was one of those club-nosed old men, with a deep brow and double chin. One morning he brought all of them back that I had taken, and asked us what we’d give for the lot. I told him they were no use to me, for if I had them for specimens, people would say that I could cut only one sort of face, because they were all alike. After chaffing for about half an hour, he said he had brought them all back to have shirt collars cut, and to have them put on cards. We put them all on cards and he paid us a penny for each one, and when he took ’em away he said he was going to distribute them among his friends. One day a gentleman rode up and asked us how much we’d charge to cut him out, horse and all. I told him we hadn’t any paper large enough just then, but if he’d call another day we’d do it for 3s. 6d. He agreed to give it, and call the following morning. I knew I couldn’t cut out a horse perfect, so I bought a picture of a race-horse for 6d., and cut it out in black profile paper, and when he came the next day as he sat on his horse outside, so I cut his likeness, and when I’d finished it I called him in, and he declared that it was the best likeness, both of him and his horse, too, that he’d ever seen; and it appears he had his horse painted in oil. When he paid us, instead of giving us 3s. 6d. as he’d agreed, he gave us 5s. After being at this shop for five months, trade got so bad we had to leave. The first month we took on the average 16s. a-day, but it gradually decreased till at last we didn’t take more than about 2s. a-day. It was winter, to be sure. Before we left this shop we got another to go into, a mile or two off; but this turned out quite a failure, and we only kept on a month, for we never got higher than three or four shillings a-day, and the rent alone was 8s. per week. The next shop we took was in a low neighbourhood, and we got a comfortable living in it. I always did the cutting out, and my partner the touting. We stopped in this place nine weeks, and then things begun to get slack here, so we thought we’d try the suburbs, such as Highgate, Clapham, and Kensington, places three or four miles out. We used to hang specimens outside the public-houses where we took our lodgings, and engage a room to cut in. In this way we managed to get the winter over very comfortable, but my partner was taken ill just as we’d knocked off, and had to go in the hospital, and so I now thought I’d try what is termed ‘busking;’ that is, going into public-houses and cutting likenesses of the company. I often met with rough customers; they used to despise the ingenuity of the art, and say, ‘Why don’t you go to work? I’ve got a chap that ain’t so big as you, and he goes to work;’ and things of that kind. On Saturday nights I’d take such a thing as 6s. or 8s., principally in pence, but on other nights not more than 2s. or 2s. 6d.: these were mostly tap-room customers, but when they’d let me go in a parlour I could do a good night’s work in a little time, and the company would treat me better. I soon left off busking, because I didn’t like the people I had to do with, and it was such a trouble to get the money when they were half tipsy. I never worked in theatres, because I didn’t like the pushing about; but I’ve known a man to get a good living at the theatres and steam-boats alone. I took to steam-boats myself when I left off public-houses, working mostly in the Gravesend boats on the Sunday, and the ha’penny boats on the week-days. I’ve taken before now 14s. of a Sunday, and I used to vary in the ha’penny boats from 2s. to 4s. a-day.
“I always attend Greenwich-park regularly at holiday times, but never have a booth at the fair, because I can do better moving about. I have a frame of specimens tied round a tree, and get a boy to hold the paper and cards. At this I’ve taken as much as 35s. in one day, and though there was lots of cheap photographic booths down there last Easter Monday, in spite of ’em all I took above 8s. 6d. in the afternoon. Battersea-fields and Chalk-farm used to be out-and-out spots on a Sunday, at one time. I’ve often taken such a thing as 30s. on a Sunday afternoon and evening in the summer. After I left the steam-boats I built myself a small booth, and travelled the country to fairs, ‘statties,’ and feasts, and got a very comfortable living; but now the cheap photographs have completely done up profiles, so I’m compelled to turn to that. But I think I shall learn a trade, for that’ll be better than either of them.
“The best work I’ve had of late years has been at the teetotal festivals. I was at Aylesbury with them, at St. Alban’s, Luton, and Gore House. At Gore House last August, when the ‘Bands of Hope’ were there, I took about a pound.”
Blind Profile-Cutter.
A cheerful blind man, well known to all crossing Waterloo or Hungerford-bridges, gave me the following account of his figure-cutting:—
“I had the measles when I was seven, and became blind; but my sight was restored by Dr. Jeffrey, at old St. George’s Hospital. After that I had several relapses into total blindness in consequence of colds, and since 1840 I have been quite blind, excepting that I can partially distinguish the sun and the gas-lights, and such-like, with the left eye only. I am now 31, and was brought up to house-painting. When I was last attacked with blindness I was obliged to go into St. Martin’s workhouse, where I underwent thirteen operations in two years. When I came out of the workhouse I played the German flute in the street, but it was only a noise, not music, sir. Then I sold boot-laces and tapes in the street, and averaged 5s. a-week by it—certainly not more. Next I made little wooden tobacco-stoppers in the street, in the shape of legs—they’re called ‘legs.’ The first day I started in that line—it was in Tottenham-court-road—I was quite elated, for I made half-a-crown. I next tried it by St. Clement’s-church, but I found that I cut my hands so with the knives and files, that I had to give it up, and I then took up with the trade of cutting out profiles of animals and birds, and grotesque human figures, in card. I established myself soon after I began this trade by the Victoria-gate, Bayswater; that was the best pitch I ever had—one day I took 15s., and I averaged 30s. a-week for six weeks. At last the inspector of police ordered me off. After that I was shoved about by the police, such crowds gathered round me, until I at length got leave to carry on my business by Waterloo-bridge; that’s seven years ago. I remained there till the opening of Hungerford-bridge, in May 1845. I sit there cold or fine, winter or summer, every day but Sunday, or if I’m ill. I often hear odd remarks from people crossing the bridge. In winter time, when I’ve been cold and hungry, and so poor that I couldn’t get my clothes properly mended, one has said, ‘Look at that poor blind man there;’ and another (and oft enough, too) has answered, ‘Poor blind man!—he has better clothes and more money than you or me; it’s all done to excite pity!’ I can generally tell a gentleman’s or lady’s voice, if they’re the real thing. I can tell a purse-proud man’s voice, too. He says, in a domineering, hectoring way, as an ancient Roman might speak to his slave, ‘Ah, ha! my good fellow! how do you sell these things?’ Since January last, I may have averaged 8s. a-week—that’s the outside. The working and the middling classes are my best friends. I know of no other man in my particular line, and I’ve often inquired concerning any.”
Writer without Hands.
The next in order are the Writers without Hands and the Chalkers on Flag-stones.
A man of 61, born in the crippled state he described, tall, and with an intelligent look and good manners, gave me this account:—
“I was born without hands—merely the elbow of the right arm and the joint of the wrist of the left. I have rounded stumps. I was born without feet also, merely the ankle and heel, just as if my feet were cut off close within the instep. My father was a farmer in Cavan county, Ireland, and gave me a fair education. He had me taught to write. I’ll show you how, sir.” (Here he put on a pair of spectacles, using his stumps, and then holding the pen on one stump, by means of the other he moved the two together, and so wrote his name in an old-fashioned hand.) “I was taught by an ordinary schoolmaster. I served an apprenticeship of seven years to a turner, near Cavan, and could work well at the turning, but couldn’t chop the wood very well. I handled my tools as I’ve shown you I do my pen. I came to London in 1814, having a prospect of getting a situation in the India-house; but I didn’t get it, and waited for eighteen months, until my funds and my father’s help were exhausted, and I then took to making fancy screens, flower-vases, and hand-racks in the streets. I did very well at them, making 15s. to 20s. a-week in the summer, and not half that, perhaps not much more than a third, in the winter. I continue this work still, when my health permits, and I now make handsome ornaments, flower-vases, &c. for the quality, and have to work before them frequently, to satisfy them. I could do very well but for ill-health. I charge from 5s. to 8s. for hand-screens, and from 7s. 6d. to 15s. for flower-vases. Some of the quality pay me handsomely—some are very near. I have done little work in the streets this way, except in very fine weather. Sometimes I write tickets in the street at a halfpenny each. The police never interfere unless the thoroughfare is obstructed badly. My most frequent writing is, ‘Naked came I into the world, and naked shall I return.’ ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ To that I add my name, the date sometimes, and a memorandum that it was the writing of a man born without hands or feet. When I’m not disturbed, I do pretty well, getting 1s. 6d. a-day; but that’s an extra day. The boys are a great worry to me. Working people are my only friends at the writing, and women the best. My best pitches are Tottenham-court-road and the West-end thoroughfares. There’s three men I know who write without hands. They’re in the country chiefly, travelling. One man writes with his toes, but chiefly in the public-houses, or with showmen. I consider that I am the only man in the world who is a handicraftsman without hands or feet. I am married, and have a grown-up family. Two of my sons are in America, one in Australia, one a sailor, the others are emigrants on the coast of Africa, and one a cabinet-maker in London—all fine fellows, well made. I had fifteen in all. My father and mother, too, were a handsome, well-made couple.”