Followers of Dress-Lodgers.—I have spoken before of dress-lodgers, and I now come to those women who are employed by the keepers of the brothels in which the dress-lodgers live, to follow them when they are sent into the streets to pick up men. They are not numerous. They are only seen in the Strand and about the National Gallery. This species of vice is much magnified by people who have vivid imaginations. It might have assumed larger dimensions, but at the present time it has very much decreased. They follow the dress-lodgers for various reasons, which I have mentioned already. For the sake of perspicuity and putting things in their proper sequence, I may be excused for briefly recapitulating them. If they were not closely watched, they might, imprimis, make their escape with all the finery they have about them, which of course they would speedily dispose of for its market value to the highest-bidding Jew, and then take lodgings and set up on their own account. These unfortunate dress-lodgers are profoundly ignorant of the English law. If they were better acquainted with its provisions, they would know very well that the bawds would have no legal claim against them for money, board, or clothes, for if the bawds could prove any consideration, it would be an immoral one, and consequently bad in law. But the poor creatures think they are completely in the wretch’s power, and dare not move hand or foot, or call their hair their own. Instances have been known of bawds cutting off the hair of their lodgers when it became long, and selling it if it was fine and beautiful for thirty shillings and two pounds.
There is a dress-lodger who perambulates the Strand every night, from nine, or before that even, till twelve or one, who is followed by the inseparable old hag who keeps guard over her to prevent her going into public-houses and wasting her time and money, which is the second reason for her being watched, and to see that she does not give her custom to some other bawdy-house, which is the third reason.
This follower is a woman of fifty, with grey hair, and all the peculiarities of old women, among which is included a fondness for gin, which weakness was mainly instrumental in enabling me to obtain from her what I know about herself and her class. She wore no crinoline, and a dirty cotton dress. Her bonnet was made of straw, with a bit of faded ribbon over it by way of trimming, fully as shabby and discreditable as the straw itself.
She told me by fits and starts, and by dint of cross questioning, the subjoined particulars.
“They call me ‘Old Stock;’ why I shan’t tell you, though I might easy, and make you laugh too, without telling no lies; but it ain’t no matter of your’n, so we’ll let it be. They do say I’m a bit cracky, but that’s all my eye. I’m a drunken old b—— if you like, but nothing worser than that. I was once the swellest woman about town, but I’m come down awful. And yet it ain’t awful. I sometimes tries to think it is, but I can’t make it so. If I did think it awful I shouldn’t be here now; I couldn’t stand it. But the fact is life’s sweet, and I don’t care how you live. It’s as sweet to the w——, as it is to the hempress, and mebbe it’s as sweet to me as it is to you. Yes, I was well known about some years ago, and I ain’t got bad features now, if it wasn’t for the wrinkles and the skin, which is more parchmenty than anything else, but that’s all along of the drink. I get nothing in money for following this girl about, barring a shilling or so when I ask for it to get some liquor. They give me my grub and a bed, in return for which in the day-time I looks after the house, when I ain’t drunk, and sweeps, and does the place up, and all that. Time was when I had a house of my own, and lots of servants, and heaps of men sighing and dying for me, but now my good looks are gone, and I am what you see me. Many of the finest women, if they have strong constitutions, and can survive the continual racket, and the wear and tear of knocking about town, go on like fools without making any provision for themselves, and without marrying, until they come to the bad. They are either servants, or what I am, or if they get a little money given them by men, they set up as bawdy-house-keepers. I wish to God I had, but I don’t feel what I am. I’m past that ever so long, and if you give me half a crown, or five bob, presently, you’ll make me jolly for a week. Talking of giving a woman five bob reminds me of having fivers (5l. notes) given me. I can remember the time when I would take nothing but paper; always tissue, nothing under a flimsy. Ah! gay women see strange changes; wonderful ups and downs, I can tell you. We, that is me and Lizzie, the girl I’m watching, came out to night at nine. It’s twelve now, ain’t it? Well; what do ye think we’ve done? We have taken three men home, and Lizzie, who is a clever little devil, got two pound five out of them for herself, which ain’t bad at all. I shall get something when we get back. We ain’t always so lucky. Some nights we go about and don’t hook a soul. Lizzie paints a bit too much for decent young fellows who’ve got lots of money. They aren’t our little game. We go in more for tradesmen, shop-boys, commercial travellers, and that sort, and men who are a little screwy, and although we musn’t mention it, we hooks a white choker now and then, coming from Exeter Hall. Medical students are sometimes sweet on Lizzie, but we ain’t in much favour with the Bar. Oh! I know what a man is directly he opens his mouth. Dress too has a great deal to do with what a man is—tells you his position in life as it were. ‘Meds’ ain’t good for much; they’re larky young blokes, but they’ve never much money, and they’re fond of dollymopping. But talk of dollymopping—lawyers are the fellows for that. Those chambers in the Inns of Court are the ruin of many a girl. And they are so convenient for bilking, you’ve no idea. There isn’t a good woman in London who’d go with a man to the Temple, not one. You go to Kate’s, and take a woman out, put her in a cab, and say you were going to take her to either of the Temples, which are respectable and decent places when compared to the other inns which are not properly Inns of Court, except Gray’s Inn and Lincoln’s Inn, and she’d cry off directly. I mean Barnard’s Inn, and Thavies’ Inn, and New Inn, and Clement’s Inn, and all those. I’ve been at this sort of work for six or seven years, and I suppose I’ll die at it. I don’t care if I do. It suits me. I’m good for nothing else.”
I gave her some money in return for her story, and wished her good night. What she says about women who have once been what is called “swell,” coming down to the sort of thing I have been describing, is perfectly true. They have most of them been well-known and much admired in their time; but every dog has its day. They have had theirs, and neglected to make hay while the sun was shining. Almost all the servants of bawds and prostitutes have fallen as it were from their high estate into the slough of degradation and comparative despair.
As I have before stated, there are very few dress-lodgers now who solicit in the streets, and naturally few followers of dress-lodgers whose condition does not afford anything very striking or peculiar, except as evidencing the vicissitudes of a prostitute’s career, and the end that very many of them arrive at.
Keepers of Accommodation Houses.—Those who gain their living by keeping accommodation houses, or what the French call maisons de passé, are of course to be placed in the category of the people who are dependant on prostitutes, without whose patronage they would lose their only means of support.