might probably bring to remembrance the quotation “Caveat emptor,” but these two purchasers seem quite able to take care of themselves.
It was but a month, or six weeks since, that I saw a sight I had not seen for some years—a man selling Rabbits slung on a pole, which he carried on his shoulder; yet this used to be the usual method of exposing them for sale, and these small dealers were called higglers. The price of Rabbits, thus sold, at the time of which I write, were “from ninepence to eighteenpence each, which is cheaper than they can be bought in the poulterers’ shops.”
“ALL A GROWING, A GROWING! HERE’S FLOWERS FOR YOUR GARDENS!”
shows the universal yearning of the dwellers in town, to make as good a rus in urbe of their surroundings, as possible. The atmosphere of London was then, undoubtedly purer than now, and flowers might then be grown in the open air, where, now, it would be an impossibility.
As an “Old Clothes” man the Jew was then paramount, the Irishman not having, as yet, entered into competition with him. Rosemary Lane (only sweet smelling in its name) was a thoroughfare now called Royal Mint Street leading from Tower Hill; and here was held a Mart, not only in shops, but all over the pavement and road, of old clothes, boots, &c., and it fully merited its name of Rag Fair. A market was built for the buyers and sellers, in which to transact their business; but old habits proved too strong, they would not use it, and “nothing less than military force constantly exercised would prevail over the obstinacy of habit.” The “high” market was from twelve to three.
It was a curious custom then, of course not in good houses, but in those of poor men, such as might be on the outskirts, and in the suburbs of the Metropolis, to strew the floor, say of the kitchen, and sometimes of the parlour, with silver sand. This kept the soles of dirty boots from actual contact with the newly scrubbed boards—and saved the housewife much exercise of temper. Sand, too, was plentifully used in scouring kitchen utensils, and it was sold, the red sand, at 2½d., and the white at 1¼d., per peck.
Fruit, in its season, was cried; and at night, among other employments, by which to earn an honest penny, there were the playbill sellers, and the link boys. The former were almost invariably women, who also sold oranges; and, if a purchaser could be found to go to the extent of buying six, a “Bill of the play” was given. Awful things were those playbills—none of your dainty, lace-edged, Rimmel-scented ones—but long strips of flimsy tissue paper, yet wet from the printers, smearing the hands with ink from the large capital letters employed. No time had they to dry them; there was usually a fresh play every night, and the playbills had to be fresh also.
