The Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, Surrey.
The Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, Surrey.
A homely picture of a homely place,
Where rustic labour plies its honest toil,
And gains a competence.
*
On a fine summer’s day I alighted, with my friend W——, from the roof of a stage-coach at Croydon, for a by-way walk, in a part unknown to both. We struck to the eastward through Addiscombe—it is scarcely a village, and only remarkable for the East India Company having seated it with a military establishment; which, as peaceable persons, we had no desire to see, though we could not help observing some cannon in a meadow, as smooth-shaven, and with as little of nature-like aspect, as a drill-sergeant’s face. Further onward we met a well-mounted horseman, whom some of my old readers may easily imagine I could not fail to remember—“mine host” of the “[Swan]” at West Wickham—the recognition was mutual and being in search of an adventure, I asked him for a direction to any little public-house within a mile or two, that was worth looking at on account of its antiquity and rustic appearance. He despaired of any thing “absolutely” of the kind in the neighbourhood; but, from his description of what he thought might be “something” near it, we took a lane to the left, and soon came to the house. Like too many of our ancient churches it had been “repaired and beautified”—deprived of every thing venerable—and was as unpicturesque as the overseers of the reparations could make it. We found better entertainment within than without—a cheerful invitation to the bar, where we had a cool glass of good ale with a biscuit, and the sight of a fine healthy family as they successively entered for something or other that was wanted. Having refreshed and exchanged “good-morning” with the good-natured proveditors of “good entertainment for man and horse,” we turned to the left, and at a stone’s throw crossed into a lane, having a few labourers’ cottages a little way along on the right, and soon came to the Broom-maker’s, represented in the [engraving].
We had a constant view all the way up the lane, from beyond the man climbing the ladder, of the flickering linen at the point of the rod waving on the broom-stack. The flag was erected by the labourers on the carrying of the last shoulder-load of the rustic pile—an achievement quite as important to the interests of the Broom-maker, as the carrying of Seringapatam to the interests of the “Honourable Company.”
Having passed the Broom-maker’s, which stands at the corner of the lane we had come up, and being then in the road across Shirley Common towards Addington, we interchanged expressions of regret that we had not fallen in with any thing worth notice. A look-back induced a halt; we returned a few steps, and taking seats at the angle on the bank, I thought I perceived “capabilities,” in the home-view before our eyes, for a Table Book notice. The loaded man, near the pile of poling, is represented proceeding towards a spot at some thirty yards distance, where a teamed waggon-frame was standing. It belonged to the master of the place—a tall, square-shouldered, middle-aged, active man, who looked as one having authority-who laboured, and was a master of labourers. He, and another man, and a lad, were employed, “all without hurry or care,” in loading the wain with poling. As I stood observing their progress he gave me a frank “Good-day, sir!” and I obtained some information from him respecting his business. His name is on his carts “John Bennett, Shirley Common.” He calls himself a “Broom-maker and Wood-dealer,” and he has more the character of a Wood-cutter than the figure of the Wood-man in the popular print. He and his men cut the materials for broom-making chiefly from the neighbouring common, and the wood he deals in from adjacent woods and copses. He sells the greater part of his brooms to shopkeepers and other consumers in Streatham and Camberwell. Much of his poling is sent farther off. A good deal, he told me, had gone to the duke of Devonshire for fencing; the load then preparing was for like use on a farm at Streatham, belonging to Mr. Hoare, of the Golden Cross, Charing Cross. He eyed W—— seated on the bank, sketching the spot, and said, that as soon as he had finished loading the wain, he would show us what was “going on in-doors.” Accordingly when he had concluded he walked with me to W——, who, by that time, had nearly finished. Seeing what had been effected in that way, he had “a sort of notion that the gentleman might like, perhaps, to take off an old broom-maker, then at work, inside—as curious an old chap as a man might walk a summer’s day without seeing—one that nobody could make either head or tail of—what you call an original.”
W—— and I were as desirous of something new as were the ancient inhabitants of Athens; and in search of it we entered the broom-manufactory—a small, warm, comfortable barn, with a grateful odour in it from the heath and birch-wood. Four or five persons were busy at work. Foremost within the door was the unmistakeable old “original.” Like his fellow-workmen he wore a leathern apron, and a heavy leathern sleeve on the left arm; and with that hand and arm he firmly held and compressed the heath into round bundles, of proper consistency and size, and strongly bound them with the other. He was apparently between sixty and seventy years of age, and his labour, which to a young man seemed light, was to him heavy, for it required muscular strength. There was some difficulty in getting him to converse. He was evidently suspicious; and, as he worked, his apprehensions quickened him to restlessness and over-exertion. To “take him off” while thus excited, and almost constantly in a bending posture, was out of the question. I therefore handed him a jug of his master’s home-brewed, and told him our wish. His countenance lighted up, and I begged him to converse with me for a few minutes, and to look me full in the face; I also assured him of the “wherewithal” for a jug of ale at night. He willingly entered into the compact, but the inquietude natural to his features was baffling to the hand that held the pencil. By this time the rumour that “Old Davy” was having his head “taken off” brought his master’s wife, and her daughters and sons, from the cottage, and several workmen from another outhouse, to witness the execution, Opposite to him was W—— with his sketch-book; his desire for a “three-quarter” view of the “original” occasioned me to seat myself on a heap of birch sideways, that the old man’s face might be directed to me in the required position. The group around us was numerous and differently interested: some kept their eyes upon “Old Davy;” others upon me, while I talked to him; as many as could command a view of the sketch-book were intent upon the progress of the portrait; and a few, who were excluded, endeavoured on tiptoe, and with outstretched necks, to obtain peeps at what was going on. W. steadily employed on the likeness—the old man “sitting,” cunningly smiling, looking unutterably wise at me, while W—— was steadily endeavouring for the likeness—the surrounding spectators, and the varied expressions of their various faces—the gleams of broken light from the only opening that admitted it, the door-way—the broad masses of shadow, and the rich browns of the shining birch and spreading heath, rudely and unequally piled, formed a picture which I regretted that W—— was a prominent figure in, because, engaged as he was, he could neither see nor sketch it.
This old labourer’s eccentricity was exceedingly amusing. He said his name was David Boxall; he knew not, or would not know, either where he was born, or where he had worked, or any thing more of himself, than that there he was; “and now,” said he, “make of me what you can.” “Ah!” said his master, in a whisper, “if you can make anything of him, sir, it’s more than we have been able to do.” The old fellow had a dissenting “humph” for every thing advanced towards him—except the ale-jug. The burthen of his talk was—he thought about nothing, cared about nothing—not he—why should he? Yet he was a perpetual inquirer. Craftily leering his quick-glancing eye while he asked a question, he waited, with a sarcastic smile, for an answer; and when given, out came his usual gruff “humph,” and “how do you know?” He affected to listen to explanations, while he assumed a knowing grin, to persuade his hearers that he knew better. His knowledge, however, was incommunicable, and past all finding out. He continually indulged in “hum!” and “ha!” and a sly look; and these, to his rustic auditors, were signs of wisdom. He was what they called a “knowing old chap.” He had been the best broom-maker in the manufactory, and had earned excellent wages. When I saw him he was infirm, and did not get more than fourteen or sixteen shillings a week. Mr. Bennett’s men are paid piece-work, and can easily earn a guinea week. After the sketching was over, and his people had retired to their labour, we walked with him through his little garden of fruit-trees and vegetables to another shed, where they fashioned broom-handles, and some common husbandry implements of wood. On recrossing the garden he gathered us cherries from the trees, and discoursed on his hives of bees by the hedge-side. Having given something to his men to spend in drink, and to “Old Davy” something especially, we brought off his head, which would cost more to exhibit than a better subject, and therefore it has since rested without disturbance.