London Labour and the London Poor: Selection (Classics) (69 page)

d
. a day ever since I have been in London this time. I go tramping it across the country just to pass the time, and see a little of new places. When the summer comes I want to be off. I am sure I have seen enough of this country now, and I should like to have a look at some foreign land. Old England has nothing new in it now for me. I think a beggar’s life is the worst kind of life that a man can lead. A beggar is no more thought upon than a dog in the street, and there are too many at the trade. I wasn’t brought up to
a bad life. You can see that by little things – by my handwriting; and, indeed, I should like to have a chance at something else. I have had the feelings of a vagabond for full ten years. I know, and now I am sure, I’m getting a different man. I begin to have thoughts and ideas I never had before. Once I never feared nor cared for anything, and I wouldn’t have altered if I could; but now I’m tired out, and if I haven’t a chance of going right, why I must go wrong.’

The next was a short, thick-set man, with a frequent grin on his countenance, which was rather expressive of humour. He wore a very dirty smock-frock, dirtier trousers, shirt, and neckerchief, and broken shoes. He answered readily, and as if he enjoyed his story.

‘I never was at school, and was brought up as a farm labourer at Devizes,’ he said, ‘where my parents were labourers. I worked that way three or four years, and then ran away. My master wouldn’t give me money enough – only 3
s
. 6
d
. a week, – and my parents were very harsh; so I ran away, rather than be licked for ever. I’d heard people say, “Go to Bath,” and I went there; and I was only about eleven then. I’m now twenty-three. I tried to get work on the railway there, and I did. I next got into prison for stealing three shovels. I was hard-up, having lost my work, and so I stole them. I was ten weeks in prison. I came out worse than I went in, for I mixed with the old hands, and they put me up to a few capers. When I got out I thought I could live as well that way as by hard work; so I took to the country. I began to beg. At first I took “No” for an answer, when I asked for “Charity to a poor boy”; but I found that wouldn’t do, so I learned to stick to them. I was forced, or I must have starved, and that wouldn’t do at all. I did middling; plenty to eat, and sometimes a drop to drink, but not often. I was forced to be merry, because it’s no good being down-hearted. I begged for two years – that is, steal and beg together: I couldn’t starve. I did best in country villages in Somersetshire; there’s always odds and ends to be picked up there. I got into scrapes now and then. Once, in Devonshire, me and another slept at a farm-house, and in the morning we went egg-hunting. I must have stowed three dozen of eggs about me, when a dog barked, and we were alarmed and ran away, and in getting over a gate I fell, and there I lay among the smashed eggs. I can’t help laughing at it still: but I got away. I was too sharp for them. I have been twenty or thirty times in prison. I have been in for stealing bread, and a side of bacon, and cheese, and shovels, and other things; generally provisions. I generally learn something new in prison. I shall do no good while I stop in England. It’s not possible a man like me can get work, so I’m forced to go on this way.
Sometimes I haven’t a bit to eat all day. At night I may pick up something. An uncle of mine once told me he would like to see me transported, or come to the gallows. I told him I had no fear about the gallows; I should never come to that end: but if I were transported I should be better off than I am now. I can’t starve, and I won’t; and I can’t ‘list, I’m too short. I came to London the other day, but could do no good. The London hands are quite a different set to us. We seldom do business together. My way’s simple. If I see a thing, and I’m hungry, I take it if I can, in London or anywhere. I once had a turn with two Londoners, and we got two coats and two pair of trousers; but the police got them back again. I was only locked up one night for it. The country’s the best place to get away with anything, because there’s not so many policemen. There’s lots live as I live, because there’s no work. I can do a country policeman, generally. I’ve had sprees at the country lodging-houses – larking, and drinking, and carrying on, and playing cards and dominoes all night for a farthing a game; sometimes fighting about it. I can play at dominoes, but I don’t know the cards. They try to cheat one another. Honour among thieves! why there’s no such thing; they take from one another. Sometimes we dance all night – Christmas time, and such times. Young women dance with us, and sometimes old women. We’re all merry; some’s lying on the floor drunk; some’s jumping about, smoking; some’s dancing; and so we enjoy ourselves. That’s the best part of the life. We are seldom stopped in our merrymakings in the country. It’s no good the policemen coming among us; give them beer, and you may knock the house down. We have good meat sometimes; sometimes very rough. Some are very particular about their cookery, as nice as anybody is. They must have their pickles, and their peppers, and their fish-sauces (I’ve had them myself), to their dishes. Chops, in the country, has the call; or ham and eggs – that’s relished. Some’s very particular about their drink, too; won’t touch bad beer; same way with the gin. It’s chiefly gin (I’m talking about the country), very little rum; no brandy: but sometimes, after a good day’s work, a drop of wine. We help one another when we are sick, where we’re knowed. Some’s very good that way. Some lodging-house keepers get rid of anybody that’s sick, by taking them to the relieving-officer at once.’

A really fine-looking lad of eighteen gave me the following statement. He wore a sort of frock-coat, very thin, buttoned about him, old cloth trousers, and bad shoes. His shirt was tolerably good and clean, and altogether he had a tidy look and an air of quickness, but not of cunning:

‘My father,’ he said, ‘was a bricklayer in Shoreditch parish, and my mother took in washing. They did pretty well; but they’re dead and buried
two years and a half ago. I used to work in brick-fields at Ball’s-pond, living with my parents, and taking home every farthing I earned. I earned 18
s
. a week, working from five in the morning until sunset. They had only me. I can read and write middling; when my parents died, I had to look out for myself. I was off work, attending to my father and mother when they were sick. They died within about three weeks of each other, and I lost my work, and I had to part with my clothes, before that I tried to work in brick-fields, and couldn’t get it, and work grew slack. When my parents died I was thirteen; and I sometimes got to sleep in the unions; but that was stopped, and then I took to the lodging-houses, and there I met with lads who were enjoying themselves at push-halfpenny and cards; and they were thieves, and they tempted me to join them, and I did for once – but only once. I then went begging about the streets and thieving, as I knew the others do. I used to pick pockets. I worked for myself, because I thought that would be best. I had no fence at all – no pals at first, nor anything. I worked by myself for a time. I sold the handkerchiefs I got to Jews in the streets, chiefly in Field-lane, for 1
s
. 6
d
but I have got as much as 3
s
. 6
d
. for your real fancy ones. One of these buyers wanted to cheat me out of 6
d
., so I would have no more dealings with him. The others paid me. The “Kingsmen” they call the best handkerchiefs – those that have the pretty-looking flowers on them. Some are only worth 4
d
. or 5
d
., some’s not worth taking. Those I gave away to strangers, boys like myself, or wore them myself, round my neck. I only threw one away, but it was all rags, though he looked quite like a gentleman that had it. Lord-mayor’s day and such times is the best for us. Last Lord-mayor’s day I got four handkerchiefs, and I made 11
s
. There was a 6
d
. tied up in the corner of one handkerchief; another was pinned to the pocket, but I got it out, and after that another chap had him, and cut his pocket clean away, but there was nothing in it. I generally picked my men – regular swells, or good-humoured looking men. I’ve often followed them a mile. I once got a purse with 3
s
. 6
d
. in it from a lady when the Coal Exchange was opened. I made 8
s
. 6
d
. that day – the purse and handkerchiefs. That’s the only lady I ever robbed. I was in the crowd when Manning and his wife were hanged. I wanted to see if they died game, as I heard them talk so much about them at our house. I was there all night. I did four good handkerchiefs and a rotten one not worth picking up. I saw them hung. I was right under the drop. I was a bit startled when they brought him up and put the rope round his neck and the cap on, and then they brought her out. All said he was hung innocently; it was she that should have been hung by herself. They both dropped together, and I felt faintified, but I soon felt all right again. The
police drove us away as soon as it was over, so that I couldn’t do any more business; besides, I was knocked down in the crowd and jumped upon, and I won’t go to see another hung in a hurry. He didn’t deserve it, but she did, every inch of her. I can’t say I thought, while I was seeing the execution, that the life I was leading would ever bring me to the gallows. After I’d worked by myself a bit, I got to live in a house where lads like me, big and little, were accommodated. We paid 3
d
. a night. It was always full; there was twenty or twenty-one of us. We enjoyed ourselves middling. I was happy enough: we drank sometimes, chiefly beer, and sometimes a drop of gin. One would say, “I’ve done so much,” and another, “I’ve done so much;” and stand a drop. The best I ever heard done was 2
l
. for two coats from a tailor’s, near Bow-church, Cheapside. That was by one of my pals. We used to share our money with those who did nothing for a day, and they shared with us when we rested. There never was any blabbing. We wouldn’t do one another out of a farthing. Of a night some one would now and then read hymns, out of books they sold about the streets – I’m sure they were hymns; or else we’d read stories about Jack Sheppard and Dick Turpin, and all through that set. They were large thick books, borrowed from the library. They told how they used to break open the houses, and get out of Newgate, and how Dick got away to York. We used to think Jack and them very fine fellows. I wished I could be like Jack (I did then), about the blankets in his escape, and that old house in West-street – it is a ruin still. We played cards and dominoes sometimes at our house, and at pushing a halfpenny over the table along five lines. We struck the halfpenny from the edge of the table, and according to what line it settled on was the game – like as they play at the Glasshouse – that’s the “model lodging-house” they calls it. Cribbage was always played at cards. I can only play cribbage. We have played for a shilling a game, but oftener a penny. It was always fair play. That was the way we passed the time when we were not out. We used to keep quiet, or the police would have been down upon us. They knew of the place. They took one boy there. I wondered what they wanted. They catched him at the very door. We lived pretty well; anything we liked to get, when we’d money: we cooked it ourselves. The master of the house was always on the look-out to keep out those who had no business there. No girls were admitted. The master of the house had nothing to do with what we got. I don’t know of any other such house in London; I don’t think there are any. The master would sometimes drink with us – a larking like. He used us pretty kindly at times. I have been three times in prison, three months each time; the Compter, Brixton and Maidstone. I went down to Maidstone fair, and was caught
by a London policeman down there. He was dressed as a bricklayer. Prison always made me worse, and as I had nothing given me when I came out, I had to look out again. I generally got hold of something before I had been an hour out of prison. I’m now heartily sick of this life. I wish I’d been transported with some others from Maidstone, where I was tried.’

A cotton-spinner (who had subsequently been a soldier), whose appearance was utterly abject, was the next person questioned. He was tall, and had been florid-looking (judging by his present complexion). His coat – very old and worn, and once black – would not button, and would have hardly held together if buttoned. He was out at elbows, and some parts of the collar were pinned together. His waistcoat was of a match with his coat, and his trousers were rags. He had some shirt, as was evident by his waistcoat, held together by one button. A very dirty handkerchief was tied carelessly round his neck. He was tall and erect, and told his adventures with heartiness.

‘I am thirty-eight,’ he said, ‘and have been a cotton-spinner, working at Chorlton-upon-Medlock. I can neither read nor write. When I was a young man, twenty years ago, I could earn 2
l
. 10
s
., clear money, every week, after paying two piecers and a scavenger. Each piecer had 7
s
. 6
d
. a week – they are girls; the scavenger – a boy to clean the wheels of the cotton-spinning machine – had 2
s
. 6
d
. I was master of them wheels in the factory. This state of things continued until about the year 1837. I lived well and enjoyed myself, being a hearty man, noways a drunkard, working every day from half-past five in the morning till half-past seven at night – long hours, that time, master. I didn’t care about money as long as I was decent and respectable. I had a turn for sporting at the wakes down there. In 1837, the “self-actors” (machines with steam power) had come into common use. One girl can mind three pairs – that used to be three men’s work – getting 15
s
. for the work which gave three men 7
l
. 10
s
. Out of one factory 400 hands were flung in one week, men and women together. We had a meeting of the union, but nothing could be done, and we were told to go and mind the three pairs, as the girls did, for 15
s
. a week. We wouldn’t do that. Some went for soldiers, some to sea, some to Stopport (Stockport), to get work in factories where the “self-actors” wern’t agait. The masters there wouldn’t have them – at least, some of them. Manchester was full of them; but one gentleman in Hulme still won’t have them, for he says he won’t turn the men out of bread. I ‘listed for a soldier in the 48th. I liked a soldier’s life very well until I got flogged – 100 lashes for selling my kit (for a spree), and 150 for striking a corporal, who called me an English robber. He was an Irishman. I was
confined five days in the hospital after each punishment. It was terrible. It was like a bunch of razors cutting at your back. Your flesh was dragged off by the cats. Flogging was then very common in the regiment. I was flogged in 1840. To this day I feel a pain in the chest from the triangles. I was discharged from the army about two years ago, when the reduction took place. I was only flogged the times I’ve told you. I had no pension and no friends. I was discharged in Dublin. I turned to, and looked for work. I couldn’t get any, and made my way for Manchester. I stole myself aboard of a steamer, and hid myself till she got out to sea, on her way from Dublin to Liverpool. When the captain found me there, he gave me a kick and some bread, and told me to work, so I worked for my passage twenty-four hours. He put me ashore at Liverpool. I slept in the union that night – nothing to eat and nothing to cover me – no fire; it was winter. I walked to Manchester, but could get nothing to do there, though I was twelve months knocking about. It wants a friend and a character to get work. I slept in unions in Manchester, and had oatmeal porridge for breakfast, work at grinding logwood in the mill, from six to twelve, and then turn out. That was the way I lived chiefly; but I got a job sometimes in driving cattle, and 3
d
. for it, – or 2
d
. for carrying baskets in the vegetable markets; and went to Shoedale Union at night. I would get a pint of coffee and half-a-pound of bread, and half-a-pound of bread in the morning, and no work. I took to travelling up to London, half-hungered on the road – that was last winter – eating turnips out of this field, and carrots out of that, and sleeping under hedges and haystacks. I slept under one haystack, and pulled out the hay to cover me, and the snow lay on it a foot deep in the morning. I slept for all that, but wasn’t I froze when I woke? An old farmer came up with his cart and pitchfork to load hay. He said: “Poor fellow! have you been here all night?” I answered, “Yes.” He gave me some coffee and bread, and one shilling. That was the only good friend I met with on the road. I got fourteen days of it for asking a gentleman for a penny; that was in Stafford. I got to London after that, sleeping in unions sometimes, and begging a bite here and there. Sometimes I had to walk all night. I was once forty-eight hours without a bite, until I got hold at last of a Swede turnip, and so at last I got to London. Here I’ve tried up and down everywhere for work as a labouring man, or in a foundry. I tried London Docks, and Blackwall, and every place; but no job. At one foundry, the boiler-makers made a collection of 4
s
. for me. I’ve walked the streets for three nights together. Here, in this fine London, I was refused a night’s lodging in Shoreditch and in Gray’s-inn-lane. A policeman, the fourth night, at twelve o’clock, procured me a lodging, and gave me 2
d
. I couldn’t
drag on any longer. I was taken to a doctor’s in the city. I fell in the street from hunger and tiredness. The doctor ordered me brandy and water, 2
s
. 6
d
., and a quartern loaf, and some coffee, sugar, and butter. He said, what I ailed was hunger. I made that run out as long as I could, but I was then as bad off as ever. It’s hard to hunger for nights together. I was once in “Steel” (Coldbath-fields) for begging. I was in Tothill-fields for going into a chandler’s shop, asking for a quartern loaf and half a pound of cheese, and walking out with it. I got a month for that. I have been in Brixton for taking a loaf out of a baker’s basket, all through hunger. Better a prison than to starve. I was well treated because I behaved well in prison. I have slept in coaches when I had a chance. One night on a dunghill, covering the stable straw about me to keep myself warm. This place is a relief. I shave the poor people and cut their hair, on a Sunday. I was handy at that when I was a soldier. I have shaved in public-houses for halfpennies. Some landlords kicks me out. Now, in the days, I may pick up a penny or two that way, and get here of a night. I met two Manchester men in Hyde Park on Saturday, skating. They asked me what I was. I said, “A beggar.” They gave me 2
s
. 6
d
., and I spent part of it for warm coffee and other things. They knew all about Manchester, and knew I was a Manchester man by my talk.’