University of Virginia Library

OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A STREET AUTHOR,
OR POET.

I have already mentioned the present number
of street authors, as I most frequently heard
them styled, though they write only verses. I
called upon one on the recommendation of a
neighbouring tradesman, of whom I made some
inquiries. He could not tell me the number of
the house in the court where the man lived, but
said I had only to inquire for the Tinker, or
the Poet, and any one would tell me.

I found the poor poet, who bears a good cha-
racter, on a sick bed; he was suffering, and had
long been suffering, from abscesses. He was ap-
parently about forty-five, with the sunken eyes,
hollow cheeks, and, not pale but thick and rather
sallow complexion, which indicate ill-health and
scant food. He spoke quietly, and expressed
resignation. His room was not very small, and
was furnished in the way usual among the very
poor, but there were a few old pictures over the
mantel-piece. His eldest boy, a lad of thirteen
or fourteen, was making dog-chains; at which he
earned a shilling or two, sometimes 2s. 6d., by
sale in the streets.

"I was born at Newcastle-under-Lyne," the
man said, "but was brought to London when,
I believe, I was only three months old. I was
very fond of reading poems, in my youth, as
soon as I could read and understand almost.
Yes, very likely, sir; perhaps it was that put it
into my head to write them afterwards. I was
taught wire-working, and jobbing, and was
brought up to hawking wire-work in the streets,
and all over England and Wales. It was never
a very good trade — just a living. Many and
many a weary mile we've travelled together, — I
mean, my wife and I have: and we've some-
times been benighted, and had to wander or rest
about until morning. It wasn't that we hadn't
money to pay for a lodging, but we couldn't get
one. We lost count of the days sometimes in
wild parts; but if we did lose count, or thought
we had, I could always tell when it was Sunday
morning by the look of nature; there was a
mystery and a beauty about it as told me. I
was very fond of Goldsmith's poetry always.
I can repeat `Edwin and Emma' now. No, sir;
I never read the `Vicar of Wakefield.' I found
`Edwin and Emma' in a book called the
`Speaker.' I often thought of it in travelling
through some parts of the country.

"Above fourteen years ago I tried to make a
shilling or two by selling my verses. I'd written
plenty before, but made nothing by them. In-
deed I never tried. The first song I ever sold
was to a concert-room manager. The next I
sold had great success. It was called the `Demon
of the Sea,' and was to the tune of `The Brave
Old Oak.' Do I remember how it began? Yes,
sir, I remember every word of it. It began:

That song was written for a concert-room, but
it was soon in the streets, and ran a whole winter.
I got only 1s. for it. Then I wrote the `Pirate
of the Isles,' and other ballads of that sort. The
concert-rooms pay no better than the printers
for the streets.

"Perhaps the best thing I ever wrote was the
`Husband's Dream.' I'm very sorry indeed
that I can't offer you copies of some of my
ballads, but I haven't a single copy myself of
any of them, not one, and I dare say I've
written a thousand in my time, and most of
them were printed. I believe 10,000 were sold
of the `Husband's Dream.' It begins:

"Then Dermot tells how he dreamed of his
wife's sudden death, and his childrens' misery as
they cried about her dead body, while he was
drunk in bed, and as he calls out in his misery,
he wakes, and finds his wife by his side. The
ballad ends:

"Dermot turned teetotaller. The teetotallers
were very much pleased with that song. The
printer once sent me 5s. on account of it.

"I have written all sorts of things — ballads
on a subject, and copies of verses, and any-
thing ordered of me, or on anything I thought
would be accepted, but now I can't get about.
I've been asked to write indecent songs, but I
refused. One man offered me 5s. for six such
songs. — `Why, that's less than the common
price,' said I, `instead of something over to pay
for the wickedness.' — All those sort of songs
come now to the streets, I believe all do, from
the concert-rooms. I can imitate any poetry.
I don't recollect any poet I've imitated. No,
sir, not Scott or Moore, that I know of, but if
they've written popular songs, then I dare say
I have imitated them. Writing poetry is no
comfort to me in my sickness. It might if I
could write just what I please. The printers
like hanging subjects best, and I don't. But
when any of them sends to order a copy of
verses for a `Sorrowful Lamentation' of course
I must supply them. I don't think much of
what I've done that way. If I'd my own fancy,
I'd keep writing acrostics, such as one I wrote
on our rector." "God bless him," interrupted
the wife, "he's a good man." "That he is,"
said the poet, "but he's never seen what I wrote
about him, and perhaps never will." He then
desired his wife to reach him his big Bible, and
out of it he handed me a piece of paper, with
the following lines written on it, in a small neat
hand enough:

"There would be some comfort, sir," he con-
tinued, "if one could go on writing at will like
that. As it is, I sometimes write verses all over
a slate, and rub them out again. Live hard!
yes, indeed, we do live hard. I hardly know
the taste of meat. We live on bread and butter,
and tea; no, not any fish. As you see, sir, I
work at tinning. I put new bottoms into old
tin tea-pots, and such like. Here's my sort of
bench, by my poor bit of a bed. In the best
weeks I earn 4s. by tinning, never higher. In
bad weeks I earn only 1s. by it, and sometimes
not that, — and there are more shilling than four
shilling weeks by three to one. As to my
poetry, a good week is 3s., and a poor week is
1s. — and sometimes I make nothing at all that
way. So I leave you to judge, sir, whether we
live hard; for the comings in, and what we have
from the parish, must keep six of us — myself,
my wife, and four children. It's a long, hard
struggle." "Yes, indeed," said the wife, "it's
just as you've heard my husband tell, sir.
We've 2s. a week and four loaves of bread from
the parish, and the rent's 2s. 6d., and the land-
lord every week has 2s., — and 6d. he has done
for him in tinning work. Oh, we do live hard,
indeed."

As I was taking my leave, the poor man
expressed a desire that I would take a copy of
an epitaph which he had written for himself.
"If ever," he said, "I am rich enough to pro-
vide for a tomb-stone, or my family is rich
enough to give me one, this shall be my epi-
taph" [I copied it from a blank page in his
Bible:]