 | OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED ARTICLES. London Labour and the London Poor, volume 1 |  |
OF THE LIFE OF A STREET-SELLER OF DOG-
COLLARS.
From the well-known vendor of these articles
whose portrait was given in No. 10 of this work,
I had the following sketch of his history: —
"I was born in Brewer-street, St. James," he
said, in answer to my questions; "I am 73 years
of age. My father and mother were poor people;
I never went to school; my father died while I
was young; my mother used to go out charing;
she couldn't afford to pay for schooling, and told
me, I must look out and yearn my own living
while I was a mere chick. At ten years of age
I went to sea in the merchant sarvice. While
I was in the merchant sarvice, I could get
good wages, for I soon knowed my duty. I was
always of an industrious turn, and never liked to
be idle; don't you see what I mean. In '97
I was pressed on board the Inconstant frigate;
I was paid off six months arterwards, but hadn't
much to take, and that, like all other young men
who hadn't larned the dodges of life, I spent very
soon; but I never got drunk — thank God!" said
the old man, "I never got drunk, or I shouldn't
ha been what I am now at 73 years of age. I was
drafted into the Woolwich 44-gun ship; from her to
the Overisal." I inquired how the name of the
ship was spelt; "Oh I am not scholard enough for
that there," he replied, "tho' I did larn to read
and write when abord a man of war. I larned my-
self. But you must look into a Dutch dictionary,
for it's a Dutch name. I then entered on board
the Amphine frigate, and arter I had sarved some
months in her, I entered the merchant sarvice
again, and arter that I went to Greenland to the
whale-fishery — they calls me here in the college"
(he is now an inmate of Greenwich Hospital)
"`Whaler Ben,' but I arnt affronted — most on 'em
here have nicknames. I went three voyages
besides to the West Ingees. I never got drunk
even there, though I was obliged to drink rum;
it wouldn't ha done to ha drunk the water NEAT,
there was so many insects in it. When my sailor's
life was over I comes to Liverpool and marries a
wife — aye and as good a wife as any poor man
ever had in England. I had saved a goodish bit
o' money, nearly 300l., for I was not so foolish as
some of the poor sailors, who yearns their money
like horses and spends it like asses, I say. Well
we sets up a shop — a chandler shop — in Liverpool:
me and my old 'ooman does; and I also entered
into the pig-dealing line. I used to get some of
my pigs from Ireland, and some I used to breed
myself, but I was very misfortunate. You re-
collect the year when the disease was among the
cattle, in course you recollects that; well, sir, I lost
24 pigs and a horse in one year, and that
was a good loss for a poor man, wer'n't it? I
thought it werry hard, for I'd worked hard for
my money at sea, and I was always werry careful,
arter I knowed what life was. My poor wife too
used to trust a good deal in the shop, and by-and-
[Description: 915EAF. Page 360.]
beam ends. My wife was took ill too — and, for
the purpose of getting the best adwice, I brings
her to London, but her cable had run out, and she
died, and I've been a poor forlorned creatur' ever
since. You wouldn't think it, but arter that I never
slept on a bed for seven years. I had blankets
and my clothes — but what I means is that I never
had a bed to lie on. I sold most of my bits o'
things to bury my wife. I didn't relish applying
to the parish. I kept a few sticks tho', for I don't
like them ere lodging-houses. I can't be a werry
bad kerackter, for I was seven years under one
landlord, and I warrant me if I wanted a room
agin he would let me have one. Arter my wife
died, knowing some'at about ropes I gets work at
Maberley's, the great contractors — in course you
knows him. I made rope traces for the artillery;
there's a good deal of leather-work about the traces,
and stitching them, you see, puts me up to the
making of dogs'-collars. I was always handy with
my fingers, and can make shoes or anythink. I
can work now as well as ever I could in my life,
only my eyes isn't so good. Ain't it curious now,
sir, that wot a man larns in his fingers he never
forgets? Well being out o' work, I was knocking
about for some time, and then I was adwised to
apply for a board to carry at one of them cheap
tailors, but I didn't get none; so I takes to hawk-
ing link buttons and key rings, and buys some
brass dog-collars; it was them brass collars as
made me bethought myself as I could make some
leather ones. Altho' I had been better off I
didn't think it any disgrace to get a honest living.
The leather collars is harder to make than the brass
ones, only the brass ones wants more implements.
There are about a dozen selling in the streets
as makes brass-collars — there's not much profit on
the brass ones. People says there's nothing
like leather, and I thinks they are right. Well,
sir, as I was a telling you, I commences the
leather-collar making, — in course I didn't make
'em as well at first as I do now. It was werry
hard lines at the best of times. I used to get
up at 4 o'clock in the morning in the summer
time, and make my collars; then I'd turn out
about 9, and keep out until 7 or 8 at night. I
seldom took more than 2s. per day. What profit
did I get out of 2s.? Why, lor bless you, sir!
if I hadn't made them myself, I shouldn't have
got no profit at all. But as it was, if I took 2s., the profits was from 1s. to 1s. 6d.; howsomever,
sometimes I didn't take 6d. Wet days too used
to run me aground altogether; my rheumatics
used to bore me always when the rain come down,
and then I couldn't get out to sell. If I'd any
leather at them times I used to make it up; but
if I hadn't none, why I was obligated to make
the best on it. Oh, sir! you little knows what
I've suffered; many a banyan day I've had in
my little room — upon a wet day — aye, and other
days too. Why, I think I'd a starved if it
hadn't a been for the 'bus-men about Hungerford-
market. They are good lads them there 'bus
lads to such as me; they used to buy my collars
when they didn't want them. Ask any on 'em
if they know anything about old Tom, the collar-
maker, and see if they don't flare up and respect
me. They used sometimes to raffle my collars
and give 'em back to me. Mr. Longstaff too,
the landlord of the Hungerford Arms — I believe
it's called the Hungerford Hotel — has given me
something to eat very often when I was hungry,
and had nothing myself. There's what you call
a hor'nary there every day. You knows what I
mean — gentlemen has their grub there at so much a
head, or so much a belly it should be, I says. I
used to come in for the scraps, and werry thankful
I was for them I can assure you. Yes, Mr.
Longstaff is what you may call a good man. He's
what you calls a odd man, and a odd man's
always a good man. All I got to say is, `God
bless him!' he's fed me many time when I've
been hungry. I used to light upon other friends
too, — landlords of public-houses, where I used to
hawk my collars; they seemed to take to me some-
how; it wer'n't for what I spent in their houses
I'm sure, seeing as how I'd nothing to spend. I
had no pension for my sarvice, and so I was
adwised to apply for admission to `the house here'
(Greenwich Hospital). I goes to Somerset-House;
another poor fellow was making a application at
the same time; but I didn't nothing till one
very cold day, when I was standing quite miser-
able like with my collars. I'd been out several
hours and hadn't taken a penny, when up comes
the man as wanted to get into the house, running
with all his might to me. I thought he was going
to tell me he had got into the house, and I was
glad on it, for, poor fellow, he was werry bad off;
howsomever he says to me, `Tom,' says he, `they
wants you at the Admirality.' `Does they?'
says I, and 'cordingly away I goes; and arter
telling the admiral my sarvice, and answering a
good many questions as he put to me, the admiral
says, says he, `The order will be made out; you
shall go into the house.' I think the admiral
knowed me or somethink about me, you see. I
don't know his name, and it wouldn't ha' done to
have axed. God bless him, whoever he is, I says,
and shall say to my dying day; it seemed like
Providence. I hadn't taken a ha'penny all that
day; I was cold and hungry, and suffering great
pain from my rheumatics. Thank God," ex-
claimed the old man in conclusion, "I am quite
comfortable now. I've everythink I want except
a little more tea and shuggar, but I'm quite con-
tent, and thank God for all his mercies."
The old man informed me moreover that he did
not think there were more than half-a-dozen street-
sellers besides himself who made leather collars;
it was a poor trade, he said, and though the other
makers were younger than he was, he "could lick
them all at stitching." He did not believe, he
told me, that any of the collar-sellers sold more
than he did — if as many — for he had friends that
perhaps other men had not. He makes collars
now sometimes, and wishes he could get some
shopkeeper to sell them for him, and then maybe,
he says, he could obtain a little more tea and
shuggar, and assist a sister-in-law of his whom he
tells me is in great distress, and whom he has been
[Description: 915EAF. Page 361.]
standing his poverty. The old man, during the
recital of his troubles, was affected to tears
several times — especially when he spoke of his
wife, and the distress he had undergone — and
with much sincerity blessed God for the comforts
that he now enjoys.
| OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED ARTICLES. London Labour and the London Poor, volume 1 | |