University of Virginia Library

OF TWO RUNAWAY STREET-BOYS.

I endeavoured to find a boy or girl who belonged
to the well-educated classes, had run away, and
was now a street-seller. I heard of boys of this
class — one man thought he knew five, and was
sure of four — who now lived by street-selling, my
informant believed without having any recourse to
theft, but all these boys were absent; they had
not returned from Epsom, or had not returned to
their usual haunts, or else they had started for
their summer's excursion into the country. Many
a street-seller becomes as weary of town after
the winter as a member of parliament who sits
out a very long session; and the moment the
weather is warm, and "seems settled," they are
off into the country. In this change of scene
there is the feeling of independence, of freedom;
they are not "tied to their work;" and this
feeling has perhaps even greater charms for the
child than the adult.

The number of lads of a well-educated class, who support themselves by street-selling, is not
large. I speak of those whom I have classed as
children under fifteen years of age. If a boy run
away, scared and terrified by the violence of a
parent, or maddened by continuous and sometimes
excessive severity, the parent often feels compunc-
tion, and I heard of persons being sent to every
lodging-house in London, and told to search every
dry arch, to bring back a runaway. On these
occasions the street-sellers willingly give their
aid; I have even heard of women, whose de-
gradation was of the lowest, exerting themselves
in the recovery of a runaway child, and that often
unsolicited and as often unrecompensed.

The children who are truants through their own
vicious or reckless propensities, or through the in-
ducements of their seniors, become far more fre-
quently, thieves or lurkers, rather than street-
sellers. As to runaway girls of a well-educated
class, and under fifteen, I heard of none who were
street-sellers.

I now give instances of two runaway lads, who
have been dishonest, and honest.

The one, when he told me his history, was a
slim and rather tall young man of 23 or 24,
with a look, speech, and air, anything but vulgar.
He was the son of a wealthy jeweller, in a town
in the West of England, and ran away from home
with an adult member of his father's establish-
ment, who first suggested such a course, taking
with them money and valuables. They came to
London, and the elder thief, retaining all the
stolen property, at once abandoned the child, then
only ten, and little and young-looking for his age.
He fell into the hands of some members of the
swell-mob, and became extremely serviceable to
them. He was dressed like a gentleman's son,
and was innocent-looking and handsome. His
appearance, when I saw him, showed that this
must have been the case as regards his looks. He
lived with some of the swell-mobsmen — then a more
prosperous people than they are now — in a good
house in the Southwark-Bridge-road. The women
who resided with the mobsmen were especially
kind to him. He was well fed, well lodged, well
clad, and petted in everything. He was called
"the kid," a common slang name for a child, but
he was the kid. He "went to work" in Regent-
street, or wherever there were most ladies, and
his appearance disarmed suspicion. He was,
moreover, highly successful in church and chapel
practice. At length he became "spotted." The
police got to know him, and he was apprehended,
tried, and convicted. He was, however — he be-
lieved through the interest of his friends, of whose
inquiries concerning him he had heard, but of that
I know nothing — sent to the Philanthropic Asy-
lum, then in St. George's-road. Here he remained
the usual time, then left the place well clothed, and
with a sum of money, and endeavoured to obtain
some permanent employment. In this endeavour
he failed. Whether he exerted himself strenuously
or not I cannot say, but he told me that the very
circumstance of his having been "in the Philan-
thropic" was fatal to his success. His "character"
and "recommendations" necessarily showed where
he had come from, and the young man, as he
then was, became a beggar. His chief practice
was in "screeving," or writing on the pavement.
Perhaps some of my readers may remember
having noticed a wretched-looking youth who
hung over the words "I AM STARVING,"
chalked on the footway on the Surrey side of
Waterloo Bridge. He lay huddled in a heap,
and appeared half dead with cold and want, his
shirtless neck and shoulders being visible through
the rents in his thin jean jacket; shoe or stocking
he did not wear. This was the rich jeweller's son.
Until he himself told me of it — and he seemed
to do so with some sense of shame — I could
not have believed that the well-spoken and well-
looking youth before me was the piteous object I
had observed by the bridge. What he is doing
now I am unable to state.

Another boy, who thought he was not yet fif-
teen, though he looked older, gave me the follow-
ing account. He was short but seemed strong,
and his career, so far, is chiefly remarkable for his
perseverance, exercised as much, perhaps, from in-
sensibility as from any other quality. He was
sufficiently stupid. If he had parents living, he
said, he didn't know nothing about them; he had
lived and slept with an old woman who said she
was his grandmother, and he'd been told that she
weren't no relation; he didn't trouble himself
about it. She sold lucifer-boxes or any trifle
in the streets, and had an allowance of 2s. weekly, but from what quarter he did not know.
About four years ago he was run over by a cab,
and was carried to the workhouse or the hospital;
he believed it was Clerkenwell Workhouse, but
he weren't sure. When he recovered and was
discharged he found the old woman was dead, and
a neighbour went with him to the parish officers,
by whom — as well as I could understand him —
he was sent to the workhouse, after some inquiry.
He was soon removed to Nor'ud. On my asking
if he meant Norwood, he replied, "no, Nor'ud,"
and there he was with a number of other children
with a Mr. Horbyn. He did not know how long
he was there, and he didn't know as he had any-
thing much to complain of, but he ran away. He
ran away because he thought he would; and he
believed he could get work at paper-staining. He
made his way to Smithfield, near where there was
a great paper-stainer's, but he could not get any
work, and he was threatened to be sent back, as
they knew from his dress that he had run away.
He slept in Smithfield courts and alleys, fitting
himself into any covered corner he could find. The
poor women about were kind to him, and gave
him pieces of bread; some knew that he had run
away from a workhouse and was all the kinder.
"The fust browns as ivver I yarned," he said, "was
from a drover. He was a going into the country to
meet some beasts, and had to carry some passels
for somebody down there. They wasn't 'evvy,
but they was orkerd to grip. His old 'oman luk
out for a young cove to 'elp her old man, and saw
me fust, so she calls me, and I gets the job. I
gived the greatest of satisfaction, and had sixpence
giv me, for Jim (the drover) was well paid, as
they was vallyble passels, and he said he'd taken
the greatest of care on 'em, and had engaged a
poor lad to 'elp him." On his return the child
slept in a bed, in a house near Gray's-inn-lane,
for the first time since he had run away, he be-
lieved about a fortnight. He persevered in look-
ing out for odd jobs, without ever stealing, though
he met some boys who told him he was a fool not
to prig. "I used to carry his tea from his old
'oman," he went on, "to a old cove as had a
stunnin' pitch of fruit in the City-road. But my
best friend was Stumpy; he had a beautiful
crossin' (as a sweeper) then, but he's dead now
and berried as well. I used to talk to him and
whistle — I can just whistle" [here he whistled
loud and shrill, to convince me of his perfection
in that street accomplishment] " — and to dance
him the double-shuffle" [he favoured me with a
specimen of that dance], "and he said I hinterested
him. Well, he meant he liked it, I s'pose. When
he went to rest hisself, for he soon got tired, over

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his drop of beer to his grub, I had his crossin'
and his broom for nuff'n. One boy used to say to
Stumpy, `I'll give you 1d. for your crossin'
while you's grubbin.' But I had it for nuff'n,
and had all I yarned; sometimes 1d., sometimes
2d., but only once 3½d. I've been 'elping Old
Bill with his summer cabbages and flowers (cauli-
flowers), and now he's on live heels. I can sing
'em out prime, but you `eared me. I has my bit
o'grub with him, and a few browns, and Old Bill
and Young Bill, too, says I shall have better to
do, but I can't until peas. I sleeps in a loft with
'ampers, which is Old Bill's; a stunnin' good bed.
I've cried for and 'elped other costers. Stumpy
sent me to 'em. I think he'd been one hisself, but
I was always on the look-out. I'll go for some
bunse soon. I don't know what I shall do time
to come, I nivver thinks on it. I could read mid-
dlin', and can a little now, but I'm out of practice."

I have given this little fellow's statement some-
what fully, for I believe he is a type of the most
numerous class of runaway urchins who ripen, so
to speak, into costermongers, after "helping" that
large body of street-traders.

I heard of one boy who had been discharged
from Brixton, and had received 6d. to begin the
world with, as it was his first offence, on his way
back to London, being called upon suddenly as
soon as he had reached the New Cut (then the
greatest of all the street-markets) to help a coster-
monger. This gave the boy a start, and he had
since lived honestly.