University of Virginia Library

OF COVENT GARDEN MARKET.

On a Saturday — the coster's business day — it is
computed that as many as 2,000 donkey-barrows,
and upwards of 3,000 women with shallows and
head-baskets visit this market during the fore-
noon. About six o'clock in the morning is the
best time for viewing the wonderful restlessness
of the place, for then not only is the "Garden"
itself all bustle and activity, but the buyers and
sellers stream to and from it in all directions,
filling every street in the vicinity. From Long
Acre to the Strand on the one side, and from
Bow-street to Bedford-street on the other, the
ground has been seized upon by the market-goers.
As you glance down any one of the neighbour-
ing streets, the long rows of carts and donkey-
barrows seem interminable in the distance.
They are of all kinds, from the greengrocer's
taxed cart to the coster's barrow — from the
showy excursion-van to the rude square donkey-
cart and bricklayer's truck. In every street
they are ranged down the middle and by the
kerb-stones. Along each approach to the
market, too, nothing is to be seen, on all sides,
but vegetables; the pavement is covered with
heaps of them waiting to be carted; the flag-
stones are stained green with the leaves trodden
under foot; sieves and sacks full of apples and
potatoes, and bandles of brocoli and rhubarb,
are left unwatched upon almost every door-
step; the steps of Covent Garden Theatre are
covered with fruit and vegetables; the road is
blocked up with mountains of cabbages and
turnips; and men and women push past with
their arms bowed out by the cauliflowers under
them, or the red tips of carrots pointing from
their crammed aprons, or else their faces are red
with the weight of the loaded head-basket.

The donkey-barrows, from their number and
singularity, force you to stop and notice them.
Every kind of ingenuity has been exercised to

[Description: 915EAF. Page 082.]

construet harness for the costers' steeds; where
a buckle is wanting, tape or string make the
fastening secure; traces are made of rope and
old chain, and an old sack or cotton handker-
chief is folded up as a saddle-pad. Some few
of the barrows make a magnificent exception,
and are gay with bright brass; while one of the
donkeys may be seen dressed in a suit of old
plated carriage-harness, decorated with coronets
in all directions. At some one of the coster con-
veyances stands the proprietor, arranging his
goods, the dozing animal starting up from its
sleep each time a heavy basket is hoisted on the
tray. Others, with their green and white and red
load neatly arranged, are ready for starting, but
the coster is finishing his breakfast at the coffee-
stall. On one barrow there may occasionally be
seen a solitary sieve of apples, with the horse of
some neighbouring cart helping himself to the
pippins while the owner is away. The men that
take charge of the trucks, whilst the costers visit
the market, walk about, with their arms full of
whips and sticks. At one corner a donkey has
slipped down, and lies on the stones covered
with the cabbages and apples that have fallen
from the cart.

The market itself presents a beautiful scene.
In the clear morning air of an autumn day the
whole of the vast square is distinctly seen from
one end to the other. The sky is red and golden
with the newly-risen sun, and the rays falling
on the fresh and vivid colours of the fruit and
vegetables, brightens up the picture as with a
coat of varnish. There is no shouting, as at
other markets, but a low murmuring hum is
heard, like the sound of the sea at a distance,
and through each entrance to the market the
crowd sweeps by. Under the dark Piazza little
bright dots of gas-lights are seen burning in
the shops; and in the paved square the people
pass and cross each other in all directions, ham-
pers clash together, and excepting the carters
from the country, every one is on the move.
Sometimes a huge column of baskets is seen in
the air, and walks away in a marvellously steady
manner, or a monster railway van, laden with
sieves of fruit, and with the driver perched up
on his high seat, jolts heavily over the stones.
Cabbages are piled up into stacks as it were.
Carts are heaped high with turnips, and bunches
of carrots like huge red fingers, are seen in all
directions. Flower-girls, with large bundles of
violets under their arms, run past, leaving a
trail of perfume behind them. Wagons, with
their shafts sticking up in the air, are ranged
before the salesmen's shops, the high green load
railed in with hurdles, and every here and there
bunches of turnips are seen flying in the air
over the heads of the people. Groups of apple-
women, with straw pads on their crushed bon-
nets, and coarse shawls crossing their bosoms,
sit on their porter's knots, chatting in Irish, and
smoking short pipes; every passer-by is hailed
with the cry of, "Want a baskit, yer honor?"
The porter, trembling under the piled-up
hamper, trots along the street, with his teeth
clenched and shirt wet with the weight, and
staggering at every step he takes.

Inside, the market all is bustle and confusion.
The people walk along with their eyes fixed on
the goods, and frowning with thought. Men in
all costumes, from the coster in his corduroy suit
to the greengrocer in his blue apron, sweep past.
A countryman, in an old straw hat and dusty
boots, occasionally draws down the anger of a
woman for walking about with his hands in
the pockets of his smock-frock, and is asked,
"if that is the way to behave on a market-
day?" Even the granite pillars cannot stop
the crowd, for it separates and rushes past them,
like the tide by a bridge pier. At every turn
there is a fresh odour to sniff at; either the
bitter aromatic perfume of the herbalists' shops
breaks upon you, or the scent of oranges, then
of apples, and then of onions is caught for an
instant as you move along. The brocoli tied
up in square packets, the white heads tinged
slightly red, as it were, with the sunshine,
— the sieves of crimson love-apples, polished
like china, — the bundles of white glossy leeks,
their roots dangling like fringe, — the celery,
with its pinky stalks and bright green tops, —
the dark purple pickling-cabbages, — the scarlet
carrots, — the white knobs of turnips, — the bright
yellow balls of oranges, and the rich brown
coats of the chesnuts — attract the eye on every
side. Then there are the apple-merchants, with
their fruit of all colours, from the pale yellow
green to the bright crimson, and the baskets
ranged in rows on the pavement before the
little shops. Round these the customers stand
examining the stock, then whispering together
over their bargain, and counting their money.
"Give you four shillings for this here lot,
master," says a coster, speaking for his three
companions. "Four and six is my price,"
answers the salesman. "Say four, and it's a
bargain," continues the man. "I said my price,"
returns the dealer; "go and look round, and
see if you can get 'em cheaper; if not, come back.
I only wants what's fair." The men, taking the
salesman's advice, move on. The walnut mer-
chant, with the group of women before his shop,
peeling the fruit, their fingers stained deep brown,
is busy with the Irish purchasers. The onion
stores, too, are surrounded by Hibernians, feel-
ing and pressing the gold-coloured roots, whose
dry skins crackle as they are handled. Cases of
lemons in their white paper jackets, and blue
grapes, just seen above the sawdust are ranged
about, and in some places the ground is slip-
pery as ice from the refuse leaves and walnut
husks scattered over the pavement.

Against the railings of St. Paul's Church are
hung baskets and slippers for sale, and near
the public-house is a party of countrymen pre-
paring their bunches of pretty coloured grass —
brown and glittering, as if it had been bronzed.
Between the spikes of the railing are piled up
square cakes of green turf for larks; and at the
pump, boys, who probably have passed the pre-
vious night in the baskets about the market, are

[Description: 915EAF. Page 083.]

washing, and the water dripping from their hair
that hangs in points over the face. The kerb-
stone is blocked up by a crowd of admiring
lads, gathered round the bird-catcher's green
stand, and gazing at the larks beating their
breasts against their cages. The owner, whose
boots are red with the soil of the brick-field,
shouts, as he looks carelessly around, "A cock
linnet for tuppence," and then hits at the youths
who are poking through the bars at the flutter-
ing birds.

Under the Piazza the costers purchase their
flowers (in pots) which they exchange in the
streets for old clothes. Here is ranged a small
garden of flower-pots, the musk and mignonette
smelling sweetly, and the scarlet geraniums,
with a perfect glow of coloured air about the
flowers, standing out in rich contrast with the
dark green leaves of the evergreens behind them.
"There's myrtles, and larels, and boxes," says
one of the men selling them, "and there's a
harbora witus, and lauristiners, and that bushy
shrub with pink spots is health." Men and
women, selling different articles, walk about
under the cover of the colonnade. One has seed-
cake, another small-tooth and other combs,
others old caps, or pig's feet, and one hawker
of knives, razors, and short hatchets, may occa-
sionally be seen driving a bargain with a country-
man, who stands passing his thumb over the
blade to test its keenness. Between the pillars
are the coffee-stalls, with their large tin cans
and piles of bread and butter, and protected
from the wind by paper screens and sheets
thrown over clothes-horses; inside these little
parlours, as it were, sit the coffee-drinkers
on chairs and benches, some with a bunch of
cabbages on their laps, blowing the steam from
their saucers, others, with their mouths full,
munching away at their slices, as if not a
moment could be lost. One or two porters are
there besides, seated on their baskets, breakfast-
ing with their knots on their heads.

As you walk away from this busy scene, you
meet in every street barrows and costers hurry-
ing home. The pump in the market is now
surrounded by a cluster of chattering wenches
quarrelling over whose turn it is to water their
drooping violets, and on the steps of Covent
Garden Theatre are seated the shoeless girls,
tying up the halfpenny and penny bundles.