 | STREET-SELLERS OF GREEN STUFF. London Labour and the London Poor, volume 1 |  |
8. STREET-SELLERS OF GREEN STUFF.
Under this head I class the street-purveyors of
water-cresses, and of the chickweed, groundsel,
plantain, and turf required for cage-birds. These
purveyors seem to be on the outskirts, as it were,
of the costermonger class, and, indeed, the regu-
lar costers look down upon them as an inferior
caste. The green-stuff trade is carried on by
very poor persons, and generally, by children or
old people, some of the old people being lame,
or suffering from some infirmity, which, how-
ever, does not prevent their walking about
with their commodities. To the children and
infirm class, however, the turf-cutters supply
an exception. The costermongers, as I have
intimated, do not resort, and do not let their
children resort, to this traffic. If reduced to
the last shift, they will sell nuts or oranges in
preference. The "old hands" have been "re-
duced," as a general rule, from other avocations.
Their homes are in the localities I have specified
as inhabited by the poor.
I was informed by a seller of birds, that he
thought fewer birds were kept by poor working-
people, and even by working-people who had
regular, though, perhaps, diminished earnings,
than was the case six or eight years ago. At
one time, it was not uncommon for a young man
to present his betrothed with a pair of singing-
birds in a neat cage; now such a present, as
far as my informant's knowledge extended — and
he was a sharp intelligent man — was but rarely
made. One reason this man had often heard ad-
vanced for poor persons not renewing their birds,
when lost or dead, is pitiful in its plainness —
"they eat too much." I do not know, that, in such
a gift as I have mentioned, there was any intention
on the part of the lover to typify the beauty of
cheerfulness, even in a very close confinement
to home. "I can't tell, sir," was said to me,
"how it may have been originally, but I never
heard such a thing said much about, though
there's been joking about the matter, as when
would the birds have young ones, and such like.
No, sir; I think it was just a fashion." Con-
trary to the custom in more prosperous estab-
lishments, I am satisfied, that, among the
labouring classes, birds are more frequently the
pets of the men than of the women. My bird-
dealing informant cited merely his own ex-
perience, but there is no doubt that cage-birds
are more extensively kept than ever in London;
consequently there is a greater demand for the
"green stuff" the birds require.
OF WATERCRESS-SELLING, IN FARRINGDON-
MARKET.
The first coster-cry heard of a morning in the
London streets is that of "Fresh wo-orter-
creases." Those that sell them have to be on
their rounds in time for the mechanics' break-
fast, or the day's gains are lost. As the stock-
money for this calling need only consist of a few
halfpence, it is followed by the very poorest of
the poor; such as young children, who have been
deserted by their parents, and whose strength is
not equal to any very great labour, or by old
men and women, crippled by disease or accident,
who in their dread of a workhouse life, linger
on with the few pence they earn by street-
selling.
As winter draws near, the Farringdon cress-
market begins long before daylight. On your
way to the City to see this strange sight, the
streets are deserted; in the squares the blinds
are drawn down before the windows, and the
shutters closed, so that the very houses seem
asleep. All is so silent that you can hear the
rattle of the milkmaids' cans in the neighbour-
ing streets, or the noisy song of three or four
drunken voices breaks suddenly upon you, as if
the singers had turned a corner, and then dies
away in the distance. On the cab-stands, but
one or two crazy cabs are left, the horses dozing
with their heads down to their knees, and the
drawn-up windows covered with the breath of
the driver sleeping inside. At the corners of the
streets, the bright fires of the coffee-stalls sparkle
in the darkness, and as you walk along, the
policeman, leaning against some gas-lamp, turns
his lantern full upon you, as if in suspicion that
one who walks abroad so early could mean no
good to householders. At one house there stands
a man, with dirty boots and loose hair, as if he
had just left some saloon, giving sharp single
knocks, and then going into the road and looking
up at the bed-rooms, to see if a light appeared
in them. As you near the City, you meet, if
it be a Monday or Friday morning, droves of
sheep and bullocks, tramping quietly along to
Smithfield, and carrying a fog of steam with
them, while behind, with his hands in his
pockets, and his dog panting at his heels, walks
the sheep-drover.
At the principal entrance to Farringdon-mar-
ket there is an open space, running the entire
length of the railings in front, and extending
from the iron gates at the entrance to the sheds
down the centre of the large paved court before
the shops. In this open space the cresses are
sold, by the salesmen or saleswomen to whom
they are consigned, in the hampers they are
brought in from the country.
The shops in the market are shut, the gas-
lights over the iron gates burn brightly, and
every now and then you hear the half-smothered
crowing of a cock, shut up in some shed or bird-
fancier's shop. Presently a man comes hurry-
ing along, with a can of hot coffee in each hand,
and his stall on his head, and when he has
arranged his stand by the gates, and placed his
white mugs between the railings on the stone
wall, he blows at his charcoal fire, making the
bright sparks fly about at every puff he gives.
By degrees the customers are creeping up, dressed
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before the gates, stamping to warm their feet,
and rubbing their hands together till they grate
like sandpaper. Some of the boys have brought
large hand-baskets, and carry them with the
handles round their necks, covering the head
entirely with the wicker-work as with a hood;
others have their shallows fastened to their
backs with a strap, and one little girl, with the
bottom of her gown tattered into a fringe like a
blacksmith's apron, stands shivering in a large
pair of worn-out Vestris boots, holding in her
blue hands a bent and rusty tea-tray. A few
poor creatures have made friends with the coffee-
man, and are allowed to warm their fingers at
the fire under the cans, and as the heat strikes
into them, they grow sleepy and yawn.
The market — by the time we reach it — has
just begun; one dealer has taken his seat, and
sits motionless with cold — for it wants but a
month to Christmas — with his hands thrust deep
into the pockets of his gray driving coat. Before
him is an opened hamper, with a candle fixed
in the centre of the bright green cresses, and as
it shines through the wicker sides of the basket,
it casts curious patterns on the ground — as a
night shade does. Two or three customers, with
their "shallows" slung over their backs, and
their hands poked into the bosoms of their
gowns, are bending over the hamper, the light
from which tinges their swarthy features, and
they rattle their halfpence and speak coaxingly
to the dealer, to hurry him in their bargains.
Just as the church clocks are striking five,
a stout saleswoman enters the gates, and in-
stantly a country-looking fellow, in a wagoner's
cap and smock-frock, arranges the baskets he
has brought up to London. The other ladies
are soon at their posts, well wrapped up in warm
cloaks, over their thick shawls, and sit with
their hands under their aprons, talking to the
loungers, whom they call by their names. Now
the business commences; the customers come in
by twos and threes, and walk about, looking at
the cresses, and listening to the prices asked.
Every hamper is surrounded by a black crowd,
bending over till their heads nearly meet, their
foreheads and cheeks lighted up by the candle
in the centre. The saleswomen's voices are
heard above the noise of the mob, sharply
answering all objections that may be made to
the quality of their goods. "They're rather
spotty, mum," says an Irishman, as he examines
one of the leaves. "No more spots than a new-
born babe, Dennis," answers the lady tartly, and
then turns to a new comer. At one basket, a
street-seller in an old green cloak, has spread
out a rusty shawl to receive her bunches, and
by her stands her daughter, in a thin cotton
dress, patched like a quilt. "Ah! Mrs. Dol-
land," cried the saleswoman in a gracious tone,
"can you keep yourself warm? it bites the
fingers like biling water, it do." At another
basket, an old man, with long gray hair stream-
ing over a kind of policeman's cape, is bitterly
complaining of the way he has been treated by
another saleswoman. "He bought a lot of her,
the other morning, and by daylight they were
quite white; for he only made threepence on
his best day." "Well, Joe," returns the lady,
"you should come to them as knows you, and
allers treats you well."
These saleswomen often call to each other
from one end of the market to the other. If any
quarrel take place at one of the hampers, as
frequently it does, the next neighbour is sure
to say something. "Pinch him well, Sally,"
cried one saleswoman to another; "pinch him
well; I do when I've a chance." "It's no
use," was the answer; "I might as well try to
pinch a elephant."
One old wrinkled woman, carrying a basket
with an oilcloth bottom, was asked by a buxom
rosy dealer, "Now, Nancy, what's for you?"
But the old dame was surly with the cold, and
sneering at the beauty of the saleswoman, an-
swered, "Why don't you go and get a sweet-
heart; sich as you aint fit for sich as we." This
caused angry words, and Nancy was solemnly
requested "to draw it mild, like a good soul."
As the morning twilight came on, the paved
court was crowded with purchasers. The sheds
and shops at the end of the market grew every
moment more distinct, and a railway-van,
laden with carrots, came rumbling into the
yard. The pigeons, too, began to fly on to the
sheds, or walk about the paving-stones, and
the gas-man came round with his ladder to turn
out the lamps. Then every one was pushing
about; the children crying, as their naked feet
were trodden upon, and the women hurry-
ing off, with their baskets or shawls filled with
cresses, and the bunch of rushes in their hands.
In one corner of the market, busily tying up
their bunches, were three or four girls seated on
the stones, with their legs curled up under them,
and the ground near them was green with the
leaves they had thrown away. A saleswoman,
seeing me looking at the group, said to me,
"Ah! you should come here of a summer's
morning, and then you'd see 'em, sitting tying
up, young and old, upwards of a hundred poor
things as thick as crows in a ploughed field."
As it grew late, and the crowd had thinned;
none but the very poorest of the cress-sellers
were left. Many of these had come without
money, others had their halfpence tied up care-
fully in their shawl-ends, as though they dreaded
the loss. A sickly-looking boy, of about five,
whose head just reached above the hampers,
now crept forward, treading with his blue naked
feet over the cold stones as a cat does over wet
ground. At his elbows and knees, his skin
showed in gashes through the rents in his
clothes, and he looked so frozen, that the buxom
saleswoman called to him, asking if his mother
had gone home. The boy knew her well, for
without answering her question, he went up to
her, and, as he stood shivering on one foot,
said, "Give us a few old cresses, Jinney," and
in a few minutes was running off with a green
bundle under his arm. All of the saleswomen
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stall an old dame, whose rags seemed to be
beyond credit, was paying for some cresses she
had long since been trusted with, and excusing
herself for the time that had passed since the
transaction. As I felt curious on the point
of the honesty of the poor, I asked the sales-
woman when she was alone, whether they lost
much by giving credit. "It couldn't be much,"
she answered, "if they all of them decamped."
But they were generally honest, and paid back,
often reminding her of credit given that she
herself had forgotten. Whenever she lost any-
thing, it was by the very very poor ones;
"though it aint their fault, poor things," she
added in a kindly tone, "for when they keeps
away from here, it's either the workhouse or the
churchyard as stops them."
As you walk home — although the apprentice
is knocking at the master's door — the little
water-cress girls are crying their goods in every
street. Some of them are gathered round the
pumps, washing the leaves and piling up the
bunches in their baskets, that are tattered and
worn as their own clothing; in some of the
shallows the holes at the bottom have been laced
up or darned together with rope and string, or
twigs and split laths have been fastened across;
whilst others are lined with oilcloth, or old pieces
of sheet-tin. Even by the time the cress-market
is over, it is yet so early that the maids are beat-
ing the mats in the road, and mechanics, with
their tool-baskets swung over their shoulders, are
still hurrying to their work. To visit Farring-
don-market early on a Monday morning, is the
only proper way to judge of the fortitude and
courage and perseverance of the poor. As
Douglas Jerrold has beautifully said, "there is
goodness, like wild honey, hived in strange
nooks and corners of the earth." These poor
cress-sellers belong to a class so poor that their
extreme want alone would almost be an excuse
for theft, and they can be trusted paying the
few pence they owe even though they hunger
for it. It must require no little energy of con-
science on the part of the lads to make them
resist the temptations around them, and refuse
the luring advice of the young thieves they meet
at the low lodging-house. And yet they prefer
the early rising — the walk to market with naked
feet along the cold stones — the pinched meal —
and the day's hard labour to earn the few
halfpence — to the thief's comparatively easy
life. The heroism of the unknown poor is
a thing to set even the dullest marvelling, and
in no place in all London is the virtue of the
humblest — both young and old — so conspicuous
as among the watercress-buyers at Farringdon-
market.
OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF WATER-CRESS.
The dealers in water-cresses are generally very
old or very young people, and it is a trade greatly
in the hands of women. The cause of this is,
that the children are sent out by their parents
"to get a loaf of bread somehow" (to use the
words of an old man in the trade), and the very
old take to it because they are unable to do hard
labour, and they strive to keep away from the
workhouse — ("I'd do anything before I'd go
there — sweep the crossings, or anything: but I
should have had to have gone to the house before,
if it hadn't been for my wife. I'm sixty-two,"
said one who had been sixteen years at the trade).
The old people are both men and women. The
men have been sometimes one thing, and some-
times another. "I've been a porter myself," said
one,"jobbing about in the markets, or wherever I
could get a job to do. Then there's one old man
goes about selling water-cresses who's been a
seafaring man; he's very old, he is — older than
what I am, sir. Many a one has been a good
mechanic in his younger days, only he's got too
old for labour. The old women have, many of
them, been laundresses, only they can't now do
the work, you see, and so they're glad to pick
up a crust anyhow. Nelly, I know, has lost her
husband, and she hasn't nothing else but her
few creases to keep her. She's as good, honest,
hard-working a creature as ever were, for what
she can do — poor old soul! The young people
are, most of them, girls. There are some boys,
but girls are generally put to it by the poor
people. There's Mary Macdonald, she's about
fourteen. Her father is a bricklayer's labourer.
He's an Englishman, and he sends little Mary
out to get a halfpenny or two. He gets some-
times a couple of days' work in the week. He
don't get more now, I'm sure, and he's got three
children to keep out of that; so all on 'em that
can work are obligated to do something. The
other two children are so small they can't do
nothing yet. Then there's Louisa; she's about
twelve, and she goes about with creases like I
do. I don't think she's got ne'er a father. I
know she's a mother alive, and she sells creases
like her daughter. The mother's about fifty odd,
I dare say. The sellers generally go about with
an arm-basket, like a greengrocer's at their side,
or a `shallow' in front of them; and plenty of
them carry a small tin tray before them, slung
round their neck. Ah! it would make your
heart ache if you was to go to Farringdon-mar-
ket early, this cold weather, and see the poor
little things there without shoes and stockings,
and their feet quite blue with the cold — oh, that
they are, and many on 'em don't know how
to set one foot before the t'other, poor things'
You would say they wanted something give to
'em."
The small tin tray is generally carried by the
young children. The cresses are mostly bought
in Farringdon-market: "The usual time to go
to the market is between five and six in the
morning, and from that to seven," said one in-
formant; "myself, I am generally down in the
market by five. I was there this morning at five,
and bitter cold it was, I give you my word. We
poor old people feel it dreadful. Years ago I
didn't mind cold, but I feel it now cruel bad, to
be sure. Sometimes, when I'm turning up my
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'em in my hands or not; can't even pick off a
dead leaf. But that's nothing to the poor little
things without shoes. Why, bless you, I've
seen 'em stand and cry two and three together,
with the cold. Ah! my heart has ached for
'em over and over again. I've said to 'em, I
wonder why your mother sends you out, that I
have; and they said they was obligated to try
and get a penny for breakfast. We buy the
water-cresses by the `hand.' One hand will
make about five halfpenny bundles. There's
more call for 'em in the spring of the year than
what there is in the winter. Why, they're
reckoned good for sweetening the blood in the
spring; but, for my own eating, I'd sooner
have the crease in the winter than I would
have it in the spring of the year. There's an
old woman sits in Farringdon-market, of the
name of Burrows, that's sot there twenty-four
years, and she's been selling out creases to us
all that time.
"The sellers goes to market with a few pence.
I myself goes down there and lays out some-
times my 4d.; that's what I laid out this morn-
ing. Sometimes I lay out only 2d. and 3d.,
according as how I has the halfpence in my
pocket. Many a one goes down to the market
with only three halfpence, and glad to have that
to get a halfpenny, or anything, so as to earn a
mouthful of bread — a bellyful that they can't
get no how. Ah, many a time I walked through
the streets, and picked a piece of bread that the
servants chucked out of the door — may be to
the birds. I've gone and picked it up when I've
been right hungry. Thinks I, I can eat that as
well as the birds. None of the sellers ever goes
down to the market with less than a penny.
They won't make less than a pennorth, that's
one `hand,' and if the little thing sells that, she
won't earn more than three halfpence out of it.
After they have bought the creases they gene-
rally take them to the pump to wet them. I
generally pump upon mine in Hatton-garden.
It's done to make them look nice and fresh all
the morning, so that the wind shouldn't make
them flag. You see they've been packed all
night in the hamper, and they get dry. Some
ties them up in ha'porths as they walks along.
Many of them sit down on the steps of St.
Andrew's Church and make them up into
bunches. You'll see plenty of them there of a
morning between five and six. Plenty, poor
little dear souls, sitting there," said the old man
to me. There the hand is parcelled out into five
halfpenny bunches. In the summer the dealers
often go to market and lay out as much as 1s.
"On Saturday morning, this time of year, I
buys as many as nine hands — there's more call
for 'em on Saturday and Sunday morning than
on any other days; and we always has to buy
on Saturdays what we want for Sundays — there
an't no market on that day, sir. At the market
sufficient creases are bought by the sellers for
the morning and afternoon as well. In the
morning some begin crying their creases through
the streets at half-past six, and others about
seven. They go to different parts, but there is
scarcely a place but what some goes to — there
are so many of us now — there's twenty to one
to what there used to be. Why, they're so thick
down at the market in the summer time, that
you might bowl balls along their heads, and all
a fighting for the creases. There's a regular
scramble, I can assure you, to get at 'em, so as
to make a halfpenny out of them. I should
think in the spring mornings there's 400 or 500
on 'em down at Farringdon-market all at one
time — between four and five in the morning — if
not more than that, and as fast as they keep
going out, others keep coming in. I think
there is more than a thousand, young and old,
about the streets in the trade. The working
classes are the principal of the customers. The
bricklayers, and carpenters, and smiths, and
plumbers, leaving work and going home to
breakfast at eight o'clock, purchase the chief
part of them. A great many are sold down
the courts and mews, and bye streets, and
very few are got rid of in the squares and
the neighbourhood of the more respectable
houses. Many are sold in the principal
thoroughfares — a large number in the City.
There is a man who stands close to the Post-
office, at the top of Newgate-street, winter and
summer, who sells a great quantity of bunches
every morning. This man frequently takes
between 4s. and 5s. of a winter's morning, and
about 10s. a day in the summer." "Sixteen
years ago," said the old man who gave me the
principal part of this information, "I could
come out and take my 18s. of a Saturday morn-
ing, and 5s. on a Sunday morning as well; but
now I think myself very lucky if I can take my
1s. 3d., and it's only on two mornings in the
week that I can get that." The hucksters of
watercresses are generally an honest, indus-
trious, striving class of persons. The young
girls are said to be well-behaved, and to be the
daughters of poor struggling people. The old
men and women are persons striving to save
themselves from the workhouse. The old and
young people generally travel nine and ten
miles in the course of the day. They start off
to market at four and five, and are out on their
morning rounds from seven till nine, and on
their afternoon rounds from half-past two to five
in the evening. They travel at the rate of two
miles an hour. "If it wasn't for my wife, I
must go to the workhouse outright," said the
old watercress man. "Ah, I do'nt know what
I should do without her, I can assure you. She
earns about 1s. 3d. a day. She takes in a little
washing, and keeps a mangle. When I'm at
home I turn the mangle for her. The mangle
is my own. When my wife's mother was alive
she lent us the money to buy it, and as we
earnt the money we paid her back so much a
week. It is that what has kept us together, or
else we shouldn't have been as we are. The
mangle we give 50s. for, and it brings us in now
1s. 3d. a day with the washing. My wife is
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years old. We have got two children. One is
thirteen and the other fifteen. They've both got
learning, and are both in situations. I always
sent 'em to school. Though I can't neither
read nor write myself, I wished to make them
some little scholards. I paid a penny a week
for 'em at the school. Lady M — has always
given me my Christmas dinner for the last five
years, and God bless her for it — that I do say
indeed."
WATERCRESS GIRL.
The little watercress girl who gave me the
following statement, although only eight years
of age, had entirely lost all childish ways, and
was, indeed, in thoughts and manner, a woman.
There was something cruelly pathetic in hearing
this infant, so young that her features had
scarcely formed themselves, talking of the bit-
terest struggles of life, with the calm earnest-
ness of one who had endured them all. I did
not know how to talk with her. At first I
treated her as a child, speaking on childish sub-
jects; so that I might, by being familiar with
her, remove all shyness, and get her to narrate
her life freely. I asked her about her toys and
her games with her companions; but the look
of amazement that answered me soon put an
end to any attempt at fun on my part. I then
talked to her about the parks, and whether she
ever went to them. "The parks!" she replied
in wonder, "where are they?" I explained
to her, telling her that they were large open
places with green grass and tall trees, where
beautiful carriages drove about, and people
walked for pleasure, and children played. Her
eyes brightened up a little as I spoke; and
she asked, half doubtingly, "Would they let
such as me go there — just to look?" All her
knowledge seemed to begin and end with water-
cresses, and what they fetched. She knew no
more of London than that part she had seen on
her rounds, and believed that no quarter of the
town was handsomer or pleasanter than it was at
Farringdon-market or at Clerkenwell, where she
lived. Her little face, pale and thin with priva-
tion, was wrinkled where the dimples ought to
have been, and she would sigh frequently. When
some hot dinner was offered to her, she would
not touch it, because, if she eat too much, "it
made her sick," she said; "and she wasn't
used to meat, only on a Sunday."
The poor child, although the weather was
severe, was dressed in a thin cotton gown, with
a threadbare shawl wrapped round her shoulders.
She wore no covering to her head, and the long
rusty hair stood out in all directions. When she
walked she shuffled along, for fear that the
large carpet slippers that served her for shoes
should slip off her feet.
"I go about the streets with water-creases,
crying, `Four bunches a penny, water-creases.'
I am just eight years old — that's all, and I've a
big sister, and a brother and a sister younger
than I am. On and off, I've been very near a
twelvemonth in the streets. Before that, I had
to take care of a baby for my aunt. No, it
wasn't heavy — it was only two months old; but
I minded it for ever such a time — till it could
walk. It was a very nice little baby, not a very
pretty one; but, if I touched it under the chin,
it would laugh. Before I had the baby, I used
to help mother, who was in the fur trade; and,
if there was any slits in the fur, I'd sew them
up. My mother learned me to needle-work and
to knit when I was about five. I used to go to
school, too; but I wasn't there long. I've forgot
all about it now, it's such a time ago; and mother
took me away because the master whacked me,
though the missus use'n't to never touch me. I
didn't like him at all. What do you think? he
hit me three times, ever so hard, across the face
with his cane, and made me go dancing down
stairs; and when mother saw the marks on my
cheek, she went to blow him up, but she couldn't
see him — he was afraid. That's why I left
school.
"The creases is so bad now, that I haven't
been out with 'em for three days. They're so
cold, people won't buy 'em; for when I goes up
to them, they say, `They'll freeze our bellies.'
Besides, in the market, they won't sell a ha'penny
handful now — they're ris to a penny and tup-
pence. In summer there's lots, and 'most as
cheap as dirt; but I have to be down at Far-
ringdon-market between four and five, or else I
can't get any creases, because everyone almost
— especially the Irish — is selling them, and
they're picked up so quick. Some of the sales-
women — we never calls 'em ladies — is very kind
to us children, and some of them altogether
spiteful. The good one will give you a bunch
for nothing, when they're cheap; but the others,
cruel ones, if you try to bate them a farden less
than they ask you, will say, `Go along with you,
you're no good.' I used to go down to market
along with another girl, as must be about four-
teen, 'cos she does her back hair up. When we've
bought a lot, we sits down on a door-step, and
ties up the bunches. We never goes home to
breakfast till we've sold out; but, if it's very
late, then I buys a penn'orth of pudden, which
is very nice with gravy. I don't know hardly
one of the people, as goes to Farringdon, to talk
to; they never speaks to me, so I don't speak to
them. We children never play down there, 'cos
we're thinking of our living. No; people never
pities me in the street — excepting one gentleman,
and he says, says he, `What do you do out so
soon in the morning?' but he gave me nothink
— he only walked away.
"It's very cold before winter comes on reg'-
lar — specially getting up of a morning. I gets
up in the dark by the light of the lamp in the
court. When the snow is on the ground, there's
no creases. I bears the cold — you must; so I
puts my hands under my shawl, though it hurts
'em to take hold of the creases, especially when
we takes 'em to the pump to wash 'em. No; I
never see any children crying — it's no use.
"Sometimes I make a great deal of money.
[Description: 915EAF. Page 152.]
oftener makes 3d. or 4d. than 1s.; and then I'm
at work, crying, `Creases, four bunches a penny,
creases!' from six in the morning to about ten.
What do you mean by mechanics? — I don't
know what they are. The shops buys most of
me. Some of 'em says, `Oh! I ain't a-goin' to
give a penny for these;' and they want 'em at
the same price as I buys 'em at.
"I always give mother my money, she's so
very good to me. She don't often beat me; but,
when she do, she don't play with me. She's
very poor, and goes out cleaning rooms some-
times, now she don't work at the fur. I ain't
got no father, he's a father-in-law. No; mother
ain't married again — he's a father-in-law. He
grinds scissors, and he's very good to me. No;
I dont mean by that that he says kind things to
me, for he never hardly speaks. When I gets
home, after selling creases, I stops at home. I
puts the room to rights: mother don't make me
do it, I does it myself. I cleans the chairs,
though there's only two to clean. I takes a tub
and scrubbing-brush and flannel, and scrubs the
floor — that's what I do three or four times a
week.
"I don't have no dinner. Mother gives me
two slices of bread-and-butter and a cup of tea
for breakfast, and then I go till tea, and has the
same. We has meat of a Sunday, and, of course,
I should like to have it every day. Mother has
just the same to eat as we has, but she takes
more tea — three cups, sometimes. No; I never
has no sweet-stuff; I never buy none — I don't
like it. Sometimes we has a game of `honey-
pots' with the girls in the court, but not often.
Me and Carry H — carries the little 'uns. We
plays, too, at `kiss-in-the-ring.' I knows a good
many games, but I don't play at 'em, 'cos going
out with creases tires me. On a Friday night,
too, I goes to a Jew's house till eleven o'clock
on Saturday night. All I has to do is to snuff
the candles and poke the fire. You see they
keep their Sabbath then, and they won't touch
anything; so they gives me my wittals and 1½d.,
and I does it for 'em. I have a reg'lar good lot
to eat. Supper of Friday night, and tea after
that, and fried fish of a Saturday morning, and
meat for dinner, and tea, and supper, and I like
it very well.
"Oh, yes; I've got some toys at home. I've
a fire-place, and a box of toys, and a knife and
fork, and two little chairs. The Jews gave 'em
to me where I go to on a Friday, and that's why
I said they was very kind to me. I never had
no doll; but I misses little sister — she's only
two years old. We don't sleep in the same room;
for father and mother sleeps with little sister in
the one pair, and me and brother and other sis-
ter sleeps in the top room. I always goes to
bed at seven, 'cos I has to be up so early.
"I am a capital hand at bargaining — but
only at buying watercreases. They can't take
me in. If the woman tries to give me a small
handful of creases, I says, `I ain't a goin' to
have that for a ha'porth,' and I go to the next
basket, and so on, all round. I know the
quantities very well. For a penny I ought to
have a full market hand, or as much as I could
carry in my arms at one time, without spilling.
For 3d. I has a lap full, enough to earn about
a shilling; and for 6d. I gets as many as crams
my basket. I can't read or write, but I knows
how many pennies goes to a shilling, why,
twelve, of course, but I don't know how many
ha'pence there is, though there's two to a penny.
When I've bought 3d. of creases, I ties 'em up
into as many little bundles as I can. They
must look biggish, or the people won't buy
them, some puffs them out as much as they'll
go. All my money I earns I puts in a club
and draws it out to buy clothes with. It's
better than spending it in sweet-stuff, for them
as has a living to earn. Besides it's like a child
to care for sugar-sticks, and not like one who's
got a living and vittals to earn. I aint a child,
and I shan't be a woman till I'm twenty, but
I'm past eight, I am. I don't know nothing
about what I earns during the year, I only
know how many pennies goes to a shilling, and
two ha'pence goes to a penny, and four fardens
goes to a penny. I knows, too, how many
fardens goes to tuppence — eight. That's as
much as I wants to know for the markets."
The market returns I have obtained show the
following result of the quantity vended in the
streets, and of the receipts by the cress-sellers: —
| Market | Quantity sold wholesale. |
Proportion retailed in the Streets. |
| Covent Garden | 1,578,000 bunches | one-eighth. |
| Farringdon | 12,960,000 " | one-half. |
| Borough | 180,000 " | one-half. |
| Spitalfields | 180,000 " | one-half. |
| Portman | 60,000 " | one-third. |
| Total | 14,958,000 " |
From this sale the street cress-sellers re-
ceive: —
| Bunches. | Receipts | |
| Farringdon | 6,480,000 ½d. per bunch | \cp\13,500 |
| Covent Garden | 16,450 " | 34 |
| Borough | 90,000 " | 187 |
| Spitalfields | 90,000 " | 187 |
| Portman | 20,000 " | 41 |
| \cp\13,949 |
The discrepancy in the quantity sold in the
respective markets is to be accounted for by the
fact, that Farringdon is the water-cress market
to which are conveyed the qualities, large-
[Description: 915EAF. Page 153.]
Of this description of cress they purchase one-
half of all that is sold in Farringdon; of the
finer, and smaller, and brown-leaved cress sold
there, they purchase hardly any. At Covent
Garden only the finer sorts of cress are in
demand, and, consequently, the itinerants buy
only an eighth in that market, and they are not
encouraged there. They purchase half the
quantity in the Borough, and the same in Spital-
fields, and a third at Portman. I have before
mentioned that 500 might be taken as the
number supported by the sale of "creases;"
that is, 500 families, or at least 1,000 indi-
viduals. The total amount received is nearly
14,000l., and this apportioned among 1,000
street-sellers, gives a weekly receipt of 5s. 5d., with a profit of 3s. 3d. per individual.
The discrepancy is further accounted for
because the other market salesmen buy cresses
at Farringdon; but I have given under the head
of Farringdon all that is sold to those other
markets to be disposed to the street-sellers, and
the returns from the other markets are of the
cresses carried direct there, apart from any
purchases at Farringdon.
OF GROUNDSEL AND CHICKWEED SELLERS.
On a former occasion (in the Morning Chronicle)
I mentioned that I received a letter inform-
ing me that a woman, residing in one of the
courts about Saffron-hill, was making braces,
and receiving only 1s. for four dozen of them. I
was assured she was a most deserving character,
strictly sober, and not receiving parochial relief.
"Her husband," my informant added, "was
paralysed, and endeavoured to assist his family
by gathering green food for birds. They are in
deep distress, but their character is irreproach-
able." I found the couple located up a court,
the entrance to which was about as narrow as
the opening to a sentry-box, and on each side
lolled groups of labourers and costermongers,
with short black pipes in their mouths. As I
dived into the court, a crowd followed me to see
whither I was going. The brace-maker lived
on the first floor of a crazy, fœtid house. I
ascended the stairs, and the banisters, from
which the rails had all been purloined, gave
way in my hands. I found the woman, man,
and their family busy at their tea-dinner. In
a large broken chair, beside the fire-place, was
the old paralysed man, dressed in a ragged
greasy fustian coat, his beard unshorn, and his
hair in the wildest disorder. On the edge of
the bed sat a cleanly looking woman, his wife,
with a black apron on. Standing by the table
was a blue-eyed laughing and shoeless boy,
with an old camlet cape pinned over his shoul-
ders. Next him was a girl in a long grey pin-
afore, with her hair cut close to her head, with
the exception of a few locks in front, which
hung down over her forehead like a dirty fringe.
On a chair near the window stood a basket half
full of chickweed and groundsel, and two large
cabbages. There was a stuffed linnet on the
mantel-piece and an empty cage hanging out-
side the window. In front of the window-sill
was the small imitation of a gate and palings,
so popular among the workpeople. On the
table were a loaf, a few mugs of milkless tea
and a small piece of butter in a saucer. I had
scarcely entered when the mother began to re-
move the camlet cape from the boy's shoulders,
and to slip a coarse clean pinafore over his
head instead. At present I have only to deal
with the trade of the husband, who made the
following statement:
"I sell chickweed and grunsell, and turfs
for larks. That's all I sell, unless it's a few
nettles that's ordered. I believe they're for tea,
sir. I gets the chickweed at Chalk Farm. I
pay nothing for it. I gets it out of the public
fields. Every morning about seven I goes for
it. The grunsell a gentleman gives me leave
to get out of his garden: that's down Battle-
bridge way, in the Chalk-road, leading to Hol-
loway. I gets there every morning about nine.
I goes there straight. After I have got my chick-
weed, I generally gathers enough of each to make
up a dozen halfpenny bunches. The turfs I
buys. A young man calls here with them. I
pay 2d. a dozen for 'em to him. He gets them
himself. Sometimes he cuts 'em at Kilburn
Wells; and Notting-hill he goes to sometimes,
I believe. He hires a spring barrow, weekly,
to take them about. He pays 4d. a day, I be-
lieve, for the barrow. He sells the turfs to the
bird-shops, and to such as me. He sells a
few to some private places. I gets the nettles
at Highgate. I don't do much in the nettle
line — there ain't much call for it. After I've
gathered my things I puts them in my basket,
and slings 'em at my back, and starts round
London. Low Marrabun I goes to always of a
Saturday and Wednesday. I goes to St. Pan-
cras on a Tuesday. I visit Clerkenwell, and
Russell-square, and round about there, on a
Monday. I goes down about Covent-garden
and the Strand on a Thursday. I does High
Marrabun on a Friday, because I aint able to
do so much on that day, for I gathers my stuff
on the Friday for Saturday. I find Low Mar-
rabun the best of my beats. I cry `chickweed
and grunsell' as I goes along. I don't say `for
young singing birds.' It is usual, I know, but
I never did. I've been at the business about
eighteen year. I'm out in usual till about five
in the evening. I never stop to eat. I'm walk-
ing all the time. I has my breakfast afore I
starts, and my tea when I comes home." Here
the woman shivered. I turned round and found
the fire was quite out. I asked them whether
they usually sat without one. The answer was,
"We most generally raise a pennyworth, some
how, just to boil the kettle with." I inquired
whether she was cold, and she assured me she
wasn't. "It was the blood," she said, "that
ran through her like ice sometimes." "I am a
walking ten hours every day — wet or dry," the
man continued. "I don't stand nice much
about that. I can't go much above one mile
[Description: 915EAF. Page 154.]
ing paralysed. My leg and foot and all is
quite dead. I goes with a stick." [The wife
brought the stick out from a corner of the room
to show me. It was an old peculiarly carved
one, with a bird rudely cut out of wood for the
handle, and a snake twisting itself up the stick.]
"I walk fifteen miles every day of my life, that
I do — quite that — excepting Sunday, in course.
I generally sell the chickweed and grunsell and
turfs, all to the houses, not to the shops. The
young man as cut the turf gathers grunsell as
well for the shops. They're tradespeople and
gentlefolks' houses together that I sells to — such
as keeps canaries, or goldfinches, or linnets. I
charge ½d. a bunch for chickweed and grunsell
together. It's the regular charge. The net-
tles is ordered in certain quantities; I don't get
them unless they're ordered: I sells these in
three-pennn'orths at a time. Why, Saturday
is my best day, and that's the reason why I
can't spare time to gather on that day. On
Saturday I dare say I gets rid on two dozen
bunches of chickweed and grunsell. On the
other days, sometimes, I goes out and don't sell
above five or six bunches; at other times I get
rid on a dozen; that I call a tidy day's work
for any other day but a Saturday, and some days
I don't sell as much as a couple of bunches in
the whole day. Wednesday is my next best day
after Saturday. On a Wednesday, sometimes,
I sell a dozen and a half. In the summer I
does much better than in winter. They gives
it more to the birds then, and changes it oftener.
I've seed a matter of eight or nine people that
sell chickweed and grunsell like myself in the
fields where I goes to gather it. They mostly
all goes to where I do to get mine. They are
a great many that sells grunsell about the streets
in London, like I do. I dare say there is a
hundred, and far more nor that, taking one place
with another. I takes my nettles to ladies'
houses. They considers the nettles good for the
blood, and drinks 'em at tea, mostly in the
spring and autumn. In the spring I generally
sells three threepenn' orths of 'em a week, and
in the autumn about two threepenn'orths. The
ladies I sell the nettles to are mostly sickly, but
sometimes they aint, and has only a breaking out
in the skin, or in their face. The nettles are
mostly taken in Low Marrabun. I gathers
more than all for Great Titchfield-street. The
turfs I sell mostly in London-street, in Marra-
bun and John-street, and Carburton-street, and
Portland-street, and Berners, and all about
there. I sells about three dozen of turfs a
week. I sells them at three and four a penny.
I charges them at three a penny to gentlefolks
and four a penny to tradespeople. I pays 2d. a
dozen for 'em and so makes from 1d. to 2d. a
dozen out of 'em. I does trifling with these in
the winter — about two dozen a week, but always
three dozen in the summer. Of the chickweed
and grunsell I sells from six to seven dozen
bunches a week in the summer, and about four
or five dozen bunches in the winter. I sells
mostly to regular customers, and a very few to
chance ones that meet me in the street. The
chance customers come mostly in the summer
times. Altogether I should say with my regu-
lar and chance customers I make from 4s. to 5s. a week in the summer, and from 3s. to 4s. in the
winter. That's as near as I can tell. LastMon-
day I was out all day, and took 1½d.; Tuesday
I took about 5½d.; Wednesday I got 9½d.; Thursday I can't hardly recollect, not to tell
the truth about it. But oh, dear me, yes I
wasn't allowed to go out on that day. We was
given to understand nothing was allowed to be
sold on that day. They told us it were the
Thanksgiving-day. I was obliged to fast on
that day. We did have a little in the morning,
a trifle, but not near enough. Friday I came
home with nigh upon 6d., and Saturday I got
1s., and 3d. after when I went out at night. I
goes into Leather-lane every Saturday night, and
stands with my basket there, so that altogether,
last week I made 3s. 1½d. But that was a slack
week with me, owing to my having lost Thurs-
day. If it hadn't been for that I should have
made near upon 4s. We felt the loss very
severely. Prices have come down dreadful
with us. The same bunches as I sell now for
½d. I used to get 1d. for nine or ten years ago.
I dare say I could earn then, take one day with
another, such a thing as 7s. a week, summer
and winter through. There's so many at it
now to what there was afore, that it's difficult
to get a living, and the ladies are very hard with
a body. They tries to beat me down, and par-
ticular in the matter of turfs. They tell me
they can buy half-a-dozen for 1d., so I'm obli-
gated to let 'em have three or four. There's a
many women at the business. I hardly know
which is the most, men or women. There's
pretty nigh as much of one as the other, I
think. I am a bed-sacking weaver by trade.
When I worked at it I used to get 15s. a week
regularly. But I was struck with paralysis
nearly nineteen years ago, and lost the use of
all one side, so I was obleeged to turn to sum-
mut else. Another grunseller told me on the
business, and what he got, and I thought I
couldn't do no better. That's a favourite linnet.
We had that one stuffed there. A young man
that I knew stuffed it for me. I was very sorry
when the poor thing died. I've got another
little linnet up there." "I'm particular fond
of little birds," said the wife. "I never was
worse off than I am now. I pays 2s. a week
rent, and we has, take one time with another,
about 3s. for the four of us to subsist upon for
the whole seven days; yes, that, take one time
with another, is generally what I do have. We
very seldom has any meat. This day week we
got a pound of pieces. I gave 4d. for 'em.
Everything that will pledge I've got in pawn.
I've been obliged to let them go. I can't
exactly say how much I've got in pledge, but
you can see the tickets." [The wife brought
out a tin box full of duplicates. They were for
the usual articles — coats, shawls, shirts, sheets,
[Description: 915EAF. Page 155.]
wearing-apparel and bedding. The sums lent
were mostly 6d. and 9d., while some ran as high
as 2s. The dates of many were last year, and
these had been backed for three months.]
"I've been paying interest for many of the
things there for seven years. I pay for the
backing 2½d., that is 1d. for the backing, and
1½d. for the three months' interest. I pay 6d. a
year interest on every one of the tickets. If its
only 3d., I have to pay ½d. a month interest just
the same, but nothing for the ticket when we
put it in." The number of duplicates was 26,
and the gross sum amounted to 1l. 4s. 8d. One
of the duplicates was for 4d.; nine were for 6d., two for 9d., nine were for 1s., two for 1s. 6d., one for 1s. 3d., one for 1s. 7d. and two for 2s.
"The greatest comfort I should like to have
would be something more on our beds. We
lay dreadful cold of a night, on account of
being thin clad. I have no petticoats at all.
We have no blankets — of late years I haven't
had any. The warm clothing would be the
greatest blessing I could ask. I'm not at all
discontented at my lot. That wouldn't mend
it. We strive and do the best we can, and may
as well be contented over it. I think its God's
will we should be as we are. Providence is
kind to me, even badly off as we are. I know
it's all for the best."
There are no "pitches," or stands, for the
sale of groundsel in the streets; but, from the
best information I could acquire, there are now
1,000 itinerants selling groundsel, each person
selling, as an average, 18 bunches a day. We
thus have 5,616,000 bunches a year, which, at
½d. each, realise 11,700l. — about 4s. 2d. per week
per head of sellers of groundsel. The "oldest
hand" in the trade is the man whose state-
ment and likeness I give. The sale continues
through the year, but "the groundsel" season
extends from April to September; in those
months 24 bunches, per individual seller, is the
extent of the traffic, in the other months half
that quantity, giving the average of 18 bunches.
The capital required for groundsel-selling is
4d. for a brown wicker-basket; leather strap to
sling it from the shoulder, 6d.; in all, 10d. No
knife is necessary; they pluck the groundsel.
Chickweed is only sold in the summer, and is
most generally mixed with groundsel and plan-
tain. The chickweed and plantain, together, are
but half the sale of groundsel, and that only for
five months, adding, to the total amount, 2,335l.
But this adds little to the profits of the regular
itinerants; for, when there is the best demand,
there are the greatest number of sellers, who in
winter seek some other business. The total
amount of "green stuff" expended upon birds,
as supplied by the street-sellers, I give at the
close of my account of the trade of those pur-
veyors.
Many of the groundsel and chickweed-sellers
— for the callings are carried on together — who
are aged men, were formerly brimstone-match
sellers, who "didn't like to take to the lucifers."
On the publication of this account in the
Morning Chronicle, several sums were forwarded
to the office of that journal for the benefit of
this family. These were the means of removing
them to a more comfortable home, of redeeming
their clothing, and in a measure realizing the
wishes of the poor woman.
OF TURF CUTTING AND SELLING.
A man long familiar with this trade, and who
knew almost every member of it individually,
counted for me 36 turf-cutters, to his own know-
ledge, and was confident that there were 40 turf-
cutters and 60 sellers in London; the addition
of the sellers, however, is but that of 10 women,
who assist their husbands or fathers in the street
sales, — but no women cut turf, — and of 10 men
who sell, but buy of the cutters.
The turf is simply a sod, but it is considered
indispensable that it should contain the leaves
of the "small Dutch clover," (the shamrock of
the Irish), the most common of all the trefoils.
The turf is used almost entirely for the food and
roosting-place of the caged sky-larks. Indeed
one turf-cutter said to me: "It's only people
that don't understand it that gives turf to other
birds, but of course if we're asked about it, we
say it's good for every bird, pigeons and chickens
and all; and very likely it is if they choose to
have it." The principal places for the cutting
of turf are at present Shepherd's Bush, Notting
Hill, the Caledonian Road, Hampstead, High-
gate, Hornsey, Peckham, and Battersea. Chalk
Farm was an excellent place, but it is now
exhausted, "fairly flayed" of the shamrocks.
Parts of Camden Town were also fertile in turf,
but they have been built over. Hackney was a
district to which the turf-cutters resorted, but
they are now forbidden to cut sods there. Hamp-
stead Heath used to be another harvest-field for
these turf-purveyors, but they are now prohibited
from "so much as sticking a knife into the
Heath;" but turf-cutting is carried on surrepti-
tiously on all the outskirts of the Heath, for
there used to be a sort of feeling, I was told,
among some real Londoners that Hampstead
Heath yielded the best turf of any place. All
the "commons" and "greens," Paddington,
Camberwell, Kennington, Clapham, Putney, &c.
are also forbidden ground to the turf-cutter.
"O, as to the parks and Primrose Hill itself —
round about it's another thing — nobody," it was
answered to my inquiry, "ever thought of cut-
ting their turf there. The people about, if they
was only visitors, wouldn't stand it, and right
too. I wouldn't, if I wasn't in the turf-cutting
myself."
The places where the turf is principally cut
are the fields, or plots, in the suburbs, in which
may be seen a half-illegible board, inviting the
attention of the class of speculating builders to
an "eligible site" for villas. Some of these
places are open, and have long been open, to
the road; others are protected by a few crazy
rails, and the turf-cutters consider that outside
the rails, or between them and the road, they
[Description: 915EAF. Page 156.]
police. The fact is, that they cut it on sufferance;
but the policeman never interferes, unless re-
quired to do so by the proprietor of the land or
his agent. One gentleman, who has the control
over a considerable quantity of land "eligible"
for building, is very inimical to the pursuits of
the turf-cutters, who, of course, return his hos-
tility. One man told me that he was required,
late on a Saturday night, some weeks ago, to
supply six dozen of turfs to a very respectable
shopkeeper, by ten or eleven on the Sunday
morning. The shopkeeper had an aristocratic
connection, and durst not disappoint his custom-
ers in their demands for fresh turf on the Sun-
day, so that the cutter must supply it. In
doing so, he encountered Mr. — (the gentle-
man in question), who was exceedingly angry
with him: "You d — d poaching thief!" said
the gentleman, "if this is the way you pass your
Sunday, I'll give you in charge." One turf-
cutter, I was informed, had, within these eight
years, paid 3l. 15s. fines for trespassing, besides
losing his barrow, &c., on every conviction:
"But he's a most outdacious fellor," I was told
by one of his mates, "and won't mind spoiling
anybody's ground to save hisself a bit of trouble.
There's too many that way, which gives us a bad
name." Some of the managers of the land to be
built upon give the turf-cutters free leave to
labour in their vocation; others sell the sods for
garden-plots, or use them to set out the gar-
dens to any small houses they may be connected
with, and with them the turf-cutters have no
chance of turning a sod or a penny.
I accompanied a turf-cutter, to observe the
manner of his work. We went to the neighbour-
hood of Highgate, which we reached a little
before nine in the morning. There was nothing
very remarkable to be observed, but the scene
was not without its interest. Although it was
nearly the middle of January, the grass was
very green and the weather very mild. There
happened to be no one on the ground but my
companion and myself, and in some parts of our
progress nothing was visible but green fields
with their fringe of dark-coloured leafless trees;
while in other parts, which were somewhat more
elevated, glimpses of the crowded roof of an
omnibus, or of a line of fleecy white smoke,
showing the existence of a railway, testified to
the neighbourhood of a city; but no sound was
heard except, now and then, a distant railway
whistle. The turf-cutter, after looking carefully
about him — the result of habit, for I was told
afterwards, by the policeman, that there was no
trespass — set rapidly to work. His apparatus
was a sharp-pointed table-knife of the ordinary
size, which he inserted in the ground, and made
it rapidly describe a half-circle; he then as
rapidly ran his implement in the opposite half-
circle. flung up the sod, and, after slapping it
with his knife, cut off the lower part so as to
leave it flat — working precisely as does a butcher
cutting out a joint or a chop, and reducing the
fat. Small holes are thus left in the ground —
of such shape and size as if deep saucers were
to be fitted into them — and in the event of a
thunder-shower in droughty weather, they be-
come filled with water, and have caused a puzzle-
ment, I am told, to persons taking their quiet
walk when the storm had ceased, to comprehend
why the rain should be found to gather in little
circular pools in some parts, and not in others.
The man I accompanied cut and shaped six
of these turfs in about a minute, but he worked
without intermission, and rather to show me
with what rapidity and precision he could cut,
than troubling himself to select what was sale-
able. After that we diverged in the direction
of Hampstead; and in a spot not far from a
temporary church, found three turf-cutters at
work, — but they worked asunder, and without
communication one with another. The turfs, as
soon as they are cut and shaped, are thrown into
a circular basket, and when the basket is full
it is emptied on to the barrow (a costermonger's
barrow), which is generally left untended at the
nearest point: "We can trust one another, as
far as I know," said one turf-man to me, "and
nobody else would find it worth while to steal
turfs." The largest number of men that my
most intelligent informant had ever seen at work
in one locality was fourteen, and that was in a
field just about to be built over, and "where
they had leave." Among the turf-purveyors
there is no understanding as to where they are
to "cut." Wet weather does not interfere with
turf procuring; it merely adds to the weight,
and consequently to the toil of drawing the
barrow. Snow is rather an advantage to the
street-seller, as purchasers are apt to fancy that
if the storm continues, turfs will not be obtain-
able, and so they buy more freely. The turf-
man clears the snow from the ground in any
known locality — the cold pinching his ungloved
hands — and cuts out the turf, "as green," I was
told, "as an April sod." The weather most
dreaded is that when hoar frost lies long and
heavy on the ground, for the turf cut with the
rime upon it soon turns black, and is unsaleable.
Foggy dark weather is also prejudicial, "for
then," one man said, "the days clips it uncom-
mon short, and people won't buy by candlelight,
no more will the shops. Birds has gone to sleep
then, and them that's fondest on them says,
`We can get fresher turf to-morrow.' " The
gatherers cannot work by moonlight; "for the
clover leaves then shuts up," I was told by one
who said he was a bit of a botanist, "like the
lid of a box, and you can't tell them."
One of my informants told me that he cut
25 dozen turfs every Friday (the great working
turf-day) of the year on an average (he some-
times cut on that day upwards of 30 dozen);
17 dozen on a Tuesday; and 6 dozen on the
other days of the week, more or less, as the
demand justified — but 6 dozen was an average.
He had also cut a few turfs on a Sunday morn-
ing, but only at long intervals, sometimes only
thrice a year. Thus one man will cut 2,496
dozen, or 29,952 turfs in a year, not reckoning
[Description: 915EAF. Page 157.]
information I could acquire, there seems no
doubt but that one-half of the turf-cutters (20)
exert a similar degree of industry to that de-
tailed; and the other 20 procure a moiety of the
quantity cut and disposed of by their stronger
and more fortunate brethren. This gives an
aggregate, for an average year, of 598,560 turfs,
or including Sunday turf-cutting, of 600,000.
Each turf is about 6 inches diameter at the
least; so that the whole extent of turf cut for
London birds yearly, if placed side by side,
would extend fifty-six miles, or from London to
Canterbury.
In wet weather, 6 dozen turfs weigh, on an
average, 1 cwt.; in dry weather, 8 dozen weigh
no more; if, therefore, we take 7 dozen as the
usual hundred-weight, a turf-cutter of the best
class carries, in basket-loads, to his barrow, and
when his stock is completed, drags into town
from the localities I have specified, upwards
of 3½ cwt. every Friday, nearly 2½ every Tues-
day, and about 7 cwt. in the course of a week;
the smaller traders drag half the quantity, — and
the total weight of turf disposed of for the cage-
birds of London, every year, is 546 tons.
Of the supply of turf, obtained as I have
described, at least three-fourths is sold to the
bird-shops, who retail it to their customers. The
price paid by these shopkeepers to the labourers
for their turf trade is 2d. and 2½d. a dozen, but
rarely 2½d. They retail it at from 3d. to 6d.
a dozen, according to connection and locality.
The remainder is sold by the cutters on their
rounds from house to house, at two and three a
penny.
None of the turf-cutters confine themselves
to it. They sell in addition groundsel, chick-
weed, plaintain, very generally; and a few sup-
ply nettles, dandelion, ground-ivy, snails, worms,
frogs, and toads. The sellers of groundsel and
chickweed are far more numerous, as I have
shown, than the turf-cutters — indeed many of
them are incapable of cutting turf or of drag-
ging the weight of the turfs.
OF THE EXPERIENCE AND CUSTOMERS OF
A TURF-CUTTER.
A short but strongly-built man, of about thirty,
with a very English face, and dressed in a
smock-frock, wearing also very strong unblacked
boots, gave me the following account: —
"My father," he said, "was in the Earl of
— 's service, and I was brought up to stable-
work. I was employed in a large coaching inn,
in Lancashire, when I was last employed in
that way, but about ten years ago a railway line
was opened, and the coaching was no go any
longer; it hadn't a chance to pay, so the horses
and all was sold, and I was discharged with a
lot of others. I walked from Manchester to
London — for I think most men when they don't
know what in the world to do, come to London —
and I lived a few months on what little money
I had, and what I could pick up in an odd job
about horses. I had some expectations when
I came up that I might get something to do
through my lord, or some of his people — they
all knew me: but my lord was abroad, and his
establishment wasn't in town, and I had to
depend entirely on myself. I was beat out three
or four times, and didn't know what to do, but
somehow or other I got over it. At last — it's
between eight and nine years ago — I was fairly
beat out. I was taking a walk — I can't say just
now in what way I went, for it was all one
which way — but I remember I saw a man cut-
ting turf, and I remembered then that a man
that lived near me lived pretty middling by
turf-cutting. So I watched how it was done,
and then I inquired how I could get into it, and
as I'd paid my way I could give reference to
show I might be trusted; so I got a barrow on
hire, and a basket, and bought a knife for 3d. at
a marine-shop, and set to work. At first I only
supplied shops, but in a little time I fell into a
private round, and that pays better. I've been
at it almost every day, I may say, ever since.
My best customers are working people that's
fond of birds; they're far the best. It's the
ready penny with them, and no grumbling.
I've lost money by trusting noblemen; of course
I blame their servants. You'd be surprised, sir,
to hear how often at rich folks' houses, when
they've taken their turf or what they want,
they'll take credit and say, `O, I've got no
change,' or `I can't be bothered with ha'pence,'
or `you must call again.' There's one great
house in Cavendish — square always takes a
month's credit, and pays one month within an-
other (pays the first month as the second is
falling due), and not always that very regular.
They can't know how poor men has to fight for
a bit of bread. Some people are very particular
about their turfs, and look very sharp for the
small clover leaves. We never have turfs left
on hand: in summer we water them to keep
them fresh; in wet weather they don't require
it; they'll keep without. I think I make on
turf 9s. a week all the year round; the sum-
mer's half as good again as the winter. Sup-
posing I make 3s. a week on groundsel, and
chickweed, and snails, and other things, that's
12s. — but look you here, sir. I pay 3s. 6d. a
week for my rent — it's a furnished room — and
1s. 6d. a week for my barrow; that's 5s. off the
12s.; and I've a wife and one little boy. My
wife may get a day at least every week at
charring; she has 1s. for it and her board. She
helps me when she's not out, and if she is out,
I sometimes have to hire a lad, so it's no great
advantage the shilling a day. I've paid 1s. 6d.
a week for my barrow — it's a very good and big
one — for four years. Before that I paid 2s. a
week. O yes, sir, I know very well, that at
1s. 6d. a week I've paid nearly 14l. for a barrow
worth only 2l. 2s.; but I can't help it; I really
can't. I've tried my hardest to get money to
have one of my own, and to get a few sticks
(furniture) of my own too. It's no use trying
any more. If I have ever got a few shillings
a-head, there's a pair of shoes wanted, or there's
[Description: 915EAF. Page 158.]
or my little boy has, or something's sure to
happen that way, and it all goes. Last winter
was a very hard time for people in my way,
from hoar frost and fogs. I ran near 3l. into
debt; greater part of it for house-rent and my
barrow; the rest was small sums borrowed of
shopkeepers that I served. I paid all up in the
summer, but I'm now 14s. in debt for my bar-
row; it always keeps me back; the man that
owns it calls every Sunday morning, but he
don't press me, if I haven't money. I would
get out of the life if I could, but will anybody
take a groom out of the streets? and I'm not
master of anything but grooming. I can read
and write. I was brought up a Roman Catholic,
and was christened one. I never go to mass
now. One gets out of the way of such things,
having to fight for a living as I have. It seems
like mocking going to chapel, when you're
grumbling in your soul."
OF PLANTAIN-SELLERS.
Plantain is sold extensively, and is given to
canaries, but water-cress is given to those birds
more than any other green thing. It is the ripe
seed, in a spike, of the "great" and the "ribbed"
plantain. The green leaves of the last-men-
tioned plant used to be in demand as a styptick.
Shenstone speaks of "plantain ribbed, that heals
the reaper's wound." I believe that it was
never sold in the streets of London. The most
of the plantain is gathered in the brick-fields,
wherever they are found, as the greater plan-
tain, which gives three-fourths of the supply,
loves an arid situation. It is sold in hands to
he shops, about 60 "heads" going to a
"hand," at a price, according to size, &c.,
from 1d. to 4d. On a private round, five or
six are given for a halfpenny. It is, however,
generally gathered and sold with chickweed,
and along with chickweed I have shown the
quantity used.
The money-value of the several kinds and
quantities of "green-stuff" annually purchased
in the streets of London is as follows: —
| 6,696,450 bunches of water-cresses, at ½d. per bunch |
\cp\13,949 |
| 5,616,000 " groundsel, at ½d. | 11,700 |
| 1,120,800 " chickweed and plantain |
2,335 |
| 660;000 turfs, at 2½d. per doz. | 520 |
| 28,504 |
Of the above amount, it may be said that
upwards of 14,000l. are spent yearly on what
may be called the bird-food of London.
| STREET-SELLERS OF GREEN STUFF. London Labour and the London Poor, volume 1 | |