 | OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED ARTICLES. London Labour and the London Poor, volume 1 |  |
STATEMENT OF A YOUNG PICKPOCKET.
To show the class of characters usually fre-
quenting these lodging-houses, I will now give the
statement of a boy — a young pickpocket — without
shoes or stockings. He wore a ragged, dirty, and
very thin great coat, of some dark jean or linen,
under which was another thin coat, so arranged
that what appeared rents — and, indeed, were rents,
but designedly made — in the outer garment, were
slits through which the hand readily reached
the pockets of the inner garment, and could
there deposit any booty. He was a slim, agile lad,
with a sharp but not vulgar expression, and small
features. His hands were of singular delicacy and
beauty. His fingers were very long, and no lady's
could have been more taper. A burglar told me
that with such a hand he ought to have made his
fortune. He was worth 20l. a week, he said, as
a "wire," that is, a picker of ladies' pockets.
When engaged "for a turn," as he told me he
once was by an old pickpocket, the man looked
minutely at his fingers, and approved of them
highly. His hands, the boy said, were hardly
serviceable to him when very cold. His feet were
formed in the same symmetrical and beautiful
mould as his hands. "I am 15," he said. "My
father was a potter, and I can't recollect my mo-
ther" (many of the thieves are orphans or
motherless). "My father has been dead about
five years. I was then working at the pottery
in High-street, Lambeth, earning about 4s. a
week; in good weeks, 4s. 6d. I was in work
eight months after my father died; but one
day I broke three bottles by accident, and the fore-
man said `I shan't want you any more;' and I took
that as meant for a discharge; but I found after-
wards that he did'nt so mean it. I had 2s. and
a suit of clothes then, and tried for work at all
the potteries; but I couldn't get any. It was
about the time Smithfield fair was on. I went,
but it was a very poor concern. I fell asleep in
a pen in the afternoon, and had my shoes stolen
of my feet. When I woke up, I began crying.
A fellow named Gyp then came along (I knew his
name afterwards), and he said, `What are you
crying for?' and I told him, and he said, `Pull off
your stockings, and come with me, and I'll show
you where to sleep.' So I did, and he took me to
St. Olave's workhouse, having first sold my stock-
ings. I had never stolen anything until then.
There I slept in the casual ward, and Gyp slept
there too. In the morning we started together for
Smithfield, where he said he had a job to sweep the
pens, but he couldn't sweep them without pulling
off his coat, and it would look so queer if he hadn't
a shirt — and he hadn't one. He promised to
teach me how to make a living in the country if I
would lend him mine, and I was persuaded —
for I was an innocent lad then — and went up
a gateway and stripped off my shirt and gave
it to him, and soon after he went into a public-
house to get half a pint of beer; he went in at
one door and out at another, and I didn't see
him for six months afterwards. That afternoon I
went into Billingsgate market and met some boys,
and one said, `Mate, how long have you been
knocking about; where did you doss?' I didn't
know what they meant, and when they'd told me
they meant where did I sleep? I told them how
I'd been served. And they said, `Oh! you must
expect that, until you learn something,' and they
laughed. They all know'd Gyp; he was like the
head of a Billingsgate gang once. I became a pal
with these boys at Billingsgate, and we went about
stealing fish and meat. Some boys have made 2s.
in a morning, when fish is dear — those that had
pluck and luck; they sold it at half-price. Bil-
lingsgate market is a good place to sell it; plenty
of costermongers are there who will buy it,
rather than of the salesmen. I soon grew as bad
as the rest at this work. At first I sold it to other
boys, who would get 3d. for what they bought
at 1d. Now they can't do me. If I can get a thing
[Description: 915EAF. Page 411.]
sell it dear, that's the chance. I carried on this fish
rig for about two years, and went begging a little,
too. I used to try a little thieving sometimes in
Petticoat-lane. They say the `fliest' is easy to
take in sometimes — that's the artfullest; but I
could do no good there. At these two years'
end, I was often as happy as could be; that is,
when I had made money. Then I met B — ,
whom I had often heard of as an uncommon clever
pickpocket; he could do it about as well as I
can now, so as people won't feel it. Three of his
mates were transported for stealing silver plate.
He and I became pals, and started for the
country with 1d. We went through Foot's Cray,
and passed a farm where a man's buried at the top
of a house; there's something about money while
a man 's above ground; I don't understand it, but
it's something like that. A baker, about thirty
miles from London, offended us about some bread;
and B — said `I'll serve him out.' We watched
him out, and B — tried at his pocket, saying,
`I'll show you how to do a handkerchief;' but the
baker looked round, and B — stopped; and just
after that I flared it (whisked the handkerchief out);
and that's the first I did. It brought 1s. 3d. We
travelled across country, and got to Maidstone, and
did two handkerchiefs. One I wore round my neck,
and the other the lodging-housekeeper pawned for
us for 1s. 6d. In Maidstone, next morning, I was
nailed, and had three months of it. I didn't mind
it so much then, but Maidstone's far worse now,
I've heard. I have been in prison three times in
Brixton, three times in the Old Horse (Bridewell),
three times in the Compter, once in the Steel, and
once in Maidstone — thirteen times in all, including
twice I was remanded, and got off; but I don't
reckon that prison. Every time I came out harder
than I went in. I've had four floggings; it was
bad enough — a flogging was — while it lasted; but
when I got out I soon forgot it. At a week's end
I never thought again about it. If I had been
better treated I should have been a better lad. I
could leave off thieving now as if I had never
thieved, if I could live without." [I am inclined
to doubt this part of the statement.] "I have
carried on this sort of life until now. I didn't often
make a very good thing of it. I saw Manning and
his wife hung. Mrs. Manning was dressed beau-
tiful when she came up. She screeched when Jack
Ketch pulled the bolt away. She was harder
than Manning, they all said; without her there
would have been no murder. It was a great deal
talked about, and Manning was pitied. It was a
punishment to her to come on the scaffold and see
Manning with the rope about his neck, if people
takes it in the right light. I did 4s. 6d. at the
hanging — two handkerchiefs, and a purse with 2s. in it — the best purse I ever had; but I've only
done three or four purses. The reason is, because
I've never been well dressed. If I went near a
lady, she would say, `Tush, tush, you ragged
fellow!' and would shrink away. But I would
rather rob the rich than the poor; they miss it
less. But 1s. honest goes further than 5s. stolen.
Some call that only a saying, but it's true. All
the money I got soon went — most of it a-gambling.
Picking pockets, when any one comes to think on
it, is the daringest thing that a boy can do. It
didn't in the least frighten me to see Manning and
Mrs. Manning hanged. I never thought I should
come to the gallows, and I never shall — I'm not
high-tempered enough for that. The only thing that
frightens me when I'm in prison is sleeping in a
cell by myself — you do in the Old Horse and the
Steel — because I think things may appear. You
can't imagine how one dreams when in trouble.
I've often started up in a fright from a dream. I
don't know what might appear. I've heard people
talk about ghosts and that. Once, in the Country,
a tin had been left under a tap that went drip —
drip — drip. And all in the ward were shocking
frightened; and weren't we glad when we found
out what it was! Boys tell stories about haunted
castles, and cats that are devils; and that frightens
one. At the fire in Monument-yard I did 5s. 7d. — 3s. in silver and 2s. 3d. in handkerchiefs, and
4d. for three pairs of gloves. I sell my handker-
chiefs in the Lane (Petticoat-lane). I carry on
this trade still. Most times I've got in prison is
when I've been desperate from hunger, and have
said to B — , `Now I'll have money, nailed or
not nailed.' I can pick a woman's pocket as easy
as a man's, though you wouldn't think it. If one's
in prison for begging, one's laughed at. The others
say, `Begging! Oh, you cadger!' So a boy is
partly forced to steal for his character. I've lived
a good deal in lodging-houses, and know the ways
of them. They are very bad places for a boy to
be in. Where I am now, when the place is full,
there's upwards of 100 can be accommodated. I
won't be there long. I'll do something to get out
of it. There's people there will roh their own
brother. There's people there talk backward —
for one they say eno, for two owt, for three eerht, for four ruof, for five evif, for six exis. I don't
know any higher. I can neither read nor write.
In this lodging-house there are no women. They
talk there chiefly about what they've done, or are
going to do, or have set their minds upon, just as
you and any other gentlemen might do. I have
been in lodging-houses in Mint-street and Kent-
street, where men and women and children all
slept in one room. I think the men and women
who slept together were generally married, or lived
together; but it's not right for a big boy to sleep
in the same room. Young men have had beds to
themselves, and so have young women there; but
there's a deputy comes into the room, every now
and then, to see there's nothing wrong. There's
little said in these places, the people are generally
so tired. Where I am there's horrid language —
swearing, and everything that's bad. They are to
be pitied, because there's not work for honest
people, let alone thieves. In the lodging-houses
the air is very bad, enough to stifle one in bed —
so many breaths together. Without such places
my trade couldn't be carried on; I couldn't live.
Some though would find another way out. Three
or four would take a room among them. Any-
body's money's good — you can always get a
room. I would be glad to leave this life, and
[Description: 915EAF. Page 412.]
would make me run away — sure. He can do
what he likes with you when you're out at sea.
I don't get more than 2s. a week, one week with
the other, by thieving; some days you do nothing
until hunger makes your spirits rise. I can't
thieve on a full belly. I live on 2s. a week from
thieving, because I understand fiddling — that
means, buying a thing for a mere trifle, and selling
it for double, or for more, if you're not taken in
yourself. I've been put up to a few tricks in
lodging-houses, and now I can put others up to it.
Everybody must look after themselves, and I
can't say I was very sorry when I stole that 2s. from a poor woman, but I'd rather have had
1s. 6d. from a rich one. I never drink — eating's
my part. I spend chief part of my money in
pudding. I don't like living in lodging-houses,
but I must like it as I'm placed now — that sort
of living, and those lodging-houses, or starving.
They bring tracts to the lodging-houses — pipes are
lighted with them; tracts won't fill your belly.
Tracts is no good, except to a person that has a
home; at the lodging-houses they're laughed at.
They seldom are mentioned. I've heard some of
them read by missionaries, but can't catch any-
thing from them. If it had been anything bad, I
should have caught it readily. If an innocent
boy gets into a lodging-house, he'll not be inno-
cent long — he can't. I know three boys who
have run away, and are in the lodging-houses still,
but I hope their father has caught them. Last
night a little boy came to the lodging-house where
I was. We all thought he had run away, by the
way he spoke. He stayed all night, but was
found out in two or three falsehoods. I wanted
to get him back home, or he'll be as bad as I am
in time, though he's nothing to me; but I
couldn t find him this morning; but I'll get him
home yet, perhaps. The Jews in Petticoat-lane
are terrible rogues. They'll buy anything of you
— they'll buy what you've stolen from their next-
door neighbours — that they would, if they knew
it. But they'll give you very little for it, and
they threaten to give you up if you won't take a
quarter of the value of it. `Oh! I shee you do
it,' they say, `and I like to shee him robbed, but
you musht take vot I give.' I wouldn't mind
what harm came to those Petticoat-laners. Many
of them are worth thousands, though you wouldn't
think it." After this I asked him what he, as a
sharp lad, thought was the cause of so many boys
becoming vagrant pickpockets? He answered,
"Why, sir, if boys runs away, and has to shelter
in low lodging-houses — and many runs away from
cruel treatment at home — they meet there with
boys such as me, or as bad, and the devil soon
lays his hand on them. If there wasn't so many
lodging-houses there wouldn't be so many bad
boys — there couldn't. Lately a boy came down
to Billingsgate, and said he wouldn't stay at
home to be knocked about any longer. He said
it to some boys like me; and he was asked if he
could get anything from his mother, and he said
`yes, he could.' So he went back, and brought
a brooch and some other things with him to a
place fixed on, and then he and some of the boys
set off for the country; and that's the way boys
is trapped. I think the fathers of such boys
either ill-treat them, or neglect them; and so they
run away. My father used to beat me shocking;
so I hated home. I stood hard licking well, and
was called `the plucked one."' This boy first
stole flowers, currants, and gooseberries out of the
clergyman's garden, more by way of bravado, and
to ensure the approbation of his comrades, than
for anything else. He answered readily to my
inquiry, as to what he thought would become of
him? — "Transportation. If a boy has great luck
he may carry on for eight years. Three or four
years is the common run, but transportation is
what he's sure to come to in the end." This lad
picked my pocket at my request, and so dexte-
rously did he do his "work," that though I was
alive to what he was trying to do, it was impos-
sible for me to detect the least movement of my
coat. To see him pick the pockets, as he did, of
some of the gentlemen who were present on the
occasion, was a curious sight. He crept behind
much like a cat with his claws out, and while in
the act held his breath with suspense; but imme-
diately the handkerchief was safe in his hand, the
change in the expression of his countenance was
most marked. He then seemed almost to be con-
vulsed with delight at the success of his perilous
adventure, and, turning his back, held up the hand-
kerchief to discover the value of his prize, with
intense glee evident in every feature.
| OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF MANUFACTURED ARTICLES. London Labour and the London Poor, volume 1 | |