by Henry Mayhew
‘I got a dale of friends in London assist me (but only now and thin). If I depinded on the few ha’pence I get, I wouldn’t live on ’em; what money I get here wouldn’t buy a pound of mate; and I wouldn’t live, only for my frinds. You see, sir, I can ‘t be out always. I am laid up nows and thins continually. Oh, it’s a poor trade to big on the crossin’ from morning till night, and not get sixpence. I couldn ‘t do with it, I know.
‘Yes, sir, I smoke; it’s a comfort, it is. I like any kind I’d get to smoke. I’d like the best if I got it.
‘I am a Roman Catholic, and I go to St Patrick’s, in St Giles’s; a many people from my neighbourhood go there. I go every Sunday, and to Confession just once a year – that saves me.
‘By the Lord’s mercy! I don’t get broken victuals, nor broken mate, not as much as you might put on the tip of a forruk; they’d chuck it out in the dust-bin before they’d give it to me. I suppose they’re all alike.
‘The divil an odd job I iver got, master, nor knives to clane. If I got their knives to clane, p’rhaps I might clane them.
‘My brooms cost threepence ha’penny; they are very good. I wear them down to a stump, and they last three weeks, this fine wither. I niver got any ould clothes – not but I want a coat very bad, sir.
‘I come from Dublin; my father and mother died there of cholera; and when they died, I come to England, and that was the cause of my coming.
‘By my oath it didn ‘t stand me in more than eighteenpence that I took here last week.
‘I live in — lane, St Giles’s Church, on the second landing, and I pay eightpence a week. I haven ‘t a room to mysilf, for there’s a family lives in it wid me.
‘When I goes home I just smokes a pipe, and goes to bid, that’s all.’
Boy Crossing-sweepers and Tumblers
[pp. 560–64] A remarkably intelligent lad, who, on being spoken to, at once consented to give all the information in his power, told me the following story of his life.
It will be seen from this boy’s account, and the one or two following, that a kind of partnership exists among some of these young sweepers. They have associated themselves together, appropriated several crossings to their use, and appointed a captain over them. They have their forms of trial, and ‘jury-house’ for the settlement of disputes; laws have been framed, which govern their commercial proceedings, and a kind of language adopted by the society for its better protection from its archenemy, the policeman.
I found the lad who first gave me an insight into the proceedings of the associated crossing-sweepers crouched on the stone steps of a door in Adelaide-street, Strand; and when I spoke to him he was preparing to settle down in a corner and go to sleep – his legs and body being curled round almost as closely as those of a cat on a hearth.
The moment he heard my voice he was upon his feet, asking me to ‘give a halfpenny to poor little Jack’.
He was a good-looking lad, with a pair of large mild eyes, which he took good care to turn up with an expression of supplication as he moaned for his halfpenny.
A cap, or more properly a stuff bag, covered a crop of hair which had matted itself into the form of so many paint-brushes, while his face, from its roundness of feature and the complexion of dirt, had an almost Indian look about it; the colour of his hands, too, was such that you could imagine he had been shelling walnuts.
He ran before me, treading cautiously with his naked feet, until I reached a convenient spot to take down his statement, which was as follows:
‘I’ve got no mother or father; mother has been dead for two years, and father’s been gone more than that – more nigh five years – he died at Ipswich, in Suffolk. He was a perfumer by trade, and used to make hair-dye, and scent, and pomatum, and all kinds of scents. He didn ‘t keep a shop himself, but he used to serve them as did; he didn ‘t hawk his goods about, neether, but had regular customers, what used to send him a letter, and then he’d take them what they wanted. Yes, he used to serve some good shops: there was H—‘s, of London Bridge, what’s a large chemist‘s. He used to make a good deal of money, but he lost it betting; and so his brother, my uncle, did all his. He used to go up to High Park, and then go round by the Hospital, and then turn up a yard, where all the men are who play for money [Tattersall‘s]; and there he’d lose his money, or sometimes win – but that wasn ‘t often. I remember he used to come home tipsy, and say he’d lost on this or that horse, naming wot one he’d laid on; and then mother would coax him to bed, and afterwards sit down and begin to cry.
‘I was not with father when he died (but I was when he was dying), for I was sent up along with eldest sister to London with a letter to uncle, who was head servant at a doctor’s. In this letter, mother asked uncle to pay back some money wot he owed, and wot father lent him, and she asked him if he’d like to come down and see father before he died. I recollect I went back again to mother by the Orwell steamer. I was well dressed then, and had good clothes on, and I was given to the care of the captain – Mr King his name was. But when I got back to Ipswich, father was dead.
‘Mother took on dreadful; she was ill for three months afterwards, confined to her bed. She hardly eat anything: only beef-tea – I think they call it – and eggs. All the while she kept on crying.
‘Mother kept a servant; yes, sir, we always had a servant, as long as I can recollect; and she and the woman as was there – Anna they called her, an old lady – used to take care of me and sister. Sister was fourteen years old (she’s married to a young man now, and they’re gone to America; she went from a place in the East India Docks, and I saw her off). I used, when I was with mother, to go to school in the morning, and go at nine and come home at twelve to dinner, then go again at two and leave off at half-past four,– that is, if I behaved myself and did all my lessons right; for if I did not I was kept back till I did them so. Mother used to pay one shilling a-week, and extra for the copy-books and things. I can read and write – oh, yes, I mean read and write well – read anything, even old English; and I write pretty fair – though I don’t get much reading now, unless it’s a penny paper – I ‘ve got one in my pocket now – it’s the London Journal – there’s a tale in it now about two brothers, and one of them steals the child away and puts another in his place, and then he gets found out, and all that, and he’s just been falling off a bridge now.
‘After mother got better, she sold all the furniture and goods and came up to London; – poor mother! She let a man of the name of Hayes have the greater part, and he left Ipswich soon after, and never gave mother the money. We came up to London, and mother took two rooms in Westminster, and I and sister lived along with her. She used to make hairnets, and sister helped her, and used to take ’em to the hair-dressers to sell. She made these nets for two or three years, though she was suffering with a bad breast; – she died of that – poor thing! – for she had what doctors calls cancer – perhaps you ‘ve heard of ’em, sir – and they had to cut all round here (making motions with his hands from the shoulder to the bosom). Sister saw it, though I didn ‘t.
‘Ah! she was a very good, kind mother, and very fond of both of us; though father wasn ‘t, for he’d always have a noise with mother when he come home, only he was seldom with us when he was making his goods.
‘After mother died, sister still kept on making nets, and I lived with her for some time, until she told me she couldn ‘t afford to keep me no longer, though she seemed to have a pretty good lot to do; but she would never let me go with her to the shops, though I could crochet, which she’d learned me, and used to run and get her all her silks and things what she wanted. But she was keeping company with a young man, and one day they went out, and came back and said they’d been and got married. It was him as got rid of me.
‘He was kind to me for the first two or three months, while he was keeping her company; but before he was married he got a little cross, and after he was married he begun to get more cross, and used to send me to play in the streets, and tell me not t
o come home again till night. One day he hit me, and I said I wouldn’t be hit about by him, and then at tea that night sister gave me three shillings, and told me I must go and get my own living. So I bought a box and brushes (they cost me just the money) and went cleaning boots, and I done pretty well with them, till my box was stole from me by a boy where I was lodging. He’s in prison now – got six calendar for picking pockets.
‘Sister kept all my clothes. When I asked her for ’em, she said they was disposed of along with all mother’s goods; but she gave me some shirts and stockings, and such-like, and I had very good clothes, only they was all worn out. I saw sister after I left her, many times. I asked her many times to take me back, but she used to say, “It was not her likes, but her husband’s, or she’d have had me back;” and I think it was true, for until he came she was a kind-hearted girl; but he said he’d enough to do to look after his own living; he was a fancy-baker by trade.
‘I was fifteen the 24th of last May, sir, and I ‘ve been sweeping crossings now near upon two years. There’s a party of six of us, and we have the crossings from St Martin’s Church as far as Pall Mall. I always go along with them as lodges in the same place as I do. In the daytime, if it’s dry, we do anythink what we can – open cabs, or anythink; but if it’s wet, we separate, and I and another gets a crossing – those who gets on it first, keeps it, – and we stand on each side and take our chance.
‘We do it in this way: if I was to see two gentlemen coming, I should cry out, “Two toffs!” and then they are mine; and whether they give me anythink or not they are mine, and my mate is bound not to follow them; for if he did he would get a hiding from the whole lot of us. If we both cry out together, then we share. If it’s a lady and gentleman, then we cries, “A toff and a doll!” Sometimes we are caught out in this way. Perhaps it is a lady and gentleman and a child; and if I was to see them, and only say, “A toff and a doll,” and leave out the child, then my mate can add the child; and as he is right and I wrong, then it’s his party.
‘If there’s a policeman close at hand we mustn ‘t ask for money; but we are always on the look-out for the policeman, and if we see one, then we calls out “Phillup!” for that’s our signal. One of the policemen at St Martin’s Church – Bandy, we calls him – knows what Phillup means, for he’s up to us; so we had to change the word. (At the request of the young crossing-sweeper the present signal is omitted.)
‘Yesterday on the crossing I got threepence halfpenny, but when it’s dry like to-day I do nothink, for I haven ‘t got a penny yet. We never carries no pockets, for if the policemen find us we generally pass the money to our mates, for if money’s found on us we have fourteen days in prison.
‘If I was to reckon all the year round, that is, one day with another, I think we make fourpence every day, and if we were to stick to it we should make more, for on a very muddy day we do better. One day, the best I ever had, from nine o ‘clock in the morning till seven o ‘clock at night, I made seven shillings and sixpence, and got not one bit of silver money among it. Every shilling I got I went and left a shop near where my crossing is, for fear I might get into any harm. The shop’s kept by a woman we deals with for what we wants – tea and butter, or sugar, or brooms – anythink we wants. Saturday night week I made two-and-sixpence; that’s what I took altogether up to six o ‘clock.
‘When we see the rain we say together, “Oh! there’s a jolly good rain! we’ll have a good day to-morrow.” If a shower comes on, and we are at our room, which we general are about three o’clock, to get somethink to eat – besides, we general go there to see how much each other’s taken in the day – why, out we run with our brooms.
‘We ‘re always sure to make money if there’s mud – that’s to say, if we look for our money, and ask; of course, if we stand still we don’t. Now, there’s Lord Fitzhardinge, he’s a good gentleman, what lives in Spring-gardens, in a large house. He’s got a lot of servants and carriages. Every time he crosses the Charing-cross crossing he always gives the girl half a sovereign.’ (This statement was taken in June 1856.) ‘He doesn ‘t cross often, because, hang it, he’s got such a lot of carriages, but when he’s on foot he always does. If they asks him he doesn ‘t give nothink, but if they touches their caps he does. The housekeeper at his house is very kind to us. We run errands for her, and when she wants any of her own letters taken to the post then she calls, and if we are on the crossing we takes them for her. She’s a very nice lady, and gives us broken victuals. I ‘ve got a share in that crossing – there are three of us, and when he gives the half sovereign he always gives it to the girl, and those that are in it shares it. She would do us out of it if she could, but we all takes good care of that, for we are all cheats.
‘At night-time we tumbles – that is, if the policeman ain ‘t nigh. We goes general to Waterloo-place when the Opera’s on. We sends on one of us ahead, as a looker-out, to look for the policeman, and then we follows. It’s no good tumbling to gentlemen going to the Opera; it’s when they’re coming back they gives us money. When they ‘ve got a young lady on their arm they laugh at us tumbling; some will give us a penny, others three-pence, sometimes a sixpence or a shilling, and sometimes a halfpenny. We either do the cat’un-wheel, or else we keep before the gentleman and lady, turning head-over-heels, putting our broom on the ground and then turning over it.
‘I work a good deal fetching cabs after the Opera is over; we general open the doors of those that draw up at the side of the pavement for people to get into as have walked a little down the Haymarket looking for a cab. We gets a month in prison if we touch the others by the columns. I once had half a sovereign give me by a gentleman; it was raining awful, and I run all about for a cab, and at last I got one. The gentleman knew it was half a sovereign, because he said – “Here, my little man, here’s half a sovereign for your trouble.” He had three ladies with him, beautiful ones, with nothink on their heads, and only capes on their bare shoulders; and he had white kids on, and his regular Opera togs, too. I liked him very much, and as he was going to give me somethink the ladies says – “Oh, give him somethink extra!” It was pouring with rain, and they couldn ‘t get a cab; they were all engaged, but I jumped on the box of one as was driving along the line. Last Saturday Opera night I made fifteen pence by the gentlemen coming from the Opera.
‘After the Opera we go into the Haymarket, where all the women are who walk the streets all night. They don’t give us no money, but they tell the gentlemen to. Sometimes, when they are talking to the gentlemen, they say, “Go away, you young rascal!” and if they are saucy, then we say to them, “We ‘re not talking to you, my doxy, we ‘re talking to the gentleman” – but that’s only if they’re rude, for if they speak civil we always goes. They knows what “doxy” means. What is it? Why that they are no better than us! If we are on the crossing, and we says to them as they go by, “Good luck to you!” they always give us somethink either that night or the next. There are two with bloomer bonnets, who always give us somethink if we says “Good luck”. Sometimes a gentleman will tell us to go and get them a young lady, and then we goes, and they general gives us sixpence for that. If the gents is dressed finely we gets them a handsome girl; if they’re dressed middling, then we gets them a middling-dressed one; but we usual prefers giving a turn to girls that have been kind to us, and they are sure to give us somethink the next night. If we don’t find any girls walking, we knows where to get them in the houses in the streets round about.
‘We always meet at St Martin’s steps – the “jury house”, we calls ’em – at three o ‘clock in the morning, that’s always our hour. We reckons up what we ‘ve taken, but we don’t divide. Sometimes, if we owe anythink where we lodge, the women of the house will be waiting on the steps for us: then, if we ‘ve got it, we pay them; if we haven ‘t, why it can ‘t be helped, and it goes on. We gets into debt, because sometimes the women where we live gets lushy; then we don’t give them anythink, because they’d forget it, so we spends it our
selves. We can ‘t lodge at what’s called model lodging-houses, as our hours don’t suit them folks. We pays threepence a-night for lodging. Food, if we get plenty of money, we buys for ourselves. We buys a pound of bread, that’s two-pence farthing – best seconds, and a farthing’s worth of dripping – that’s enough for a pound of bread – and we gets a ha’porth of tea and a ha’porth of sugar; or if we ‘re hard up, we gets only a penn’orth of bread. We make our own tea at home; they lends us a kittle, tea-pot, and cups and saucers, and all that.
‘Once or twice a-week we gets meat. We all club together, and go into Newgate Market and gets some pieces cheap, and biles them at home. We tosses up who shall have the biggest bit, and we divide the broth, a cupful in each basin, until it’s lasted out. If any of us has been unlucky we each gives the unlucky one one or two halfpence. Some of us is obliged at times to sleep out all night; and sometimes, if any of us gets nothink, then the others gives him a penny or two, and he does the same for us when we are out of luck.
‘Besides, there’s our clothes: I’m paying for a pair of boots now. I paid a shilling off Saturday night.
‘When we gets home at half-past three in the morning, whoever cries out “first wash” has it. First of all we washes our feet, and we all uses the same water. Then we washes our faces and hands, and necks, and whoever fetches the fresh water up has first wash; and if the second don’t like to go and get fresh, why he uses the dirty. Whenever we come in the landlady makes us wash our feet. Very often the stones cuts our feet and makes them bleed; then we bind a bit of rag round them. We like to put on boots and shoes in the day-time, but at night-time we can ‘t, because it stops the tumbling.
