“That the buns themselves are as popular as ever they were when the Real Original Bun Houses existed in Chelsea, was manifest on Thursday evening, though the scene is now changed from the west to the east. Bishopsgate-street was indeed all alive with people of high and low degree crowding in and out of Messrs. Hill & Sons, who, I am told, turned no less than 47 sacks of flour, representing over 13,000 lbs., into the favourite Good Friday cakes. This mass was sweetened by 2,800 lbs. of sugar, moistened with 1,500 quarts of milk, and ‘lightened’ with 2,200 lbs. of butter. Something like 25,000 paper bags were used in packing the buns, and upwards of 150 pairs of hands were engaged in the making and distribution of the tasty morsels at Bishopsgate and at the West-end branch of Messrs. Hill, at Victoria. The customary business of the firm must have been interrupted considerably by Good Friday, and the forty-seven sacks of flour made into buns represented, I presume, a considerable deduction from the hundred and ninety to two hundred which the firm work up in one form or another every week. But then you can’t eat your (Good Friday) cake and have it. There were other bakers and confectioners in the City, too, who appeared to do a thriving trade in buns—notably Messrs. Robertson & Co., in Aldersgate-street. Long live the Good Friday bun!”
Dogberry.
Hot Cross Buns.
By Miss Eliza Cook.
| “The clear spring dawn is breaking, and there cometh with the ray, The stripling boy with ‘shining face,’ and dame in ‘hodden grey:’ Rude melody is breathed by all—young—old—the strong, and weak; From manhood with its burly tone, and age with treble squeak. Forth come the little busy ‘Jacks’ and forth come little ‘Jills,’ As thick and quick as working ants about their summer hills; With baskets of all shapes and makes, of every size and sort; Away they trudge with eager step, through alley, street, and court. A spicy freight they bear along, and earnest is their care, To guard it like a tender thing from morning’s nipping air; And though our rest be broken by their voices shrill and clear, There’s something in the well-known ‘cry’ we dearly love to hear. ’Tis old, familiar music, when ‘the old woman runs’ With ‘One-a-penny, two-a-penny, Hot Cross Buns!’ Full many a cake of dainty make has gained a great renown, We all have lauded ‘Gingerbread’ and ‘Parliament’ done brown; But when did luscious ‘Banburies,’ or dainty ‘Sally Lunns,’ E’er yield such merry chorus theme as ‘One-a-penny buns!’ The pomp of palate that may be like old Vitellius fed, Can never feast as mine did on the sweet and fragrant bread; When quick impatience could not wait to share the early meal, But eyed the pile of ‘Hot Cross Buns,’ and dared to snatch and steal. Oh, the soul must be uncouth as a Vandal’s Goth’s, or Hun’s, That loveth not the melody of ‘One-a-penny Buns!’” |
And so, awaking in the early morning, we hear the streets ringing with the cry, “Hot Cross Buns.” And perhaps when all that we have wrought shall be forgotten, when our name shall be as though it had been written on water, and many institutions great and noble shall have perished, this little bun will live on unharmed. Others, as well as ourselves, will, it may be, lie awake upon their beds, and listen to the murmurs going to and fro within the great heart of London, and, thinking on the half-forgotten days of the nineteenth century, wonder perhaps whether, in these olden times, we too heard the sound of “Hot Cross Buns.”
The street Pieman with his “cry,” of “Pies all hot! hot!! hot!!!—Penny pies, all hot! hot!!—fruit, eel, beef, veal or kidney pies! pies, all hot-hot-hot,” is one of the most ancient of street callings, and to London boys of every degree, “Familiar in their mouths as household words.” Nor is the itinerant trade in pies—“Eel, beef, veal, kidney or fruit,” confined to the great metropolis. All large provincial towns have, from a time going back much farther than even the proverbial “oldest inhabitant” can recollect, had their old and favourite “Penny Pieman,” or, “Old-all-Hot!” as folks were ever wont to call him. He was generally a merry dog, and mostly to be found where merriment was going on, he scrupled not to force his way through the thickest of the crowd, knowing that the very centre of action was the best market for his wares.
The Pieman;
OR, O LORD! WHAT A PLACE IS A CAMP.
| “O Lord! what a place is a camp, What wonderful doings are there; The people are all on the tramp, To me it looks devilish queer: Here’s ladies a swigging of gin, A crop of macaronies likewise: And I, with my ‘Who’ll up and win? Come, here is your hot mutton pies.’ Here’s gallopping this way and that, With, ‘Madam, stand out of the way;’ Here’s, ‘O fie! sir, what would you be at?— Come, none of your impudence pray:’ Here’s ‘Halt—to the right-about-face,’ Here’s laughing, and screaming, and cries: Here’s milliners’-men out of place, And I with my hot mutton pies. Here’s the heath all round like a fair, Here’s butlers, and sutlers, and cooks; Here’s popping away in the air, And captains with terrible looks: Here’s ‘How do you do?’—‘Pretty well; The dust has got into my eyes,’ There’s—‘Fellow what have you to sell?’ ‘Why, only some hot mutton pies.’” |
History informs us, through the medium of the halfpenny plain and penny coloured chap book, editions issued by the “Catnach Press,” that, one:—
| “Simple Simon met a Pieman, Going to the fair; Says simple Simon to the Pieman, ‘Let me taste your ware.’ Says the Pieman unto Simon, ‘First give me a penny;’ Says Simple Simon to the Pieman, ‘I have not got any.’” |
But history is silent as to the birth, parentage, or, even place and date of the death of the said Simple Simon, or of this very particular pieman. Halliwell informs us, through one of the “Nursery Rhymes of England,” that on one occasion:—
| “Punch and Judy Fought for a pie; Punch gave Judy A sad blow on the eye.” |
James Lackington—1746-1816—one of the most celebrated of our early cheap booksellers, lived at the “Temple of Muses,” Finsbury-place—the shop, into which a coach and six could be driven. This curious mixture of cobbler’s wax, piety, vanity, and love of business, has left us in his autobiography, which he published under the title of his “Memoirs and Confessions,” his experience as a pie-boy! or seller of pies, thus:—
“At ten years old I cried apple pies in the street. I had noticed a famous pieman, and thought I could do it better myself. My mode of crying pies soon made me a street favourite, and the old pie merchant left off trade. You see, friend, I soon began to make a noise in the world. But one day I threw my master’s child out of a wheelbarrow, so I went home again, and was set by my father to learn his trade, continuing with him for several years. My fame as a pieman led to my selling almanacks on the market days at Christmas. This was to my mind, and I sorely vexed the [regular] vendors of ‘Moore,’ ‘Wing,’ and ‘Poor Robin.’ My next move was to be bound apprentice for seven years.”
We frequently meet with the pieman in old prints; and in Hogarth’s “March to Finchley,” there he stands in the very centre of the crowd, grinning with delight at the adroitness of one robbery, while he is himself the victim of another. We learn from this admirable figure by the greatest painter of English life, that the pieman of the last century perambulated the streets in professional costume; and we gather further, from the burly dimensions of his wares that he kept his trade alive by the laudable practice of giving “a good pennyworth for a penny.” Justice compels us to observe that his successors of a later generation have not been very conscientious observers of this maxim.
Hogarth’s Pieman.
Nice New! Nice New!
All hot! All Hot Hot! All Hot!
Here they are, two sizes bigger than last week.
At this date there was James Sharpe England, a noted flying pieman, who attended all the metropolitan festive gatherings; he walked about hatless, to sell his savoury wares, with his hair powdered and tied en queue, his dress neat, apron spotless, jesting wherever he went, with a mighty voice in recommendation of the puddings and pies, which, for the sake of greater oddity he sometimes carried on a wooden platter.
James Sharpe England,
The Flying Pieman.
The London pieman, as he takes his walks abroad, makes a practice of “looking in” at all the taverns on his way. Here his customers are found principally in the tap-room. “Here they are, all ’ot!” the pieman cries, as he walks in; “toss or buy! up and win ’em!” For be it known to all whom it may concern, the pieman is a gambler, both from inclination and principle, and will toss with his customers, either by the dallying shilly-shally process of “best five in nine,” or “best two in three,” or the desperate dash of “sudden death!” in which latter case the first toss decides the matter, viz:—a pie for a penny, or your penny gone for nothing, but he invariably declines the mysterious process of “odd man,” not being altogether free from suspicion on the subject of collusion between a couple of hungry, and not over honestly inclined customers.
Of the “stuff” which pie-dealers usually make their wares, much has been sung and said, and in some neighbourhoods the sight of an approaching pieman seems to get about an immediate desire for imitating the harmless cat and its “Mee-yow,” or the “Bow-wow-wow!” of the dog. And opprobrious epithets are hurled at the piemen as they parade the streets and alleys, and even kidnapping has been slyly hinted at, for the mother of Tom Cladpole, finding her son so determined to make a “Jurney to Lunnun”—least he should die a fool, tries to frighten the boy out of his fixed intention by informing him in pure Sussex dialect that:—
| “Besides, dey kidnap people dere, Ah! ketch um by supprize, An send um off where nub’dy knows, Or baak um up in pies.” |
It was ever a safe piece of comic business with Old Joey Grimaldi and his favourite pupil and successor, Tom Matthews, together with all other stage clowns following them, that a penny pieman and the bright shining block-tin can should be introduced into every Christmas pantomime. The pataloon is made to be tossing the safe game of—“heads I win, tails you lose” with the stage pieman, while the roguish clown is adroitly managing to swallow the whole of the stock of pies from the can, and which are made by the stage property-man for the occasion out of tissue-paper painted in water-colours. Then follows the wry faces and spasmodic stomach-pinchings of the clown, accompanied with the echoing cries of “Mee, mee, mow, woo!” while the pantaloon takes from the pieman’s can some seven or eight fine young kittens and the old tabby-cat—also the handy-work of the stage property-man. The whole scene usually finishes by the pantaloon pointedly sympathizing with the now woebegone clown to the tune of “Serve ye right—Greedy! greedy!! greedy!!!” when enter six supernumeraries dressed as large and motherly-looking tabbies with aprons and bibs, and bedizened with white linen night caps of the pattern known in private life to middle-aged married men only. The clown and pantaloon then work together in hunting down, and then handing over the poor pieman to the tender mercies and talons of the stage-cats, who finish up the “business” of the scene by popping the pieman into what looks like a copper of boiling water.
Mr. Samuel Weller,—otherwise, Veller, that great modern authority on Ye Manners and Ye Customs, of Ye English in general, and of London Life wery Particular:—for “Mr. Weller’s knowldge of London was extensive and peculiar”—has left us his own ideas of the baked “mysteries” of the pieman’s ware:—
“Weal pie,” said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the grass. “Werry good thing is a weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it an’t kittens; and arter all, though, where’s the odds, when they’re so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don’t know the difference?”
“Don’t they, Sam?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Not they, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. “I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was—reg’lar clever chap too—made pies out o’ anything, he could. ‘What a number o’ cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,’ says I, when I’d got intimate with him. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘I do—a good many,’ says he. ‘You must be wery fond o’ cats,’ says I. ‘Other people is,’ says he, a winkin’ at me; ‘they an’t in season till the winter though,’ says he. ‘Not in season!’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘fruits is in, cats is out.’ ‘Why, what do you mean?’ says I. ‘Mean?’ says he. ‘That I’ll never be a party to the combination o’ the butchers, to keep up the prices o’ meat,’ says he. ‘Mr. Weller,’ says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear—‘don’t mention this here agin—but it’s the seasonin’ that does it. They’re all made o’ them noble animals,’ says he, a pointin’ to a wery nice little tabby kitten, ‘and I seasons ’em for beef-steaks, weal, or kidney, ’cordin to demand. And more than that,’ says he, ‘I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on ’em a mutton, at a minute’s notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!”
“He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a slight shudder.
“Just was, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, “and the pies was beautiful.”
The “gravy” given with the meat-pies is poured out of an oil-can and consists of a little salt and water browned. A hole is made with the little finger in the top of the pie and the “gravy” poured in until the crust rises sufficiently to satisfy the young critical gourmand’s taste.
“The London piemen,” says Mr. Henry Mayhew, “May be numbered at about forty in winter, and twice that number in summer.” Calculating that there are only fifty plying their trade the year through, and their average earnings at 8s. a week, we find a street expenditure exceeding £1,040, and a street consumption of pies amounting to nearly three quarters of a million yearly.
Young Lambs to Sell.
| Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell. If I’d as much money as I could tell, I’d not come here with young lambs to sell! Dolly and Molly, Richard and Nell, Buy my young lambs, and I’ll use you well! |
The engraving represents an old “London Crier,” one William Liston, from a drawing for which he purposely stood in 1826.
This “public character” was born in the City of Glasgow. He became a soldier in the waggon-train commanded by Colonel Hamilton, and served under the Duke of York in Holland, where, on the 6th of October, 1799, he lost his right arm and left leg, and his place in the army. His misfortunes thrust distinction upon him. From having been a private in the ranks, where he would have remained undistinguished, he became one of the popular street-characters of his day.
In Miss Eliza Cook’s Poem “Old Cries” she sings in no feeble strain the praises of the old man of her youthful days, who cried—“Merry and free as a marriage bell”:—
Young Lambs to Sell.
| There was a man in olden time, And a troubador was he; Whose passing chant and lilting rhyme Had mighty charms for me. My eyes grew big with a sparkling stare, And my heart began to swell, When I heard his loud song filling the air About “Young lambs to sell!” His flocks were white as the falling snow, With collars of shining gold; And I chose from the pretty ones “all of a row,” With a joy that was untold. Oh, why did the gold become less bright, Why did the soft fleece lose its white, And why did the child grow old? ’Twas a blithe, bold song the old man sung; The words came fast, and the echoes rung, Merry and free as “a marriage bell;” And a right, good troubadour was he, For the hive never swarmed to the chinking key, As the wee things did when they gathered in glee To his musical cry—“Young lambs to sell!” Ah, well-a-day! it hath passed away, With my holiday pence and my holiday play— I wonder if I could listen again, As I listened then, to that old man’s strain— All of a row—“Young lambs to sell.” |
The London Barrow-Woman.
| Round and sound, Two-pence a pound. Cherries, rare ripe cherries! Cherries a ha’penny a stick Come and pick! come and pick! Cherries big as plums! who comes, who comes. |
The late George Cruikshank, whose pencil was ever distinguished by power of decision in every character he sketched, and whose close observation of passing men and manners was unrivalled by any artist of his day, contributed the “London Barrow-woman” to the pages of Hone’s Every-Day Book in 1826 from his own recollection of her.
Buy a Broom.
| These poor “Buy-a-Broom girls” exactly dress now, As Hollar etch’d such girls two cent’ries ago; All formal and stiff, with legs, only at ease— Yet, pray, judge for yourself; and don’t if you please, ****** But ask for the print, at old print shops—they’ll show it, And look at it, “with your own eyes,” and you’ll know it. |
Buy a Broom? was formerly a very popular London-cry, when it was usually rendered thus:—“Puy a Proom, puy a prooms? a leetle von for ze papy, and a pig vons for ze lady: Puy a Proom.” Fifty years ago Madame Vestris charmed the town by her singing and displaying her legs as a Buy-a-Broom Girl.
| Buy a broom, buy a broom, Large broom, small broom, No lady should e’er be without one, &c. |
But time and fashion has swept both the brooms and the girls from our shores.—Madame Vestris lies head-to-head with Charles Mathews in Kensal Green Cemetery. Tempus omnia revelat.
The Lady as Cries Cats’ Meat.
| Old Maids, your custom I invites, Fork out, and don’t be shabby, And don’t begrudge a bit of lights Or liver for your Tabby. Hark! how the Pusses make a rout— To buy you can’t refuse; So may you never be without The music of their mews. Here’s famous meat—all lean, no fat— No better in Great Britain; Come, buy a penn’orth for your Cat— A happ’orth for your Kitten. Come all my barrow for a bob! Some charity diskivir; For faith, it ar’n’t an easy job To live by selling liver. Who’ll buy? who’ll buy of Catsmeat-Nan! I’ve bawl’d till I am sick; But ready money is my plan; I never gives no tick. I’ve got no customers as yet— In wain is my appeal— And not to buy a single bit Is werry ungenteel! |
Our Dandy Cats’ and Dogs’ Meat Man.
Every morning as true as the clock—the quiet of “Our Village Green” is broken by a peculiar and suggestive cry. We do not hear it yet ourselves, but Pincher, our black and tan terrier dog, and Smut, our black and white cat, have both caught the well-known accents, and each with natural characteristic—the one wagging his tail, the other with a stiff perpendicular [dorsel appendage] sidles towards the door, demanding as plainly as possible, to be let out. Yes, it is “Our Dandy Cats’ and Dogs’ Meat Man,” with his “Ca’ me-e-et—dogs’ me yet—Ca’ or do-args-me-a-yet, me a-t—me-yett!!!” that fills the morning air, and arouses exactly seven dogs of various kinds, and exactly thirty-one responsive feline voices—there is a cat to every house on “Our Village Green”—and causes thirty-one aspiring cat’s-tails to point to the zenith. We do not know how it is, but the Cat’s-meat man is the most unerring and punctual of all those peripatetic functionaries who undertake to cater for the public. The baker, the butcher, the grocer, the butterman, the fishmonger, and the coster, occasionally forget your necessities, or omit to call for your orders—the cat’s-meat man never!
Guy Fawkes—Guy.
There cannot be a better representation of “Guy Fawkes,” as he was borne about the metropolis in effigy in the days “When George the Third was King,” than the above sketch by George Cruikshank.
| Please to remember the fifth of November, Gunpowder treason and plot; We know no reason, why gunpowder treason, Should ever be forgot! Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a! A stick and a stake, for King George’s sake, A stick and a stump, for Guy Fawkes’ rump! Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a! |
Henry Lemoine,
The Literary and Pedestrian Bookseller and Author,
A well known
Eccentric Character of the City of London.
All Round my Hat I Vears a Green Villow.
| All round my hat I vears a green villow, All round my hat, for a twelvemonth and a day; If any body axes me the reason vy I vears it, I tells ’em that my own true love is far far away. ’Twas a going of my rounds, in the streets I first did meet her, Oh, I thought she vos a hangel just come down from the sky; |
Spoken.—She’s a nice wegitable countenance; turnup nose, redish cheeks, and carroty hair.
| And I never knew a voice more louder or more sweeter, Vhen she cried, buy my primroses, my primroses come buy. |
Spoken.—Here’s your fine colliflowers.
| All round, &c. O, my love she was fair, my love she was kind, too, And cruel vos the cruel judge vot had my love to try: |
Spoken.—Here’s your precious turnups.
| For thieving vos a thing she never vos inclined to: But he sent my love across the seas, far far away. |
Spoken.—Here’s your hard-hearted cabbages.
| All round, &c. For seven long years my love and I is parted, For seven long years my love is bound to stay. |
Spoken.—It’s a precious long time ’fore I does any trade to-day.
| Bad luck to that chap vot’d ever be false-hearted, Oh, I’ll love my love for ever, tho’ she’s far far away. |
Spoken.—Here’s your nice heads of salary!
| All round, &c. There is some young men so preciously deceitful, A coaxing of the young gals they vish to lead astray. |
Spoken.—Here’s your Valnuts; crack’em and try’em, a shilling a hundred!
| As soon as they deceives’em, so cruelly they leaves ’em, And they never sighs nor sorrows ven they’re far far away!— |
Spoken.—Do you vant any hingons to-day, marm?
| All round, &c. Oh, I bought my love a ring on the werry day she started, Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me: |
Spoken.—Bless her h-eyes,
| And vhen she does come back, oh, ve’ll never more be parted But ve’ll marry and be happy—oh, for ever and a day. |
Spoken.—Here’s your fine spring redishes.
All round, &c.
The New London Cries.
Tune—“The Night Coach.”
| “Had I a Garden, a Field and a Gate, I would not care for the Duke of Bedford’s estate; That is, I would not care for the Duke of Bedford’s estate, If I had Covent Garden, Smithfield, and Billingsgate.” |
Billingsgate has from time immemorial had much to do with “The Cries of London,” and although a rough and unromantic place at the present day, has an ancient legend of its own, that associates it with royal names and venerable folk. Geoffrey of Monmouth deposeth that about 400 years before Christ’s nativity, Belin, a king of the Britons, built this gate and gave it its name, and that when he was dead the royal body was burnt, and the ashes set over the gate in a vessel of brass, upon a high pinnacle of stone. The London historian, John Stow, more prosaic, on the other hand, is quite satisfied that one Biling once owned the wharf, and troubles himself no further.
Byllngsgate Dock is mentioned as an important quay in “Brompton’s Chronicle” (Edward III.), under the date 976, when King Ethelred, being then at Wantage, in Berkshire, made laws for regulating the customs on ships at Byllngsgate, then the only wharf in London. 1. Small vessels were to pay one halfpenny. 2. Larger ones, with sails, one penny. 3. Keeles, or hulks, still larger, fourpence. 4. Ships laden with wood, one log shall be given for toll. 5. Boats with fish, according to size, a halfpenny. 6. Men of Rouen, who came with wine or peas, and men of Flanders and Liege, were to pay toll before they began to sell, but the Emperor’s men (Germans of the Steel Yard) paid an annual toll. 7. Bread was tolled three times a week, cattle were paid for in kind, and butter and cheese were paid more for before Christmas than after.
Hence we gather that at a very early period Billingsgate was not merely a fish-market, but for the sale of general commodities. Paying toll in kind is a curious fiscal regulation; though, doubtless, when barter was the ordinary mode of transacting business, taxes must have been collected in the form of an instalment of the goods brought to market.
Our ancestors four hundred years ago had, in proportion to the population of London, much more abundant and much cheaper fish than we have now. According to the “Noble Boke off Cookry,” a reprint of which, from the rare manuscript in the Holkham Collection, has just been edited by Mrs. Alexander Napier, Londoners in the reign of Henry VII. could regale on “baked porpois,” “turbert,” “pik in braissille,” “mortins of ffishe,” “eles in bruet,” “fresh lamprey bak,” “breme,” in “sauce” and in “brasse,” “soal in brasse,” “sturgion boiled,” “haddock in cevy,” “codling haddock,” “congur,” “halobut,” “gurnard or rocket boiled,” “plaice or flounders boiled,” “whelks boiled,” “perche boiled,” “freeke makrell,” “bace molet,” “musculles,” in “shelles” and in “brothe,” “tench in cevy,” and “lossenge for ffishe daies.” For the rich there were “potages of oysters,” “blang mang” and “rape” of “ffishe,” to say nothing of “lampry in galantyn” and “lampry bak.” Our forefathers ate more varieties of fish, cooked it better, and paid much less for it than we do, with all our railways and steamboats, our Fisheries’ Inspectors, our Fisheries Exhibion and new Fish Markets with their liberal rules and regulations. To be sure, those same forefathers of ours not only enacted certain very stringent laws against “forestalling” and “regrating,” but were likewise accustomed to enforce them, and to make short work upon occasion of the forestalled and regraters of fish, as of other commodities.
In Donald Lupton’s “London and the Covntrey Carbonadoed and Quartred into seuerall Characters. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes, 1632,” the nymphs of the locality are thus described:—
Fisherwomen:—These crying, wandering, and travelling creatures carry their shops on their heads, and their storehouse is ordinarily Byllyngsgate, or Ye Brydge-foot; and their habitation Turnagain Lane. They set up every morning their trade afresh. They are easily furnished; get something and spend it jovially and merrily. Five shillings, a basket, and a good cry, are a large stock for them. They are the merriest when all their ware is gone. In the morning they delight to have their shop full; at evening they desire to have it empty. Their shop is but little, some two yards compass, yet it holds all sort of fish, or herbs, or roots, and such like ware. Nay, it is not destitute often of nuts, oranges, and lemons. They are free in all places, and pay nothing for rent, but only find repairs to it. If they drink their whole stock, it is but pawning a petticoate in Long Lane, or themselves in Turnbull Street, to set up again. They change daily; for she that was for fish this day, may be to-morrow for fruit, next day for herbs, another for roots; so that you must hear them cry before you know what they are furnished withal. When they have done their Fair, they meet in mirth, singing, dancing, and end not till either their money, or wit, or credit be clean spent out. Well, when on any evening they are not merry in a drinking house, it is thought they have had bad return, or else have paid some old score, or else they are bankrupt: they are creatures soon up and soon down.
The above quaint account of the ancient Billingsgate ladies answers exactly to the costermonger’s wives of the present day, who are just as careless and improvident; they are merry over their rope of onions, and laugh over a basketful of stale sprats. In their dealings and disputes they are as noisy as ever, and rather apt to put decency and good manners to the blush. Billingsgate eloquence has long been proverbial for coarse language, so that low abuse is often termed, “That’s talking Billingsgate!” or, that, “You are no better than a Billingsgate fish-fag”—i.e., You are as rude and ill-mannered as the women of Billingsgate fish-market (Saxon, bellan, “to bawl,” and gate, “quay,” meaning the noisy quay). The French say “Maubert,” instead of Billingsgate, as “Your compliments are like those of the Place Maubert”—i.e., No compliments at all, but vulgar dirt-flinging. The “Place Maubert,” has long been noted for its market.
The Crier of Poor John.
“It is well thou art not a fish, for then thou would’st have been Poor John”—Romeo and Juliet.
The introduction of steamboats has much altered the aspect of Billingsgate. Formerly, passengers embarked here for Gravesend and other places down the river, and a great many sailors mingled with the salesmen and fishermen. The boats sailed only when the tide served, and the necessity of being ready at the strangest hours rendered many taverns necessary for the accommodation of travellers. The market formerly opened two hours earlier than at present, and the result was demoralising and exhausting. Drink led to ribald language and fighting, but the refreshment now taken is chiefly tea or coffee, and the general language and behaviour has improved. The fish-fags of Ned Ward’s time have disappeared, and the business is done smarter and quicker. As late as 1842 coaches would sometimes arrive at Billingsgate from Dover or Brighton, and so affect the market. The old circle from which dealers in their carts attended the market, included Windsor, St. Alban’s, Hertford, Romford, and other places within twenty-five miles. Railways have now enlarged the area of purchasers to an indefinite degree.
To see this market in its busiest time, says Mr. Mayhew, “the visitor should be there about seven o’clock on a Friday morning.” The market opens at four, but for the first two or three hours it is attended solely by the regular fishmongers and “bummarees,” who have the pick of the best there. As soon as these are gone the costermonger’s sale begins. Many of the costers that usually deal in vegetables buy a little fish on the Friday. It is the fast day of the Irish, and the mechanics’ wives run short of money at the end of the week, and so make up their dinners with fish: for this reason the attendance of costers’ barrows at Billingsgate on a Friday morning is always very great. As soon as you reach the Monument you see a line of them, with one or two tall fishmongers’ carts breaking the uniformity, and the din of the cries and commotion of the distant market begin to break on the ear like the buzzing of a hornet’s nest. The whole neighbourhood is covered with hand-barrows, some laden with baskets, others with sacks. The air is filled with a kind of sea-weedy odour, reminding one of the sea-shore; and on entering the market, the smell of whelks, red herrings, sprats, and a hundred other sorts of fish, is almost overpowering. The wooden barn looking square[14] where the fish is sold is, soon after six o’clock, crowded with shiny cord jackets and greasy caps. Everybody comes to Billingsgate in his worst clothes; and no one knows the length of time a coat can be worn until they have been to a fish sale. Through the bright opening at the end are seen the tangled rigging of the oyster boats, and the red-worsted caps of the sailors. Over the hum of voices is heard the shouts of the salesmen, who, with their white aprons, peering above the heads of the mob, stand on their tables roaring out their prices. All are bawling together—salesmen and hucksters of provisions, capes, hardware, and newspapers—till the place is a perfect Babel of competition.