For the itinerant trade, a neatly painted wooden tray, slung by a leathern strap from the neck, is used: the tray is papered over generally with clean newspapers, and on the paper is spread the shapeless brown lumps of fish. Parsley is often strewn over them, and a salt-box is placed at the discretion of the customer. The trays contain from two to five dozen pieces. I understand that no one has a trade greatly in advance of his fellows. The whole body complain of their earnings being far less than was the case four or five years back.
The itinerant fried fish-sellers, when pursuing their avocation, wear generally a jacket of cloth or fustian buttoned round them, but the rest of their attire is hidden by the white sleeves and apron some wear, or by the black calico sleeves and dark woollen aprons worn by others.
The capital required to start properly in the business is:—frying-pan 2s. (second-hand 9d.); tray 2s. 6d. (second-hand 8d.); salt-box 6d. (second-hand 1d.); and stock-money 5s.—in all 10s. A man has gone into the trade, however, with 1s., which he expended in fish and oil, borrowed a frying-pan, borrowed an old tea-board, and so started on his venture.
The man who gave me the following information was well-looking, and might be about 45 or 50. He was poorly dressed, but his old brown surtout fitted him close and well, was jauntily buttoned up to his black satin stock, worn, but of good quality; and, altogether, he had what is understood among a class as “a betterly appearance about him.” His statement, as well as those of the other vendors of provisions, is curious in its details of public-house vagaries:—
“I’ve been in the trade,” he said, “seventeen years. Before that, I was a gentleman’s servant, and I married a servant-maid, and we had a family, and, on that account, couldn’t, either of us, get a situation, though we’d good characters. I was out of employ for seven or eight months, and things was beginning to go to the pawn for a living; but at last, when I gave up any hope of getting into a gentleman’s service, I raised 10s., and determined to try something else. I was persuaded, by a friend who kept a beer-shop, to sell oysters at his door. I took his advice, and went to Billingsgate for the first time in my life, and bought a peck of oysters for 2s. 6d. I was dressed respectable then—nothing like the mess and dirt I’m in now” [I may observe, that there was no dirt about him]; “and so the salesman laid it on, but I gave him all he asked. I know a deal better now. I’d never been used to open oysters, and I couldn’t do it. I cut my fingers with the knife slipping all over them, and had to hire a man to open for me, or the blood from my cut fingers would have run upon the oysters. For all that, I cleared 2s. 6d. on that peck, and I soon got up to the trade, and did well; till, in two or three months, the season got over, and I was advised, by the same friend, to try fried fish. That suited me. I’ve lived in good families, where there was first-rate men-cooks, and I know what good cooking means. I bought a dozen plaice; I forget what I gave for them, but they were dearer then than now. For all that, I took between 11s. and 12s. the first night—it was Saturday—that I started; and I stuck to it, and took from 7s. to 10s. every night, with more, of course, on Saturday, and it was half of it profit then. I cleared a good mechanic’s earnings at that time—30s. a week and more. Soon after, I was told that, if agreeable, my wife could have a stall with fried fish, opposite a wine-vaults just opened, and she made nearly half as much as I did on my rounds. I served the public-houses, and soon got known. With some landlords I had the privilege of the parlour, and tap-room, and bar, when other tradesmen have been kept out. The landlords will say to me still: ‘You can go in, Fishy.’ Somehow, I got the name of ‘Fishy’ then, and I’ve kept it ever since. There was hospitality in those days. I’ve gone into a room in a public-house, used by mechanics, and one of them has said: ‘I’ll stand fish round, gentlemen;’ and I’ve supplied fifteen penn’orths. Perhaps he was a stranger, such a sort of customer, that wanted to be agreeable. Now, it’s more likely I hear: ‘Jack, lend us a penny to buy a bit of fried;’ and then Jack says: ‘You be d—d! here, lass, let’s have another pint.’ The insults and difficulties I’ve had in the public-house trade is dreadful. I once sold 16d. worth to three rough-looking fellows I’d never seen before, and they seemed hearty, and asked me to drink with them, so I took a pull; but they wouldn’t pay me when I asked, and I waited a goodish bit before I did ask. I thought, at first, it was their fun, but I waited from four to seven, and I found it was no fun. I felt upset, and ran out and told the policeman, but he said it was only a debt, and he couldn’t interfere. So I ran to the station, but the head man there said the same, and told me I should hand over the fish with one hand, and hold out the other hand for my money. So I went back to the public-house, and asked for my money—and there was some mechanics that knew me there then—but I got nothing but ‘—— you’s!’ and one of ’em used most dreadful language. At last, one of the mechanics said: ‘Muzzle him, Fishy, if he won’t pay.’ He was far bigger than me, him that was one in debt; but my spirit was up, and I let go at him and gave him a bloody nose, and the next hit I knocked him backwards, I’m sure I don’t know how, on to a table; but I fell on him, and he clutched me by the coat-collar—I was respectable dressed then—and half smothered me. He tore the back of my coat, too, and I went home like Jim Crow. The pot-man and the others parted us, and they made the man give me 1s., and the waiter paid me the other 4d., and said he’d take his chance to get it—but he never got it. Another time I went into a bar, and there was a ball in the house, and one of the ball gents came down and gave my basket a kick without ever a word, and started the fish; and in a scuffle—he was a little fellow, but my master—I had this finger put out of joint—you can see that, sir, still—and was in the hospital a week from an injury to my leg; the tiblin bone was hurt, the doctors said” [the tibia.] “I’ve had my tray kicked over for a lark in a public-house, and a scramble for my fish, and all gone, and no help and no money for me. The landlords always prevent such things, when they can, and interfere for a poor man; but then it’s done sudden, and over in an instant. That sort of thing wasn’t the worst. I once had some powdery stuff flung sudden over me at a parlour door. My fish fell off, for I jumped, because I felt blinded, and what became of them I don’t know; but I aimed at once for home—it was very late—and had to feel my way almost like a blind man. I can’t tell what I suffered. I found it was something black, for I kept rubbing my face with my apron, and could just tell it came away black. I let myself in with my latch, and my wife was in bed, and I told her to get up and look at my face and get some water, and she thought I was joking, as she was half asleep; but when she got up and got a light, and a glass, she screamed, and said I looked such a shiny image; and so I did, as well as I could see, for it was black lead—such as they use for grates—that was flung on me. I washed it off, but it wasn’t easy, and my face was sore days after. I had a respectable coat on then, too, which was greatly spoiled, and no remedy at all. I don’t know who did it to me. I heard some one say: ‘You’re served out beautiful.’ Its men that calls themselves gentlemen that does such things. I know the style of them then—it was eight or ten years ago; they’d heard of Lord ——, and his goings on. That way it’s better now, but worse, far, in the way of getting a living. I dare say, if I had dressed in rough corderoys, I shouldn’t have been larked at so much, because they might have thought I was a regular coster, and a fighter; but I don’t like that sort of thing—I like to be decent and respectable, if I can.
“I’ve been in the ‘fried’ trade ever since, except about three months that I tried the sandwiches. I didn’t do so well in them, but it was a far easier trade; no carrying heavy weights all the way from Billingsgate: but I went back to the fried. Why now, sir, a good week with me—and I’ve only myself in the trade now” [he was a widower]—“is to earn 12s., a poor week is 9s.; and there’s as many of one as of the other. I’m known to sell the best of fish, and to cook it in the best style. I think half of us, take it round and round for a year, may earn as much as I do, and the other half about half as much. I think so. I might have saved money, but for a family. I’ve only one at home with me now, and he really is a good lad. My customers are public-house people that want a relish or a sort of supper with their beer, not so much to drinkers. I sell to tradesmen, too; 4d. worth for tea or supper. Some of them send to my place, for I’m known. The Great Exhibition can’t be any difference to me. I’ve a regular round. I used to sell a good deal to women of the town, but I don’t now. They haven’t the money, I believe. Where I took 10s. of them, eight or ten years ago, I now take only 6d. They may go for other sorts of relishes now; I can’t say. The worst of my trade is, that people must have as big penn’orths when fish is dear as when its cheap. I never sold a piece of fish to an Italian boy in my life, though they’re Catholics. Indeed, I never saw an Italian boy spend a halfpenny in the streets on anything.”
A working-man told me that he often bought fried fish, and accounted it a good to men like himself. He was fond of fried fish to his supper; he couldn’t buy half so cheap as the street-sellers, perhaps not a quarter; and, if he could, it would cost him 1d. for dripping to fry the fish in, and he got it ready, and well fried, and generally good, for 1d.
Subsequent inquiries satisfied me that my informant was correct as to his calculations of his fellows’ earnings, judging from his own. The price of plaice at Billingsgate is from ½d. to 2d. each, according to size (the fried fish purveyors never calculate by the weight), ¾d. being a fair average. A plaice costing 1d. will now be fried into four pieces, each 1d.; but the addition of bread, cost of oil, &c., reduces the “fried” peoples’ profits to rather less than cent. per cent. Soles and the other fish are, moreover, 30 per cent. dearer than plaice. As 150 sellers make as much weekly as my informant, and the other 150 half that amount, we have an average yearly earning of 27l. 6s. in one case, and of 13l. 13s. in the other. Taking only 20l. a year as a medium earning, and adding 90 per cent. for profit, the outlay on the fried fish supplied by London street-sellers is 11,400l.
The sale of sheep’s trotters, as a regular street-trade, is confined to London, Liverpool, Newcastle-on-Tyne, and a few more of our greater towns. The “trotter,” as it is commonly called, is the boiled foot of the sheep. None of my readers can have formed any commensurate notion of the extent of the sale in London, and to some readers the very existence of such a comestible may be unknown. The great supply now required is readily attained. The wholesale trade is now in the hands of one fellmongering firm, though until within these twenty months or so there were two, and the feet are cut off the sheep-skins by the salesmen in the skin-market, in Bermondsey, and conveyed to the fellmonger’s premises in carts and in trucks.
Sheep’s trotters, one of my informants could remember, were sold in the streets fifty years ago, but in such small quantities that it could hardly be called a trade. Instead of being prepared wholesale as at present, and then sold out to the retailers, the trotters were then prepared by the individual retailers, or by small traders in tripe and cow-heel. Twenty-five years ago nearly all the sheep’s trotters were “lined and prepared,” when the skin came into the hands of the fellmonger, for the glue and size makers. Twenty years ago only about one-twentieth of the trotters now prepared for eating were devoted to the same purpose; and it was not until about fifteen years back that the trade began to reach its present magnitude; and for the last twelve years it has been about stationary, but there were never more sold than last year.
From fifteen to twenty years ago glue and size, owing principally to improved modes of manufacture, became cheaper, so that it paid the fellmonger better to dispose of the trotters as an article “cooked” for the poor, than to the glue-boiler.
The process of cookery is carried on rapidly at the fellmonger’s in question. The feet are first scalded for about half an hour. After that from ten to fifteen boys are employed in scooping out the hoofs, which are sold for manure or to manufacturers of Prussian blue, which is extensively used by painters. Women are then employed, forty being an average number, “to scrape the hair off,”—for hair it is called—quickly, but softly, so that the skin should not be injured, and after that the trotters are boiled for about four hours, and they are then ready for market.
The proprietor of this establishment, after he had obligingly given me the information I required, invited me to walk round his premises unaccompanied, and observe how the business was conducted. The premises are extensive, and are situated, as are nearly all branches of the great trade connected with hides and skins, in Bermondsey. The trotter business is kept distinct from the general fellmongering. Within a long shed are five coppers, each containing, on an average, 250 “sets,” a set being the complement of the sheep’s feet, four. Two of these coppers, on my visit, were devoted to the scalding, and three to the boiling of the trotters. They looked like what one might imagine to be witches’ big caldrons; seething, hissing, boiling, and throwing forth a steam not peculiarly grateful to the nostrils of the uninitiated. Thus there are, weekly, “cooking” in one form or other, the feet of 20,000 sheep for the consumption of the poorer classes, or as a relish for those whose stomachs crave after edibles of this description. At one extremity of this shed are the boys, who work in a place open at the side, but the flues and fires make all parts sufficiently warm. The women have a place to themselves on the opposite side of the yard. The room where they work has forms running along its sides, and each woman has a sort of bench in front of her seat, on which she scrapes the trotters. One of the best of these workwomen can scrape 150 sets, or 600 feet in a day, but the average of the work is 500 sets a week, including women and girls. I saw no girls but what seemed above seventeen or eighteen, and none of the women were old. They were exceedingly merry, laughing and chatting, and appearing to consider that a listener was not of primary consequence, as they talked pretty much altogether. I saw none but what were decently dressed, some were good-looking, and none seemed sickly.
In this establishment are prepared, weekly, 20,000 sets, or 80,000 feet; a yearly average of 4,160,000 trotters, or the feet of 1,040,000 sheep. Of this quantity the street-folk buy seven-eighths; 3,640,000 trotters yearly, or 70,000 weekly. The number of sheep trotter-sellers may be taken at 300, which gives an average of nearly sixty sets a week per individual.
The wholesale price, at the “trotter yard,” is five a penny, which gives an outlay by the street-sellers of 3,033l. 6s. 8d. yearly.
But this is not the whole of the trade. Lamb’s trotters are also prepared, but only to one-twentieth of the quantity of sheep’s trotters, and that for only three months of the year. These are all sold to the street-sellers. The lamb’s foot is usually left appended to the leg and shoulder of lamb. It is weighed with the joint, but the butcher’s man or boy will say to the purchaser: “Do you want the foot?” As the answer is usually in the negative, it is at once cut off and forms a “perquisite.” There are some half dozen men, journeymen butchers not fully employed, who collect these feet, prepare and sell them to the street-people, but as the lamb’s feet are very seldom as fresh as those of the sheep carried direct from the skin market to—so to speak—the great trotter kitchen, the demand for “lamb’s” falls off yearly. Last year the sale may be taken at about 14,000 sets, selling, wholesale, at about 46l., the same price as the sheep.
The sellers of trotters, who are stationary at publichouse and theatre doors, and at street corners, and itinerant, but itinerant chiefly from one public house to another are a wretchedly poor class. Three fourths of them are elderly women and children, the great majority being Irish people, and there are more boys than girls in the trade. The capital required to start in the business is very small. A hand basket of the larger size costs 1s. 9d., but smaller or second-hand only 1s., and the white cotton cloth on which the trotters are displayed costs 4d. or 6d.; stock-money need not exceed 1s., so that 3s. is all that is required. This is one reason, I heard from several trotter-sellers, why the business is over-peopled.
From one woman, who, I am assured, may be taken as a fair type of the better class of trotter-sellers—some of the women being sottish and addicted to penn’orths of gin beyond their means—I had the following statement. I found her in the top room of a lofty house in Clerkenwell. She was washing when I called, and her son, a crippled boy of 16, with his crutch by his side, was cleaning knives, which he had done for many months for a family in the neighbourhood, who paid for his labour in what the mother pronounced better than money—broken victuals, because they were of such good, wholesome quality. The room, which is of a good size, had its red-brown plaster walls, stained in parts with damp, but a great portion was covered with the cheap engravings “given away with No. 6” (or any other number) of some periodical “of thrilling interest;” while the narrow mantel-shelf was almost covered with pot figures of dumpy men, red-breeched and blue-coated, and similar ornaments. I have often noted such attempts to subdue, as it were, the grimness of poverty, by the poor who had “seen better days.” The mother was tall and spare, and the boy had that look of premature sedateness, his face being of a sickly hue, common to those of quiet dispositions, who have been afflicted from their childhood:—
“I’m the widow of a sawyer, sir,” said Mrs. ——, with a very slight brogue, for she was an Irishwoman, “and I’ve been a widow 18 long years. I’m 54, I believe, but that 18 years seems longer than all the rest of my life together. My husband earned hardly ever less than 30s. a week, sometimes 3l., and I didn’t know what pinching was. But I was left destitute with four young children, and had to bring them up as well as I could, by what I could make by washing and charing, and a hard fight it was. One of my children went for a soldier, one’s dead, another’s married, and that’s the youngest there. Ah! poor fellow, what he’s gone through! He’s had 18 abscesses, one after another, and he has been four times in Bartholomew’s. There’s only God above to help him when I’m gone. My health broke six years ago, and I couldn’t do hard work in washing, and I took to trotter selling, because one of my neighbours was in that way, and told me how to go about it. My son sells trotters too; he always sits at the corner of this street. I go from one public-house to another, and sometimes stand at the door, or sit inside, because I’m known and have leave. But I can’t either sit, or stand, or walk long at a time, I’m so rheumatic. No, sir, I can’t say I was ever badly insulted in a public-house; but I only go to those I know. Others may be different. We depend mostly on trotters, but I have a shilling and my meat, for charing, a day in every week. I’ve tried ’winks and whelks too, ’cause I thought they might be more in my pocket than trotters, but they don’t suit a poor woman that’s begun a street-trade when she’s not very young. And the trotters can be carried on with so little money. It’s not so long ago that I’ve sold three-penn’orth of trotters—that is, him and me has—pretty early in the evening; I’d bought them at Mr. ——’s, in Bermondsey, in the afternoon, for we can buy three penn’orth, and I walked there again—perhaps it’s four miles there and back—and bought another 3d. worth. The first three-pence was all I could rise. It’s a long weary way for me to walk, but some walk from Poplar and Limehouse. If I lay out 2s. on the Saturday—there’s 15 sets for 1s., that’s 60 trotters—they’ll carry us on to Monday night, and sometimes, if they’ll keep, to Tuesday night. Sometimes I could sell half-a-crown’s worth in less time. I have to go to Bermondsey three or four times a week. The trade was far better six years ago, though trotters were dearer then, only 13 sets 1s., then 14, now 15. For some very few, that’s very fine and very big, I get a penny a piece; for some I get 1½d. for two; the most’s ½d. each; some’s four for 1½d.; and some I have to throw into the dust-hole. The two of us earns 5s. a week on trotters, not more, I’m sure. I sell to people in the public-houses; some of them may be rather the worse for drink, but not so many; regular drunkards buys nothing but drink. I’ve sold them too to steady, respectable gentlemen, that’s been passing in the street, who put them in their pockets for supper. My rent’s 1s. a week.”
I then had some conversation with the poor lad. He’d had many a bitter night, he told me, from half-past five to twelve, for he knew there was no breakfast for his mother and him if he couldn’t sell some trotters. He had a cry sometimes. He didn’t know any good it did him, but he couldn’t help it. The boys gathered round him sometimes, and teased him, and snatched at his crutch; and the policeman said that he must make him “move on,” as he encouraged the boys about him. He didn’t like the boys any more than they were fond of the policemen. He had often sad thoughts as he sat with his trotters before him, when he didn’t cry; he wondered if ever he would be better off; but what could he do? He could read, but not write; he liked to read very well when he had anything to read. His mother and he never missed mass.
Another old woman, very poorly, but rather tidily dressed, gave me the following account, which shows a little of public-house custom:—
“I’ve seen better days, sir, I have indeed; I don’t like to talk about that, but now I’m only a poor sheep’s trotter seller, and I’ve been one a good many years. I don’t know how long, and I don’t like to think about it. It’s a shocking bad trade, and such insults as we have to put up with. I serve some public-houses, and I stand sometimes at a playhouse-door. I make 3s. or 3s. 6d. a week, and in a very good week 4s., but, then, I sometimes make only 2s. I’m infirm now, God help me! and I can do nothing else. Another old woman and me has a room between us, at 1s. 4d. a week. Mother’s the best name I’m called in a public-house, and it ain’t a respectable name. ‘Here, mother, give us one of your b— trotters,’ is often said to me. One customer sometimes says: ‘The stuff’ll choke me, but that’s as good as the Union.’ He ain’t a bad man, though. He sometimes treats me. He’ll bait my trotters, but that’s his larking way, and then he’ll say:
It’s his own poetry, he says. I don’t know what he is, but he’s often drunk, poor fellow. Women’s far worse to please than men. I’ve known a woman buy a trotter, put her teeth into it, and then say it wasn’t good, and return it. It wasn’t paid for when she did so, and because I grumbled, I was abused by her, as if I’d been a Turk. The landlord interfered, and he said, said he, ‘I’ll not have this poor woman insulted; she’s here for the convenience of them as requires trotters, and she’s a well-conducted woman, and I’ll not have her insulted,’ he says, says he, lofty and like a gentleman, sir. ‘Why, who’s insulting the old b—h?’ says the woman, says she. ‘Why, you are,’ says the landlord, says he, ‘and you ought to pay her for her trotter, or how is she to live?’ ‘What the b— h—ll do I care how she lives,’ says the woman, ‘its nothing to me, and I won’t pay her.’ ‘Then I will,’ says the landlord, says he, ‘here’s 6d.,’ and he wouldn’t take the change. After that I soon sold all my trotters, and some gave me double price, when the landlord showed himself such a gentleman, and I went out and bought nine trotters more, another woman’s stock, that she was dreading she couldn’t sell, and I got through them in no time. It was the best trotter night I ever had. She wasn’t a woman of the town as used me so. I have had worse sauce from modest women, as they called themselves, than from the women of the town, for plenty of them knows what poverty is, and is civiler, poor things—yes, I’m sure of that, though it’s a shocking life—O, shocking! I never go to the playhouse-door but on a fine night. Young men treats their sweethearts to a trotter, for a relish, with a drop of beer between the acts. Wet nights is the best for public-houses. ‘They’re not salt enough,’ has been said to me, oft enough, ‘they don’t make a man thirsty.’ It’ll come to the workhouse with me before long, and, perhaps, all the better. It’s warm in the public-house, and that draws me to sell my trotters there sometimes. I live on fish and bread a good deal.”
The returns I collected show that there is expended yearly in London streets on trotters, calculating their sale, retail, at ½d. each, 6,500l., but though the regular price is ½d., some trotters are sold at four for 1½d., very few higher than ½d., and some are kept until they are unsaleable, so that the amount may be estimated at 6,000l., a receipt of 7s. 6d. weekly, per individual seller, rather more than one-half of which sum is profit.
The baked potato trade, in the way it is at present carried on, has not been known more than fifteen years in the streets. Before that, potatoes were sometimes roasted as chestnuts are now, but only on a small scale. The trade is more profitable than that in fruit, but continues for but six months of the year.
The potatoes, for street-consumption, are bought of the greengrocers, at the rate of 5s. 6d. the cwt. They are usually a large-sized “fruit,” running about two or three to the pound. The kind generally bought is what are called the “French Regent’s.” French potatoes are greatly used now, as they are cheaper than the English. The potatoes are picked, and those of a large size, and with a rough skin, selected from the others, because they are the mealiest. A waxy potato shrivels in the baking. There are usually from 280 to 300 potatoes in the cwt.; these are cleaned by the huckster, and, when dried, taken in baskets, about a quarter cwt. at a time, to the baker’s, to be cooked. They are baked in large tins, and require an hour and a half to do them well. The charge for baking is 9d. the cwt., the baker usually finding the tins. They are taken home from the bakehouse in a basket, with a yard and a half of green baize in which they are covered up, and so protected from the cold. The huckster then places them in his can, which consists of a tin with a half-lid; it stands on four legs, and has a large handle to it, while an iron fire-pot is suspended immediately beneath the vessel which is used for holding the potatoes. Directly over the fire-pot is a boiler for hot water. This is concealed within the vessel, and serves to keep the potatoes always hot. Outside the vessel where the potatoes are kept is, at one end, a small compartment for butter and salt, and at the other end another compartment for fresh charcoal. Above the boiler, and beside the lid, is a small pipe for carrying off the steam. These potato-cans are sometimes brightly polished, sometimes painted red, and occasionally brass-mounted. Some of the handsomest are all brass, and some are highly ornamented with brass-mountings. Great pride is taken in the cans. The baked-potato man usually devotes half an hour to polishing them up, and they are mostly kept as bright as silver. The handsomest potato-can is now in Shoreditch. It cost ten guineas, and is of brass mounted with German silver. There are three lamps attached to it, with coloured glass, and of a style to accord with that of the machine; each lamp cost 5s. The expense of an ordinary can, tin and brass-mounted, is about 50s. They are mostly made by a tinman in the Ratcliffe-highway. The usual places for these cans to stand are the principal thoroughfares and street-markets. It is considered by one who has been many years at the business, that there are, taking those who have regular stands and those who are travelling with their cans on their arm, at least two hundred individuals engaged in the trade in London. There are three at the bottom of Farringdon-street, two in Smithfield, and three in Tottenham-court-road (the two places last named are said to be the best ‘pitches’ in all London), two in Leather-lane, one on Holborn-hill, one at King’s-cross, three at the Brill, Somers-town, three in the New-cut, three in Covent-garden (this is considered to be on market-days the second-best pitch), two at the Elephant and Castle, one at Westminster-bridge, two at the top of Edgeware-road, one in St. Martin’s-lane, one in Newport-market, two at the upper end of Oxford-street, one in Clare-market, two in Regent-street, one in Newgate-market, two at the Angel, Islington, three at Shoreditch church, four about Rosemary-lane, two at Whitechapel, two near Spitalfields-market, and more than double the above number wandering about London. Some of the cans have names—as the “Royal Union Jack” (engraved in a brass plate), the “Royal George,” the “Prince of Wales,” the “Original Baked Potatoes,” and the “Old Original Baked Potatoes.”
The business begins about the middle of August and continues to the latter end of April, or as soon as the potatoes get to any size,—until they are pronounced ‘bad.’ The season, upon an average, lasts about half the year, and depends much upon the weather. If it is cold and frosty, the trade is brisker than in wet weather; indeed then little is doing. The best hours for business are from half-past ten in the morning till two in the afternoon, and from five in the evening till eleven or twelve at night. The night trade is considered the best. In cold weather the potatoes are frequently bought to warm the hands. Indeed, an eminent divine classed them, in a public speech, among the best of modern improvements, it being a cheap luxury to the poor wayfarer, who was benumbed in the night by cold, and an excellent medium for diffusing warmth into the system, by being held in the gloved hand. Some buy them in the morning for lunch and some for dinner. A newsvender, who had to take a hasty meal in his shop, told me he was “always glad to hear the baked-potato cry, as it made a dinner of what was only a snack without it.” The best time at night, is about nine, when the potatoes are purchased for supper.
The customers consist of all classes. Many gentlefolks buy them in the street, and take them home for supper in their pockets; but the working classes are the greatest purchasers. Many boys and girls lay out a halfpenny in a baked potato. Irishmen are particularly fond of them, but they are the worst customers, I am told, as they want the largest potatoes in the can. Women buy a great number of those sold. Some take them home, and some eat them in the street. Three baked potatoes are as much as will satisfy the stoutest appetite. One potato dealer in Smithfield is said to sell about 2½ cwt. of potatoes on a market-day; or, in other words, from 900 to 1,000 potatoes, and to take upwards of 2l. One informant told me that he himself had often sold 1½ cwt. of a day, and taken 1l. in halfpence. I am informed, that upon an average, taking the good stands with the bad ones throughout London, there are about 1 cwt. of potatoes sold by each baked-potato man—and there are 200 of these throughout the metropolis—making the total quantity of baked potatoes consumed every day 10 tons. The money spent upon these comes to within a few shillings of 125l. (calculating 300 potatoes to the cwt., and each of those potatoes to be sold at a halfpenny). Hence, there are 60 tons of baked potatoes eaten in London streets, and 750l. spent upon them every week during the season. Saturdays and Mondays are the best days for the sale of baked potatoes in those parts of London that are not near the markets; but in those in the vicinity of Clare, Newport, Covent-garden, Newgate, Smithfield, and other markets, the trade is briskest on the market-days. The baked-potato men are many of them broken-down tradesmen. Many are labourers who find a difficulty of obtaining employment in the winter time; some are costermongers; some have been artisans; indeed, there are some of all classes among them.
After the baked potato season is over, the generality of the hucksters take to selling strawberries, raspberries, or anything in season. Some go to labouring work. One of my informants, who had been a bricklayer’s labourer, said that after the season he always looked out for work among the bricklayers, and this kept him employed until the baked potato season came round again.
“When I first took to it,” he said, “I was very badly off. My master had no employment for me, and my brother was ill, and so was my wife’s sister, and I had no way of keeping ’em, or myself either. The labouring men are mostly out of work in the winter time, so I spoke to a friend of mine, and he told me how he managed every winter, and advised me to do the same. I took to it, and have stuck to it ever since. The trade was much better then. I could buy a hundred-weight of potatoes for 1s. 9d. to 2s. 3d., and there were fewer to sell them. We generally use to a cwt. of potatoes three-quarters of a pound of butter—tenpenny salt butter is what we buy—a pennyworth of salt, a pennyworth of pepper, and five pennyworth of charcoal. This, with the baking, 9d., brings the expenses to just upon 7s. 6d. per cwt., and for this our receipts will be 12s. 6d., thus leaving about 5s. per cwt. profit.” Hence the average profits of the trade are about 30s. a week—“and more to some,” said my informant. A man in Smithfield-market, I am credibly informed, clears at the least 3l. a week. On the Friday he has a fresh basket of hot potatoes brought to him from the baker’s every quarter of an hour. Such is his custom that he has not even time to take money, and his wife stands by his side to do so.
Another potato-vender who shifted his can, he said, “from a public-house where the tap dined at twelve,” to another half-a-mile off, where it “dined at one, and so did the parlour,” and afterwards to any place he deemed best, gave me the following account of his customers:—
“Such a day as this, sir [Jan. 24], when the fog’s like a cloud come down, people looks very shy at my taties, very; they’ve been more suspicious ever since the taty rot. I thought I should never have rekivered it; never, not the rot. I sell most to mechanics—I was a grocer’s porter myself before I was a baked taty—for their dinners, and they’re on for good shops where I serves the taps and parlours, and pays me without grumbling, like gentlemen. Gentlemen does grumble though, for I’ve sold to them at private houses when they’ve held the door half open as they’ve called me—aye, and ladies too—and they’ve said, ‘Is that all for 2d.?’ If it’d been a peck they’d have said the same, I know. Some customers is very pleasant with me, and says I’m a blessing. One always says he’ll give me a ton of taties when his ship comes home, ’cause he can always have a hot murphy to his cold saveloy, when tin’s short. He’s a harness-maker, and the railways has injured him. There’s Union-street and there’s Pearl-row, and there’s Market-street, now,—they’re all off the Borough-road—if I go there at ten at night or so, I can sell 3s. worth, perhaps, ’cause they know me, and I have another baked taty to help there sometimes. They’re women that’s not reckoned the best in the world that buys there, but they pay me. I know why I got my name up. I had luck to have good fruit when the rot was about, and they got to know me. I only go twice or thrice a week, for it’s two miles from my regular places. I’ve trusted them sometimes. They’ve said to me, as modest as could be, ‘Do give me credit, and ’pon my word you shall be paid; there’s a dear!’ I am paid mostly. Little shopkeepers is fair customers, but I do best for the taps and the parlours. Perhaps I make 12s. or 15s. a week—I hardly know, for I’ve only myself and keep no ’count—for the season; money goes one can’t tell how, and ’specially if you drinks a drop, as I do sometimes. Foggy weather drives me to it, I’m so worritted; that is, now and then, you’ll mind, sir.”
There are, at present, 300 vendors of hot baked potatoes getting their living in the streets of London, each of whom sell, upon an average, ¾ cwt. of potatoes daily. The average takings of each vendor is 6s. a day; and the receipts of the whole number throughout the season (which lasts from the latter end of September till March inclusive), a period of 6 months, is 14,000l.
A capital is required to start in this trade, as follows:—can, 2l.; knife, 3d.; stock-money, 8s.; charge for baking 100 potatoes, 1s.; charcoal, 4d.; butter, 2d.; salt, 1d., and pepper, 1d.; altogether, 2l. 9s. 11d. The can and knife is the only property described as fixed, stock-money, &c., being daily occurring, amounts to 75l. during the season.
These two appellations are, or have been, used somewhat confusedly in the meat trade. Thirty, or forty, or fifty years ago—for each term was mentioned to me—the butcher in question was a man who went “trotting” on his small horse to the more distant suburbs to sell meat. This was when the suburbs, in any direction, were “not built up to” as they are now, and the appearance of the trotting butcher might be hailed as saving a walk of a mile, or a mile and a half, to a butcher’s shop, for only tradesmen of a smaller capital then opened butcher’s shops in the remoter suburbs. For a suburban butcher to send round “for orders” at that period would have occupied too much time, for a distance must be traversed; and to have gone, or sent, on horseback, would have entailed the keeping or hiring of a horse which was in those days an expensive matter. One butcher who told me that he had known the trade, man and boy, for nearly fifty years, said: “As to ‘trotting,’ a small man couldn’t so well do it, for if 20l. was offered for a tidy horse in the war time it would most likely be said, ‘I’ll get more for it in the cavaldry—for it was often called cavaldry then—there’s better plunder there.’ (Plunder, I may explain, is a common word in the horse trade to express profit.) So it wasn’t so easy to get a horse.” The trotting butchers were then men sent or going out from the more frequented parts to supply the suburbs, but in many cases only when a tradesman was “hung up” with meat. They carried from 20 to 100 lb. of meat generally in one basket, resting on the pommel of the saddle, and attached by a long leathern strap to the person of the “trotter.” The trade, however, was irregular and, considering the expenses, little remunerative; neither was it extensive, but what might be the extent I could not ascertain. There then sprung up the class of butchers—or rather the class became greatly multiplied—who sent their boys or men on fast trotting horses to take orders from the dwellers in the suburbs, and even in the streets, not suburbs, which were away from the shop thoroughfares, and afterwards to deliver the orders—still travelling on horseback—at the customer’s door. This system still continues, but to nothing like its former extent, and as it does not pertain especially to the street-trade I need not dwell upon it at present, nor on the competition that sprung up as to “trotting butcher’s ponies,”—in the “matching” of which “against time” sporting men have taken great interest.
Of “trotting” butchers, keeping their own horses, there are now none, but there are still, I am told, about six of the class who contrive, by hiring, or more frequently borrowing, horses of some friendly butcher, to live by trotting. These men are all known, and all call upon known customers—often those whom they have served in their prosperity, for the trotting butcher is a “reduced” man—and are not likely to be succeeded by any in the same line, or—as I heard it called—“ride” of business. These traders not subsisting exactly upon street traffic, or on any adventure depending upon door by door, or street by street, commerce, but upon a connection remaining from their having been in business on their own accounts, need no further mention.
The present class of street-traders in raw meat are known to the trade as “hawking” butchers, and they are as thoroughly street-sellers as are the game and poultry “hawkers.” Their number, I am assured, is never less than 150, and sometimes 200 or even 250. They have all been butchers, or journeymen butchers, and are broken down in the one case, or unable to obtain work in the other. They then “watch the turn of the markets,” as small meat “jobbers,” and—as on the Stock Exchange—“invest,” when they account the market at the lowest. The meat so purchased is hawked in a large basket carried on the shoulders, if of a weight too great to be sustained in a basket on the arm. The sale is confined almost entirely to public-houses, and those at no great distance from the great meat marts of Newgate, Leadenhall, and Whitechapel. The hawkers do not go to the suburbs. Their principal trade is in pork and veal,—for those joints weigh lighter, and present a larger surface in comparison with the weight, than do beef or mutton. The same may be said of lamb; but of that they do not buy one quarter so much as of pork or veal.
The hawking butcher bought his meat last year at from 2½d. to 5½d. the pound, according to kind and quality. He seldom gave 6d., even years ago, when meat was dearer; for it is difficult—I was told by one of these hawkers—to get more than 6d. per lb. from chance customers, no matter what the market price. “If I ask 7½d. or 7d.,” he said, “I’m sure of one answer—‘Nonsense!’ I never goes no higher nor 6d.” Sometimes—and especially if he can command credit for two or three days—the hawking butcher will buy the whole carcass of a sheep. If he reside near the market, he may “cut it up” in his own room; but he can generally find the necessary accommodation at some friendly butcher’s block. If the weather be “bad for keeping,” he will dispose of a portion of the carcass to his brother-hawkers; if cold, he will persevere in hawking the whole himself. He usually, however, buys only a hind or fore-quarter of mutton, or other meat, except beef, which he buys by the joint, and more sparingly than he buys any other animal food. The hawker generally has his joints weighed before he starts, and can remember the exact pounds and ounces of each, but the purchasers generally weigh them before payment; or, as one hawker expressed it, “They goes to the scales before they come to the tin.”
Many of these hawkers drink hard, and, being often men of robust constitution, until the approach of age, can live “hard,”—as regards lodging, especially. One hawker I heard of slept in a slaughter-house, on the bare but clean floor, for nearly two years: “But that was seven years ago, and no butcher would allow it now.”
A middle-aged man, the front of his head being nearly bald, and the few hairs there were to be seen shining strongly and lying flat, as if rubbed with suet or dripping, gave me the following account. He was dressed in the usual blue garb of the butcher:—
“I’ve hawked, sir—well, perhaps for fifteen years. My father was a journeyman butcher, and I helped him, and so grew up to it. I never had to call regular work, and made it out with hawking. Perhaps I’ve hawked, take it altogether, nearly three quarters of every year. The other times I’ve had a turn at slaughtering. But I haven’t slaughtered for these three or four years; I’ve had turns as a butcher’s porter, and wish I had more, as it’s sure browns, if it’s only 1s. 6d. a day: but there’s often a bit of cuttings. I sell most pork of anything in autumn and winter, and most mutton in summer; but the summer isn’t much more than half as good as the winter for my trade. When I slaughtered I had 3s. for an ox, 4d. for a sheep, and 1s. for a pig. Calves is slaughtered by the master’s people generally. Well, I dare say it is cruel the way they slaughter calves; you would think it so, no doubt. I believe they slaughter cheaper now. If I buy cheap—and on a very hot day and a slow market, I have bought a fore, aye, and a hind, quarter of mutton, about two and a half stone each (8 lbs. to the stone), at 2d. a pound; but that’s only very, very seldom—when I buy cheap sir, I aim at 2d. a pound over what I give, if not so cheap at 1d., and then its low to my customers. But I cut up the meat, you see, myself, and I carry it. I sell eight times as much to public-houses and eating-houses as anywhere else; most to the publics if they’ve ordinaries, and a deal for the publics’ families’ eating, ’cause a landlord knows I wouldn’t deceive him,—and there’s a part of it taken out in drink, of course, and landlords is good judges. Trade was far better years back. I’ve heard my father and his pals talk about a hawking butcher that twenty years ago was imprisoned falsely, and got a honest lawyer to bring his haction, and had 150l. damages for false imprisonment. It was in the Lord Mayor’s Court of Equity, I’ve heard. It was a wrong arrest. I don’t understand the particulars of it, but it’s true; and the damages was for loss of time and trade. I’m no lawyer myself; not a bit. I have sold the like of a loin of mutton, when it was small, in a tap-room, to make chops for the people there. They’ll cook chops and steaks for a pint of beer, at a public; that is, you must order a pint—but I’ve sold it very seldom. When mutton was dearer it was easier to sell it that way, for I sold cheap; and at one public the mechanics—I hardly know just what they was, something about building—used to gather there at one o’clock and wait for ‘Giblets’; so they called me there. I live a good bit on the cuttings of the meat I hawk, or I chop a meal off if I can manage or afford it, or my wife—(I’ve only a wife and she earns never less than 2s. a week in washing for a master butcher—I wish I was a master butcher,—and that covers the rent)—my wife makes it into broth. Take it all the year round, I s’pose I sell three stun a day (24 lb.), and at 1d. a pound profit. Not a farthing more go round and round. I don’t think the others, altogether, do as much, for I’m known to a many landlords. But some make 3s. and 4s. a day oft enough. I’ve made as much myself sometimes. We all aim at 1d. a pound profit, but have to take less in hot weather sometimes. Last year 4d. the pound has been a haverage price to me for all sorts.”
“Dead salesmen,” as they are called—that is, the market salesmen of the meat sent so largely from Scotland and elsewhere, ready slaughtered—expressed to me their conviction that my informant’s calculation was correct, and might be taken as an average; so did butchers. Thus, then, we find that the hawking butchers, taking their number at 150, sell 747,000 lbs. of meat, producing 12,450l. annually, one-fourth being profit; this gives an annual receipt of 83l. each, and an annual earning of 20l. 15s. The capital required to start in this trade is about 20s., which is usually laid out as follows:—A basket for the shoulders, which costs 4s. 6d.; a leathern strap, 1s.; a basket for the arm, 2s. 6d.; a butcher’s knife, 1s.; a steel, 1s. 6d.; a leather belt for the waist to which the knife is slung, 6d.; a chopper, 1s. 6d.; and a saw, 2s.; 6s. stock-money, though credit is sometimes given.
The ham-sandwich-seller carries his sandwiches on a tray or flat basket, covered with a clean white cloth; he also wears a white apron, and white sleeves. His usual stand is at the doors of the theatres.
The trade was unknown until eleven years ago, when a man who had been unsuccessful in keeping a coffee-shop in Westminster, found it necessary to look out for some mode of living, and he hit upon the plan of vending sandwiches, precisely in the present style, at the theatre doors. The attempt was successful; the man soon took 10s. a night, half of which was profit. He “attended” both the great theatres, and was “doing well;” but at five or six weeks’ end, competitors appeared in the field, and increased rapidly, and so his sale was affected, people being regardless of his urging that he “was the original ham-sandwich.” The capital required to start in the trade was small; a few pounds of ham, a proportion of loaves, and a little mustard was all that was required, and for this 10s. was ample. That sum, however, could not be commanded by many who were anxious to deal in sandwiches; and the man who commenced the trade supplied them at 6d. a dozen, the charge to the public being 1d. a-piece. Some of the men, however, murmured, because they thought that what they thus bought were not equal to those the wholesale sandwich-man offered for sale himself; and his wholesale trade fell off, until now, I am told, he has only two customers among street-sellers.
Ham sandwiches are made from any part of the bacon which may be sufficiently lean, such as “the gammon,” which now costs 4d. and 5d. the pound. It is sometimes, but very rarely, picked up at 3½d. When the trade was first started, 7d. a pound was paid for the ham, but the sandwiches are now much larger. To make three dozen a pound of meat is required, and four quartern loaves. The “ham” may cost 5d., the bread 1s. 8d. or 1s. 10d., and the mustard 1d. The proceeds for this would be 3s., but the trade is very precarious: little can be done in wet weather. If unsold, the sandwiches spoil, for the bread gets dry, and the ham loses its fresh colour; so that those who depend upon this trade are wretchedly poor. A first-rate week is to clear 10s.; a good week is put at 7s.; and a bad week at 3s. 6d. On some nights they do not sell a dozen sandwiches. There are halfpenny sandwiches, but these are only half the size of those at a penny.
The persons carrying on this trade have been, for the most part, in some kind of service—errand-boys, pot-boys, foot-boys (or pages), or lads engaged about inns. Some few have been mechanics. Their average weekly earnings hardly exceed 5s., but some “get odd jobs” at other things.
“There are now, sir, at the theatres this (the Strand) side the water, and at Ashley’s, the Surrey, and the Vic., two dozen and nine sandwiches.” So said one of the trade, who counted up his brethren for me. This man calculated also that at the Standard, the saloons, the concert-rooms, and at Limehouse, Mile-end, Bethnal-green-road, and elsewhere, there might be more than as many again as those “working” the theatres—or 70 in all. They are nearly all men, and no boys or girls are now in the trade. The number of these people, when the large theatres were open with the others, was about double what it is now.
The information collected shows that the expenditure in ham-sandwiches, supplied by street-sellers, is 1,820l. yearly, and a consumption of 436,800 sandwiches.
To start in the ham-sandwich street-trade requires 2s. for a basket, 2s. for kettle to boil ham in, 6d. for knife and fork, 2d. for mustard-pot and spoon, 7d. for ½ cwt. of coals, 5s. for ham, 1s. 3d. for bread, 4d. for mustard, 9d. for basket, cloth, and apron, 4d. for over-sleeves—or a capital of 12s. 11d.
A young man gave me the following account. His look and manners were subdued; and, though his dress was old and worn, it was clean and unpatched:—
“I hardly remember my father, sir,” he said; “but I believe, if he’d lived, I should have been better off. My mother couldn’t keep my brother and me—he’s older than me—when we grew to be twelve or thirteen, and we had to shift for ourselves. She works at the stays, and now makes only 3s. a week, and we can’t help her. I was first in place as a sort of errand-boy, then I was a stationer’s boy, and then a news agent’s boy. I wasn’t wanted any longer, but left with a good character. My brother had gone into the sandwich trade—I hardly know what made him—and he advised me to be a ham sandwich-man, and so I started as one. At first, I made 10s., and 7s., and 8s. a week—that’s seven years, or so—but things are worse now, and I make 3s. 6d. some weeks, and 5s. others, and 6s. is an out-and-outer. My rent’s 2s. a week, but I haven’t my own things. I am so sick of this life, I’d do anything to get out of it; but I don’t see a way. Perhaps I might have been more careful when I was first in it; but, really, if you do make 10s. a week, you want shoes, or a shirt—so what is 10s. after all? I wish I had it now, though. I used to buy my sandwiches at 6d. a dozen, but I found that wouldn’t do; and now I buy and boil the stuff, and make them myself. What did cost 6d., now only costs me 4d. or 4½d. I work the theatres this side of the water, chiefly the ’Lympic and the ’Delphi. The best theatre I ever had was the Garding, when it had two galleries, and was dramatic—the operas there wasn’t the least good to me. The Lyceum was good, when it was Mr. Keeley’s. I hardly know what sort my customers are, but they’re those that go to theaytres: shopkeepers and clerks, I think. Gentlemen don’t often buy of me. They have bought, though. Oh, no, they never give a farthing over; they’re more likely to want seven for 6d. The women of the town buy of me, when it gets late, for themselves and their fancy men. They’re liberal enough when they’ve money. They sometimes treat a poor fellow in a public-house. In summer I’m often out ’till four in the morning, and then must lie in bed half next day. The ’Delphi was better than it is. I’ve taken 3s. at the first “turn out” (the leaving the theatre for a short time after the first piece), “but the turn-outs at the Garding was better than that. A penny pie-shop has spoiled us at the ’Delphi and at Ashley’s. I go out between eight and nine in the evening. People often want more in my sandwiches, though I’m starving on them. ‘Oh,’ they’ll say, ‘you’ve been ’prenticed to Vauxhall, you have.’ ‘They’re 1s. there,’ says I, ‘and no bigger. I haven’t Vauxhall prices.’ I stand by the night-houses when it’s late—not the fashionables. Their customers would’nt look at me; but I’ve known women, that carried their heads very high, glad to get a sandwich afterwards. Six times I’ve been upset by drunken fellows, on purpose, I’ve no doubt, and lost all my stock. Once, a gent. kicked my basket into the dirt, and he was going off—for it was late—but some people by began to make remarks about using a poor fellow that way, so he paid for all, after he had them counted. I am so sick of this life, sir. I do dread the winter so. I’ve stood up to the ankles in snow till after midnight, and till I’ve wished I was snow myself, and could melt like it and have an end. I’d do anything to get away from this, but I can’t. Passion Week’s another dreadful time. It drives us to starve, just when we want to get up a little stock-money for Easter. I’ve been bilked by cabmen, who’ve taken a sandwich; but, instead of paying for it, have offered to fight me. There’s no help. We’re knocked about sadly by the police. Time’s very heavy on my hands, sometimes, and that’s where you feel it. I read a bit, if I can get anything to read, for I was at St. Clement’s school; or I walk out to look for a job. On summer-days I sell a trotter or two. But mine’s a wretched life, and so is most ham sandwich-men. I’ve no enjoyment of my youth, and no comfort.
“Ah, sir! I live very poorly. A ha’porth or a penn’orth of cheap fish, which I cook myself, is one of my treats—either herrings or plaice—with a ’tatur, perhaps. Then there’s a sort of meal, now and then, off the odds and ends of the ham, such as isn’t quite viewy enough for the public, along with the odds and ends of the loaves. I can’t boil a bit of greens with my ham, ’cause I’m afraid it might rather spoil the colour. I don’t slice the ham till it’s cold—it cuts easier, and is a better colour then, I think. I wash my aprons, and sleeves, and cloths myself, and iron them too. A man that sometimes makes only 3s. 6d. a week, and sometimes less, and must pay 2s. rent out of that, must look after every farthing. I’ve often walked eight miles to see if I could find ham a halfpenny a pound cheaper anywhere. If it was tainted, I know it would be flung in my face. If I was sick there’s only the parish for me.”
The street-trade in bread is not so extensive as might be expected, from the universality of the consumption. It is confined to Petticoat-lane and the poorer districts in that neighbourhood. A person who has known the East-end of town for nearly fifty years, told me that as long as he could recollect, bread was sold in the streets, but not to the present extent. In 1812 and 1813, when bread was the dearest, there was very little sold in the streets. At that time, and until 1815, the Assize Acts, regulating the bread-trade, were in force, and had been in force in London since 1266. Previously to 1815 bakers were restricted, by these Acts, to the baking of three kinds of bread—wheaten, standard wheaten, and household. The wheaten was made of the best flour, the standard wheaten of the different kinds of flour mixed together, and the household of the coarser and commoner flour. In 1823, however, it was enacted that within the City of London and ten miles round, “it shall be lawful for the bakers to make and sell bread made of wheat, barley, rye, oats, buck-wheat, Indian-corn, peas, beans, rice, or potatoes, or any of them, along with common salt, pure-water, eggs, milk, barm-leaven, potato, or other yeast, and mixed in such proportions as they shall think fit.” I mention this because my informant, as well as an old master baker with whom I conversed on the subject, remembered that every now and then, after 1823, but only for two or three years, some speculative trader, both in shops and in the streets, would endeavour to introduce an inferior, but still a wholesome, bread, to his customers, such as an admixture of barley with wheat-flour, but no one—as far as I could learn—persevered in the speculation for more than a week or so. Their attempts were not only unsuccessful but they met with abuse, from street-buyers especially, for endeavouring to palm off “brown” bread as “good enough for poor people.” One of my elder informants remembered his father telling him that in 1800 and 1801, George III. had set the example of eating brown bread at his one o’clock dinner, but he was sometimes assailed as he passed in his carriage, with the reproachful epithet of “Brown George.” This feeling continues, for the poor people, and even the more intelligent working-men, if cockneys, have still a notion that only “white” bread is fit for consumption. Into the question of the relative nutrition of breads, I shall enter when I treat of the bakers.
During a period of about four months in the summer, there are from twenty to thirty men daily selling stale bread. Of these only twelve sell it regularly every day of the year, and they trade chiefly on their own account. Of the others, some are sent out by their masters, receiving from 1s. to 2s. for their labour. Those who sell on their own account, go round to the bakers’ shops about Stepney, Mile-end, and Whitechapel, and purchase the stale-bread on hand. It is sold to them at ½d., 1d. and 1½d. per quartern less than the retail shop price; but when the weather is very hot, and the bakers have a large quantity of stale-bread on hand, the street-sellers sometimes get the bread at 2d. a quartern less than the retail price. All the street-sellers of bread have been brought up as bakers. Some have resorted to the street-trade, I am told, when unable to procure work; others because it is a less toilsome, and sometimes a more profitable means of subsistence, than the labour of an operative baker. It is very rarely that any of the street-traders leave their calling to resume working as journeymen. Some of these traders have baskets containing the bread offered for street-sale; others have barrows, and one has a barrow resembling a costermonger’s, with a long basket made to fit upon it. The dress of these vendors is a light coat of cloth or fustian; corduroy, fustian, or cloth trousers, and a cloth cap or a hat, the whole attire being, what is best understood as “dusty,” ingrained as it is with flour.
From one bread-seller, a middle-aged man, with the pale look and habitual stoop of a journeyman baker, I had the following account:
“I’ve known the street-trade a few years; I can’t say exactly how many. I was a journeyman baker before that, and can’t say but what I had pretty regular employment; but then, sir, what an employment it is! So much night-work, and the heat of the oven, with the close air, and sleeping on sacks at nights (for you can’t leave the place), so that altogether it’s a slave’s life. A journeyman baker hasn’t what can be called a home, for he’s so much away at the oven; he’d better not be a married man, for if his wife isn’t very careful there’s talk, and there’s unhappiness about nothing perhaps. I can’t be thought to speak feelingly that way though, for I’ve been fortunate in a wife. But a journeyman baker’s life drives him to drink, almost whether he will or not. A street life’s not quite so bad. I was out of work two or three weeks, and I certainly lushed too much, and can’t say as I tried very hard to get work, but I had a pound or two in hand, and then I began to think I’d try and sell stale bread in the streets, for it’s a healthfuller trade than the other; so I started, and have been at it ever since, excepting when I work a few days, or weeks, for a master baker; but he’s a relation, and I assist him when he’s ill. My customers are all poor persons,—some in rags, and some as decent as their bad earnings’ll let them. No doubt about it, sir, there’s poor women buy of me that’s wives of mechanics working slop, and that’s forced to live on stale bread. Where there’s a family of children, stale bread goes so very much further. I think I sell to few but what has families, for a quartern’s too much at a time for a single woman. I often hear my customers talk about their children, and say they must make haste, as the poor things are hungry, and they couldn’t get them any bread sooner. O, it’s a hard fight to live, all Spitalfields and Bethnal-green way, for I know it all. There are first the journeyman bakers over-worked and fretted into drinking, a-making the bread, and there are the poor fellows in all sorts of trade over-worked to get money to buy it. I’ve had women that looked as if they was ‘reduced,’ come to me of an evening as soon as it was dusk, and buy stale bread, as if they was ashamed to be seen. Yes, I give credit. Some has a week’s credit regular, and pays every Saturday night. I lose very little in trusting. I sometimes have bread over and sell it—rather than hold it over to next day—for half what it cost me. I have given it away to begging people, sooner than keep it to be too stale, and they would get something for it at a lodging-house. The lodging-house keepers never buy of me that I know of. They can buy far cheaper than I can—you understand, sir. Perhaps, altogether, I make about a guinea every week; wet weather and short days are against me. I don’t sell more, I think, on a Saturday than on other nights. The nights are much of a muchness that way.”
The average quantity sold by each vendor during the summer months is 150 quarterns daily, usually at 4d., but occasionally at 3d. the quartern. One man informed me that he had sold in one day 350 quarterns, receiving 5l. 16s. 8d. for them.
The number of men (for if there be women they are the men’s wives) engaged daily throughout the year in the street-sale of bread is 12. These sell upon an average 100 quarterns each per day: taking every day in the year 1l. 12s. each (a few being sold at 3d.)
Calculating then the four months’ trade in summer at 150 quarterns per day per man, and reckoning 15 men so selling, and each receiving 45s. (thus allowing for the threepenny sale); and taking the receipts of the 12 regular traders at 1l. 12s. per day, we find nearly 9,000l. annually expended in the street purchase of 700,000 quartern loaves of bread. The profits of the sellers vary from 1l. to 2l. a week, according to the extent of their business.
To start in this branch of the street-trade a capital is required according to the following rate:—Stock-money for bread, average 1l.; (largest amount required, 5l.; smallest, 10s.); a basket, 4s. 6d. Of those who are employed in the summer, one-half have baskets, and the other half bakers’ barrows; while of those who attend the year through, 8 have baskets at 4s. 6d. each, 3 have barrows at 40s. each, and one a barrow and the long basket, before mentioned. The barrow costs 30s., and the basket 2l.
The sale of hot green peas in the streets is of great antiquity, that is to say, if the cry of “hot peas-cod,” recorded by Lydgate (and formerly alluded to), may be taken as having intimated the sale of the same article. In many parts of the country it is, or was, customary to have “scaldings of peas,” often held as a sort of rustic feast. The peas were not shelled, but boiled in the pod, and eaten by the pod being dipped in melted butter, with a little pepper, salt, and vinegar, and then drawn through the teeth to extract the peas, the pod being thrown away. The mention of peas-cod (or pea-shell) by Lydgate renders it probable that the “scalding” method was that then in use in the streets. None of the street-sellers, however, whom I saw, remembered the peas being vended in any other form than shelled and boiled as at present.
The sellers of green peas have no stands, but carry a round or oval tin pot or pan, with a swing handle; the pan being wrapped round with a thick cloth, to retain the heat. The peas are served out with a ladle, and eaten by the customers, if eaten in the street, out of basins, provided with spoons, by the pea-man. Salt, vinegar, and pepper, are applied from the vendor’s store, at the customer’s discretion.
There are now four men carrying on this trade. They wear no particular dress, “just what clothes we can get,” said one of them. One, who has been in the trade twenty-five years, was formerly an inn-porter; the other three are ladies’ shoemakers in the day-time, and pea-sellers in the evening, or at early morning, in any market. Their average sale is three gallons daily, with a receipt of 7s. per man. Seven gallons a day is accounted a large sale; but the largest of all is at Greenwich fair, when each pea-man will take 35s. in a day. Each vendor has his district. One takes Billingsgate, Rosemary-lane, and its vicinity; another, the Old Clothes Exchange, Bishopsgate, Shoreditch, and Bethnal-green; a third, Mile-end and Stepney; and a fourth, Ratcliffe-highway, Limehouse, and Poplar. Each man resides in his “round,” for the convenience of boiling his peas, and introducing them to his customers “hot and hot.”
The peas used in this traffic are all the dried field pea, but dried green and whole, and not split, or prepared, as are the yellow peas for soup or puddings. They are purchased at the corn-chandlers’ or the seed-shops, the price being 2s. the peck (or two gallons.) The peas are soaked before they are boiled, and swell considerably, so that one gallon of the dried peas makes rather more than two gallons of the boiled. The hot green peas are sold in halfpennyworths; a halfpennyworth being about a quarter of a pint. The cry of the sellers is, “Hot green peas! all hot, all hot! Here’s your peas hot, hot, hot!”