As many of my readers may have little, if any, knowledge of this class of street-sold works, I cite a portion of the “epistle dedicatory,” and a specimen of the style, of “Philander and Sylvia,” to show the change in street, as well as in general literature, as no such works are now published:

The last sentence is very long, so that a shorter extract may serve as a specimen of the staple of this book-making:

Having thus described what may be considered the divisional parts of this stall trade, I proceed to the more general character of the class of books sold.

Of the Character of Books of the Street-sale.

There has been a change, and in some respects a considerable change, in the character or class of books sold at the street-stalls, within the last 40 or 50 years, as I have ascertained from the most experienced men in the trade. Now sermons, or rather the works of the old divines, are rarely seen at these stalls, or if seen, are rarely purchased. Black-letter editions are very unfrequent at street book-stalls, and it is twenty times more difficult, I am assured, for street-sellers to pick up anything really rare and curious, than it was in the early part of the century.

One reason assigned for this change by an intelligent street-seller was, that black-letter or any ancient works, were almost all purchased by the second-hand booksellers, who have shops and issue catalogues, as they had a prompt sale for them whenever they could pick them up at book-auctions or elsewhere. “Ay, indeed,” said another book-stall keeper, “anything scarce or curious, when it’s an old book, is kept out of the streets; if it’s not particular decent, sir,” (with a grin), “why it’s reckoned all the more curious,—that’s the word, sir, I know,—‘curious.’ I can tell how many beans make five as well as you or anybody. Why, now, there’s a second-hand bookseller not a hundred miles from Holborn—and a pleasant, nice man he is, and does a respectable business—and he puts to the end of his catalogue—they all have catalogues that’s in a good way—two pages that he calls ‘Facetiæ.’ They’re titles and prices of queer old books in all languages—indecent books, indeed. He sends his catalogues to a many clergymen and learned people; and to any that he thinks wouldn’t much admire seeing his ‘Facetiæ,’ he pulls the last leaf out, and sends his catalogue, looking finished without it. Those last two pages aren’t at all the worst part of his trade among buyers that’s worth money.”

In one respect a characteristic of this trade is unaltered; I allude to the prevalence of “odd volumes” at the cheaper stalls,—not the odd volumes of a novel, but more frequently of one of the essayists—the “Spectator” especially. One stall-keeper told me, that if he purchased an old edition of the “Spectator,” in eight vols., he could more readily sell it in single volumes, at 4d. each, than sell the eight vols. altogether for 2s., or even 1s. 4d., though this was but 2d. a volume.

“There’s nothing in my trade,” said one street-bookseller with whom I conversed on the subject, “that sells better, or indeed so well, as English classics. I can’t offer to draw fine distinctions, and I’m just speaking of my own plain way of trade; but I call English classics such works as the ‘Spectator,’ ‘Tatler,’ ‘Guardian,’ ‘Adventurer,’ ‘Rambler,’ ‘Rasselas,’ ‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ ‘Peregrine Pickle,’ ‘Tom Jones,’ ‘Goldsmith’s Histories of Greece, Rome, and England’ (they all sell quick), ‘Enfield’s Speaker,’ ‘mixed plays,’ the ‘Sentimental Journey,’ no, sir, ‘Tristram Shandy,’ rather hangs on hand, the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ (but it must be sold very low), ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Philip Quarles,’ ‘Telemachus,’ ‘Gil Blas,’ and ‘Junius’s Letters.’ I don’t remember more at this moment, such as are of good sale. I haven’t included poetry, because I’m speaking of English classics, and of course they must be oldish works to be classics.”

Concerning the street sale of poetical works I learned from street book-sellers, that their readiest sale was of volumes of Shakespeare, Pope, Thomson, Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Byron, and Scott. “You must recollect, sir,” said one dealer, “that in nearly all those poets there’s a double chance for sale at book-stalls. For what with old editions, and new and cheap editions, there’s always plenty in the market, and very low. No, I can’t say I could sell Milton as quickly as any of those mentioned, nor ‘Hudibras,’ nor ‘Young’s Night Thoughts,’ nor Prior, nor Dryden, nor ‘Gay’s Fables.’ It’s seldom that we have any works of Hood, or Shelley, or Coleridge, or Wordsworth, or Moore at street stalls—you don’t often see them, I think, at booksellers’ stalls—for they’re soon picked up. Poetry sells very fair, take it altogether.”

Another dealer told me that from twenty to thirty years ago there were at the street-stalls a class of works rarely seen now. He had known them in all parts and had disposed of them in his own way of business. He specified the “Messiah” (Klopstock’s) as of this class, the “Death of Abel,” the “Castle of Otranto” (“but that’s seen occasionally still,” he observed), the “Old English Baron” (“and that’s seen still too, but nothing to what it were once”), the “Young Man’s Best Companion,” “Zimmerman on Solitude,” and “Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful” (“but I have that yet sometimes.”) These works were of heavy sale in the streets, and my informant thought they had been thrown into the street-trade because the publishers had not found them saleable in the regular way. “I was dead sick of the ‘Death of Abel,’” observed the man, “before I could get out of him.” Occasionally are to be seen at most of the stalls, works of which the majority of readers have heard, but may not have met with. Among such I saw “Laura,” by Capel Lloftt, 4 vols. 1s. 6d. “Darwin’s Botanic Garden,” 2s. “Alfred, an Epic Poem,” by H. J. Pye, Poet Laureate, 10d. “Cœlebs in search of a Wife,” 2 vols. in one, 1s.

The same informant told me that he had lived near an old man who died twenty-five years ago, or it might be more, with whom he was somewhat intimate. This old man had been all his life familiar with the street trade in books, which he had often hawked—a trade now almost unknown; his neighbour had heard him say that fifty to seventy years ago, he made his two guineas a week “without distressing hisself,” meaning, I was told, that he was drinking every Monday at least. This old man used to tell that in his day, the “Whole Duty of Man,” and the “Tale of a Tub,” and “Pomfret’s Poems,” and “Pamela,” and “Sir Charles Grandison” went off well, but “Pamela” the best. “And I’ve heard the old man say, sir,” I was further told, “how he had to tread his shoes straight about what books he showed publicly. He sold ‘Tom Paine’ on the sly. If anybody bought a book and would pay a good price for it, three times as much as was marked, he’d give the ‘Age of Reason’ in. I never see it now, but I don’t suppose anybody would interfere if it was offered. A sly trade’s always the best for paying, and for selling too. The old fellow used to laugh and say his stall was quite a godly stall, and he wasn’t often without a copy or two of the ‘Anti-Jacobin Review,’ which was all for Church and State and all that, though he had ‘Tom Paine’ in a drawer.”

The books sold at the street-stalls are purchased by the retailers either at the auctions of the regular trade, or at “chance,” or general auctions, or of the Jews or others who may have bought books cheap under such circumstances. Often, however, the stall-keeper has a market peculiarly his own. It is not uncommon for working men or tradesmen, if they become “beaten-down and poor” to carry a basket-full of books to a stall-keeper, and say, “Here, give me half-a-crown for these.” One man had forty parts, each issued at 1s., of a Bible, offered to him at 1d. a part, by a mechanic who could not any longer afford to “take them in,” and was at last obliged to sell off what he had. Of course such things are nearly valueless when imperfect. Very few works are bought for street-stall sale of the regular booksellers.

Of the Experience of a Street Book-seller.

I now give a statement, furnished to me by an experienced man, as to the nature of his trade, and the class of his customers. Most readers will remember having seen an account in the life of some poor scholar, having read—and occasionally, in spite of the remonstrances of the stall-keeper—some work which he was too needy to purchase, and even of his having read it through at intervals. That something of this kind is still to be met with will be found from the following account:

“My customers, sir, are of all sorts,” my informant said. “They’re gentlemen on their way from the City, that have to pass along here by the City-road. Bankers’ clerks, very likely, or insurance-office clerks, or such like. They’re fairish customers, but they often screw me. Why only last month a gentleman I know very well by sight, and I see him pass in his brougham in bad weather, took up an old Latin book—if I remember right it was an odd volume of a French edition of Horace—and though it was marked only 8d., it was long before he would consent to give more than 6d. And I should never have got my price if I hadn’t heard him say quite hastily, when he took up the book, ‘The very thing I’ve long been looking for!’ Mechanics are capital customers for scientific or trade books, such as suit their business; and so they often are for geography and history, and some for poetry; but they’re not so screwy. I know a many such who are rare ones for searching into knowledge. Women buy very little of me in comparison to men; sometimes an odd novel, in one volume, when its cheap, such as ‘The Pilot,’ or ‘The Spy,’ or ‘The Farmer of Inglewood Forest,’ or ‘The Monk.’ No doubt some buy ‘The Monk,’ not knowing exactly what sort of a book it is, but just because it’s a romance; but some young men buy it, I know, because they have learned what sort it’s like. Old three vol. novels won’t sell at all, if they’re ever so cheap. Boys very seldom buy of me, unless it’s a work about pigeons, or something that way.

“I can’t say that odd vols. of Annual Registers are anything but a bad sale, but odd vols. of old Mags. (magazines), a year or half-year bound together, are capital. Old London Mags., or Ladies’, or Oxford and Cambridges, or Town and Countrys, or Universals, or Monthly Reviews, or Humourists, or Ramblers, or Europeans, or any of any sort, that’s from 40 to 100 years old, no matter what they are, go off rapidly at from 1s. 6d. to 3s. 6d. each, according to size, and binding, and condition. Odd numbers of Mags. are good for little at a stall. The old Mags. in vols. are a sort of reading a great many are very fond of. Lives of the Princess Charlotte are a ready penny enough. So are Queen Carolines, but not so good. Dictionaries of all kinds are nearly as selling as the old Mags., and so are good Latin books. French are only middling; not so well as you might think.”

My informant then gave me a similar account to what I had previously received concerning English classics, and proceeded: “Old religious books, they’re a fair trade enough, but they’re not so plentiful on the stalls now, and if they’re black-letter they don’t find their way from the auctions or anywhere to any places but the shops or to private purchasers. Mrs. Rowe’s ‘Knowledge of the Heart’ goes off, if old. Bibles, and Prayer-books, and Hymn-books, are very bad.” [This may be accounted for by the cheapness of these publications, when new, and by the facilities afforded to obtain them gratuitously.] “Annuals are dull in going off; very much so, though one might expect different. I can hardly sell ‘Keepsakes’ at all. Children’s books, such as are out one year at 2s. 6d. apiece, very nicely got up, sell finely next year at the stalls for from 6d. to 10d. Genteel people buy them of us for presents at holiday times. They’ll give an extra penny quite cheerfully if there’s ‘Price 2s. 6d.’ or ‘Price 3s. 6d.’ lettered on the back or part of the title-page. School-books in good condition don’t stay long on hand, especially Pinnock’s. There’s not a few people who stand and read and read for half an hour or an hour at a time. It’s very trying to the temper when they take up room that way, and prevent others seeing the works, and never lay out a penny theirselves. But they seem quite lost in a book. Well, I’m sure I don’t know what they are. Some seem very poor, judging by their dress, and some seem shabby genteels. I can’t help telling them, when I see them going, that I’m much obliged, and I hope that perhaps next time they’ll manage to say ‘thank ye,’ for they don’t open their lips once in twenty times. I know a man in the trade that goes dancing mad when he has customers of this sort, who aren’t customers. I dare say, one day with another, I earn 3s. the year through; wet days are greatly against us, for if we have a cover people won’t stop to look at a stall. Perhaps the rest of my trade earn the same.” This man told me that he was not unfrequently asked, and by respectable people, for indecent works, but he recommended them to go to Holywell-street themselves. He believed that some of his fellow-traders did supply such works, but to no great extent.

An elderly man, who had known the street book-trade for many years, but was not concerned in it when I saw him, told me that he was satisfied he had sold old books, old plays often, to Charles Lamb, whom he described as a stuttering man, who, when a book suited him, sometimes laid down the price, and smiled and nodded, and then walked away with it in his pocket or under his arm, without a word having been exchanged. When we came to speak of dates, I found that my informant—who had only conjectured that this was Lamb—was unquestionably mistaken. One of the best customers he ever had for anything old or curious, and in Italian, if he remembered rightly, as well as in English, was the late Rev. Mr. Scott, who was chaplain on board the Victory, at the time of Nelson’s death at Trafalgar. “He had a living in Yorkshire, I believe it was,” said the man, “and used to come up every now and then to town. I was always glad to see his white head and rosy face, and to have a little talk with him about books and trade, though it wasn’t always easy to catch what he said, for he spoke quick, and not very distinct. But he was a pleasant old gentleman, and talked to a poor man as politely as he might to an admiral. He was very well known in my trade, as I was then employed.”

The same man once sold to a gentleman, he told me, and he believed it was somewhere about twenty-five years ago, if not more, a Spanish or Portuguese work, but what it was he did not know. It was marked 1s. 9d., being a good-sized book, but the stall-keeper was tired of having had it a long time, so that he gladly would have taken 9d. for it. The gentleman in question handed him half-a-crown, and, as he had not the change, the purchaser said: “O, don’t mind; it’s worth far more than half-a-crown to me.” When this liberal customer had walked away, a gentleman who had been standing at the stall all the time, and who was an occasional buyer, said, “Do you know him?” and, on receiving an answer in the negative, he rejoined, “That’s Southey.”

Another stall-keeper told me that his customers—some of whom he supplied with any periodical in the same way as a newsvendor—had now and then asked him, especially “the ladies of the family,” who glanced, when they passed, at the contents of his stall, why he had not newer works? “I tell them,” said the stall-keeper, “that they haven’t become cheap enough yet for the streets, but that they would come to it in time.” After some conversation about his trade, which only confirmed the statements I have given, he said laughingly, “Yes, indeed, you all come to such as me at last. Why, last night I heard a song about all the stateliest buildings coming to the ivy, and I thought, as I listened, it was the same with authors. The best that the best can do is the book-stall’s food at last. And no harm, for he’s in the best of company, with Shakespeare, and all the great people.”

Calculating 15s. weekly as the average earnings of the street book-stall keepers—for further information induces me to think that the street bookseller who earned 18s. a week regularly, cleared it by having a “tidy pitch”—and reckoning that, to clear such an amount, the bookseller takes, at least, 1l. 11s. 6d. weekly, we find 5,460 guineas yearly expended in the purchase of books at the purely street-stalls, independently of what is laid out at the open-air stalls connected with book-shops.

Of Street Book-auctioneers.

The sale of books by auction, in the streets, is now inconsiderable and irregular. The “auctioning” of books—I mean of new books—some of which were published principally with a view to their sale by auction, was, thirty to forty years ago, systematic and extensive. It was not strictly a street-sale. The auctioneer offered his books to the public, nine cases out of ten, in town, in an apartment (now commonly known as a “mock-auction room”), which was so far a portion of the street that access was rendered easier by the removal of the door and window of any room on a ground-floor, and some of the bidders could and did stand in the street and take part in the proceedings. In the suburbs—which at that period were not so integral a portion of the metropolis as at present—the book-auction sales were carried on strictly in the open air, generally in front of a public-house, and either on a platform erected for the purpose, or from a covered cart; the books then being deposited in the vehicle, and the auctioneer standing on a sort of stage placed on the propped-up shafts. In the country, however, the auction was often carried on in an inn.

The works thus sold were generally standard works. The poems were those of Pope, Young, Thomson, Goldsmith, Falconer, Cowper, &c. The prose writings were such works as “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” “The Travels of Mr. Lemuel Gulliver,” “Johnson’s Lives of the Poets,” “The Vicar of Wakefield,” the most popular of the works of Defoe, Fielding, and Smollett, and “Hervey’s Meditations among the Tombs” (at one time highly popular). These books were not correctly printed, they were printed, too, on inferior paper, and the frontispiece—when there was a frontispiece—was often ridiculous. But they certainly gave to the public what is called an “impetus” for reading. Some were published in London (chiefly by the late Mr. Tegg, who at one time, I am told, himself “offered to public competition,” by auction, the works he published); others were printed in Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Ipswich, Bungay, &c.

One of my informants remembered being present at a street-sale, about twenty or thirty years ago; he perfectly remembered, however, the oratory of the auctioneer, of whom he purchased some books. The sale was in one of the streets in Stoke Newington, a door or two from a thoroughfare. My informant was there—as he called it—“accidentally,” and knew little of the neighbourhood. The auctioneer stood at the door of what appeared to have been a coach-house, and sold his books, which were arranged within, very rapidly: “Byron,” he exclaimed; “Lord Byron’s latest and best po’ms. Sixpence! Sixpence! Eightpence! I take penny bids under a shilling. Eightpence for the poems written by a lord—Gone! Yours, sir” (to my informant). The auctioneer, I was told, “spoke very rapidly, and clipped many of his words.” The work thus sold consisted of some of Byron’s minor poems. It was in the pamphlet form, and published, I have no doubt, surreptitiously; for there was, in those days, a bold and frequent piracy of any work which was thought distasteful to the Government, or to which the Court of Chancery might be likely to refuse the protection of the law of copyright.

The auctioneer went on: “Coop’r—Coop’r! Published at 3s. 6d., as printed on the back. Superior to Byron—Coop’r’s ‘Task.’ No bidders? Thank you, sir. One-and-six,—your’s, sir. Young—‘Young’s Night Thoughts. Life, Death, and Immortality,’—great subjects. London edition, marked 3s. 6d. Going!—last bidder—two shillings—gone!” The purchaser then complained that the frontispiece—a man seated on a tombstone—was exactly the same as to a copy he had of “Hervey’s Meditations,” but the auctioneer said it was impossible.

I have thus shown what was the style and nature of the address of the street book-auctioneer, formerly, to the public. If it were not strictly “patter,” or “pompous oration,” it certainly partook of some of the characteristics of patter. At present, however, the street book-auctioneer may be described as a true patterer.

It will be seen from the account I have given, that the books were then really “sold by auction”—knocked down to the highest bidder. This however was, and is not always the case. Legally to sell by auction, necessitates the obtaining of a licence, at an annual cost of 5l.; and if the bookseller conveys his stock of books from place to place, a hawker’s licence is required as well,—which entails an additional expenditure of 4l. The itinerant bookseller evades, or endeavours to evade, the payment for an auctioneer’s licence, by “putting-up” his books at a high price, and himself decreasing the terms, instead of offering them at a low price, and allowing the public to make a series of “advances.” Thus, a book may be offered by a street-auctioneer at half-a-crown—two shillings—eighteenpence—a shilling—tenpence, and the moment any one assents to a specified sum, the volume handed to him; so that there is no competition—no bidding by the public one in advance of another. Auction, however, is resorted to as often as the bookseller dares.

One experienced man in the book-stall trade calculated that twenty years ago there might be twelve book-auctioneers in the streets of London, or rather, of its suburbs. One of these was a frequenter of the Old Kent-road; another, “Newington way;” and a third resorted to “any likely pitch in Pimlico”—all selling from a sort of van. Of these twelve, however, my informant thought that there were never more than six in London at one time, as they were all itinerant; and they have gradually dwindled down to two, who are now not half their time in town. These two traders are brothers, and sell their books from a sort of platform erected on a piece of waste-ground, or from a barrow. The works they sell are generally announced as new, and are often uncut. They are all recommended as explanatory of every topic of the day, and are often set forth as “spicy.” Three or four years ago, a gentleman told me how greatly he was amused with the patter of one of these men, who was selling books at the entrance of a yard full of caravans, not far from the School for the Blind, Lambeth. One work the street-auctioneer announced at the top of his voice, in the following terms, as far as a good memory could retain them: “‘The Rambler!’ Now you rambling boys—now you young devils, that’s been staring those pretty girls out of countenance—here’s the very book for you, and more shame for you, and perhaps for me too; but I must sell—I must do business. If any lady or gen’lman’ll stand treat to a glass of brandy and water, ‘warm with,’ I’ll tell more about this ‘Rambler’—I’m too bashful, as it is. Who bids? Fifteen-pence—thank’ee, sir. Sold again!” The “Rambler” was Dr. Johnson’s!

The last time one of my informants heard the “patter” of the smartest of the two brothers, it was to the following effect: “Here is the ‘History of the Real Flying Dutchman,’ and no mistake; no fiction, I assure you, upon my honour. Published at 10s.—who bids half-a-crown? Sixpence; thank you, sir. Ninepence; going—going! Any more?—gone!”

A book-stall-keeper, who had sold goods to a book-auctioneer, and attended the sales, told me he was astonished to hear how his own books—“old new books,” he called them, were set off by the auctioneer: “Why, there was a vol. lettered ‘Pamphlets,’ and I think there was something about Jack Sheppard in it, but it was all odds and ends of other things, I know. ‘Here’s the real Jack Sheppard,’ sings out the man, ‘and no gammon!’ The real edition—no spooniness here, but set off with other interesting histories, valuable for the rising generation and all generations. This is the real Jack. This will

“Then he went on: ‘Goldsmith’s History of England. Continued by the first writers of the day—to the very last rumpus in the palace, and no mistake. Here it is; genuine.’ Well, sir,” the stall-keeper continued, “the man didn’t do well; perhaps he cleared 1s. 6d. or a little more that evening on books. People laughed more than they bought. But it’s no wonder the trade’s going to the dogs—they’re not allowed to have a pitch now; I shouldn’t be surprised if they was not all driven out of London next year. It’s contrary to Act of Parliament to get an honest living in the streets now-a-days.”

A man connected with the street book-trade considered that if one of these auctioneers earned a guinea in London streets in the six days it was a “good week.” Half-a-guinea was nearer the average, he thought, “looking at the weather and everything.” What amount is expended to enable this street-dealer to earn his guinea or half-guinea, is so uncertain, from the very nature of an auction, that I can obtain no data to rely upon.

The itinerant book-auctioneer is now confined chiefly to the provincial towns, and especially the country markets. The reason for this is correctly given in the statement above cited. The street-auction requires the gathering of so large a crowd that the metropolitan police consider the obstruction to the public thoroughfares warrants their interference. The two remaining book-auctioneers in London generally restrict their operations to the outskirts—the small space which fronts “the George Inn” in the Commercial-road, and which lays a few yards behind the main thoroughfare, and similar suburban “retreats” being favourite “pitches.” The trade is, as regards profits, far from bad—the books sold consisting chiefly of those picked up in cheap “lots” at the regular auctions; so that what fetches 6d. in the streets has generally been purchased for less than a penny. The average rate of profit may be taken at 250l. per cent. at the least. Exorbitant however as this return may appear, still it should be remembered that the avocation is one that can be pursued only occasionally, and that solely in fine weather. Books are now more frequently sold in the London streets from barrows. This change of traffic has been forced upon the street-sellers by the commands of the police—that the men should “keep moving.” Hence the well-known light form of street conveyance is now fast superseding not only the book-auctioneer, but the book-stall in the London streets. Of these book-barrowmen there is now about fifty trading regularly in the metropolis, and taking on an average from 3s. to 5s. 6d. a day.

Of the Street-sale of Song-books, and of Children’s Books.

The sale of song-books in the streets, at 1d. and at ½d. each, is smaller than it was two years ago. One reason that I heard assigned was that the penny song-books—styled “The Universal Song-book,” “The National,” “The Bijou,” &c.—were reputed to be so much alike (the same songs under a different title), that people who had bought one book were averse to buy another. “There’s the ‘Ross’ and the ‘Sam Hall’ song-books,” said one man, “the ‘eighteenth series,’ and I don’t know what; but I don’t like to venture on working them, though they’re only a penny. There’s lots to be seen in the shop-windows; but they might be stopped in the street, for they an’t decent—’specially the flash ones.”

One of the books which a poor man had found the most saleable is entitled, “The Great Exhibition Song-book; a Collection of the Newest and Most Admired Songs. Embellished with upwards of one Hundred Toasts and Sentiments.” The toasts and sentiments are given in small type, as a sort of border to the thirty-two pages of which the book consists. The toast on the title-page is as follows:

To show the nature of the songs in street demand, I cite those in the book: “The Gathering of the Nations,” “Bloom is on the Rye,” “Wilt thou Meet me there, Love?” “Minna’s Tomb,” “I’ll Love thee ever Dearly” (Arnold), “When Phœbus wakes the Rosy Hours,” “Money is your Friend,” “Julia and Caspar” (G. M. Lewis), “That pretty word, Yes” (E. Mackey), “Farewell, Forget me Not,” “The Queen and the Navy” (music published by H. White, Great Marlborough-street), “I resign Thee every Token” (music published by Duff and Co.), “Sleep, gentle Lady;” a serenade (H. J. Payne), “The Warbling Waggoner,” “The Keepsake,” “A Sequel to the Cavalier,” “There’s room enough for All” (music at Mr. Davidson’s), “Will you Come to the Dale?” “Larry O’Brian,” “Woman’s Love,” “Afloat on the Ocean” (sung by Mr. Weiss, in the Opera of the “Heart of Mid Lothian,” music published by Jefferys, Soho-square), “Together, Dearest, let us Fly” (sung by Mr. Braham, in the Opera of the “Heart of Mid Lothian,” music published by Jefferys, Soho-square), “The Peremptory Lover” (Tune—“John Anderson, my Joe”). There are forty-seven songs in addition to those whose titles I have quoted, but they are all of the same character.

The penny song-books (which are partly indecent), and entitled the “Sam Hall” and “Ross” Songsters, are seldom or never sold in the streets. Many of those vended in the shops outrage all decency. Some of these are styled the “Coal-Hole Companion,” “Cider-Cellar Songs,” “Captain Morris’s Songs,” &c. (the filthiest of all.) These are generally marked 1s. and sold at 6d.; and have a coloured folded frontispiece. They are published chiefly by H. Smith, Holywell-street. The titles of some of the songs in these works are sufficient to indicate their character. “The Muff,” “The Two Miss Thys,” “George Robins’s Auction,” “The Woman that studied the Stars,” “A Rummy Chaunt” (frequently with no other title), “The Amiable Family,” “Joe Buggins’ Wedding,” “Stop the Cart,” “The Mot that can feel for another,” “The Irish Giant,” “Taylor Tim,” “The Squire and Patty.”

Some titles are unprintable.

The children’s books in best demand in the street-trade, are those which have long been popular: “Cinderella,” “Jack the Giant-killer,” “Baron Munchausen,” “Puss and the Seven-leagued Boots,” “The Sleeping Beauty,” “The Seven Champions of Christendom,” &c. &c. “There’s plenty of ‘Henry and Emmas,’” said a penny bookseller, “and ‘A Present for Christmas,’ and ‘Pictorial Alphabets,’ and ‘Good Books for Good Boys and Girls;’ but when people buys really for their children, they buys the old stories—at least they does of me. I’ve sold ‘Penny Hymns’ (hymn-books) sometimes; but when they’re bought, or ‘Good Books’ is bought, it’s from charity to a poor fellow like me, more than anything else.”

The trade, both in songs and in children’s books, is carried on in much the same way as I have described of the almanacks and memorandum-books, but occasionally the singers of ballads sell books. Sometimes poor men, old or infirm, offer them in a tone which seems a whine for charity rather than an offer for sale, “Buy a penny book of a poor old man—very hungry, very hungry.” Children do the same, and all far more frequently in the suburbs than in the busy parts of the metropolis. Those who purchase really for the sake of the books, say, one street-seller told me, “Give me something that’ll interest a child, and set him a-thinking. They can’t understand—poor little things!—your fine writing; do you understand that?” Another man had said, “Fairy tales! bring me nothing but fairies; they set children a-reading.” The price asked is most frequently a penny, but some are offered at a halfpenny, which is often given (without a purchase) out of compassion, or to be rid of importunity. The profit is at least cent. per cent.

Of the Street-sellers of Account-books.

The sale of account-books is in the hands of about the same class of street-sellers as the stationery, but one man in the trade thought the regular hands were more trusted, if anything, than street-stationers. “People, you see,” he said, “won’t buy their ‘accounts’ of raff; they won’t have them of any but respectable people.” The books sold are bought at 4s. the dozen, or 4½d. a piece, up to 70s. the dozen, or 5s. 9d., or 6s. a piece. It is rarely, however, that the street account-bookseller gives 4s. 9d., and very rarely that he gives as much as 5s. 9d. for his account-books. His principal sale is of the smaller “waste,” or “day-books,” kept by the petty traders; the average price of these being 1s. 9d. The principal purchasers are the chandlers, butchers, &c., in the quieter streets, and more especially “a little way out of town, where there ain’t so many cheap shops.” A man, now a street-stationer, with a “fixed pitch,” had carried on the account-book trade until an asthmatic affliction compelled him to relinquish it, as the walking became impossible to him, and he told me that the street-trade was nothing to what it once was. “People,” he said, “aren’t so well off, I think, sir; and they’ll buy half a quire of outside foolscap, or outside post, for from 5d. to 8d., and stitch it together, and rule it, and make a book of it. Rich tradesmen do that, sir. I bought of a stationer some years back, and he told me that he was a relation of a rich grocer, and had befriended him in his (the grocer’s) youth, but he wouldn’t buy account-books, for he said, the make-shift books that his shopman stitched together for him opened so much easier. People never want a good excuse for acting shabby.”

There are now, I am informed, twelve men selling account-books daily, which they carry in a covered basket, or in a waterproof bag, or, in fine weather, under the arm. Some of these street-sellers are not itinerant when there is a congregation of people for business, or indeed for any purpose; at other times they “keep moving.” The fixed localities are, on market days, at Smithfield and Mark-lane: and to Hungerford-market, an old man, unable to “travel,” resorts daily. The chief trade, however, is in carrying, or hawking these account-books from door to door. A man, “having a connection,” does best “on a round;” if he be known, he is not distrusted, and sells as cheap, or rather cheaper, than the shop-keepers.

The twelve account-book sellers (with connections) may clear 2s. 6d. a day each, taking, for the realisation of such profit, 7s. per diem. Thus 1,310l. will be taken by these street-sellers in the course of a year. The capital required to start is, stock-money, 15s.; basket, 3s. 6d.; waterproof bag, 2s. 6d.; 21s. in all.

Of the Street-sellers of Guide-books, &c.

This trade, as regards a street-sale, has only been known for nine or ten years, and had its origination in the exertions of Mr. Hume, M.P., to secure to persons visiting the national exhibitions the advantage of a cheap catalogue. The guide-books were only sold, prior to this time, within any public exhibition; and the profits—as is the case at present—were the perquisite of some official. When the sale was a monopoly, the profit must have been considerable, as the price was seldom less than 6d., and frequently 1s. The guide-books, or, as they are more frequently called, catalogues, are now sold by men who stand at the entrance, the approaches, at a little distance on the line, or at the corners of the adjacent streets, at the following places:—The National Gallery, the Vernon Gallery, the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, the House of Lords, the Society of Arts (occasionally), the Art-Union (when open “free”), Greenwich Hospital, the Dulwich Gallery, Hampton Court, Windsor Castle, and Kew Gardens.

At any temporary exhibition, also, the same trade is carried on—as it was largely when the “designs,” &c., for the decoration of the New Houses of Parliament were exhibited in Westminster Hall. There are, of course, very many other catalogues, or explanatory guides, sold to the visitors of other exhibitions, but I speak only of the street-sale.

There are now, at the National Gallery, three guidebook-sellers plying their trade in the streets; eight at the British Museum; two at Westminster Abbey; one at the House of Lords, but only on Saturdays, when the House is shown, by orders obtained gratuitously at the Lord Chamberlain’s office, or “when appeals are on;” one at the Vernon Gallery; two at Dulwich (but not regularly, as there are none at present), two at Hampton Court, “one near each gate;” and one, and sometimes three, at Windsor (generally sent out by a shopkeeper there). There used to be one at the Thames Tunnel, but “it grew so bad at last,” I was told, “that a rat couldn’t have picked up his grub at it—let alone a man.”

Among all these sellers I heard statements of earning a most wretched pittance, and all attributed it to the same cause. By the National Gallery is a board, on which is an announcement that the only authorized catalogue of the works of art can be obtained in the hall. There are similar announcements at other public places. One man who had been in this street trade, but had abandoned it, spoke of these “boards,” as he called them, with intense bitterness. “They’re the ruin of any trade in the streets,” he said. “You needn’t think because I’m out of it now, that I have a pleasure in abusing the regulations; no, sir, I look at it this way. Mr. Hume had trouble enough, I know, to get the public a cheap catalogue, and poor men were allowed to earn honest bread by selling them in the streets, and honest bread they would earn still, if it weren’t for the board. I declare solemnly a man can’t get a living at the trade. The publishers can’t prepare their catalogues without leave, and when they’ve got leave, and do prepare and print them, why isn’t a man allowed to sell them in the streets, as I’ve sold second editions of the Globe without ever the office putting out a notice that the only authorized copy was to be had within? God bless your soul, sir, it’s shocking, shocking, poor men being hindered every way. Anybody that looks on the board looks on us as cheats and humbugs, and thinks that our catalogues are all takes-in. But I’ve heard gentlemen, that I’m sure knew what they were talking about, say, in case they’d bought in the street first, and then seen the board and bought within after, so as to be sure of the real thing—I’ve heard gentlemen, say, sir,—‘Why what we got in the street is the best after all.’ Free trade! There’s plenty said about free trade, but that board, sir, or call it what you please, gives a monopoly against us. What I have said, when I was starving on catalogues, is this: Kick us out of the streets, commit us for selling catalogues, as rogues and vagabonds; or give us a fair chance. If we may sell, why is the only authorised catalogue sold only within? I wish Mr. Hume, or Mr. Cobden, either, only understood the rights of the matter—it’s of no account to me myself now—and I think they’d soon set it to rights. Free trade! Over the left, and with more hooks than one.”

I have no doubt that this representation and this opinion would have been echoed by the street catalogue-sellers, but they were evidently unwilling to converse freely on this branch of the subject, knowing the object for which I questioned them, and that publicity would follow. I attribute this reluctance chiefly to the fact that, all these poor men look forward to the opening of the Great Exhibition with earnest hope and anxiety that the influx of visiters will add greatly to their sale and profits; and they are unwilling to jeopardise their privilege of sale.

One man told me that he believed, from his own knowledge, for he had not always “sold outside,” that the largest buyers of these publications were country people, sight-seeing in London, for they bought the book not only as an explanatory guide, but to preserve as a memento of their visit. Such customers, however, I heard from several quarters, the moment they saw a “notice” as to the only authorised copy, looked upon the street-sellers as a systematised portion of the London sharpers, seeking whom they might devour, and so bought their catalogues “within.”

The best customers in the streets for the catalogues are, I am assured, the working-classes, who visit the national exhibitions on a holiday. “I’ve oft enough heard them say,” one man stated, “‘I’d rather pay a poor man 2d. any day, when I can spare it, than rich people 1d. I know what it is to fight for a crust.’”

At the National Gallery, the street-sold catalogues are 1d., 3d., and 6d.; in the hall, the authorised copy is sold at 4d. and 1s. At the British Museum, the street-charges are 3d. and 6d.; there were 1d. catalogues of this institution, but they have been discontinued for the last half-year, being found too meagre. At the Vernon Gallery, the charge is 1d.; but the 6d. guide-book to the National Gallery contains also an account of the pictures in the Vernon Gallery. At Westminster Abbey the price is 6d., and the same at the House of Lords. At Hampton-court it is 2d., 4d., and 6d., and at the same rate as regards the other places mentioned. At Hampton-court, I was told, the street-sellers were not allowed to approach the palace nearer than a certain space. One man told me that he was threatened with being “had in for trespassing, and Mr. G—— would make him wheel a roller. Of course,” the man continued, “there’s an authorised catalogue there.”

The best sale of catalogues in the streets was at the exhibition of the works of art for the Houses of Parliament. The sellers, then—about 20 in number, among whom were four women—cleared 2s. and 2s. 6d. each daily. At present, I am assured, that a good week is considered one in which 5s. is made, but that 3s. is more frequently the weekly earning. It must be borne in mind, that at the two places most resorted to—the National Gallery and the British Museum—the street sale is only for four days in the week at the first mentioned, and three days at the second. “You may think that more is made,” said one man, “but it isn’t. Sweeping a good crossing is far better, far. Bless your soul, only stand a few minutes looking on, any day, and see what numbers and numbers of people pass in and out of a free admission place without ever laying out 1d. Why, only last Monday and Wednesday (March 17 and 19, both very rainy days) I took only 5d. I didn’t take more than 5d., and I leave you to judge the living I shall clear out of that; and I know that the man with the catalogue at another place, didn’t take 1d. It’s sad work, sir, as you stand in the wet and cold, with no dinner for yourself, and no great hope of taking one home to your family.”

These street-sellers contrive, whenever they can, to mix up other avocations with catalogue selling, as the public institutions close early. One, on every occasion, sells second editions of the newspapers; another has “odd turns at portering;” a third sells old umbrellas in the streets; some sold exhibition cards in the Park, on Sundays, until the sale was stopped; another sells a little stationery; and nearly the whole of them resort, on favourable opportunities, to the sale of “books of the play,” or of “the opera.”

Reckoning that there are regularly sixteen street-sellers of guide-books—they do not interfere with each other’s stations—and that each clears 4s. weekly, we find £832 expended in this street traffic. I have calculated only on the usual bookseller’s allowance of 25 per cent., though, in some instances, these sellers are supplied on lower terms—besides having, in some of the catalogues, thirteen to the dozen; but the amount specified does not exceed the mark.

The greatest number of these guide-books which I heard of as having been sold, in any one day, was four dozen, disposed of on a fine Whit-Monday, and for these the street-seller only took 6s. 8d. There are, I was informed, half as many more “threepennies” as “sixpennies” sold, and three times as many “pennies” as the other two together.

The capital required to start is what may suffice to “lay in” a stock of books—5s. generally.

Of the Street-sellers of Fine Arts.

These traders may be described as partaking more of the characteristics of the street stationers than of the “paper-workers,” as they are not patterers. The trade is less exclusively than the “paper-trade” in the hands of men. Those carrying on this branch of the street-traffic may be divided into the sellers of pictures in frames, and of engravings (of all kinds), in umbrellas. Under this head may also be ranked the street-artists (though this is a trade associated with street-life rather than forming an integrant part of it), I allude more particularly to the illustrated “boards” which are prepared for the purposes of the street-patterers, and are adapted for no other use. The same artist that executes the greater portion of the street-art, also prepares the paintings which decorate the exterior of shows. There are also the writers of manuscript music, and the makers and sellers of “images” of all descriptions, but this branch of the subject I shall treat under the head of the street-Italians. Under the same curious head I shall also speak of the artists whose skill produces the street-sold medallions, in wax or plaster, they being of the same class as the “image” men. In both “images” and “casts” and “moulded” productions of all kinds the change and improvement that have taken place, from the pristine rudeness of “green parrots” is most remarkable and creditable to the taste of working people, who are the chief purchasers of the smaller articles.

Of Street Art.

The artists who work for the street-sellers are less numerous than the poets for the same trade. Indeed, there is now but one man who can be said to be solely a street-artist. The inopportune illustration of ballads of which specimens have already been given—or of any of the street papers—are the work of cheap wood-engravers, who give the execution of these orders to their boys. But it is not often that illustrations are prepared expressly for anything but what I have described as “Gallows literature.” Of these, samples have also been furnished. The one of a real murder, and the other of a fabulous one, or “cock,” together with a sample (in the case of Mr. Patrick Connor) of the portraits given in such productions. The cuts for the heading of ballads are very often such as have been used for the illustration of other works, and are “picked up cheap.”

The artist who works especially for the street trade—as in the case of the man who paints the patterers’ boards—must address his art plainly to the eye of the spectator. He must use the most striking colours, be profuse in the application of scarlet, light blue, orange—not yellow I was told, it ain’t a good candlelight colour—and must leave nothing to the imagination. Perspective and back-grounds are things of but minor consideration. Everything must be sacrificed for effect.

These paintings are in water colours, and are rubbed over with a solution of some gum-resin to protect them from the influence of rainy weather. Two of the subjects most in demand of late for the patterers’ boards were “the Sloanes” and “the Mannings.” The treatment of Jane Wilbred was “worked” by twenty boardmen, each with his “illustration” of the subject. The illustrations were in six “compartments.” In the first Mr. and Mrs. Sloane are “picking out” the girl from a line of workhouse children. She is represented as plump and healthy, but with a stupid expression of countenance. In another compartment, Sloane is beating the girl, then attenuated and wretched-looking, with a shoe, while his wife and Miss Devaux (a name I generally heard pronounced among the street-people as it is spelt to an English reader) look approvingly on. The next picture was Sloane compelling the girl to swallow filth. The fourth represented her as in the hospital, with her ribs protruding from her wasted body—“just as I’ve worked Sarah Simpole,” said a patterer, “who was confined in a cellar and fed on ’tato peels. Sarah was a cock, sir, and a ripper.” Then came the attack of the people on Sloane, one old woman dressed after the fashion of Mrs. Gamp, “prodding” him with a huge and very green umbrella. The sixth and last was, as usual, the trial.

I have described the “Sloanes’ board” first, as it may be more fresh in the remembrance of any reader observant of such things. In the “Mannings’ board” there were the same number of compartments as in the Sloanes’; showing the circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body of Connor, the trial, &c. One standing patterer, who worked a Mannings’ board, told me that the picture of Mrs. Manning, beautifully “dressed for dinner” in black satin, with “a low front,” firing a pistol at Connor, who was “washing himself,” while Manning, in his shirt sleeves, looked on in evident alarm, was greatly admired, especially out of town. “The people said,” observed the patterer, “‘O, look at him a-washing hisself; he’s a doing it so nattral, and ain’t a-thinking he’s a-going to be murdered. But was he really so ugly as that? Lor! such a beautiful woman to have to do with him.’ You see, sir, Connor weren’t flattered, and perhaps Mrs. Manning was. I have heard the same sort of remarks both in town and country. I patters hard on the women such times, as I points them out on my board in murders or any crimes. I says: ‘When there’s mischief a woman’s always the first. Look at Mrs. Manning there on that werry board—the work of one of the first artists in London—it’s a faithful likeness, taken from life at one of her examinations, look at her. She fires the pistol, as you can see, and her husband was her tool.’ I said, too, that Sloane was Mrs. Sloane’s tool. It answers best, sir, in my opinion, going on that patter. The men likes it, and the women doesn’t object, for they’ll say: ‘Well, when a woman is bad, she is bad, and is a disgrace to her sex.’ There’s the board before them when I runs on that line of patter, and when I appeals to the ’lustration, it seems to cooper the thing. They must believe their eyes.”

When there is “a run” on any particular subject, there are occasionally jarrings—I was informed by a “boardman”—between the artist and his street-customers. The standing patterers want “something more original” than their fellows, especially if they are likely to work in the same locality, while the artist prefers a faithful copy of what he has already executed. The artist, moreover, and with all reasonableness, will say: “Why, you must have the facts. Do you want me to make Eliza Chestney killing Rush?” The matter is often compromised by some change being introduced, and by the characters being differently dressed. One man told me, that in town and country he had seen Mrs. Jermy shot in the following costumes, “in light green welwet, sky-blue satin, crimson silk, and vite muslin.” It was the same with Mrs. Manning.

For the last six or eight years, I am told, the artist in question has prepared all the boards in demand. Previously, the standing patterers prepared their own boards, when they fancied themselves capable of such a “reach of art,” or had them done by some unemployed painter, whom they might fall in with at a lodging-house, or elsewhere. This is rarely done now, I am told; not perhaps more than six times in a twelvemonth, and when done it is most frequently practised of “cock-boards;” for, as was said to me, “if a man thinks he’s getting up a fakement likely to take, and wants a board to help him on with it, he’ll try and keep it to hisself, and come out with it quite fresh.”

The charge of the popular street-artist for the painting of a board is 3s. or 3s. 6d., according to the simplicity or elaborateness of the details; the board itself is provided by the artist’s employer. The demand for this peculiar branch of street art is very irregular, depending entirely upon whether anything be “up” or not; that is, whether there has or has not been perpetrated any act of atrocity, which has riveted, as it is called, the public attention. And so great is the uncertainty felt by the street-folk, whether “the most beautiful murder will take or not,” that it is rarely the patterer will order, or the artist will speculate, in anticipation of a demand, upon preparing the painting of any event, until satisfied that it has become “popular.” A deed of more than usual daring, deceit, or mystery, may be at once hailed by those connected with murder-patter, as “one that will do,” and some speculation may be ventured upon; as it was, I am informed, in the cases of Tawell, Rush, and the Mannings; but these are merely exceptional. Thus, if the artist have a dozen boards ordered “for this ten days, he may have two, or one, or none for the next ten;” so uncertain, it appears, is all that depends, without intrinsic merit, on mere popular applause.

I am unable to give—owing to the want of account-books, &c., which I have so often had to refer to as characteristic of street-people—a precise account of the average number of boards thus prepared in a year. Perhaps it may be as close to the fact as possible to conclude that the artist in question, who, unlike the majority of the street-poets, is not a street-seller, but works, as a professional man, for but not in the streets, realises on his boards a profit of 7s. 6d. weekly. The pictorial productions for street-shows will be more appropriately described in the account of street-performers and showmen.

This artist, as I have shown concerning some of the street-professors of the sister art of poesy, has the quality of knowing how to adapt his works exactly to the taste of his patrons the sellers, and of their patrons, the buyers in the streets.

Of the Street-sellers of Engravings, etc., in Umbrellas, etc.

The sale of “prints,” “pictures,” and “engravings”—I heard them designated by each term—in umbrellas in the streets, has been known, as far as I could learn from the street-folk for some fifteen years, and has been general from ten to twelve years. In this traffic the umbrella is inverted and the “stock” is disposed within its expanse. Sometimes narrow tapes are attached from rib to rib of the umbrella, and within these tapes are placed the pictures, one resting upon another. Sometimes a few pins are used to attach the larger prints to the cotton of the umbrella, the smaller ones being “fitted in at the side” of the bigger. “Pins is best, sir, in my opinion,” said a little old man, who used to have a “print umbrella” in the New Cut; “for the public has a more unbrokener display. I used werry fine pins, though they’s dearer, for people as has a penny to spare likes to see things nice, and big pins makes big holes in the pictures.”

This trade is most pursued on still summer evenings, and the use of an inverted umbrella seems so far appropriate that it can only be so used, in the street, in dry weather. “I used to keep a sharp look-out, sir,” said the same informant, “for wind or rain, and many’s the time them devils o’ boys—God forgive me, they’s on’y poor children—but they is devils—has come up to me and has said—one in particler, standin’ afore the rest: ‘It’ll thunder in five minutes, old bloke, so hup with yer humbereller, and go ’ome; hup with it jist as it is; it’ll show stunnin; and sell as yer goes.’ O, they’re a shocking torment, sir; nobody can feel it like people in the streets,—shocking.”

The engravings thus sold are of all descriptions. Some have evidently been the frontispieces of sixpenny or lower-priced works. These works sometimes fall into hands of the “waste collectors,” and any “illustrations” are extracted from the letter-press and are disposed of by the collectors, by the gross or dozen, to those warehousemen who supply the small shopkeepers and the street-sellers. Sometimes, I was informed, a number of engravings, which had for a while appeared as “frontispieces” were issued for sale separately. Many of these were and are found in the “street umbrellas;” more especially the portraits of popular actors and actresses. “Mr. J. P. Kemble, as Hamlet”—“Mr. Fawcett, as Captain Copp”—“Mr. Young, as Iago”—“Mr. Liston, as Paul Pry”—“Mrs. Siddons, as Lady Macbeth”—“Miss O’Neil, as Belvidera,” &c., &c. In the course of an inquiry into the subject nearly a year and a half ago, I learned from one “umbrella man” that, six or seven years previously, he used to sell more portraits of “Mr. Edmund Kean, as Richard III.,” than of anything else. Engravings, too, which had first been admired in the “Annuals”—when half-a-guinea was the price of the “Literary Souvenir,” the “Forget-me-not,” “Friendship’s Offering,” the “Bijou,” &c., &c.—are frequently found in these umbrellas; and amongst them are not unfrequently seen portraits of the aristocratic beauties of the day, from “waste” “Flowers of Loveliness” and old “Court Magazines,” which “go off very fair.” The majority of these street-sold “engravings” are “coloured,” in which state the street-sellers prefer them, thinking them much more saleable, though the information I received hardly bears out their opinion.

The following statement, from a middle-aged woman, further shows the nature of the trade, and the class of customers:

“I’ve sat with an umbrella,” she said, “these seven or eight years, I suppose it is. My husband’s a penny lot-seller, with just a middling pitch” [the vendor of a number of articles, sold at a penny “a lot”] “and in the summer I do a little in engravings, when I’m not minding my husband’s ‘lots,’ for he has sometimes a day, and oftener a night, with portering and packing for a tradesman, that’s known him long. Well, sir, I think I sell most ‘coloured.’ ‘Master Toms’ wasn’t bad last summer. ‘Master Toms’ was pictures of cats, sir—you must have seen them—and I had them different colours. If a child looks on with its father, very likely, it’ll want ‘pussy,’ and if the child cries for it, it’s almost a sure sale, and more, I think, indeed I’m sure, with men than with women. Women knows the value of money better than men, for men never understand what housekeeping is. I have no children, thank God, or they might be pinched, poor things. ‘Miss Kitties’ was the same sale. Toms is hes, and Kitties is she cats. I’ve sometimes sold to poor women who was tiresome; they must have just what would fit over their mantel-pieces, that was papered with pictures.” [My readers may remember that some of the descriptions I have given, long previous to the present inquiry, of the rooms of the poor, fully bear out this statement.] “I seldom venture on anything above 1d., I mean to sell at 1d. I’ve had Toms and Kitties at 2d. though. ‘Fashions’ isn’t worth umbrella room; the poorest needlewoman won’t be satisfied with them from an umbrella. ‘Queens’ and ‘Alberts’ and ‘Wales’s’ and the other children isn’t near so good as they was. There’s so many ‘fine portraits of Her Majesty,’ or the others, given away with the first number of this or of that, that people’s overstocked. If a working-man can buy a newspaper or a number, why of course he may as well have a picture with it. They gave away glasses of gin at the opening of that baker’s shop there, and it’s the same doctrine” [The word she used]. “I never offer penny theatres, or comic exhibitions, or anything big; they spoils the look of the umbrella, and makes better things look mean. I sell only to working people, I think; seldom to boys, and seldomer to girls; seldom to servant-maids and hardly ever to women of the town. I have taken 6d. from one of them though. I think boys buy pictures for picture books. I never had what I suppose was old pictures. To a few old people, I’ve known, ‘Children’ sell fairly, when they’re made plump, and red cheeked, and curly haired. They sees a resemblance of their grandchildren, perhaps, and buys. Young married people does so too, but not so oft, I think. I don’t remember that ever I have made more than 1s. 10d. on an evening. I don’t sell, or very seldom indeed, at other times, and only in summer, and when its fine. If I clear 5s. I counts that a good week. It’s a great help to the lot-selling. I seldom clear so much. Oftener 4s.”

The principal sale of these “pictures,” in the streets, is from umbrellas. Occasionally, a street-stationer, or even a miscellaneous lot-seller, when he has met with a cheap lot, especially of portraits of ladies, will display a collection of prints, pyramidally arranged on his stall,—but these are exceptions. Sometimes, too, an “umbrella print-seller” will have a few “pictures in frames,” on a sort of stand alongside the umbrella.

The pictures for the umbrellas are bought at the warehouse, or the swag-shops, of which I have before spoken. At these establishments “prints” are commonly supplied from 3d. to 5s. the dozen. The street-sellers buy at 5d. and 6d. the dozen, to sell at a 1d. a piece; and at 3d. to sell at ½d. None of the pictures thus sold are prepared expressly for the streets.

In so desultory and—as one intelligent street-seller with whom I conversed on the subject described it—so weathery a trade, it is difficult to arrive at exact statistics. From the best data at my command, it may be computed, that for twelve weeks of the year, there are thirty umbrella print-sellers (all exceptional traders therein included) each clearing 6s. weekly, and taking 12s. Thus it appears that 216l. is yearly expended in the streets in this purchase. Many of the sellers are old or infirm; one who was among the most prosperous before the changes in the streets of Lambeth, was dwarfish, and was delighted to be thought “a character.”

Of the Street-sellers of Pictures in Frames.

From about 1810, or somewhat earlier, down to 1830, or somewhat later, the street-sale of pictures in frames was almost entirely in the hands of the Jews. The subjects were then nearly all scriptural: “The Offering up of Isaac;” “Jacob’s Dream;” “The Crossing of the Red Sea;” “The Death of Sisera;” and “The Killing of Goliath from the Sling of the youthful David.” But the Jew traders did not at all account it necessary to confine the subjects of their pictures to the records of the Old—their best trade was in the illustrations of the New Testament. Perhaps the “Stoning of St. Stephen” was their most saleable “picture in a frame.” There were also “The Nativity;” “The Slaying of the Children, by order of Herod” (with the quotation of St. Matthew, chap. ii. verse 17, “Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet”); “The Sermon on the Mount;” “The Beheading of John the Baptist;” “The Entry of Christ into Jerusalem;” “The Raising of Lazarus;” “The Betrayal on the part of Judas;” “The Crucifixion;” and “The Conversion of St. Paul.” There were others, but these were the principal subjects. All these pictures were coloured, and very deeply coloured. St. Stephen was stoned in the lightest of sky-blue short mantles. The pictures were sold in the streets of London, mostly in the way of hawking; but ten times as extensively, I am told, in the country, as in town. Indeed, at the present time, many a secluded village ale-house has its parlour walls decorated with these scriptural illustrations, which seem to have superseded