London Labour and the London Poor, volume 3

Mayhew, Henry
1851

Lives of the Boy Inmates of the Casual Wards of the London Workhouses.

Lives of the Boy Inmates of the Casual Wards of the London Workhouses.

AN intelligent-looking boy, of sixteen years of age, whose dress was a series of ragged coats, three in number—as if one was to obviate the deficiency of another, since one would not button, and another was almost sleeveless— gave me the following statement. He had long and rather fair hair, and spoke quietly. He said:—

"I"m a native of Wisbeach, in Cambridgeshire, and am sixteen. My father was a shoemaker, and my mother died when I was five years old, and my father married again. I was sent to school, and can read and write well. My father and step-mother were kind enough to me. I was apprenticed to a tailor three years ago, but I wasn"t long with him; I runned away. I think it was three months I was with him when I first runned away. It was in August—I got as far as Boston in Lincolnshire, and was away a fortnight. I had 4s. 6d. of my own money when I started, and that lasted two or three days. I stopped in lodging-houses until my money was gone, and then I slept anywhere—under the hedges, or anywhere. I didn"t see so much of life then, but I"ve seen plenty of it since. I had to beg my way back from Boston, but was very awkward at first. I lived on turnips mainly. My reason for running off was because my master ill-used me so; he beat me, and kept me from my meals, and made me sit up working late at nights for a punishment: but it was more to his good than to punish me. I hated to be confined to a tailor"s shopboard, but I would rather do that sort of work now then hunger about like this. But you see, sir, God punishes you when you don"t think of it. When I went back my father was glad to see me, and he wouldn"t have me go back again to my master, and my indentures were cancelled. I stayed at home seven months, doing odd jobs, in driving sheep, or any country work, but I always wanted to be off to sea. I liked the thoughts of going to sea far better than tailoring. I determined to go to sea if I could. When a dog"s determined to have a bone, it"s not easy to hinder him. I didn"t read stories about the sea then, not even "Robinson Crusoe,"—indeed I haven"t read that still, but I know very well there is such a book. My father had no books but religious books; they were all of a religious turn, and what people might think dull, but they never made me dull. I read Wesley"s and Watts"s hymns, and religious magazines of different connexions. I had a natural inclination for the sea, and would like to get to it now. I"ve read a good deal about it since—Clark"s "Lives of Pirates," "Tales of Shipwrecks," and other things in penny numbers (Clark"s I got out of a library though). I was what people called a deep boy for a book; and am still. Whenever I had a penny, after I got a bellyful of victuals, it went for a book, but I haven"t bought many lately. I did buy one yesterday —the "Family Herald"—one I often read when I can get it. There"s good reading in it; it elevates your mind—anybody that has a mind for studying. It has good tales in it. I never read "Jack Sheppard,"—that is, I haven"t read the big book that"s written about him; but I"ve often heard the boys and men talk about it at the lodging-houses and other places. When they haven"t their bellies and money to think about they sometimes talk about books; but for such books as them—that"s as "Jack" —I haven"t a partiality. I"ve read "Windsor Castle," and "The Tower,"—they"re by the same man. I liked "Windsor Castle," and all about Henry VIII. and Herne the hunter. It"s a book that"s connected with history, and that"s a good thing in it. I like adventurous tales. I know very little about theatres, as I was never in one.

Well, after that seven months—I was kindly treated all the time—I runned away again to get to sea; and hearing so much talk about this big London, I comed to it. I couldn"t settle down to anything but the sea. I often watched the ships at Wisbeach. I had no particular motive, but a sort of pleasure in it. I was aboard some ships, too; just looking about, as lads will. I started without a farthing, but I couldn"t help it. I felt I must come. I forgot all I suffered before— at least, the impression had died off my mind. I came up by the unions when they would take me in. When I started, I didn"t know where to sleep any more than the dead; I learned it from other travellers on the road, It was two winters ago, and very cold weather. Sometimes I slept in barns, and I begged my way as well as I could. I never stole anything then or since, except turnips; but I"ve been often tempted. At last I got to London, and was by myself. I travelled sometimes with others as I came up, but not as mates—not as friends. I came to London for one purpose just by myself. I was a week in London before I knew where I was. I didn"t know where to go. I slept on door-steps, or anywhere. I used often to stand on London-bridge, but I didn"t know where to go to get to sea, or anything of that kind. I was sadly hungered, regularly starved; and I saw so many policemen, I durstn"t beg—and I dare not now, in London. I got crusts, but I can hardly tell how I lived. One night I was sleeping under a railway-arch, somewhere about Bishopsgate-street, and a policeman came and asked me what I was up to? I told him I had no place to go to, so he said I must go along with him. In the morning he took me and four or five others to a house in a big street. I don"t know where; and a man—a magistrate, I suppose he was —heard what the policeman had to say, and he said there was always a lot of lads there about the arches, young thieves, that gave him a great deal of trouble, and I was one associated with them. I declare I didn"t know any of the other boys, nor any boys in London—not a soul; and I was under the arch by myself, and only that night. I never saw the policeman himself before that, as I know of. I got fourteen days of it, and they took me in an omnibus, but I don"t know to what prison. I was committed for being a rogue and something else. I didn"t very well hear what other things I was, but "rogue" I know was one. They were very strict in prison, and I wasn"t allowed to speak. I was put to oakum some days, and others on a wheel. That"s the only time I was ever in prison, and I hope it will always be the only time. Something may turn up— there"s nobody knows. When I was turned out I hadn"t a farthing given to me. And so I was again in the streets, without knowing a creature, and without a farthing in my pocket, and nothing to get one with but my tongue. I set off that day for the country. I didn"t try to get a ship, because I didn"t know where to go to ask, and I had got ragged, and they wouldn"t hear me out if I asked any people about the bridges. I took the first road that offered, and got to Greenwich. I couldn"t still think of going back home. I would if I had had clothes, but they were rags, and I had no shoes but a pair of old slippers. I was sometimes sorry I left home, but then I began to get used to travelling, and to beg a bit in the villages. I had no regular mate to travel with, and no sweetheart. I slept in the unions whenever I could get in—that"s in the country. I didn"t never sleep in the London workhouses till afterwards. In some country places there were as many as forty in the casual wards, men, women, and children; in some, only two or three. There used to be part boys, like myself, but far more bigger than I was; they were generally from eighteen to twenty-three: London chaps, chiefly, I believe. They were a regularly jolly set. They used to sing and dance a part of the nights and mornings in the wards, and I got to sing and dance with them. We were all in a mess; there was no better or no worse among us. We used to sing comic and sentimental songs, both. I used to sing "Tom Elliott," that"s a sea song, for I hankered about the sea, and "I"m Afloat." I hardly know any but sea-songs. Many used to sing indecent songs; they"re impudent blackguards. They used to sell these songs among the others, but I never sold any of them, and I never had any, though I know some, from hearing them often. We told stories sometimes; romantic tales, some; others blackguard kind of tales, about bad women; and others about thieving and roguery; not so much about what they"d done themselves, as about some big thief that was very clever at stealing, and could trick anybody. Not stories such as Dick Turpin or Jack Sheppard, or things that"s in history, but inventions. I used to say when I was telling a story—for I"ve told one story that I invented till I learnt it,—

[I give this story to show what are the objects of admiration with these vagrants.]

"You see, mates, there was once upon a time, and a very good time it was, a young man, and he runned away, and got along with a gang of thieves, and he went to a gentleman"s house, and got in, because one of his mates sweethearted the servant, and got her away, and she left the door open." ["But don"t," he expostulated, "take it all down that way; it"s foolishness. I"m ashamed of it—it"s just what we say to amuse ourselves."] "And the door being left open, the young man got in and robbed the house of a lot of money, 1000l., and he took it to their gang at the cave. Next day there was a reward out to find the robber. Nobody found him. So the gentleman put out two men and a horse in a field, and the men were hidden in the field, and the gentleman put out a notice that anybody that could catch the horse should have him for his cleverness, and a reward as well; for he thought the man that got the 1000l. was sure to try to catch that there horse, because he was so bold and clever, and then the two men hid would nab him. This here Jack (that"s the young man) was watching, and he saw the two men, and he went and caught two live hares. Then he hid himself behind a hedge, and let one hare go, and one man said to the other, "There goes a hare," and they both run after it, not thinking Jack"s there. And while they were running he let go the t"other one, and they said, "There"s another hare," and they ran different ways, and so Jack went and got the horse, and took it to the man that offered the reward, and got the reward; it was 100l.; and the gentleman said "D——n it, Jack"s done me this time." The gentleman then wanted to serve out the parson, and he said to Jack, "I"ll give you another 100l. if you"ll do something to the parson as bad as you"ve done to me." Jack said, "Well, I will;" and Jack went to the church and lighted up the lamps, and rang the bells, and the parson he got up to see what was up. Jack was standing in one of the pews like an angel, when the parson got to the church. Jack said, "Go and put your plate in a bag; I"m an angel come to take you up to heaven." And the parson did so, and it was as much as he could drag to church from his house in a bag; for he was very rich. And when he got to the church Jack put the parson in one bag, and the money stayed in the other; and he tied them both together, and put them across his horse, and took them up hills and through water to the gentleman"s, and then he took the parson out of the bag, and the parson was wringing wet. Jack fetched the gentleman, and the gentleman gave the parson a horsewhipping, and the parson cut away, and Jack got all the parson"s money and the second 100l., and gave it all to the poor. And the parson brought an action against the gentleman for horsewhipping him, and they both were ruined. That"s the end of it." That"s the sort of story that"s liked best, sir. Sometimes there was fighting in the casual-wards. Sometimes I was in it, I was like the rest. We jawed each other often, calling names, and coming to fight at last. At Romsey a lot of young fellows broke all the windows they could get at, because they were too late to be admitted. They broke them from the outside. We couldn"t get at them from inside. I"ve carried on begging, and going from union to union to sleep, until now. Once I got work in Northampton with a drover. I kept working when he"d a job, from August last to the week before Christmas. I always tried to get a ship in a seaport, but couldn"t. I"ve been to Portsmouth, Plymouth, Bristol, Southampton, Ipswich, Liverpool, Brighton, Dover, Shoreham, Hastings, and all through Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, Cambridgeshire, and Suffolk—not in Norfolk—they won"t let you go there. I don"t know why. All this time I used to meet boys like myself, but mostly bigger and older; plenty of them could read and write, some were gentlemen"s sons, they said. Some had their young women with them that they"d taken up with, but I never was much with them. I often wished I was at home again, and do now, but I can"t think of going back in these rags; and I don"t know if my father"s dead or alive (his voice trembled), but I"d like to be there and have it over. I can"t face meeting them in these rags, and I"ve seldom had better, I make so little money. I"m unhappy at times, but I get over it better than I used, as I get accustomed to this life. I never heard anything about home since I left. I have applied at the Marine Society here, but it"s no use. If I could only get to sea, I"d be happy; and I"d be happy if I could get home, and would, but for the reasons I"ve told you.

The next was a boy with a quiet look, rather better dressed than most of the vagrant boys, and far more clean in his dress. He made the following statement:—

I am now seventeen. My father was a cotton-spinner in Manchester, but has been dead ten years; and soon after that my mother went into the workhouse, leaving me with an aunt; and I had work in a cotton factory. As young as I was, I earned 2s. 2d. a-week at first. I can read well, and can write a little. I worked at the factory two years, and was then earning 7s. a-week. I then ran away, for I had always a roving mind; but I should have stayed if my master hadn"t knocked me about so. I thought I should make my fortune in London—I"d heard it was such a grand place. I had read in novels and romances,—halfpenny and penny books—about such things, but I"ve met with nothing of the kind. I started without money, and begged my way from Manchester to London, saying I was going up to look for work. I wanted to see the place more than anything else. I suffered very much on the road, having to be out all night often; and the nights were cold, though it was summer. When I got to London all my hopes were blighted. I could get no further. I never tried for work in London, for I believe there are no cotton factories in it; besides, I wanted to see life. I begged, and slept in the unions. I got acquainted with plenty of boys like myself. We met at the casual wards, both in London and the country. I have now been five years at this life. We were merry enough in the wards, we boys, singing and telling stories. Songs such as "Paul Jones" was liked, while some sung very blackguard songs; but I never got hold of such songs, though I have sold lots of songs in Essex. Some told long stories, very interesting; some were not fit to be heard; but they made one laugh sometimes. I"ve read "Jack Sheppard" through, in three volumes; and I used to tell stories out of that sometimes. We all told in our turns. We generally began,—"Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it was neither in your time, nor my time, nor nobody else"s time." The best man in the story is always called Jack.

At my request, this youth told me a long story, and told it very readily, as if by rote. I give it for its peculiarity, as it is extravagant enough, without humour.

"A farmer hired Jack, and instructed him over-night. Jack was to do what he was required, or lose his head. "Now, Jack," said the farmer, [I give the conclusion in the boy"s words,] "what"s my name?" "Master, to be sure," says Jack. "No," said he, "you must call me Tom Per Cent." He showed his bed next, and asked, "What"s this, Jack?" "Why, the bed," said Jack. "No, you must call that, He"s of Degree." And so he bid Jack call his leather breeches "forty cracks;" the cat, "white-faced Simeon;" the fire, "hot coleman;" the pump, the "resurrection;" and the haystack, the "little cock-a-mountain." Jack was to remember these names or lose his head. At night the cat got under the grate, and burned herself, and a hot cinder struck her fur, and she ran under the haystack and set it on fire. Jack ran up-stairs to his master, and said:— Tom Per Cent, arise out of he"s of degree, Put on your forty cracks, come down and see; For the little white-faced Simeon Has run away with hot coleman Under the little cock-a-mountain, And without the aid of the resurrection We shall be damned and burnt to death.

So Jack remembered his lesson, and saved his head. That"s the end. Blackguard stories were often told about women. There was plenty told, too, about Dick Turpin, Sixteenstring Jack, Oxford Blue, and such as them; as well as about Jack Sheppard; about Bamfylde Moore Carew, too, and his disguises. We very often had fighting and quarrelling among ourselves. Once, at Birmingham, we smashed all the windows, and did all the damage we could. I can"t tell exactly why it was done, but we must all take part in it, or we should be marked. I believe some did it to get into prison, they were so badly off. They piled up the rugs; there was no straw; and some put their clothes on the rugs, and then the heap was set fire to. There was no fire, and no light, but somebody had a box of lucifers. We were all nearly suffocated before the people of the place could get to us. Seventeen of us had a month a-piece for it: I was one. The rugs were dirty and filthy, and not fit for any Christian to sleep under, and so I took part in the burning, as I thought it would cause something better. I"ve known wild Irishmen get into the wards with knives and sticks hidden about their persons, to be ready for a fight. I met two young men in Essex who had been well off—very well,—but they liked a tramper"s life. Each had his young woman with him, living as man and wife. They often change their young women; but I never did travel with one, or keep company with any more than twelve hours or so. There used to be great numbers of girls in the casual wards in London. Any young man travelling the country could get a mate among them, and can get mates—partners they"re often called,—still. Some of them are very pretty indeed; but among them are some horrid ugly—the most are ugly; bad expressions and coarse faces, and lame, and disgusting to the eye. It was disgusting too, to hear them in their own company; that is, among such as themselves;—beggars, you know. Almost every word was an oath, and every blackguard word was said plain out. I think the pretty ones were worst. Very few have children. I knew two who had. One was seventeen, and her child was nine months old; the other was twenty-one, and her child was eighteen months. They were very good to their children. I"ve heard of some having children, and saying they couldn"t guess at the fathers of them, but I never met with any such myself. I didn"t often hear them quarrel,—I mean the young men and young women that went out as partners,—in the lodging-houses. Some boys of fifteen have their young women as partners, but with young boys older women are generally partners—women about twenty. They always pass as man and wife. All beggar-girls are bad, I believe. I never heard but of one that was considered virtuous, and she was always reading a prayer-book and a testament in her lodging-house. The last time I saw her was at Cambridge. She is about thirty, and has traces of beauty left. The boys used to laugh at her, and say, "Oh! how virtuous and righteous we are! but you get your living by it." I never knew her to get anything by it. I don"t see how she could, for she said nothing about her being righteous when she was begging about, I believe. If is wasn"t for the casual wards, I couldn"t get about. If two partners goes to the same union, they have to be parted at night, and join again the morning. Some of the young women are very dirty, but some"s as clean. A few, I think, can read and write. Some boasts of their wickedness, and others tell them in derision it"s wrong to do that, and then a quarrel rages in the lodging-house. I liked a roving life, at first, being my own master. I was fond of going to plays, and such-like, when I got money; but now I"m getting tired of it, and wish for something else. I have tried for work at cotton factories in Lancashire and Yorkshire, but never could get any. I"ve been all over the country. I"m sure I could settle now. I couldn"t have done that two years ago, the roving spirit was so strong upon me, and the company I kept got a strong hold on me. Two winters back, there was a regular gang of us boys in London. After sleeping at a union, we would fix where to meet at night to get into another union to sleep. There were thirty of us that way, all boys; besides forty young men, and thirty young women. Sometimes we walked the streets all night. We didn"t rob, at least I never saw any robbing. We had pleasure in chaffing the policemen, and some of us got taken up. I always escaped. We got broken up in time, —some"s dead, some"s gone to sea, some into the country, some home, and some lagged. Among them were many lads very expert in reading, writing, and arithmetic. One young man—he was only twenty-five,—could speak several languages: he had been to sea. He was then begging, though a strong young man. I suppose he liked that life. some soon got tired of it. I often have suffered from cold and hunger. I never made more than 3d. a-day in money, take the year round, by begging; some make more than 6d.: but then, I"ve had meat and bread given besides. I say nothing when I beg, but that I am a poor boy out of work and starving. I never stole anything in my life. I"ve often been asked to do so by my mates. I never would. The young women steal the most. I know, least, I did know, two that kept young men, their partners, going about the country with them, chiefly by their stealing. Some do so by their prostitution. Those that go as partners are all prostitutes. There is a great deal of sickness among the young men and women, but I never was ill these last seven years. Fevers, colds, and venereal diseases, are very common."

The last statement I took was that of a boy of thirteen. I can hardly say that he was clothed at all. He had no shirt, and no waistcoat; all his neck and a great part of his chest being bare. A ragged cloth jacket hung about him, and was tied, so as to keep it together, with bits of tape. What he had wrapped round for trousers did not cover one of his legs, while one of his thighs was bare. He wore two old shoes; one tied to his foot with an old ribbon, the other a woman"s old boot. He had an old cloth cap. His features were distorted somewhat, through being swollen with the cold. "I was born," he said, "at a place called Hadley, in Kent. My father died when I was three days old, I"ve heard my mo- ther say. He was married to her, I believe, but I don"t know what he was. She had only me. My mother went about begging, sometimes taking me with her; at other times she left me at the lodging-house in Hadley. She went in the country, round about Tunbridge and there, begging. Sometimes she had a day"s work. We had plenty to eat then, but I haven"t had much lately. My mother died at Hadley a year ago. I didn"t know how she was buried. She was ill a long time, and I was out begging; for she sent me out to beg for myself a good while before that, and when I got back to the lodging-house they told me she was dead. I had sixpence in my pocket, but I couldn"t help crying to think I"d lost my mother. I cry about it still. I didn"t wait to see her buried, but I started on my own account. I met two navvies in Bromley, and they paid my first night"s lodging; and there was a man passing, going to London with potatoes, and the navvies gave the man a pot of beer to take me up to London in the van, and they went that way with me. I came to London to beg, thinking I could get more there than anywhere else, hearing that London was such a good place. I begged; but sometimes wouldn"t get a farthing in a day; often walking about the streets all night. I have been begging about all the time till now. I am very weak—starving to death. I never stole anything: I always kept my hands to myself. A boy wanted me to go with him to pick a gentleman"s pocket. We was mates for two days, and then he asked me to go picking pockets; but I wouldn"t. I know it"s wrong, though I can neither read nor write. The boy asked me to do it to get into prison, as that would be better than the streets. He picked pockets to get into prison. He was starving about the streets like me. I never slept in a bed since I"ve been in London: I am sure I haven"t: I generally slept under the dry arches in Weststreet, where they"re building houses—I mean the arches for the cellars. I begged chiefly from the Jews about Petticoat-lane, for they all give away bread that their children leave— pieces of crust, and such-like. I would do anything to be out of this misery."

AN intelligent-looking boy, of years of age, whose dress was a series of ragged coats, in number—as if was to obviate the deficiency of another, since would not button, and another was almost sleeveless— gave me the following statement. He had long and rather fair hair, and spoke quietly. He said:—

"I"m a native of Wisbeach, in Cambridgeshire, and am . My father was a shoemaker, and my mother died when I was years old, and my father married again. I was sent to school, and can read and write well. My father and step-mother were kind enough to me. I was apprenticed to a tailor years ago, but I wasn"t long with him; I runned away. I think it was months I was with him when I runned away. It was in August—I got as far as Boston in Lincolnshire, and was away a fortnight. I had of my own money when I started, and that lasted or days. I stopped in lodging-houses until my money was gone, and then I slept anywhere—under the hedges, or anywhere. I didn"t see so much of life then, but I"ve seen plenty of it since. I had to beg my way back from Boston, but was very awkward at . I lived on turnips mainly. My reason for running off was because my master ill-used me so; he beat me, and kept me from my meals, and made me sit up working late at nights for a punishment: but it was more to his good than to punish me. I hated to be confined to a tailor"s shopboard, but I would rather do that sort of work now then hunger about like this. But you see, sir, God punishes you when you don"t think of it. When I went back my father was glad to see me, and he wouldn"t have me go back again to my master, and my indentures were cancelled. I stayed at home months, doing odd jobs, in driving sheep, or any country work, but I always wanted to be off to sea. I liked the thoughts of going to sea far better than tailoring. I determined to go to sea if I could. When a dog"s determined to have a bone, it"s not easy to hinder him. I didn"t read stories about the sea then, not even "Robinson Crusoe,"—indeed I haven"t read that still, but I know very well there is such a book. My father had no books but religious books; they were all of a religious turn, and what people might think dull, but they never made me dull. I read Wesley"s and Watts"s hymns, and religious magazines of different connexions. I had a natural inclination for the sea, and would like to get to it now. I"ve read a good deal about it since—Clark"s "Lives of Pirates," "Tales of Shipwrecks," and other things in penny numbers (Clark"s I got out of a library though). I was what people called a deep boy for a book; and am still. Whenever I had a penny, after I got a bellyful of victuals, it went for a book, but I haven"t bought many lately. I did buy yesterday —the "Family Herald"— I often read when I can get it. There"s good reading in it; it elevates your mind—anybody that has a mind for studying. It has good tales in it. I never

389

read "Jack Sheppard,"—that is, I haven"t read the big book that"s written about him; but I"ve often heard the boys and men talk about it at the lodging-houses and other places. When they haven"t their bellies and money to think about they sometimes talk about books; but for such books as them—that"s as "Jack" —I haven"t a partiality. I"ve read "Windsor Castle," and "The Tower,"—they"re by the same man. I liked "Windsor Castle," and all about Henry VIII. and Herne the hunter. It"s a book that"s connected with history, and that"s a good thing in it. I like adventurous tales. I know very little about theatres, as I was never in .

Well, after that months—I was kindly treated all the time—I runned away again to get to sea; and hearing so much talk about this big London, I comed to it. I couldn"t settle down to anything but the sea. I often watched the ships at Wisbeach. I had no particular motive, but a sort of pleasure in it. I was aboard some ships, too; just looking about, as lads will. I started without a farthing, but I couldn"t help it. I felt I must come. I forgot all I suffered before— at least, the impression had died off my mind. I came up by the unions when they would take me in. When I started, I didn"t know where to sleep any more than the dead; I learned it from other travellers on the road, It was winters ago, and very cold weather. Sometimes I slept in barns, and I begged my way as well as I could. I never stole anything then or since, except turnips; but I"ve been often tempted. At last I got to London, and was by myself. I travelled sometimes with others as I came up, but not as mates—not as friends. I came to London for purpose just by myself. I was a week in London before I knew where I was. I didn"t know where to go. I slept on door-steps, or anywhere. I used often to stand on London-bridge, but I didn"t know where to go to get to sea, or anything of that kind. I was sadly hungered, regularly starved; and I saw so many policemen, I durstn"t beg—and I dare not now, in London. I got crusts, but I can hardly tell how I lived. night I was sleeping under a railway-arch, somewhere about , and a policeman came and asked me what I was up to? I told him I had no place to go to, so he said I must go along with him. In the morning he took me and or others to a house in a big street. I don"t know where; and a man—a magistrate, I suppose he was —heard what the policeman had to say, and he said there was always a lot of lads there about the arches, young thieves, that gave him a great deal of trouble, and I was associated with them. I declare I didn"t know any of the other boys, nor any boys in London—not a soul; and I was under the arch by myself, and only that night. I never saw the policeman himself before that, as I know of. I got days of it, and they took me in an omnibus, but I don"t know to what prison. I was committed for being a rogue and something else. I didn"t very well hear what other things I was, but "rogue" I know was . They were very strict in prison, and I wasn"t allowed to speak. I was put to oakum some days, and others on a wheel. That"s the only time I was ever in prison, and I hope it will always be the only time. Something may turn up— there"s nobody knows. When I was turned out I hadn"t a farthing given to me. And so I was again in the streets, without knowing a creature, and without a farthing in my pocket, and nothing to get with but my tongue. I set off that day for the country. I didn"t try to get a ship, because I didn"t know where to go to ask, and I had got ragged, and they wouldn"t hear me out if I asked any people about the bridges. I took the road that offered, and got to Greenwich. I couldn"t still think of going back home. I would if I had had clothes, but they were rags, and I had no shoes but a pair of old slippers. I was sometimes sorry I left home, but then I began to get used to travelling, and to beg a bit in the villages. I had no regular mate to travel with, and no sweetheart. I slept in the unions whenever I could get in—that"s in the country. I didn"t never sleep in the London workhouses till afterwards. In some country places there were as many as in the casual wards, men, women, and children; in some, only or . There used to be part boys, like myself, but far more bigger than I was; they were generally from eighteen to : London chaps, chiefly, I believe. They were a regularly jolly set. They used to sing and dance a part of the nights and mornings in the wards, and I got to sing and dance with them. We were all in a mess; there was no better or no worse among us. We used to sing comic and sentimental songs, both. I used to sing "Tom Elliott," that"s a sea song, for I hankered about the sea, and "I"m Afloat." I hardly know any but sea-songs. Many used to sing indecent songs; they"re impudent blackguards. They used to sell these songs among the others, but I never sold any of them, and I never had any, though I know some, from hearing them often. We told stories sometimes; romantic tales, some; others blackguard kind of tales, about bad women; and others about thieving and roguery; not so much about what they"d done themselves, as about some big thief that was very clever at stealing, and could trick anybody. Not stories such as Dick Turpin or Jack Sheppard, or things that"s in history, but inventions. I used to say when I was telling a story—for I"ve told story that I invented till I learnt it,—

[I give this story to show what are the objects of admiration with these vagrants.]

"You see, mates, there was once upon a time, and a very good time it was, a young man, and he runned away, and got along with a gang of thieves, and he went to a gentleman"s house, and got in, because one of his mates sweethearted the servant, and got her away, and she left the door open." ["But don"t," he expostulated, "take it all down that way; it"s foolishness. I"m ashamed of it—it"s just what we say to amuse ourselves."] "And the door being left open, the young man got in and robbed the house of a lot of money, 1000l., and he took it to their gang at the cave. Next day there was a reward out to find the robber. Nobody found him. So the gentleman put out two men and a horse in a field, and the men were hidden in the field, and the gentleman put out a notice that anybody that could catch the horse should have him for his cleverness, and a reward as well; for he thought the man that got the 1000l. was sure to try to catch that there horse, because he was so bold and clever, and then the two men hid would nab him. This here Jack (that"s the young man) was watching, and he saw the two men, and he went and caught two live hares. Then he hid himself behind a hedge, and let one hare go, and one man said to the other, "There goes a hare," and they both run after it, not thinking Jack"s there. And while they were running he let go the t"other one, and they said, "There"s another hare," and they ran different ways, and so Jack went and got the horse, and took it to the man that offered the reward, and got the reward; it was 100l.; and the gentleman said "D——n it, Jack"s done me this time." The gentleman then wanted to serve out the parson, and he said to Jack, "I"ll give you another 100l. if you"ll do something to the parson as bad as you"ve done to me." Jack said, "Well, I will;" and Jack went to the church and lighted up the lamps, and rang the bells, and the parson he got up to see what was up. Jack was standing in one of the pews like an angel, when the parson got to the church. Jack said, "Go and put your plate in a bag; I"m an angel come to take you up to heaven." And the parson did so, and it was as much as he could drag to church from his house in a bag; for he was very rich. And when he got to the church Jack put the parson in one bag, and the money stayed in the other; and he tied them both together, and put them across his horse, and took them up hills and through water to the gentleman"s, and then he took the parson out of the bag, and the parson was wringing wet. Jack fetched the gentleman, and the gentleman gave the parson a horsewhipping, and the parson cut away, and Jack got all the parson"s money and the second 100l., and gave it all to the poor. And the parson brought an action against the gentleman for horsewhipping him, and they both were ruined. That"s the end of it." That"s the sort of story that"s liked best, sir. Sometimes there was fighting in the casual-wards. Sometimes I was in it, I was like the rest. We jawed each other often, calling names, and coming to fight at last. At Romsey a lot of young fellows broke all the windows they could get at, because they were too late to be admitted. They broke them from the outside. We couldn"t get at them from inside. I"ve carried on begging, and going from union to union to sleep, until now. Once I got work in Northampton with a drover. I kept working when he"d a job, from August last to the week before Christmas. I always tried to get a ship in a seaport, but couldn"t. I"ve been to Portsmouth, Plymouth, Bristol, Southampton, Ipswich, Liverpool, Brighton, Dover, Shoreham, Hastings, and all through Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, Cambridgeshire, and Suffolk—not in Norfolk—they won"t let you go there. I don"t know why. All this time I used to meet boys like myself, but mostly bigger and older; plenty of them could read and write, some were gentlemen"s sons, they said. Some had their young women with them that they"d taken up with, but I never was much with them. I often wished I was at home again, and do now, but I can"t think of going back in these rags; and I don"t know if my father"s dead or alive (his voice trembled), but I"d like to be there and have it over. I can"t face meeting them in these rags, and I"ve seldom had better, I make so little money. I"m unhappy at times, but I get over it better than I used, as I get accustomed to this life. I never heard anything about home since I left. I have applied at the Marine Society here, but it"s no use. If I could only get to sea, I"d be happy; and I"d be happy if I could get home, and would, but for the reasons I"ve told you.

The next was a boy with a quiet look, rather better dressed than most of the vagrant boys, and far more clean in his dress. He made the following statement:—

I am now seventeen. My father was a cotton-spinner in Manchester, but has been dead ten years; and soon after that my mother went into the workhouse, leaving me with an aunt; and I had work in a cotton factory. As young as I was, I earned 2s. 2d. a-week at first. I can read well, and can write a little. I worked at the factory two years, and was then earning 7s. a-week. I then ran away, for I had always a roving mind; but I should have stayed if my master hadn"t knocked me about so. I thought I should make my fortune in London—I"d heard it was such a grand place. I had read in novels and romances,—halfpenny and penny books—about such things, but I"ve met with nothing of the kind. I started without money, and begged my way from Manchester to London, saying I was going up to look for work. I wanted to see the place more than anything else. I suffered very much on the road, having to be out all night often; and the nights were cold, though it was summer. When I got to London all my hopes were blighted. I could get no further. I never tried for work in London, for I believe there are no cotton factories in it; besides, I wanted to see life. I begged, and slept in the unions. I got acquainted with plenty of boys like myself. We met at the casual wards, both in London and the country. I have now been five years at this life. We were merry enough in the wards, we boys, singing and telling stories. Songs such as "Paul Jones" was liked, while some sung very blackguard songs; but I never got hold of such songs, though I have sold lots of songs in Essex. Some told long stories, very interesting; some were not fit to be heard; but they made one laugh sometimes. I"ve read "Jack Sheppard" through, in three volumes; and I used to tell stories out of that sometimes. We all told in our turns. We generally began,—"Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it was neither in your time, nor my time, nor nobody else"s time." The best man in the story is always called Jack.

At my request, this youth told me a long story, and told it very readily, as if by rote. I give it for its peculiarity, as it is extravagant enough, without humour.

"A farmer hired Jack, and instructed him over-night. Jack was to do what he was required, or lose his head. "Now, Jack," said the farmer, [I give the conclusion in the boy"s words,] "what"s my name?" "Master, to be sure," says Jack. "No," said he, "you must call me Tom Per Cent." He showed his bed next, and asked, "What"s this, Jack?" "Why, the bed," said Jack. "No, you must call that, He"s of Degree." And so he bid Jack call his leather breeches " cracks;" the cat, "white-faced Simeon;" the fire, "hot coleman;" the pump, the "resurrection;" and the haystack, the "little cock-a-mountain." Jack was to remember these names or lose his head. At night the cat got under the grate, and burned herself, and a hot cinder struck her fur, and she ran under the haystack and set it on fire. Jack ran up-stairs to his master, and said:—

Tom Per Cent, arise out of he"s of degree,

Put on your forty cracks, come down and see;

For the little white-faced Simeon

Has run away with hot coleman

Under the little cock-a-mountain,

And without the aid of the resurrection

We shall be damned and burnt to death.

So Jack remembered his lesson, and saved his head. That"s the end. Blackguard stories were often told about women. There was plenty told, too, about Dick Turpin, Sixteenstring Jack, Oxford Blue, and such as them; as well as about Jack Sheppard; about Bamfylde Moore Carew, too, and his disguises. We very often had fighting and quarrelling among ourselves. Once, at Birmingham, we smashed all the windows, and did all the damage we could. I can"t tell exactly why it was done, but we must all take part in it, or we should be marked. I believe some did it to get into prison, they were so badly off. They piled up the rugs; there was no straw; and some put their clothes on the rugs, and then the heap was set fire to. There was no fire, and no light, but somebody had a box of lucifers. We were all nearly suffocated before the people of the place could get to us. of us had a month a-piece for it: I was . The rugs were dirty and filthy, and not fit for any Christian to sleep under, and so I took part in the burning, as I thought it would cause something better. I"ve known wild Irishmen get into the wards with knives and sticks hidden about their persons, to be ready for a fight. I met young men in Essex who had been well off—very well,—but they liked a tramper"s life. Each had his young woman with him, living as man and wife. They often change their young women; but I never did travel with , or keep company with any more than hours or so. There used to be great numbers of girls in the casual wards in London. Any young man travelling the country could get a mate among them, and can get mates—partners they"re often called,—still. Some of them are very pretty indeed; but among them are some horrid ugly—the most are ugly; bad expressions and coarse faces, and lame, and disgusting to the eye. It was disgusting too, to hear them in their own company; that is, among such as themselves;—beggars, you know. Almost every word was an oath, and every blackguard word was said plain out. I think the pretty ones were worst. Very few have children. I knew who had. was , and her child was months old; the other was , and her child was eighteen months. They were very good to their children. I"ve heard of some having children, and saying they couldn"t guess at the fathers of them, but I never met with any such myself. I didn"t often hear them quarrel,—I mean the young men and young women that went out as partners,—in the lodging-houses. Some boys of have their young women as partners, but with young boys older women are generally partners—women about . They always pass as man and wife. All beggar-girls are bad, I believe. I never heard but of that was considered virtuous, and she was always reading a prayer-book and a testament in her lodging-house. The last time I saw her was at Cambridge. She is about , and has traces of beauty left. The boys used to laugh at her, and say, "Oh! how virtuous and righteous we are! but you get your living by it." I never knew her to get anything by it. I don"t see how she could, for she said nothing about her being righteous when she was begging about, I believe. If is wasn"t for the casual wards, I couldn"t get about. If partners goes to the same union, they have to be parted at night, and join again the morning. Some of the young women are very dirty, but some"s as clean. A few, I think, can read and write. Some boasts of their wickedness, and others tell them in

392

derision it"s wrong to do that, and then a quarrel rages in the lodging-house. I liked a roving life, at , being my own master. I was fond of going to plays, and such-like, when I got money; but now I"m getting tired of it, and wish for something else. I have tried for work at cotton factories in Lancashire and Yorkshire, but never could get any. I"ve been all over the country. I"m sure I could settle now. I couldn"t have done that years ago, the roving spirit was so strong upon me, and the company I kept got a strong hold on me. winters back, there was a regular gang of us boys in London. After sleeping at a union, we would fix where to meet at night to get into another union to sleep. There were of us that way, all boys; besides young men, and young women. Sometimes we walked the streets all night. We didn"t rob, at least I never saw any robbing. We had pleasure in chaffing the policemen, and some of us got taken up. I always escaped. We got broken up in time, —some"s dead, some"s gone to sea, some into the country, some home, and some lagged. Among them were many lads very expert in reading, writing, and arithmetic. young man—he was only ,—could speak several languages: he had been to sea. He was then begging, though a strong young man. I suppose he liked that life. some soon got tired of it. I often have suffered from cold and hunger. I never made more than a-day in money, take the year round, by begging; some make more than : but then, I"ve had meat and bread given besides. I say nothing when I beg, but that I am a poor boy out of work and starving. I never stole anything in my life. I"ve often been asked to do so by my mates. I never would. The young women steal the most. I know, least, I did know, that kept young men, their partners, going about the country with them, chiefly by their stealing. Some do so by their prostitution. Those that go as partners are all prostitutes. There is a great deal of sickness among the young men and women, but I never was ill these last years. Fevers, colds, and venereal diseases, are very common."

The last statement I took was that of a boy of . I can hardly say that he was clothed at all. He had no shirt, and no waistcoat; all his neck and a great part of his chest being bare. A ragged cloth jacket hung about him, and was tied, so as to keep it together, with bits of tape. What he had wrapped round for trousers did not cover of his legs, while of his thighs was bare. He wore old shoes; tied to his foot with an old ribbon, the other a woman"s old boot. He had an old cloth cap. His features were distorted somewhat, through being swollen with the cold. "I was born," he said, "at a place called Hadley, in Kent. My father died when I was days old, I"ve heard my mo- ther say. He was married to her, I believe, but I don"t know what he was. She had only me. My mother went about begging, sometimes taking me with her; at other times she left me at the lodging-house in Hadley. She went in the country, round about Tunbridge and there, begging. Sometimes she had a day"s work. We had plenty to eat then, but I haven"t had much lately. My mother died at Hadley a year ago. I didn"t know how she was buried. She was ill a long time, and I was out begging; for she sent me out to beg for myself a good while before that, and when I got back to the lodging-house they told me she was dead. I had sixpence in my pocket, but I couldn"t help crying to think I"d lost my mother. I cry about it still. I didn"t wait to see her buried, but I started on my own account. I met navvies in , and they paid my night"s lodging; and there was a man passing, going to London with potatoes, and the navvies gave the man a pot of beer to take me up to London in the van, and they went that way with me. I came to London to beg, thinking I could get more there than anywhere else, hearing that London was such a good place. I begged; but sometimes wouldn"t get a farthing in a day; often walking about the streets all night. I have been begging about all the time till now. I am very weak—starving to death. I never stole anything: I always kept my hands to myself. A boy wanted me to go with him to pick a gentleman"s pocket. We was mates for days, and then he asked me to go picking pockets; but I wouldn"t. I know it"s wrong, though I can neither read nor write. The boy asked me to do it to get into prison, as that would be better than the streets. He picked pockets to get into prison. He was starving about the streets like me. I never slept in a bed since I"ve been in London: I am sure I haven"t: I generally slept under the dry arches in Weststreet, where they"re building houses—I mean the arches for the cellars. I begged chiefly from the Jews about , for they all give away bread that their children leave— pieces of crust, and such-like. I would do anything to be out of this misery."

 
View all images in this book
 Title Page
collapseChapter I: The Destroyers of Vermin
collapseOur Street Folk - Street Exhibitors
collapseChapter III: - Street Musicians
collapseChapter IV: - Street Vocalists
collapseChapter V: - Street Artists
collapseChapter VI: - Exhibitors of Trained Animals
collapseChapter VII: Skilled and Unskilled Labour - Garret-Masters
collapseChapter VIII: - The Coal-Heavers
collapseChapter IX: - Ballast-Men
collapseChapter X: - Lumpers
collapseChapter XI: Account of the Casual Labourers
 Chapter XII: Cheap Lodging-Houses
collapseChapter XIII: On the Transit of Great Britain and the Metropolis
collapseChapter XIV: London Watermen, Lightermen, and Steamboat-Men
collapseChapter XV: London Omnibus Drivers and Conductors
collapseChapter XVI: Character of Cabdrivers
collapseChapter XVII: Carmen and Porters
collapseChapter XVIII: London Vagrants
 Chapter XIX: Meeting of Ticket-of-Leave Men
Permanent URL
http://hdl.handle.net/10427/15186
ID: tufts:UA069.005.DO.00079
To Cite: DCA Citation Guide
Usage: Detailed Rights