Part 35

each root 9,576 Firs (roots) at 3_d._ £119 1,152 Laurels „ 3_d._ 14 23,040 Myrtles „ 4_d._ 384 2,160 Rhododendrons „ 9_d._ 81 2,304 Lilacs „ 4_d._ 38 2,880 Box „ 2_d._ 24 21,888 Heaths „ 4_d._ 364 2,880 Broom „ 1_d._ 12 6,912 Furze „ 1_d._ 28 6,480 Laurustinus „ 8_d._ 216 25,920 Southernwood „ 1_d._ 108 ------ Total annually spent £1,388

FLOWERS IN POTS.

per pot 38,880 Moss Roses at 4_d._ £648 38,880 China ditto „ 2_d._ 324 38,800 Fuschias „ 3_d._ 485 12,850 Geraniums and Pelargoniums (of all kinds) „ 3_d._ 160 ------ Total annually £1,617

The returns give the following aggregate amount of street expenditure:--

£ Trees and shrubs 1,388 Cut Flowers 6,277 Flowers in pots 1,667 Flower roots 2,867 Branches 2,774 Seeds 200 ------- £15,173

From the returns we find that of “cut flowers” the roses retain their old English favouritism, no fewer than 1,628,000 being annually sold in the streets; but locality affects the sale, as some dealers dispose of more violets than roses, because violets are accounted less fragile. The cheapness and hardihood of the musk-plant and marigold, to say nothing of their peculiar odour, has made them the most popular of the “roots,” while the myrtle is the favourite among the “trees and shrubs.” The heaths, moreover, command an extensive sale,--a sale, I am told, which was unknown, until eight or ten years ago, another instance of the “fashion in flowers,” of which an informant has spoken.

STREET-SELLERS OF GREEN STUFF.

Under this head I class the street-purveyors of water-cresses, and of the chickweed, groundsel, plantain, and turf required for cage-birds. These purveyors seem to be on the outskirts, as it were, of the costermonger class, and, indeed, the regular costers look down upon them as an inferior caste. The green-stuff trade is carried on by very poor persons, and, generally, by children or old people, some of the old people being lame, or suffering from some infirmity, which, however, does not prevent their walking about with their commodities. To the children and infirm class, however, the turf-cutters supply an exception. The costermongers, as I have intimated, do not resort, and do not let their children resort, to this traffic. If reduced to the last shift, they will sell nuts or oranges in preference. The “old hands” have been “reduced,” as a general rule, from other avocations. Their homes are in the localities I have specified as inhabited by the poor.

I was informed by a seller of birds, that he thought fewer birds were kept by poor working-people, and even by working-people who had regular, though, perhaps, diminished earnings, than was the case six or eight years ago. At one time, it was not uncommon for a young man to present his betrothed with a pair of singing-birds in a neat cage; now such a present, as far as my informant’s knowledge extended--and he was a sharp intelligent man--was but rarely made. One reason this man had often heard advanced for poor persons not renewing their birds, when lost or dead, is pitiful in its plainness--“they eat too much.” I do not know, that, in such a gift as I have mentioned, there was any intention on the part of the lover to typify the beauty of cheerfulness, even in a very close confinement to home. “I can’t tell, sir,” was said to me, “how it may have been originally, but I never heard such a thing said much about, though there’s been joking about the matter, as when would the birds have young ones, and such like. No, sir; I think it was just a fashion.” Contrary to the custom in more prosperous establishments, I am satisfied, that, among the labouring classes, birds are more frequently the pets of the men than of the women. My bird-dealing informant cited merely his own experience, but there is no doubt that cage-birds are more extensively kept than ever in London; consequently there is a greater demand for the “green stuff” the birds require.

OF WATERCRESS-SELLING, IN FARRINGDON-MARKET.

The first coster-cry heard of a morning in the London streets is that of “Fresh wo-orter-creases.” Those that sell them have to be on their rounds in time for the mechanics’ breakfast, or the day’s gains are lost. As the stock-money for this calling need only consist of a few halfpence, it is followed by the very poorest of the poor; such as young children, who have been deserted by their parents, and whose strength is not equal to any very great labour, or by old men and women, crippled by disease or accident, who in their dread of a workhouse life, linger on with the few pence they earn by street-selling.

As winter draws near, the Farringdon cress-market begins long before daylight. On your way to the City to see this strange sight, the streets are deserted; in the squares the blinds are drawn down before the windows, and the shutters closed, so that the very houses seem asleep. All is so silent that you can hear the rattle of the milkmaids’ cans in the neighbouring streets, or the noisy song of three or four drunken voices breaks suddenly upon you, as if the singers had turned a corner, and then dies away in the distance. On the cab-stands, but one or two crazy cabs are left, the horses dozing with their heads down to their knees, and the drawn-up windows covered with the breath of the driver sleeping inside. At the corners of the streets, the bright fires of the coffee-stalls sparkle in the darkness, and as you walk along, the policeman, leaning against some gas-lamp, turns his lantern full upon you, as if in suspicion that one who walks abroad so early could mean no good to householders. At one house there stands a man, with dirty boots and loose hair, as if he had just left some saloon, giving sharp single knocks, and then going into the road and looking up at the bed-rooms, to see if a light appeared in them. As you near the City, you meet, if it be a Monday or Friday morning, droves of sheep and bullocks, tramping quietly along to Smithfield, and carrying a fog of steam with them, while behind, with his hands in his pockets, and his dog panting at his heels, walks the sheep-drover.

At the principal entrance to Farringdon-market there is an open space, running the entire length of the railings in front, and extending from the iron gates at the entrance to the sheds down the centre of the large paved court before the shops. In this open space the cresses are sold, by the salesmen or saleswomen to whom they are consigned, in the hampers they are brought in from the country.

The shops in the market are shut, the gaslights over the iron gates burn brightly, and every now and then you hear the half-smothered crowing of a cock, shut up in some shed or bird-fancier’s shop. Presently a man comes hurrying along, with a can of hot coffee in each hand, and his stall on his head, and when he has arranged his stand by the gates, and placed his white mugs between the railings on the stone wall, he blows at his charcoal fire, making the bright sparks fly about at every puff he gives. By degrees the customers are creeping up, dressed in every style of rags; they shuffle up and down before the gates, stamping to warm their feet, and rubbing their hands together till they grate like sandpaper. Some of the boys have brought large hand-baskets, and carry them with the handles round their necks, covering the head entirely with the wicker-work as with a hood; others have their shallows fastened to their backs with a strap, and one little girl, with the bottom of her gown tattered into a fringe like a blacksmith’s apron, stands shivering in a large pair of worn-out Vestris boots, holding in her blue hands a bent and rusty tea-tray. A few poor creatures have made friends with the coffee-man, and are allowed to warm their fingers at the fire under the cans, and as the heat strikes into them, they grow sleepy and yawn.

The market--by the time we reach it--has just begun; one dealer has taken his seat, and sits motionless with cold--for it wants but a month to Christmas--with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his gray driving coat. Before him is an opened hamper, with a candle fixed in the centre of the bright green cresses, and as it shines through the wicker sides of the basket, it casts curious patterns on the ground--as a night shade does. Two or three customers, with their “shallows” slung over their backs, and their hands poked into the bosoms of their gowns, are bending over the hamper, the light from which tinges their swarthy features, and they rattle their halfpence and speak coaxingly to the dealer, to hurry him in their bargains.

Just as the church clocks are striking five, a stout saleswoman enters the gates, and instantly a country-looking fellow, in a wagoner’s cap and smock-frock, arranges the baskets he has brought up to London. The other ladies are soon at their posts, well wrapped up in warm cloaks, over their thick shawls, and sit with their hands under their aprons, talking to the loungers, whom they call by their names. Now the business commences; the customers come in by twos and threes, and walk about, looking at the cresses, and listening to the prices asked. Every hamper is surrounded by a black crowd, bending over till their heads nearly meet, their foreheads and cheeks lighted up by the candle in the centre. The saleswomen’s voices are heard above the noise of the mob, sharply answering all objections that may be made to the quality of their goods. “They’re rather spotty, mum,” says an Irishman, as he examines one of the leaves. “No more spots than a newborn babe, Dennis,” answers the lady tartly, and then turns to a new comer. At one basket, a street-seller in an old green cloak, has spread out a rusty shawl to receive her bunches, and by her stands her daughter, in a thin cotton dress, patched like a quilt. “Ah! Mrs. Dolland,” cried the saleswoman in a gracious tone, “can you keep yourself warm? it bites the fingers like biling water, it do.” At another basket, an old man, with long gray hair streaming over a kind of policeman’s cape, is bitterly complaining of the way he has been treated by another saleswoman. “He bought a lot of her, the other morning, and by daylight they were quite white; for he only made threepence on his best day.” “Well, Joe,” returns the lady, “you should come to them as knows you, and allers treats you well.”

These saleswomen often call to each other from one end of the market to the other. If any quarrel take place at one of the hampers, as frequently it does, the next neighbour is sure to say something. “Pinch him well, Sally,” cried one saleswoman to another; “pinch him well; _I_ do when I’ve a chance.” “It’s no use,” was the answer; “I might as well try to pinch a elephant.”

One old wrinkled woman, carrying a basket with an oilcloth bottom, was asked by a buxom rosy dealer, “Now, Nancy, what’s for you?” But the old dame was surly with the cold, and sneering at the beauty of the saleswoman, answered, “Why don’t you go and get a sweetheart; sich as you aint fit for sich as we.” This caused angry words, and Nancy was solemnly requested “to draw it mild, like a good soul.”

As the morning twilight came on, the paved court was crowded with purchasers. The sheds and shops at the end of the market grew every moment more distinct, and a railway-van, laden with carrots, came rumbling into the yard. The pigeons, too, began to fly on to the sheds, or walk about the paving-stones, and the gas-man came round with his ladder to turn out the lamps. Then every one was pushing about; the children crying, as their naked feet were trodden upon, and the women hurrying off, with their baskets or shawls filled with cresses, and the bunch of rushes in their hands. In one corner of the market, busily tying up their bunches, were three or four girls seated on the stones, with their legs curled up under them, and the ground near them was green with the leaves they had thrown away. A saleswoman, seeing me looking at the group, said to me, “Ah! you should come here of a summer’s morning, and then you’d see ’em, sitting tying up, young and old, upwards of a hundred poor things as thick as crows in a ploughed field.”

[Illustration: THE GROUNDSEL MAN

“Chick-weed and Grun-sell!”

[_From a Daguerreotype by_ BEARD.]]

As it grew late, and the crowd had thinned; none but the very poorest of the cress-sellers were left. Many of these had come without money, others had their halfpence tied up carefully in their shawl-ends, as though they dreaded the loss. A sickly-looking boy, of about five, whose head just reached above the hampers, now crept forward, treading with his blue naked feet over the cold stones as a cat does over wet ground. At his elbows and knees, his skin showed in gashes through the rents in his clothes, and he looked so frozen, that the buxom saleswoman called to him, asking if his mother had gone home. The boy knew her well, for without answering her question, he went up to her, and, as he stood shivering on one foot, said, “Give us a few old cresses, Jinney,” and in a few minutes was running off with a green bundle under his arm. All of the saleswomen seemed to be of kindly natures, for at another stall an old dame, whose rags seemed to be beyond credit, was paying for some cresses she had long since been trusted with, and excusing herself for the time that had passed since the transaction. As I felt curious on the point of the honesty of the poor, I asked the saleswoman when she was alone, whether they lost much by giving credit. “It couldn’t be much,” she answered, “if they all of them decamped.” But they were generally honest, and paid back, often reminding her of credit given that she herself had forgotten. Whenever she lost anything, it was by the very very poor ones; “though it aint their fault, poor things,” she added in a kindly tone, “for when they keeps away from here, it’s either the workhouse or the churchyard as stops them.”

As you walk home--although the apprentice is knocking at the master’s door--the little water-cress girls are crying their goods in every street. Some of them are gathered round the pumps, washing the leaves and piling up the bunches in their baskets, that are tattered and worn as their own clothing; in some of the shallows the holes at the bottom have been laced up or darned together with rope and string, or twigs and split laths have been fastened across; whilst others are lined with oilcloth, or old pieces of sheet-tin. Even by the time the cress-market is over, it is yet so early that the maids are beating the mats in the road, and mechanics, with their tool-baskets swung over their shoulders, are still hurrying to their work. To visit Farringdon-market early on a Monday morning, is the only proper way to judge of the fortitude and courage and perseverance of the poor. As Douglas Jerrold has beautifully said, “there is goodness, like wild honey, hived in strange nooks and corners of the earth.” These poor cress-sellers belong to a class so poor that their extreme want alone would almost be an excuse for theft, and they can be trusted paying the few pence they owe even though they hunger for it. It must require no little energy of conscience on the part of the lads to make them resist the temptations around them, and refuse the luring advice of the young thieves they meet at the low lodging-house. And yet they prefer the early rising--the walk to market with naked feet along the cold stones--the pinched meal--and the day’s hard labour to earn the few halfpence--to the thief’s comparatively easy life. The heroism of the unknown poor is a thing to set even the dullest marvelling, and in no place in all London is the virtue of the humblest--both young and old--so conspicuous as among the watercress-buyers at Farringdon-market.

OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF WATER-CRESS.

The dealers in water-cresses are generally very old or very young people, and it is a trade greatly in the hands of women. The cause of this is, that the children are sent out by their parents “to get a loaf of bread somehow” (to use the words of an old man in the trade), and the very old take to it because they are unable to do hard labour, and they strive to keep away from the workhouse--(“I’d do anything before I’d go there--sweep the crossings, or anything: but I should have had to have gone to the house before, if it hadn’t been for my wife. I’m sixty-two,” said one who had been sixteen years at the trade). The old people are both men and women. The men have been sometimes one thing, and sometimes another. “I’ve been a porter myself,” said one, “jobbing about in the markets, or wherever I could get a job to do. Then there’s one old man goes about selling water-cresses who’s been a seafaring man; he’s very old, he is--older than what I am, sir. Many a one has been a good mechanic in his younger days, only he’s got too old for labour. The old women have, many of them, been laundresses, only they can’t now do the work, you see, and so they’re glad to pick up a crust anyhow. Nelly, I know, has lost her husband, and she hasn’t nothing else but her few creases to keep her. She’s as good, honest, hard-working a creature as ever were, for what she can do--poor old soul! The young people are, most of them, girls. There are some boys, but girls are generally put to it by the poor people. There’s Mary Macdonald, she’s about fourteen. Her father is a bricklayer’s labourer. He’s an Englishman, and he sends little Mary out to get a halfpenny or two. He gets sometimes a couple of days’ work in the week. He don’t get more now, I’m sure, and he’s got three children to keep out of that; so all on ’em that can work are obligated to do something. The other two children are so small they can’t do nothing yet. Then there’s Louisa; she’s about twelve, and she goes about with creases like I do. I don’t think she’s got ne’er a father. I know she’s a mother alive, and _she_ sells creases like her daughter. The mother’s about fifty odd, I dare say. The sellers generally go about with an arm-basket, like a greengrocer’s at their side, or a ‘shallow’ in front of them; and plenty of them carry a small tin tray before them, slung round their neck. Ah! it would make your heart ache if you was to go to Farringdon-market early, this cold weather, and see the poor little things there without shoes and stockings, and their feet quite blue with the cold--oh, that they are, and many on ’em don’t know how to set one foot before the t’other, poor things. You would say they wanted something give to ’em.”

The small tin tray is generally carried by the young children. The cresses are mostly bought in Farringdon-market: “The usual time to go to the market is between five and six in the morning, and from that to seven,” said one informant; “myself, I am generally down in the market by five. I was there this morning at five, and bitter cold it was, I give you my word. We poor old people feel it dreadful. Years ago I didn’t mind cold, but I feel it now cruel bad, to be sure. Sometimes, when I’m turning up my things, I don’t hardly know whether I’ve got ’em in my hands or not; can’t even pick off a dead leaf. But that’s nothing to the poor little things without shoes. Why, bless you, I’ve seen ’em stand and cry two and three together, with the cold. Ah! my heart has ached for ’em over and over again. I’ve said to ’em, I wonder why your mother sends you out, that I have; and they said they was obligated to try and get a penny for breakfast. We buy the water-cresses by the ‘hand.’ One hand will make about five halfpenny bundles. There’s more call for ’em in the spring of the year than what there is in the winter. Why, they’re reckoned good for sweetening the blood in the spring; but, for my own eating, I’d sooner have the crease in the winter than I would have it in the spring of the year. There’s an old woman sits in Farringdon-market, of the name of Burrows, that’s sot there twenty-four years, and she’s been selling out creases to us all that time.