Part 5

When the tall youth, “Ned,” had won nearly all the silver of the group, he suddenly jerked his gains into his coat-pocket, and saying, “I’ve done,” walked off, and was out of sight in an instant. The surprise of the loser and all around was extreme. They looked at the court where he had disappeared, then at one another, and at last burst out into one expression of disgust. “There’s a scurf!” said one; “He’s a regular scab,” cried another; and a coster declared that he was “a trosseno, and no mistake.” For although it is held to be fair for the winner to go whenever he wishes, yet such conduct is never relished by the losers.

It was then determined that “they would have him to rights” the next time he came to gamble; for every one would set at him, and win his money, and then “turn up,” as he had done.

The party was then broken up, the players separating to wait for the new-comers that would be sure to pour in after dinner.

“VIC. GALLERY.”

On a good attractive night, the rush of costers to the threepenny gallery of the Coburg (better known as “the Vic”) is peculiar and almost awful.

The long zig-zag staircase that leads to the pay box is crowded to suffocation at least an hour before the theatre is opened; but, on the occasion of a piece with a good murder in it, the crowd will frequently collect as early as three o’clock in the afternoon. Lads stand upon the broad wooden bannisters about 50 feet from the ground, and jump on each others’ backs, or adopt any expedient they can think of to obtain a good place.

The walls of the well-staircase having a remarkably fine echo, and the wooden floor of the steps serving as a sounding board, the shouting, whistling, and quarrelling of the impatient young costers is increased tenfold. If, as sometimes happens, a song with a chorus is started, the ears positively ache with the din, and when the chant has finished it seems as though a sudden silence had fallen on the people. To the centre of the road, and all round the door, the mob is in a ferment of excitement, and no sooner is the money-taker at his post than the most frightful rush takes place, every one heaving with his shoulder at the back of the person immediately in front of him. The girls shriek, men shout, and a nervous fear is felt lest the massive staircase should fall in with the weight of the throng, as it lately did with the most terrible results. If a hat tumbles from the top of the staircase, a hundred hands snatch at it as it descends. When it is caught a voice roars above the tumult, “All right, Bill, I’ve got it”--for they all seem to know one another--“Keep us a pitch and I’ll bring it.”

To any one unaccustomed to be pressed flat it would be impossible to enter with the mob. To see the sight in the gallery it is better to wait until the first piece is over. The ham-sandwich men and pig-trotter women will give you notice when the time is come, for with the first clatter of the descending footsteps they commence their cries.

There are few grown-up men that go to the “Vic” gallery. The generality of the visitors are lads from about twelve to three-and-twenty, and though a few black-faced sweeps or whitey-brown dustmen may be among the throng, the gallery audience consists mainly of costermongers. Young girls, too, are very plentiful, only one-third of whom now take their babies, owing to the new regulation of charging half-price for infants. At the foot of the staircase stands a group of boys begging for the return checks, which they sell again for 1-1/2_d._ or 1_d._, according to the lateness of the hour.

At each step up the well-staircase the warmth and stench increase, until by the time one reaches the gallery doorway, a furnace-heat rushes out through the entrance that seems to force you backwards, whilst the odour positively prevents respiration. The mob on the landing, standing on tiptoe and closely wedged together, resists any civil attempt at gaining a glimpse of the stage, and yet a coster lad will rush up, elbow his way into the crowd, then jump up on to the shoulders of those before him, and suddenly disappear into the body of the gallery.

The gallery at “the Vic” is one of the largest in London. It will hold from 1500 to 2000 people, and runs back to so great a distance, that the end of it is lost in shadow, excepting where the little gas-jets, against the wall, light up the two or three faces around them. When the gallery is well packed, it is usual to see piles of boys on each others shoulders at the back, while on the partition boards, dividing off the slips, lads will pitch themselves, despite the spikes.

As you look up the vast slanting mass of heads from the upper boxes, each one appears on the move. The huge black heap, dotted with faces, and spotted with white shirt sleeves, almost pains the eye to look at, and should a clapping of hands commence, the twinkling nearly blinds you. It is the fashion with the mob to take off their coats; and the cross-braces on the backs of some, and the bare shoulders peeping out of the ragged shirts of others, are the only variety to be found. The bonnets of the “ladies” are hung over the iron railing in front, their numbers nearly hiding the panels, and one of the amusements of the lads in the back seats consists in pitching orange peel or nutshells into them, a good aim being rewarded with a shout of laughter.

When the orchestra begins playing, before “the gods” have settled into their seats, it is impossible to hear a note of music. The puffed-out cheeks of the trumpeters, and the raised drumsticks tell you that the overture has commenced, but no tune is to be heard. An occasional burst of the full band being caught by gushes, as if a high wind were raging. Recognitions take place every moment, and “Bill Smith” is called to in a loud voice from one side, and a shout in answer from the other asks “What’s up?” Or family secrets are revealed, and “Bob Triller” is asked where “Sal” is, and replies amid a roar of laughter, that she is “a-larning the pynanney.”

By-and-by a youngster, who has come in late, jumps up over the shoulders at the door, and doubling himself into a ball, rolls down over the heads in front, leaving a trail of commotion for each one as he passes aims a blow at the fellow. Presently a fight is sure to begin, and then every one rises from his seat whistling and shouting; three or four pairs of arms fall to, the audience waving their hands till the moving mass seems like microscopic eels in paste. But the commotion ceases suddenly on the rising of the curtain, and then the cries of “Silence!” “Ord-a-a-r!” “Ord-a-a-r!” make more noise than ever.

The “Vic” gallery is not to be moved by touching sentiment. They prefer vigorous exercise to any emotional speech. “The Child of the Storm’s” declaration that she would share her father’s “death or imprisonment as her duty,” had no effect at all, compared with the split in the hornpipe. The shrill whistling and brayvos that followed the tar’s performance showed how highly it was relished, and one “god” went so far as to ask “how it was done.” The comic actor kicking a dozen Polish peasants was encored, but the grand banquet of the Czar of all the Russias only produced merriment, and a request that he would “give them a bit” was made directly the Emperor took the willow-patterned plate in his hand. All affecting situations were sure to be interrupted by cries of “orda-a-r;” and the lady begging for her father’s life was told to “speak up old gal;” though when the heroine of the “dummestic dreamer” (as they call it) told the general of all the Cossack forces “not to be a fool,” the uproar of approbation grew greater than ever,--and when the lady turned up her swan’s-down cuffs, and seizing four Russian soldiers shook them successively by the collar, then the enthusiasm knew no bounds, and the cries of “Bray-vo Vincent! Go it my tulip!” resounded from every throat.

Altogether the gallery audience do not seem to be of a gentle nature. One poor little lad shouted out in a crying tone, “that he couldn’t see,” and instantly a dozen voices demanded “that he should be thrown over.”

Whilst the pieces are going on, brown, flat bottles are frequently raised to the mouth, and between the acts a man with a tin can, glittering in the gas-light, goes round crying, “Port-a-a-a-r! who’s for port-a-a-a-r.” As the heat increased the faces grew bright red, every bonnet was taken off, and ladies could be seen wiping the perspiration from their cheeks with the play-bills.

No delay between the pieces will be allowed, and should the interval appear too long, some one will shout out--referring to the curtain--“Pull up that there winder blind!” or they will call to the orchestra, saying, “Now then you catgut-scrapers! Let’s have a ha’purth of liveliness.” Neither will they suffer a play to proceed until they have a good view of the stage, and “Higher the blue,” is constantly shouted, when the sky is too low, or “Light up the moon,” when the transparency is rather dim.

The dances and comic songs, between the pieces, are liked better than anything else. A highland fling is certain to be repeated, and a stamping of feet will accompany the tune, and a shrill whistling, keep time through the entire performance.

But the grand hit of the evening is always when a song is sung to which the entire gallery can join in chorus. Then a deep silence prevails all through the stanzas. Should any burst in before his time, a shout of “orda-a-r” is raised, and the intruder put down by a thousand indignant cries. At the proper time, however, the throats of the mob burst forth in all their strength. The most deafening noise breaks out suddenly, while the cat-calls keep up the tune, and an imitation of a dozen Mr. Punches squeak out the words. Some actors at the minor theatres make a great point of this, and in the bill upon the night of my visit, under the title of “There’s a good time coming, boys,” there was printed, “assisted by the most numerous and effective chorus in the metropolis--” meaning the whole of the gallery. The singer himself started the mob, saying, “Now then, the Exeter Hall touch if you please gentlemen,” and beat time with his hand, parodying M. Jullien with his _baton_. An “angcore” on such occasions is always demanded, and, despite a few murmurs of “change it to ‘Duck-legged Dick,’” invariably insisted on.

THE POLITICS OF COSTERMONGERS.--POLICEMEN.

The notion of the police is so intimately blended with what may be called the politics of the costermongers that I give them together.

The politics of these people are detailed in a few words--they are nearly all Chartists. “You might say, sir,” remarked one of my informants, “that they _all_ were Chartists, but as its better you should rather be under than over the mark, say _nearly_ all.” Their ignorance, and their being impulsive, makes them a dangerous class. I am assured that in every district where the costermongers are congregated, one or two of the body, more intelligent than the others, have great influence over them; and these leading men are all Chartists, and being industrious and not unprosperous persons, their pecuniary and intellectual superiority cause them to be regarded as oracles. One of these men said to me: “The costers think that working-men know best, and so they have confidence in us. I like to make men discontented, and I will make them discontented while the present system continues, because it’s all for the middle and the moneyed classes, and nothing, in the way of rights, for the poor. People fancy when all’s quiet that all’s stagnating. Propagandism is going on for all that. It’s when all’s quiet that the seed’s a growing. Republicans and Socialists are pressing their doctrines.”

The costermongers have very vague notions of an aristocracy; they call the more prosperous of their own body “aristocrats.” Their notions of an aristocracy of birth or wealth seem to be formed on their opinion of the rich, or reputed rich salesmen with whom they deal; and the result is anything but favourable to the nobility.

Concerning free-trade, nothing, I am told, can check the costermongers’ fervour for a cheap loaf. A Chartist costermonger told me that he knew numbers of costers who were keen Chartists without understanding anything about the six points.

The costermongers frequently attend political meetings, going there in bodies of from six to twelve. Some of them, I learned, could not understand why Chartist leaders exhorted them to peace and quietness, when they might as well fight it out with the police at once. The costers boast, moreover, that they stick more together in any “row” than any other class. It is considered by them a reflection on the character of the thieves that they are seldom true to one another.

It is a matter of marvel to many of this class that people can live without working. The ignorant costers have no knowledge of “property,” or “income,” and conclude that the non-workers all live out of the taxes. Of the taxes generally they judge from their knowledge that tobacco, which they account a necessary of life, pays 3_s._ per lb. duty.

As regards the police, the hatred of a costermonger to a “peeler” is intense, and with their opinion of the police, all the more ignorant unite that of the governing power. “Can you wonder at it, sir,” said a costermonger to me, “that I hate the police? They drive us about, we must move on, we can’t stand here, and we can’t pitch there. But if we’re cracked up, that is if we’re forced to go into the Union (I’ve known it both at Clerkenwell and the City of London workhouses,) why the parish gives us money to buy a barrow, or a shallow, or to hire them, and leave the house and start for ourselves: and what’s the use of that, if the police won’t let us sell our goods?--Which is right, the parish or the police?”

To thwart the police in any measure the costermongers readily aid one another. One very common procedure, if the policeman has seized a barrow, is to whip off a wheel, while the officers have gone for assistance; for a large and loaded barrow requires two men to convey it to the green-yard. This is done with great dexterity; and the next step is to dispose of the stock to any passing costers, or to any “standing” in the neighbourhood, and it is honestly accounted for. The policemen, on their return, find an empty, and unwheelable barrow, which they must carry off by main strength, amid the jeers of the populace.

I am assured that in case of a political riot every “coster” would seize his policeman.

MARRIAGE AND CONCUBINAGE OF COSTERMONGERS.

Only one-tenth--at the outside one-tenth--of the couples living together and carrying on the costermongering trade, are married. In Clerkenwell parish, however, where the number of married couples is about a fifth of the whole, this difference is easily accounted for, as in Advent and Easter the incumbent of that parish marries poor couples without a fee. Of the rights of “legitimate” or “illegitimate” children the costermongers understand nothing, and account it a mere waste of money and time to go through the ceremony of wedlock when a pair can live together, and be quite as well regarded by their fellows, without it. The married women associate with the unmarried mothers of families without the slightest scruple. There is no honour attached to the marriage state, and no shame to concubinage. Neither are the unmarried women less faithful to their “partners” than the married; but I understand that, of the two classes, the unmarried betray the most jealousy.

As regards the fidelity of these women I was assured that, “in anything like good times,” they were rigidly faithful to their husbands or paramours; but that, in the worst pinch of poverty, a departure from this fidelity--if it provided a few meals or a fire--was not considered at all heinous. An old costermonger, who had been mixed up with other callings, and whose prejudices were certainly not in favour of his present trade, said to me, “What I call the working girls, sir, are as industrious and as faithful a set as can well be. I’m satisfied that they’re more faithful to their mates than other poor working women. I never knew one of these working girls do wrong that way. They’re strong, hearty, healthy girls, and keep clean rooms. Why, there’s numbers of men leave their stock-money with their women, just taking out two or three shillings to gamble with and get drunk upon. They sometimes take a little drop themselves, the women do, and get beaten by their husbands for it, and hardest beaten if the man’s drunk himself. They’re sometimes beaten for other things too, or for nothing at all. But they seem to like the men better for their beating them. I never could make that out.” Notwithstanding this fidelity, it appears that the “larking and joking” of the young, and sometimes of the middle-aged people, among themselves, is anything but delicate. The unmarried separate as seldom as the married. The fidelity characterizing the women does not belong to the men.

The dancing-rooms are the places where matches are made up. There the boys go to look out for “mates,” and sometimes a match is struck up the first night of meeting, and the couple live together forthwith. The girls at these dances are all the daughters of costermongers, or of persons pursuing some other course of street life. Unions take place when the lad is but 14. Two or three out of 100 have their female helpmates at that early age; but the female is generally a couple of years older than her partner. Nearly all the costermongers form such alliances as I have described, when both parties are under twenty. One reason why these alliances are contracted at early ages is, that when a boy has assisted his father, or any one engaging him, in the business of a costermonger, he knows that he can borrow money, and hire a shallow or a barrow--or he may have saved 5_s._--“and then if the father vexes him or snubs him,” said one of my informants, “he’ll tell his father to go to h--l, and he and his gal will start on their own account.”

Most of the costermongers have numerous families, but not those who contract alliances very young. The women continue working down to the day of their confinement.

“Chance children,” as they are called, or children unrecognised by any father, are rare among the young women of the costermongers.

RELIGION OF COSTERMONGERS.

An intelligent and trustworthy man, until very recently actively engaged in costermongering, computed that not 3 in 100 costermongers had ever been in the interior of a church, or any place of worship, or knew what was meant by Christianity. The same person gave me the following account, which was confirmed by others:

“The costers have no religion at all, and very little notion, or none at all, of what religion or a future state is. Of all things they hate tracts. They hate them because the people leaving them never give them anything, and as they can’t read the tract--not one in forty--they’re vexed to be bothered with it. And really what is the use of giving people reading before you’ve taught them to read? Now, they respect the City Missionaries, because they read to them--and the costers will listen to reading when they don’t understand it--and because they visit the sick, and sometimes give oranges and such like to them and the children. I’ve known a City Missionary buy a shilling’s worth of oranges of a coster, and give them away to the sick and the children--most of them belonging to the costermongers--down the court, and that made him respected there. I think the City Missionaries have done good. But I’m satisfied that if the costers had to profess themselves of some religion to-morrow, they would all become Roman Catholics, every one of them. This is the reason:--London costers live very often in the same courts and streets as the poor Irish, and if the Irish are sick, be sure there comes to them the priest, the Sisters of Charity--they _are_ good women--and some other ladies. Many a man that’s not a Catholic, has rotted and died without any good person near him. Why, I lived a good while in Lambeth, and there wasn’t one coster in 100, I’m satisfied, knew so much as the rector’s name,--though Mr. Dalton’s a very good man. But the reason I was telling you of, sir, is that the costers reckon _that_ religion’s the best that gives the most in charity, and they think the Catholics do this. I’m not a Catholic myself, but I believe every word of the Bible, and have the greater belief that it’s the word of God because it teaches democracy. The Irish in the courts get sadly chaffed by the others about their priests,--but they’ll die for the priest. Religion is a regular puzzle to the costers. They see people come out of church and chapel, and as they’re mostly well dressed, and there’s very few of their own sort among the church-goers, the costers somehow mix up being religious with being respectable, and so they have a queer sort of feeling about it. It’s a mystery to them. It’s shocking when you come to think of it. They’ll listen to any preacher that goes among them; and then a few will say--I’ve heard it often--‘A b--y fool, why don’t he let people go to h-ll their own way?’ There’s another thing that makes the costers think so well of the Catholics. If a Catholic coster--there’s only very few of them--is ‘cracked up’ (penniless), he’s often started again, and the others have a notion that it’s through some chapel-fund. I don’t know whether it is so or not, but I know the cracked-up men are started again, if they’re Catholics. It’s still the stranger that the regular costermongers, who are nearly all Londoners, should have such respect for the Roman Catholics, when they have such a hatred of the Irish, whom they look upon as intruders and underminers.”--“If a missionary came among us with plenty of money,” said another costermonger, “he might make us all Christians or Turks, or anything he liked.” Neither the Latter-day Saints, nor any similar sect, have made converts among the costermongers.

OF THE UNEDUCATED STATE OF COSTERMONGERS.

I have stated elsewhere, that only about one in ten of the regular costermongers is able to read. The want of education among both men and women is deplorable, and I tested it in several instances. The following statement, however, from one of the body, is no more to be taken as representing the ignorance of the class generally, than are the clear and discriminating accounts I received from intelligent costermongers to be taken as representing the intelligence of the body.