Part 49
There are many dustmen now advanced in years born and reared at the East-end of London, who have never in the whole course of their lives been as far west as Temple-bar, who know nothing whatever of the affairs of the country, and who have never attended a place of worship. As an instance of the extreme ignorance of these people, I may mention that I was furnished by one of the contractors with the address of a dustman whom his master considered to be one of the most intelligent men in his employ. Being desirous of hearing his statement from his own lips I sent for the man, and after some conversation with him was proceeding to note down what he said, when the moment I opened my note-book and took the pencil in my hand, he started up, exclaiming,--“No, no! I’ll have none of that there work--I’m not such a b---- fool as you takes me to be--I doesn’t understand it, I tells you, and I’ll not have it, now that’s plain;”--and so saying he ran out of the room, and descended the entire flight of stairs in two jumps. I followed him to explain, but unfortunately the pencil was still in one hand and the book in the other, and immediately I made my appearance at the door he took to his heels, again with three others who seemed to be waiting for him there. One of the most difficult points in my labours is to make such men as these comprehend the object or use of my investigations.
Among 20 men whom I met in one yard, there were only five who could read, and only two out of that five could write, even imperfectly. These two are looked up to by their companions as prodigies of learning and are listened to as oracles, on all occasions, being believed to understand every subject thoroughly. It need hardly be added, however, that their acquirements are of the most meagre character.
The dustmen are very partial to a song, and always prefer one of the doggrel street ballads, with what they call a “jolly chorus” in which, during their festivities, they all join with stentorian voices. At the conclusion there is usually a loud stamping of feet and rattling of quart pots on the table, expressive of their approbation.
The dustmen never frequent the twopenny hops, but sometimes make up a party for the “theaytre.” They generally go in a body with their wives, if married, and their “gals,” if single. They are always to be found in the gallery, and greatly enjoy the melodramas performed at the second-class minor theatres, especially if there be plenty of murdering scenes in them. The Garrick, previous to its being burnt, was a favourite resort of the East-end dustmen. Since that period they have patronized the Pavilion and the City of London.
The politics of the dustmen are on a par with their literary attainments--they cannot be said to have any. I cannot say that they are Chartists, for they have no very clear knowledge of what “the charter” requires. They certainly have a confused notion that it is something against the Government, and that the enactment of it would make them all right; but as to the nature of the benefits which it would confer upon them, or in what manner it would be likely to operate upon their interest, they have not, as a body, the slightest idea. They have a deep-rooted antipathy to the police, the magistrates, and all connected with the administration of justice, looking upon them as their natural enemies. They associate with none but themselves; and in the public-houses where they resort there is a room set apart for the special use of the “dusties,” as they are called, where no others are allowed to intrude, except introduced by one of themselves, or at the special desire of the majority of the party, and on such occasions the stranger is treated with great respect and consideration.
As to the morals of these people, it may easily be supposed that they are not of an over-strict character. One of the contractors said to me, “I’d just trust one of them as far as I could fling a bull by the tail; _but then_,” he added, with a callousness that proved the laxity of discipline among the men was due more to his neglect of his duty to them than from any special perversity on their parts, “_that’s none of my business; they do my work, and that’s all I want with them, and all I care about_. You see they’re not like other people, they’re reared to it. Their fathers before them were dustmen, and when lads they go into the yard as sifters, and when they grow up they take to the shovel, and go out with the carts. They learn all they know in the dust-yards, and you may judge from that what their learning is likely to be. If they find anything among the dust you may be sure that neither you nor I will ever hear anything about it; ignorant as they are, they know a little too much for that. They know, as well as here and there one, where the dolly-shop is; _but, as I said before, that’s none of my business. Let every one look out for themselves, as I do, and then they need not care for any one_.” [With such masters professing such principles--though it should be stated that the sentiments expressed on this occasion are but similar to what I hear from the lower class of traders every day--how can it be expected that these poor fellows can be above the level of the mere beasts of burden that they use.] “As to their women,” continued the master, “I don’t trouble my head about such things. I believe the dustmen are as good to them as other men; and I’m sure their wives would be as good as other women, if they only had the chance of the best. But you see they’re all such fellows for drink that they spend most of their money that way, and then starve the poor women, and knock them about at a shocking rate, so that they have the life of dogs, or worse. I don’t wonder at anything they do. Yes, they’re all married, as far as I know; that is, they live together as man and wife, though they’re not very particular, certainly, about the ceremony. The fact is, a regular dustman don’t understand much about such matters, and, I believe, don’t care much, either.”
From all I could learn on this subject, it would appear that, for one dustman that is married, 20 live with women, but remain constant to them; indeed, both men and women abide faithfully by each other, and for this reason--the woman earns nearly half as much as the man. If the men and women were careful and prudent, they might, I am assured, live well and comfortable; but by far the greater portion of the earnings of both go to the publican, for I am informed, on competent authority, that a dustman will not think of sitting down for a spree without his woman. The children, as soon as they are able to go into the yard, help their mothers in picking out the rags, bones, &c., from the sieve, and in putting them in the basket. They are never sent to school, and as soon as they are sufficiently strong are mostly employed in some capacity or other by the contractor, and in due time become dustmen themselves. Some of the children, in the neighbourhood of the river, are mud-larks, and others are bone-grubbers and rag-gatherers, on a small scale; neglected and thrown on their own resources at an early age, without any but the most depraved to guide them, it is no wonder to find that many of them turn thieves. To this state of the case there are, however, some few exceptions.
Some of the dustmen are prudent well-behaved men and have decent homes; many of this class have been agricultural labourers, who by distress, or from some other cause, have found their way to London. This was the case with one whom I talked with: he had been a labourer in Essex, employed by a farmer named Izzod, whom he spoke of as being a kind good man. Mr. Izzod had a large farm on the Earl of Mornington’s estate, and after he had sunk his capital in the improvement of the land, and was about to reap the fruits of his labour and his money, the farmer was ejected at a moment’s notice, beggared and broken-hearted. This occurred near Roydon, in Essex. The labourer, finding it difficult to obtain work in the country, came to London, and, discovering a cousin of his engaged in a dust-yard, got employed through him at the same place, where he remains to the present day. This man was well clothed, he had good strong lace boots, gray worsted stockings, a stout pair of corduroy breeches, a short smockfrock and fantail. He has kept himself aloof, I am told, from the drunkenness and dissipation of the dustmen. He says that many of the new hands that get to dustwork are mechanics or people who have been “better off,” and that these get thinking about what they have been, till to drown their care they take to drinking, and often become, in the course of a year or so, worse than the “old hands” who have been reared to the business and have “nothing at all to think about.”
Among the dustmen there is no “Society” nor “Benefit Club,” specially devoted to the class--no provident institution whence they can obtain “relief” in the event of sickness or accident. The consequence is that, when ill or injured, they are obliged to obtain letters of admission to some of the hospitals, and there remain till cured. In cases of total incapacity for labour, their invariable refuge is the workhouse; indeed they look forward (whenever they foresee at all) to this asylum as their resting-place in old age, with the greatest equanimity, and talk of it as “the house” par excellence, or as “the big house,” “the great house,” or “the old house.” There are, however, scattered about in every part of London numerous benefit clubs made up of working-men of every description, such as Old Friends, Odd Fellows, Foresters, and Birmingham societies, and with some one or other of these the better class of dustmen are connected. The general rule, however, is, that the men engaged in this trade belong to no benefit club whatever, and that in the season of their adversity they are utterly unprovided for, and consequently become burdens to the parishes wherein they happen to reside.
I visited a large dust-yard at the east end of London, for the purpose of getting a statement from one of the men. My informant was, at the time of my visit, shovelling the sifted soil from one of the lesser heaps, and, by a great effort of strength and activity, pitching each shovel-full to the top of a lofty mound, somewhat resembling a pyramid. Opposite to him stood a little woman, stoutly made, and with her arms bare above the elbow; she was his partner in the work, and was pitching shovel-full for shovel-full with him to the summit of the heap. She wore an old soiled cotton gown, open in front, and tucked up behind in the fashion of the last century. She had clouts of old rags tied round her ancles to prevent the dust from getting into her shoes, a sort of coarse towel fastened in front for an apron, and a red handkerchief bound tightly round her head. In this trim she worked away, and not only kept pace with the man, but often threw two shovels for his one, although he was a tall, powerful fellow. She smiled when she saw me noticing her, and seemed to continue her work with greater assiduity. I learned that she was deaf, and spoke so indistinctly that no stranger could understand her. She had also a defect in her sight, which latter circumstance had compelled her to abandon the sifting, as she could not well distinguish the various articles found in the dust-heap. The poor creature had therefore taken to the shovel, and now works with it every day, doing the labour of the strongest men.
From the man above referred to I obtained the following statement:--“Father vos a dustie;--vos at it all his life, and grandfather afore him for I can’t tell how long. Father vos allus a rum ’un;--sich a beggar for lush. Vhy I’m blowed if he vouldn’t lush as much as half-a-dozen on ’em can lush now; somehow the dusties hasn’t got the stuff in ’em as they used to have. A few year ago the fellers ’u’d think nothink o’ lushin avay for five or six days without niver going anigh their home. I niver vos at a school in all my life; I don’t know what it’s good for. It may be wery well for the likes o’ you, but I doesn’t know it ’u’d do a dustie any good. You see, ven I’m not out with the cart, I digs here all day; and p’raps I’m up all night, and digs avay agen the next day. Vot does I care for reading, or anythink of that there kind, ven I gets home arter my vork? I tell you vot I likes, though! vhy, I jist likes two or three pipes o’ baccer, and a pot or two of good heavy and a song, and then I tumbles in with my Sall, and I’m as happy as here and there von. That there Sall of mine’s a stunner--a riglar stunner. There ain’t never a voman can sift a heap quickerer nor my Sall. Sometimes she yarns as much as I does; the only thing is, she’s sitch a beggar for lush, that there Sall of mine, and then she kicks up sitch jolly rows, you niver see the like in your life. That there’s the only fault, as I know on, in Sall; but, barring that, she’s a hout-and-houter, and worth a half-a-dozen of t’ other sifters--pick ’em out vare you likes. No, we ain’t married ’zactly, though it’s all one for all that. I sticks to Sall, and Sall sticks to I, and there’s an end on’t:--vot is it to any von? I rec’lects a-picking the rags and things out of mother’s sieve, when I were a young ’un, and a putting ’em all in the heap jist as it might be there. I vos allus in a dust-yard. I don’t think I could do no how in no other place. You see I vouldn’t be ’appy like; I only knows how to vork at the dust ’cause I’m used to it, and so vos father afore me, and I’ll stick to it as long as I can. I yarns about half-a-bull [2_s._ 6_d._] a day, take one day with another. Sall sometimes yarns as much, and ven I goes out at night I yarns a bob or two more, and so I gits along pretty tidy; sometimes yarnin more and sometimes yarnin less. I niver vos sick as I knows on; I’ve been queerish of a morning a good many times, but I doesn’t call that sickness; it’s only the lush and nothink more. The smells nothink at all, ven you gits used to it. Lor’ bless you! you’d think nothink on it in a veek’s time,--no, no more nor I do. There’s tventy on us vorks here--riglar. I don’t think there’s von on ’em ’cept Scratchey Jack can read, but he can do it stunning; he’s out vith the cart now, but he’s the chap as can patter to you as long as he likes.”
Concerning the capital and income of the London dust business, the following estimate may be given as to the amount of property invested in and accruing to the trade.
It has been computed that there are 90 contractors, large and small; of these upwards of two-thirds, or about 35, may be said to be in a considerable way of business, possessing many carts and horses, as well as employing a large body of people; some yards have as many as 150 hands connected with them. The remaining 55 masters are composed of “small men,” some of whom are known as “running dustmen,” that is to say, persons who collect the dust without any sanction from the parish; but the number belonging to this class has considerably diminished since the great deterioration in the price of “brieze.” Assuming, then, that the great and little master dustmen employ on an average between six and seven carts each, we have the following statement as to the
CAPITAL OF THE LONDON DUST TRADE.
600 Carts, at 20_l._ each £12,000 600 Horses, at 25_l._ each 15,000 600 Sets of harness, at 2_l._ per set 1,200 600 Ladders, at 5_s._ each 150 1200 Baskets, at 2_s._ each 120 1200 Shovels, at 2_s._ each 120 ------- Being a total capital of £28,590 -------
If, therefore, we assert that the capital of this trade is between 25,000_l._ and 30,000_l._ in value, we shall not be far wrong either way.
Of the annual income of the same trade, it is almost impossible to arrive at any positive results; but, in the absence of all authentic information on the subject, we may make the subjoined conjecture.
INCOME OF THE LONDON DUST TRADE.
Sum paid to contractors for the removal of dust from the 176 metropolitan parishes, at 200_l._ each parish £35,200
Sum obtained for 900,000 loads of dust, at 2_s._ 6_d._ per load 112,500 -------- £147,700 --------
Thus it would appear that the total income of the dust trade may be taken at between 145,000_l._ and 150,000_l._ per annum.
Against this we have to set the yearly out-goings of the business, which may be roughly estimated as follows:--
EXPENDITURE OF THE LONDON DUST TRADE.
Wages of 1800 labourers, at 10_s._ a week each (including sifters and carriers) £46,800 Keep of 600 horses, at 10_s._ a week each 15,600 Wear and tear of stock in trade 4000 Rent for 90 yards, at 100_l._ a year each (large and small) 9000 ------- £75,400 -------
The above estimates give us the following aggregate results:--
Total yearly incomings of the London dust trade £147,700 Total yearly out-goings 75,400 -------- Total yearly profit £72,300 --------
Hence it would appear that the profits of the dust-contractors are very nearly at the rate of 100_l._ per cent. on their expenditure. I do not think I have over estimated the incomings, or under estimated the out-goings; at least I have striven to avoid doing so, in order that no injustice might be done to the members of the trade.
This aggregate profit, when divided among the 90 contractors, will make the clear gains of each master dustman amount to about 800_l._ per annum: of course some derive considerably more than this amount, and some considerably less.
OF THE LONDON SEWERAGE AND SCAVENGERY.
The subject I have now to treat--principally as regards street-labour, but generally in its sanitary, social, and economical bearings--may really be termed vast. It is of the cleansing of a capital city, with its thousands of miles of streets and roads _on_ the surface, and its thousands of miles of sewers and drains _under_ the surface of the earth. And first let me deal with the subject in a historical point of view.
Public scavengery or street-cleansing, from the earliest periods of our history, since municipal authority regulated the internal economy of our cities, has been an object of some attention. In the records of all our civic corporations may be found bye-laws, or some equivalent measure, to enforce the cleansing of the streets. But these regulations were little enforced. It was ordered that the streets should be swept, but often enough men were not employed by the authorities to sweep them; until after the great fire of London, and in many parts for years after that, the tradesman’s apprentice swept the dirt from the front of his master’s house, and left it in the street, to be removed at the leisure of the scavenger. This was in the streets most famous for the wealth and commercial energy of the inhabitants. The streets inhabited by the poor, until about the beginning of the present century, were rarely swept at all. The unevenness of the pavement, the accumulation of wet and mud in rainy weather, the want of foot-paths, and sometimes even of grates and kennels, made Cowper, in one of his letters, describe a perambulation of some of these streets as “going by water.”
Even this state of things was, however, an improvement. In the accounts of the London street-broils and fights, from the reign of Henry III., more especially during the war of the Roses, down to the civil war which terminated in the beheading of Charles I., mention is more or less made of the combatants having availed themselves of the shelter of the rubbish in the streets. These mounds of rubbish were then kinds of street-barricades, opposing the progress of passengers, like the piles of overturned omnibuses and other vehicles of the modern French street-combatants. There is no doubt that in the older times these mounds were composed, first, of the earth dug out for the foundation of some building, or the sinking of some well, or (later on) the formation of some drain; for these works were often long in hand, not only from the interruptions of civil strife and from want of funds, but from indifference, owing to the long delay in their completion, and were often altogether abandoned. After dusk the streets of the capital of England could not be traversed without lanterns or torches. This was the case until the last 40 or 50 years in nearly all the smaller towns of England, but there the darkness was the principal obstacle; in the inferior parts of “Old London,” however, there were the additional inconveniences of broken limbs and robbery.
It would be easy to adduce instances from the olden writers in proof of all the above statements, but it seems idle to cite proofs of what is known to all.
The care of the streets, however, as regards the removal of the dirt, or, as the weather might be, the dust and mud, seems never to have been much of a national consideration. It was left to the corporations and the parishes. Each of these had its own especial arrangements for the collection and removal of dirt in its own streets; and as each parochial or municipal system generally differed in some respect or other, taken as a whole, there was no one general mode or system adopted. To all this the street-management of our own days, in the respect of scavengery, and, as I shall show, of sewerage, presents a decided improvement. This improvement in street-management is not attributable to any public agitation--to any public, and, far less, national manifestation of feeling. It was debated sometimes in courts of Common Council, in ward and parochial meetings, but the public generally seem to have taken no express interest in the matter. The improvement seems to have established itself gradually from the improved tastes and habits of the people.