Part 8

Forasmuch, therefore, as persons of this rank are seldom men of genius or capacity, I think it would be very proper, that some man of good sense and sound judgment should preside over these public cries, who should permit none to lift up their voices in our streets, that have not tunable throats, and are not only able to overcome the noise of the crowd, and the rattling of coaches, but also to vend their respective merchandises in apt phrases, and in the most distinct and agreeable sounds. I do therefore humbly recommend myself as a person rightly qualified for this post; and if I meet with fitting encouragement, shall communicate some other projects which I have by me, that may no less conduce to the emolument of the public.

I am, Sir, &c. RALPH CROTCHET.

A curious parallel might be carried out between the itinerant occupations which the progress of society has entirely superseded, and those which even the most advanced civilization is compelled to retain. We here only hastily glance at a few of these differences.

Of the street trades which are past and forgotten, the small-coal-man was one of the most remarkable. He tells the tale of a city with few fires; for who could now imagine a man earning a living by bawling "_Small Coals_" from door to door, without any supply but that in the sack which he carries on his shoulders? His cry had, however, a rival in that of "_Any Wood to cleave_."

* * * * *

But here we must pause awhile to make a passing remark--even if it be no more than a mere wayside nod to the memory of Thomas Britton, the celebrated "Musical Small Coal Man,"--1654-1714.--to whom Britain is greatly indebted for the introduction and cultivation of concerted music, and whose influence has been indirectly felt in musical circles throughout the world:--

"Of Thomas Britton every boy And Britain ought to know; To Thomas Britton, 'Small Coal Man.' All Britain thanks doth owe."[8]

This singular man had a small coal shop at the corner of a passage in Aylesbury-street, Clerkenwell-green, and his concert-room! which was over that, could only be reached by stairs from the outside of the house. The facetious Ned Ward, confirms this statement, thus:--

"Upon Thursdays repair To my palace, and there Hobble up stair by stair; But I pray ye take care-- That you break not your shins by a stumble."

Britton was buried in the church-yard of Clerkenwell, being attended to the grave by a great concourse of people, especially by those who had been used to frequent his concerts.

To resume our argument, we may ask what chance would an aged man now have with his flattering solicitation of "_Pretty Pins, pretty Women_?" and the musical distich:--

"Three-rows-a-penny, pins, Short whites, and mid-de-lings!"

Every stationer's or general-shop can now supply all the "_Fine Writing-ink_," wanted either by clerks or authors. There is a grocer's shop, or co-operative store at every turn; and who therefore needs him who cried aloud "_Lilly white Vinegar, three-pence a quart_?" When everybody, old and young, wore wigs--when the price for a common one was a guinea, and a journeyman had a new one every year; when it was an article in every city apprentice's indenture that his master should find him in "One good and sufficent wig, yearly, and every year, for, and during, and unto the expiration of the full end and term of his apprenticeship"--then, a wig-seller made his stand in the street, or called from door to door, and talked of a "_Fine Tie, or a fine Bob-wig sir?_" Formerly, women cried "_Four pair for a shilling, Holland Socks_," also "_Long Thread Laces, long and strong_," "_Scotch or Russian Cloth_," "_Buy any Wafers or Wax_." "_London's Gazette, here?_" The history of cries is a history of social changes. Many of the _working_ trades, as well as the vendors of things that can be bought in every shop, are now nearly banished from our thoroughfares. "_Old Chairs to mend_," or "_A brass Pot or an iron Pot to mend?_" still salutes us in some retired suburb; and we still see the knife-grinder's wheel; but who vociferates "_Any work for John Cooper?_" The trades are gone to those who pay scot and lot. What should we think of prison discipline, now-a-days, if the voice of lamentation was heard in every street, "_Some Bread and Meat for the poor Prisoners; for the Lord's sake, pity the Poor_?" John Howard put down this cry. Or what should we say of the vigilance of excise-officers if the cry of "_Aqua Vitae_" met our ears? The Chiropodist has now his guinea, a country villa, and railway season ticket; in the old days he stood at corners, with knife and scissors in hand, crying "_Corns to pick_." There are some occupations of the streets, however, which remain essentially the same, though the form be somewhat varied. The sellers of food are of course among these. "_Hot Peascod_," and "_Hot Sheep's-feet_," are not popular delicacies, as in the time of Lydgate. "_Hot Wardens_," and "_Hot Codlings_," are not the cries which invite us to taste of stewed pears and baked apples. But we have still apples hissing over a charcoal fire; also roasted chesnuts, and potatoes steaming in a shining apparatus, with savoury salt-butter to put between the "fruit" when cut; the London pieman still holds his ground in spite of the many penny pie-shops now established. Rice-milk is yet sold out in halfpennyworths. But furmety, barley broth, greasy sausages--"bags of mystery," redolent of onions and marjoram--crisp brown flounders, and saloop are no longer in request.

The cry of "_Water-cresses_" used to be heard from some barefoot nymph of the brook, who at sunrise had dipped her foot into the bubbling runnel, to carry the green luxury to the citizens' breakfast-tables. Water-cresses are now cultivated, like cabbages, in market-gardens. The cry of "_Rosemary and Briar_" once resounded through the throughfares; and every alley smelt "like Bucklersbury in simple time," when the whole street was a mart for odoriferous herbs. Cries like these are rare enough now; yet we do hear them occasionally, when crossing some bye-street, and have then smelt an unwonted fragrance in the air; and as someone has truly said that scents call up the most vivid associations, we have had visions of a fair garden afar off, and the sports of childhood, and the song of the lark that:--

"At my window bade good morrow Through the sweet briar."

Then comes a pale-looking woman with little bunches in her hand, who, with a feeble voice, cries "_Buy my sweet Briar, any Rosemary?_" There are still, however, plenty of saucy wenches--of doubtful morality--in the more crowded and fashionable thoroughfares, who present the passengers with moss-roses, and violets. Gay tells us:--

"Successive cries the seasons' change declare, And mark the monthly progress of the year. Hark! how the streets with treble voices ring, To sell the bounteous product of the spring."

We no longer hear the cries which had some association of harmonious sounds with fragrant flowers. The din of "noiseful gain" exterminated them.

This was formerly a very popular London cry, but has now become extinct, although it was long kept in vogue by reason of the old prejudices of old fashioned people, whose sympathy was with the complaints of the water-bearer, who daily vociferated in and about the environs of London, "Any fresh and fair spring water here! none of your pipe sludge?"--though their own old tubs were often not particularly nice and clean to look at, and the water was likely to receive various impurities in being carried along the streets in all weathers.--"Ah dear?" cried his customers, "Ah dear! Well, what'll the world come to!--they won't let poor people live at all by-and-bye--Ah dear! here they are breaking up all the roads and footpaths again, and we shall be all under water some day or another with all their fine new fandangle goings on, but I'll stick to the poor old lame and nearly blind water-carrier, as my old father did before me, as long as he has a pailful and I've a penny, and when we haven't we must go to the workhouse together."

This was the talk and reasoning of many honest people of that day, who preferred taxing themselves, to the daily payment of a penny and very often twopence to the water-carrier, in preference to having "_Company's water_" at a fixed or _pro-rata_ sum per annum.

This is seen immediately on coming within view of Sadler's Wells, a place of dramatic entertainment; after manifold windings and tunnellings from its source the New River passes beneath the arch in the engraving, and forms a basin within the large walled enclosure, from whence diverging main pipes convey the water to all parts of London. At the back of the boy angling on the wall is a public-house, with tea-gardens and skittle-ground, and known as _Sir Hugh Myddleton's Head_, also as _Deacon's Music Hall_, which has been immortalized by Hogarth in his print of EVENING. But how changed the scene from what he represented it! To this stream, as the water nearest London favourable to sport, anglers of inferior note _used_ to resort:--

"Here 'gentle anglers,' and their rods withal, Essaying, do the finny tribe enthral. Here boys their penny lines and bloodworms throw, And scare, and catch, the 'silly fish' below."

We have said above, anglers _used_ to resort, and we have said so advisedly, as that portion of the river is now arched over to the end of Colebrooke Row.

The New River, Islington, its vicinity, and our own favourite author--Charles Lamb, are, as it were, so inseparably bound together, that we hope to be excused for occupying a little of our reader's time with _Elia_--His Friends--His Haunts--His Walks, and Talk(s), particularly about the neighbourhood of:--

"----Islington! Thy green pleasant pastures, thy streamlet so clear, Old classic village! to _Elia_ were dear-- Rare child of humanity! oft have we stray'd On Sir Hugh's pleasant banks in the cool of the shade.

"Joy to thy spirit, aquatic Sir Hugh! To the end of old time shall thy River be New! Thy Head, ancient Parr,[9] too, shall not be forgotten; Nor thine, Virgin (?) Queen, tho' thy timbers are rotten." George Daniel's "_The Islington Garland_."

Into the old parlour of the ancient "Sir Hugh Myddleton's Head"--_Elia_, would often introduce his own, for there he would be sure to find, from its proximity to Sadler's Wells Theatre, some play-going old crony with whom he could exchange a convival "crack," and hear the celebrated Joe Grimaldi call for his tumbler of rum-punch; challenging Boniface to bring it to a _rummer_! Many a gleeful hour has been spent in this once rural hostelrie. But:--"All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."

Colebrooke Row was built in 1708. Here Charles Lamb, resided with his sister Mary, from 1823 to 1826; during which period--viz, on Tuesday, the 29th March, 1825, he closed his thirty-three years' clerkship at the East India House. Lamb very graphically describes the event in a letter to Bernard Barton, dated September 2, 1823, thus:--

"When you come Londonward, you will find me no longer in Covent Garden; I have a cottage in Colebrooke Row, Islington--a cottage, for it is detached--a white house, with six good rooms in it. The New River (rather elderly by this time) runs (if a moderate walking-pace can be so termed) close to the foot of the house; and behind is a spacious garden, with vines (I assure you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots, cabbages, to delight the heart of old Alcinous. You enter without passage into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with old books; and above is a lightsome drawing-room, three windows, full of choice prints. I feel like a great lord, never having had a house before."

And again, in the November following, in a letter to Robert Southey, he informs the bard, who had promised him a call, that he is "at Colebrooke Cottage, left hand coming from Sadler's Wells." It was here that that amiable bookworm, George Dyer, editor of the Delphin Classics, walked quietly into the New River from Charles Lamb's door, but was soon recovered, thanks to the kind care of Miss Lamb.

The late Mr. George Daniel, of Canonbury Square, Islington, who formerly possessed the "ELIZABETHAN GARLAND," which consists of Seventy Ballads, printed between the years 1559 and 1597; a pleasing chatty writer and great snapper-up of unconsidered literary trifles, was an old friend and jolly companion of Charles Lamb's and frequently accompanied him in his favourite walks on the banks of the New River, and to the ancient hostelries in and round-about "Merrie Islington." At the Old Queen's Head, they, in company with many retired citizens, and thirsty wayfarers, met, on at least one occasion, with Theodore Hook, indulged in reminiscences of bygone days, merrily puffed their long pipes of the true "Churchwarden" or _yard of clay_ type, and quaffed nut-brown ale, out of the festivious tankard presented by a choice spirit!--one Master Cranch,--to a former host; and in the old oak parlour, too, where, according to tradition, the gallant Sir Walter Raleigh received, "full souse" in his face, the humming contents of a jolly Black Jack[10] from an affrighted clown, who, seeing clouds of tobacco-smoke curling from the knight's nose and mouth, thought he was all on fire! fire!! fire!!!.

Lamb took special delight in watching the setting sun from the top of old Canonbury Tower, until the cold night air warned him to retire. He was intimate with Goodman Symes, the then tenant-keeper of the Tower, and bailiff of the Manor, and a brother antiquary in a small way; who took pleasure in entertaining him in the antique panelled chamber where Goldsmith wrote his _Traveller_, and supped frugally on buttermilk; and in pointing to a small portrait of Shakespeare, in a curiously carved gilt frame, which Lamb would look at longingly. He was never weary of toiling up and down the winding and narrow stairs of this suburban pile, and peeping into its quaint corners and cupboards, as if he expected to discover there some hitherto hidden clue to its mysterious origin.

"What village can boast like fair Islington town Such time-honour'd worthies, such ancient renown? Here jolly Queen Bess, after flirting with Leicester, 'Undumpish'd,' herself, with Dick Tarlton her Jester.

"Here gallant gay Essex, and burly Lord Burleigh Sat late at their revels, and came to them early; Here honest Sir John took his ease at his inn-- Bardolph's proboscis, and Jack's double chin.

From Islington, Charles Lamb moved to Enfield Chase Side, there he lived from 1827 to 1833, shut out almost entirely from the world, and his favourite London in particular.

Lamb, in a merry mood, writing to Novello, in 1827, says:--

"We expect you four (as many as the table will hold without squeezing) at Mrs. Westwood's _Table d'Hote_ on Thursday. You will find the _White House_ shut up, and us moved under the wing of the _Phoenix_, which gives us friendly refuge. Beds for guests, marry we have none, but cleanly accommodings [_sic._] at the _Crown and Horse-shoes_.

"Yours harmonically, "C. L.

"Vincentio (what, ho!) Novello, a Squire. 66, Great Queen Street, Lincoln's-Inn Fields."

The above represents one of the humble and wayside "Pubs" of the neighbourhood in which Charles Lamb is said to have tested the friendship of "fine" friends, by proposing to them a drink of unsophisticated porter from bright pewter pots. So did he treat Wordsworth, and that "Child of Nature" actress, Miss Frances Maria Kelly, who without hesitation entered the tavern, with:--

"The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door, The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,-- A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day."

About the Midsummer of 1833, Charles Lamb and his sister removed to Bay-cottage, Church-street, Edmonton, kept by Mr. Walden, whose wife acted as a professional nurse. There, in that poor melancholy looking tenement, the delightful humourist found the home in which he breathed his last on Saturday, the 27th December, 1834. He was buried in:--

"Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days!." Byron's, _Beppo_. St. 80.

Time and circumstances have effectually disposed of the water-carrier, his occupation is gone, it is impossible London can ever again see a man bent beneath the weight of a yoke and two enormous pails, vociferating "_Any fresh and fair Spring Water here?_" But the cry of "Milk," or the rattle of the milk-pail will never cease to be heard in our streets. There can be no reservoirs of milk, no pipes through which it flows into the houses. The more extensive the great capital becomes, the more active must be the individual exertion to carry about this article of food. The old cry was "_Any Milk here?_" and it was sometimes mingled with the sound of "_Fresh Cheese and Cream_;" and it then passed into "_Milk, maids below_;" and it was then shortened into "_Milk below_;" and was finally corrupted into "_Mio_," which some wag interpreted into _mi-eau_--_demi-eau_--half water. But it must still be cried, whatever be the cry. The supply of milk to the metropolis is perhaps one of the most beautiful combinations of industry we have. The days have long since passed when Finsbury had its pleasant groves, and Clerkenwell was a village, and there were green pastures in Holborn, when St. Pancras boasted only a little church standing in meadows, and St. Martin's was literally in the fields. Slowly but surely does the baked clay of Mr. Jerry, "the speculative builder" stride over the clover and the buttercup; and yet every family in London may be supplied with milk by eight o'clock every morning at their own doors. Where do the cows abide? They are congregated in wondrous herds in the suburbs; and though in spring-time they go out to pasture in the fields which lie under the Hampstead and Highgate hills, or in the vales of Dulwich and Sydenham, and there crop the tender blade,--

"When proud pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Has put a spirit of youth in everything."

yet for the rest of the year the coarse grass is carted to their stalls, or they devour what the breweries and distilleries cannot extract from the grain harvest. Long before "the unfolding star wakes up the shepherd" are the London cows milked; and the great wholesale vendors of the commodity, who have it consigned to them daily from more distant parts to the various railway stations in the metropolis, bear it in carts to every part of the town, and distribute it to the hundreds of shopkeepers and itinerants, who are anxiously waiting to receive it for re-distribution amongst their own customers. It is evident that a perishable commodity which everyone requires at a given hour, must be so distributed. The distribution has lost its romance. Misson, in his "Travels" published at the beginning of the last century, tells of May-games of the London milkmaids thus:--"On the first of May, and the five or six days following, all the pretty young country girls that serve the town with milk, dress themselves up very neatly, and borrow abundance of Silver-Plate, whereof they make a pyramid, which they adorn with ribbons and flowers, and carry upon their heads, instead of their common milk pails. In this equipage, accompanied with some of their fellow milkmaids, and a bagpipe or fiddle, they go from door to door, dancing before the houses of their customers, in the midst of boys and girls that follow them in troops, and everybody gives them something." Alas! the May-games and pretty young country girls have both departed, and a milk-woman has become a very unpoetical personage. There are few indeed of milkwomen who remain. So it is with most of the occupations that associate London with the country.

Thirty years ago there appeared in the "Quarterly Review" a remarkable article on the Commissariat of London, from the pen of Dr. Andrew Wynter. In it we were told for how many miles the beasts brought annually to the metropolis would stretch, if ranged ten abreast in a seemingly interminable column. In order to convey some notion of the stupendous quantities of ale, beer, and porter consumed, Dr. Wynter fixed upon Hyde Park as his exhibition ground, and piled together all the barrels containing the malt liquor drunk by what, in 1854, was a population of two million and a half souls. He came to the conclusion that these barrels would form a thousand columns not far short of a mile in perpendicular height. And among other statistics, Dr. Wynter calculated that there were at that time about twenty thousand cows in the metropolitan and suburban dairies, some of which establishments contained five hundred cows apiece. He also noticed that, the London and suburban dairies could not alone supply the population of the metropolis, seeing that twenty thousand cows, giving on an average twelve quarts each per diem, would not yield more than two hundred and forty thousand quarts. If we suppose this quantity increased by the iron-tailed cow to three hundred thousand quarts, the allowance to each of the two millions and a half of human beings then living within the Bills of Mortality would be about a quarter of a pint per head. The "Quarterly" Reviewer, therefore, assumed that, to meet the existing demands of the tea-table, the nursery, and the kitchen, half as much again as three hundred thousand quarts was consumed annually in London. For this excess he looked to the country to supplement the efforts of the metropolis and of its suburbs as suppliers of milk, and noticed that the precious white liquid was brought daily to London from farms lying as far away as eighty miles from the metropolitan railway stations to which it was consigned.