Part 2
Here's pennyroyal and marygolds, Come buy my nettle-tops. Here's watercresses and scurvy grass. Come buy my sage of virtue, ho! Come buy my wormwood and mugwort. Here's all fine herbs of every sort, And southernwood that's very good, Dandelion and horseleek. Here's dragon's tongue and horehound. Let none despise the merry, merry wives Of famous London town.
Less characteristic is an old undated penny ballad from which we cull the following lines:--
Wood, three bundles a penny, all dried deal; Now, who'll buy a good flint or steel? Buy a walking stick, a good ash stump; Hearthstone, pretty maids, a penny a lump. Fine mackrel; penny a plateful sprats; Dog's meat, marm, to feed your cats?
The cry of Saloop, a favourite drink of the young bloods of a hundred and fifty years back, conveys no meaning to the present generation. Considered as a sovereign cure for drunkenness, and pleasant withal, saloop, first sold at street corners, where it was consumed principally about the hour of midnight, eventually found its way into the coffee houses. The ingredients used in the preparation of this beverage were of several kinds--sassafras, and plants of the genus known by the simplers as cuckoo-flowers, being the principal among them. Saloop finally disappeared some five and twenty years ago.
The watchman cried the time every half hour. In addition to a lantern and rattle, he was armed with a stout stick. T. L. Busby, who in 1819 illustrated "The Costumes of the Lower Orders of London," tells us that in March the watchman began his rounds at eight in the evening, and finished them at six in the morning. From April to September his hours were from ten till five; and from November to the end of February, twelve till seven. During the darkest months there was an extra watch from six to twelve, and extra patrols of sergeants walked over the beats at intervals.
One of London's best known characters, the Waterman, does not appear to have adopted a cry; or, if he did, no mention of it can be found. But a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ (5th S. I. May 2, 1874) says: "I heard this verse of a very old (waterman's) song from a very old gentleman on the occasion of the last overflow of the Thames:--
"'Twopence to London Bridge, threepence to the Strand, Fourpence, Sir, to Whitehall Stairs, or else you'll go by land.'"
The point of departure, however, is not given.
"Fine Tie or a fine Bob, Sir!" According to Hone,
this was the cry in vogue at a time when everybody, old and young, wore wigs.[8] The price of a common one was a guinea, and every journeyman had a new
one every year; each apprentice's indenture stipulating, in the language of the officials who are still wig-wearers, that his master should find him in "one good and sufficient wig, yearly, and every year, for, and during, and unto, the expiration of the full end and term of his apprenticeship." A verse of the time tells us:--
Full many a year in Middle Row has this old barber been, Which those who often that way go have full as often seen; Bucks, jemmies, coxcombs, bloods and beaux, the lawyer, the divine, Each to this reverend tonsor goes to purchase wigs so fine.
"Buy my rumps and burrs!" is a cry requiring a word of explanation. Before the skins of the newly flayed oxen were consigned to the tanner, the inside of the ear, called the burr, and the fleshy part of the tail were removed, and when seasoned and baked are said to have formed a cheap and appetising dish.
Ned Ward, the author of that curious work, "The London Spy" (1703), alludes to the melancholy ditty of "Hot baked Wardens [pears], and Pippins;" and, in describing the amusements of Bartholomew Fair, states that in leaving a booth he was assailed with "Will you buy a Mouse Trap or a Rat Trap? Will you buy a Cloath Brush, or Hat Brush, or a Comb Brush?" The writer possesses a very curious old scenic aquatint print in the form of a fan mount, representing Bartholomew Fair in 1721. The following descriptive matter is printed in the semicircular space under the fan:--
"BARTHOLOMEW FAIR, 1721.
This fair was granted by Henry the 1st, to one Rahere, a witty and pleasant gentleman of his Court, in aid and for the support of an Hospital, Priory, and Church, dedicated to St. Bartholomew, which he built in repentance of his former profligacy and folly. The succeeding Priors claimed, by certain Charters, to have a Fair every year, during three days: viz., on the Eve, the Day, and on the Morrow of St. Bartholomew. At this period the Clothiers of England, and drapers of London, kept their Booths and Standings there, and a Court of Piepouder was held daily for the settlement of all Debts and Contracts. About the year 1721, when the present interesting View of this popular Fair was taken, the Drama was considered of some importance, and a series of minor although regular Pieces were acted in its various Booths. At Lee and Harper's the Siege of Berthulia is performing, in which is introduced the Tragedy of Holifernis. Persons of Rank were also its occasional visitors, and the figure on the right is supposed to be that of Sir Robert Walpole, then Prime Minister. Fawkes, the famous conjuror, forms a conspicuous feature, and is the only portrait of him known to exist. The remaining amusements are not unlike those of our day, except in the articles of Hollands and Gin, with which the lower orders were then accustomed to indulge, unfettered by licence or excise."
Amongst the numerous figures represented on the fan mount, but not mentioned by its publisher, Mr. Setchel, is that of the crier of apples, whose basket is piled high with tempting fruit. Another woman has charge of a barrow laden with pears as big as pumpkins; and a couple of oyster-women, whose wares are on the same gigantic scale, are evidently engaged in a hot wrangle. Although foreign to our subject, it may be mentioned that the statement as to the portrait of Fawkes the conjuror being the only one known, is incorrect.
Let not the ballad singer's shrilling strain Amid the swarm thy listening ear detain: Guard well thy pocket, for these syrens stand To aid the labours of the diving hand;
Confederate in the cheat, they draw the throng, And Cambric handkerchiefs reward the song.
A state of things very graphically delineated in another print of "Barthelemew Fair" (1739), where a ballad singer is roaring out a _caveat against cut purses_ whilst a pick-pocket is operating on one of his audience.
The old cry of "Marking Irons" has died out. The letters were cast in iron, and sets of initials were made up and securely fixed in long-handled iron boxes. The marking irons were heated and impressed as a proof of ownership.
Hence ladders, bellows, tubs, and pails, Brooms, benches, and what not, Just as the owner's taste prevails, Have his initials got.
"My name and your name, your father's name and mother's name."
Hone says: "I well remember to have heard this cry when a boy. The type-seller composed my own name for me, which I was thereby enabled to imprint on paper with common writing-ink. I think it has become wholly extinct within the last ten years."
Amongst later prints of the London Cries, none are at present so highly prized as the folio set engraved in the early part of this century by Schiavonetti and others after Wheatley. Treated in the sentimentally pretty style of the period, they make, when framed, wall decorations which accord well with the prevailing old-fashioned furniture. If in good condition, the set of twelve will now readily fetch £20 at Christie's; and if coloured, £30 would not be considered too high a price, though five-and-twenty years ago they might easily have been picked up for as many shillings. Their titles are as follows:--
Knives, scissors, and razors to grind! Old chairs to mend! Milk below, maids! Strawberrys, scarlet strawberrys! Two bundles a penny, primroses, two bundles a penny! Do you want any matches? Round and sound, fivepence a pound, Duke cherries! Sweet China oranges! Hot spiced gingerbread, smoking hot! Fresh gathered peas, young Hastings! A new love song, only a halfpenny apiece! Turnips and carrots, oh!
In connection with the last cry, here is Dr. Johnson's humorous reference thereto:--
If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than a father!
The modern bootblack with his "Clean yer boots, shine 'em, sir?" is the successor of the obsolete shoeblack, whose stock-in-trade consisted of liquid blacking, an old wig for removing dust or wet, a knife for use on very muddy days, and brushes. Towards the end of the last century, Finsbury Square--then an open field--was a favourite place for shoeblacks, who intercepted the city merchants and their clerks in their daily walks to and from their residences in the villages of Islington and Hoxton. At that time tight breeches and shoes were worn; and the shoeblack was careful not to smear the buckles or soil the fine white stockings of his patrons. In a print of this period the cry is "Japan your shoes, your honour?" Cake blacking, introduced by that famous, but, as regards the last mentioned, somewhat antagonistic trio, Day, Martin, and Warren, "the most poetical of blacking makers and most transparent of poets," which was quickly taken into general use, snuffed out the shoeblack; and from about 1820 until the time of the first Exhibition in 1851, when the shoeblack brigade in connection
with ragged schools was started, London may be said to have blacked its own boots.
Bill Sykes the costermonger, or "costard"-monger, as he was originally called from his trade of selling apples, now flourishes under difficulties. What with the envious complaints of the small shopkeepers whom he undersells, and the supercilious rebuffs of the policeman who keeps him dodging about and always "on the move," Bill has a hard time of it indeed. Yet he is distinctly a benefactor to the poorer portion of humanity. He changes his cry with the stock on his barrow. He will invest one day in pine-apples, when there is a glut of them--perhaps a little over-ripe--in Pudding Lane; and in stentorian voice will then make known his willingness to exchange slices for a halfpenny each, or a whole one for sixpence. On other days it may be apples, or oranges, fish, vegetables, photographs, or even tortoises; the latter being popularly supposed to earn a free, if uncomfortable, passage to this country in homeward-bound ships as wedges to keep the cargo from shifting in the hold. It is not often that goods intended for the thriving shopkeeper find their way to the barrow of the costermonger. Some time ago amber-tipped cherry or briar-wood pipes were freely offered and as freely bought in the streets at a penny each. Suddenly the supply stopped; for the unfortunate wholesale dealer in Houndsditch, who might have known better, had mistaken "dozen" for "gross" in his advice; and at 6_s._ 6_d._ per gross the pipes could readily be retailed for a penny each; whereas at the cost price of 6_s._ 6_d._ a dozen, one shilling ought to have been asked. It seems that not only did the importer imagine that the amber mouthpieces were imitation, but Bill Sykes also thought he was "doing" the public when he announced them as real.
In the present race of street criers there are tricksters in a small way; as, for instance, the well known character who picks up a living by selling a bulky-looking volume of songs. His long-drawn and never varied cry of "Three un-derd an' fif-ty songs for a penny!" is really "Three under fifty songs for a penny." The book is purposely folded very loosely so as to bulk well; but a little squeezing reduces it to the thickness of an ordinary tract. Street criers are honest enough, however, in the main. If vegetables are sometimes a little stale, or fruit is suspiciously over-ripe, they do not perhaps feel absolutely called upon to mention these facts; but they give bouncing penn'orths, and their clients are generally shrewd enough to take good care of themselves. Petty thieves of the area-sneak type use well-known cries as a blind while pursuing their real calling,--match-selling often serving as an opportunity for pilfering. Blacker sheep than these there are; but fortunately one does not often come across them. Walking one foggy afternoon towards dusk along the Bayswater Road, I was accosted by a shivering and coatless vagabond who offered a tract. Wishing to shake off so unsavoury a companion, I attempted to cross the road, but a few yards from the kerb he barred farther progress "Sixpence, Sir, only sixpence; I _must_ have sixpence!" and as he spoke he bared a huge arm knotted like a blacksmith's. Raising a fist to match, he more than once shot it out unpleasantly near, exhibiting every time he did so an eruption of biceps perfectly appalling in its magnitude. That tract is at home somewhere.
There are persons in London who get their living by manufacturing amusing or useful penny articles, with which they supply the wholesale houses in Houndsditch, who in turn find their customers in the hawkers and street criers. The principal supply, however, is imported from the Continent at prices against which English labour cannot compete. Soon forgotten, each novelty has its day, and is cried in a different manner. Until the law stepped in and put a stop to the sale, the greatest favourite on public holidays was the flexible metal tube containing scented water, which was squirted into the faces of passers-by with strict impartiality and sometimes with blinding effect.
"All the fun of the fair,"--a wooden toy which, when drawn smartly down the back or across the shoulders, emits a sound as if the garment were being rent--ranks perhaps second in the estimation of 'Arry and Emma Ann--she generally gets called Emma Ran--when out for a holiday. "The Fun of the Fair" is always about on public holidays, illuminations, Lord Mayor's day, and in fact whenever people are drawn out of doors in, such multitudes that the pathways are insufficient to hold the slowly moving and densely packed human stream, which perforce slops over and amicably disputes possession of the road with the confused and struggling mass of vehicles composed of everything that goes on wheels. A real Malacca cane, the smallest Bible in the world, a Punch and Judy squeaker, a bird warbler, a gold watch and chain, and Scotch bagpipes, are, with numerous others, at present popular and tempting penn'orths; while the cry of "A penny for shillin' 'lusterated magazine"--the epitaph on countless unsuccessful literary ventures--seems to many an irresistible attraction.
In connection with 'Arry, the chief producer of street noises, it may be questioned whether London is now much better off than it was before the passing of the Elizabethan Statutes of the Streets, by which citizens were forbidden, under pain of imprisonment, to blow a horn in the night, or to whistle after the hour of nine o'clock p.m. Sudden outcries in the still of the night, and the making of any affray, or the beating of one's wife--the noise rather than the brutality appears to have been objected to--were also specially forbidden. If this old Act is still on the Statute-book, it is none the less a dead letter. Our streets are now paraded by companies of boys or half-grown men who delight in punishing us by means of that blatant and horribly noisy instrument of dissonant, unchangeable chords, the German concertina. In many neighbourhoods sleep is rendered, until the early hours, impossible by men and women who find their principal and unmolested amusement in the shouting of music-hall songs, with an intermittent accompaniment of shriekings. Professional street music of all kinds requires more stringent regulation; and that produced by perambulating amateurs might with advantage be well-nigh prohibited altogether. The ringing of Church bells in the grey of the morning, and the early habits of the chanticleer, are often among the disadvantages of a closely populated neighbourhood. Nor are these street noises the only nuisance of the kind. London walls and partitions are nearly all thin, and a person whose neighbour's child is in the habit of practising scale exercises or "pieces," should clearly have the right to require the removal of the piano a foot or so from the wall, which would make all the difference between dull annoyance and distracting torment.
But we are wandering, and wandering into a dismal bye-way. Returning to our subject, it is impossible to be melancholy in the presence of the facetious salesman of the streets, with his unfailing native wit. Hone tells us of a mildly humorous character, one "Doctor Randal," an orange-seller, who varied the description of his fruit as circumstances and occasions
demanded; as "Oratorio oranges," and so on. A jovial rogue whose beat extends to numerous courts and alleys on either side of Fleet Street, regularly and unblushingly cries, "Stinking Shrimps," and by way of addenda, "Lor, _'ow_ they do stink to-day, to be sure!" His little joke is almost as much relished as his shrimps and bloaters, and they appear to be always of the freshest. Were it not that insufficient clothing and an empty stomach are hardly conducive thereto, the winter cry so generally heard after a fall of snow, "Sweep yer door away, mum?" might fairly be credited to an attempt at facetiousness under difficulties, while the grave earnestness of the mirth-provoking cry of the Cockney boot-lace man, "Lice, lice, penny a pair boot-lice!" is strong evidence that he has no thought beyond turning the largest possible number of honest pennies in the shortest possible space of time.
A search in our collection of books and ballads for London Cries, humorous in themselves, discovers but two,--
"Jaw-work, up and under jaw-work, a whole pot for a halfpenny, hazel-nuts!"
and--
"New laid eggs, eight a groat--crack 'em and try 'em!"
A somewhat ghastly form of facetiousness was a favourite one with a curious City character, now defunct. He was a Jew who sold a nameless toy--a dried pea loose in a pill box, which was fastened to a horse-hair, and on being violently twirled, emitted a vibratory hum that could be heard for some distance. Unless his unvarying cry, "On'y a 'a'penny," brought buyers to the fore, he gave vent to frequent explosions of strange and impious language, which never failed to provoke the merriment of the passer-by.
Among the many living City characters is the man--from his burr evidently a Northumbrian--who sells boot laces. His cry is, "Boot laces--AND the boot laces." This man also has a temper. If sales are
slow, as they not uncommonly are, his cry culminates in a storm of muttered abuse; after which mental refreshment he calmly proceeds as before, "The boot laces--AND the boot laces." Most of us know by sight the penny Jack-in-the-box seller, whose cry, as Jack pops up, on the spring of the lid being released, is a peculiar double squeak, emitted without movement of the lips. The cry is supposed to belong to the internal economy of the toy, and to be a part of the penn'orth; but, alas! Jack, once out of the hands of his music-master, is voiceless. The numerous street sellers of pipe and cigar lights must have a hard time of it. Following the lucifer match, with its attendant choking sulphurous fumes, came the evil-smelling, thick, red-tipped, brown paper slip charged with saltpetre, so that it should smoulder without flaming. These slips, in shape something like a row of papered pins, were divided half through and torn off as required. Like the brimstone match which preceded, and the Vesuvian which followed, these lights (which were sold in the shops at a penny a box, but in the streets at two and sometimes three boxes for the same sum) utterly spoilt the flavour of a cigar; hence the superiority of the now dominant wax vestas. The matches of a still earlier period were long slips of dry wood smeared at either end with brimstone.
They would neither "light only on the box," nor off it, unless aided by the uncertain and always troublesome flint, steel, and tinder, or the direct application of flame. "Clean yer pipe; pipe-cleaner, a penny for two!" is a cry seldom absent from the streets. The pipe-cleaner is a thin, flexible, double-twisted wire, about a foot long, with short bristles interwoven at one end, and now, "when everybody smokes who doesn't," the seller is sure of a more or less constant trade.
The buyers of the so-called penny ices sold in the London streets during the summer months are charged only a halfpenny; and the numerous vendors, usually Italians, need no cry; for the street _gamins_ and errand boys buzz around their barrows like flies about a sugar barrel. For obvious reasons, spoons are not lent. The soft and half-frozen delicacy is consumed by the combined aid of tongue and fingers. Parti-coloured Neapolitan ices, vended by unmistakable natives of Whitechapel or the New Cut, whose curious cry of "'Okey Pokey" originated no one knows how, have lately appeared in the streets. Hokey Pokey is of a firmer make and probably stiffer material than the penny ice of the Italians, which it rivals in public favour; and it is built up of variously flavoured layers. Sold in halfpenny and also penny paper-covered
squares, kept until wanted in a circular metal refrigerating pot surrounded by broken ice, Hokey Pokey has the advantage over its rival eaten from glasses, inasmuch as it can be carried away by the purchaser and consumed at leisure. Besides being variously flavoured, Hokey Pokey is dreadfully sweet, dreadfully cold, and hard as a brick. It is whispered that the not unwholesome Swede turnip, crushed into pulp, has been known to form its base, in lieu of more expensive supplies from the cow, whose complex elaboration of cream from turnips is thus unceremoniously abridged.
Another summer cry recalls to memory a species of house decoration, which we may hope is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. "Ornaments for yer fire stoves," are usually either cream-tinted willow shavings, brightened by the interspersion of a few gold threads, or mats thickly covered with rose-shaped bows and streamers of gaily-coloured tissue papers. Something more ornate, and not always in better taste, is now the fashion; the trade therefore has found its way from the streets to the shops, and the old cry, "Ornaments for yer fire stoves," is likely to be seldomer heard.
Many of the old cries, dying out elsewhere, may still be familiar, however, in the back streets of second