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Title: A History of the Cries of London - Ancient and Modern
Author: Hindley, Charles
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "A History of the Cries of London - Ancient and Modern" ***


  Cries of London.

  _Woodcuts by Thomas & John Bewick_,
  And their Pupils, &c.

  [ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.     _All Rights Reserved._]

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S PIEMAN.

"We frequently meet with the pieman in old prints; and, in Hogarth's
'March to Finchley,' there he stands in the very centre of the crowd,
grinning with delight at the adroitness of one robbery, while he is
himself the victim of another. We learn from this admirable figure by the
greatest painter of English life, that the pieman of the last century
perambulated the streets in professional costume; and we gather further,
from the burly dimensions of his wares, that he kept his trade alive by
the laudable practice of giving 'a good pennyworth for a penny.' Justice
compels us to observe that his successors of a later generation have not
been very conscientious observers of this maxim."]


  Ancient and Modern.

  "_Let none despise the merry, merry Cries
  Of famous London Town._"



  _Editor of "The Old Book Collector's Miscellany; or, a Collection of
  Readable Reprints of Literary Rarities," "Works of John Taylor--the
  Water Poet," "The Roxburghe Ballads," "The Catnach Press," "The
  Curiosities of Street Literature," "The Book of Ready Made Speeches,"
  "Life and Times of James Catnach, late of the Seven Dials, Ballad
  Monger," "Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings," etc._




  Ancient and Modern,

  Charles Hindley.


[Illustration: NOTICE.

On or about LADY DAY, 1885, will be published for the same Author, THE
HISTORY OF The Catnach Press. To be followed by a New Edition of the

[Illustration: INTRODUCTION.]

  Oh, dearly do I love "Old Cries,"
  Your "Lilies all a'blowing!"
  Your blossoms blue, still wet with dew,
  "Sweet Violets all a'growing!"
                                        _Eliza Cook._

The idea of printing and publishing "A History of the Cries of
London--Ancient and Modern," somewhat in the manner and style here
presented to the public, was first suggested to me by the late Rev:--

Thomas Hugo.

Author of "The Bewick Collector," 1866. The Supplement to same, 1868, and
"Bewick's Woodcuts," 1870, etc., and at the time, Rector of West Hackney
Church, Stoke Newington, London, N., in the year 1876.

While actively engaged in preparing for publication "The Life and Times of
James Catnach late of Seven Dials: Ballad Monger,"--to which the present
work may be considered a sequel, and the completion of the series on the
subject of the--


I had frequently to consult the pages of "The Bewick Collector," and other
works of a kindred character for information respecting the elder Catnach,
who, by himself, and afterwards in conjunction with his partner, and
subsequently his successor, William Davison, employed Thomas Bewick, the
famous English artist who imparted the first impulse to the art of wood
engraving, for several of their Alnwick publications. This led to my
communicating with the Rev. Thomas Hugo, wherein I informed him of my
plans, and of the object I had in view with regard to the publication I
was then preparing for the press: at the same time soliciting his
co-operation, especially in reference to the loan of some of the Bewick
wood-cuts, formerly possessed by the elder Catnach, while he was in
business as a printer, in Narrowgate Street, Alnwick, an ancient borough
and market-town in Northumberland.

In answer to my application, I received the letters that follow:--


    _21st August, 1876._


    I shall be glad to aid you in any way. I must ask you to see me on
    some _morning_, between nine and eleven o'clock, and to make a
    previous appointment, as I am a working man, with plenty to do.

      Yours sincerely,
        Thomas Hugo.

    76, Rose Hill Terrace,


    Tuesday Night. [_13th September, 1876._]


    I have been expecting you for the last ten days. In a few hours I am
    leaving town for my holiday; I shall not return till far on in

    As Brighton is but a short way off, I shall hope to see you on my
    return. You shall be welcome to the loan of some Blocks. You had
    better examine my folio volume, called "Bewick's Woodcuts," in the
    British Museum, and give me the numbers of the cuts, when I will see
    what I can do for you.

      Yours sincerely,
        Thomas Hugo.

    (of Brighton,)
    8, Booksellers' Row,
    Strand, W.C.


    _8th Nov., 1876._

    Dear Sir,

    I can see you between 9.30 and 10.30 on _Friday_ Morning.

    Be so good as to advise me beforehand _what_ you wish to see.

      Yours sincerely,
        Thomas Hugo.

    (of Brighton,)
    8, Booksellers' Row,
    Strand, W.C.

The proposed interview took place at the Rectory-house, on the 10th of
November, and was of a very delightful and intellectual character. The
reverend gentleman found me an apt scholar in all matters with respect to
his favourite "Hobby-horse," viz:--the Brothers Bewick and their Works.
All the rich and rare Bewickian gems were placed before me for inspection,
and all the desired assistance I needed at his hands was freely offered
and ultimately carried out. During our conversation the learned Rector

    "I look upon it as a curious fact that you should have been of late
    occupying your leisure in working out your own ideas of Catnach and
    his Times, because, while I was in the office at Monmouth-court, where
    I went several times to look out all the examples of Bewick I could
    find, and which I afterwards purchased of Mr. Fortey--the person who
    has succeeded to the business of the late James Catnach, I one day
    caught nearly the same notion, but it was more in reference to OLD
    LONDON CRIES: as I possess a fairly large collection of nicely
    engraved wood-blocks on the subject, that I met with in 'Canny
    Newcassel,'--in some of which it is asserted, and can hardly be
    denied, that Thomas Bewick had a hand. I have since used the set in my
    'BEWICK'S WOODCUTS.' But, alas!--_Tempus fugit_, and all thoughts on
    the subject got--by reason of my having so much to do and think
    of--crowded out of my memory. Now, sir, as you seem to have much more
    leisure time than myself, I shall be happy to turn the subject-matter
    over to you and to assist in every way in my power."

I thanked the rev. gentleman, at the same time promising to bear the
suggestion in mind for a future day.

    STOKE NEWINGTON, N., _14th Nov., 1876_.


    Accept my best thanks for your letter, books, and promises of future
    gifts, all of which I cordially accept.

    To-morrow, if all be well, I shall have time to look out the Blocks,
    and they shall be with you soon afterwards.

      Very truly yours,
        Thomas Hugo.

    C. HINDLEY, ESQ., Rose Hill Terrace,

    W. H. R. _29th Nov._ [1876.]


    Herewith the Block. I have made a few corrections (of fact) in your

      Yours sincerely,
        T. H.

    C. HINDLEY, ESQ., 76, Rose Hill Terrace,

The somewhat sudden and unexpected death of the Rev. Thomas Hugo on the
last day of the year 1876 is now a matter of history.

                   In Memoriam.
              The Rev. T. HUGO, M.A.
          _Rector of West Hackney Church._
  Departed this life, Sunday, December 31st, 1876.

  On Christmas Day, before the altar kneeling,
    Taking that Food by which our souls are fed;
  Around us all a solemn silence stealing,
    And broken only by the priests' slow tread.

  Yes, he was there, our good and earnest Rector,
    And firmly strove his weakness to withstand,
  Giving the cup, he, the pure Faith's protector--
    That cup of blessing with a trembling hand.

  His church, for which he felt such admiration,
    Was deck'd with flow'rs and evergreens that morn,
  In praise to Christ, who died for our salvation,
    And deign'd as a weak infant to be born.

  Ah! little did we think that happy morning--
    So truly, bravely kept he at his post--
  When next a Sabbath came, to us his warning
    And kind, yet noble, presence would be lost.

  That solemn sound, which tells of souls departed,
    Took the glad place of that which calls to prayer,
  And his loved people, shocked and broken-hearted,
    Could hardly enter, for _he_ was not there.

  But when they heard it was his last desire
    That they should meet at midnight as was said,
  They met by thousands, mov'd with holy fire,
    And spoke in whispers of their shepherd--_dead_.

  No, no, not dead, but calm in Jesus sleeping;
    Free from all sorrow, all reproach, all pain:
  And though he leaves a congregration weeping
    Their earthly loss is his eternal gain.

  He loved the weak, and all the mute creation,
    In generous deeds he ever took his part;
  At Death, the _thrice_-repeated word _Salvation_
    Showed the firm trust of that true, tender heart.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Again we meet: they come his coffin bringing
    Midst solemn chant, and deck'd with purest flowers,
  And feel, whilst we his own sweet hymn are singing,
    The joy is _his_, the sad rememberance _ours_.
                                        Mrs. HILDRETH.

At the sale of the HUGO COLLECTION, I purchased among many others:--

    LOT 405. London Cries, also used in Newcastle and York Cries, two very
    pretty series of early Cries, some with back-grounds, from Hodgson's
    office, and R. Robinson, Newcastle--[51 _blocks_],

To carry out the suggestion before-mentioned, and to utilize the very
pretty series of fifty-one woodcuts as above, and other Bewick,
Bewickiana, and _ultra anti_-Bewickian woodcut blocks I possess, formed
and accumulated by reason of my published works: "The Catnach Press,"
1868. "Curiosities of Street Literature," 1871. And "Life and Times of
James Catnach," 1878.

In collecting information on the subject of "The Cries of London--Ancient
and Modern," I have availed myself of all existing authorities within
reach, and therefore, to prevent the necessity of continual reference,
here state that I have drawn largely from Charles Knight's "London."
Mayhew's "London Labour and the London Poor." Hone's "Every-Day Book." An
article on Old London Cries, in "Fraser's Magazine." "Cuthbert Bede." Mr.
Edwin Goadby's "The England of Shakespeare,"--an excellent Text Book,
forming one of Cassell's Popular Shilling Library. "Our Milk Supply," from
the columns of _The Daily Telegraph_. Charles Manby Smith's "Curiosities
of London Life," and his "Little World of London." And what from various
other sources was suitable for my purpose.

To the one lady, and many gentlemen friends who have responded to my
enquiries for advice, material, and assistance, and by which they have so
greatly enriched the contents of this volume, I beg to express my best
thanks. I must in a more particular manner mention the names of--the one
lady first--Mrs. Rose Hildreth; then Mr. John Furbor Dexter, Mr. William
Mansell; next Messrs. W. H. & L. Collingridge, the Proprietors of _The
City Press_, Aldersgate-street, London, for the use of the following
woodcuts that have appeared in the pages of their ever-entertaining work,
"Y{e} OLD CITY," by Aleph.: 1.--Shakespeare's London; 2.--Aldersgate;
3.--Cheapside Cross; 4.--Old Stage Waggon; 5.--Baynard's Castle; 6.--Old
London Shop; 7.--St. Pauls Cathedral. I have also to express my cordial
thanks to Messrs. Longman, Green & Co., who kindly allowed the use of
1.--Colebrook Cottage; 2.--The Old Queen's Head; and 3.--Canonbury Tower.
From Howitt's "Northern Heights of London." Messrs. Chatto & Windus,
Piccadilly: 1.--Charles Lamb's House, Enfield; 2.--House at Edmonton,
where Charles Lamb died; 3.--Edmonton Church. Messrs. Marks and Sons,
Publishers of all kinds of Fancy Stationery, Toy-books, Valentines, &c.,
72, Houndsditch, for the eight blocks used in their "Cries of London," at
pages 351 to 358. Messrs. Goode, Toy-book Manufacturers, Clerkenwell
Green. Mr. John W. Jarvis, Mr. William Briggs, Mr. G. Skelly, Alnwick, and
Dr. David Morgan, Brighton.

       *       *       *       *       *


The rapid sale of the whole of the First Edition of this work--about one
half of which went Due-North, that is to say, in and round about "Canny
Newcassel" (the home-land of the Brothers Bewick), America taking the
remainder,--will sufficiently explain the re-appearance of "A History of
the Cries of London" in its new, and, the Author ventures to think,
improved form.


  _Lady-Day._, 1884.

  Manuscripts, Autograph Letters & Proof Impressions,


  "BEWICK WOODCUTS," (folio) 1870.


  _Auctioneers of Literary Property & Works illustrative of the Fine Arts_,
  At their House, No. 13, Wellington Street, Strand, W.
  On WEDNESDAY, 8th of AUGUST, 1877, and following Day,
  May be Viewed Two Days prior, and Catalogues had.

  Dryden Press: J. Davy and Sons. 137, Long Acre.


GOLDSMITH AND PARNELL POEMS: Published by William Bulmer, _Shakespeare
Printing Office_, London, 1795. Embellished with thirteen designs on wood.
Most of the cuts were drawn by Robert Johnson and John Bewick, and all
were engraved by Thomas Bewick, except the vignettes on the title-pages,
and the large cut of "The Sad Historian," and the tail-piece at the end of
the volume, which was done by John Bewick.

The most magnificent result of the efforts of the wood-engraver,
type-founder, paper-maker, and printer, "that ever was produced in any
age, or in any country." Bulmer realized, after paying all expenses, a
profit of £1,500 on the work these exquisite blocks adorned.

[Illustration: [_John Bewick, del. et Sculp._]


_Published January 1, 1795, by William Bulmer, at the Shakespeare Printing
Office, Cleveland Row._]

[Illustration: _John Johnson, del._] [_T. Bewick, Sculp._


_Published January 1, 1795, by William Bulmer, at the Shakespeare Printing
Office, Cleveland Row._]

[Illustration: _R Johnson, del._] [_T. Bewick, Sculp._


_Published January 1, 1795, by William Bulmer, at the Shakespeare Printing
Office, Cleveland Row._]

[Illustration: _John Bewick, del._] [_T. Bewick, sculp._

  _A POEM_

  Printed by W. Bulmer & Co.,
  Shakespeare Printing Office, Cleveland Row.


[Illustration: _John Bewick, del._] [_T. Bewick, sculp._


This work contains the best specimens of John Bewick's abilities as a
designer; all the cuts were drawn by him except one, but none of them were
engraved by him. Shortly after he had finished the drawings on the blocks,
he left London and returned to the North in consequence of ill-health.
They were engraved by Thomas Bewick, with the exception of the tail-piece
at the end of the volume, which was engraved by Charles Nesbit, one of his

[Illustration: _John Bewick, del._] [_T. Bewick, sculp._


The cuts in the Chase, on the whole, are superior in point of execution to
those in the Poems of Goldsmith and Parnell. Many conceive it impossible
that such delicate effects could be produced from blocks of wood, and his
late Majesty (George III.) ordered his bookseller, Mr. George Nicolls, to
procure the blocks for his inspection, that he might convince himself of
the fact.

[Illustration: _John Bewick, del._] [_T. Bewick, sculp._


Speaking of the death of John Bewick, which took place at Ovingham on the
5th of December, 1795,--aged 35, a writer in the _Gentleman's Magazine_
says, "The works of this young artist will be held in estimation, and the
engravings to 'Somervile's Chase' will be a monument of fame of more
celebrity than marble can bestow."

[Illustration: THE PEACOCK. (_Pavo cristatus_, Linn.----_Le Paon_, Buff.)
(From Bewick's Land Birds.)]

[Illustration: THE COMMON SANDPIPER. (Bewick's Water Birds).]

[Illustration: THE WATER OUZEL. (Bewick's Water Birds.)]

[Illustration: THE SNIPE. (Bewick's Water Birds.)]

[Illustration: THE REDSTART. (Bewick's Water Birds.)]

[Illustration: _FIRST STATE!_]


  "Snug in an English garden's shadiest spot
    A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;
  Lonely and simple as a ploughman's cot!
    Where monarchs may unbend who wish for ease."
                                        COLMAN'S--_Broad Grins_.

[Illustration: _SECOND STATE!!_]

Among the very many and all much admired Tail-pieces drawn and engraved by
Bewick himself, the above, which, in its--_First state!_ is at page 285 of
vol. i. of 'A History of British Birds,' 1797, has obtained by far the
greatest notoriety. It appears that soon after publication, it was pointed
out to Bewick that the nakedness of a prominent part of his subject
required to be a little more covered--_draped_! So one of his apprentices
was employed to blacken over with ink all the copies then remaining
unsold. But by the time Bewick received the 'gentle hint,' a goodly number
had been delivered to local subscribers and the London agents--Messrs. G.
G. and J. Robinson. It is these '_not inked!_' copies that are now so
readily sought after by all "Bewick Collectors."

[Illustration: _THIRD STATE!!!_]

For the next, and all subsequent editions a plug was inserted in the
block, and the representation of two bars of wood engraved upon it, to
hide the _part_! However, it seems that before the block was thus altered
and amended, many impressions on various papers were taken of the--_First
state!_ The late Rev. Hugo possessed several of such, one of which--_Proof
on paper_--he gave me on the 10th of November, 1876.--C. H.

[Illustration: THE WATER RAIL. (Bewick's Water Birds.)]

[Illustration: THE RED-NECKED GREBE. (Bewick's Water Birds.)]

[Illustration: THE CHILLINGHAM WILD BULL. Used in Richardson's Table Book,
Vol. vi p. 15. Attributed to T. Bewick.]

[Illustration: _T. Bewick._ GIN AND BITTERS. The Sportsman's Cabinet,

[Illustration: "WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O'MAUT."]

The Poetical Works of Robert Burns. Engravings on Wood by Bewick, from
designs by Thurston. Alnwick: Printed by Catnach and Davison, 1808. And
London: Printed for T. Cadell and Davis, Strand, 1814. With cuts
previously used in Davison's publications.


"Many of the engravings produced for Burns' Poems, are of a very superior
class, and cannot be too highly commended."--_Hugo._

[Illustration: "_And for whole days would wander in those places where she
had been used to walk with Henry._"

  By Sarah Wilkinson.
  With a Frontispiece by Bewick.
  ALNWICK: Printed by W. DAVISON, 1813.]

"Bewick Collector."--The Supplement._]


  Adorned with beautiful Engravings by Bewick.
  ALNWICK: Printed by W. DAVISON, 1808.]

[Illustration: ARMS OF NEWCASTLE. (_Signed_ Bewick, _Sculpt._)]

[Illustration: BULL PURSUING A MAN.

  Engravings on Wood by BEWICK.]

[Illustration: "SANDIE AND WILLIE."

  Alnwick: Printed by W. DAVISON.--1814.]

[Illustration: SCOTTISH BALLADS AND SONGS. Printed and Sold by G.
NICHOLSON, Poughnill, Near Ludlow.]

[Illustration: G. NICHOLSON, PRINTER, Poughnill, near Ludlow.]

[Illustration: G. NICHOLSON, Printer, Poughnill, near Ludlow.]

[Illustration: G. NICHOLSON, Printer.]


  "_Not to return, how painful the remembrance
                        Of joys departed,_"

  Alnwick: Printed by CATNACH and DAVISON,--1808.]

[Illustration: FROM NEWCASTLE. HUGO'S Bewick's Woodcuts, No. 1333.]

[Illustration: VIEW OF STRAWBERRY HILL. With Shield of Arms of the Hon.
Horace Walpole.]

[Illustration: Mr. Bigge's cut of the FIGURE OF LIBERTY.]

[Illustration: TYNE-SIDE SCENE, With Shield of Arms.]




[Illustration: THE SPORTSMAN'S CALENDER. 1818. HUGO'S "_Bewick's
Woodcuts_," No. 1309.]


[Illustration: THE DOG IN THE MANGER.]


[Illustration: HASTIE'S READING EASY. From Angus's Office, where the book
was printed.]

"Bewick cut for Mrs. Angus, twenty-four figures for the Alphabet:--The Fox
and Grapes, the Crow and Pitcher, the Foolish Stag, Joseph and his
Brethren, etc. All of them excellent cuts. The fortieth edition was
printed in 1814, and the seventy-third in 1839, so that they must have
been done in his early days."

MS. Note of the late Mr. John Bell, of Newcastle. See Hugo's _Bewick's
Woodcuts_. No. 240-276.

[Illustration: FOX AND THE GRAPES.]

[Illustration: THE CROW AND PITCHER.]

[Illustration: THE FOOLISH STAG.]


[Illustration: _T. Bewick.--Sculpt._]

[Illustration: _T. Bewick.--Sculpt._]

[Illustration: [_R. Johnson, del. Charlton Nesbit, sculpt._]

  Cut to the memory of ROBERT JOHNSON.
  _Bewick's favourite Pupil._]

On the South side of Ovingham Church there is this tablet--

  In Memory of
  Who died at Kenmore in Perthshire,
  _The 29th, of October, 1796_.

[Illustration: THOMAS BEWICK.]

Thomas Bewick died at his house on the Windmill-Hills, Gateshead, November
the 8th, 1828, in the seventy-sixth year of his age, and on the 13th he
was buried in the family burial-place at Ovingham, where his parents,
wife, and brother were interred.



[Illustration: "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy



  (Ancient & Modern)


  Greatly Enlarged and
  Carefully Revised.


  "Let none despise the merry, merry cries
  Of famous London Town":--_Rex. Ballad._

The cries of London have ever been very popular, whether as broadsides,
books, ballads, or engravings. Artists of all countries and times have
delighted to represent those peculiarities of costume and character which
belong to the history of street-cries, and the criers thereof. Annibale
Carracci--1560-1609--has immortalized the cries of Bologna; and from the
time of Elizabeth to that of Queen Victoria, authors, artists and printers
combined, have presented the Cries and Itinerant Trades of London, in
almost numberless forms, and in various degrees of quality, from the
roughest and rudest wood-cut-blocks to the finest of copper and steel
plate engravings, or skilfully wrought etchings. While many of the early
English dramatists often introduced the subject, eminent composers were
wont to "set to music" as catch, glee, or roundelaye, all the London Cries
then most in vogue,--"They were, I ween, ryght merrye songs, and the
musick well engraved."

The earliest mention of London trade-cries is by Dan John Lydgate
(1370-1450), a Monk of the Benedictine Abbey of Bury St. Edmund's, the
friend and immediate follower of Geoffrey Chaucer, and one of the most
prolific writers of his age this country has produced. To enumerate
Lydgate's pieces would be to write out the catalogue of a small library.
No poet seems to have possessed a greater versatility of talents. He moves
with equal ease in every mode of composition; and among his minor pieces
he has left us a very curious poem entitled "London Lyckpeny," _i.e._,
_London Lackpenny_: this has been frequently printed; by Strutt, Pugh,
Nicolas, and partly by John Stow in "A Survey of London," 1598. There are
two copies in the British Museum, Harl. MSS., 367 and 542. We somewhat
modernize the text of the former and best of these copies, which differ
considerably from each other.

  "O Mayster Lydgate! the most dulcet sprynge
  Of famous rethoryke, with balade ryall
  The chefe orygynal."
                      _"The Pastyme of Plasure," by Stephen Hawes, 1509._

In "London Lackpenny" we have a most interesting and graphic picture of
the hero coming to Westminster, in term time, to obtain legal redress for
the wrong he had sustained, and explain to a man of law his case--"_How my
goods were defrauded me by falsehood_," but being without the means to pay
even the preliminary fee, he was sent--"from pillar to post," that is from
one Law-court to another, but although he "_crouched, kneeled, prayed for
God's sake, and Mary's love_, he could not get from one the--_mum of his
mouth_." So leaving the City of Westminster--minus his hood, he walked on
to the City of London, which he tells us was crowded with peripatetic
traders, but tempting as all their goods and offers were, his
_lack-of-money_ prevented him from indulging in any of them--But, however,
let _Lackpenny_, through the ballad, speak for himself:--

[Illustration: London Lackpenny.]

  To London once my steps I bent,
    Where truth in no wise should be faint,
  To Westminster-ward I forthwith went,
    To a man of law to make complaint,
    I said, "for Mary's love, that Holy saint!
  Pity the poor that would proceed,"
  But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

  And as I thrust the _prese_ among, [crowd]
    By froward chance my hood was gone,
  Yet for all that I stayed not long,
    Till to the King's Bench I was come,
    Before the Judge I kneeled anon,
  And prayed him for God's sake to take heed;
  But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

  Beneath them sat Clerks a great rout,
    Which fast did write by one assent,
  There stood up one and cryed about,
    Richard, Robert, and John of Kent.
    I wist not well what this man meant,
  He cried so thick there indeed,
  But he that lacked money, might not speed.

  Unto the Common-place _I yode thoo_, [I went then]
    Where sat one with a silken hood;
  I did him reverence, for I ought to do so,
    And told him my case as well as I could,
    How my goods were defrauded me by falsehood.
  I gat not a mum of his mouth for my meed,
  And, for lack of money, I might not speed.

  Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence,
    Before the clerks of the Chancery,
  Where many I found earning of pence,
    But none at all once regarded me,
    I gave them my plaint upon my knee;
  They liked it well, when they had it read:
  But, lacking money, I could not speed.

  In Westminster Hall I found out one,
    Which went in a long gown of _ray_; [velvet]
  I crouched and kneeled before him anon,
    For Mary's love, of help I him pray.
    "I wot not what thou meanest" gan he say:
  To get me thence he did me bede,
  For lack of money, I could not speed.

  Within this Hall, neither rich nor yet poor
    Would do for me ought, although I should die:
  Which seeing, I gat me out of the door,
    Where Flemings began on me for to cry:
    "Master, what will you _copen or buy_? [chap or exchange]
  Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read?
  Lay down your silver, and here you may speed."

Spectacles to read before printing was invented must have had a rather
limited market; but we must bear in mind where they were sold. In
Westminster Hall there were lawyers and rich suitors
congregated,--worshipful men, who had a written law to study and expound,
and learned treatises diligently to peruse, and titles to hunt after
through the labyrinths of fine and recovery. The dealer in spectacles was
a dealer in hats, as we see; and the articles were no doubt both of
foreign manufacture. But lawyers and suitors had also to feed, as well as
to read with spectacles; and on the Thames side, instead of the
coffee-houses of modern date, were tables in the open air, where men every
day ate of "_bread, ribs of beef, both fat and full fine_," and drank
jollily of "_ale and wine_," as they do now at a horse-race:--

  Then to Westminster Gate I presently went,
    When the sun was at high prime:
  Cooks to me, they took good intent,
    And proffered me bread, with ale and wine,
    Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine;
  A fair cloth they gan for to spread,
  But, wanting money, I might not there speed.

Passing from the City of Westminster, through the village of Charing and
along Strand-side, to the City of London, the cries of food and feeding
were first especially addressed to those who preferred a vegetable diet,
with dessert and "_spice, pepper, and saffron_" to follow. "_Hot peascod
one began to cry_," Peascod being the shell of peas; the _cod_ what we now
call the _pod_:--

  "Were women as little as they are good,
  A peascod would make them a gown and hood."

"_Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise._" Rise--branch, twig, either
a natural branch, or tied on sticks as we still see them.

  Then unto London I did me hie,
    Of all the land it beareth the prize;
  Hot peascods! one began to cry;
    Strawberry ripe, and Cherries in the rise!
    One bade me come near and buy some spice;
  Pepper and saffron they gan me _bede_; [offer to me]
  But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

In Chepe (Cheapside) he saw "_much people_" standing, who proclaimed the
merits of their "_velvets, silk, lawn, and Paris thread_." These, however,
were shopkeepers; but their shops were not after the modern fashion of
plate-glass windows, and carpeted floors, and lustres blazing at night
with a splendour that would put to shame the glories of an eastern palace.
They were rude booths, the owners of which bawled as loudly as the
itinerants; and they went on bawling for several centuries, like butchers
in a market, so that, in 1628, Alexander Gell, a bachelor of divinity, was
sentenced to lose his ears and to be degraded from the ministry, for
giving his opinion of Charles I., that he was fitter to stand in a
Cheapside shop with an apron before him, and say "What do ye lack, what do
ye lack? What lack ye?" than to govern a kingdom.

  Then to the Chepe I began me drawn,
    Where much people I saw for to stand;
  One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn;
    Another he taketh me by the hand,
    "Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land."
  I never was used to such things indeed;
  And, wanting money, I might not speed.

  Then went I forth by London Stone,
    Throughout all Canwyke Street:
  Drapers much cloth me offered anon;
    Then comes in one crying "Hot sheep's feet;"
    One cried mackerel, rushes green, another gan greet;
  One bade me buy a hood to cover my head;
  But, for want of money, I might not speed.

The London Stone, the _lapis milliaris_ (mile stone) of the Romans, has
never failed to arrest the attention of the "Countryman in Lunnun." The
Canwyke Street of the days of John Lydgate, is the Cannon Street of the
present. "_Hot sheep's feet_," which were cried in the streets in the time
of Henry V., are now sold _cold_ as "sheep's trotters," and vended at the
doors of the lower-priced theatres, music-halls, and public-houses. Henry
Mayhew in his "London Labour and the London Poor," estimates that there
are sold weekly 20,000 sets, or 80,000 feet. The wholesale price at the
"trotter yard" is five a penny, which gives an outlay by the street
sellers of £3,033 6s. 8d. yearly. The cry which is still heard and
tolerated by law, that of _Mackerel_ rang through every street. The cry of
_Rushes-green_ tells us of by-gone customs. In ages long before the
luxury of carpets was known in England, the floors of houses were covered
with rushes. The strewing of rushes in the way where processions were to
pass is attributed by our poets to all times and countries. Thus at the
coronation of Henry V., when the procession is coming, the grooms cry--

  "More rushes, more rushes."

_Not worth a rush_ became a common comparison for anything worthless; the
rush being of so little value as to be trodden under foot. _Rush-lights_,
or candles with rush wicks, are of the greatest antiquity.

  Then I hied me into East-chepe,
    One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie;
  Pewter pots they clattered on a heap;
    There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy;
    "Yea by Cock! Nay by Cock!" some began cry;
  Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed;
  But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Eastcheap, this ancient thoroughfare, originally extended from
Tower-street westward to the south end of Clement's-lane, where
Cannon-street begins. It was the Eastern Cheap or Market, as distinguished
from Westcheap, now Cheapside. The site of the Boar's Head Tavern, first
mentioned _temp._ Richard II., the scene of the revels of Falstaff and
Henry V., when Prince of Wales, is very nearly that of the statue of King
William IV. _Lackpenny_ had presented to him several of the real Signs of
the Times and of Life in London with "_ribs of beef_--_many a
pie_--_pewter pots_--_music and singing_"--_strange oaths_, "_Yea by
Cock_" being a vulgar corruption for a profane oath. Our own taverns still
supply us with ballad-singers--"_Buskers_"--who will sing of "_Jenkin and
Julian_"--Ben Block; or, She Wore a Wreath of Roses, "_for their meed_."

  Then into Cornhill anon I _yode_, [went]
    Where was much stolen gear among;
  I saw where hung mine own hood
    That I had lost among the throng;
    To buy my own hood I thought it wrong;
  I knew it well, as I did my creed;
  But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The manners and customs of the dwellers in Cornhill in the time of John
Lydgate, when a stranger could have his hood stolen at one end of the town
and see it exposed for sale at the other, forcibly reminds us of
Field-lane and the Jew Fagin, so faithfully sketched in pen and ink by
Charles Dickens of our day. Where "a young man from the country" would run
the risk of meeting with an Artful Dodger, to pick his pocket of his silk
handkerchief at the entrance of the Lane, and it would be offered him for
sale by a Jew fence at the end, not only "Once a Week" but "All the Year
Round." However, when Charles Dickens and Oliver Twist came in, Field-lane
and Fagin went out.

At length the Kentish man being wearied, falls a prey to the invitation of
a taverner, who with a cringing bow, and taking him by the
sleeve:--"_Sir_," saith he, "_will you our wine assay?_" Whereupon
_Lackpenny_, coming to the safe conclusion that "_a penny can do no more
than it may_," enters the tempting and hospitable house of entertainment,
and there spends his only penny, for which he is supplied with a pint of

  The taverner took me by the sleeve,
    "Sir," saith he, "will you our wine assay?"
  I answered "That cannot be much grieve,
    A penny can do no more than it may;"
    I drank a pint, and for it did pay;
  Yet, sore a-hungered from hence I _yode_, [went]
  And, wanting money, I could not speed.

Worthy old John Stow supposes this interesting incident to have happened
at the Pope's Head, in Cornhill, and bids us enjoy the knowledge of the
fact, that:--"Wine one pint for a pennie, and bread to drink it was given
free in every taverne." Yet Lydgate's hero went away "_Sore a-hungered_,"
for there was no eating at taverns at this time beyond a crust to relish
the wine, and he who wished to dine before he drank had to go to the

Wanting money, _Lackpenny_ has now no choice but to return to the country,
and applies to the watermen at Billingsgate:--

  Then hied I me to Billingsgate,
    And one cried "Hoo! go we hence!"
  I prayed a bargeman, for God's sake,
    That he would spare me my expense,
    "Thou scap'st not here, quod he, under two-pence,
  I list not yet bestow any almes deed."
  Thus, lacking money, I could not speed.

We have a corroboration of the accuracy of this picture in Lambarde's
"Perambulation of Kent." The old topographer informs us that in the time
of Richard II. the inhabitants of Milton and Gravesend agreed to carry in
their boats, from London to Gravesend, a passenger with his truss or
fardel [burden] for twopence.

  Then I conveyed me into Kent;
    For of the law would I meddle no more;
  Because no man to me took entent,
    I _dyght_ [prepared] me to do as I did before.
    Now Jesus, that in Bethlem was bore,
  Save London, and send true lawyers their meed!
  For whoso wants money, with them shall not speed.

The poor Kentish suitor, without two-pence in his pocket to pay the
Gravesend bargemen, whispers a mild anathema against London lawyers, then
takes his solitary way on foot homeward--a sadder and a wiser man.

       *       *       *       *       *

With unpaved streets, and no noise of coaches to drown any particular
sound, we may readily imagine the din of the great London thoroughfares of
four centuries ago, produced by all the vociferous demand for custom. The
chief body of London retailers were then itinerant,--literally pedlars;
and those who had attained some higher station were simply stall-keepers.
The streets of trade must have borne a wonderful resemblance to a modern
fair. Competition was then a very rude thing, and the loudest voice did
something perhaps to carry the customer.

[Illustration: THE LONDON STONE.]


In the old play entitled:--"A ryght excellent and famous Comedy called the
_Three Ladies of London_, wherein is Notable declared and set fourth, how
by the meanes of Lucar, Love and Conscience is so corrupted, that the one
is married to Dissimulation, the other fraught with all abhomination. A
Perfect Patterne of All Estates to looke into, and a worke ryght worthie
to be marked. Written by R. W.; as it hath been publiquely played. At
London, Printed by Roger Warde, dwelling neere Holburne Conduit at the
sign of the Talbot, 1584," is the following poetical description of some
London cries:--


  _Enter_ CONSCIENCE, with brooms, singing as followeth:--

  _New broomes, green broomes, will you buy any?
  Come maydens, come quickly, let me take a penny.
          My brooms are not steeped,
            But very well bound:
          My broomes be not crooked,
            But smooth cut and round.
          I wish it would please you,
            To buy of my broome:
          Then would it well ease me,
            If market were done.

          Have you any olde bootes,
            Or any old shoone:
          Powch-ringes, or buskins,
            To cope for new broome?
          If so you have, maydens,
            I pray you bring hither;
          That you and I, friendly,
            May bargin together.
  New broomes, green broomes, will you buy any?
  Come maydens, come quickly, let me take a penny._

  CONSCIENCE _speaketh_.

  Thus am I driven to make a virtue of necessity;
  And seeing God Almighty will have it so, I embrace it thankfully,
  Desiring God to mollify and lesson Usury's hard heart,
  That the poor people feel not the like penury and smart.
  But Usury is made tolerable amongst Christians as a necessary thing,
  So that, going beyond the limits of our law, they extort, and to many
      misery bring.
  But if we should follow God's law we should not receive above what we
  For if we lend for reward, how can we say we are our neighbour's friend?
  O, how blessed shall that man be, that lends without abuse,
  But thrice accursed shall he be, that greatly covets use;
  For he that covets over-much, insatiate is his mind:
  So that to perjury and cruelty he wholly is inclined:
  Wherewith they sore oppress the poor by divers sundry ways,
  Which makes them cry unto the Lord to shorten cut-throats' days.
  Paul calleth them thieves that doth not give the needy of their store,
  And thrice accurs'd are they that take one penny from the poor.
  But while I stand reasoning thus, I forget my market clean;
  And sith God hath ordained this way, I am to use the mean.

  Sings again.

  _Have ye any old shoes, or have ye any boots? have ye any buskins, or
      will ye buy any broome?
  Who bargins or chops with Conscience? What will no customer come?_

  _Enter_ USURY.


  Who is that cries brooms? What, Conscience, selling brooms about the


  What, Usury, it is a great pity thou art unhanged yet.


  Believe me, Conscience, it grieves me thou art brought so low.


  Believe me, Usury, it grieves me thou wast not hanged long ago,
  For if thou hadst been hanged, before thou slewest Hospitality,
  Thou hadst not made me and thousands more to feel like Poverty.

By another old comedy by the same author as the preceding one, which he
entitles:--"The pleasant and Stately Morall of the _Three Lords and Three
Ladies of London_. With the great Joye and Pompe, Solemnized at their
Marriages: Commically interlaced with much honest Mirth, for pleasure and
recreation, among many Morall observations, and other important matters of
due regard. By R. W., London. Printed by R. Ihones, at the Rose and
Crowne, neere Holburne Bridge, 1590," it appears that woodmen went about
with their beetles and wedges on their backs, crying "_Have you any wood
to cleave?_" It must be borne in mind that in consequence of the many
complaints against coal as a public nuisance, it was not in common use in
London until the reign of Charles I., 1625.

There is a character in the play named _Simplicity_, a poor Freeman of
London, who for a purpose turns ballad-monger, and in answer to the
question of "What dainty fine ballad have you now to be sold?"
replies:--"I have '_Chipping-Norton_,' '_A mile from Chapel o' th'
Heath_'--'_A lamentable ballad of burning of the Pope's dog_;' '_The sweet
ballad of the Lincolnshire bagpipes_;' and '_Peggy and Willy: But now he
is dead and gone; Mine own sweet Willy is laid in his grave_.'"


  "City of ancient memories! Thy spires
  Rise o'er the dust of worthy sons; thy walls,
  Within their narrow compass, hold as much
  Of Freedom as the whole wide world beside."]

The London of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson and Co.,--_Limited_ as it was within
its great wall, occupied very much the same space as that now covered by
the City proper; its streets were narrow and winding, yet there were still
left many open spaces; it was covered with people; its river was full of
shipping; it was rich, prosperous, and possessed of a considerable amount
of liberty. The great wall of London, broad and strong, with towers at
intervals, was more than two miles long, from end to end, beginning at the
Tower of London on the east, and ending at the Fleet River and the Thames
on the west.

[Illustration: ALDERSGATE.]

As regards the gates, there were anciently only four--namely, Aldersgate,
Aldgate, Ludgate, and Bridgegate--that is to say, one for each of the
cardinal points. Then other gates and posterns were added for the
convenience of the citizens: Bishopsgate, for those who had business in
the direction of Norfolk, Suffolk, or Cambridgeshire; Moorgate, for those
who would practice archery, or take their recreation in Moor Fields;
Cripplegate, more ancient than the two preceding, had a prison for debtors
attached to it; and there was also a postern for the Convent of Grey
Friars, now Christ's Hospital. At Newgate was a small, incommodious, and
fever-haunted prison for criminals; and at Ludgate was another prison,
appropriated to debtors, trespassers, and those who committed contempt of
Court. Along the river-side were several water-gates, the chief of which
were Blackfriars, Greenhithe, Dowgate and Billingsgate.

Within the narrow space of the City Walls there rose a forest of towers
and spires. The piety of Merchants had erected no fewer than a hundred and
three churches, which successive citizens were continually rebuilding,
beautifying, or enlarging. They were filled with the effigies and splendid
tombs, the painted and gilded arms, of their founders and benefactors, for
whose souls masses were continually said.

[Illustration: CHEAPSIDE CROSS.]

"London was divided into Wards, and was perhaps as catholic in its
commercial and industrial pursuits then as now. Every kind of trade was
carried on within its walls, just as every kind of merchandise was sold.
The combination of fellows of the same craft began in very early times,
guilds were formed for the protection of trade and its followers; the
guild-brothers met once a month to consider the interests of the craft,
regulating prices, recovering debts and so forth. But the London of the
period was not so gay as Paris, nor so bustling and prosperous as Antwerp,
nor so full of splendour and intellectual life as Venice.[1] Yet to the
Englishman of the day it was an ever-lasting wonder. Its towers and
palaces, its episcopal residences and gentlemen's inns, the bustle of its
commerce, the number of its foreigners, the wealth of its Companies, and
the bravery of its pageants, invested it with more poetry than can be
claimed for it at the present time, unless Wealth be our deity, Hurry our
companion, and Progress our muse. The rich were leaving their pleasant
country mansions to plunge into its delights. At the law terms there was a
regular influx of visitors, who seemed to think more of taking tobacco
than of winning a lawsuit. Ambitious courtiers, hopeful ecclesiastics,
pushing merchants, and poetic dreamers, were all caught by the
fascinations of London. Site, antiquity, life, and, above all, abundance
of the good things that make up half its charm, in the shape of early
delicacies, costly meats, and choice wines, combined to make it a
miraculous city in the eyes of the Elizabethan."

"The external appearance of the City was certainly picturesque. Old grey
walls threw round it the arm of military protection. Their gates were
conspicuous objects, and the white uniforms of the train-bands on guard,
with their red crosses on the back, fully represented the valour which
wraps itself in the British flag and dies in its defence. To the north
were the various fields whose names survive, diversified by an occasional
house, and Dutch-looking windmills, creaking in the breeze. Finsbury was a
fenny tract, where the City archers practised; Spitalfields, an open,
grassy place, with grounds for artillery exercise and a market cross; and
Smithfield, or Smoothfield, was an unenclosed plain, where tournaments
were held, horses were sold, and martyrs had been burnt. To the east was
the Tower of London, black with age, armed with cannon and culverin, and
representing the munificence which entertained royalty as well as the
power which punished traitors. Beyond it was Wapping, the Port of London,
with its narrow streets, its rope-walks and biscuit shops. Black fronted
taverns, with low doorways and leaden framed windows, their rooms reeking
with smoke and noisy with the chatter of ear-ringed sailors, were to be
found in nearly every street. Here the merchant adventurer came to hire
his seamen, and here the pamphleteer or the ballad-maker could any night
gather materials for many a long-winded yarn about Drake and the Spanish
main, negroes, pearls, and palm-groves.

[Illustration: OLD STAGE WAGGON.]

"To the west, the scene was broken with hamlets, trees, and country roads.
Marylebone and Hyde Park were a royal hunting-ground, with a manor house,
where the Earls of Oxford lived in later times. Piccadilly was 'the road
to Reading,' with foxgloves growing in its ditches, gathered by the
simple dealers of Bucklersbury, to make anodynes for the weary-hearted.
Chelsea was a village; Pimlico a country hamlet, where pudding-pies were
eaten by strolling Londoners on a Sunday. Westminster was a city standing
by itself, with its Royal Palace, its Great Hall for banquets and the
trial of traitors, its sanctuary, its beautiful Abbey, and its famous
Almonry. St. James's Park was walled with red brick, and contained the
palace Henry VIII. had built for Anne Boleyn. Whitehall Palace was in its
glory. The Strand, along which gay ladies drove in their 'crab-shell
coaches,' had been recently paved, and its streams of water diverted. A
few houses had made their appearance on the north side of the Strand,
between the timber house and its narrow gateway, which then formed Temple
Bar, the boundary between London and Westminster, and the church of St.
Mary-le-Strand. The southern side was adorned with noble episcopal
residences, and with handsome turreted mansions, extending to the river,
rich with trees and gardens, and relieved by flashes of sparkling water.

[Illustration: SMITH'S ARMS, BANKSIDE.[2]]

"To the south, Lambeth, with its palace and church, and Faux Hall, were
conspicuous objects. Here were pretty gardens and rustic cottages. The
village of Southwark, with its prisons, its public theatres, its palace,
and its old Tabard Inn, had many charms. It was the abode of Shakespeare
himself, as he resided in a good house in the Liberty of the Clink, and
was assessed in the weekly payment of 6d., no one but Henslowe, Alleyn,
Collins, and Barrett, being so highly rated. That part of the Borough of
Southwark known as Bankside was not only famous in Shakespeare's time for
its Theatres, but also as the acknowledged retreat of the warmest of the

  "'And here, as in a tavern, or a stew,
  He and his wild associates spend their hours.'"
                                        --_Ben Jonson._

"We fear our best zeal for the drama will not authorise us to deny that
Covent-garden and Drury-lane have succeeded to the _Bank-side_ in every
species of fame!

[Illustration: THE GLOBE THEATRE.]

"We must not forget the river Thames. It was one of the sights of the
time. Its waters were pure and bright, full of delicate salmon, and
flecked by snowy swans, 'white as Lemster wool.' Wherries plied freely on
its surface. Tall masts clustered by its banks. Silken-covered tiltboats,
freighted with ruffed and feathered ladies and gentlemen, swept by, the
watermen every now and then breaking the plash of the waves against their
boats by singing out, in their bass voices, 'Heave and how, rumbelow.' At
night, the scene reminded the travelled man of Venice. All the mansions by
the water-side had river-terraces and steps, and each one its own
tiltboat, barge, and watermen. Down these steps, lighted by torches and
lanterns, stepped dainty ladies, in their coloured shoes, with masks on
their faces, and gay gallants, in laced cloaks, by their side, bound for
Richmond or Westminster, to mask and revel. Noisy parties of wits and
Paul's men crossed to Bankside to see _Romeo and Juliet_, or _Hamlet the
Dane_, or else 'The most excellent historie of the _Merchant of Venice_,
with the extreme crueltie of _Shylocke_, the Jewe, towards the sayd
merchant, in cutting a just pound of his flesh, and obtaining of Portia by
the choyse of three caskets, as it hath diverse times been acted by the
Lord Chamberlain, his servants. Written by William Shakespeare.'

[Illustration: BAYNARD'S CASTLE.]

"From Westminster to London Bridge was a favourite trip. There was plenty
to see. The fine Strand-side houses were always pointed
out--Northumberland House, York House, Baynard's Castle, the scene of the
secret interview between the Duke of York and the Earls of Salisbury and
Warwick, was singled out, between Paul's Wharf and Puddle Dock. Next to
the Temple, and between it and Whitefriars, was the region known as
Alsatia. Here safe from every document but the writ of the Lord Chief
Justice and the Lords of the Privy Council, in dark dwellings, with
subterranean passages, narrow streets, and trap-doors that led to the
Thames, dwelt all the rascaldom of the time--men who had been 'horned' or
outlawed, bankrupts, coiners, thieves, cheaters at dice and cards,
duellists, homicides, and foreign bravoes, ready to do any desperate deed.
At night the contents of this kingdom of villany were sprayed out over
London, to the bewilderment of good-natured Dogberries, and country
gentlemen, making their first visit to town.

"Still further down the river was the famous London Bridge. It consisted
of twenty arches; its roadway was sixty feet from the river; and the
length of the bridge from end to end was 926 feet.

"It was one of the wonders that strangers never ceased to admire. Its many
shops were occupied by pin nacres, just beginning to feel the competition
with the Netherland pin-makers, and the tower at its Southwark end was
adorned with three hundred heads, stuck on poles, like gigantic pins,
memorials of treachery and heresy.

"The roar of the river through the arches was almost deafening. 'The noise
at London Bridge is nothing near her,' says one of the characters in
Beaumont and Fletcher's _Woman's Prize_. Shakespeare, Ben Jonson & Co.,
must have crossed the bridge many a time on their visits to the City, to
'gather humours of men daily,' as Aubrey quaintly expresses it."

The name of Ben Jonson reminds us that in _The Silent Woman_,--one of the
most popular of his Comedies,--we have presented to us a more vivid
picture than can elsewhere be found of the characteristic noises, and
street-cries of London more than two centuries ago. It is easy to form to
ourselves a general idea of the hum and buzz of the bees and drones of
this mighty hive, under a state of manners essentially different from our
own; but it is not so easy to attain a lively conception of the particular
sounds that once went to make up this great discord, and so to compare
them in their resemblances and their differences with the roar which the
great Babel _now_ "sends through all her gates." We propose, therefore, to
put before our readers this passage of Jonson's comedy; and then,
classifying what he describes, illustrate our fine old dramatic painter of
manners by references to other writers, and by the results of our own


The principal character of Jonson's _Silent Woman_ is founded upon a
sketch by a Greek writer of the fourth century, Libanius. Jonson
designates this character by the name of "Morose;" and his peculiarity is
that he can bear no kind of noise, not even that of ordinary talk. The
plot turns upon this affectation; for having been entrapped into a
marriage with the "Silent Woman," she and her friends assail him with
tongues the most obstreperous, and clamours the most uproarious, until, to
be relieved of this nuisance, he comes to terms with his nephew for a
portion of his fortune and is relieved of the "Silent Woman," who is in
reality a boy in disguise. We extract the dialogue of the whole scene; the
speakers being "Truewitt," "Clerimont," and a "Page":--

    "_True._ I met that stiff piece of formality, Master Morose, his
    uncle, yesterday, with a huge turban of night-caps on his head,
    buckled over his ears.

    "_Cler._ O! that's his custom when he walks abroad. He can endure no
    noise, man.

    "_True._ So I have heard. But is the disease so ridiculous in him as
    it is made? They say he has been upon divers treaties with the
    fish-wives and orange-women; and articles propounded between them:
    marry, the chimney-sweepes will not be drawn in.

    "_Cler._ No, nor the broom-men: they stand out stiffly. He cannot
    endure a costard-monger; he swoons if he hear one.

    "_True._ Methinks a smith should be ominous.

    "_Cler._ Or any hammer-man. A brasier is not suffer'd to dwell in the
    parish, nor an armourer. He would have hang'd a pewterer's 'prentice
    once upon a Shrove-Tuesday's riot, for being of that trade, when the
    rest were quit.

    "_True._ A trumpet should fright him terribly, or the hautboys.

    "_Cler._ Out of his senses. The waits of the City have a pension of
    him not to come near that ward. This youth practised on him one night
    like the bellman, and never left till he had brought him down to the
    door with a long sword; and there left him flourishing with the air.

    "_Page._ Why, sir, he hath chosen a street to lie in, so narrow at
    both ends that it will receive no coaches, nor carts, nor any of these
    common noises; and therefore we that love him devise to bring him in
    such as we may now and then, for his exercise, to breathe him. He
    would grow resty else in his cage; his virtue would rust without
    action. I entreated a bearward, one day, to come down with the dogs of
    some four parishes that way, and I thank him he did; and cried his
    games under Master Morose's window; till he was sent crying away, with
    his head made a most bleeding spectacle to the multitude. And, another
    time, a fencer marching to his prize had his drum most tragically run
    through, for taking that street in his way at my request.

    "_True._ A good wag! How does he for the bells?

    "_Cler._ O! In the queen's time he was wont to go out of town every
    Saturday at ten o'clock, or on holiday eves. But now, by reason of the
    sickness, the perpetuity of ringing has made him devise a room with
    double walls and treble ceilings; the windows close shut and caulk'd;
    and there he lives by candlelight."

The first class of noises, then, against which "Morose" protected his ears
by "a huge turban of night-caps," is that of the ancient and far-famed
LONDON CRIES. We have here the very loudest of them--fish-wives,
orange-women, chimney-sweepers, broom-men, costard-mongers. But we might
almost say that there were _hundreds_ of other cries; and therefore,
reserving to ourselves some opportunity for a special enumeration of a few
of the more remarkable of these cries, we shall now slightly group them,
as they present themselves to our notice during successive generations.

We shall not readily associate any very agreeable sounds with the voices
of the "fish-wives." The one who cried "_Mackerel_" in Lydgate's day had
probably no such explanatory cry as the "_Mackerel alive, alive ho!_" of
modern times. In the seventeenth century the cry was "_New Mackerel_." And
in the same way there was:--


[Illustration: NEW FLOUNDERS.]

[Illustration: NEW WHITING.]

[Illustration: NEW SALMON.]

The freshness of fish must have been a considerable recommendation in
those days of tardy intercourse. But quantity was also to be taken into
the account, and so we find the cries of "_Buy my dish of Great Smelts_;"
"_Great Plaice_;" "_Great Mussels_." Such are the fish-cries enumerated in
Lauron's and various other collections of "London Cries."

[Illustration: BUY GREAT SMELTS.]

[Illustration: BUY GREAT PLAICE.]

[Illustration: BUY GREAT MUSSELS.]

[Illustration: BUY GREAT EELS.]

But, we are forgetting "Morose," and his "turban of night-caps." Was
Hogarth familiar with the old noise-hater when he conceived his own:--

[Illustration: ENRAGED MUSICIAN.]

In this extraordinary gathering together of the producers of the most
discordant sounds, we have a representation which may fairly match the
dramatist's description of street noises. Here we have the milk-maid's
scream, the mackerel seller's shout, the sweep upon the house top,--to
match the fish-wives and orange-women, the broom-men and costard-mongers.
The smith, who was "ominous," had no longer his forge in the busy streets
of Hogarth's time; the armourer was obsolete: but Hogarth can rival their
noises with the pavior's hammer, the sow-gelder's horn, and the
knife-grinder's wheel. The waits of the city had a pension not to come
near "Morose's" ward; but it was out of the power of the "Enraged
Musician" to avert the terrible discord of the blind hautboy-player. The
bellman who frightened the sleepers at midnight, was extinct; but modern
London had acquired the dustman's bell. The bear-ward no longer came down
the street with the dogs of four parishes, nor did the fencer march with a
drum to his prize; but there was the ballad-singer, with her squalling
child, roaring worse than bear or dog; and the drum of the little boy
playing at soldiers was a more abiding nuisance than the fencer. "Morose"
and the "Enraged Musician" had each the church bells to fill up the
measure of discord.


The fish-wives are no longer seen in our great city of London
thoroughfares. In Tottenham Court-road, Hoxton, Shoreditch, Kingsland,
Whitechapel, Hackney-road, and many other suburban districts, which still
retain the character of a street-market, they stand in long rows as the
evening draws in, with paper-lanterns stuck in their baskets on dark
nights; and there they vociferate as loudly as in the olden time.


The "costard-monger" whom Morose dreaded, still lives amongst us, and is
still noisy. He bawls so loud even to this day, that he puts his hand
behind his ear to mitigate the sensation which he inflicts upon his own
tympanum. He was originally an apple-seller, whence his name; and, from
the mention of him in the old dramatists, he appears to have been
frequently an Irishman. In Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," he cries
"_pears_." Ford makes him cry "_pippins_." He is a quarrelsome fellow,
according to Beaumont and Fletcher:--

  "And then he'll rail like a rude costermonger,
  That schoolboys had cozened of his apple,
  As loud and senseless."

The costermonger is now a travelling shopkeeper. We encounter him not in
Cornhill, or Holborn, or the Strand: in the neighbourhood of the great
markets and well-stored shops he travels not. But his voice is heard in
some silent streets stretching into the suburbs; and there, with his
donkey and hampers stands at the door, as the servant-maid cheapens a
bundle of cauliflowers. He has monopolized all the trades that were
anciently represented by such cries as "_Buy my artichokes, mistress_;"
"_Ripe cowcumbers_;" "_White onions, white St. Thomas' onions_;" "_White
radish_;" "_Ripe young beans_;" "_Any baking pears_;" "_Ripe
sparrowgrass_." He would be indignant to encounter such petty chapmen
interfering with his wholesale operations. He would rail against them as
the city shopkeepers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries railed
against itinerant traders of every denomination. In the days of Elizabeth,
they declare by act of common council, that in ancient times the open
streets and lanes of the city have been used, and ought to be used, as the
common highway only, and not for hucksters, pedlars, and hagglers, to
stand or sit to sell their wares in, and to pass from street to street
hawking and offering their wares. In the seventh year of Charles I. the
same authorities denounce the oyster-wives, herb-wives, tripe-wives, and
the like, as "unruly people;" and they charge them somewhat unjustly, as
it must appear, with "framing to themselves a way whereby to live a more
easy life than by labour."

  "How busy is the man the world calls idle!"

The evil, as the citizens term it, seems to have increased; for in 1694
the common council threatened the pedlars and petty chapmen with the
terrors of the laws against rogues and sturdy beggars, the least penalty
being whipping, whether for male or female. The reason for this terrible
denunciation is very candidly put: the citizens and shopkeepers are
greatly hindered and prejudiced in their trades by the hawkers and
pedlars. Such denunciations as these had little share in putting down the
itinerant traders. They continued to flourish, because society required
them; and they vanished from our view when society required them no
longer. In the middle of the last century they were fairly established as
rivals to the shopkeepers. Dr. Johnson, than whom no man knew London
better, thus writes in the "Adventurer:"--"The attention of a new-comer is
generally first struck by the multiplicity of cries that stun him in the
streets, and the variety of merchandise and manufactures which the
shopkeepers expose on every hand." The shopkeepers have now ruined the
itinerants--not by putting them down by fiery penalties, but by the
competition amongst themselves to have every article at hand for every
man's use, which shall be better and cheaper than the wares of the
itinerant. Whose ear is now ever deafened by the cries of the broom-man?
He was a sturdy fellow in the days of old "Morose," carrying on a barter
which in itself speaks of the infancy of civilization. His cry was "_Old
Shoes for some Brooms_." Those proclamations for barter no doubt furnished
a peculiar characteristic of the old London Cries. The itinerant buyers
were as loud, though not so numerous, as the sellers.


[Illustration: OLD CLOWZE, ANY OLD CLO', CLO'.]

The familiar voice of "_Old Clowze, any old Clo' Clo_," has lasted through
some generations; but the glories of Monmouth-street were unknown when a
lady in a peaked bonnet and a laced stomacher went about proclaiming "_Old
Satin, old Taffety, or Velvet_." And a singular looking party of the
Hebrew persuasion, with a cocked hat on his head, and a bundle of rapiers
and sword-sticks under his arm, which he was ready to barter for:--

[Illustration: OLD CLOAKS, SUITS, OR COATS.]


While another of the tribe proclaimed aloud from east to west--and back
again, "From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve," his willingness to
"_Buy, sell, or exchange Hats or Caps_." Why should the Hebrew race
appear to possess a monopoly in the purchase and sale of dilapidated
costumes? Why should their voices, and theirs alone, be employed in the
constant iteration of the talismanic monosyllables "Old Clo'?" Is it
because Judas carried the bag that all the children of Israel are to
trudge through London streets to the end of their days with sack on
shoulder? Artists generally represent the old clothesman with three, and
sometimes four, hats, superposed one above the other. Now, although we
have seen him with many hats in his hands or elsewhere, we never yet saw
him with more than one hat on his head. The three-hatted clothesman, if
ever he existed, is obsolete. According to Ingoldsby, however, when
"Portia" pronounced the law adverse to "Shylock":

  "Off went his three hats, and he look'd as the cats
  Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw."


There was trading then going forward from house to house, which careful
housewifery and a more vigilant police have banished from the daylight,
if they have not extirpated it altogether. Before the shops are open and
the chimneys send forth their smoke, there may be now, sometimes, seen
creeping up an area a sly-looking beldam, who treads as stealthily as a
cat. Under her cloak she has a pan, whose unctuous contents will some day
assist in the enlightenment or purification of the world, in the form of
candles or soap. But the good lady of the house, who is a late riser,
knows not of the transformation that is going forward. In the old days she
would have heard the cry of a maiden, with tub on head and pence in hand,
of "_Any Kitchen-stuff have you Maids?_" and she probably would have dealt
with her herself, or have forbidden her maids to deal.

So it is with the old cry of "_Any Old Iron take Money for?_" The fellow
who then went openly about with sack on back was a thief, and an
encourager of thieves; he now keeps a marine-store.


[Illustration: OLD LONDON SHOP.]

Sir Walter Scott, in his _Fortunes of Nigel_, has left us a capital
description of the shop of a London tradesman during the reign of King
James in England, the shop in question being that of David Ramsay, maker
of watches and horologes, within Temple-bar--a few yards eastward of St.
Dunstan's church, Fleet-street, and where his apprentice, Jenkin
Vincent--abbreviated to Jin Vin, when not engaged in 'prentices-riots--is
crying to every likely passer-by:--

    "What d'ye lack?--What d'ye lack?--Clocks--watches--barnacles?--What
    d'ye lack?--Watches--clocks--barnacles?--What d'ye lack, sir? What
    d'ye lack, madam?--Barnacles--watches--clocks? What d'ye lack, noble
    sir?--What d'ye lack, beauteous madam?--God bless your reverence, the
    Greek and Hebrew have harmed your reverence's eyes. Buy a pair of
    David Ramsay's barnacles. The king, God bless his sacred Majesty!
    never reads Hebrew or Greek without them. What d'ye lack? Mirrors for
    your toilets, my pretty madam; your head-gear is something awry--pity,
    since it so well fancied. What d'ye lack? a watch, Master Sargeant?--a
    watch that will go as long as a lawsuit, as steady and true as your
    own eloquence? a watch that shall not lose thirteen minutes in a
    thirteen years' lawsuit--a watch with four wheels and a
    bar-movement--a watch that shall tell you, Master Poet, how long the
    patience of the audience will endure your next piece at the Black

The verbal proclaimers of the excellence of their commodities, had this
advantage over those who, in the present day, use the public papers for
the same purpose, that they could in many cases adapt their address to the
peculiar appearance and apparent taste of the passengers. This direct and
personal mode of invitation to customers became, however, a dangerous
temptation to the young wags who were employed in the task of solicitation
during the absence of the principal person interested in the traffic; and,
confiding in their numbers and civic union, the 'prentices of London were
often seduced into taking liberties with the passengers, and exercising
their wit at the expense of those whom they had no hopes of converting
into customers by their eloquence. If this were resented by any act of
violence, the inmates of each shop were ready to pour forth in succour;
and in the words of an old song which Dr. Johnson was used to hum,--

  "Up then rose the 'prentices all,
  Living in London, both proper and tall."

Desperate riots often arose on such occasions, especially when the
Templars, or other youths connected with the aristocracy, were insulted,
or conceived themselves so to be. Upon such occasions, bare steel was
frequently opposed to the clubs of the citizens, and death sometimes
ensued on both sides. The tardy and inefficient police of the time had no
other resource than by the Alderman of the ward calling out the
householders, and putting a stop to the strife by overpowering numbers, as
the Capulets and Montagues are separated upon the stage.

[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.]

It must not be imagined that these 'prentices of the City of London were
of mean and humble origin. The sons of freemen of the City, or country
boys of good and honourable families, alone were admitted to the seven
years' apprenticeship. The common people--the _ascripti glebæ_--the poor
rustics who were bound to the soil, had little or no share in the fortunes
of the City of London. Many of the burgesses were as proud of their
descent as of their liberties.


Once apprenticed, and having in a few weeks imbibed the spirit of the
place, the lad became a Londoner. It is one of the characteristics of
London, that he who comes up to the City from the country speedily becomes
penetrated with the magic of the golden pavement, and falls in love with
the great City. And he who has once felt that love of London can never
again be happy beyond the sound of Bow Bells, which could formerly be
heard for ten miles and more. The greatness of the City, its history, its
associations, its ambitions, its pride, its hurrying crowds--all these
things affect the imagination and fill the heart. There is no place in the
world, and never has been, which so stirs the heart of her children with
love and pride as the City of London.

A year or two later on, the boy would learn, with his fellow-'prentices
that he must betake himself to the practice of bow and arrow, "pellet and
bolt," with a view to what might happen. Moorfields was convenient for the
volunteers of the time. There was, however, never any lack of excitement
and novelty in the City of London. But this is a digression.


Amongst the earliest of the Cries of London we must class the "cry" of the
City watchman; although it essentially differed from the "cries" of the
shopkeepers and the hawkers; for they, as a rule, had something to
exchange or sell--_copen or buy?_ as Lydgate puts it--then the watchmen
were wont to commence their "cry" at, or about, the hour of night when all
others had finished for the day. After that it was the business of the
watchman to make his first call, or cry after the manner inscribed over
the figure here given.


He had to deal with deaf listeners, and he therefore proclaimed with a
voice of command, "Lanthorn!" but a lanthorn alone was a body without a
soul; and he therefore demanded "a _whole_ candle." To render the mandate
less individually oppressive, he went on to cry, "Hang out your Lights!"
And, that even the sleepers might sleep no more, he ended with "Heare!" It
will be seen that he carries his staff and lanthorn with the air of honest
old Dogberry about him,--"A good man and true," and "the most desartless
man to be constable."

The making of lanthorns was a great trade in the early times. We clung to
King Alfred's invention for the preservation of light with as reverend a
love, during many centuries, as we bestowed upon his civil institutions.
The horn of the favoured utensil was a very dense medium for illumination,
but science had substituted nothing better; and, even when progressing
people carried about a neat glass instrument with a brilliant reflector,
the watchman held to his ponderous and murky relic of the past, making
"night hideous" with his voice, to give news of the weather, such as:
"Past eleven, and a starlight night;" or "Past one o'clock, and a windy
morning;" in fact, disturbed your rest to tell you "what's o'clock."

We are told by the chroniclers that, as early as 1416, the mayor, Sir
Henry Barton, ordered lanthorns and lights to be hanged out on the winter
evenings, betwixt Allhallows and Candlemass. For three centuries this
practice subsisted, constantly evaded, no doubt through the avarice or
poverty of individuals, sometimes probably disused altogether, but still
the custom of London up to the time of Queen Anne. The cry of the
watchman, "Hang out your Lights," was an exhortation to the negligent,
which probably they answered only by snores, equally indifferent to their
own safety and the public preservation. A worthy mayor in the time of
Queen Mary provided the watchman with a bell, with which instrument he
accompanied the music of his voice down to the days of the Commonwealth.
The "Statutes of the Streets," in the time of Elizabeth, were careful
enough for the preservation of silence in some things. They prescribed
that, "no man shall blow any horn in the night, or whistle after the hour
of nine o'clock in the night, under pain of imprisonment;" and, what was a
harder thing to keep, they also forbade a man to make any "sudden outcry
in the still of the night, as making any affray, or beating his wife." Yet
a privileged man was to go about knocking at doors and ringing his
alarum--an intolerable nuisance if he did what he was ordered to do.


But the watchmen were, no doubt, wise in their generation. With honest
Dogberry, they could not "see how sleeping should offend;" and after the
watch was set, they probably agreed to "go sit upon the church bench till
two, and then all to bed."

[Illustration: THE BELLMAN--FROM DEKKER, 1608.]

We have observed in our old statutes, and in the pages of authors of
various kinds, that separate mention is made of the Watchman and the
Bellman. No doubt there were several degrees of office in the ancient
Watch and Ward system, and that part of the office of the old Watch, or
Bellman, was to bless the sleepers, whose door he passed, which blessing
was often sung or said in verse--hence Bellman's verse. These verses were
in many cases, the relics of the old incantations to keep off elves and
hobgoblins. There is a curious work by Thomas Dekker--otherwise
Decker,--entitled: "The Bellman of London. Bringing to light the most
notorious Villanies that are now practised in the Kingdom, Profitable for
Gentlemen, Lawyers, Merchants, Citizens, Farmers, Masters of Households
and all sortes of servants to Marke, and delightful for all men to Reade,
_Lege, Perlege, Relege_." Printed at London for Nathaniel Butter, 1608.
Where he describes the Bellman as a person of some activity--"the child of
darkness; a common nightwalker; a man that had no man to wait upon him,
but only a dog; one that was a disordered person, and at midnight would
beat at men's doors, bidding them (in mere mockery) to look to their
candles, when they themselves were in their dead sleeps." Stow says that
in Queen Mary's day one of each ward "began to go all night with a bell,
and at every lane's end, and at the ward's end, gave warning of fire and
candle, and to help the poor and pray for the dead." Milton, in his "Il
Penseroso," has:--

  "Far from the resort of mirth,
  Save the cricket on the hearth,
  Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
  To bless the doors from nightly harm."

In "A Bellman's Song" of the same date, we have:--

  "Maidens to bed, and cover coal,
  Let the mouse out of her hole,
  Crickets in the chimney sing,
  Whilst the little bell doth ring;
  If fast asleep, who can tell
  When the clapper hits the bell?"

Herrick, also, has given us a verse of Bellman's poetry in one of the
charming morsels of his "Hesperides:"--

  "From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,
  From murders Benedicite;
  From all mischances that may fright
  Your pleasing slumbers in the night,
  Mercy secure ye all, and keep
  The goblin from ye while ye sleep.
  Past one o'clock, and almost two,
  My masters all, 'Good day to you!'"

But, with or without a bell, the real prosaic watchman continued to make
the same demand as his predecessors for lights through a long series of
years; and his demand tells us plainly that London was a city without
lamps. But though he was a prosaic person, he had his own verses. He
addressed himself to the "maids." He exhorted them to make their lanthorns
"bright and clear." He told them how long their candles were expected to
burn. And, finally, like a considerate lawgiver, he gave reason for his

  "That honest men that walk along,
  May see to pass safe without wrong."

Formerly it was the duty of the bellman of St. Sepulchre's parish, near
Newgate, to rouse the unfortunates condemned to death in that prison, the
night before their execution, and solemnly exhort them to repentance with
good words in bad rhyme, ending with

  "When St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
  The Lord above have mercy on your souls."

It was customary for the bellman to present at Christmas time to each
householder in his district "A Copy of Verses," and he expected from each
in return some small gratuity. The execrable character of his poetry is
indicated by the contempt with which the wits speak of "Bellman's verses"
and the comparison they bear to "Cutler's poetry upon a knife," whose
poesy was--"_Love me, and leave me not_." On this subject there is a work
entitled--"The British Bellman. Printed in the year of Saint's Fear, Anno
Domini 1648, and reprinted in the _Harleian Miscellany_." "The Merry
Bellman's Out-Cryes, or the Cities O Yes! being a mad merry Ditty, both
Pleasant and Witty, to be cry'd in Prick-Song[3] Prose, through Country
and City. Printed in the year of Bartledum Fair, 1655." Also--"The
Bell-man's Treasury, containing above a Hundred several Verses fitted for
all Humours and Fancies, and suited to all Times and Seasons. London,
1707." It was from the riches of this "treasury" that the predecessors of
the present parish Bellman mostly took their _own_ (!) "Copy of Verses."

In the Luttrell Collection of Broadsides (Brit. Mus.) is one dated 1683-4,
entitled, "A Copy of Verses presented by Isaac Ragg, Bellman, to the
Masters and Mistresses of Holbourn Division, in the Parish of St.
Giles's-in-the-Fields." It is headed by a woodcut representing Isaac in
his professional accoutrements, a pointed pole in his left hand, and in
the right a bell, while his lanthorn hangs from his jacket in front; below
is a series of verses, the only specimen worth giving here being the
expression of Mr. Ragg's official duty; it is as follows:--

  "Time Masters, calls your bellman to his task,
  To see your doors and windows are all fast,
  And that no villany or foul crime be done
  To you or yours in absence of the sun.
  If any base lurker I do meet,
  In private alley or in open street,
  You shall have warning by my timely call,
  And so God bless you and give rest to all."

In a similar, but unadorned broadside, dated 1666, Thomas Law, Bellman,
greets his Masters of "St. Giles, Cripplegate, within the Freedom," in
twenty-three dull stanzas, of which the last may be subjoined:--

  "No sooner hath St. Andrew crowned November,
  But Boreas from the North brings cold December,
  And I have often heard a many say
  He brings the winter month Newcastle way;
  For comfort here of poor distressed souls,
  _Would he had with him brought a fleet of coals_."

We have in our possession a "copy of verses," coming down to our own time.
It is a folio broadside, and contains in addition to a portrait of the
Bellman of the Parish and his dog on their rounds, fifteen smaller cuts,
mostly Scriptural. It is entitled:--


  By Richard Mugeridge, 20, Marshall Street, Golden Square.]

The "Verses" all contain allusions to the prominent events of the past
year, and have various headings--first we have the:--


  My Masters and Mistresses, pray lend an ear,
  While your Bellman recounts some events of the year;
  For altho' its commencement was rather distressing,
  We've had reason to thank it for more than one blessing,
  'Tis true that Canadian proceedings were strange,
  And a very sad fire was the Royal Exchange;
  Yet the first, let us hope, is no serious matter,
  And we'll soon have a new one in lieu of the latter.
  Our rulers have grappled with one of our crosses,
  While for beauty and fitness the other no loss is.
  And still more to make up for these drawbacks vexatious,
  Dame Fortune has been on the whole, pretty gracious.
  We've had peace to get wealth, which of war is the sinews.
  Grant us wit to make hay while the sunshine continues.
  Then, the Bear of the North, that insatiate beast,
  Has been check'd in his wily attempts on the East;
  And his further insidious advances forbidden
  By the broadsword of Auckland, which warns him from Eden.
  While our rulers, in earnest, apply to the work,
  And a treaty concludes with the Austrian and Turk,
  Which, when next the fell Monster is tempted to roam,
  May provide him some pleasant employment at home.


  Whilst the high and the noble in gallant array,
  Assemble around her, their homage to pay;
  While the proud Peers of Britain with rapture, I ween,
  Place her crown on the brow of their peerless young Queen;
  While by prince and by peasant her sceptre is blest;
  Why may not the Bellman chime in with the rest?
  Tho' alas! my poor muse would long labour in vain,
  To express our delight in Victoria's reign,
  Long may we exult in her merciful sway,
  May her moments speed blithely and sweetly as May,
  And her days be prolonged till her glories efface
  The last maiden lady's, who sate in her place.


  Well, despite of some thousand objections pedantic,
  The "Great Western" has cross'd and _re-cross'd_ the Atlantic,
  Nor is _this_ the first time--to the foe's consternation--
  That the deeds of our tars have defied calculation.
  Though few of our learned professors did dream
  That our seamen in steamers would reach the gulf stream,
  Yet a fortnight's vibration, from Bristol or Cork,
  Will now set us down with our friends at New York;
  And a closer acquaintance bind firmer than ever,
  A friendship which nothing on earth ought to sever.

         *       *       *       *       *
         *       *       *       *       *


  Now having conducted his well-meant effusion
  Thus far on its way to a happy conclusion,
  Your Bellman, tho' not quite so fresh as at starting,
  Would still have a word with his patrons at parting,
  Just by way of a cordial and kindly farewell,
  For his heart, altho' softer, is sound as his bell,
  And he cannot say more for himself or his strains,
  Than, whatever his success, he has not spared pains;
  And that blest in their kindness, and countenance steady,
  His song and his services always are ready;
  So he bids them adieu till next season appears--
  May their wealth and their virtues increase with their years;
  May they always have more than they ever can spend,
  With the soul to help on a less fortunate friend;
  And their Bellman continue to cudgel his brain,
  For their yearly amusement, again and again.

  |_Cheap and Expeditious Printing by Steam Machinery,  |
  |executed by_ C. REYNELL, 16, _Little Pulteney Street,|
  |Golden Square._--First printed in 1735.              |

There is a very rare sheet of woodcuts in the Print-room of the British
Museum, containing twelve cries, with figures of the "Criers" and the
cries themselves beneath. The cuts are singularly characteristic, and may
be assigned with safety, on the authority of Mr. John Thomas Smith, the
late keeper of the prints and drawings, as of the same date as Ben
Jonson's "fish-wives," "costard-mongers," and "orange women."

No. 1 on the sheet, is the "Watch;" he has no name, but carries a staff
and a lanthorn, is well secured in a good frieze gabardine,
leathern-girdle, and wears a serviceable hat to guard against the weather.
The worthy here depicted has a most venerable face and beard, showing how
ancient was the habit of parish officers to select the poor and feeble for
the office of watchman, in order to keep them out of the poor-house. The
"cry" of the "watch" is as follows:--

  "A light here, maids, hang out your light,
  And see your horns be clear and bright,
  That so your candle clear may shine,
  Continuing from six till nine;
  That honest men that walk along,
  May see to pass safe without wrong."

No. 2 is the "Bellman"--Dekker's "Bellman of London and Dog." (as at page
49.) He carries a halberd lanthorn, and bell, and his "cry" is curious:--

  "Maids in your smocks, look to your locks,
  Your fire and candle-light;
  For well 'tis known much mischief's done
  By both in dead of night;
  Your locks and fire do not neglect,
  And so you may good rest expect."

No. 3 is the "Orange Woman," a sort of full-grown Nell Gwynne, if we can
only fancy _Nelly_, the favourite mistress of King Charles the Second,
grown up in her humble occupation. She carries a basket of oranges and
lemons under her arm, and seeks to sell them by the following "cry":--

  "Fine Sevil oranges, fine lemmons, fine;
  Round, sound, and tender, inside and rine,
  One pin's prick their vertue show:
  They've liquor by their weight, you may know."

No. 4 is the "Hair-line Man," with a bundle of lines under his arm, and a
line in his hand. Clothes-pegs was, perhaps, a separate "cry." Here is

  "Buy a hair-line, or a line for Jacke,
  If you any hair or hemp-cord lack,
  Mistris, here's good as you need use;
  Bid fair for handsel, I'll not refuse."

No. 5 is the "Radish and Lettuce Woman."--Your fine "goss" lettuce is a
modern cry:--

  "White raddish, white young lettis,
  White young lettis white;
  You hear me cry, come mistris, buy,
  To make my burden light."

No. 6 is the man who sells "Marking Stones," now, unless we except
slate-pencils, completely out of use:--

  "Buy marking-stones, marking-stones buy,
  Much profit in their use doth lie:
  I've marking-stones of colour red,
  Passing good, or else black lead."

No. 7 is the "Sausage Woman," holding a pound of sausages in her hand:--

  "Who buys my sausages, sausages fine?
    I ha' fine sausages of the best;
  As good they are as ere was eat;
    If they be finely drest.
  Come, mistris, buy this daintie pound,
  About a capon roast them round."

No. 8 is a man with "Toasting-forks and Spice-graters":--

  "Buy a fine toasting-fork for toast,
  Or fine spice-grater--tools for an hoast;
  If these in winter be lacking, I say,
  Your guests will pack, your trade decay."

No. 9 is the "Broom Man," and here we have a "cry" different from the one
we have already given. He carries a pair of old boots in his hand:--

  "Come buy some brooms, come buy of me:
  Birch, Heath, and green,--none better be;
  The staves are straight, and all bound sure;
  Come, maids, my brooms will still endure.
  Old boots or shoes I'll take for brooms,
  Come buy to make clean all your rooms!"

No. 10 is a woman with a box of "Wash balls":--

  "Buy fine washing-balls, buy a ball,
  Cheaper and dearer, greater and small;
  For scouring none do them excel,
  Their odour scenteth passing well;
  Come buy rare balls, and trial make,
  Spots out of clothes they quickly take."

No. 11 sells Ink and Pens.--He carries an ink-bottle hung by a stick
behind him, and has a bunch of pens in his hand:--

  "Buy pens, pens, pens of the best,
  Excellent pens and seconds the least;
  Come buy good ink as black as jet,
  A varnish like gloss on writing 'twill set."

The twelfth and last is a woman with a basket of Venice Glasses, such as a
modern collector would give a great deal to get hold of:--

  "Come glasses, glasses, fine glasses buy;
  Fine glasses o' the best I call and cry.
  Fine Venice-glasses,--no chrystal more clear,
  Of all forms and fashions buy glasses here,
  Black pots for good ale I also do cry;
  Come therefore quickly before I pass by."

In the same collection, is a series of three plates, "Part of the Cries in
London," evidently belonging to the same set, though only one has got a
title. Each plate contains thirty-six criers, with the addition of a
principal "Crier" in the centre. These were evidently executed abroad, as
late, perhaps, as the reign of Charles II. No. 1 (with the title page) is
ornamented in the centre with the "Rat-Catcher," carrying an emblazoned
banner of rats, and attended by a boy. The leather investment of the
rat-catcher of the present day is a pleasant memorial of the banner of the
past. Beneath the rat-catcher, the following lines occur:--

  "Hee that wil have neither
    Ratt nor Mowssee
  Lett him pluck of the tillies
    And set fire of his hows."

Proving, evidently that the rat-catcher courted more to his banner than
his poetry. Then follow the thirty-six cries, some of which, it will be
seen, are extremely curious. The names are given beneath the cuts, but
without any verse or peculiarity of cry.

  Ende of Golde
  Olde Dublets
  Blackinge man
  Bui a Matte
  Chimnie swepes
  Bui Brumes
  Cherry ripe
  Coonie skine
  Kitchen stuff
  Hartti chaks
  Oranges, Lemens
  Olde Iron
  Aqua vitæ
  Pens and Ink
  Olde Bellows
  Buy any Milke
  Piepin Pys
  Rosmarie Baie

"Haie ye any work for John Cooper?" is the title of one of the Martin
Marprelate pamphlets. "Haie ye ani gold ends to sell?" is mentioned as a
"cry," in "Pappe with a Hatchet" (_cir._ 1589). "Camphires," means
Samphires. The "Alminake" man has completely gone, and "Old Dublets" has
degenerated into "Ogh Clo," a "cry" which teased Coleridge for a time, and
occasioned a ludicrous incident, which we had reserved for a place
somewhat later in our history, had not "Old Dublets" brought it, not
inopportunely, to mind. "The other day," said Coleridge, "I was what you
would call _floored_ by a Jew. He passed me several times crying out for
old clothes, in the most nasal and extraordinary tone I ever heard. At
last I was so provoked, that I said to him, 'Pray, why can't you say 'old
clothes' in a plain way, as I do?' The Jew stopped, and looking very
gravely at me, said in a clear and even accent, 'Sir, I can say 'old
clothes' as well as you can; but if you had to say so ten times a minute,
for an hour together, you would say _Ogh Clo_ as I do now;' and so he
marched off." Coleridge was so confounded with the justice of the retort
that he followed and gave him a shilling--the only one he had.

The principal figure on the second plate is the "Bellman," with dog, bell,
halberd, and lanthorns. His "cry" is curious, though we have had it almost
in the same form before, at page 56:--

  "Mayds in your Smocks, Looke
  Wel to your lock--your fire
  And your light, and God
  Give you good night. At
    One a Clock."

The cries around him deserve transcription:--

  Buy any Shrimps
  Buy some Figs
  Buy a Tosting Iron
  Lantorne candellyht
  Buy any Maydes
  The Water bearer
  Buy a whyt Pot
  Bread and Meate
  Buy a Candelsticke
  Buy any Prunes
  Buy a Washing ball
  Good Sasages
  Buy a Purs
  Buy a dish a Flounders
  Buy a Footestoole
  Buy a fine Bowpot
  Buy a pair a Shoes
  Buy any Garters
  Featherbeds to dryue
  Buy any Bottens
  Buy any Whiting maps
  Buy any Tape
  Worcestershyr Salt
  Ripe Damsons
  Buy any Marking Stones
  The Bear bayting
  Buy any blew Starch
  Buy any Points
  New Hadog
  Yards and Ells
  Buy a fyne Brush
  Hote Mutton Poys
  New Sprats new
  New Cod new
  Buy any Reasons
  P. and Glasses to mend

On the third plate, the principal figure is the "Crier," with his staff
and keys:--

  "O yis, any man or woman that
  Can tell any tydings of a little
  Mayden Childe of the age of 24
  Yeares. Bring worde to the cryer,
  And you shal be pleased for
      Your labor
  And God's blessinge."

The figures surrounding the Common Crier are in the same style of art, and
their cries characteristic of bygone times:--

  Buy any Wheat
  Buy al my Smelts
  Quick Periwinckels
  Rype Chesnuts
  Payres fyn
  White Redish whyt
  Buy any Whyting
  Buy any Bone lays
  I ha' rype Straberies
  Buy a Case for a Hat
  Birds and Hens
  Hote Podding Pyes
  Buy a Hair Lyne
  Buy any Pompeons
  Whyt Scalions
  Rype Walnuts
  Fyn Potatos fyn
  Hote Eele Pyes
  Fresh Cheese and Creame
  Buy any Garlick
  Buy a longe Brush
  Whyt Carots whyt
  Fyne Pomgranats
  Buy any Russes
  Hats or Caps to dress
  Wood to cleave
  Pins of the maker
  Any sciruy Grass
  Any Cornes to pick
  Buy any Parsnips
  Hot Codlinges hot
  Buy all my Soales
  Good Marroquin
  Buy any Cocumber
  New Thornebacke
  Fyne Oate Cakes.

The only crier in the series who has a horse and cart to attend him is the
Worcestershire salt-man. Salt is still sold from carts in poor and crowded

We have been somewhat surprised in not finding a single Thames waterman
among the criers of London; but the series was, perhaps, confined to the
streets of London, and the watermen were thought to belong altogether to
the stairs leading to their silent highway. Three of their cries have
given titles to three good old English comedies, "Northward, ho!"
"Eastward, ho!" and "Westward, ho!" But our series of cries is still
extremely incomplete. Every thing in early times was carried and cried,
and we have seen two rare prints of old London Cries not to be found in
the lists already enumerated. One is called "_Clove Water, Stomock
Water_," and the other "_Buy an new Booke_." Others may still exist. In
the Duke of Devonshire's collection of drawings, by Inigo Jones, are
several cries, drawn in pen-and-ink, for the masques at court in the
reigns of James I. and Charles I.

[Illustration: THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.]

In Thomas Heywood's, "_The Rape of Lucrece_, a True Roman Tragedy, acted
by Her Majestie's Servants at the _Red-Bull_, 1609," is the following long
list of LONDON CRIES, but called for the sake of the dramatic action of
the scene, "_Cries of Rome_," which was the common practice with the old
dramatists, Rome being the canting name of London. Robert Greene, in his
"_Perimedes the Blacksmith_, 1588," when he wished to criticise the London
_Theatre_ at Shoreditch, talks of the _Theatre in Rome_; also in his
"_Never too Late_, 1590," when he talks of the London actors, he pretends
only to speak of Roscius and the actors of _Rome_. In the pedlar's French
of the day Rome-vyle--or ville--was London, and Rome-mort the Queen
[Elizabeth]. There is some humour in the classification, and if the cries
were well imitated by the singer, the ballad--or as it would then be
called "_jig_"--is likely to have been extremely popular in its day.

  THE CRIES OF ROME [_i.e._ London.]

  Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
  First they go up street, and then they go down,
  Round and sound all of a colour,
  Buy a very fine marking stone, marking stone,
  Round and sound all of a colour;
  Buy a very fine marking stone, marking stone.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Bread and--meat--bread--and meat
  For the--ten--der--mercy of God to the
  poor pris--ners of _Newgate_, four-
  score and ten--poor--prisoners.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

[Illustration: MARKING STONE.]

[Illustration: BREAD AND MEAT.]

[Illustration: WORSTERSHIRE SALT.]

[Illustration: BUY A MOUSE TRAP.]

  Salt--salt--white Wor--stershire Salt,

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Buy a very fine Mouse--trap, or a tormentor for your Fleas.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Kitchen-stuff, maids.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  I have white Radish, white hard Lettuce, white young Onions.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  I have Rock--Samphire Rock--Samphire,

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

    Buy a Mat, a Mil--Mat,
    Mat or a Hassock for your pew,
    A stopple for your close-stool,
    Or a Pesock to thrust your feet in.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Whiting maids, Whiting.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

[Illustration: KITCHEN STUFF, MAIDS.]


[Illustration: ROCK SAMPIER.]

[Illustration: MAT, A MILL MAT.]

  Hot fine Oat-Cakes, hot.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Small--Coals here.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Will you buy any Milk to day.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Lanthorn and Candle light here, Maid, a light here.

      Thus go the cries in _Rome's_ fair town,
      First they go up street, and then they go down.

  Here lies a company of very poor
  Women, in the dark dungeon,
  Hungary, cold, and comfortless, night and day;
  Pity the poor women in the dark dungeon.

    Thus go the cries where they do house them,
    First they come to the grate, and then they go lowse them.



[Illustration: HOT FINE OAT CAKES.]

[Illustration: SMALL COALS HERE.]

[Illustration: ST. THOMAS' ONIONS.]

From "Deuteromelia: or, the Second Part of Pleasant Roundelayes; K. H.
Mirth, or Freeman's Songs, and such delightful Catches. London, printed
for Thomas Adams, dwelling in Paul's Church-yard, at the sign of the White
Lion, 1609."

  Who liveth so merry in all this land
  As doth the poor widdow that selleth the sand?
  And ever shee singeth as I can guesse,
  Will you buy any sand, any sand, mistress?

  The broom-man maketh his living most sweet,
  With carrying of brooms from street to street;
  Who would desire a pleasanter thing,
  Then all the day long to doe nothing but sing.

  The chimney-sweeper all the long day,
  He singeth and sweepeth the soote away;
  Yet when he comes home altho' he be weary,
  With his sweet wife he maketh full merry.

        *       *       *       *       *

  Who liveth so merry and maketh such sport
  As those that be of the poorest sort?
  The poorest sort wheresoever they be,
  They gather together by one, two, three.

  And every man will spend his penny
  What makes such a shot among a great many?

Thomas Morely, a musical composer, set music of four, six, eight and ten
parts, to the cries in his time, among them are some used by the
milliners' girls in the New Exchange, which was on the south side of the
Strand, opposite the now Adelphi Theatre, it was built in the reign of
James I., and pulled down towards the end of the last century; among
others are "_Italian falling Bands_," "_French Garters_," "_Robatos_," a
kind of ruff then fashionable, "_Nun's Thread_," _&c._

The effeminacy and coxcombry of a man's ruff and band are well ridiculed
by many of our dramatic writers. There is a small tract bearing the
following title--"A Merrie Dialogue between Band, Cuffe and Ruffe. Done by
an excellent Wit, and lately acted in a Shew in the Famous Universitie of
Cambridge. London, printed by W. Stansby for Miles Partrich, and are to be
sold at his shop neere Saint Dunstone's Church-yard in Fleet Street,
1615." This _brochure_ is a _bonne-bouche_ of the period, written in
dramatic dialogue form, and full of puns as any modern comedy or farcical
sketch from the pen of the greatest word-twister of the day--Henry J.
Byron (who, on _Cyril's Success_, _Married in Haste_, _Our Boys_, and _The
Girls_,)--and is of considerable value as an illustration of the history
of the costume of the period. The band, as an article of ornament for the
neck, was the common wear of gentlemen, though now exclusively retained by
the clergy and lawyers; the cuff, as a fold at the end of a sleeve, or the
part of the sleeve turned back from the hand, was made highly fantastical
by means of "cut work;" the ruff, as a female neck ornament, made of
plaited lawn, or other material, is well-known, but it was formerly worn
by both sexes.

In a Roxburghe Ballad entitled "The Batchelor's Feast," &c., we have:--

  "The taylor must be pay'd for making of her gowne,
    The shoomakers for fine shoes: or else thy wife will frowne;
  For _bands_, fine _ruffes_, and _cuffes_, thou must dispence as free:
    O 'tis a gallant thing to live at liberty," &c.

In another, "The Lamentations of a New Married Man, briefly declaring the
sorrow and grief that comes by marrying a young wanton wife":--

  "Against that she is churched, a new Gowne she must have,
  A daintie fine _Rebato_ about her neck to brave;"

In "_Loyal Subject_," by Beaumont and Fletcher, act iii., sc. 5, we find
that in the reign of James I., potatoes had become so common, that
"_Potatoes! ripe Potatoes!_" were publicly hawked about the city.


Orlando Gibbons,--1583-1625--set music in madrigals to several common
cries of the day. In a play called "_Tarquin and Lucrece_," some of the
music of the following occur,--"_Rock Samphire_," "_A Marking Stone_,"
"_Bread and Meat for the poor Prisoners_," "_Hassock for your pew_,"
"_Lanthorne and Candlelight_," _&c._

In the Bridgewater library (in the possession of the Earl of Ellesmere) is
a series of engravings on copper thirty-two in number, without date or
engraver's name; but called, in the handwriting of the second Earl of
Bridgewater, "The Manner of Crying Things in London." They are, it is
said, by a foreign artist, and probably proof impressions, for on the
margin of one of the engravings is a small part of another, as if it had
been taken off for a trial of the plate. Curious and characteristic they
certainly are, and of a date anterior to 1686; in which year the second
Earl of Bridgewater died. The very titles kindle old recollections as you
read them over:--

    1. Lanthorne and a whole candell light: hang out your lights heare!

    2. I have fresh cheese and creame.

    3. Buy a brush or a table book.

    4. Fine oranges, fine lemons.

    5. Ells or yeards: buy yeard or ells.

    6. I have ripe straw-buryes, ripe straw-buryes.

    7. I have screenes, if you desier to keepe y{r} butey from y{e} fire.

    8. Codlinges hot, hot codlinges.

    9. Buy a steele or a tinder box.

    10. Quicke peravinkells, quicke, quicke.

    11. Worke for a cooper; worke for a cooper.

    12. Bandestringes, or handkercher buttons.

    13. A tanker bearer.

    14. Macarell new: maca-rell.

    15. Buy a hone, or a whetstone, or a marking stone.

    16. White unions, white St. Thomas unions.

    17. Mate for a bed, buy a doore mate.

    18. Radishes or lettis, two bunches a penny.

    19. Have you any work for a tinker?

    20. Buy my hartichokes, mistris.

    21. Maribones, maides, maribones.

    22. I ha' ripe cowcumber, ripe cowcumber.

    23. Chimney sweepe.

    24. New flounders new.

    25. Some broken breade and meate for y{e} poore prisoners; for the
    Lord's sake pittey the poore.

    26. Buy my dish of great smelts.

    27. Have you any chaires to mend?

    28. Buy a cocke, or a gelding.

    29. Old showes or bootes; will you buy some broome?

    30. Mussels, lilly white mussels.

    31. Small cole a penny a peake.

    32. What kitchen stuff have you, maides?

The figures, male and female, in the engravings, are all three-quarter
lengths, furnished with the implements of their various trades, or with
the articles in which they deal. The Watchman (one of the best) is a fine
old fellow, with a broad brim to his hat, a reverential beard, a halberd
in one hand, and a lanthorn in the other (after the manner of the one we
have given at page 46). But perhaps the most curious engraving in the set
is the "cry" called "Some broken breade and meate for y{e} poore
prisoners: for the Lord's sake pittey the poore." This represents a poor
prisoner with a sealed box in his hand, and a basket at his back--the box
for alms in the shape of money, and the basket for broken bread and meat.
There is also preserved a small handbill printed in 1664, and entitled,
"The Humble Petition of the Poor Distressed Prisoners in Ludgate, being
above an hundred and fourscore poor persons in number, against the time of
the Birth of our Blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." "We most humbly
beseech you," says the handbill "(even for God's cause), to relieve us
with your charitable benevolence, and to put into this Bearers Boxe, the
same being sealed with the house seale as it is figured on this Petition."


  "Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door."]

To, "O, rare Ben Jonson!" we are indebted for the most perfect picture of
Smithfield at "Barthol'me-tide," which he gives us, together with the
popular cries in vogue at the time, in his comedy of "_Bartholomew Fair_,"
produced at the Hope Theatre, on the Bankside, 1614, and acted, as Jonson
tells us, by the lady Elizabeth's servants.

The second act opens with "_The Fair. A number of Booths, Stalls, &c., set
out_." The characters presented are "Lanthorn Leatherhead," _a hobby-horse
seller_. "Bartholomew Cokes," _an esquire of Harrow_. "Nightingale," _a
ballad-singer, a costard-monger, mousetrap-man, corn cutter_. "Joan
Trash," _a gingerbread woman_. "Leatherhead" calls--"What do you lack?
what is't you buy? what do you lack? rattles, drums, halberts, horses,
babies o' the best? fiddles o' the finest." "Joan Trash" cries, "Buy my
gingerbread, gilt gingerbread!" the costard-monger, bawls out, "Buy any
pears, pears, fine, very fine pears!" "Nightingale," the ballad man

  "Hey, now the Fair's a filling!
    O, for a tune to startle
  The birds o' the booths here billing
    Yearly with old saint _Bartle_!
  The drunkards they are wading,
    The punks and chapmen trading:
  Who'd see the _Fair_ without his lading?
    Buy my ballads! new ballads!"

"What do you lack?" continues Leatherhead, "What do you lack, gentlemen?
my pretty mistress, buy a fine hobby-horse for your young master; cost you
but a token a week for his provender." The corn cutter cries, "Have you
any corns in your feet or toes?" The tinder-box man calls, "Buy a
mouse-trap, a mouse-trap, or a tormentor for a flea!" Trash cries, "Buy
some gingerbread!" Nightingale bawls, "Ballads, ballads, fine new
ballads!" Leatherhead repeats, "What do you lack, gentlemen, what is't you
lack? a fine horse? a lion? a bull? a bear? a dog? or a cat? an excellent
fine Bartholomew bird? or an instrument? what is't you lack, what do you
buy, mistress? a fine hobby-horse, to make your son a tilter? a drum, to
make him a soldier? a fiddle, to make him a reveller? what is't you lack?
little dogs for your daughters? or babies, male and female? fine purses,
pouches, pincases, pipes; what is't you lack? a pair o' smiths to wake you
i' the morning? or a fine whistling bird?" A character named "Bartholomew
Cokes," a silly "Esquire of Harrow," stops at Leatherhead's stall to
purchase.--"Those six horses, friend, I'll have, and the three Jew's
trumps; and half a dozen o' birds; and that drum; and your smiths--I like
that devise o' your smiths, and four halberts; and let me see, that fine
painted great lady, and her three women of state, I'll have. A set of
those violins I would buy too, for a delicate young noise[4] I have i' the
country, that are every one a size less than another, just like your
fiddles." Joan Trash invites the Esquire to buy her gingerbread, and he
turns to her basket, whereupon Leatherhead says, "Is this well, Goody
Joan, to interrupt my market in the midst, and call away my customers? Can
you answer this at the _Pie-poudres_?"[5] whereto Joan Trash replies,
"Why, if his master-ship have a mind to buy, I hope my ware lies as open
as anothers; I may show my ware as well as you yours." Nightingale begins
to sing:--

  "My masters and friends, and good people draw near."

Squire Cokes hears this, and says, "Ballads! hark, hark! pray thee,
fellow, stay a little! what ballads hast thou? let me see, let me see
myself--How dost thou call it? _A Caveat against Cut-purses!_--a good jest
i' faith; I would fain see that demon, your cut-purse, you talk of;" He
then shows his purse boastingly, and enquires "Ballad-man, do any
cut-purses haunt hereabout? pray thee raise me one or two: begin and show
me one." Nightingale answers, "Sir, this is a spell against 'em, spick and
span new: and 'tis made as 'twere in mine own person, and I sing it in
mine own defence. But 'twill cost a penny alone if you buy it." The Squire
replies: "No matter for the price; thou dost not know me, I see, I am an
old _Bartholomew_." The ballad has "pictures," and Nightingale tells him,
"It was intended, sir, as if a purse should chance to be cut in my
presence, now, I may be blameless though; as by the sequel will more
plainly appear." He adds, "It is, to the tune of _Paggington's Pound_,
sir." and he finally sings the ballad, the first and last stanzas of which

  "My masters, and friends, and good people draw near,
  And look to your purses, for that I do say;
  And though little money, in them you do bear,
  It cost more to get, than to lose in a day,
            You oft' have been told,
            Both the young and the old,
  And bidden beware of the cut-purse so bold;
  Then if you take heed not, free me from the curse,
  Who both give you warning, for, and the cut-purse.
  Youth, youth, thou hadst better been starved by thy nurse,
  Than live to be hanged for cutting a purse.

         *       *       *       *       *

  "But O, you vile nation of cut-purses all,
  Relent, and repent, and amend, and be sound,
  And know that you ought not by honest men's fall,
  Advance your own fortunes to die above ground.
            And though you go gay
            In silks as you may,
  It is not the highway to heaven (as they say.)
  Repent then, repent you, for better, for worse;
  And kiss not the gallows for cutting a purse.
  Youth, youth, thou hadst better been starved by thy nurse,
  Than live to be hanged for cutting a purse."

While Nightingale sings this ballad, a fellow tickles Coke's ear with a
straw, to make him withdraw his hand from his pocket, and privately robs
him of his purse, which, at the end of the song, he secretly conveys to
the ballad-singer; who notwithstanding his "Caveat against cut-purses," is
their principal confederate, and in that quality, becomes the unsuspected
depository of the plunder.

In the years 1600-18, there was published a musical work, entitled
"_Pammelia_--MVSICKES MISCELLANIE; _Or_, Mixed Varietie of pleasant
ROVNDELAYS and delightful CATCHES. London, Printed by Thomas Snodhom, for
Matthew Lownes and Iohn Browne." It was compiled by some eminent
musicians, who had a practice of setting the cries of London to music,
retaining only the very musical notes of them, here we find, "What
Kitchen-Stuffe haue you maids," and there is a Round in six parts to the
cry of "New Oysters:"--

  "New Oysters, new Oysters, new Oysters new,
  New Oysters, new Wall-fleet Oysters--
  At a groat a pecke--each Oyster worth twopence.
  Fetch vs bread and wine, that we may eate,
  Let vs lose no time with such good meate--
  A Banquet for a Prince--New Oysters.
                    New--_vt supra_--Oysters."

From "Meligmata: Musical Phantasies, fitting the Court, City, and Country
Manners, to three, four and five Voices"--

  "To all delightful, except to the spiteful;
  To none offensive, except to the pensive."

"London, printed by William Stansby, for Thos. Adams, 1611," we take as


  "Broomes for old shoes! pouch-rings, bootes and buskings!
  Will yee buy any new broome?
  New oysters! new oysters! new new cockles!
  Cockels nye! fresh herrings! will yee buy any straw?
  Hay yee any kitchen stuffe, maides?
  Pippins fine, cherrie ripe, ripe, ripe!
      Cherrie ripe, &c.
          Hay any wood to cleaue?
          Give care to the clocke!
          Beware your locke!
          Your fire and your light!
          And God giue you good night!
              One o' clocke!"

Some of the "Common Cryes i' th' City," as Oysters, Codlings,
Kitchen-stuff, Matches for your Tinder-box, &c., are enumerated in Richard
Brome's--The "Court Beggar, A Comedie acted at the _Cock-pit_, by His
Majesties Servants, _Anno_ 1632."

"The London Chanticleers, a witty Comedy full of Various and Delightful
Mirth," 1659. This piece is rather an interlude than a play, and is
amusing and curious, the characters being, with two exceptions, all London
criers. The allusions to old usages, with the mention of many well known
ballads, and some known no longer, contribute to give the piece an
interest and a value of its own.

The principal _dramatis personæ_ consists of:--

    HEATH.--_A broom-man._ "Brooms, maids, broom! Come, buy my brooms,
    maids; 'Tis a new broom, and will sweep clean. Come, buy my broom,

    BRISTLE.--_A brush-man._ "Come, buy a save-all. Buy a comb-brush, or a
    pot-brush; buy a flint, or a steel, or a tinder-box."

    DITTY.--_A ballad-man._ "Come, new books, new books, newly printed and
    newly come forth! All sorts of ballads and pleasant books! _The Famous
    History of Tom Thumb_ and _Unfortunate Jack, A Hundred Goodly
    Lessons_ and _Alas, poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go? The second
    part of Mother Shipton's Prophecies, newly made by a gentleman of good
    quality_, foretelling what was done four hundred years ago, and _A
    Pleasant Ballad of a bloody fight seen i' th' air_, which, the
    astrologers say, portends scarcity of fowl this year. The _Ballad of
    the Unfortunate Lover_. I have _George of Green_, _Chivy Chase_,
    _Collins and the Devil; or, Room for Cuckolds_, _The Ballad of the
    London 'Prentice_, _Guy of Warwick_, _The Beggar of Bethnal Green, the
    Honest Milkmaid; or, I must not wrong my Dame_, _The Honest Fresh
    Cheese and Cream Woman_. Then I have _The Seven Wise Men of Gotham_,
    _A Hundred Merry Tales_, _Scoggin's Jests; or, A Book of Prayers and
    Graces for Young Children_. I have very strange news from beyond seas.
    The King of Morocco has got the black jaundice, and the Duke of
    Westphalia is sick of the swine-pox, with eating bacon; the Moors
    increase daily, and the King of Cyprus mourns for the Duke of Saxony,
    that is dead of the stone; and Presbyter John is advanced to Zealand;
    the sea ebbs and flows but twice in four-and-twenty hours, and the
    moon has changed but once the last month."

    BUDGET.--_A Tinker._ "Have you any work for the tinker? Old brass, old
    pots, old kettles. I'll mend them all with a tara-tink, and never hurt
    your metal."

    GUM.--_A Tooth drawer._ "Have you any corns upon your feet or toes?
    Any teeth to draw?"

    JENNITING.--_An Apple wench._ "Come buy my pearmains, curious John
    Apples, dainty pippins? Come, who buy? who buy?"

    CURDS.--_A fresh Cheese and Cream woman._ "I have fresh cheese and
    cream; I have fresh cheese and cream."

  For the Hardness of the Times and the Decay of Trade.
  _To the Tune of_ "My Life and my Death."

  "The times are grown hard, more harder than stone,
  And therefore the Pedlars may well make their moan,
  Lament and complain that trading is dead,
  That all the sweet golden days now are fled.
      Then maidens and men, come see what you lack,
      And buy the fine toys that I have in my pack!

  "Come hither and view, here's choice and here's store,
  Here's all things to please ye, what would you have more?
  Here's points for the men, and pins for the maid,
  Then open your purses and be not afraid.
                        Come, maidens, &c.

  "Let none at a tester repent or repine:
  Come bring me your money, and I'll make you fine;
  Young Billy shall look as spruce as the day,
  And pretty sweet Betty more finer than May.
                        Then, maidens, &c.

  "To buy a new license your money I crave;
  'Tis that which I want, and 'tis that which you have:
  Exchange then a groat for some pretty toy,
  Come, buy this fine whistle for your little boy.
                        Come, maidens, &c.

  "Here's garters for hose, and cotton for shoes.
  And there's a gilt bodkin, which none would refuse:
  This bodkin let John give to sweet Mistriss Jane,
  And then of unkindness he shall not complain.
                        Come, maidens, &c.

  "Come buy this fine coife, this dressing, or hood,
  And let not your money come like drops of blood:
  The Pedlar may well of his fortune complain
  If he brings all his ware to the market in vaine.
                        Then, maidens, &c.

  "Here's band strings for men, and there you have lace,
  Bone-lace to adorn the fair virgin's sweet face:
  Whatever you like, if you will but pay,
  As soon as you please you may take it away.
                        Then, maidens, &c.

  "The world is so hard that we find little trade,
  Although we have all things to please every maid:
  Come, pretty fair maids, then make no delay,
  But give me your hansel, and pack me away.
                        Come, maidens, &c.

  "Here's all things that's fine, and all things that's rare,
  All modish and neat, all new London ware:
  Variety here you plainly may see,
  Then give me your money, and we will agree.
                        Come, maidens, &c.

  "We travel all day through dirt and through mire,
  To fetch you fine laces and what you desire;
  No pains do we spare to bring you choice ware,
  As gloves and perfumes, and sweet powder for hair.
                        Then, maidens, &c.

  "We have choice of songs, and merry books, too,
  All pleasant and witty, delightful and new,
  Which every young swain may whistle at plough,
  And every fair milk-maid may sing at her cow.
                        Then, maidens, &c.

  "Since trading's so dead we must needs complain,
  And, therefore, pray let us have some little gain:
  If you will be free, we will you supply
  With what you do want; therefore, pray come and buy.
      The world is so hard, that although we take pains,
      When we look in our purses we find little gains.

  "Printed for J. BACK, at the Black-boy, on London Bridge."

In "Merry Drollery Complete, or, a Collection of Jovial Poems, Merry
Songs, Witty Drolleries, Intermixed with Pleasant Catches, London, Printed
for _William Miller_, at the _Gilded Acorn_, in _St. Paul's_ Church-yard,
1661," the _Catch_ which follows will be found. The Rev. J. Woodfall
Ebsworth, M.A., Cantab, who has carefully edited and reprinted [1875]
"Both Parts"; says in his _Appendix of Notes_:--"Hare-skin and Rabbit-skin
collectors, have always been queer characters. This catch is by JOHN
FLETCHER, in his 'Beggar's Bush,' act iii., sc. 1, where it is sung by
'Clause' his boy. Clause, the vagabond beggar, was a popular favourite,
reproduced in 'Drolls.' We see him represented in the frontispiece of _The
Wits_, by Kirkman and Cox."


  "Bring forth your Cunny skins, fair maids, to me,
  And hold them fair that I may see
  Gray, black, and blue; for your smaller skins--
  I'll give you Glasses, Laces, Pins:
              And for your whole Cunny
              I'll give ready money.

  "Come, gentle _Jone_, do thou begin
  With thy black, black, black Cunny skin,
  And _Mary_ then, and _Kate_ will follow
  With their silver'd hair'd skins, and their yellow;
              Your white Cunny skin I will not lay by,
              Though it be fat, it is not fair to the Eye.

  "Your gray it is warm, but for my money
  Give me the bonny, bonny black Coney;
  Come away, fair maids, your skins will decay,
  Come take money, maids, put your ware away;
              I have fine Bracelets, Rings,
              And I have silver Pins
              Coney skins, Coney skins,
              Maids, have you any Coney skins."

In the same Collection there is a vigorous song exposing the cheats of
mendicants. The hero of which declares:--"_I am a Rogue, and a stout
one_." And that among the many cheats, counterfeits, deceits and dodges he
has to resort to, at times he may be seen:--

  "In _Pauls_ Church-yard, by a pillar,
  Sometimes you see me stand, Sir,
  With a writ that shows what cares, what woes
  I have passed by Sea and Land, Sir,
      Then I do cry, &c.

  "Come buy, come buy a Horn-book,
  Who buys my Pins and Needles:
  Such things do I in the City cry
  Oftimes to 'scape the Beadles,
      Then I do cry, &c."

For the counterpart of this Rogue and Vagabond, the reader is referred to
Vol. I, No. 42-3 of the Roxburghe Ballads--(British Museum.) Where there
is one entitled:--


  Who all the by-standers doth earnestly pray
  To bestow a penny upon him to-day.
  TO THE TUNE OF _Tom of Bedlam_.


  I am a lusty beggar,
    And live by others giving!
      I scorn to work,
      But by the highway lurk,
    And beg to get my living:
  I'll i' the wind and weather,
    And wear all ragged garments;
      Yet, though I'm bare,
      I'm free from care,--
  A fig for high preferments!

          _Therefore I'll cry, &c._

    *       *       *       *

  My flesh I can so temper
    That it shall seem to fester,
      And look all o'er
      Like a raw sore,
    Whereon I stick a plaister.
  With blood I daub my face then,
    To feign the falling sickness,
      That in every place
      They pity my case,
  As if it came through weakness.

          _Therefore I'll cry, &c._

    *       *       *       *

  No tricks at all shall escape me,
    But I will by my maunding,
      Get some relief
      To ease my grief
    When by the highway standing:
  'Tis better be a Beggar,
    And ask of kind good fellows,
      And honestly have
      What we do crave,
    Than steal and go to the gallows.

  _Therefore I'll cry, "Good your worship, good sir,
    Bestow one poor denier, sir,
      Which, when I've got,
      At the Pipe and Pot
    I soon will it cashier, sir."_


  Printed at London for F. Coules.

The following ballad was published in "Playford's Select Ayres," 1659, p.
95; with music by Dr. John Wilson, and Musical Companion, 1673. It is in
the Percy Folio MS., iii., 308-11. Also in "Windsor Drollery," 2; and "Le
Prince d'Amour," 1660, p. 177. It is attributed to Shakespeare, but with
only manuscript evidence.


  "From the fair Lavinian shore,
  I your markets come to store.
  Muse not though so far I dwell
  And my wares come here to sell:
      Such is the insatiate thirst after gold,
  Then come to my pack
  While I cry, what d'ye lack,
      What d'ye buy? for here it is to be sold.

  "Courteous Sir, I've wares for you,
  Garters red and stockings blue,
  Dainty gaudes for Sunday gear,
  Beads and laces for your dear,
  First let me have but a touch of your gold
  Then come--Not a swain,
      Half so neat,
      On the plain
      Shall we meet
  So comely to behold.

  "Madam, come, here you may find
  Rings with posies to your mind,
  Silken bands for true-love-knot,
  And complexion I have got.
  First let me have but a touch of your gold,
  Then come--To your face,
      I'll restore
      Every grace
      Though you're more
  Than three score and ten years old.

  "Gentles all, now fare you well,
  I must trudge my wares to sell;
  Lads so blythe and Dames so young,
  Drop a guerdon for my song.
  Just let me have but a touch of your gold,
      I'll come with my pack
      Again to cry,
      What d'ye lack,
      What d'ye buy?
  For here it is to be sold."

Mr. John Payne Collier, in his "_A Book of Roxburghe Ballads_," London,
1847, reproduces a capital ditty; "ryhte merrie and very excellent in its
way," relating to the popular pursuits and the customs of London and the
Londoners in the early part of the seventeenth century. It is printed
_verbatim_ from a broadside, signed W. Turner, and called:--

    "The Common Cries of London Town,
    Some go up street and some go down.

    With Turner's Dish of Stuff, or a Gallymaufery

    To the tune of _Wotton Towns End_.[6] Printed for F. C[oles,] T.
    V[ere,] and W. G[ilbertson.] 1662."

The only known copy is dated 1662, but contains internal evidence, in the
following stanza (which occurs in the opening of The Second Part,) that it
was written in the reign of James I.

  "That's the fat foole of the Curtin:
    And the lean fool of the Bull:
  Since _Shancke_ did leave to sing his rimes,
    He is counted but a gull.

  "The players on the Bankside,
    The round Globe and the Swan,
  Will teach you idle tricks of love,
    But the Bull will play the man."

_Shancke._--John Shancke the comic actor here mentioned was celebrated for
singing rhymes, and what were technically "jigs" on the stage. In this
respect, as a low comedian he had been the legitimate successor of
Tarlton, Kempe, Phillips, and Singer. He was on the stage from 1603 to
1635, when he died. Then, John Taylor the _Water Poet_, no mean authority,
informs us that the Swan Theatre, on the Bankside, in the Liberty of Paris
Gardens, had been abandoned by the players in 1613. The Curtain Theatre in
Holywell street--or Halliwell street, as it was usually spelt at that
time--Shoreditch Fields[7] had also fallen into disuse before the reign of
Charles I. The Globe on the Bankside, and the [Red] Bull Theatre at the
upper end of St. John's street, Clerkenwell were employed until after the
restoration. The allusion to the Waterman carrying "bonny lasses over to
the plays," is also a curious note of time. With these matters before us,
we may safely conclude that "Turner's Dish of Stuff" is but a reprint of
an earlier production. As we find it, so we lay it before our readers:


  With Turner's Dish of Stuff, or a Gallymaufery.
  _To the tune_ of Wotton Towns End."


  "My masters all, attend you,
      if mirth you love to heare,
  And I will tell you what they cry
      in London all the yeare.
  Ile please you if I can,
      I will not be too long:
  I pray you all attend awhile,
      and listen to my song.

  "The fish-wife first begins,
      Anye muscles lilly white!
  Herrings, sprats or plaice,
      or cockles for delight.
  Anye welflet oysters!
      Then she doth change her note:
  She had need to have her tongue be greas'd,
      for the rattles in the throat.

  "For why, they are but Kentish,
      to tell you out of doubt.
  Her measure is too little;
      goe, beat the bottom out.
  Half a peck for two pence?
      I doubt it is a bodge.
  Thus all the City over
      the people they do dodge.

  "The wench that cries the kitchin stuff,
      I marvel what she ayle,
  She sings her note so merry,
      but she hath a draggle tayle:
  An empty car came running,
      and hit her on the bum;
  Down she threw her greasie tub,
      and away straight she did run.

  "But she did give her blessing
      to some, but not to all,
  To bear a load to Tyburne,
      and there to let it fall:
  The miller and his golden thumb,
      and his dirty neck,
  If he grind but two bushels,
      he must needs steal a peck.

  "The weaver and the taylor,
      cozens they be sure,
  They cannot work but they must steal,
      to keep their hands inure;
  For it is a common proverb
      thorowout the town,
  The taylor he must cut three sleeves
      to every woman's gown.

  "Mark but the waterman
      attending for his fare,
  Of hot and cold, of wet and dry,
      he alwaies takes his share:
  He carrieth bonny lasses
      over to the playes,
  And here and there he gets a bit,
      and that his stomach staies.

  "There was a singing boy
      who did not ride to Rumford;
  When I go to my own school
      I will take him in a comfort;
  But what I leave behind
      shall be no private gain;
  But all is one when I am gone:
      let him take it for his pain.

  "Old shoes for new brooms!
      the broom-man he doth sing,
  For hats or caps or buskins,
      or any old pouch ring.
  Buy a mat, a bed-mat!
      a hassock or a presse,
  A cover for a close stool,
      a bigger or a lesse.

  "Ripe, cherry ripe!
      the coster-monger cries;
  Pippins fine or pears!
      another after hies,
  With basket on his head
      his living to advance,
  And in his purse a pair of dice
      for to play at mumchance.

  "Hot pippin pies!
      to sell unto my friends,
  Or pudding pies in pans,
      well stuft with candle's ends.
  Will you buy any milk?
      I heard a wench that cries:
  With a pale of fresh cheese and cream,
      another after hies.

  "Oh! the wench went neatly;
      me thought it did me good,
  To see her cherry cheeks
      so dimpled ore with blood:
  Her waistcoat washed white
      as any lilly floure;
  Would I had time to talk with her
      the space of half an hour.

  "Buy black! saith the blaking man,
      the best that ere was seen;
  Tis good for poore citizens
      to make their shoes to shine.
  Oh! tis a rare commodity,
      it must not be forgot;
  It will make them to glister galantly,
      and quickly make them rot.

  "The world is full of thread-bare poets
      that live upon their pen,
  But they will write too eloquent,
      they are such witty men.
  But the tinker with his budget,
      the beggar with his wallet,
  And Turners turned a gallant man
      at making of a ballet."


  _To the same Tune._


  "That's the fat foole of the Curtin,
      and the lean fool of the Bull:
  Since Shancke did leave to sing his rimes,
      he is counted but a gull.
  The players on the Bankside,
      the round Globe and the Swan,
  Will teach you idle tricks of love,
      but the Bull will play the man.

  "But what do I stand tattling
      of such idle toyes?
  I had better go to Smith-Field
      to play among the boyes:
  But you cheating and deceiving lads,
      with your base artillery,
  I would wish you to shun Newgate,
      and withall the pillory.

  "And some there be in patcht gownes,
      I know not what they be,
  That pinch the country-man
      with nimming of a fee;
  For where they get a booty,
      they'le make him pay so dear,
  They'le entertain more in a day,
      then he shall in a year.

  "Which makes them trim up houses
      made of brick and stone,
  And poor men go a begging,
      when house and land is gone.
  Some there be with both hands
      will swear they will not dally,
  Till they have turn'd all upside down,
      as many use to sally.

  "You pedlers, give good measure,
      when as your wares you sell:
  Tho' your yard be short, your thumb will slip
      your tricks I know full well.
  And you that sell your wares by weight,
      and live upon the trade,
  Some beams be false, some waits too light;
      such tricks there have been plaid.

  "But small coals, or great coals!
      I have them on my back:
  The goose lies in the bottom;
      you may hear the duck cry quack.
  Thus Grim the black collier,
      whose living is so loose,
  As he doth walk the commons ore,
      sometimes he steals a goose.

  "Thou usurer with thy money bags
      that livest so at ease,
  By gaping after gold thou dost
      thy mighty God displease;
  And for thy greedy usury,
      and thy great extortion,
  Except thou dost repent thy sins,
      Hell fire will be thy portion.

  "For first I came to Houns-Ditch,
      then round about I creep,
  Where cruelty was crowned chief
      and pity fast asleep:
  Where usury gets profit,
      and brokers bear the bell.
  Oh, fie upon this deadly sin!
      it sinks the soul to hell.

  "The man that sweeps the chimneys
      with the bush of thorns,
  And on his neck a trusse of poles
      tipped all with horns,
  With care he is not cumbered,
      he liveth not in dread?
  For though he wear them on his pole,
      some wear them on their head.

  "The landlord with his racking rents
      turns poor men out of dore;
  Their children go a begging
      where they have spent their store.
  I hope none is offended
     with that which is endited
  If any be, let him go home
     and take a pen and write it.

  "Buy a trap, a mouse trap,
      a torment for fleas!
  The hangman works but half the day;
      he lives too much at ease.
  Come let us leave this boyes play
      and idle prittle prat,
  And let us go to nine holes,
      to spurn-point, or to cat.

  "Oh! you nimble fingered lads
      that live upon your wits,
  Take heed of Tyburn ague,
      for they be dangerous fits;
  For many a proper man,
      for to supply his lack,
  Doth leap a leap at Tyburn,
      which makes his neck to crack.

  "And to him that writ this song
      I give this simple lot:
  Let every one be ready
      to give him half a pot.
  And thus I do conclude,
      wishing both health and peace
  To those that are laid in their bed,
      and cannot sleep for fleas.
                                        W. TURNER"

The "tink, terry tink" of the Tinker's "Cry" is preserved in a Miscellany
of the year 1667, called "_Catch that Catch Can; or, the Musical


  "The Tinker.

  "Have you any work for a tinker, mistriss?
  Old brass, old pots, or kettles?
  I'll mend them all with a tink, terry tink,
  And never hurt your mettles.
  First let me have but a touch of your ale,
  'Twill steel me against cold weather,
  Or tinkers frees,
  Or vintners lees,
  Or tobacco chuse you whether.
  But of your ale,
  Your nappy ale,
  I would I had a ferkin,
  For I am old
  And very cold
  And never wear a jerkin."

The tinker's "Cry" forms the opening lines of "Clout the Cauldron," one of
the best of our old Scottish songs:--

  "'Hae ye ony pots or pans,
  Or any broken chanlers,'
  I am a tinker to my trade,
  And newly come from Flanders."

But the song is so well known to all who take an interest in our northern
minstrelsy, and is to be found, moreover, in every good collection of
Scottish Songs, that it is enough to refer to it.

Honest John Bunyan was a travelling tinker originally. Reader! just for a
moment fancy the inspired author--poet we may call him--of "_The Pilgrim's
Progress_," crying the "cry" of his trade through the streets of Bedford,
thus--"_Mistress, have you any work for the tinker? pots, pans, kettles I
mend, old brass, lead or old copper I buy. Anything in my way to-day,
maids?_" While at the same time, through his brain was floating visions of
Vanity Fair, the Holy War, the Slough of Despond, the Valley of the Shadow
of Death, the Barren Fig Tree, the Water of Life, &c. beneath the long
head of hair, shaggy and dirty, too, as a tinker's generally is.


[Illustration: HOT CODLINGS:--_A Catch_.]

This will be found in "_Windsor Drollery_," and, with music for three
voices, by Thomas Holmes, in John Hilton's "_Catch that Catch Can_;" and
also Walsh's "_Catch Club_." Part II., p. 25.

  "Have you observ'd the wench in the street,
  She's scarce any hose or shoes to her feet;
  And when she cries, she sings,
  'I have hot Codlings, hot Codlings.'

  "Or have you ever seen or heard,
  The mortal with his Lyon tauny beard!
  He lives as merrily as heart can wish,
  And still he cries, 'Buy a brush, buy a brush.'

  "Since these are merry, why should we take care?
  Musicians, like Camelions, must live by the Aire;
  Then let's be blithe and bonny, no good meeting baulk,
  What though we have no money, we shall find Chalk."

The best known collection of cries is "The Cryes of the City of London.
Drawne after the Life. P. Tempest, _Excudit_," a small folio volume, which
when published, in 1688, consisted of only fifty plates, as the following
advertisement, extracted from the _London Gazette_ of May 28-31, 1688,
sufficiently proves:--

    "There is now published the Cryes and Habits of London, lately drawn
    after the Life in great variety of Actions. Curiously Engraven upon 50
    Copper plates, fit for the Ingenious and Lovers of Art. Printed and
    Sold by P. Tempest, over-against Somerset House, in the Strand."

Samuel Pepys, the eccentric diarist, who died 1703, left to Magdalene
College, Cambridge, an invaluable collection of ballads, manuscript naval
memoirs, ancient English poetry, three volumes of "Penny Merriments," and
a numerous assemblage of etchings and engravings. Among the latter are a
number of Tempest's Cries in the first state. These are still preserved in
the Pepysian Library in the same College.

In 1711 another edition of Tempest's Cries was published, containing
seventy-four plates, several of which can scarcely be called cries. They
are popular "London Characters" rather than "criers." As the book,
however, is extremely rare, and consequently costly, and as a history of
the old London Cries would be very imperfect without a particular account
of Tempest's volume being made, with a few words about Mauron, who
designed, and Pearce Tempest, who engraved these cries, that which follows
will not, we trust, be altogether out of place. Of Mauron, we can find no
better account than the notice in Walpole.

"Marcellus Mauron--sometimes spelt Lauron, was born at the Hague in 1643,
and learnt to paint of his father, with whom he came when young into
England. Here he was placed with one La Zoon, a portrait-painter, and then
with Flesshier, but owed his chief improvement to his own application. He
lived several years in Yorkshire, and when he returned again to London he
had very much improved himself in his art. He drew correctly, studied
nature diligently, copied closely, and so surpassed all his contemporaries
in drapery, that Sir Godfrey Kneller employed him to clothe his portraits.
He likewise excelled in imitating the different styles of eminent masters,
executed conversation pieces of considerable merit. Several prints were
made from his works, and several plates he etched and scraped himself. A
book on fencing, and the procession at the coronation of William and Mary,
were designed by him. He lived in Bow-street, Covent-garden, on the west
side, about three doors up, and at the back of Sir Godfrey Kneller's house
in the Piazza; there he died of consumption March 11th, 1702."

Of Pearce Tempest, the engraver, the particulars collected by Vertue were
so extremely slight that Horace Walpole merely enumerates him among those
of whom nothing is known. It may be told of him, however, that he lived in
the Strand, over-against Somerset House, and dying in 1717, was buried on
the 14th of April, in the church-yard of St. Paul, Covent-garden.

The six woodcuts following are reduced copies of the engraved figures that
appear in Marcellus Mauron _cum_ Tempest's "The Cryes of the City of
London;" first we have:--

[Illustration: FINE WRITING INK!]

This engraving pretty well describes the occupation of the figure
represented. He carries a barrel on his back--pens in his right hand, with
a pint measure and funnel at his side. But since Mauron's time the cry of
"_Fine Writing Ink_" has ceased to be heard in the streets of the
metropolis, so we no longer hear:--

  "My ink is good--as black as jet
  'Tis used by Princes--and the state,
  If once you venture it to try,
  Of this I'm sure--none else you'll buy."

[Illustration: BUY AN IRON FORK, OR A SHOVEL?]

The demand for such an iron fork, or such a shovel as the old woman
carries is now discontinued.

[Illustration: TROOP, EVERY ONE, ONE!]

The man blowing a trumpet, "Troop, every one, one!" was a street seller of
hobby-horses--toys for children of three hundred years ago.

  "Call'st thou my love, hobby-horse; the hobby-horse is but a colt."
                                    _Love's Labour Lost_, Act iii., sc. 1.

He carried them, as represented in the engraving, in a partitioned frame,
on his shoulder, and to each horse's head was a small flag with two bells
attached. It was a pretty plaything for a "little master," and helped him
to imitate the galloping of the real and larger hobby-horse in the
pageants and mummeries that passed along the streets, or pranced in the
shows at fairs and on the stage. Now-a-days we give a boy the first stick
at hand to thrust between his legs as a Bucephalus--the shadow of a
shadow--or the good natured grandpapa wishing to give my "young master"
something of the semblance of the generous animal--for the horse is no
less popular with boys than formerly, takes his charge to the nearest
toyshop and buys him a painted stick on which is a sawn-out representation
of a horse's head, which with the addition of a whip will enable him to:--

  "Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross,
    To see what Tommy can buy;
  A penny white loaf, a penny white cake,
    And a twopenny apple-pie."

[Illustration: BUY A FINE SINGING BIRD!]

The _cries_ of singing birds are extinct; we have only bird-_sellers_. The
above engraving, therefore represents a by-gone character.


In the earlier days, the above was at once a musical and a poetical cry.
It must have come over the ear, telling of sunny gardens not a sparrow's
flight from the City, such as that of the Bishop of Ely in Holborn, and of
plenteous orchards which could spare their boughs as well as their

  "_D. of Glou._--My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn,
  I saw good strawberries in your garden there:
  I do beseech you send for some of them.
  _B. of Ely._--Marry, and I will, my lord, with all my heart."
                                        _Richard III._, act iii., sc. 4.


The "orange-women" of Ben Jonson we have figured to the life. The familiar
mention of the orange-sellers in the "Silent Woman," and this very early
representation of one of them, show how general the use of this fruit had
become in England at the beginning of the seventeenth century. It is
stated, though the story is somewhat apocryphal, that the first oranges
were imported by Sir Walter Raleigh. It is probable that about his time
they first became an article of general commerce. We now consume about
three hundred and fifty millions of oranges every year.

The class of bold young women--"Orange Wenches," that Nell Gwynne made
famous is sufficiently alluded to in a passage in the _Spectator_, No.

    "But, indeed, by such representations, a poet sacrifices the best part
    of his audience to the worst; and, as one would think, neglects the
    boxes to write to the _orange-wenches_."

Rowe and other writers go far to prove that the "Orange Wenches" who
frequented theatres had

  "Other Fish to fry, and other Fruit to sell,"

beside supplying refreshment to the young gallants of the day.

In Douglas Jerrold's comedy of "_Nell Gwynne_," which was first
represented at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, 9th of January, 1833, with
the following cast of characters:--

  King Charles the Second                       MR. JONES.

  Sir Charles Berkeley                          MR. FORRESTER.

  Charles Hart, Major Mohun, Managers of
  the King's Theatre, Drury lane, 1667          MR. DURUSET.

  Betterton, Manager of the Duke's Theatre,
  Lincoln's-inn                                 MR. DIDDEAR.

  Joe Haynes                                    MR. MEADOWS.

  Counsellor Crowsfoot                          MR. BLANCHARD.

  Stockfish                                     MR. F. MATTHEWS.

  Boy                                           MASTER MACDONALD.

  Nell Gwynne                                   MISS TAYLOR.

  Orange Moll                                   MRS. KEELEY.

  Mrs. Snowdrop                                 MRS. DALY.

There is the following scene and song:--

    _Enter_ NELL GWYNNE, _as orange girl, with orange basket. She carries
    a mask._

    _Nell._ (_Sings._) "_Buy oranges!_" Ladies and cavaliers, vouchsafe to
    look at my basket! Maidens, ripen my fruit with your glances; buy my
    oranges, as bright as hope and as sweet as courtship.--Though they
    look as hard as gold, they'll melt in the mouth like a lover's
    promise.--Their juice is syrup, and their coats as thin as a poet's.
    Buy, gentlemen; or I'll vow that, being jealous, you hate yellow even
    in an orange.

    _Betterton._ (_Aside._) It is--I'd swear to her face--the very girl!

    _Charles._ (_Coming down with Nelly._) And have your oranges really
    all these virtues?

    _Nell._ (_Aside._) So, my gallant mercer. All, and a thousand
    more;--there's nothing good that may not be said of the orange. It
    sets special examples to elder brothers, misers, and young travellers.

    _Charles._ Aye? What example to elder brothers?

    _Nell._ This; though full of age, it dwells quietly on the same branch
    with bud and blossom.

    _Charles._ What does it teach misers?

    _Nell._ That golden coats should cover melting hearts.

    _Charles._ And, lastly, what may the young traveller learn of your

    _Nell._ This much; that he is shipped when green, that he may ripen on
    the voyage.

    _Charles._ Prettily lectured.

    _Betterton._ (_Aside._) The king seems dazzled with the wench.--I must
    secure her for the Duke's.

    _Nell._ But, gentlemen, fair gentlemen, will no one lighten my basket?
    Buy my oranges!


      Buy oranges!--No better sold,--
        New brought in Spanish ships;
      As yellow bright as minted gold,
        As sweet as ladies' lips.
      Come, maidens, buy; nor judge my fruit
        From beauty's bait--the skin;
      Nor think, like fops, with gaudy suit,
        They're dull and crude within.
                          Buy oranges!

      Buy oranges!--Buy courtiers, pray,
        And as ye drain their juice,
      Then, cast the poor outside away,
        A thing that's served its use;
      Why, courtier, pause; this truth translate,
        Imprinted in the rind;
      However gay the courtier's state,
        'Tis yet of orange kind.
                                Buy oranges!

      Buy oranges!--Coquetting fair,--
        As sweet reproach come buy;
      And, as the fruit ye slice and share,
        Remember with a sigh--
      A heart divided needs must cast
        The faith which is its soul;
      If, maidens, ye would have it last,
        Give none--if not the whole.
                                Buy oranges!

                          (_The by-standers all applaud._)

The orange-woman who carried the golden fruit through every street and
alley, with the musical cry of:--"_Fine Oranges and Lemons_," lasted for a
century or two. Then the orange-woman became, as everything else became, a
more prosaic person as she approached our own times. She was a
barrow-woman at the end of the last century: and Porson has thus described

  "As I walked through the Strand, so cheerful and gay,
    I met a young girl a-wheeling a barrow;
  'Fine fruit, sir,' says she, 'and a bill of the play.'"

The transformation was the same with the strawberry and cherry-women.

From the "Collection of Ancient Songs and Ballads, written on various
subjects, and printed between the years MDLX. and MDCC." in the British
Museum, and now known as the ROXBURGHE BALLADS, we take the ballad of:--


  Tune--_The Merry Christ-church Bells_.

  Hark! how the cries in every street
  Make lanes and allies ring:
  With their goods and ware, both nice and rare,
  All in a pleasant lofty strain;
  Come buy my gudgeons fine and new.
  Old cloaths to change for earthen ware,
  Come taste and try before you buy,
  Here's dainty poplin pears.
  Diddle, diddle, diddle dumplins, ho!
  With walnuts nice and brown.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Any old cloaths, suits, or coats.
  Come buy my singing birds.
  Oranges or lemons. Newcastle salmon.
  Come buy my ropes of onions, ho!
  Come buy my sand, fine silver sand.
  Two bunches a penny, turnips, ho!
  I'll change you pins for coney-skins.
  Maids, do you want any milk below?
  Here's an express from Admiral Hawke,
  The Admiral of renown.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Maids, have you any kitchen stuff?
  Will you buy fine artichoaks?
  Come buy my brooms to sweep your rooms.
  Will you buy my white-heart cabbages, ho!
  Come buy my nuts, my fine small nuts,
  Two cans a penny, crack and try.
  Here's cherries round, and very sound.
  Maids, shall I sweep your chimnies high?
  Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, goes the tinker's pan,
  With a merry cheerful sound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Here's fine herrings, eight a groat.
  Hot codlins, pies and tarts.
  New mackerel I have to sell.
  Come buy my Wellfleet oysters, ho!
  Come buy my whitings fine and new.
  Wives, shall I mend your husbands' horns?
  I'll grind your knives to please your wives,
  And very nicely cut your corns.
  Maids, have you any hair to sell.
  Either flaxen, black, or brown?
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Work for a cooper, maids give ear,
  I'll hoop your tubs and pails.
  Come Nell and Sue, and buy my blue.
  Maids, have you any chairs to mend?
  Here's hot spiced-gingerbread of the best,
  Come taste and try before you buy.
  Here's elder-buds to purge your bloods.
  But black your shoes is all the cry.
  Here's hot rice milk, and barley broth.
  Plumb-pudding a groat a pound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Here's fine rosemary, sage, and thyme.
  Come buy my ground ivy.
  Here's fatherfew, gilliflowers and rue.
  Come buy my knotted marjorum, ho!
  Come buy my mint, my fine green mint.
  Here's fine lavender for your cloaths.
  Here's parsley and winter-savory.
  And heart's-ease which all do choose.
  Here's balm and hissop, and cinquefoil,
  All fine herbs, it is well known.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Here's pennyroyal and marygolds.
  Come buy my nettle-tops.
  Here's water-cresses and scurvy-grass.
  Come buy my sage of virtue, ho!
  Come buy my wormwood and mugwort.
  Here's all fine herbs of every sort.
  Here's southernwood, that's very good,
  Dandelion and houseleek.
  Here's dragon's-tongue and wood-sorrel.
  With bear's-foot and horehound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Here's green coleworts and brocoli.
  Come buy my radishes.
  Here's fine savoys, and ripe hautboys.
  Come buy my young green hastings, ho!
  Come buy my beans, right Windsor beans.
  Two pence a bunch young carrots, ho!
  Here's fine nosegays, ripe strawberries.
  With ready picked salad, also.
  Here's collyflowers and asparagus.
  New prunes two-pence a pound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Here's cucumbers, spinnage, and French beans.
  Come buy my nice sallery.
  Here's parsnips and fine leeks.
  Come buy my potatoes, ho!
  Come buy my plumbs, and fine ripe plumbs.
  A groat a pound, ripe filberts, ho!
  Here's corn-poppies and mulberries.
  Gooseberries and currants also.
  Fine nectarines, peaches, and apricots.
  New rice two-pence a pound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Buy a rabbit, wild duck, or fat goose.
  Come buy a choice fat fowl.
  Plovers, teal, or widgeons, come buy my pigeons.
  Maids, do you want any small coal?
  Come buy my shrimps, my fine new shrimps,
  Two pots a penny, taste and try.
  Here's fine saloop, both hot and good.
  But Yorkshire muffins is the cry.
  Here's trotters, calf's feet, and fine tripes.
  Barrel figs, three-pence a pound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

  Here's new-laid eggs for ten a groat.
  Come buy water'd cod.
  Here's plaice and dabs, lobsters and crabs.
  Come buy my maids, and flounders, ho!
  Come buy my pike, my fine live pike.
  Two-pence a hundred cockles, ho!
  Shads, eels, and sprats. Lights for your cats.
  With haddocks, perch, and tench also.
  Here's carp and tench, mullets and smelts.
  Butter sixpence a pound.
      Let none despise the merry, merry cries
      Of famous London town.

Printed and sold at the Printing-office in _Bow-church-yard, London_.

"Holloway cheese-cakes" was once one of the London cries; they were sold
by a man on horseback; and in "_Jack Drum's Entertainment_," a Comedy,
1601, in a random song, the festive character of this district is

  "Skip it and trip it nimbly, nimbly,
    Tickle it, tickle it, lustily,
  Strike up the tabor for the wenches favour,
    Tickle it, tickle it, lustily.
  Let us be seene on Hygate-Greene,
    To dance for the honour of Holloway.
  Since we are come hither, let's spare for no leather,
    To dance for the honour of Holloway."


Drunken Barnaby, at the "Mother Red Cap," at Holloway, found very bad

  _Veni_ Holloway, pileum rubrum,
  _In cohortem muliebrem_,
  _Me_ adonidem _vocant omnes_
  _Meretricis_ Babylonis;
  _Tangunt_, _tingunt_, _molliunt_, _mulcent_,
  _At egentem_, _foris pulsant_.

Addison, the essayist and poet, 1672-1719, contributed a capital paper to
the _Spectator_, on the subject of London Cries, which we deem so much to
the purpose, that it is here reproduced _in extenso_.

          THE SPECTATOR.
  No. 251.              TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18.

  ----_Linguæ centum sunt, oraque centum,
  ----Ferrea vox_----           VIRG., En. 6., v. 625.

  ----A hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,
  And throats of brass, inspir'd with iron lungs.      DRYDEN.

There is nothing which more astonishes a foreigner, and frightens a
country 'squire, than the _cries of London_. My good friend Sir _Roger_
often declares that he cannot get them out of his head, or go to sleep for
them, the first week that he is in town. On the contrary, _Will
Honeycombe_ calls them the _Ramage de la ville_, and prefers them to the
sound of larks, and nightingales, with all the music of the fields and
woods. I have lately received a letter from some very odd fellow upon this
subject, which I shall leave with my reader, without saying anything
further of it.


I am a man out of all business, and would willingly turn my head to
anything for an honest livelihood. I have invented several projects for
raising many millions of money without burdening the subject, but I cannot
get the parliament to listen to me, who look upon me forsooth as a crack,
and a projector; so that despairing to enrich either myself or my country
by this public-spiritedness, I would make some proposals to you relating
to a design which I have very much at heart, and which may procure me a
handsome subsistence, if you will be pleased to recommend it to the cities
of London and Westminster.

The post I would aim at, is to be comptroller-general of the London cries,
which are at present under no manner of rules or discipline. I think I am
pretty well qualified for this place, as being a man of very strong lungs,
of great insight into all the branches of our British trades and
manufactures, and of a competent skill in music.

The cries of London may be divided into vocal and instrumental. A freeman
of London has the privilege of disturbing a whole street for an hour
together with the twankling of a brass kettle or a frying-pan. The
watchman's thump at midnight startles us in our beds, as much as the
breaking in of a thief. The sow-gelder's horn has indeed something musical
in it, but this is seldom heard within the liberties. I would therefore
propose that no instrument of this nature should be made use of, which I
have not tuned and licensed, after having carefully examined in what
manner it may affect the ears of her majesty's liege subjects.

Vocal cries are of a much larger extent, and indeed so full of
incongruities and barbarisms, that we appear a distracted city to
foreigners, who do not comprehend the meaning of such enormous outcries.
Milk is generally sold in a note above _Ela_, and it sounds so exceedingly
shrill, that it often sets our teeth on edge. The chimney-sweeper is
confined to no certain pitch; he sometimes utters himself in the deepest
bass, and sometimes in the sharpest treble; sometimes in the highest, and
sometimes in the lowest note of the gamut. The same observation might be
made on the retailers of small coal, not to mention broken glasses or
brick-dust. In these therefore, and the like cases, it should be my care
to sweeten and mellow the voices of these itinerant tradesmen, before they
make their appearance in our streets, as also to accommodate their cries
to their respective wares; and to take care in particular, that those may
not make the most noise who have the least to sell, which is very
observable in the venders of card matches, to whom I cannot but apply that
old proverb of _Much cry, but little wool_.

Some of these last mentioned musicians are so very loud in the sale of
these trifling manufactures, that an honest splenetic gentleman of my
acquaintance bargained with one of them never to come into the street
where he lived; but what was the effect of this contract? Why, the whole
tribe of card-match-makers which frequent that quarter, passed by his door
the very next day, in hopes of being bought off after the same manner.

It is another great imperfection in our London-cries, that there is no
just time nor measure observed in them. Our news should indeed be
published in a very quick time, because it is a commodity that will not
keep cold. It should not, however, be cried with the same precipitation as
fire; yet this is generally the case: a bloody battle arms the town from
one end to another in an instant. Every motion of the French is published
in so great a hurry, that one would think the enemy were at our gates.
This likewise I would take upon me to regulate in such a manner, that
there should be some distinction made between the spreading of a victory,
a march, or an encampment, a Dutch, a Portugal, or a Spanish mail. Nor
must I omit, under this head, those excessive alarms with which several
boisterous rustics infest our streets in turnip-season; and which are
more inexcusable, because these are wares which are in no danger of
cooling upon their hands.

There are others who affect a very slow time, and are, in my opinion, much
more tunable than the former; the cooper in particular swells his last
note in a hollow voice, that is not without its harmony; nor can I forbear
being inspired with a most agreeable melancholy, when I hear that sad and
solemn air with which the public are very often asked, If they have any
chairs to mend? Your own memory may suggest to you many other lamentable
ditties of the same nature, in which music is wonderfully languishing and

I am always pleased with that particular time of the year which is proper
for the pickling of dill and cucumbers; but alas! this cry, like the song
of the nightingale, is not heard above two months. It would therefore be
worth while to consider, whether the same air might not in some cases be
adapted to other words.

It might likewise deserve our most serious consideration, how far, in a
well-regulated city, those humourists are to be tolerated, who, not
content with the traditional cries of their forefathers, have invented
particular songs and tunes of their own: such as was not many years since,
the pastry-man, commonly known by the name of the Colly-Molly-Puff; and
such as is at this day the vender of powder and wash-ball, who, if I am
rightly informed, goes under the name of _Powder-Watt_.

[Illustration: COLLY-MOLLY-PUFF.]

I must not here omit one particular absurdity which runs through this
whole vociferous generation, and which renders their cries very often not
only incommodious, but altogether useless to the public; I mean that idle
accomplishment which they all of them aim at, of crying so as not to be
understood. Whether or no they have learned this from several of our
affected singers, I will not take upon me to say; but most certain it is,
that people know the wares they deal in rather by their tunes than by
their words: insomuch that I have sometimes seen a country boy run out to
buy apples of a bellows-mender, and ginger-bread from a grinder of knives
and scissors. Nay, so strangely infatuated are some very eminent artists
of this particular grace in a cry, that none but their acquaintance are
able to guess at their profession; for who else can know, _that work if I
had it_, should be the signification of a corn-cutter.

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.

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."

[Illustration: THOMAS BRITTON, _The Musical Small Coal Man_.]

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
Vitæ_" 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


[Illustration: THE WATER CARRIER. "Any fresh and fair Spring Water here?"]

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:--

  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."


----"to Colebrooke-row, within half a stone's throw of a cottage; endeared
to me, in later years by its being the abode of 'as much virtue as can
live.'" Hone, in his _Every-day Book_, Oct. 10, 1827.]

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.

[Illustration: THE OLD QUEEN'S HEAD.]

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!!!.

[Illustration: CANONBURY TOWER.

  "Here stands the tall relic, old Canonbury Tow'r,
  Where Auburn's sweet bard won the muse to his bow'r,
  The Vandal that pulls thy grey tenements down,
  When falls the last stone, may that stone crack his crown!"
                                   G. Daniel's "_The Islington Garland_."]

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'Hôte_ 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.


[Illustration: EDMONTON CHURCH.]

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.

[Illustration: KATE SMITH, _The Merry Milkmaid_.]


  "'Where are you going my pretty maid?'
  'I'm going a milking, sir,' she said."]

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.


Nothing can be more instructive and entertaining than to turn back in 1884
to facts, figures, calculations, estimates, and inferences which fitted
the London of 1854. Instead of two millions and a half, the population
resident at this moment within the metropolitan and city police districts
amounts at least to four millions and three-quarters. The area already
covered by the mighty town, which adds another big town to its entirety
each successive year, is about four hundred and fifty thousand square
acres, and there are more than seven hundred thousand houses to be
provided for, of which it may be presumed that few can do without at least
a pint of milk per diem. Assuming, however, that each member of this
enormous population consumed no more than a quarter of a pint of
milk--that is to say, a small tumblerful--per diem, we come to the
astounding conclusion that nearly six hundred thousand quarts are wanted
every day, nearly four million two hundred thousand quarts every week, and
nearly two hundred and seventeen million quarts every year, to meet the
demands of London. Few of us are able to fathom the meaning of two hundred
million quarts of liquid until we are told what an immense reservoir, ten
feet deep, it would take to hold such an amount. More intelligible are the
calculations which tell us that, assuming a cow to yield ten--not
twelve--quarts of milk daily, it would require nearly sixty thousand milch
cows to maintain this supply from year's end to year's end. If these
patient and valuable milkers are estimated as being worth no more than
twenty-pounds apiece, they would represent in their aggregate a capital of
little less than one million four hundred thousand pounds. Pure milk of a
reliable character, costs five-pence per quart, and therefore, on the
above basis, there is spent on milk, in the metropolis and its
circumjacent districts, twelve thousand four hundred pounds per day,
nearly eighty-seven thousand pounds per week, and considerably more than
four and a half million pounds per annum. There are States which have
made a considerable noise in the world, whose total revenue does not reach
what London spends annually in milk alone. As for the distribution of this
inconceivable amount of liquid, which is delivered every morning and
afternoon in small quantities all over the enormous area of
bricks-and-mortar to which we have referred, it would utterly baffle the
most marvellous organiser and administrator that ever existed upon earth,
to extemporise human machinery for carrying on so minute and yet so
gigantic a trade. Nevertheless, how smoothly and imperceptibly, not only
in this one small detail, but throughout the whole of its vast and endless
complications and ramifications, does the commissariat of London work! We
are told, for instance, that to distribute every sixteen gallons of milk
one person is necessary, and that, without counting managers, clerks,
shopmen and shopwomen, nearly five thousand human beings, assisted by more
than fifteen hundred horses and mules, are needed to furnish London with
milk every twenty-four hours. More than a quarter of a million pounds go
yearly in wages to milkmen and milkwomen with whom we are all so familiar,
and who will doubtless, acquire additional importance in the eyes of those
who reflect that these humble servitors are but, in Pope's words, "parts
of that stupendous whole" without whose useful, patient, and unintermitted
labours the faultless machinery of the grandest camp of men that ever yet
existed would instantly stand still.

Then it must not be forgotten that the milk trade exacts constant and
unintermitted work from its employés--work from which neither Sundays nor
holidays bring any relief--and demanding very early rising in the morning,
to say nothing of the greatest personal cleanliness, and of an immense
array of cans, varying from those capable of holding many gallons down to
those which contain no more than half-a-pint--the milk-pail and its daily
history might well attract notice from writers not inferior in grasp and
imagination to Defoe or Dickens. In 1854 Dr. Wynter calculated that, as
regards distribution, the commissariat of London was carried on by an army
of one hundred thousand persons. In thirty years the population has all
but doubled, and the machinery of distribution has been so improved that
its working at present approaches very nearly to perfection. This
perfection is due solely to freedom of trade and to universal competition,
which so nicely adjust all the varying conditions of life, that, in
serving themselves, they accomplish more than all the Governments on earth
could effect by the most ingenious system of centralisation that human wit
could devise.


  _Attic Poet_:--"There is a pleasure in poetic pains
  which only Poets know."]

In our neighbourhood, which, as the lodging-house-keepers advertise in
_The Kingsland and Shacklewell Slopbasin_, and _The Dalston Dusthole_, is
situate close to "Bus, Tram, and Rail," we have a milkman who is given to
Poetry! and he circulates his "verses" pretty freely in the areas and
letter-boxes about once a month.--



  My readers may credit the words of my muse.
  When telling how Wilson meets Customers' Views;
  Wilson studies a straightforward system of trade,
  Whereby to elicit encouraging aid.

  The pure farm-house Milk he daily brings out,
  Is such as we have no reason to doubt;
  Encouraged in business his course he pursues,
  And fails not in meeting his Customers' Views.

  You'll not have occasion to doubt what I say,
  When testing his Pure Milk day after day;
  For cheapness and quality you'll find him in trade,
  As you did when he first asked the public for aid.

  His farm-house Milk and Eggs, which thoroughly please,
  Are positive proofs of assertions like these;
  'Tis certain that better can ne'er be supplied,
  He trusts that in this you'll all coincide.

  The highest of interest his Milk doth possess,
  Thus boldly we state, for we cannot state less;
  F. Wilson supplies what all purchasers choose,
  And thus he is meeting his Customers' Views.


  Customers can have their Milk left in cans any time after 5 a.m.
  Note the address * * *
  All complaints to be addressed to Mr. F. Wilson.


This celebrated vendor of gingerbread, from his eccentricity of character,
and extensive dealing in his particular way, was always hailed as the King
of itinerant tradesmen. He was a constant attendant in the crowd at all
metropolitan fairs, mob meetings, Lord Mayor's shows, public executions,
and all other holiday and festive gatherings! In his person he was tall,
well made, and his features handsome. He affected to dress like a person
of rank; white and gold lace suit of clothes, lace ruffled shirt, laced
hat and feather, white stockings, with the addition of a white apron.
Among his harangues to gain customers, take the following piece as a fair
sample of the whole:--

"Mary, Mary, where are you _now_, Mary? I live, when at home, at the
second house in Little diddy-ball-street, two steps under ground, with a
wiscum, riscum, and a why-not. Walk in, ladies and gentlemen; my shop is
on the second-floor backwards, with a brass knocker on the door, and steel
steps before it. Here is your nice gingerbread, it will melt in your mouth
like a red-hot brickbat, and rumble in your inside like Punch and his
wheelbarrow." He always finished his address by singing this fag end of
some popular ballad:--

  "Ti-tid-ty, ti-tid-ty. Ti-tid-ty--tiddy-loll.
  Ti-tid-ty, ti-tid-ty. Ti-tid-ty--tiddy-doll."

Hence arose his nickname "_Tiddy-Doll_." In Hogarth's print of the "IDLE
'PRENTICE EXECUTED AT TYBURN," Tiddy-Doll is seen holding up a gingerbread
cake with his left hand, his right hand within his coat, to imply that he
is speaking the truth from his heart, while describing the superiority of
his wares over those of any other vendor in the fair! while he still
anxiously inquires:--

  "Mary, Mary, where are you _now_, Mary?"

His proper name was Ford, and so well known was he that, on his once being
missed for a week from his usual stand in the Haymarket, on the occasion
of a visit which he paid to a country fair, a "Catch penny" account of his
alleged murder was printed, and sold in the streets by thousands.

Allusions to Tiddy-Doll, and sayings derived from him, have reached to our
own time, thus, we still say to an over-dressed person--"You are as tawdry
as Diddy-doll," "You are quite Tiddy-doll, you look as fine as
Tiddy-doll," he or she is said to be "All Tiddy-doll," &c.

The class of men formerly well known to the citizens of London as
News-criers, or Hornmen, must now be spoken of in the past sense, as the
further use of the horn was prohibited long ago by the magistracy, subject
to a penalty of ten shillings for the first offence, and twenty shillings
on the conviction of repeating so heinous a crime.



were the usual loud bellowing of fellows with stentorian lungs,
accompanied by a loud blast of a long tin-horn, which announced to the
delighted populace of London the martial achievements of a Marlborough,
Howe, Hood, Nelson, or Wellington. A copy of the "Gazette" or newspaper
they "cried" was usually affixed under the hatband, in front, and their
demand was generally one shilling.

At least one of these news criers has been immortalized. In a volume of
"Miscellaneous Poems," edited by Elijah Fenton, and printed by Bernard
Lintot, without date, but anterior to 1720, there are the lines that
follow, to one old Bennet, who seems to have made a great noise in the
world of London during the early part of last century:--


  "One evening, when the sun was just gone down,
  And I was walking thro' the noisy town,
  A sudden silence through each street was spread,
  As if the soul of London had been fled.
  Much I enquired the cause, but could not hear,
  Till fame, so frightened, that she did not dare
  To raise her voice, thus whisper'd in my ear:--
  Bennet, the prince of hawkers, is no more,
  Bennet, my _Herald_ on the British shore,
  Bennet, by whom, I own myself outdone,
  Tho' I a hundred mouths, he had but one,
  He, when the list'ning town he would amuse,
  Made _Echo_ tremble with his '_Bloody news!_'
  No more shall _Echo_, now his voice return,
  _Echo_ for ever must in silence mourn,--
  Lament, ye heroes, who frequent the wars,
  The great proclaimer of your dreadful scars.
  Thus wept the conqueror who the world o'ercame,
  Homer was waiting to enlarge his fame,
  Homer, the first of hawkers that is known,
  _Great News_ from Troy, cried up and down the town,
  None like him has there been for ages past,
  Till our stentorian Bennet came at last,
  Homer and Bennet were in this agreed,
  Homer was blind, and Bennet could not read!"

In our own days there has been legislation for the benefit of tender ears;
and there are now penalties, with police constables to enforce them,
against "All persons blowing any horn or using any other noisy
instrument, for the purpose of calling persons together, or of announcing
any show or entertainment, or for the purpose of hawking, selling,
distributing, or collecting any article, or of obtaining money or alms."
These are the words of the Police Act of 1839; and they are stringent
enough to have nearly banished from our streets all those uncommon noises
which did something to relieve the monotony of the one endless roar of the
tread of feet and the rush of wheels.

Mr. Henry Mayhew, in his admirable work of "London Labour and London
Poor," writing in 1851, under the head "Of the Sellers of Second
Editions," says:--

    "I believe that there is not now in existence--unless it be in a
    workhouse and unknown to his fellows, or engaged in some other
    avocation, and lost sight of by them--any one who sold 'Second
    Editions' of the _Courier_ evening paper at the time of the Duke of
    York's Walcheren expedition, at the period of the battle of the Nile,
    during the continuance of the Peninsular war, or even at the battle of
    Waterloo. There were a few old men--some of whom had been soldiers or
    sailors, and others who have simulated it--surviving within these five
    or six years and some later, who 'worked Waterloo,' but they were
    swept off, I was told, by the cholera."



  "Temper the foot within this vase of oil,
  And let the little tripod aid thy toil;
  On this methinks I see the walking crew,
  At thy request, support the miry shoe;
  The foot grows black that was with dirt embrown'd,
  And in thy pocket jingling halfpence sound."
                                        _Gay's "Trivia."_]

"About thirty years before the cry of 'Clean your boots, sir!' became
familiar to the ears of the present generation of Londoners," Mr. Charles
Knight informs us that:--"In one of the many courts on the north side of
Fleet-street, might be seen, somewhere about the year 1820, 'The last of
the London shoe-blacks.' One would think that he deemed himself dedicated
to his profession by Nature, for he was a Negro. At the earliest dawn he
crept forth from his neighbouring lodging, and planted his tripod on the
quiet pavement, where he patiently stood till noon was past. He was a
short, large-headed son of Africa, subject, as it would appear, to
considerable variations of spirits, alternating between depression and
excitement, as the gains of the day presented to him the chance of having
a few pence to recreate himself beyond what he should carry home to his
wife and children. For he had a wife and children, this last
representative of a falling trade; and two or three little woolly-headed
_décrotteurs_ nestled around him when he was idle, or assisted in taking
off the roughest of the dirt when he had more than one client. He watched,
with a melancholy eye, the gradual improvement of the streets; for during
some twenty or thirty years he had beheld all the world combining to ruin
him. He saw the foot pavements widening; the large flag-stones carefully
laid down; the loose and broken piece, which discharged a slushy shower on
the unwary foot, and known to him and London chairmen as a
'_Beau-trap_'[11] instantly removed: he saw the kennels diligently
cleansed, and the drains widened: he saw experiment upon experiment made
in the repair of the carriage-way, and the holes, which were to him as the
'old familiar faces' which he loved, filled up with a haste that appeared
quite unnecessary, if not insulting. One solitary country shopkeeper, who
had come to London once a year during a long life, clung to our sable
friend; for he was the only one of the fraternity that he could find
remaining, in his walk from Charing-cross to Cheapside."

Hone, in "_The Table Book_," 1827, under an article on the Old London
cries has:--"A Shoeblack; A boy, with a small basket beside him, brushes a
shoe on a stone, and addresses himself to a wigged beau, who carries his
cocked hat under his left arm, with a crooked-headed walking stick in his
left hand, as was the fashion among the dandies of old times. I recollect
shoeblacks formerly at the corner of almost every street, especially in
great thoroughfares. There were several every morning on the steps of St.
Andrew's church, Holborn, till late in the forenoon. But the greatest
exhibition of these artists was on the site of Finsbury-square, when it
was an open field, and a depository for the stones used in paving and
street-masonry. There, a whole army of shoeblacks intercepted the citizens
and their clerks on their way from Islington and Hoxton to the
counting-houses and shops in the city, with 'Shoeblack, your honour! Black
your shoes, sir!'"

Each of them had a large, old tin-kettle, containing his apparatus,
viz:--a capacious pipkin, or other large earthen-pot, containing the
blacking, which was made of ivory-black, the coarsest moist sugar, and
pure water with a little vinegar--a knife, two or three brushes, and an
old wig. The old wig was an indispensable requisite to a shoeblack; it
whisked away the dust, or thoroughly wiped off the wet dirt, which his
knife and brushes could not entirely detach; a rag tied to the end of a
stick smeared his viscid blacking on the shoe, and if the blacking was
"real japan," it shone. The old experienced shoe-wearers preferred an
oleaginous, lustreless blacking. A more liquid blacking, which took a
polish from the brush, was of later use and invention. Nobody at that time
wore boots except on horseback; and everybody wore breeches and
stockings: pantaloons, or trousers, were unheard of. The old shoeblacks
operated on the shoes while they were on the feet, and so dexterously as
not to soil the fine white cotton stocking, which was at that time the
extreme of fashion, or to smear the buckles, which were universally worn.
Latterly, you were accommodated with an old pair of shoes to stand in, and
the yesterday's paper to read, while your shoes were cleaning and
polishing, and your buckles were whitened and brushed. When shoestrings
first came into vogue, the Prince of Wales (Geo. IV.) appeared with them
in his shoes, when immediately a deputation from the buckle-makers of
Birmingham presented a petition to his Royal Highness to resume the
wearing of buckles, which was good-naturedly complied with. Yet, in a
short time, shoestrings entirely superseded buckles. The first incursion
on the shoeblacks was by the makers of "Patent Cake Blacking" on sticks
formed with a handle, like a small battledoor; they suffered a more
fearful invasion from the makers of liquid blacking in bottles. Soon
afterwards, when "Day and Martin" manufactured the _ne plus ultra_ of
blacking, private shoeblacking became general, public shoeblacks rapidly
disappeared, and in [1827] they became extinct. The last shoeblack that I
remember in London sat under the covered entrance of Red Lion-court,
Fleet-street within the last six years. This unfortunate, "The Last of the
London Shoeblacks"--was probably the "short, large headed son of Africa"
alluded to by Charles Knight, under the heading of "Clean your honour's
shoes," in his "History of London."

In 1851, some gentlemen connected with the Ragged Schools determined to
revive the brotherhood of boot cleaners for the convenience of the foreign
visitors to the Exhibition, and commenced the experiment by sending out
five boys in the now well-known red uniform. The scheme succeeded beyond
expection; the boys were patronized by natives as well as aliens, and the
Shoeblack Society and its brigade were regularly organized. During the
exhibition season, about twenty-five boys were constantly employed, and
cleaned no less than 100,000 pairs of boots. The receipts of the brigade
during its first year amounted to £656. Since that time, thanks to the
combination of discipline and liberality, the Shoeblack Society has gone
on and prospered, and proved the Parent of other Societies. Every district
in London now has its corps of shoeblacks, in every variety of uniform,
and while the number of boys has increased from tens to hundreds, their
earnings have increased from hundreds to thousands. Numbers of London
waifs and strays have been rescued from idleness and crime. The Ragged
School Union, and Shoeblack Brigades, therefore hold a prominent place
among the indirectly preventive agencies for the suppression of crime: for
since ignorance is generally the parent of vice, any means of securing the
benefits of education to those who are hopelessly deprived of it, must
operate in favour of the well-being of society.


  "'Tis education forms the common mind;
  Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined."]


"Hearth-stones! Do you want any hearth-stones? Now, my maids, here's your
right sort--reg'lar good'uns, and no mistake--vorth two o'your shop
harticles, and at half the price. Now my pretty von, lay out a _tanner_,
and charge your missus a _bob_--and no cheating neither! the cook has
always a right to make her market penny and to assist a poor cove like me
in the bargain.

  "They're good uns, you vill find--
    Choose any, marm, as you prefer.
  You look so handsome and so kind,
    I'm sure you'll be a customer.
  Three halfpence, marm, for this here pair--
    I only vish as you vould try 'em;
  I'm sure you'll say the price is fair--
    Come marm, a penny if you'll buy 'em."


  "Here's tidings sad, for owld and young,
    Of von who liv'd for years by macing;
  And vos this werry morning hung,
    The Debtor's Door at Newgate facing.

  "Here's his confession upon hoath,
    The vords he spoke ven he vos dying,
  His birth and eddycation both--
    The whole pertic'lers--vell vorth the buying.

  "Here's an account of robberies sad.
    In vich he alus vos a hactor;
  You must to read the life be glad--
    Of such a famous malefactor!

  "How to the mob he spinn'd a yarn,
    And varn'd them from a course unproper,
  You may, vith all his history, larn--
    For the small valley of a copper!"

"Now my kind-hearted, haffectionated and wery ready-money
Christian-hearted, pious and hinfidel customers, here you have the last
speech and dying vords, life, character, and behaviour of the hunfortunate
malefactor that vas hexecuted this morning hopposit the Debtor's door in
the Hold Bailey! together with a full confession of the hoffence vherevith
he vos found guilty before a hupright Judge and a wery himpartial Jury!
Here you have likewise a copy of a most affecting letter, written by the
criminal in the condemned cell the night afore hexecution to his hinnocent
vife and hunoffending babbies, vith a copy of werses consarning the
same--all for the small charge of von halfpenny. Yes, my friends, von
halfpenny buys the werses as follows--von arter the 'tother:--

  "Come, all you blessed Christians dear,
    That's a-tender, kind, and free,
  While I a story do relate
    Of a dreadful tragedy,
  Which happened in London town,
    As you shall all be told;
  But when you hear the horrid deed
    'Twill make your blood run cold.--
            _For the small charge of a ha'penny!_

  "'Twas in the merry month of May,
    When my true love I did meet;
  She look'd all like an angel bright,
    So beautiful and sweet.
  I told her I loved her much,
    And she could not say nay;
  'Twas then I stung her tender heart,
    And led her all astray.--
                          _Only a ha'penny!_"

JAMES--or as he was popularly called, "_Jemmy_," or, "_Old Jemmy_"
Catnach, (_Kat-nak_,) late of the Seven Dials, London, printer and
publisher of ballads, battledores, lotteries, primers, &c., and whose name
is ever associated with the literature of the streets, was the son of John
Catnach, a printer, of Alnwick, an ancient borough, market town, and
parish of Northumberland, where he was born on August 18th, 1792.

At the time Jemmy Catnach commenced business in Seven Dials it took all
the prudence and tact which he could command to maintain his position, as
at that time "Johnny" Pitts,[12] of the Toy and Marble Warehouse, No. 6,
Great St. Andrew-street, was the acknowledged and established printer of
street literature for the "Dials" district; therefore, as may be easily
imagined, a powerful rivalry and vindictive jealousy soon arose between
these "two of a trade"--most especially on the part of "Old Mother" Pitts,
who is described as being a coarse and vulgar-minded personage, and as
having originally followed the trade of a bumboat woman at Portsmouth: she
"wowed wengeance" against the young fellow in the court for daring to set
up in their business, and also spoke of him as a young "Catsnatch,"
"Catblock," "Cut-throat;" many other opprobrious terms being also freely
given to the new comer. Pitts' staff of "bards" were duly cautioned of the
consequences which would inevitably follow should they dare to write a
line for Catnach--the new _cove_ in the court. The injunction was for a
time obeyed, but the "Seven Bards of the Seven Dials" soon found it not
only convenient, but also more profitable to sell copies of their
effusions to both sides at the same time, and by keeping their council
they avoided detection, as each printer accused the other of buying an
early sold copy, and then reprinting it off with the utmost speed, and
which was in reality often the case, as "Both Houses" had emissaries on
the constant look-out for any new production suitable for street-sale.
Now, although this style of "double dealing" and competition tended much
to lessen the cost price to the "middle-man," or vendor, the public in
this case did not get any of the reduction, as a penny broadside was still
a penny, and a quarter-sheet still a halfpenny to them, the
"street-patterer" obtaining the whole of the reduction as extra profit.

The feud existing between these rival publishers, who have been somewhat
aptly designated as the Colburn and Bentley of the "paper" trade, never
abated, but, on the contrary, increased in acrimony of temper until at
last not being content to vilify each other by words alone, they resorted
to printing off virulent lampoons, in which Catnach never failed to let
the world know that "Old Mother Pitts" had been formerly a bumboat woman,
while the Pitts' party announced that--

  "All the boys and girls around,
    Who go out prigging rags and phials,
  Know Jemmy _Catsnatch_!!! well,
    Who lives in a back slum in the Dials.
  He hangs out in Monmouth Court,
    And wears a pair of blue-black breeches,
  Where all the 'Polly Cox's crew' do resort
    To chop their swag for badly printed Dying Speeches."

    A mournful and affecting COPY OF VERSES on the death of
    Who was barbarously and cruelly murdered by her sweetheart,
    W. JONES, near Wirksworth, in Derbyshire, July, 1823.

    William Jones, a young man aged 20, has been fully committed to Derby
    gaol for the murder of his sweetheart, under circumstances of unheard
    of barbarity. The poor victim was a servant girl, whom under pretense
    of marriage he seduced. On her proving with child the villain formed
    the horrid design of murdering her, and carried his diabolical plan
    into execution on Monday evening last. The following verses are
    written upon the occasion, giving a complete detail of this shocking

      Come all false hearted young men
        And listen to my song,
      'Tis of a cruel murder,
        That lately has been done
      On the body of a maiden fair
        The truth I will unfold,
      The bare relation of this deed
        Will make your blood run cold.
      Near Wirksworth town in Derbyshire,
        Ann Williams she did dwell,
      In service she long time had lived,
        Till this to her befel.
      Her cheeks were like the blushing rose
        All in the month of May,
      Which made this wicked young man
        Thus unto her did say:
      Nancy, my charming creature,
        You have my heart ensnared,
      My love is such I am resolved
        To wed you I declare.
      Thus by his false deluding tongue
        Poor Nancy was beguil'd,
      And soon to her misfortune,
        By him she proved with child.
      Some days ago this damsel fair
        Did write to him with speed.
      Such tenderness she did express
        Would make a heart to bleed.
      She said, my dearest William,
        I am with child by thee;
      Therefore, my dear, pray let me know
        When you will marry me.
      The following day at evening,
        This young man did repair,
      Unto the town of Wirksworth,
        To meet his Nancy there.
      Saying, Nancy dear, come let us walk,
        Among the flowery fields,
      And then the secrets of my heart
        To you I will reveal.
      O then this wicked young man
        A knife he did provide,
      And all unknown to his true love
        Concealed it by his side.
      When to the fatal spot they came,
        These words to her did say:
      All on this very night I will
        Your precious life betray.
      On bended knee she then did fall,
        In sorrow and despair,
      Aloud for mercy she did call,
        Her cries did rend the air;
      With clasped hands and uplift eyes
        She cried, Oh spare my life,
      I never more will ask you
        To make me your wedded wife.
      O then this wicked young man said,
        No mercy will I show;
      He took the knife all from his side,
        And pierced her body through.
      But still she smiling said to him,
        While trembling with fear,
      Aä! William, William, spare my life,
        Think on your baby dear.
      Twice more then with the bloody knife
        He ran her body through,
      Her throat was cut from ear to ear,
        Most dreadful for to view;
      Her hands and arms and beauteous face
        He cut and mangled sore,
      While down upon her milk white breast
        The crimson blood did pour.
      He took the shawl from off her neck,
        And round her body tied,
      With pebble stones he did it fill,
        Thinking the crime to hide.
      O then into the silver stream
        He plunged her straightway,
      But with her precious blood was stained,
        Which soon did him betray.
      O then this young man taken was,
        And into prison sent,
      In ratling chains he is confin'd
        His crime for to lament,
      Until the Asizes do come on
        When trembling he must stand,
      Reflecting on the deed he's done;
        Waiting the dread command.
      Now all you thoughtless young men
        A timely warning take;
      Likewise ye fair young maidens,
        For this poor damsel's sake.
      And Oh beware of flattering tongues,
        For they'll your ruin prove;
      So may you crown your future day,
        In comfort, joy, and love.

    Printed at J. Pitts, Wholesale Toy and Marble Warehouse, 6, Great St.
    Andrew Street, Seven Dials.

There can be little doubt that Catnach, the great publisher of the Seven
Dials, next to children's books, had his mind mostly centred upon the
chronicling of doubtful scandals, fabulous duels between ladies of
fashion, "cooked" assassinations, and sudden deaths of eminent
individuals, apochryphal elopements, real or catch-penny accounts of
murders, impossible robberies, delusive suicides, dark deeds and public
executions, to which was usually attached the all-important and necessary
"Sorrowful Lamentations," or "Copy of Affectionate Verses," which,
according to the established custom, the criminal composed in the
condemned cell the night before his execution, after this manner:--

  "All you that have got feeling hearts, I pray you now attend
  To these few lines so sad and true, a solemn silence lend;
  It is of a cruel murder, to you I will unfold----
  The bare recital of the tale must make your blood run cold."

Or take another and stereotyped example, which from time to time has
served equally well for the verses _written by_ the culprit--Brown, Jones,
Robinson, or Smith:

  "Those deeds I mournfully repent,
    But now it is too late,
  The day is past, the die is cast,
    And fixed is my fate.

Occasionally the Last Sorrowful Lamentations contained a "Love
Letter"--the criminal being unable, in some instances, to read or write,
being no obstacle to the composition--written according to the street
patterer's statement: "from the depths of the condemned cell, with the
condemned pen, ink, and paper." This mode of procedure in "gallows"
literature, and this style of composition having prevailed for from sixty
to seventy years.

Then they would say: "Here you have also an exact likeness of the
murderer, taken at the bar of the Old Bailey by an eminent artist!" when
all the time it was an old woodcut that had been used for every criminal
for many years.

"There's nothing beats a stunning good murder after all," said a "running
patterer" to Mr. Henry Mayhew, the author of "London Labour and London
Poor." It is only fair to assume that Mr. James Catnach shared in the
sentiment, for it is said that he made over £500 by the publication of:--

"The Full, True and Particular Account of the Murder of Mr. Weare by John
Thurtell and his Companions, which took place on the 24th of October,
1823, in Gill's Hill-lane, near Elstree, in Hertfordshire:--Only One
Penny." There were eight formes set up, for old Jemmy had no notion of
stereotyping in those days, and pressmen had to re-cover their own
sheep-skins. But by working night and day for a week they managed to get
off about 250,000 copies with the four presses, each working two formes at
a time.

As the trial progressed, and the case became more fully developed, the
public mind became almost insatiable. Every night and morning large
bundles were despatched to the principal towns in the three kingdoms.

One of the many street-ballads on the subject informed the British public

  "Thurtell, Hunt, and Probert, too, for trial must now prepare,
  For that horrid murder of Mr. William Weare."


In connection with the murder of Mr. Weare by Thurtell and Co., Sir Walter
Scott, collected the printed trials with great assiduity, and took care
always to have to hand the contemporary ballads and prints bound up with
them. He admired particularly this verse of Theodore Hook's[13]

  "They cut his throat from ear to ear,
    His brains they battered in;
  His name was Mr. William Weare,
    He dwelt in Lyon's Inn."

    AT HERTFORD GAOL, On Friday, the 9th of January, 1824.


    _Hertford, half-past twelve o'clock._

    This morning, at ten minutes before twelve, a bustle among the
    javelin-men stationed within the boarded enclosure on which the drop
    was erected, announced to the multitude without that the preparations
    for the execution were nearly concluded. The javelin-men proceeded to
    arrange themselves in the order usually observed upon these melancholy
    but necessary occurrences. They had scarcely finished their
    arrangements, when the opening of the gate of the prison gave an
    additional impulse to public anxiety.

    When the clock was on the stroke of twelve, Mr Nicholson, the
    Under-Sheriff, and the executioner ascended the platform, followed on
    to it by Thurtell, who mounted the stairs with a slow but steady step.
    The principal turnkey of the gaol came next, and was followed by Mr
    Wilson and two officers. On the approach of the prisoner being
    intimated by those persons who, being in an elevated situation,
    obtained the first view of him, all the immense multitude present took
    off their hats.

    Thurtell immediately placed himself under the fatal beam, and at that
    moment the chimes of a neighbouring clock began to strike twelve. The
    executioner then came forward with the rope, which he threw across it.
    Thurtell first lifted his eyes up to the drop, gazed at it for a few
    moments, and then took a calm but hurried survey of the multitude
    around him. He next fixed his eyes on a young gentleman in the crowd,
    whom he had frequently seen as a spectator at the commencement of the
    proceedings against him. Seeing that the individual was affected by
    the circumstance, he removed them to another quarter, and in so doing
    recognised an individual well known in the sporting circles, to whom
    he made a slight bow.

    The prisoner was attired in a dark brown great coat, with a black
    velvet collar, white corduroy breeches, drab gaiters and shoes. His
    hands were confined with handcuffs, instead of being tied with cord,
    as is usually the case on such occasions, and, at his own request, his
    arms were not pinioned. He wore a pair of black kid gloves, and the
    wrists of his shirt were visible below the cuffs of his coat. As on
    the last day of his trial, he wore a white cravat. The irons, which
    were very heavy, and consisted of a succession of chain links, were
    still on his legs, and were held up in the middle by a Belcher
    handkerchief tied round his waist.

    The executioner commenced his mournful duties by taking from the
    unhappy prisoner his cravat and collar. To obviate all difficulty in
    this stage of the proceedings, Thurtell flung back his head and neck,
    and so gave the executioner an opportunity of immediately divesting
    him of that part of his dress. After tying the rope round Thurtell's
    neck, the executioner drew a white cotton cap over his countenance,
    which did not, however, conceal the contour of his face, or deprive
    him entirely of the view of surrounding objects.

    At that moment the clock sounded the last stroke of twelve. During the
    whole of this appalling ceremony, there was not the slightest symptom
    of emotion discernible in his features; his demeanour was perfectly
    calm and tranquil, and he behaved like a man acquainted with the
    dreadful ordeal he was about to pass, but not unprepared to meet it.
    Though his fortitude was thus conspicuous, it was evident from his
    appearance that in the interval between his conviction and his
    execution he must have suffered much. He looked careworn; his
    countenance had assumed a cadaverous hue, and there was a haggardness
    and lankness about his cheeks and mouth, which could not fail to
    attract the notice of every spectator.

    The executioner next proceeded to adjust the noose by which Thurtell
    was to be attached to the scaffold. After he had fastened it in such a
    manner as to satisfy his own mind, Thurtell looked up at it, and
    examined it with great attention. He then desired the executioner to
    let him have fall enough. The rope at this moment seemed as if it
    would only give a fall of two or three feet. The executioner assured
    him that the fall was quite sufficient. The principal turnkey then
    went up to Thurtell, shook hands with him, and turned away in tears.
    Mr Wilson, the governor of the gaol, next approached him. Thurtell
    said to him, "Do you think, Mr Wilson, I have got enough fall?" Mr
    Wilson replied, "I think you have, Sir. Yes, quite enough." Mr Wilson
    then took hold of his hand, shook it, and said, "Good bye, Mr
    Thurtell, may God Almighty bless you." Thurtell instantly replied,
    "God bless _you_, Mr Wilson, God bless _you_." Mr Wilson next asked
    him whether he considered that the laws of his country had been dealt
    to him justly and fairly, upon which he said, "I admit that justice
    has been done me--I am perfectly satisfied."

    A few seconds then elapsed, during which every person seemed to be
    engaged in examining narrowly Thurtell's deportment. His features, as
    well as they could be discerned, appeared to remain unmoved, and his
    hands, which were extremely prominent, continued perfectly steady, and
    were not affected by the slightest tremulous motion.

    Exactly at two minutes past twelve the Under-Sheriff, with his wand,
    gave the dreadful signal--the drop suddenly and silently fell--and


    Printed at J. Pitts, Wholesale Toy and Marble Warehouse, 6, Great St.
    Andrew Street, Seven Dials.



Four years after the Thurtell and Weare affair, namely, in the month of
April, 1828, another "sensational" murder was discovered--that of Maria
Marten, by William Corder, in the Red Barn, at Polstead, in the county of
Suffolk. The circumstances that led to the discovery of this most
atrocious murder were of an extraordinary and romantic nature, and
manifest an almost special interposition of Providence in marking out the
offender. As the mother of the girl had on three several nights dreamt
that her daughter was murdered and buried in Corder's Red Barn, and as
this proved to be the case, an additional "charm" was given to the
circumstance. Hence the "Catnach Press" was again set working both day and
night to meet the great demand for the "Full Particulars." In due course
came the gratifying announcement of the apprehension of the murderer! and
the sale continued unabatingly, in both town and country, every "Flying
Stationer" making great profits by the sale.


The trial of Corder took place at Bury St. Edmonds, on the 7th of August,
1828, before the Lord Chief Baron (Anderson). The prisoner pleaded "_Not
Guilty_," and the trial proceeded. On being called on for his defence,
Corder read a manuscript paper. He declared that he deeply deplored the
death of the unfortunate deceased, and he urged the jury to dismiss from
their minds all that prejudice which must necessarily have been excited
against him by the public press, &c. Having concluded his address, the
Lord Chief Baron summed up, and a verdict of "_Guilty_" was returned. The
Last Dying Speech and confession had an enormous sale--estimated at
1,166,000, a _fac-simile_ copy of which, with the "Lamentable Verses,"
said to have been written by Old Jemmy Catnach, will be found on the
opposite page.


    Since the tragical affair between Thurtell and Weare, no event has
    occurred connected with the criminal annals of our country which has
    excited so much interest as the trial of Corder, who was justly
    convicted of the murder of Maria Marten on Friday last.


    "Bury Gaol, August 10th, 1828.--Condemned cell.
    "Sunday evening, half-past Eleven.

    "I acknowledge being guilty of the death of poor Maria Marten, by
    shooting her with a pistol. The particulars are as follows:--When we
    left her father's house, we began quarrelling about the burial of the
    child: she apprehended the place wherein it was deposited would be
    found out. The quarrel continued about three quarters of an hour upon
    this sad and about other subjects. A scuffle ensued, and during the
    scuffle, and at the time I think that she had hold of me, I took the
    pistol from the side pocket of my velveteen jacket and fired. She
    fell, and died in an instant. I never saw her even struggle. I was
    overwhelmed with agitation and dismay:--the body fell near the front
    doors on the floor of the barn. A vast quantity of blood issued from
    the wound, and ran on to the floor and through the crevices. Having
    determined to bury the body in the barn (about two hours after she was
    dead). I went and borrowed a spade of Mrs Stow, but before I went
    there I dragged the body from the barn into the chaff-house, and
    locked the barn. I returned again to the barn, and began to dig a
    hole, but the spade being a bad one, and the earth firm and hard, I
    was obliged to go home for a pickaxe and a better spade, with which I
    dug the hole, and then buried the body. I think I dragged the body by
    the handkerchief that was tied round her neck. It was dark when I
    finished covering up the body. I went the next day, and washed the
    blood from off the barn-floor. I declare to Almighty God I had no
    sharp instrument about me, and no other wound but the one made by the
    pistol was inflicted by me. I have been guilty of great idleness, and
    at times led a dissolute life, but I hope through the mercy of God to
    be forgiven. WILLIAM CORDER."

    Witness to the signing by the said William Corder,


    Condemned cell, Eleven o'clock, Monday morning,
    August 11th, 1828.

    The above confession was read over carefully to the prisoner in our
    presence, who stated most solemnly it was true, and that he had
    nothing to add to or retract from it.--W. STOCKING, chaplain; TIMOTHY
    R. HOLMES, Under-Sheriff.


    At ten minutes before twelve o'clock the prisoner was brought from his
    cell and pinioned by the hangman, who was brought from London for the
    purpose. He appeared resigned, but was so weak as to be unable to
    stand without support; when his cravat was removed he groaned heavily,
    and appeared to be labouring under great mental agony. When his wrists
    and arms were made fast, he was led round twards the scaffold, and as
    he paused the different yards in which the prisoners were confined, he
    shook hands with them, and speaking to two of them by name, he said,
    "Good bye, God bless you." They appeared considerably affected by the
    wretched appearance which he made, and "God bless you!" "May God
    receive your soul!" were frequently uttered as he passed along. The
    chaplain walked before the prisoner, reading the usual Burial Service,
    and the Governor and Officers walking immediately after him. The
    prisoner was supported to the steps which led to the scaffold; he
    looked somewhat wildly around, and a constable was obliged to support
    him while the hangman was adjusting the fatal cord. There was a
    barrier to keep off the crowd, amounting to upwards of 7,000 persons,
    who at the time had stationed themselves in the adjoining fields, on
    the hedges, the tops of houses, and at every point from which a view
    of the execution could be best obtained. The prisoner, a few moments
    before the drop fell, groaned heavily, and would have fallen, had not
    a second constable caught hold of him. Everything having been made
    ready, the signal was given, the fatal drop fell, and the unfortunate
    man was launched into eternity. Just before he was turned off, he said
    in a feeble tone, "I am justly sentenced, and may God forgive me."

    The Murder of Maria Marten.


      Come all you thoughtless young men, a warning take by me,
      And think upon my unhappy fate to be hanged upon a tree;
      My name is William Corder, to you I do declare,
      I courted Maria Marten, most beautiful and fair.

      I promised I would marry her upon a certain day.
      Instead of that, I was resolved to take her life away.
      I went into her father's house the 18th day of May,
      Saying, my dear Maria, we will fix the wedding day.

      If you will meet me at the Red-barn, as sure as I have life,
      I will take you to Ipswich town, and there make you my wife;
      I then went home and fetched my gun, my pickaxe and my spade,
      I went into the Red-barn, and there I dug her grave.

      With heart so light, she thought no harm, to meet him she did go
      He murdered her all in the barn, and laid her body low;
      After the horrible deed was done, she lay weltering in her gore,
      Her bleeding mangled body he buried beneath the Red-barn floor.

      Now all things being silent, her spirit could not rest,
      She appeared unto her mother, who suckled her at her breast,
      For many a long month or more, her mind being sore oppress'd,
      Neither night or day she could not take any rest.

      Her mother's mind being so disturbed, she dreamt three nights o'er,
      Her daughter she lay murdered beneath the Red-barn floor;
      She sent the father to the barn, when he the ground did thrust,
      And there he found his daughter mingling with the dust.

      My trial is hard, I could not stand, most woeful was the sight,
      When her jaw-bone was brought to prove, which pierced my heart quite;
      Her aged father standing by, likewise his loving wife,
      And in her grief her hair she tore, she scarcely could keep life.

      Adieu, adieu, my loving friends, my glass is almost run,
      On Monday next will be my last, when I am to be hang'd,
      So you, young men, who do pass by, with pity look on me,
      For murdering Maria Marten, I was hang'd upon the tree.

    Printed by J. Catnach, 2 and 3, Monmouth Court.--Cards, &c., Printed



    On the 22nd of April, James Greenacre was found guilty of the wilful
    murder of Hannah Brown, and Sarah Gale with being accessary after the
    fact. A long and connected chain of evidence was produced, which
    showed, that the sack in which the body was found was the property of
    Mr. Ward; that is was usually deposited in a part of the premises
    which led to the workshop, and could without observation have been
    carried away by him; that the said sack contained several fragments of
    shavings of mahogany, such as were made in the course of business by
    Ward; and that it contained some pieces of linen cloth, which had been
    patched with nankeen; that this linen cloth matched exactly with a
    frock which was found on Greenacre's premises, and which belonged to
    the female prisoner. Feltham, a police-officer, deposed, that on the
    26th of March he apprehended the prisoners at the lodgings of
    Greenacre; that on searching the trowsers pockets of that person, he
    took therefrom a pawnbroker's duplicate for two silk gowns, and from
    the fingers of the female prisoner two rings, and also a similar
    duplicate for two veils, and an old-fashioned silver watch, which she
    was endeavouring to conceal; and it was further proved that these
    articles were pledged by the prisoners, and that they had been the
    property of the deceased woman.--Two surgeons were examined, whose
    evidence was most important, and whose depositions were of the
    greatest consequence in throwing a clear light on the manner in which
    the female, Hannah Brown, met with her death. Mr. Birtwhistle deposed,
    that he had carefully examined the head; that the right eye had been
    knocked out by a blow inflicted while the person was living; there was
    also a cut on the cheek, and the jaw was fractured, these two last
    wounds were, in his opinion, produced after death; there was also a
    bruise on the head, which had occurred after death; the head had been
    separated by cutting, and the bone sawed nearly _through_, and then
    broken off; there were the marks of a saw, which fitted with a saw
    which was found in Greenacre's box. Mr. Girdwood, a surgeon, very
    minutely and skilfully described the appearances presented on the
    head, and showed incontestibly, that the head had been severed from
    the body _while the person was yet alive_; that this was proved by the
    retraction, or drawing back, of the muscles at the parts where they
    were separated by the knife, and further, by the blood-vessels being
    empty, the body was drained of blood. This part of the evidence
    produced a thrill of horror throughout the court, but Greenacre
    remained quite unmoved.

    After a most impressive and impartial summing up by the learned Judge,
    the jury retired, and, after the absence of a quarter of an hour,
    returned into court, and pronounced a verdict of "Guilty" against both
    the prisoners.

    The prisoners heard the verdict without evincing the least emotion, or
    the slightest change of countenance. After an awful silence of a few
    minutes, the Lord Chief Justice said they might retire, as they would
    be remanded until the end of the session.

    They were then conducted from the bar, and on going down the steps,
    the unfortunate female prisoner kissed Greenacre with every mark of
    tenderness and affection.

    The crowd outside the court on this day was even greater than on
    either of the preceding; and when the result of the trial was made
    known in the street, a sudden and general shout succeeded, and
    continued huzzas were heard for several minutes.


    At half past seven the sheriff arrived in his carriage, and in a short
    time the press-yard was thronged with gentlemen who had been admitted
    by tickets. The unhappy convict was now led from his cell. When he
    arrived in the press-yard, his whole appearance pourtrayed the utmost
    misery and spirit-broken dejection; his countenance haggard, and his
    whole frame agitated; all that self-possession and fortitude which he
    displayed in the early part of his imprisonment, had utterly forsaken
    him, and had left him a victim of hopelessness and despair. He
    requested the executioner to give him as little pain as possible in
    the process of pinioning his arms and wrists; he uttered not a word in
    allusion to his crime; neither did he make any dying request, except
    that his spectacles might be given to Sarah Gale; he exhibited no sign
    of hope; he showed no symptom of reconciliation with his offended God!
    When the venerable ordinary preceded him in the solemn procession
    through the vaulted passage to the fatal drop, he was so overcome and
    unmanned, that he could not support himself without the aid of the
    assistant executioner. At the moment he ascended the faithless floor,
    from which he was to be launched into eternity, the most terrific
    yells, groans, and cheers were vociferated by the immense multitude
    surrounding the place of execution. Greenacre bowed to the sheriff,
    and begged he might not be allowed to remain long in the concourse;
    and almost immediately the fatal bolt was withdrawn, and, without a
    struggle, he became a lifeless corse.--Thus ended the days of
    Greenacre, a man endowed with more than ordinary talents, respectably
    connected, and desirably placed in society; but a want of probity, an
    absolute dearth of principle, led him on from one crime to another,
    until at length he perpetrated the sanguinary deed which brought his
    career to an awful and disgraceful period, and which has enrolled his
    name among the most notorious of those who have expiated their crime
    on the gallows.

    On hearing the death-bell toll, Gale became dreadfully agitated; and
    when she heard the brutal shouts of the crowd of spectators, she
    fainted, and remained in a state of alternate mental agony and
    insensibility throughout the whole day.

    After having been suspended the usual time, his body was cut down, and
    buried in a hole dug in one of the passages of the prison, near the
    spot where Thistlewood and his associates were deposited.

    J. Catnach, Printer, 2 and 3, Monmouth Court.

The following is a fac-simile of the "Execution Paper," from the press of
Paul and Co.,--successors of Catnach.

    FOR THE Murder of Lord Wm. Russell.


    Old Bailey, Saturday Evening,
    _June 20th, 1840_.

    After the jury had been absent for an hour and twenty minutes, they
    returned into court, and the prisoner was again placed at the bar.

    The names of the jury were then called over, and the clerk of the
    court said--"How say you, gentlemen, have you agreed on your verdict?
    Do you find the prisoner Guilty or Not Guilty of the felony of murder
    with which he stands charged?"

    The foreman of the jury, in a low voice, said--"We find him GUILTY!"

    The Clerk of the Court then said: François Benjamin Courvoisier, you
    have been found Guilty of the wilful murder of William Russell, Esq.,
    commonly called Lord William Russell; what have you to say why the
    court should not give you sentence to die according to law?

    The prisoner made no reply. The usual proclamation for silence was
    then made.


    The LORD CHIEF JUSTICE TINDAL, having put on the black cap, said:
    François Benjamin Courvoisier, you have been found guilty by an
    intelligent, patient, and impartial jury of the crime of wilful
    murder. That crime has been established against you, not indeed by the
    testimony of eye-witnesses as to the fact, but by a chain of
    circumstances no less unerring, which have left no doubt of your guilt
    in the minds of the jury, and all those who heard the trial. It is
    ordained by divine authority that the murderer shall not escape
    justice, and this ordination has been exemplified in your case, in the
    course of this trial, by the disclosure of evidence which has brought
    the facts to bear against you in a conclusive manner. The murder,
    although committed in the dark and silent hour of night, has
    nevertheless been brought clearly to light by Divine interposition.
    The precise motive which induced you to commit this guilty act can
    only be known to your own conscience; but it now only remains for me
    to recommend you most earnestly to employ the short time you have to
    live in prayer and repentance, and in endeavouring to make your peace
    with that Almighty Being whose law you have broken, and before whom
    you must shortly appear. The Learned Judge then passed sentence on the
    prisoner in the usual form.

    The court was very much crowded to the last.


    After the Learned Judge had passed sentence on the convict, he was
    removed from the bar, and immediately made a full confession of his


    At eight o'clock this morning, Courvoisier ascended the steps leading
    to the gallows, and advanced, without looking round him, to the centre
    of the platform, followed by the executioner and the ordinary of the
    prison, the Rev. Mr Carver. On his appearance a few yells of
    execration escaped from a portion of the crowd, but the general body
    of the people, great as must have been their abhorrence of his
    atrocious crime, remained silent spectators of the scene which was
    passing before their eyes. The prisoner's manner was marked by an
    extraordinary appearance of firmness. His step was steady and
    collected, and his movements free from the slightest agitation or
    indecision. His countenance indeed was pale, and bore the trace of
    much dejection, but it was at the same time calm and unmoved. While
    the executioner was placing him on the drop he slightly moved his
    hands (which were tied in front of him, and strongly clasped one
    within the other) up and down two or three times, and this was the
    only visible symptom of any emotion or mental anguish which the
    wretched man endured. His face was then covered with the cap, fitting
    so closely as not to conceal the outlines of his countenance, the
    noose was then adjusted. During this operation he lifted up his head
    and raised his hands to his breast, as if in the action of fervent
    prayer. In a moment the fatal bolt was withdrawn, the drop fell, and
    in this attitude the murderer perished. He died without any violent
    struggle. In two minutes after he had fallen his legs were twice
    slightly convulsed, but no further motion was observable, excepting
    that his raised arms, gradually losing their vitality, sank down from
    their own lifeless weight.

    After hanging one hour, the body was cut down and removed within the


      Attention give, both old and young,
        Of high and low degree,
      Think while this mournful tale is sung,
        Of my sad misery.
      I've slain a master good and kind,
        To me has been a friend,
      For which I must my life resign,
        My time is near an end.

      Oh hark! what means that dreadful sound?
        It sinks deep in my soul;
      It is the bell that sounds my knell,
        How solemn is the toll.
      See thousands are assembled
        Around the fatal place,
      To gaze on my approaching,
        And witness my disgrace.

      There many sympathising hearts,
        Who feel another's woe,
      Even now appears in sorrow,
        For my sad overthrow.
      Think of the aged man I slew,
        Then pity's at an end,
      I robb'd him of property and life,
        And the poor man of a friend.

      Let pilfering passions not intrude,
        For to lead you astray,
      From step to step it will delude,
        And bring you to dismay.
      Think of the wretched Courvoisier,
        Who thus dies on a tree,
      A death of shame, I've nought to blame,
        But my own dishonesty.

      Mercy on earth I'll not implore,
        To crave it would be vain,
      My hands are dyed with human gore,
        None can wash off the stain.
      But the merits of a Saviour,
        Whose mercy alone I crave;
      Good Christians pray, as thus I die,
        I may his pardon have.

    Paul & Co., Printers, 2, 3, Monmouth Court, Seven Dials.

But the gallows was not always a fruit-bearing tree, and a "stunning good
murder" did not happen every day. Nevertheless the street patterer must
live, and lest the increase of public virtue should condemn him to
starvation, the "Seven Dials Press," stepped forward to his aid, and
considerately supplied him with a species of street-literature well known
to the trade as "Cocks," and which are defined in "Hotton's Slang
Dictionary" thus:--

    COCKS, fictitious narratives, in verse or prose, of murders, fires and
    terrible accidents, sold in the streets as true accounts. The man who
    hawks them, a patterer, often changes the scene of the awful event to
    suit the taste of the neighbourhood he is trying to delude. Possibly a
    corruption of _cook_--a cooked statement, or may be "the story of a
    cock and bull" may have had something to do with the term.
    Improvements in newspapers, especially in those published in the
    evening, and increased scepticism on the part of the public have
    destroyed this branch of a once-flourishing business.

The late Mr. Albert Smith, the humourist and novelist, has very happily
hit off this style of thing in "The Man in the Moon," one of the many
rivals to "Punch," and edited by that very promising son of genius, the
late Angus B. Reach, 1832-56. It is entitled--


_Found among the Papers of Mr. Catnach, the spirited Publisher of Seven
Dials; originally intended to have been "printed and published at the Toy
and Marble Warehouse, 2 and 3, Monmouth Court, Seven Dials."_



_The Hero claims the attention of virtuous persons, and leads them to
anticipate a painful disclosure._


  Draw hither now good people all
    And let my story warn,
  For I will tell to you a tale,
    What will wrend them breasts of yourn.


_He names the place and hour of the disgraceful penalty he is about to


  I am condemn'd all for to die
    A death of scorn and horror;
  In front of Horsemonger-lane Gaol,
    At eight o'clock to-morrer.


_He hints at his atrocity; and the ebullition produced by the mere
recollection of it._


  The crime of which I was found guilty,
    Oh! it was shocking vile;
  The very thoughts of the cruel deed
    Now makes my blood to bile.


_He speaks of the happy hours of Childhood, never more to return._


  In Somersetshire I was born'd,
    And my little sister dear
  Didn't think then that my sad end
    Would be like unto this here.


_The revelation of his name and profession; and subsequent avowal of his


  James Guffin is my hated name,
    And a footman I'm by trade;
  And I do confess that I did slay
    My poor fellow-servant maid.


_He acknowledges the justice of his sentence._


  And well I do deserve, I own,
    My fate which is so bitter:
  For 'twas most wicked for to kill
    So innicent a critter.


_And pictures what might have taken place but for the interference of


  Her maiden name was Sarey Leigh,
    And was to have been Guffin;
  For we was to have been marri-ed,
    But Fate brought that to nuffin.


_He is particular as to the date of the occurrence._


  All on a Wednesday afternoon,
    On the ninth of Janivary,
  Eighteen hundred and forty-four,
    Oh! I did kill my Sarey.


_And narrates the means employed, and the circumstances which led him to
destroy his betrothed._


  With arsenic her I did destroy,
    How could I be so vicious!
  But of my young master I was jealous,
    And so was my old Missus.


_He is led away by bad passions._


  I thought Sarey Leigh warn't true to me,
    So all pity then despising,
  Sure I was tempted by the Devil
    To give to her some p'ison.


_His bosom is torn by conflicting resolutions; but he is at last decided._


  Long--long I brooded on the deed,
    'Til one morning of a sudden,
  I did determine for to put
    It in a beef-steak puddin.


_The victim falls into the snare._


  Of the fatal pudding she did partake,
    Most fearful for to see,
  And an hour arter was to it a martyr,
    Launch'd into eternity.


_He feels that his perception comes too late._


  Ah! had I then but viewed things in
    The light that I now does 'em,
  I never should have know'd the grief
    As burns in this here buzum.


_He commits his secret to the earth._


  So when I seed what I had done,
    In hopes of justice retarding,
  I took and buried poor Sarey Leigh
    Out in the kitching garding.


_But the earth refuses to keep it._


  But it did haunt me, so I felt
    As of a load deliver'd,
  When three weeks after the fatal deed,
    The body was diskiver'd.


_Remorse and self examination._


  O! why did I form of Sarey Leigh
    Such cruel unjust opinions,
  When my young master did her find
    Beneath the bed of inions.


_His countrymen form a just estimate of his delinquency._


  Afore twelve jurymen I was tried,
    And condemned the perpetrator
  Of this here awful Tragedy,
    As shocks one's human natur.


_He conjures up a painful image._


  But the bell is tolling for my end;
    How shocking for to see
  A footman gay, in the prime of life,
    Die on the fatal tree.


_His last words convey a moral lesson._



  Take warning, then, all ye as would
    Not die like malefactors;
  Never the company for to keep
    Of them with bad characters.


  Little Boys and Girls will find
  At CATNACH'S something to their mind;
  From great variety may choose,
  What will instruct them and amuse.
  The prettiest plates that you can find,
  To please at once the eye and mind.

One class of literature which the late Jemmy Catnach made almost his own,
was children's farthing and halfpenny books. Among the great many that he
published we select, from our own private collection, the following as a
fair sample:--"The Tragical Death of an Apple Pie," "The House that Jack
Built," "Jumping Joan," "The Butterflies Ball and Grasshoppers' Feast,"
"Jerry Diddle and his Fiddle," "Nurse Love-Child's Gift," "The Death and
Burial of Cock Robin," "The Cries of London," "Simple Simon," "Jacky
Jingle and Suky Shingle," and--"Here you have just prin--ted and
pub--lish--ed, and a--dor--ned with eight beau--ti--ful and ele--gantly
engraved embellish--ments, and for the low charge of one _farden_--Yes!
one _farden_ buys."



  See-saw, sacradown,
  Which is the way to London town?
  One foot up, and the other down,
  And that is the way to London town.


  Hey diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
  The cow jumped over the moon,
  The little dog laughed to see the sport,
  And the dish ran away with the spoon.

  Ding, dong bell!
  Pussy's in the well.
  Who put her in?
  Little Johnny Green.
  Who pulled her out?
  Little Johnny Snout.
  What a naughty boy was that,
  To drown poor pussy cat,
  Who never did him any harm,
  And kill'd the mice in his father's barn.


  Jack and Jill went up the hill,
    To get a pail of water;
  Jack fell down and broke his crown,
    And Jill came tumbling after.


  Cock a doodle do,
  The dame has lost her shoe,
  And master's lost his fiddle stick
  And don't know what to do.

  I had a little husband,
    No bigger than my thumb.
  I put him in a quart pot,
    And there I bid him drum.


  Who's there? A Grenadier!
  What do you want? A pot of beer.
  Where's your money? Oh, I forgot,
  Then get you gone, you drunken sot.


  Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
  When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
  When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
  Down comes the baby, cradle and all.


  There was an old woman that lived in a shoe,
  She had so many children she knew not what to do;
  She gave them some broth without any bread,
  Then she beat them all well, and sent them to bed.


  My mother and your mother
      Went over the way;
  Said my mother to your mother,
      It's chop-a-nose day!

J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.




  Here's round and sound,
  Black and white heart cherries,
  Two-pence a pound.



      Here's oranges nice,
      At a very small price,
  I sell them all two for a penny.
      Ripe, juicy, and sweet,
      Just fit for to eat,
  So customers buy a good many.


_Milk below._

  Rain, frost, or snow, or hot or cold,
    I travel up and down,
  The cream and milk you buy of me
    Is best in all the town.
  For custards, puddings, or for tea,
    There's none like those you buy of me.


_Crumpling Codlings._

  Come buy my Crumpling Codlings,
    Buy all my Crumplings.
  Some of them you may eat raw,
    Of the rest make dumplings,
  Or pies, or puddings, which you please.



  Come buy my filberts ripe and brown,
  They are the best in all the town,
  I sell them for a groat a pound,
  And warrant them all good and sound,
  You're welcome for to crack and try,
  They are so good, I'm sure you'll buy.


_Clothes Pegs, Props, or Lines._

  Come, maids, and buy my pegs and props,
    Or lines to dry your clothes,
  And when they are dry they'll smell as sweet
    As any damask rose.
  Come buy and save your clothes from dirt,
  They'll save you washing many a shirt.



  Sweep, chimney sweep,
  Is the common cry I keep,
      If you rightly understand me;
  With my brush, broom, and my rake,
  Such cleanly work I make,
      There's few can go beyond me.


_Peas and Beans._

  Four pence a peck, green Hastings!
    And fine garden beans.
  They are all morning gathered,
    Come hither, my queens.
  Come buy my Windsor beans and peas,
  You'll see no more this year like these.

_Young Lambs to Sell._

  Get ready your money and come to me,
  I sell a young lamb for a penny.
  Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell!
  If I'd as much money as I could tell,
  I never would cry young lambs to sell.


  Here's your toys for girls and boys,
  Only a penny, or a dirty phial or bottle.



  Rare ripe strawberries and
  Hautboys, sixpence a pottle.
  Full to the bottom, hautboys.
  Strawberries and Cream are charming and sweet,
  Mix them and try how delightful they eat.


  When Good Friday comes,
  The old woman runs
  With Hot Cross Buns,
  One a penny, Buns,
  Two a penny, Buns,
  All Hot Buns.

  Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth
  Court, 7 Dials.

"Songs! Songs! Songs! Beautiful songs! Love songs; Newest songs! Old
songs! Popular songs! Songs, _Three Yards a Penny!_" was a "standing dish"
at the "Catnach Press," and Catnach was the Leo X. of street publishers.
And it is said that he at one time kept a fiddler on the premises, and
that he used to sit receiving ballad writers and singers, and judging of
the merits of any production which was brought to him, by having it sung
then and there to some popular air played by his own fiddler, and so that
the ballad-singer should be enabled to start at once, not only with the
new song, but also the tune to which it was adapted. His broad-sheets
contain all sorts of songs and ballads, for he had a most catholic taste,
and introduced the custom of taking from any writer, living or dead,
whatever he fancied, and printing it side by side with the productions of
his own clients.

Catnach, towards the latter part of his time and in his threefold capacity
of publisher, compositor, and poet, was in the habit of taking things very
easy, and always appeared to the best advantage when in his printing
office, or stationed behind the ricketty counter which for a number of
years had done good service in the shop in Monmouth-court. In this
uncongenial atmosphere, where the rays of the sun are seldom or never
seen, Jemmy was as happy as a prince. "A poor man's home is his castle,"
so says an old proverb, and no one could have been prouder than he was
when despatching to almost every town in the kingdom some specialty in the
printing department. He naturally had a bit of a taste for old ballads,
music, and song writing; and in this respect he was far in advance of many
of his contemporaries. To bring within the reach of all, the standard and
popular works of the day, had been the ambition of the elder Catnach;
whilst the son was, _nolens volens_, incessant in his endeavours in trying
to promulgate and advance, not the beauty, elegance, and harmony which
pervades many of our national airs and ballad poety, but very often the
worst and vilest of each and every description--in other words, those most
suitable for street sale. His stock of songs was very like his customers,
diversified. There were all kinds, to suit all classes. Love, sentimental,
and comic songs were so interwoven as to form a trio of no ordinary amount
of novelty. At ordinary times, when the Awfuls and Sensationals were flat,
Jemmy did a large stroke of business in this line.

It is said that when the "Songs--_Three-yards-a-penny_"--first came out
and had all the attractions of novelty, some men sold twelve or fourteen
dozen on fine days during three or four of the summer months, so clearing
between 6s. and 7s. a day, but on the average about 25s. per week profit.
The "long songs," however, have been quite superseded by the "Monster" and
"Giant Penny Song Books." Still there are a vast number of halfpenny
ballad-sheets worked off, and in proportion to their size, far more than
the "Monsters" or "Giants." One song book, entitled the "Little Warbler,"
was published in parts, and had an enormous sale.

There are invariably but two songs printed on the half-penny
ballad-sheets--generally a new and popular song with another older ditty,
or a comic and sentimental, and "adorned" with two woodcuts. These are
selected without any regard to their fitness to the subject, and in most
cases have not the slightest reference to the ballad of which they form
the headpiece. For instance:--"The Heart that can feel for another" is
illustrated by a gaunt and savage-looking lion; "When I was first
Breeched," by an engraving of a Highlander _sans culotte_; "The Poacher"
comes under the cut of a youth with a large watering-pot, tending flowers;
"Ben Block" is heralded by the rising sun; "The London Oyster Girl," by
Sir Walter Raleigh; "The Sailors Grave," by the figure of Justice; "Alice
Grey" comes under the very dilapidated figure of a sailor, or "Jolly Young
Waterman;" "Bright Hours are in store for us yet" is _headed_ with a
_tail-piece_ of an urn, on which is inscribed FINIS. (?) "Watercresses,"
with the portrait of a Silly Billy; "The Wild Boar Hunt," by two wolves
chasing a deer; "The Dying Child to its Mother," by an Angel appearing to
an old man; "Crazy Jane," by the Royal Arms of England; "Autumn Leaves lie
strew'd around," by a ship in full sail; "Cherry Ripe," by Death's Head
and Cross Bones; "Jack at the Windlass," falls under a Roadside Inn; while
"William Tell" is presented to the British public in form and style of an
old woman nursing an infant of a squally nature. Here are a few

[Illustration: The Smuggler King.]

[Illustration: Let me like a Soldier fall.]

[Illustration: Fair Phoebe and her Dark-Eyed Sailor.]

[Illustration: My Pretty Jane.]

[Illustration: The Thorn.]

[Illustration: The Saucy Arethusa.]

[Illustration: The Gipsy King.]

[Illustration: Hearts of Oak.]

[Illustration: Harry Bluff.]

[Illustration: Death of Nelson.]

[Illustration: John Anderson, my Jo.]

[Illustration: Old English Gentleman.]

[Illustration: The Bleeding Heart.]

[Illustration: Wapping Old Stairs.]

[Illustration: Poor Bessy was a Sailor's Bride.]

[Illustration: Poor Mary Anne.]

[Illustration: The Muleteer.]

[Illustration: Tom Bowling.]

[Illustration: Ye Banks an' Braes.]

[Illustration: The Mistletoe Bough.]

[Illustration: The Woodpecker.]

[Illustration: The Soldier's Tear.]

[Illustration: LONG-SONG SELLER.]

Besides the chanters, who sing the songs through the streets of every
city, town, village, and hamlet in the kingdom--the long-song seller, who
shouts their titles on the kerb-stone, and the countless small
shop-keepers, who, in swag-shops, toy-shops, sweetstuff-shops,
tobacco-shops, and general shops, keep them as part of their stock for the
supply of the street boys and the servant girls--there is another
important functionary engaged in their distribution, and who is well known
to the inhabitants of large towns, this is the pinner-up, who takes his
stand against a dead wall or a long range of iron railings, and first
festooning it liberally with twine, pins up one or two hundred ballads for
public perusal and selection. Time was when this was a thriving trade: and
we are old enough to remember the day when a good half-mile of wall
fluttered with the minstrelsy of war and love, under the guardianship of a
scattered file of pinners-up, along the south side of Oxford-street alone.
Thirty years ago the dead walls gave place to shop fronts, and the
pinners-up departed to their long homes. As they died out very few
succeeded to their honours and emoluments. There is one pinner-up,
seemingly the last of his race, who makes his display on the dead wall of
the underground railway in Farringdon road.

Catnach, to the day of his retirement from business in 1838, when he
purchased the freehold of a disused public-house, which had been known as
the Lion Inn, together with the grounds attached at Dancer's-hill, South
Mimms, near Barnet, in the county of Middlesex, worked and toiled in the
office of the "Seven Dials Press," in which he had moved as the pivot, or
directing mind, for upwards of a quarter of a century. He lived and died a
bachelor. His only idea of all earthly happiness and mental enjoyment was
now to get away in retirement to a convenient distance from his old place
of business, so to give him an opportunity occasionally to go up to town
and have a chat and a friendly glass with one or two old paper-workers and
ballad-writers, and a few others connected with his peculiar trade who had
shown any disposition to work when work was to be done. To them he was
always willing to give or advance a few pence or shillings, in money or
stock, and a glass.

Catnach left the whole of the business to Mrs. Anne Ryle, his sister,
charged, nevertheless, to the amount of £1,000, payable at his death to
the estate of his niece, Marion Martha Ryle. In the meanwhile Mr. James
Paul acted as managing man for Mrs. Ryle. This Mr. Paul--of whom Jemmy was
very fond, and rumour saith, had no great dislike to the mother--had
grown from a boy to a man in the office of the "Catnach Press." He was,
therefore, well acquainted with the customers, by whom he was much
respected; and it was by his tact and judgment that the business was kept
so well together. At Catnach's death he entered into partnership with Mrs.
Ryle, and the business was carried on under the title and style of Paul &
Co. In 1845 the partnership was dissolved, Mr. Paul receiving £800 in
settlement. He then entered into the public line, taking the Spencer's
Arms, at the corner of Monmouth-court. A son that was born to him in 1847,
he had christened James Catnach Paul. About this date "The Catnach Press"
had a formidable rival in "The Nassau Steam Press," which was originally
started in Nassau Street, Soho, and afterwards removed to No. 60, St.
Martin's Lane. Mr. Paul was especially engaged to manage the song
department at this office. He died in the year 1870, just six weeks after
Mrs. Ryle, and lies buried in the next grave but one to Catnach and his
sister, in Highgate Cemetery.

After Mr. Paul had left the business it was carried on as A. Ryle & Co.,
and ultimately became the property of Mr. W. S. Fortey, who still carries
on the old business in the same premises. A copy of whose trade
announcement runs thus:--

    "THE CATNACH PRESS." (Established 1813.)

    "William S. Fortey, (late A. Ryle, successor to the late J. Catnach,)
    Printer, Publisher, and Wholesale Stationer, 2 and 3, Monmouth-court,
    Seven Dials, London, W.C."


[Illustration: SIR JEFFERY DUNSTAN, _Late Mayor of Garratt, and Itinerant
Dealer in Wigs_.]

Sir Jeffery Dunstan--thrice Mayor of Garratt! was the most popular
candidate that ever appeared on the Hustings at that very Free and
Independent Borough! His occupation was that of buying old wigs, once an
article of trade like that of old clothes. Sir Jeffery usually carried his
wig bag over his shoulder, and to avoid the charge of vagrancy,
vociferated, as he passed along the street, "Old Wigs," but having a
person like Æsop, and a countenance and manner marked by irresistible
humour, he never appeared without a train of boys and curious persons,
whom he entertained by his sallies of wit, shrewd sayings, and smart
repartees; and from whom, without begging, he collected sufficient to help
to maintain his dignity of Mayor and Knight.

From the earliest period of Sir Jeffery's life, he was a friend to "good
measures," especially those for "spirituous liquors," and he never saw the
inside of a pot without going to the bottom of it. This determination of
character created difficulties to him; for his freedom was not always
regulated by the doctrines of _meum et tuum_, or, of the great Blackstone,
"on the rights of persons," and consequences ensued that were occasionally
injurious to Sir Jeffery's eyes, face, and nose. The same enlightened
Judge's views of "the rights of property," were not comprehended by Sir
Jeffery, he had long made free with the porter of manifold pots, and at
length he made free with a few of the pots--which the publicans in London
seemed to show in the streets as much as to say "Come and steal me." For
this he was "questioned" in the high Commission Court of oyer and
terminer, and suffered an imprisonment, which, according to his manner of
life, and his notions of the liberty of the subject, was "frivolous and
vexatious." On his liberation, he returned to an occupation he had long
followed, the dealing in "Old Wigs." Some other circumstances, developed
in course of the preceding inquiry, seem to favour a supposition that the
bag he carried had enabled him to conceal his previous "free trade" in
pewter pots. But, be that as it might, it is certain that in his armorial
bearings of four wigs, he added a quart pot for a crest.

Sir Jeffery was remarkably dirty in his person, and always had his shirt
thrown open, which exposed his breast to public view. This was in him a
sort of pride; for he would frequently in an exulting manner say to
_inferiors_ "I've got a _collar_ to my shirt, sir." He had a filthy habit,
when he saw a number of girls around him, of spitting in their faces,
saying, "There, go about your business."

Sir Jeffery, in the days of his prosperity, took his "Hodges' best," at
the "Blind Beggar of Bethnal-green," or the "Horse and Leaping Bar,"
High-street, Whitechapel, at one or other of these favourite retreats, he
got in a regular manner "regularly drunk." Then it was that he sung in his
best style various popular "London Cries," mimicking others in their
crying, especially one who vended "_Lily, lily, lily, lily white--sand oh!
oh!! oh!!!_" this afforded sport to a merry company. Afterwards, should
Sir Jeffery receive sufficient metalic support from his friends, he was
placed in an arm chair on the table, when he recited to the students of
the London Hospital and the Bucks of the East, his mock-election speeches.
He was no respecter of persons, and was so severe in his jokes on the
corruptions and compromises of power, that he was prosecuted for using
what were then called seditious expressions. In consequence of this
affair, and some few charges of dishonesty, he lost his popularity, and,
at the next general election was ousted by Sir Harry Dimsdale,
muffin-seller, a man as much deformed as himself. Sir Jeffery could not
long survive his fall, but, in death as in life, he proved a satire on the
vices of the proud, for he died, like Alexander the Great, the sailor in
Lord Byron's "Don Juan," and many other heroes renowned in history--of
suffocation from excessive drinking!.


  "Those evening bells! those evening bells!
  How many a tale their music tells!
  Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
  When last I heard their soothing chime."]

"Muffins, oh! Crumpets, oh," rank among the old cries of London, and at
least one of the calling has been made famous, namely, Harry Dimsdale,
sometime Mayor of Garratt, who, from the moment he stood as candidate,
received mock knighthood, and was ever after known under the appellation
of "Sir Harry." This half-witted character was a dealer in
tin-ware--together with threads, tapes and bootlaces, during the morning,
and a muffin-seller in the afternoon, when he had a little bell, which he
held to his ear, and smiling ironically at its tinkling he would
cry:--"_Muffins! muffins! ladies come buy me! pretty, handsome, blooming,
smiling maids!_"

Mr. J. T. Smith, in his ever-charming work of "A Book for a Rainy Day; or,
Recollections of the Events of the Years 1766-1833," writing under date
1787, gives the following graphic sketch of the sayings and doings--taken
from life, of "Sir Harry."

"One of the curious scenes I witnessed on a nocturnal visit to the watch
house of St. Anne, Soho, afforded me no small amusement. Sir Harry
Dinsdale, usually called Dimsdale, a short, feeble little man, was brought
in, charged by two colossal guardians of the night with conduct most
unruly. 'What have you, Sir Harry, to say to all this?' asked the Dogberry
of St. Anne. The knight, who had been roughly handled, commenced like a
true orator, in a low tone of voice. 'May it please ye, my magistrate, I
am not drunk; it is _languor_. A parcel of the Bloods of the Garden have
treated me cruelly, because I would not treat them. This day, sir, I was
sent for by Mr. Sheridan, to make a speech upon the table at the
Shakespeare Tavern, in _Common_ Garden; he wrote the speech for me, and
always gives half a guinea; he sends for me to the tavern. You see I
didn't go in my Royal robes, I only put 'um on when I stand to be a
member.' The constable--'Well, but Sir Harry, why are you brought here?'
One of the watchmen then observed, 'That though Sir Harry was but a little
_shambling_ fellow, he was so _upstroppolus_, and kicked him about at such
a rate, that it was as much as he and his comrade could do to bring him
along.' As there was no one to support the charge, Sir Harry was advised
to go home, which, however, he swore he would not do at midnight without
an escort. 'Do you know,' said he, 'there's a parcel of _raps_ now on the
outside waiting for me.'

"The constable of the night gave orders for him to be protected to the
public-house opposite the west end of St. Giles's Church, where he then
lodged. Sir Harry, hearing a noise in the street, muttered, 'I shall catch
it; I know I shall.' (_Cries without_,) 'See the conquering hero comes.'
'Ay, they always use that tune when I gain my election at Garratt.'

"There are several portraits of this singular little object, by some
called 'Honey-juice.' Flaxman, the sculptor, and Mrs. Mathews, of
blue-stocking memory, equipped him as a hardware man, and as such I made
two etchings of him."


  (_T. Dibden._)

    While you opera-squallers fine verses are singing,
      Of heroes, and poets, and such like humguffins;
    While the world's running round, like a mill in a sail,
  I'll ne'er bother my head with what other folks ail,
  But careless and frisky, my bell I keep ringing,
    And walk about merrily crying my muffins.


  Lily-white muffins, O, rare crumpets smoking,
  Hot Yorkshire cakes, hot loaves and charming cakes,
      _One-a-penny, two-a-penny, Yorkshire cakes_.

  What matters to me if great folks run a gadding,
    For politics, fashions, or such botheration;
  Let them drink as they brew, while I merrily bake;
  For though I sell muffins, I'm not such a cake--
  To let other fools' fancies e'er set me a gadding,
    Or burthen my thoughts with the cares of the nation.

SPOKEN.--What have I to do with politicians? And for your _Parliament
cakes_. Why! everybody knows they are _bought_ and _sold_, and often _done
brown_, and made _crusty_ all over the nation. No, no, its enough for me
to cry--

                        Lily-white muffins, &c.

  Let soldiers and sailors, contending for glory,
    Delight in the rattle of drums and of trumpets;
  Undertakers get living by other folks dying,
  While actors make money by laughing or crying;
  Let lawyers with quizzels and quiddities bore ye,
    It's nothing to me, while I'm crying my crumpets.

  SPOKEN.--What do I care for lawyers? A'nt I a baker, and consequently,
  Master of the Rolls:--Droll enough, too, for a Master of the Rolls to be

  Lily-white muffins, &c.

[Illustration: THE MUFFIN MAN.

  "Muffins, oh! crumpets, oh!
   Come buy, come buy of me.
   Muffins and crumpets, muffins,
   For breakfast or for tea."]

The ringing of the muffin-man's bell--attached to which the pleasant
associations are not a few--is prohibited by a ponderous Act of
Parliament, but the prohibition has been all but inoperative, for the
muffin bell still tinkles along the streets, and is rung vigorously in the
suburbs, and just at the time when City gents, at winter's eve, are
comfortably enveloped in fancy-patterned dressing gowns, prettily-worked
smoking-caps, and easy-going and highly-coloured slippers, and saying
within themselves or aloud:--

  "Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
  Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
  And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
  Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
  That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
  So let us welcome peaceful evening in."

"Hot Cross Buns!" Perhaps no "cry"--though it is only for one day in the
year, is more familiar to the ears of a Londoner, than that of
"_One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross-buns_." We lie awake early upon Good
Friday morning and listen to the London bells:--

  "Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's
  Pancakes and fritters, say the bells of St. Peter's,
  Two sticks and an apple, say the bells of Whitechapel.
  Kettles and pans, say the bells of St. Ann's.
  Pokers and tongs, say the bells of St. John's
  Brickbats and tiles, say the bells of St. Giles'
  Halfpence and farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.
  Bull's eyes and targets, say the bells of St. Marg'rets."

And all the other London bells having rung--or, rather _toll'd_ out their
own tale of joy or trouble: then comes--rattling over the stones--W. H.
SMITH'S well-known red EXPRESS-CARTS laden with the early printed
newspapers of the coming day, while all night long the carts and waggons
come rumbling in from the country to Covent-garden, and not the least
pleasant sound--pleasant for its old recollections--is the time-honoured
old cry of "Hot Cross-Buns." Century after century passes by, and those
who busily drove their carts day after day from Isleworth, Romford,
Enfield, Battersea, Blackheath, or Richmond, one hundred years ago, are as
still and silent as if they had never been; yet still, Passion week after
Passion week, comes that old cry, nobody knows how old, "Hot Cross Buns,
Hot Cross Buns." And as we lie in a half dreamy state we hear and think of
the chimes of St. Clement Danes, which may still be heard, as Fallstaff
describes, having heard them with Justice Shallow; also, how Pope, as he
lay in Holywell-street--now Bookseller's-row; and Addison and Johnson;
and, before their time, Waller, at the house of his old friend the
merchant of St. Giles's; and the goodly company of poets that lived at
the cost of the king, near Whitehall; then of the quaint old gossiping
diarist, Samuel Pepys, Secretary of the Admiralty; John Taylor, the
_Water-Poet_; even Shakespeare himself, having each in their turn been
awakened on the Good Friday morning by the same sound ringing in their
ears. For this is a custom which can hardly be traced to a beginning: and
all we know about it is, that as far as we can go back, the Good Friday
was ushered in by the old Good Friday bun; and that the baker in the
towns, and the old good wife in the country, would have thought the day
but badly kept, and augured badly for the coming summer's luck, without

But between the cakes of Cecrops and the modern Hot Cross Bun there is a
wide gulf of 3,400 years; and yet the one may be traced up to the other.
There are some, indeed, who would wish to give to the Good Friday Hot
Cross Bun a still longer pedigree, and to take it back to the time of the
Patriarchs and their consecrated bread; and there are others who would go
yet further, and trace it to the earliest age of the world, in a portion
of Cain's sacrifice. We may, however, content ourselves with stopping
short at the era of the Egyptian Cecrops, founder of Athens, who made his
sweet cakes of flour and honey. Such cakes as these, as we learn from the
prophet Jeremiah, were offered by the idolatrous Hebrew women to "the
Queen of Heaven,"

  "Ashtoreth, whom the Phoenicians called
  Astarte, Queen of Heaven, with cresent horns."

Some can even discern Astarte in our "Easter." The Jews of old had the
shew-bread and the wafer of unleavened bread; and the Egyptians, under the
Pharaohs, had also their cakes, round, oval, and triangular. The Persians
had their sacred cakes of flour and honey; and Herodotus speaks of similar
cakes being offered by the Athenians to a sacred serpent in the temple of
their citadel. And, not to mention other nations, the circumstance that
accompanied the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny, 1857, will make memorable
the "chupatties" or sacred cakes of Khrishna.

The cakes that were offered to Luna by the Greeks and Romans were either
crescent-shaped, or were marked with the crescent moon; and this stamp
must have been very similar to that impressed on the cakes offered by the
Hebrew women to the Queen of Heaven. This mark also resembles that
representing the horns of the sacred ox which was stamped on the Grecian
cakes; and the ox was _bous_, and, in one of its oblique cases, _boun_, so
we derive from that word _boun_ our familiar "bun." There were not only
horn-marked cakes, but horn-marked pieces of money; so that it is very
difficult to ascertain the true meaning of that passage in the opening of
the "Agamemnon" of Æschylus, where the watchman says that a great _bous_
has come, or set foot, upon his tongue. Although it might mean that
something as weighty as an ox's hoof had weighed down his tongue, yet it
more probably signifies either that he was bribed to silence with a piece
of money marked with the ox's horns, or that the partaking of a sacred
horn-marked cake had initiated him into a certain secret. Curiously
enough, in the _argot_ of thieves, at the present day, a crown piece is
termed "a bull;" and it may also be noted that _pecunia_, "money," is
derived from _pecus_, "cattle;" and "bull" is derived from _bous_, and
also "cow" from the same word, through the Sanscrit _gou_, the _b_ and _g_
being convertible.

Thus, originally, the _boun_ or bun was the cake marked with the horns of
the sacred ox. The cross mark was first adopted by the Greeks and Romans
to facilitate the division of the cake into four equal parts; and two such
cross-marked cakes were found in the ruins of Herculaneum. These cakes
were adopted by the early Christians in a spirit of symbolism; but,
although the cross was marked on the cake in token of the badge of their
faith, yet it was also used by the priest for the breaking of the cake, or
Eucharistic wafer, into four pieces; and this was so ordered in the
Liturgy of St. Chrysostom. The cross-marked buns are now, for popular use,
reserved for Good Friday, and, as Lenten cakes, are peculiar to this
country. Among the Syrian Christians of Travancore and Cochin, who trace
their descent from those who were converted by St. Thomas on his
(supposed) visit to India, a peculiar cake is made for "Sorrowful
Friday"--as they term Good Friday. The cake is stuffed with sweetmeats in
the form of an eye, to represent the evil eye of Judas, coveting the
thirty pieces of silver; and the cake is flung at with sticks by the
members of the family until the eye is quite put out; they then share the
remains of the cake among them.

In the days before the Reformation, _eulogiæ_, or cross-marked consecrated
cakes, were made from the dough of the mass-bread, and distributed by the
priests to be eaten at home by those who had been prevented by sickness or
infirmity from attending the mass. After the Reformation, Protestants
would readily retain the custom of eating in their houses a cross marked
cake, although no longer connecting it with a sacred rite, but restricting
its use to that one day of the year known as "Holy Friday," or "Long
Friday"--from the length of the service on that day--but which gradually
came to be called, by the Anglican Church, "Good Friday," in remembrance
of the good things secured to mankind on that day. The presence upon the
breakfast-table of the cross marked bun, flavoured with allspice, in token
of the spices that were prepared by the pious women of Galilee, was,
therefore, regarded in the light of a remembrancer of the solemnities of
the day. The buns were made on the previous evening, Maundy Thursday so
called, either from the "maunds," or baskets, in which Easter gifts were
distributed, or, more probably, because it was the _Dies mandati_, the day
of the command, "That thou doest, do quickly!" as also, "Do this in
remembrance of Me!" and that the disciples should love one another and
should show humility in the washing of feet.

As Chelsea was long famous for its buns--which are mentioned by Swift to
Stella, in 1712--it was not to be wondered at that it should be celebrated
for its production of hot cross buns on Good Friday. Early in the present
century there were two bun-houses at Chelsea, both claiming to be "Royal"
as well as "Original," until, at last, one of the two proclaimed itself to
be "The Real Old Original Bun House." These two houses did a roaring trade
during the whole of Good Friday, their piazzas being crowded, from six in
the morning to six in the evening, by crowds of purchasers, loungers, and
gossipers. Good King George the Third would come there with his children;
and, of course, the nobility and gentry followed his example. These two
bun-houses were swallowed up, in the march of improvement, some forty
years ago; but on Good Friday, 1830, 240,000 hot cross buns were sold

The cross bun is not without its folk-lore. Country folks attach much
virtue to the Good Friday buns; and many are kept for "luck's sake" in
cottages from one Good Friday to another. They are not only considered to
be preservatives from sickness and disease, but also as safeguards from
fire and lightning. They are supposed never to get mouldy, as was noted by
"Poor Robin," in his Almanack for 1733, under the head of March:--

  "Good Friday comes this month: the old woman runs
  With one a penny, two a penny hot cross-buns;
  Whose virtue is, if you'll believe what's said,
  They'll not grow mouldy like the common bread."

Furthermore, be it known, then, in the interests of suffering humanity,
that if a piece of a Good Friday bun is grated and eaten, it will cure as
many diseases as were ever cured by a patent pill; moreover, the animal
world is not shut out from sharing in its benefits, for it will cure a
calf from "scouring," and mixed in a warm mash, it is the very best remedy
for your cow. Thus the bun is good for the _boun_; in fact, it is good
both for man and beast.

The sellers of the Good Friday buns are composed of old men and young men,
old women and young women, big children and little children, but
principally boys, and they are of mixed classes, as, costers' boys, boys
habitually and boys occasionally street-sellers, and boys--"some cry now
who never cried before," and for that occasion only. One great inducement
to embark in the trade is the hope of raising a little money for the
Easter holidays following.

The "cry" of the Hot Cross Bun vendor varies at times and in places--as

  "One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross-buns!
  One-a-penny, two for _tup'ence_, hot cross buns!"

While some of a humorous turn of mind like to introduce a little bit of
their own, or the borrowed wit of those who have gone before them, and
effect the _one_ step which is said to exist from the sublime to the
ridiculous, and cry--

        "One-a-penny, poker; two-a-penny, tongs!
        One-a-penny; two-a-penny, hot cross buns.
  One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross-buns!
  If your daughters will not eat them, give them to your sons.
  But if you haven't any of those pretty little elves,
  You cannot then do better than eat them up yourselves;
  One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns:
                        All, hot, hot, hot, all hot.
  One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns!
  Burning hot! smoking hot, r-r-r-roking hot--
  One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns."

But the street hot-cross-bun trade is languishing--and languishing, will
ultimately die a natural death, as the master bakers and pastrycooks have
entered into it more freely, and now send round to their regular customers
for orders some few days before each succeeding Good Friday.

A capital writer of NOTES, COMMENT and GOSSIP, who contributes every week
to the _City Press_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Dogberry," gave--_inter
alia_--a few "_Good Words_," the result of his "_Leisure Hours_" in that
journal, on the subject of "Good Friday Customs." March 24, 1883, thus:--

    "That the buns themselves are as popular as ever they were when the
    Real Original Bun Houses existed in Chelsea, was manifest on Thursday
    evening, though the scene is now changed from the west to the east.
    Bishopsgate-street was indeed all alive with people of high and low
    degree crowding in and out of Messrs. Hill & Sons, who, I am told,
    turned no less than 47 sacks of flour, representing over 13,000 lbs.,
    into the favourite Good Friday cakes. This mass was sweetened by 2,800
    lbs. of sugar, moistened with 1,500 quarts of milk, and 'lightened'
    with 2,200 lbs. of butter. Something like 25,000 paper bags were used
    in packing the buns, and upwards of 150 pairs of hands were engaged in
    the making and distribution of the tasty morsels at Bishopsgate and at
    the West-end branch of Messrs. Hill, at Victoria. The customary
    business of the firm must have been interrupted considerably by Good
    Friday, and the forty-seven sacks of flour made into buns represented,
    I presume, a considerable deduction from the hundred and ninety to two
    hundred which the firm work up in one form or another every week. But
    then you can't eat your (Good Friday) cake and have it. There were
    other bakers and confectioners in the City, too, who appeared to do a
    thriving trade in buns--notably Messrs. Robertson & Co., in
    Aldersgate-street. Long live the Good Friday bun!"




  "The clear spring dawn is breaking, and there cometh with the ray,
  The stripling boy with 'shining face,' and dame in 'hodden grey:'
  Rude melody is breathed by all--young--old--the strong, and weak;
  From manhood with its burly tone, and age with treble squeak.
  Forth come the little busy 'Jacks' and forth come little 'Jills,'
  As thick and quick as working ants about their summer hills;
  With baskets of all shapes and makes, of every size and sort;
  Away they trudge with eager step, through alley, street, and court.
  A spicy freight they bear along, and earnest is their care,
  To guard it like a tender thing from morning's nipping air;
  And though our rest be broken by their voices shrill and clear,
  There's something in the well-known 'cry' we dearly love to hear.
  'Tis old, familiar music, when 'the old woman runs'
  With 'One-a-penny, two-a-penny, Hot Cross Buns!'
  Full many a cake of dainty make has gained a great renown,
  We all have lauded 'Gingerbread' and 'Parliament' done brown;
  But when did luscious 'Banburies,' or dainty 'Sally Lunns,'
  E'er yield such merry chorus theme as 'One-a-penny buns!'
  The pomp of palate that may be like old Vitellius fed,
  Can never feast as mine did on the sweet and fragrant bread;
  When quick impatience could not wait to share the early meal,
  But eyed the pile of 'Hot Cross Buns,' and dared to snatch and steal.
  Oh, the soul must be uncouth as a Vandal's Goth's, or Hun's,
  That loveth not the melody of 'One-a-penny Buns!'"

And so, awaking in the early morning, we hear the streets ringing with the
cry, "Hot Cross Buns." And perhaps when all that we have wrought shall be
forgotten, when our name shall be as though it had been written on water,
and many institutions great and noble shall have perished, this little bun
will live on unharmed. Others, as well as ourselves, will, it may be, lie
awake upon their beds, and listen to the murmurs going to and fro within
the great heart of London, and, thinking on the half-forgotten days of the
nineteenth century, wonder perhaps whether, in these olden times, we too
heard the sound of "Hot Cross Buns."

The street Pieman with his "cry," of "Pies all hot! hot!! hot!!!--Penny
pies, all hot! hot!!--fruit, eel, beef, veal or kidney pies! pies, all
hot-hot-hot," is one of the most ancient of street callings, and to London
boys of every degree, "Familiar in their mouths as household words." Nor
is the itinerant trade in pies--"Eel, beef, veal, kidney or fruit,"
confined to the great metropolis. All large provincial towns have, from a
time going back much farther than even the proverbial "oldest inhabitant"
can recollect, had their old and favourite "Penny Pieman," or,
"_Old-all-Hot!_" as folks were ever wont to call him. He was generally a
merry dog, and mostly to be found where merriment was going on, he
scrupled not to force his way through the thickest of the crowd, knowing
that the very centre of action was the best market for his wares.


  "O Lord! what a place is a camp,
    What wonderful doings are there;
  The people are all on the tramp,
    To me it looks devilish queer:
  Here's ladies a swigging of gin,
    A crop of macaronies likewise:
  And I, with my 'Who'll up and win?
    Come, here is your hot mutton pies.'

  Here's gallopping this way and that,
    With, 'Madam, stand out of the way;'
  Here's, 'O fie! sir, what would you be at?--
    Come, none of your impudence pray:'
  Here's 'Halt--to the right-about-face,'
    Here's laughing, and screaming, and cries:
  Here's milliners'-men out of place,
    And I with my hot mutton pies.

  Here's the heath all round like a fair,
    Here's butlers, and sutlers, and cooks;
  Here's popping away in the air,
    And captains with terrible looks:
  Here's 'How do you do?'--'Pretty well;
    The dust has got into my eyes,'
  There's--'Fellow what have you to sell?'
    'Why, only some hot mutton pies.'"]

History informs us, through the medium of the halfpenny plain and penny
coloured chap book, editions issued by the "Catnach Press," that, one:--

  "Simple Simon met a Pieman,
    Going to the fair;
  Says simple Simon to the Pieman,
    'Let me taste your ware.'

  Says the Pieman unto Simon,
    'First give me a penny;'
  Says Simple Simon to the Pieman,
    'I have not got any.'"

But history is silent as to the birth, parentage, or, even place and date
of the death of the said Simple Simon, or of this very particular pieman.
Halliwell informs us, through one of the "Nursery Rhymes of England," that
on one occasion:--

  "Punch and Judy
    Fought for a pie;
  Punch gave Judy
    A sad blow on the eye."

James Lackington--1746-1816--one of the most celebrated of our early cheap
booksellers, lived at the "Temple of Muses," Finsbury-place--the shop,
into which a coach and six could be driven. This curious mixture of
cobbler's wax, piety, vanity, and love of business, has left us in his
autobiography, which he published under the title of his "_Memoirs and
Confessions_," his experience as a pie-boy! or seller of pies, thus:--

    "At ten years old I cried apple pies in the street. I had noticed a
    famous pieman, and thought I could do it better myself. My mode of
    crying pies soon made me a street favourite, and the old pie merchant
    left off trade. You see, friend, I soon began to make a noise in the
    world. But one day I threw my master's child out of a wheelbarrow, so
    I went home again, and was set by my father to learn his trade,
    continuing with him for several years. My fame as a pieman led to my
    selling almanacks on the market days at Christmas. This was to my
    mind, and I sorely vexed the [regular] vendors of 'Moore,' 'Wing,' and
    'Poor Robin.' My next move was to be bound apprentice for seven

We frequently meet with the pieman in old prints; and in Hogarth's "March
to Finchley," there he stands in the very centre of the crowd, grinning
with delight at the adroitness of one robbery, while he is himself the
victim of another. We learn from this admirable figure by the greatest
painter of English life, that the pieman of the last century perambulated
the streets in professional costume; and we gather further, from the burly
dimensions of his wares that he kept his trade alive by the laudable
practice of giving "a good pennyworth for a penny." Justice compels us to
observe that his successors of a later generation have not been very
conscientious observers of this maxim.

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S PIEMAN.]

[Illustration: NICE NEW! NICE NEW!

  All hot! All Hot Hot! All Hot!
  _Here they are, two sizes bigger than last week._]

At this date there was James Sharpe England, a noted flying pieman, who
attended all the metropolitan festive gatherings; he walked about hatless,
to sell his savoury wares, with his hair powdered and tied _en queue_, his
dress neat, apron spotless, jesting wherever he went, with a mighty voice
in recommendation of the puddings and pies, which, for the sake of greater
oddity he sometimes carried on a wooden platter.

[Illustration: JAMES SHARPE ENGLAND, _The Flying Pieman_.]

The London pieman, as he takes his walks abroad, makes a practice of
"looking in" at all the taverns on his way. Here his customers are found
principally in the tap-room. "Here they are, all 'ot!" the pieman cries,
as he walks in; "toss or buy! up and win 'em!" For be it known to all whom
it may concern, the pieman is a gambler, both from inclination and
principle, and will toss with his customers, either by the dallying
shilly-shally process of "best five in nine," or "best two in three," or
the desperate dash of "sudden death!" in which latter case the first toss
decides the matter, _viz_:--a pie for a penny, or your penny gone for
nothing, but he invariably declines the mysterious process of "odd man,"
not being altogether free from suspicion on the subject of collusion
between a couple of hungry, and not over honestly inclined customers.

Of the "stuff" which pie-dealers usually make their wares, much has been
sung and said, and in some neighbourhoods the sight of an approaching
pieman seems to get about an immediate desire for imitating the harmless
cat and its "Mee-yow," or the "Bow-wow-wow!" of the dog. And opprobrious
epithets are hurled at the piemen as they parade the streets and alleys,
and even kidnapping has been slyly hinted at, for the mother of Tom
Cladpole, finding her son so determined to make a "Jurney to
Lunnun"--least he should die a fool, tries to frighten the boy out of his
fixed intention by informing him in pure Sussex dialect that:--

  "Besides, dey kidnap people dere,
    Ah! ketch um by supprize,
  An send um off where nub'dy knows,
    Or _baak um up in pies_."

It was ever a safe piece of comic business with Old Joey Grimaldi and his
favourite pupil and successor, Tom Matthews, together with all other
stage clowns following them, that a penny pieman and the bright shining
block-tin can should be introduced into every Christmas pantomime. The
pataloon is made to be tossing the safe game of--"heads I win, tails you
lose" with the stage pieman, while the roguish clown is adroitly managing
to swallow the whole of the stock of pies from the can, and which are made
by the stage property-man for the occasion out of tissue-paper painted in
water-colours. Then follows the wry faces and spasmodic stomach-pinchings
of the clown, accompanied with the echoing cries of "_Mee, mee, mow,
woo!_" while the pantaloon takes from the pieman's can some seven or eight
fine young kittens and the old tabby-cat--also the handy-work of the stage
property-man. The whole scene usually finishes by the pantaloon pointedly
sympathizing with the now woebegone clown to the tune of "Serve ye
right--Greedy! greedy!! greedy!!!" when enter six supernumeraries dressed
as large and motherly-looking tabbies with aprons and bibs, and bedizened
with white linen night caps of the pattern known in private life to
middle-aged married men only. The clown and pantaloon then work together
in hunting down, and then handing over the poor pieman to the tender
mercies and talons of the stage-cats, who finish up the "business" of the
scene by popping the pieman into what looks like a copper of boiling

Mr. Samuel Weller,--_otherwise_, Veller, that great modern authority on
Y{e} Manners and Y{e} Customs, of Y{e} English in general, and of London
Life wery Particular:--for "Mr. Weller's knowldge of London was extensive
and peculiar"--has left us his own ideas of the baked "mysteries" of the
pieman's ware:--

    "Weal pie," said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the
    eatables on the grass. "Werry good thing is a weal pie, when you know
    the lady as made it, and is quite sure it an't kittens; and arter all,
    though, where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery
    piemen themselves don't know the difference?"

    "Don't they, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.

    "Not they, sir," replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. "I lodged in
    the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he
    was--reg'lar clever chap too--made pies out o' anything, he could.
    'What a number o' cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,' says I, when I'd got
    intimate with him. 'Ah,' says he, 'I do--a good many,' says he. 'You
    must be wery fond o' cats,' says I. 'Other people is,' says he, a
    winkin' at me; 'they an't in season till the winter though,' says he.
    'Not in season!' says I. 'No,' says he, 'fruits is in, cats is out.'
    'Why, what do you mean?' says I. 'Mean?' says he. 'That I'll never be
    a party to the combination o' the butchers, to keep up the prices o'
    meat,' says he. 'Mr. Weller,' says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard,
    and vispering in my ear--'don't mention this here agin--but it's the
    seasonin' that does it. They're all made o' them noble animals,' says
    he, a pointin' to a wery nice little tabby kitten, 'and I seasons 'em
    for beef-steaks, weal, or kidney, 'cordin to demand. And more than
    that,' says he, 'I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a
    kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the
    market changes, and appetites wary!"

    "He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam," said Mr.
    Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

    "Just was, sir," replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of
    emptying the basket, "_and the pies was beautiful_."

The "gravy" given with the meat-pies is poured out of an oil-can and
consists of a little salt and water browned. A hole is made with the
little finger in the top of the pie and the "gravy" poured in until the
crust rises sufficiently to satisfy the young critical gourmand's taste.

"The London piemen," says Mr. Henry Mayhew, "May be numbered at about
forty in winter, and twice that number in summer." Calculating that there
are only fifty plying their trade the year through, and their average
earnings at 8s. a week, we find a street expenditure exceeding £1,040, and
a street consumption of pies amounting to nearly three quarters of a
million yearly.

[Illustration: YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.

  Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell.
  If I'd as much money as I could tell,
  I'd not come here with young lambs to sell!
      Dolly and Molly, Richard and Nell,
      Buy my young lambs, and I'll use you well!]

The engraving represents an old "London Crier," one William Liston, from a
drawing for which he purposely _stood_ in 1826.

This "public character" was born in the City of Glasgow. He became a
soldier in the waggon-train commanded by Colonel Hamilton, and served
under the Duke of York in Holland, where, on the 6th of October, 1799, he
lost his right arm and left leg, and his place in the army. His
misfortunes thrust distinction upon him. From having been a private in the
ranks, where he would have remained undistinguished, he became one of the
popular street-characters of his day.

In Miss Eliza Cook's Poem "Old Cries" she sings in no feeble strain the
praises of the old man of her youthful days, who cried--"Merry and free as
a marriage bell":--


  There was a man in olden time,
    And a troubador was he;
  Whose passing chant and lilting rhyme
    Had mighty charms for me.

  My eyes grew big with a sparkling stare,
    And my heart began to swell,
  When I heard his loud song filling the air
    About "Young lambs to sell!"

  His flocks were white as the falling snow,
    With collars of shining gold;
  And I chose from the pretty ones "all of a row,"
    With a joy that was untold.

  Oh, why did the gold become less bright,
  Why did the soft fleece lose its white,
    And why did the child grow old?

  'Twas a blithe, bold song the old man sung;
  The words came fast, and the echoes rung,
    Merry and free as "a marriage bell;"
  And a right, good troubadour was he,
  For the hive never swarmed to the chinking key,
  As the wee things did when they gathered in glee
    To his musical cry--"Young lambs to sell!"

  Ah, well-a-day! it hath passed away,
  With my holiday pence and my holiday play--
  I wonder if I could listen again,
  As I listened then, to that old man's strain--
    All of a row--"Young lambs to sell."


        Round and sound,
        Two-pence a pound.
  Cherries, rare ripe cherries!

        Cherries a ha'penny a stick
        Come and pick! come and pick!
  Cherries big as plums! who comes, who comes.]

The late George Cruikshank, whose pencil was ever distinguished by power
of decision in every character he sketched, and whose close observation of
passing men and manners was unrivalled by any artist of his day,
contributed the "London Barrow-woman" to the pages of Hone's _Every-Day
Book_ in 1826 from his own recollection of her.

[Illustration: BUY A BROOM.

  These poor "Buy-a-Broom girls" exactly dress now,
  As Hollar etch'd such girls two cent'ries ago;
  All formal and stiff, with legs, only at ease--
  Yet, pray, judge for yourself; and don't if you please,

         *       *       *       *       *

  But ask for the print, at old print shops--they'll show it,
  And look at it, "with your own eyes," and you'll _know_ it.]

Buy a Broom? was formerly a very popular London-cry, when it was usually
rendered thus:--"_Puy a Proom, puy a prooms? a leetle von for ze papy, and
a pig vons for ze lady: Puy a Proom_." Fifty years ago Madame Vestris
charmed the town by her singing and displaying her legs as a _Buy-a-Broom

  Buy a broom, buy a broom,
  Large broom, small broom,
  No lady should e'er be without one, &c.

But time and fashion has _swept_ both the brooms and the girls from our
shores.--Madame Vestris lies head-to-head with Charles Mathews in Kensal
Green Cemetery. _Tempus omnia revelat._


  Old Maids, your custom I invites,
    Fork out, and don't be shabby,
  And don't begrudge a bit of lights
    Or liver for your Tabby.

  Hark! how the Pusses make a rout--
    To buy you can't refuse;
  So may you never be without
    The _music_ of their _mews_.

  Here's famous meat--all lean, no fat--
    No better in Great Britain;
  Come, buy a penn'orth for your Cat--
    A happ'orth for your Kitten.

  Come all my barrow for a bob!
    Some charity diskivir;
  For faith, it ar'n't an easy job
    To _live_ by selling _liver_.

  Who'll buy? who'll buy of Catsmeat-Nan!
    I've bawl'd till I am sick;
  But ready money is my plan;
    I never gives no tick.

  I've got no customers as yet--
    In wain is my appeal--
  And not to buy a single bit
    Is werry ungenteel!]


Every morning as true as the clock--the quiet of "Our Village Green" is
broken by a peculiar and suggestive cry. We do not hear it yet ourselves,
but Pincher, our black and tan terrier dog, and Smut, our black and white
cat, have both caught the well-known accents, and each with natural
characteristic--the one wagging his tail, the other with a stiff
perpendicular [dorsel appendage] sidles towards the door, demanding as
plainly as possible, to be let out. Yes, it is "Our Dandy Cats' and Dogs'
Meat Man," with his "_Ca' me-e-et--dogs' me yet--Ca' or do-args-me-a-yet,
me a-t--me-yett!!!_" that fills the morning air, and arouses exactly seven
dogs of various kinds, and exactly thirty-one responsive feline
voices--there is a cat to every house on "Our Village Green"--and causes
thirty-one aspiring cat's-tails to point to the zenith. We do not know how
it is, but the Cat's-meat man is the most unerring and punctual of all
those peripatetic functionaries who undertake to cater for the public. The
baker, the butcher, the grocer, the butterman, the fishmonger, and the
coster, occasionally forget your necessities, or omit to call for your
orders--the cat's-meat man never!

[Illustration: GUY FAWKES--GUY.]

There cannot be a better representation of "Guy Fawkes," as he was borne
about the metropolis in effigy in the days "When George the Third was
King," than the above sketch by George Cruikshank.

  Please to remember the fifth of November,
    Gunpowder treason and plot;
  We know no reason, why gunpowder treason,
    Should ever be forgot!
          Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a!
  A stick and a stake, for King George's sake,
  A stick and a stump, for Guy Fawkes' rump!
          Holla boys! holla boys! huzza-a-a!

[Illustration: HENRY LEMOINE, The Literary and Pedestrian Bookseller and
Author, _A well known_ Eccentric Character of the City of London.]


  All round my hat I vears a green villow,
    All round my hat, for a twelvemonth and a day;
  If any body axes me the reason vy I vears it,
    I tells 'em that my own true love is far far away.
  'Twas a going of my rounds, in the streets I first did meet her,
    Oh, I thought she vos a hangel just come down from the sky;

  SPOKEN.--She's a nice wegitable countenance; turnup nose, redish cheeks,
  and carroty hair.

  And I never knew a voice more louder or more sweeter,
    Vhen she cried, buy my primroses, my primroses come buy.

  SPOKEN.--Here's your fine colliflowers.

                                All round, &c.

  O, my love she was fair, my love she was kind, too,
    And cruel vos the cruel judge vot had my love to try:

  SPOKEN.--Here's your precious turnups.

  For thieving vos a thing she never vos inclined to:
    But he sent my love across the seas, far far away.

  SPOKEN.--Here's your hard-hearted cabbages.

                                All round, &c.

  For seven long years my love and I is parted,
    For seven long years my love is bound to stay.

  SPOKEN.--It's a precious long time 'fore I does any trade to-day.

  Bad luck to that chap vot'd ever be false-hearted,
    Oh, I'll love my love for ever, tho' she's far far away.

  SPOKEN.--Here's your nice heads of salary!

                                All round, &c.

  There is some young men so preciously deceitful,
    A coaxing of the young gals they vish to lead astray.

  SPOKEN.--Here's your Valnuts; crack'em and try'em, a shilling a hundred!

  As soon as they deceives'em, so cruelly they leaves 'em,
    And they never sighs nor sorrows ven they're far far away!--

  SPOKEN.--Do you vant any hingons to-day, marm?

                                All round, &c.

  Oh, I bought my love a ring on the werry day she started,
    Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me:

  SPOKEN.--Bless her h-eyes,

  And vhen she does come back, oh, ve'll never more be parted
    But ve'll marry and be happy--oh, for ever and a day.

  SPOKEN.--Here's your fine spring redishes.

  All round, &c.

[Illustration: THE NEW LONDON CRIES.]

  _Tune_--"The Night Coach."

  Dear me! what a squalling and a bawling,
    What noise, and what bustle in London pervades;
  People of all sorts shouting and calling,
    London's a mart, sure, for men of all trades.
  The _chummy_ so black, sir, with bag on his back, sir,
    Commences the noise with the cry of "sweep, sweep!"
  Then Dusty and Crusty with voices so lusty,
    Fish-men and green-men, their nuisances keep.
                                        Dear me, &c.

  Fine water cresses, two bunches a penny,
    Fine new milk, two-pence ha'p'ny a quart!
  Come buy my fine matches--as long as I've any,
    Carrots and turnips, the finest e'er bought.
  Dainty fresh salmon! _without_ any _gammon_,
    Hare skins or rabbit skins! hare skins, cook I buy!
  'Taters all sound, sir, two-pence six pounds, sir,
    Coals ten-pence a bushel, buy them and try.
                                        Dear me, &c.

  Here's songs three yards for a penny!
    Comic songs, love songs, and funny songs, too;
  _Billy Barlow_,--_Little Mike_,--_Paddy Denny!_
    _The Bailiffs are coming_--_The Hero of Waterloo_.
  Eels four-pence a pound--pen knives here ground,
    Scissors ground sharp, a penny a pair!
  Tin kettles to mend, sir, your fenders here send, sir,
    For six-pence a piece, I will paint 'em with care.
                                        Dear me, &c.

  Come buy my _old man_, a penny a root,
    The whole true account of the murder last night!
  Fine Seville oranges, ne'er was such fruit,
    Just printed and published, the last famous fight.
  Arrived here this morning--strange news from Greece,
    A victory gain'd o'er the great Turkish fleet;
  Chairs to mend--hair brooms, a shilling a piece!
    Cap box, bonnet box--cats' and dogs' meat.
                                        Dear me, &c.

  Here's _inguns_ a penny a rope,
    Pots and pans--old clothes, clo' for sale!
  A dread storm near the Cape of Good Hope.
    Greens two-pence a bunch--twenty-pence a new pail.
  Sprats, a penny a plateful--I should feel werry grateful,
    Kind friends for a ha'p'ny for my babe's sakes;
  Shrimps, penny a pot--baked 'taters all hot!
    Muffins and crumpets, or fine Yorkshire cakes.
                                        Dear me, &c.

  "Had I a _Garden_, a _Field_ and a _Gate_,
  I would not care for the Duke of Bedford's estate;
  That is, I would not care for the Duke of Bedford's estate,
  If I had _Covent Garden_, _Smithfield_, and _Billingsgate_."

Billingsgate has from time immemorial had much to do with "The Cries of
London," and although a rough and unromantic place at the present day, has
an ancient legend of its own, that associates it with royal names and
venerable folk. Geoffrey of Monmouth deposeth that about 400 years before
Christ's nativity, Belin, a king of the Britons, built this gate and gave
it its name, and that when he was dead the royal body was burnt, and the
ashes set over the gate in a vessel of brass, upon a high pinnacle of
stone. The London historian, John Stow, more prosaic, on the other hand,
is quite satisfied that one Biling once owned the wharf, and troubles
himself no further.

Byllngsgate Dock is mentioned as an important quay in "Brompton's
Chronicle" (Edward III.), under the date 976, when King Ethelred, being
then at Wantage, in Berkshire, made laws for regulating the customs on
ships at Byllngsgate, then the only wharf in London. 1. Small vessels were
to pay one halfpenny. 2. Larger ones, with sails, one penny. 3. Keeles, or
hulks, still larger, fourpence. 4. Ships laden with wood, one log shall be
given for toll. 5. _Boats with fish_, according to size, a halfpenny. 6.
Men of Rouen, who came with wine or peas, and men of Flanders and Liege,
were to pay toll before they began to sell, but the Emperor's men (Germans
of the Steel Yard) paid an annual toll. 7. Bread was tolled three times a
week, cattle were paid for in kind, and butter and cheese were paid more
for before Christmas than after.

Hence we gather that at a very early period Billingsgate was not merely a
fish-market, but for the sale of general commodities. Paying toll in kind
is a curious fiscal regulation; though, doubtless, when barter was the
ordinary mode of transacting business, taxes must have been collected in
the form of an instalment of the goods brought to market.

Our ancestors four hundred years ago had, in proportion to the population
of London, much more abundant and much cheaper fish than we have now.
According to the "Noble Boke off Cookry," a reprint of which, from the
rare manuscript in the Holkham Collection, has just been edited by Mrs.
Alexander Napier, Londoners in the reign of Henry VII. could regale on
"baked porpois," "turbert," "pik in braissille," "mortins of ffishe,"
"eles in bruet," "fresh lamprey bak," "breme," in "sauce" and in "brasse,"
"soal in brasse," "sturgion boiled," "haddock in cevy," "codling haddock,"
"congur," "halobut," "gurnard or rocket boiled," "plaice or flounders
boiled," "whelks boiled," "perche boiled," "freeke makrell," "bace molet,"
"musculles," in "shelles" and in "brothe," "tench in cevy," and "lossenge
for ffishe daies." For the rich there were "potages of oysters," "blang
mang" and "rape" of "ffishe," to say nothing of "lampry in galantyn" and
"lampry bak." Our forefathers ate more varieties of fish, cooked it
better, and paid much less for it than we do, with all our railways and
steamboats, our Fisheries' Inspectors, our Fisheries Exhibion and new Fish
Markets with their liberal rules and regulations. To be sure, those same
forefathers of ours not only enacted certain very stringent laws against
"forestalling" and "regrating," but were likewise accustomed to enforce
them, and to make short work upon occasion of the forestalled and
regraters of fish, as of other commodities.

In Donald Lupton's "London and the Covntrey Carbonadoed and Quartred into
seuerall Characters. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes, 1632," the nymphs
of the locality are thus described:--

    FISHERWOMEN:--These crying, wandering, and travelling creatures carry
    their shops on their heads, and their storehouse is ordinarily
    Byllyngsgate, or Ye Brydge-foot; and their habitation Turnagain Lane.
    They set up every morning their trade afresh. They are easily
    furnished; get something and spend it jovially and merrily. Five
    shillings, a basket, and a good cry, are a large stock for them. They
    are the merriest when all their ware is gone. In the morning they
    delight to have their shop full; at evening they desire to have it
    empty. Their shop is but little, some two yards compass, yet it holds
    all sort of fish, or herbs, or roots, and such like ware. Nay, it is
    not destitute often of nuts, oranges, and lemons. They are free in all
    places, and pay nothing for rent, but only find repairs to it. If they
    drink their whole stock, it is but pawning a petticoate in Long Lane,
    or themselves in Turnbull Street, to set up again. They change daily;
    for she that was for fish this day, may be to-morrow for fruit, next
    day for herbs, another for roots; so that you must hear them cry
    before you know what they are furnished withal. When they have done
    their Fair, they meet in mirth, singing, dancing, and end not till
    either their money, or wit, or credit be clean spent out. Well, when
    on any evening they are not merry in a drinking house, it is thought
    they have had bad return, or else have paid some old score, or else
    they are bankrupt: they are creatures soon up and soon down.

The above quaint account of the ancient Billingsgate ladies answers
exactly to the costermonger's wives of the present day, who are just as
careless and improvident; they are merry over their rope of onions, and
laugh over a basketful of stale sprats. In their dealings and disputes
they are as noisy as ever, and rather apt to put decency and good manners
to the blush. Billingsgate eloquence has long been proverbial for coarse
language, so that low abuse is often termed, "_That's talking
Billingsgate!_" or, that, "_You are no better than a Billingsgate
fish-fag_"--_i.e._, You are as rude and ill-mannered as the women of
Billingsgate fish-market (Saxon, _bellan_, "to bawl," and _gate_, "quay,"
meaning the noisy quay). The French say "Maubert," instead of
Billingsgate, as "_Your compliments are like those of the Place
Maubert_"--_i.e._, No compliments at all, but vulgar dirt-flinging. The
"Place Maubert," has long been noted for its market.

[Illustration: THE CRIER OF POOR JOHN.

"It is well thou art not a fish, for then thou would'st have been _Poor
John_"--_Romeo and Juliet_.]

The introduction of steamboats has much altered the aspect of
Billingsgate. Formerly, passengers embarked here for Gravesend and other
places down the river, and a great many sailors mingled with the salesmen
and fishermen. The boats sailed only when the tide served, and the
necessity of being ready at the strangest hours rendered many taverns
necessary for the accommodation of travellers. The market formerly opened
two hours earlier than at present, and the result was demoralising and
exhausting. Drink led to ribald language and fighting, but the refreshment
now taken is chiefly tea or coffee, and the general language and behaviour
has improved. The fish-fags of Ned Ward's time have disappeared, and the
business is done smarter and quicker. As late as 1842 coaches would
sometimes arrive at Billingsgate from Dover or Brighton, and so affect the
market. The old circle from which dealers in their carts attended the
market, included Windsor, St. Alban's, Hertford, Romford, and other places
within twenty-five miles. Railways have now enlarged the area of
purchasers to an indefinite degree.

To see this market in its busiest time, says Mr. Mayhew, "the visitor
should be there about seven o'clock on a Friday morning." The market opens
at four, but for the first two or three hours it is attended solely by the
regular fishmongers and "bummarees," who have the pick of the best there.
As soon as these are gone the costermonger's sale begins. Many of the
costers that usually deal in vegetables buy a little fish on the Friday.
It is the fast day of the Irish, and the mechanics' wives run short of
money at the end of the week, and so make up their dinners with fish: for
this reason the attendance of costers' barrows at Billingsgate on a Friday
morning is always very great. As soon as you reach the Monument you see a
line of them, with one or two tall fishmongers' carts breaking the
uniformity, and the din of the cries and commotion of the distant market
begin to break on the ear like the buzzing of a hornet's nest. The whole
neighbourhood is covered with hand-barrows, some laden with baskets,
others with sacks. The air is filled with a kind of sea-weedy odour,
reminding one of the sea-shore; and on entering the market, the smell of
whelks, red herrings, sprats, and a hundred other sorts of fish, is almost
overpowering. The wooden barn looking square[14] where the fish is sold
is, soon after six o'clock, crowded with shiny cord jackets and greasy
caps. Everybody comes to Billingsgate in his worst clothes; and no one
knows the length of time a coat can be worn until they have been to a fish
sale. Through the bright opening at the end are seen the tangled rigging
of the oyster boats, and the red-worsted caps of the sailors. Over the hum
of voices is heard the shouts of the salesmen, who, with their white
aprons, peering above the heads of the mob, stand on their tables roaring
out their prices. All are bawling together--salesmen and hucksters of
provisions, capes, hardware, and newspapers--till the place is a perfect
Babel of competition.

    "Ha-a-andsome cod! best in the market! All alive! alive! alive,
    oh!"--"Ye-o-o! ye-o-o! Here's your fine Yarmouth bloaters! Who's the
    buyer?"--"Here you are, governor; splendid whiting! some of the right
    sort!"--"Turbot! turbot! All alive, turbot."--"Glass of nice
    peppermint, this cold morning? Halfpenny a glass!"--"Here you are, at
    your own price! Fine soles, oh!"--"Oy! oy! oy! Now's your time! Fine
    grizzling sprats! all large, and no small!"--"Hullo! hullo, here!
    Beautiful lobsters! good and cheap. Fine cock crabs, all alive,
    oh!"--"Five brill and one turbot--have that lot for a pound! Come and
    look at 'em, governor; you won't see a better lot in the
    market!"--"Here! this way; this way, for splendid skate! Skate, oh!
    skate, oh!"--"Had-had-had-had-haddock! All fresh and good!"--"Currant
    and meat puddings! a ha'penny each!"--"Now, you mussel-buyers, come
    along! come along! come along! Now's your time for fine fat
    mussels!"--"Here's food for the belly, and clothes for the back; but I
    sell food for the mind!" shouts the newsvendor.--"Here's smelt,
    oh!"--"Here ye are, fine Finney haddick!"--"Hot soup! nice pea-soup!
    a-all hot! hot!"--"Ahoy! ahoy, here! Live plaice! all alive,
    oh!"--"Now or never! Whelk! whelk! whelk!" "Who'll buy brill, oh!
    brill, oh?"--"Capes! waterproof capes! Sure to keep the wet out! A
    shilling apiece!"--"Eels, oh! eels, oh! Alive, oh! alive oh!"--"Fine
    flounders, a shilling a lot! Who'll have this prime lot of
    flounders?"--"Shrimps! shrimps! fine shrimps!"--"Wink! wink!
    wink!"--"Hi! hi-i! here you are; just eight eels left--only
    eight!"--"O ho! O ho! this way--this way--this way! Fish alive! alive!
    alive, oh."


  Near London Bridge once stood a gate,
    Belinus gave it name,
  Whence the green Nereids oysters bring,
    A place of public fame.

  Here eloquence has fixed her seat,
    The nymphs here learn by heart
  In mode and figure still to speak,
    By modern rules of art.

  To each fair oratress this school
    Its rhetoric strong affords;
  They double and redouble tropes,
    With finger, fish, and words.

  Both nerve and strength and flow of speech,
    With beauties ever new,
  Adorn the language of these nymphs,
    Who give it all their due.

  O, happy seat of happy nymphs!
    For many ages known,
  To thee each rostrum's forc'd to yield--
    Each forum in the town.

  Let other academies boast
    What titles else they please;
  Thou shalt be call'd "the gate of tongues,"
    Of tongues that never cease.

The sale of hot green peas in the streets of London is of great antiquity,
that is to say, if the cry of "_Hot peascods! one began to cry_," recorded
by Lydgate in his _London Lackpenny_, may be taken as having intimated the
sale of the same article under the modern cry of "_Hot green peas! all
hot, all hot! Here's your peas, hot, hot, hot!_" In many parts of the
country it is, or was, customary to have a "_scalding of peas_," as a sort
of rustic festivity, at which green peas scalded or slightly boiled with
their pods on are the main dish. Being set on the table in the midst of
the party, each person dips his peapod in a common cup of melted butter,
seasoned with salt and pepper, and extracts the peas by the agency of his
teeth. At times one bean, shell and all is put into the steaming mass,
whoever gets this bean is to be first married.

The sellers of green peas "hot, all hot!" have no stands but carry them in
a tin pot or pan which is wrapped round with a thick cloth, to retain the
heat. The peas are served out with a ladle, and eaten by the customers out
of basins provided with spoons by the vendor. Salt and pepper are supplied
_at discretion_, but the _fresh!_ butter to grease 'em (_avec votre

The hot green peas are sold out in halfpennyworths and pennyworths, some
vendors, in addition to the usual seasoning supplied, add _a suck of
bacon_. The "suck of bacon" is obtained by the street Arabs from a piece
of that article, securely fastened by a string, to obtain a "relish" for
the peas, or as is usually said "to flavour 'em;" sometimes these young
gamins manage to bite the string and then _bolt_ not only the bacon, but
away from the vendors. The popular saying "a plate of veal cut with a
_hammy_ knife" is but a refined rendering of the pea and suck-'o-bacon,
street luxury trick.

Pea soup is also sold in the streets of London, but not to the extent it
was twenty years ago, when the chilled labourer and others having only a
halfpenny to spend would indulge in a basin of--"_All hot!_"

[Illustration: THE FLOWER-POT MAN.

  Here comes the old mail with his flowers to sell,
    Along the streets merrily going;
  Full many a year I've remember'd him well,
    With, "Flowers, a-growing, a-blowing."

  Geraniums in dresses of scarlet and green;
    Thick aloes, that blossom so rarely;
  The long creeping cereus with prickles so keen,
    Or primroses modest and early.

  The myrtle dark green, and the jessamine pale,
    Sweet scented and gracefully flowing,
  This flower-man carries and offers for sale,
    "All flourishing, growing, and blowing."]

With the coming in of spring there is a large sale of Palm; on the
Saturday preceding and on Palm Sunday; also of May, the fragrant flower of
the hawthorn, and lilac in flower. But perhaps the pleasantest of all
cries in early spring is that of "_Flowers--All a-growing--all
a-blowing_," heard for the first time in the season. Their beauty and
fragrance gladden the senses; and the first and unexpected sight of them
may prompt hopes of the coming year, such as seem proper to the spring.

  "Come, gentle spring! ethereal mildness! come."

The sale of English and Foreign nuts in London is enormous, the annual
export from Tarragona alone is estimated at 10,000 tons. Of the various
kinds, we may mention the "Spanish," the "Barcelona," the "Brazil," the
"Coker-nut," the "Chesnut," and "Though last, not least, in love"--The

    "As jealous as Ford, that search'd a hollow wall-nut for his wife's
    lemon."--_Merry Wives of Windsor._

The walnut-tree has long existed in England, and it is estimated that
upwards of 50,000 bushels of walnuts are disposed of in the wholesale
markets of the London district annually. Who is not pleased to hear every
Autumn the familiar cry of:--

  "Crack 'em and try 'em, before you buy 'em,
    Eight a-penny--All new walnuts
  Crack 'em and try 'em, before you buy 'em,
    A shilling a-hundred--All new-walnuts.

The history of the happy and social walnut involves some curious
misconceptions. Take its name to begin with. Why walnut? What has this
splendid, wide-spreading tree to do with walls, except such as are used as
stepping-stones for the boys to climb up into the branches and steal the
fruit? Nothing whatever! for, if we are to believe the learned in such
matters, this fine old English tree, as it is sometimes called, is not an
English tree at all, but a distinct and emphatic foreigner, and hence the
derivation. The walnut is a native of Persia, and has been so named to
distinguish the naturalised European from its companions, the hazel, the
filbert, and the chesnut. In "the authorities" we are told that "gual" or
"wall" means "strange" or "exotic," the same root being found in Welsh
and kindred tongues; hence walnut. It is true, at any rate, that in
France they retain the distinctive name "Noix Persique." There is another
mistaken theory connected with the tree which bears a fruit so dear to
society at large, for someone has been hazardous enough to assert that:--

  "A woman, a spaniel, and a walnut tree,
  The more you beat them the better they be."

And this ribald rhyme--which is of Latin origin, is now an established
English proverb, or proverbial phrase, but variously construed. See Nash's
"_Have with you to Saffron-Walden; or, Gabriel Harvey's Hunt is up_,"
1596.--Reprinted by J. P. Collier, 1870. Moor, in his "_Suffolk Words_,"
pp. 465, furnishes another version, which is rather an epigram than a

    "Three things by beating better prove;
      A Nut, an Ass, a Woman;
    The cudgel from their back remove,
      And they'll be good for no man."

    "Nux, asinus, mulier simili sunt lege ligata.
    Hæc tria nil recté faciunt si verbera cessant.
      Adducitur a cognato, est temen novum."--MARTIAL.

    "_Sam_.... Why he's married, beates his wife, and has two or three
    children by her: for you must note, that any woman beares the more
    when she is beaten."--_A Yorkshire Tragedy_: "Not so New, as
    Lamentable and true--1608," edition 1619.--Signature, _A. Verso_.

    "_Flamineo._--Why do you kick her, say?
    Do you think that she's like a walnut tree?
    Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit?"

    --Webster's "_White Devil_," 1612. iv. 4. (Works, edited by W. C.
    Hazlitt, II. 105.)

Now all these statements are at once unkind and erroneous all round. We
know what is declared of the "man who, save in the way of kindness, lays
his hand upon a woman," to say nothing of the punishment awaiting him at
the adjacent police court.[15] As to dogs, those who respect the calves of
their legs had best beware of the danger of applying this recipe to any
but low-spirited animals. In the case of the walnut-tree, the
recommendation is again distinctly false, and the results mis-described.
Possibly there are walnut-trees, as there are women, dogs, and horses, who
seem none the worse for the stick; but, as a general rule, kindly
treatment, for vegetable and animal alike, is the best, and, in the long
run, the wisest.

In "_The Miller's Daughter_," one of the most homely and charming poems
ever penned by the Poet Laureate, occurs a quatrain, spoken by an old
gentleman addressing his faithful spouse:--

  "So sweet it seems with thee to talk,
    And once again to woo thee mine;
  'Tis like an after-dinner talk
    Across the walnuts and the wine."



  "The Holly! the Holly! oh, twine it with bay--
    Come give the Holly a song;
  For it helps to drive stern Winter away,
    With his garments so sombre and long.
  It peeps through the trees with its berries so red,
    And its leaves of burnished green,
  When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,
    And not even the daisy is seen.
  Then sing to the Holly, the Christmas Holly,
    That hangs over the peasant and king:
  While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,
    To the Christmas Holly we'll sing."
                                        _Eliza Cook._

In London a large sale is carried on in "Christmasing," or in the sale of
holly, ivy, laurel, evergreens, bay, and mistletoe, for Christmas sports
and decorations, by the family greengrocer and the costermongers. The
latter of whom make the streets ring with their stentorian cry of:--

  Holly! Holly!! Holly, oh!!! Christmas Holly, oh!



  Oh! dearly do I love "Old Cries"
    That touch my heart and bid me look
  On "Bough-pots" plucked 'neath summer skies,
    And "Watercresses" from the brook.
  It may be vain, it may be weak,
  To list when common voices speak;
  But rivers with their broad, deep course,
  Pour from a mean and unmarked source:
  And so my warmest tide of soul
  From strange, unheeded spring will roll.

  "Old Cries," "Old Cries"--there is not one
  But hath a mystic tissue spun
    Around it, flinging on the ear
    A magic mantle rich and dear,
  From "Hautboys," pottled in the sun,
    To the loud wish that cometh when
  The tune of midnight waits is done
    With "A merry Christmas, gentlemen,
  And a Happy New Year--Past one-
    O'clock, and a frosty morning!"

  And there was a "cry" in the days gone by,
  That ever came when my pillow was nigh;
  When, tired and spent I was passively led
  By a mother's hand, to my own sweet bed--
  My lids grew heavy, and my glance was dim,
  As I yawned in the midst of a cradle hymn--
  When the watchman's echo lulled me quite,
  With "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night!"

  Well I remember the hideous dream,
  When I struggled in terror, and strove to scream,
  As I took a wild leap o'er the precipice steep,
  And convulsively flung off the incubus sleep.
  How I loved to behold the moonshine cold
  Illume each well-known curtain-fold;
  And how I was soothed by the watchman's warning,
  Of "Past three o'clock, and a moonlight morning!"

  Oh, there was music in this "old cry,"
  Whose deep, rough tones will never die:
  No rare serenade will put to flight
  The chant that proclaimed a "stormy night."

  The "watchmen of the city" are gone,
  The church-bell speaketh, but speaketh alone;
  We hear no voice at the wintry dawning,
  With "Past five o'clock, and a cloudy morning!"
  Ah, well-a-day! it hath passed away,
    But I sadly miss the cry
  That told in the night when the stars were bright,
    Or the rain-cloud veiled the sky.
  Watchmen, Watchmen, ye are among
  The bygone things that will haunt me long.

  "Three bunches a penny, Primroses!"
    Oh, dear is the greeting of Spring;
  When she offers her dew-spangled posies;
    The fairest Creation can bring.

  "Three bunches a penny, Primroses!"
    The echo resounds in the mart;
  And the simple "cry" often uncloses
    The worldly bars grating man's heart.

  We reflect, we contrive, and we reckon
    How best we can gather up wealth;
  We go where bright finger-posts beckon,
    Till we wander from Nature and Health.

  But the "old cry," shall burst on our scheming,
    The song of "Primroses" shall flow,
  And "Three bunches a penny" set dreaming
    Of all that we loved long ago.

  It brings visions of meadow and mountain,
    Of valley, and streamlet, and hill,
  When Life's ocean but played in a fountain--
    Ah, would that it sparkled so still!

  It conjures back shadowless hours,
    When we threaded the dark, forest ways;
  When our own hand went seeking the flowers,
    And our own lips were shouting their praise.

  The perfume and tint of the blossom;
    Are as fresh in vale, dingle, and glen;
  But say, is the pulse of our bosom
    As warm and as bounding as then?

  "Three bunches a penny,--Primroses!"
    "Three bunches a penny,--come, buy!"
  A blessing on all the sweet posies,
    And good-will to the poor ones who cry.

  "Lavender, sweet Lavender!"
    With "Cherry Ripe!" is coming;
  While the droning beetles whirr,
    And merry bees are humming.

  "Lavender, sweet Lavender!"
    Oh, pleasant is the crying;
  While the rose-leaves scarcely stir,
    And downy moths are flying,

  Oh, dearly do I love "Old Cries,"
    Your "Lilies all a-blowing!"
  Your blossoms blue, still wet with dew,
    "Sweet Violets all a-growing!"

  Oh, happy were the days, methinks,
    In truth the best of any;
  When "Periwinkles, winkle, winks!"
    Allured my last, lone penny.

  Oh, what had I to do with cares
    That bring the frown and furrow,
  When "Walnuts" and "Fine mellow Pears"
    Beat Catalani thorough.

  Full dearly do I love "Old Cries,"
    And always turn to hear them;
  And though they cause me some few sighs,
    Those sighs do but endear them.

  My heart is like the fair sea-shell,
    There's music ever in it;
  Though bleak the shore where it may dwell,
    Some power still lives to win it.

  When music fills the shell no more,
    'Twill be all crushed and scattered;
  And when this heart's deep tone is o'er,
    'Twill be all cold and shattered.

  Oh, vain will be the hope to break
    Its last and dreamless slumbers;
  When "Old Cries" come, and fail to wake
    Its deep and fairy numbers!

  _Dust, O!--Dust, O!--Bring it out to day,
  Bring it out to-day, I sha'n't be here to-mor-row!_

[Illustration: Dust, O!--Dust, O!]

  His noisy bell the dustman rings,
  Her dust the housemaid gladly brings:
  Ringing he goes from door to door,
  Until his cart will hold no more.

[Illustration: THE DUSTMAN.]

  Bring out your dust, the dustman cries,
    Whilst ringing of his bell:
  If the wind blows, pray guard your eyes,
    To keep them clear and well.

  I am very glad 'tis not my luck
    To get my bread by carting muck;
  I am sure I never could be made
    To work at such a dirty trade.

  Hold, my fine spark, not so fast,
    Some proud folks get a fall at last;
  And you, young gentleman, I say,
    May be a Dustman, one fine day.

  All working folks, who seldom play,
    Yet get their bread in a honest way,
  Though not to wealth or honours born,
    Deserve respect instead of scorn.

  Such rude contempt they merit less
    Than those who live in idleness;
  Who are less useful, I'm afraid,
    Than I, the Dustman, am by trade.

[Illustration: THE BIRDMAN.]

  Have pity, have pity on poor little birds,
  Who only make music, and cannot sing words;
  And think, when you listen, we mean by our strain,
  O! let us fly home to our woodlands again.

  Our dear woody coverts, and thickets so green,
  Too close for the school-boy to rustle between;
  No foot to alarm us, no sorrow, no rain,
  O! let us fly home to our woodlands again.

  There perched on the branches that wave to the wind,
  No more in this pitiless prison confined,
  How gaily we'll tune up our merriest strain,
  If once we get home to our woodlands again.

[Illustration: BUY A DOOR-MAT OR A TABLE-MAT.]

  Stooping o'er the ragged heath,
    Thick with thorns and briers keen,
  Or the weedy bank beneath,
    Have I cut my rushes green;
  While the broom and spiked thorn
  Pearly drops of dew adorn.

  Sometimes across the heath I wind,
    Where scarce a human face is seen,
  Wandering marshy spots to find,
    Where to cut my rushes green;
  Here and there, with weary tread,
  Working for a piece of bread.

  Then my little child and I
    Plat and weave them, as you see;
  Pray my lady, pray do buy,
    You can't have better than of me;
  For never, surely were there seen
  Prettier mats of rushes green.

  _I sweep your Chimnies clean, O,
  Sweep your Chimney clean, O!_

[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER.]

  With drawling tone, brush under arm,
    And bag slung o'er his shoulder:
  Behold the sweep the streets alarm,
    With Stentor's voice, and louder.

  _Buy my Diddle Dumplings, hot! hot!
  Diddle, diddle, diddle, Dumplings hot!_

[Illustration: THE DUMPLING WOMAN.]

  This woman's in industry wise,
    She lives near Butcher-row;
  Each night round Temple-bar she plies,
    With _Diddle Dumplings, ho!_

  _Yorkshire Cakes, Who'll buy Yorkshire Cakes,
  All piping hot--smoking hot! hot!!_


  Fine Yorkshire Cakes; Who'll buy Yorkshire cakes?
    They are all piping hot, and nicely made;
  His daily walk this fellow takes,
    And seems to drive a pretty trade.

  _Buy my Flowers, sweet Flowers, new-cut Flowers,
  New Flowers, sweet Flowers, fresh Flowers, O!_

[Illustration: FLOWERS, CUT FLOWERS.]

  New-cut Flowers this pretty maid doth cry,
    In Spring, Summer and Autumn, gaily;
  Which shows how fast the Seasons fly--
    As we pass to our final home, daily.

  _Buy green and large Cucumbers, Cucumbers,
  Green and large Cucumbers, twelve a penny._

[Illustration: CUCUMBERS.]

  A penny a dozen, Cucumbers!
    Tailors, hallo! hallo!
  Now from the shop-board each man runs,
    For Cucumbers below.

  _Buy Rosemary! Buy Sweetbriar!
  Rosemary and Sweetbriar, O!_


  Rosemary and briar sweet,
    This maiden now doth cry,
  Through every square and street,
    Come buy it sweet, come buy it dry.

  _Newcastle Salmon! Dainty fine Salmon!
  Dainty fine Salmon! Newcastle Salmon!_

[Illustration: NEWCASTLE SALMON.]

  Newcastle salmon, very good,
    Is just come in for summer food;
  No one hath better fish than I,
    So if you've money come and buy.

  _Buy my Cranberries! Fine Cranberries!
  Buy my Cranberries! Fine Cranberries!_

[Illustration: CRANBERRIES.]

  Buy Cranberries, to line your crust,
    In Lincolnshire they're grown;
  Come buy, come buy, for sell I must
    Three quarts for half-a-crown.

  _Come buy my Walking-Sticks or Canes!
  I've got them for the young or old._

[Illustration: STICKS AND CANES.]

  How sloven like the school-boy looks,
    Who daubs his books at play;
  Give him a new one? No, adzooks!
    Give him a Cane, I say.

  _Buy my fine Gooseberries! Fine Gooseberries!
  Three-pence a quart! Ripe Gooseberries!_

[Illustration: GOOSEBERRIES.]

  Ripe gooseberries in town you'll buy
    As cheap as cheap can be;
  Of many sorts you hear the cry;
    Pray purchase, sir, of me!

  _Pears for pies! Come feast your eyes!
  Ripe Pears, of every size, who'll buy?_

[Illustration: RIPE PEARS.]

  Pears ripe, pears sound,
    This woman cries all day;
  Pears for pies, long or round,
    Come buy them while you may.

  _One a penny, two a penny, hot Cross Buns!
  One a penny, two a penny, hot Cross Buns!_

[Illustration: HOT CROSS BUNS.]

  Think on this sacred festival;
    Think why Cross Buns were given;
  Then think of Him who dy'd for all,
    To give you right to Heaven.

  _Maids, I mend old Pans or Kettles,
  Mend old Pans or Kettles, O!_

[Illustration: THE TINKER.]

  Hark, who is this? the Tinker bold,
    To mend or spoil your kettle,
  Whose wife I'm certain is a scold,
    Made of basest metal.

  _Buy my Capers! Buy my nice Capers!
  Buy my Anchovies! Buy my nice Anchovies!_

[Illustration: CAPERS, ANCHOVIES.]

  How melodious the voice of this man,
    The Capers he says are the best;
  His Anchovies too, beat 'em who can,
    Are constantly found in request.

  _Mulberries, all ripe and fresh to day!
  Only a groat a pottle--full to the bottom!_

[Illustration: MULBERRIES.]

  Mulberries, ripe and fresh to-day,
    They warm and purify the blood;
  Have them a groat a pottle you may.
    They are all fresh! they are all good!

  _Buy my Cockles! Fine new Cockles!
  Cockles fine, and Cockles new!_

[Illustration: NEW COCKLES.]

  Cockles fine; and cockles new,
    They are as fine as any.
  Cockles! New cockles, O!
    I sell a good lot for a penny, O!

  _Buy fine Flounders! Fine Dabs! All alive, O!
  Fine Dabs! Fine live Flounders, O!_


  There goes a tall fish-woman sounding her cry,
  "Who'll buy my fine flounders, and dabs, who'll buy?"
  Poor flounder, he heaves up his fin with a sigh,
  And thinks that _he_ has most occasion to cry;
  "Ah, neighbour," says dab, "indeed, so do I."

  _Buy my nice and new Banbury Cakes!
  Buy my nice new Banbury Cakes, O!_

[Illustration: BANBURY CAKES.]

  Buy Banbury Cakes! By fortune's frown,
    You see this needy man,
  Along the street, and up and down,
    Is selling all he can.

  _Buy my Lavender! Sweet blooming Lavender!
  Sweet blooming Lavender! Blooming Lavender!_

[Illustration: LAVENDER.]

  Lavender! Sweet blooming lavender,
    Six bunches for a penny to-day!
  Lavender! sweet blooming lavender!
    Ladies, buy it while you may.

  _Live Mackerel! Three a-shilling, O!
  Le'ping alive, O! Three a-shilling O!_

[Illustration: MACKEREL.]

  Live Mackerel, oh! fresh as the day!
    At three for a shilling, is giving away;
  Full row'd, like bright silver they shine;
    Two persons on one can sup or dine.

  _Buy my Shirt Buttons! Shirt Buttons!
  Buy Shirt Hand Buttons! Buttons!_

[Illustration: SHIRT BUTTONS.]

  At a penny a dozen, a dozen,
    My Buttons for shirts I sell,
  Come aunt, uncle, sister, and cousin,
    I'll warrant I'll use you well.

  _Buy my Rabbits! Rabbits, who'll buy?
  Rabbit! Rabbit! who will buy?_

[Illustration: THE RABBIT MAN.]

  "Rabbit! Rabbit! who will buy?"
    Is all you hear from him;
  The Rabbit you may roast or fry,
    The fur your cloak will trim.

  _Buy Rue! Buy Sage! Buy Mint!
  Buy Rue, Sage and Mint, a farthing a bunch!_

[Illustration: THE HERB-WIFE.]

  As thro' the fields she bends her way,
    Pure nature's work discerning;
  So you should practice every day,
    To trace the fields of learning.

  _Apple Tarts! All sweet and good, to-day!
  Hot, nice, sweet and good, to-day!_


  Apple Tarts! Apple Tarts! Tarts, I cry!
    They are all of my own making,
  My Apple Tarts! My Apple Tarts, come buy!
    For, a honest penny I would be taking.

  _Ripe Strawberries! a groat a pottle, to-day,
  Only a groat a pottle, is what I say!_


  Ripe strawberries, a full pottle for a groat!
    They are all ripe and fresh gathered, as you see,
  No finer for money I believe can be bought;
    So I pray you come and deal fairly with me.

  _Any Knives, or Scissors to grind, to-day?
  Big Knives, or little Knives, or Scissors to grind, O!_


  Any Knives or Scissors to grind, to-day?
  I'll do them well and there's little to pay;
  Any Knives or Scissors to grind, to-day?
  If you've nothing for me, I'll go away.

  _Door-Mat! Door-Mat, Buy a Door-Mat,
  Rope-mat! Rope-Mat! Buy a Rope-Mat._

[Illustration: ROPE MAT. DOOR MAT.]

  Rope Mat! Door Mat! you really must
  Buy one to save the mud and dust;
  Think of the dirt brought from the street
  For the want of a Mat to wipe your feet.

  _Clothes Props! Clothes Props! I say, good wives
  Clothes Props, all long and very strong, to-day._


  Buy Clothes Props, Buy Clothes Props!
    Pretty maids, or pretty wives, I say,
  I sell them half the price of the shops;
    So you'll buy of the old man, I pray.

  _Come take a Peep, boys, take a Peep?
  Girls, I've the wonder of the world._

[Illustration: THE RAREE-SHOW.]

  Come take a Peep, each lady and gent,
    My Show is the best, I assure you;
  You'll not have the least cause to repent,
    For I'll strive all I can to allure you.

  _Water Cresses! Fine Spring Water Cresses!
  Three bunches a penny, young Water Cresses!_


  Young Cresses, fresh, at breakfast taken
    A relish will give to eggs and bacon!
  My profit's small, for I put many
    In bunches sold at three a penny

  _Mutton Pies! Mutton Pies! Mutton Pies,
  Come feast your eyes with my Mutton Pies._

[Illustration: WHO'LL BUY MY MUTTON PIES?]

  Through London's long and busy streets,
    This honest woman cries,
  To every little boy she meets,
    Who'll buy my Mutton Pies?

  _Please to Pity the Poor Old Fiddler!
  Pity the Poor Old Blind Fiddler!_

[Illustration: THE POOR OLD FIDDLER.]

  The poor old Fiddler goes his rounds,
    Along with old Dog Tray;
  The East of London mostly bounds
    His journeys for the day.

  _Muffins, O! Crumpets! Muffins, to-day!
  Crumpets, O! Muffins, O! fresh, to-day!_

[Illustration: THE MUFFIN MAN.]

  The Muffin Man! hark, I hear
    His small bell tinkle shrill and clear;
  Muffins and Crumpets nice he brings,
    While on the fire the kettle sings.

  _Oysters, fresh and alive, three a penny, O!
  When they are all sold I sha'n't have any, O!_


  They're all alive and very fine,
    So if you like them, come and dine;
  I'll find you bread and butter, too,
    Or you may have them opened for a stew.

  _Buy fine Kidney Potatoes! New Potatoes!
  Fine Kidney Potatoes! Potatoes, O!_


  Potatoes, oh! of kidney kind,
    Come buy, and boil, and eat,
  The core, and eke also, the rind,
    They are indeed so sweet.

  _Buy Images! Good and cheap!
  Images, very good--very cheap!_

[Illustration: BUY MY IMAGES, IMAGES.]

  Come buy my image earthenware,
    Your mantel pieces to bedeck,
  Examine them with greatest care,
    You will not find a single speck.

  _Buy 'em by the stick, or buy'em by the pound,
  Cherries ripe, all round and sound!_


  Who such Cherries would see,
  And not tempted be
    To wish he possessed a small share?
  But observe, I say small,
  For those who want all
    Deserve not to taste of such fare.

  _Buy a Mop! Buy a Broom! Good to-day!
  Buy a Broom! Buy a Mop, I say!_

[Illustration: BUY A MOP OR A BROOM.]

  Ye cleanly housewives come to me,
    And buy a Mop or Broom,
  To sweep your chambers, scour your stairs,
    Or wash your sitting room.

  _Golden Pippins, all of the right sort, girls!
  Golden Pippins, all of the right sort, boys!_


  Here are fine Golden Pippins;
    Who'll buy them, who'll buy?
  Nobody in London sells better than I!
    Who'll buy them, who'll buy?

  _Wash Ball, a Trinket, or a Watch, buy?
  Buy 'em, all cheap and all good!_


  Do ye want any Wash Ball or Patch.--
    Dear ladies, pray, buy of me;--
  Or Trinkets to hang at your Watch,
    Or Garters to tie at your knee?

  _Past twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning!
  Past twelve o'clock; and mind, I give you warning!_

[Illustration: THE CITY WATCHMAN.]

  Past twelve o'clock, and a moonlight night!
  Past twelve o'clock, and the stars shine bright!
  Past twelve o'clock, your doors are all fast like you!
  Past twelve o'clock, and I'll soon be fast, too!

  _Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell!
  Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell!_

[Illustration: YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.]

  Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell!
    Two a penny, Young Lambs to sell;
  If I'd as much money as I could tell,
    I wouldn't cry young Lambs to sell.

  _Buy my sweet and rare Lilies of the Valley?
  Buy of your Sally--Sally of our Alley?_

[Illustration: LILIES OF THE VALLEY.]

  In London street, I ne'er could find,
    A girl like lively Sally,
  Who picks and culls, and cries aloud,
    Sweet Lilies of the Valley.

  _Buy my young chickens! Buy'em alive, O!
  Buy of the Fowlman, and have 'em alive, O!_


  Buy my young Chickens, or a Fowl, well-fed,
    And we'll not quarrel about the price;
  'Tis thus I get my daily bread:
    As all the year round my Fowls are very nice.

  _Green Peas, I say! Green Peas, I say, here,
  Hav'em at your own price--here! here!_


  Sixpence a peck, these Peas are sold,
    Fresh and green, and far from old;
  Green Marrows, it is quite clear,
    And as times go, cannot be dear.

  _Hat Box! Cap Box! Boxes, all sizes;
  All good, and at very low prices._

[Illustration: HAT-BOX; CAP BOX.]

  Hat or Cap Box! for ribbons or lace,
    When in a Box, keep in their place;
  And in a Box, your favourite bonnet
    Is safe from getting things thrown on it.

  _Eels, fine Silver Eels! Dutch Eels!
  They are all alive--Silver Eels!_

[Illustration: EELS; FINE DUTCH EELS.]

  Eels, alive! fine Dutch eels, I cry,
    Mistress, to use you well I'm willing,
  Come step forth and buy--
    Take four pounds for one shilling.

  _Plumbs, ripe Plumbs! Big as your thumbs!
  Plumbs! Plumbs! Big as your thumbs!_

[Illustration: PLUMBS; RIPE PLUMBS.]

  Plumbs, for puddings or pies,
    This noisy woman bawls;
  Plumbs, for puddings or pies,
    In every street she calls.

  _Buy a Purse; a long and a strong Purse!
  A good leather or a strong mole-skin Purse!_

[Illustration: BUY A PURSE.]

  Buy a Purse; a long and strong Purse,
    They'll suit the young--they suit the old!
  To lose good money, what is worse?
    Yet it's daily done for the want of a purse.

  _Kettles to mend! any Pots to mend?
  Daily I say as my way I wend._

[Illustration: KETTLES OR POTS TO MEND!]

  Kettles to mend! any pots to mend!
    You cannot do better to me than send;
  Think of the mess when the saucepans run,
    The fire put out, and the dinner not done.

[Illustration: THE JOLLY TINKER.]

  My daddy was a tinker's son,
  And I'm his boy, 'tis ten to one,
  Here's pots to mend! was still his cry,
  Here's pots to mend! aloud bawl I.
  Have ye any tin pots, kettles or cans,
  Coppers to solder, or brass pans?
  Of wives my dad had near a score,
  And I have twice as many more:
  My daddy was the lord--I don't know who--
  With his:--
              Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan,
              For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

  Once I in my budget snug had got
  A barn-door capon, and what not,
  Here's pots to mend! I cried along--
  Here's pots to mend! was my song.
  At village wake--oh! curse his throat,
  The cock crowed so loud a note,
  The folks in clusters flocked around,
  They seized my budget, in it found
  The cock, a gammon, peas and beans,
  Besides a jolly tinker. Yes, a jolly tinker--
  With his--
              Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan,
              For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

  Like dad, when I to quarters come,
  For want of cash the folks I hum,
  Here's kettles to mend: Bring me some beer!
  The landlord cries, "You'll get none here!
  You tink'ring dog, pay what you owe,
  Or out of doors you'll instant go,"
  In rage I squeezed him 'gainst the door,
  And with his back rubb'd off the score.
  At his expense we drown all strife
  For which I praise the landlord's wife--
  With my
              Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan,
              For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

  _Fine China Oranges, sweet as sugar!
  They are very fine, and cheap, too, to-day._

[Illustration: FINE CHINA ORANGES.]

  If friends permit, and money suits,
    The tempting purchase make;
  But, first, examine well the fruit,
    And then the change you take.

[Illustration: FINE RIPE ORANGES]

  Here are Oranges, fine ripe Oranges,
    Of golden colour to the eye,
  And fragrant perfume they're dispensing,
    Sweeter than roses; come then and buy.
  Flowers cannot give forth the fragrance
    That scents the air from my golden store,
  Fairest lady, none can excel them,
    Buy then my Oranges; buy, I implore.

  Here are Oranges, fine ripe Oranges,
    Golden globes of nectar fine,
  Luscious juice the gods might envy,
    Richer far than the finest wine.
  Flowers cannot give forth the fragrance
    That scents the air from my golden store,
  Fairest lady, none can excel them,
    Buy then my Oranges; buy, I implore.



            Come buy my cherries, beauteous lasses;
            Fresh from the garden pluck'd by me;
            All on a summer's day, so gay,
  You hear the London Cries--"_Knives ground here by me_."

            Fine apples and choice pears,
            Eat, boys, forget your cares;
            All on a summer's day, so gay,
  You hear the London Cries--"_Sweep, sweep, sweep_."

            Fruit in abundance sold by me,
            Fruit in abundance here you see;
            All on a summer's day, so gay,
  You hear the London Cries--"_Parsnips, carrots, and choice beans_."

            Whey, fine sweet whey,
            Come taste my whey;
            All on a summer's day, so gay,
  You hear the London Cries--"_Fine radish, fine lettuce, sold by me_."


  Come who'll buy my roses, Primroses, who'll buy?
    They are sweet to the sense, they are fair to the eye;
  They are covered all o'er with diamond dew,
    Which Aurora's bright handmaids unsparingly threw
  On their beautiful heads: and I ask but of you--
    _To buy, buy, buy, buy_.

  The sun kiss'd the flowers as he rose from the sea bright,
    And their golden eyes opened with beauty and glee bright,
  Their sweets are untasted by hornet or bee--
    They are fresh as the morning and lovely to see--
  So reject not the blossoms now offered by me--
    _But buy, buy, buy, buy_.

  Nay, never refuse me, nor cry my buds down,
    They are nature's production, and sweet ones, you'll own;
  And tho' torn from the earth, they will smile in your hall,
    They will bloom in a cottage, be it ever so small--
  And still look the lovliest flowers of all!
    _So buy, buy, buy, buy._


  _Embellished with Pretty Cuts,
  For the use of Good little Boys and Girls,
  and a Copy of Verses._


  Printed by T. BIRT,     Great St. Andrew Street,
  Wholesale & Retail, 30, Seven Dials, London.

  _Country Orders punctually attended to._



  T. BIRT.


  Here! look at the Cries of London town,
    For you need not travel there;
  But view you those of most renown,
    Whilst sitting in your chair.

  At Home--a hundred miles away,
    'Tis easy now to look
  At the Cries of London gay,
    In this our little book.

  Yes; there in quiet you may be,
    Beside the winter's fire,
  And read as well as see,
    All those that you desire.

  Or underneath the oak so grey,
    That grows beside the briar;
  May pass the summer's eve away,
    And view each City Crier.

[Illustration: BUY A GAZETTE? GREAT NEWS!]

  In the Gazette great news, to-day:
    The enemy is beat, they say,
  And all are eager to be told--
    The news, the new events unfold.

[Illustration: COME BUY MY FINE ROSES.]

  Come buy my fine roses,
   My myrtles and stocks;
  My sweet smelling balsams
   And close growing box.


  My Almanacks aim at no learning at all,
   But only to show when the holidays fall:
  And tell, as by study we easily may,
   How many eclipses the year will display.

[Illustration: BUY A MOP? BUY A MOP?]

      My Mop is so big,
      It might serve as a wig
  For a judge, had he no objection;
      And as to my brooms,
      They will sweep dirty rooms,
  And make the dust fly, to perfection.

[Illustration: LOBSTERS AND CRABS.]

  Here's lobsters and crabs,
    Alive, O! and good,
  So buy if you please;
    This delicate food.

[Illustration: MILK FROM THE COW.]

  Rich Milk from the Cow,
    Both sweet and fine;
  The doctors declare;
    It is better than wine.


  Buy a basket? large or small?
    For all sorts I've got by me,
  So come ye forth, one and all,
    If you buy once, another time you'll try me.


  I've Sticks and Canes for old and young,
    To either they are handy,
  In driving off a barking cur,
    Or chastising a dandy.

[Illustration: HOT RICE-MILK.]

  Hot Rice-Milk this woman calls--
    Behold her bright can,
  As up and down the streets she bawls
    Hot Rice-Milk to warm the inner man.


  Nice Peaches and Nectarines
    Just fresh from the tree;
  All you who have money,
    Come buy them of me.


  Hot Spice-Gingerbread, hot! hot! all hot!
    This noisy fellow loudly bawls,
  Hot! hot! hot! smoking hot! red hot!
    In every street or public place he calls.


  Come, boys and girls, men and maids, widows and wives,
  The best penny laid out you e'er spent in your lives;
  Here's my whirl-a-gig lottery, a penny a spell,
  No blanks, but all prizes, and that's pretty well.
  Don't stand humming and ha-aring, with ifs and with buts,
  Try your luck for my round and sound gingerbread-nuts;
  And there's my glorious spice-gingerbread, too,
  Hot enough e'en to thaw the heart of a Jew.

      Hot spice-gingerbread, hot! hot! all hot!
      Come, buy my spice-gingerbread, smoking hot!

  I'm a gingerbread-merchant, but what of that, then?
  All the world, take my word, deal in gingerbread ware;
  Your fine beaus and your belles and your rattlepate rakes--
  One half are game-nuts, the rest gingerbread cakes;
  Then in gingerbread coaches we've gingerbread lords,
  And gingerbread soldiers with gingerbread swords.
  And what are you patriots, 'tis easy to tell--
  By their constantly crying they've something to sell.
  And what harm is there in selling--_hem!_--

                  Hot spice-gingerbread, &c.

  My gingerbread-lottery is just like the world,
  For its index of chances for ever is twirled;
  But some difference between'em exist, without doubt,
  The world's lottery has blanks, while mine's wholly without,
  There's no matter how often you shuffle and cut,
  If but once in ten games you can get a game-nut.
  So I laugh at the world, like an impudent elf,
  And just like my betters, take care of myself, and my--

                  Hot spice-gingerbread, &c.

  T. BIRT, Printer, 30, Great St. Andrews Street, Seven Dials.

  _Marks Edition._

[Illustration: BUY A BROOM.]

  From morn till eve I rove along,
  And joys my eyes illume,
  If you but listen to my song,
  And kindly buy a broom.



  Cherries ripe four-pence a pound,
  Come buy of me they're good and sound.


  O you whom peace and plenty blesses,
  Buy my fine spring water cresses.



  Threads laces bodkins here I cry,
  Of a wandering orphan buy.


  My native oysters here I cry,
  Gents and ladies come and buy.



  Daily streets and squares I range
  Calling clothes to sell or change.


  In London streets I'm known full well,
  Two for a penny young lambs to sell.



  Come buy a doll my little miss,
  You'll find no time as good as this.


  London daily hears my cry,
  Carrots Turnips who will buy.



  Buy a Box for hat and cap,
  'Twill keep them safe from all mishap.


  My basket daily I supply,
  Come buy my nosegays buy who'll buy.



  My casts are form'd to get my bread,
  And humble shelter for my head.


  At rise of morn my rounds I go,
  And daily cry my milk below.



  Listen to my tunes so gay,
  And buy a ballad of me pray.


  Comfort from my toil you reap,
  Then pray employ a little sweep.

London: Printed and Published by S. MARKS & SONS, 72, Houndsditch.




  Here's taters hot, my little chaps,
  Now just lay out a copper,
  I'm known up and down the Strand,
  You'll not find any hotter.




  Here's cherries, oh! my pretty maids,
   My cherries round and sound;
  Whitehearts, Kentish, or Blackhearts
   And only twopence a pound.



  Here I am with my rabbits
  Hanging on my pole,
  The finest Hampshire rabbits
  That e'er crept from a hole.



  Hearthstones my pretty maids,
  I sell them four a penny,
  Hearthstones, come buy of me,
  As long as I have any.



  Dust or ash this chap calls out,
  With all his might and main,
  He's got a mighty cinder heap
  Somewhere near Gray's Inn Lane.



  Bonnet boxes and cap boxes,
  The best that e'er was seen,
  They are so very nicely made,
  They'll keep your things so clean.



  Now ladies here's roots for your gardens,
  Come buy some of me if you please,
  There's tulips, heart's-ease, and roses,
  Sweet Williams, and sweet peas.



  Any old pots or kettles,
  Or any old brass to mend
  Come my pretty maids all,
  To me your aid must lend.



  Any old chairs to mend?
  Any old chairs to seat?
  I'll make them quite as good as new,
  And make them look so neat.


Mr. Henry Mayhew has painted a minute yet vivid picture of the London
street markets, street sellers and purchasers which are to be seen in the
greatest number on a Saturday night:--

"Here, and in the streets immediately adjoining, the working classes
generally purchase their Sunday's dinner; and after pay-time on Saturday
night, or early on Sunday morning, the crowd in the New-cut, and the Brill
in particular, is almost impassable. Indeed, the scene in these parts has
more the character of a fair than a market. There are hundreds of stalls,
and every stall has its one or two lights; either it is illuminated by the
intense white light of the new self-generating gas-lamp, or else it is
brightened up by the red smoky flame of the old-fashioned grease-lamp. One
man shows off his yellow haddock with a candle stuck in a bundle of
firewood; his neighbour makes a candlestick of a huge turnip, and the
tallow gutters over its sides; whilst the boy shouting "Eight a penny,
stunning pears!" has rolled his dip in a thick coat of brown paper, that
flares away with the candle. Some stalls are crimson with the fire shining
through the holes beneath the baked chesnut stove; others have handsome
octohedral lamps, while a few have a candle shining through a sieve;
these, with the sparkling ground-glass globes of the tea-dealers' shops,
and the butchers' gaslights streaming and fluttering in the wind, like
flags of flame, pour forth such a flood of light, that at a distance the
atmosphere immediately above the spot is as lurid as if the street were on


The pavement and the road are crowded with purchasers and street-sellers.
The housewife in her thick shawl, with the market-basket on her arm, walks
slowly on, stopping now to look at the stall of caps, and now to cheapen a
bunch of greens. Little boys, holding three or four onions in their hands,
creep between the people, wriggling their way through every interstice,
and asking for custom in whining tones, as if seeking charity. Then the
tumult of the thousand different cries of the eager dealers, all shouting
at the top of their voices, at one and the same time, is almost
bewildering. "So-old again," roars one. "Chesnuts, all'ot, a penny a
score," bawls another. "An 'aypenny a skin, blacking," squeaks a boy.
"Buy, buy, buy, buy,--bu-u-uy!" cries the butcher. "Half-quire of paper
for a penny," bellows the street-stationer. "An 'apenny a lot ing-uns."
"Twopence a pound, grapes." "Three a penny! Yarmouth bloaters." "Who'll
buy a bonnet for fourpence?" "Pick 'em out cheap here! three pair for
a-halfpenny, bootlaces." "Now's your time! beautiful whelks, a penny a
lot." "Here's ha'p'orths," shouts the perambulating confectioner. "Come
and look at'em! here's toasters!" bellows one with a Yarmouth bloater
stuck on a toasting fork. "Penny a lot, fine russets," calls the apple
woman: and so the Babel goes on.

One man stands with his red-edge mats hanging over his back and chest,
like a herald's coat; and the girl with her basket of walnuts lifts her
brown-stained fingers to her mouth, as she screams, "Fine warnuts! sixteen
a penny, fine war-r-nuts." A bootmaker, to "ensure custom," has
illuminated his front-shop with a line of gas, and in its full glare
stands a blind beggar, his eyes turned up so as to show only "the whites,"
and mumbling some begging rhymes, that are drowned in the shrill notes of
the bamboo-flute-player next to him. The boy's sharp cry, the woman's
cracked voice, the gruff, hoarse shout of the man, are all mingled
together. Sometimes an Irishman is heard with his "fine ating apples," or
else the jingling music of an unseen organ breaks out, as the trio of
street singers rest between the verses.

Then the sights, as you elbow your way through the crowd are equally
multifarious. Here is a stall glittering with new tin saucepans; there
another, bright with its blue and yellow crockery, and sparkling with
white glass. Now you come to a row of old shoes arranged along the
pavement; now to a stand of gaudy tea-trays; then to a shop with red
handkerchiefs and blue checked shirts, fluttering backwards and forwards,
and a counter built up outside on the kerb, behind which are boys
beseeching custom. At the door of a tea-shop, with its hundred white
globes of light, stands a man delivering bills, thanking the public for
past favours, and "defying competition." Here, along side the road, are
some half-dozen headless tailors' dummies, dressed in Chesterfields and
fustian jackets, each labelled:--"Look at the prices," or "Observe the
quality." After this a butcher's shop, crimson and white with meat piled
up to the first-floor, in front of all the butcher himself, in his blue
coat, walks up and down, sharpening his knife on the steel that hangs to
his waist. A little further on stands the clean family, begging; the
father with his head down as if in shame, and a box of lucifers held forth
in his hand--the boys in newly-washed pinafores, and the tidyly got up
mother with a child at her breast. This stall is green and white with
bunches of turnips--that red with apples, the next yellow with onions, and
another purple with pickling cabbages. One minute you pass a man with an
umbrella turned inside up and full of prints; the next, you hear one with
a peepshow of Mazeppa, and Paul Jones the pirate, describing the pictures
to the boys looking in at the little round windows. Then is heard the
sharp snap of the purcussion-cap from the crowd of lads firing at the
target for nuts; and the moment afterwards, you see either a black man
half-clad in white, and shivering in the cold with tracts in his hand, or
else you hear the sounds of music from "Frazier's Circus," on the other
side of the road, and the man outside the door of the penny concert,
beseeching you to "Be in time--be in time!" as Mr. Somebody is just about
to sing his favourite song of the "Knife Grinder." Such, indeed, is the
riot, the struggle, and the scramble for a living, that the confusion and
the uproar of the New-cut on Saturday night have a bewildering and sad
effect upon the thoughtful mind.

Each salesman tries his utmost to sell his wares, tempting the passers-by
with his bargains. The boy with his stock of herbs offers "a double
'andful of fine parsley for a penny;" the man with the donkey-cart filled
with turnips has three lads to shout for him to their utmost, with their
"Ho! ho! hi-i-i! What do you think of us here? A penny a bunch--hurrah for
free trade! _Here's_ your turnips!" Until it is seen and heard, we have no
sense of the scramble that is going on throughout London for a living. The
same scene takes place at the Brill--the same in Leather-lane--the same in
Tottenham-court-road--the same in Whitecross-street; go to whatever corner
of the metropolis you please, either on a Saturday night or a Sunday
morning, and there is the same shouting and the same struggling to get the
penny profit out of the poor man's Sunday's dinner.

Since the above description was written, the New Cut has lost much of its
noisy and brilliant glory. In consequence of a New Police regulation,
"stands" or "pitches" have been forbidden, and each coster, on a market
night, is now obliged, under pain of the lock-up house, to carry his tray,
or keep moving with his barrow. The gay stalls have been replaced by deal
boards, some sodden with wet fish, others stained purple with
blackberries, or brown with walnut peel; and the bright lamps are almost
totally superseded by the dim, guttering candle. Even if the pole under
the tray or "shallow" is seen resting on the ground, the policeman on duty
is obliged to interfere.

The mob of purchasers has diminished one-half; and instead of the road
being filled with customers and trucks, the pavement and kerbstones are
scarcely crowded.


Nearly every poor man's market does its Sunday trade. For a few hours on
the Sabbath morning, the noise, bustle, and scramble of the Saturday night
are repeated, and but for this opportunity many a poor family would pass a
dinnerless Sunday. The system of paying the mechanic late on the Saturday
night--and more particularly of paying a man his wages in a
public-house--when he is tired with his day's work, lures him to the
tavern, and there the hours fly quickly enough beside the warm tap-room
fire, so that by the time the wife comes for her husband's wages, she
finds a large portion of them gone in drink and the streets half cleared,
thus the Sunday market is the only chance of getting the Sunday's dinner.

Of all these Sunday morning markets, the Brill, perhaps, furnishes the
busiest scene; so that it may be taken as a type of the whole.

The streets in the neighbourhood are quiet and empty. The shops are closed
with their different coloured shutters, and the people round about are
dressed in the shiny cloth of the holiday suit. There are no "cabs," and
but few omnibuses to disturb the rest, and men walk in the road as safely
as on the footpath.

As you enter the Brill the market sounds are scarcely heard. But at each
step the low hum grows gradually into the noisy shouting, until at last
the different cries become distinct, and the hubbub, din, and confusion of
a thousand voices bellowing at once, again fill the air. The road and
footpath are crowded, as on the over-night; the men are standing in
groups, smoking and talking; whilst the women run to and fro, some with
the white round turnips showing out of their filled aprons, others with
cabbages under their arms, and a piece of red meat dangling from their
hands. Only a few of the shops are closed; but the butcher's and the coal
shed are filled with customers, and from the door of the shut-up baker's,
the women come streaming forth with bags of flour in their hands, while
men sally from the halfpenny barber's, smoothing their clean-shaved chins.
Walnuts, blacking, apples, onions, braces, combs, turnips, herrings, pens,
and corn-plasters, are all bellowed out at the same time. Labourers and
mechanics, still unshorn and undressed, hang about with their hands in
their pockets, some with their pet terriers under their arms. The pavement
is green with the refuse leaves of vegetables, and round a cabbage-barrow
the women stand turning over the bunches, as the man shouts "Where you
like, only a penny." Boys are running home with the breakfast herring held
in a piece of paper, and the side-pocket of an apple man's stuff coat
hangs down with the weight of halfpence stored within it. Presently the
tolling of the neighbouring church bells break forth. Then the bustle
doubles itself, the cries grow louder, the confusion greater. Women run
about and push their way through the throng, scolding the saunterers, for
in half-an-hour the market will close. In a little time the butcher puts
up his shutters, and leaves the door still open; the policemen in their
clean gloves come round and drive the street-sellers before them, and as
the clock strikes eleven the market finishes, and the Sunday's rest

As it was in the beginning of our book and in the days of Queen

    "When the City shopkeepers railed against itinerant traders of every
    denomination, and the Common Council declared that in ancient times
    the open streets and lanes had been used, and ought to be used only,
    as the common highway, and not for the hucksters, pedlars, and
    hagglers, to stand and sell their wares in"--

so it is now, in the Victorian age, and ever will be a very vexed
question, and thinking representative men of varied social positions
materially differ in opinion; some contending that the question is not of
class interest but that of the interest of the public at large; some argue
in an effective but perfectly legal and orderly manner for the removal of
what they term a greivous nuisance; others ask that an industrious and
useful class of men and women should be allowed their honest calling. They
protest against the enforcement of an almost obsolete statute which
conduces to the waste of fruit, fish, and vegetables, in London and large
towns, which practically maintains a trade monopoly, and discourages an
abundant supply. They claim for the public a right to buy in the cheapest
market, and plead for a liberty which is enjoyed unmolested in many parts
of the kingdom, and protest against a remnant of protectionist restriction
being put into force against street-hawking.

By the side of this temperate reasoning, let us place the principal
arguments which are so often reiterated by aldermen, deputies,
councillors, vestrymen, and others, when "drest in a little brief
authority," and come at once to the _gravamen_ of the charge against the
hawkers, which we find to consist in the nuisance of the street cries.

London, as a commercial city, has numbers of visitors and residents to
whom quiet is of vital importance. The street cries, it is alleged,
constitute a nuisance to the public, particularly to numbers of
day-time-alone occupants, to whom time and thought is money. It is the
same thing repeated with many of the suburban residents, in what is
generally known as quiet neighbourhoods. Discounting duly the rhetorical
exaggeration, it is to be feared the charge must be admitted. Therefore,
the shopkeepers argue, let us put down the hawking of everything and
everybody. But this does not follow at all. Not only so, but the proposed
remedy is ridiculously inadequate to the occasion. Admit the principle,
however, for the sake of argument and let us see whither it will lead us.
At early morn how often are our matutinal slumbers disturbed by a
prolonged shriek, as of some unfortunate cat in mortal agony, but which
simply signifies that Mr. Skyblue, the milkman, is on his rounds. The
milkman, it is evident, must be abolished. People can easily get their
breakfast milk at any respectable dairyman's shop, and get it, too, with
less danger of an aqueous dilution. After breakfast--to say nothing of
German bands and itinerant organ grinders--a gentleman with a barrow
wakens the echoes by the announcement of fresh mackerel, salmon, cod,
whiting, soles or plaice, with various additional epithets, descriptive of
their recent arrival from the sea. The voice is more loud than melodious,
the repetition is frequent, and the effect is the reverse of pleasing to
the public ear. Accordingly we must abolish fish hawking: any respectable
fishmonger will supply us with better fish without making so much noise
over it; and if he charges a higher price it is only the indubitable right
of a respectable tradesman and a ratepayer. Then comes on the scene, and
determined to have a voice--and a loud one, too, in the morning's
hullabaloo, the costermonger--Bill Smith, he declares with stentorian
lungs that his cherries, plums, apples, pears, turnips, carrots, cabbages,
_cow_cumbers, _sparrow_-grass, _colly_-flow-ers, _inguns_, _ru-bub_, and
_taters_, is, and allus vos rounder, sounder, longer, stronger, heavier,
fresher, and ever-so-much cheaper than any shopkeeping greengrocer as ever
vos: Why? "Vy? cos he don't keep not no slap-up shop vith all plate-glass
vinders and a 'andsom sixty-five guinea 'oss and trap to take the missus
and the kids out on-a-arternoon, nor yet send his sons and darters to a
boarding school to larn French, German, Greek, nor playing on the
pianoforte." All this may be very true; but Bill Smith, the costermonger,
is a noisy vulgar fellow; therefore must be put down. Mrs. Curate, Mrs.
Lawyer, Mrs. Chemist, and Miss Seventy-four must be taught to go to the
greengrocer of the district, Mr. Manners, a highly respectable man, a
Vestryman and a Churchwarden, who keeps:--


As the morning wears on we have:--"I say!--I say!! Old hats I buy," "Rags
or bones," "Hearthstones," "Scissors to grind--pots, pans, kettles or old
umbrellas to mend," "Old clo! clo," "Cat or dog's meat," "Old china I
mend," "Clothes props," "Any old chairs to mend?" "Any ornaments for your
fire stove," "Ripe strawberries," "Any hare skins,"--"rabbit skins," "Pots
or pans--jugs or mugs," "I say, Bow! wow! and they are all a-growing and
a-blowing--three pots for sixpence," and other regular acquaintances, with
the occasional accompaniment of the dustman's bell, conclude the morning's
performance, which, altogether is reminiscent of the "Market Chorus" in
the opera of _Masaniello_; and if the public quiet is to be protected, our
sapient Town Councillors would abolish one and all of these, dustman
included. One of the latest innovations upon the peace and happiness of an
invalid, an author, or a quiet-loving resident, is the street vendor of
coals. "Tyne Main," or "Blow-me-Tight's," Coals! "C-o-a-l-s, _one and
tuppence a underd--see'em weighed_." This is the New Cry. Small waggons,
attended by a man and a boy, go to our modern railway sidings to be filled
or replenished with sacks containing 56 lbs. or 112 lbs. of coals, and
then proceed to the different suburban quiet neighbourhoods, where the man
and boy commence a kind of one done the other go on duet to the above
words, which is enough to drive the strongest trained one crazy. All the
great coal merchants seem to have adopted this method of retailing coals,
and have thus caused the almost total abolition of coal sheds, and the
greengrocer and general dealer to abandon the latter part of his calling.
Our afternoon hours, after the passing of the muffin bell, are made
harmonious by public references to shrimps, fine Yarmouth bloaters,
haddocks, periwinkles, boiled whelks, and water_creases_, which are too
familiar to need description; and our local governors in their wisdom
would bid us no longer be luxurious at our tea, or else go to respectable
shops and buy our "little creature comforts." Professing an anxiety to put
down street cries, our police persecute one class out of a multitude, and
leave all the rest untouched. It is not only an inadequate remedy, but the
remedy is sought in the wrong direction. The fact is, that the street
noises are an undoubted evil, and in the interests of the public, action
should be taken not to put them down, but to regulate them by local
bye-laws, leaving the course of trade otherwise free. It is a plan adopted
in most of the greater towns which have in any way dealt with the subject.


[From _Punch_.]

Edwin is a Young Bard, who has taken a lodging in a Quiet Street in
Belgravia, that he may write his Oxford Prize Poem. The interlocutors are
Demons of both Sexes.

  EDWIN (composing). Where the sparkling fountain never ceases--
      _Female Demon._             "_Wa-ter-creece-ses!_"

  EDWIN. And liquid music on the marble floor tinkles--
      _Male Demon._               "_Buy my perriwinkles!_"

  EDWIN. Where the sad Oread oft retires to weep--
      _Black Demon._              "_Sweep! Sweep!! Sweep!!!_"

  EDWIN. And tears that comfort not must ever flow--
      _Demon from Palestine._     "_Clo! Clo!! Old Clo!!!_"

  EDWIN. There let me linger beneath the trees--
      _Italian Demon._            "_Buy, Im-magees!_"

  EDWIN. And weave long grasses into lovers' knots--
      _Demon in white apron._     "_Pots! Pots!! Pots!!!_"

  EDWIN. Oh! what vagrant dreams the fancy hatches--
      _Ragged Old Demon._         "_Matches! Buy Matches!_"

  EDWIN. She opes her treasure-cells, like Portia's caskets--
      _Demon with Cart._          "_Baskets, any Baskets!_"

  EDWIN. Spangles the air with thousand-coloured silks--
      _Old Demon._                "_Buy my Wilks! Wilks!! Wilks!!!_"

  EDWIN. Garments which the fairies might make habits--
      _Lame Demon._               "_Rabbits, Hampshire Rabbits!_"

  EDWIN. Visions like those the Interpreter of Bunyan's--
      _Demon with a Stick._       "_Onions, a Rope of Onions!_"

  EDWIN. And give glowing utterances to their kin--
      _Dirty Demon._              "_Hare's skin or Rabbit skin!_"

  EDWIN. In thoughts so bright the aching senses blind--
      _Demon with Wheel._         "_Any knives or scissors to grind!_"

  EDWIN. Though gone, the Deities that long ago--
      _Grim Demon._               "_Dust Ho! Dust Ho!!_"

  EDWIN. Yet, from her radiant bow no Iris settles--
      _Swarthy Demon._            "_Mend your Pots and Kettles!_"

  EDWIN. And sad and silent is the ancient seat--
      _Demon with Skewers._       "_Cat's M-e-a-t!_"

  EDWIN. For there is a spell that none can chase away--
      _Demon with Organ._         "_Poor Dog Tray!_"

  EDWIN. And a charm whose power must ever bend--
      _Demon with Rushes._        "_Chairs! Old chairs to mend!_"

  EDWIN. And still unbanished falters on the ear--
      _Demon with Can._           "_Beer! Beer, any Beer!_"

  EDWIN. Still Pan and Syrinx wander through the groves--
      _She Demon._                "_Any Ornaments for your fire stoves!_"

  EDWIN. Thus visited is the sacred ground--
      _Second Demon with Organ._  "_Bobbing all around!_"

  EDWIN. Ay, and for ever, while the planet rolls--
      _Demon with Fish._          "_Mackerel or Soles!_"

  EDWIN. Crushed Enceladus in torment groans--
      _Little Demon._             "_Stones! Hearthstones!_"

  EDWIN. While laves the sea, on the glittering strand--
      _Third Demon with Organ._   "_O, 'tis hard to give the hand!_"

  EDWIN. While, as the cygnet nobly walks the water--
      _Fourth Demon with Organ._  "_The Ratcatcher's Daughter!_"

  EDWIN. And the Acropolis reveals to man--
      _Fifth Demon with Organ._   "_Poor Mary Anne!_"

  EDWIN. So long the presence, yes, the MENS DIVINA--
      _Sixth Demon with Organ._   "_Villikins and his Dinah!_"

  EDWIN. Shall breathe whereso'er the eye shoots--
      _Six Dirty Germans with_--  "_The overture to Freischutz!_"






  Addison, on London Cries, 118

  Adelphi Theatre, The, 70

  Aldersgate--Aldgate, 17

  Ale and Wine, 6

  Alexander Gell, 6

  Annibale Carracci, 1

  Alsatia--Its Notoriety, 26

  Archers,--The City, 20

  Attic-Poet, The, 146

  Babies--Male and Female, 76

  Bags of Mystery!, 127

  Band-Cuffe-Ruffe, 71

  Bankside, 22, 23, 24

  Bards of Seven Dials, 161

  Barrow-woman, The, 112

  Bartholomew Bird, A, 76

       "      Fair--_see_ Ben Jonson.

  Bay Cottage, Edmonton, 137

  Baynard's Castle, 25

  Beau-Trap, What, 154

  Beaumont and Fletcher, 34

  Bellman of London &c., 49, 50, 51, 52, 53

  Bellman's Merry Out Cryes, 52

      "     Song, A, 50

      "     Treasury, The, 52

      "     Verses, 51, 53, 55

  Ben Jonson's:--
    Bartholomew Fair, 34, 75, 78
    Costard-Mongers, 28, 34
    Fish-Wives, 28
    London, 16
    Orange Woman, 28, 109
    Silent Woman, 26, 29

  Bennett--The News-cryer, 151

  Billingsgate--Bummarees at, &c., 237

  Bishopsgate, 17

  Blacking Man, 60

  Blacking--Day and Martin's, 156

     "    --Patent Cake, 156

  Bookseller's Row, W.C., 203

  Boar's Head Tavern, 8

  Bridgewater Library, The, 73

  Bristle--A Brush-Man, 80

  British Museum--London Cries in, 56

  Brompton's Chronicle, 232

  Broom--Buy-a-Broom Girls, 223

  Broom-men, The, 29, 32

  Bucklersbury--Simple time, 21, 127

  Budget--A Tinker, 81

  Burbadge, R. and J. (Actors), 90

  Buskers, 9

  Butcher's Row, Strand, W.C., 253

  Byron, H. J.--A Word-twister, 71

  Bow Bells, The sound of, 45

  Britton, Small Coalman, 124

  Birdman, The, 250

  Black Jack--What?, 134

  Cannon Street, 7, 8

  Canonbury Tower, 135

  Canwyke Street, 7

  Card Matches--Vendors of, 120

  Cardinal Cap Alley, 23

  Catch that Catch Can, 99, 101

  Catnach--"_Old Jemmy_," 161, 180, 186, 194, 195

  Charing, The Village of, 6

  Charles 1st, 6, 15, 35

  Charles Dickens, 9, 146

  Charles Knight's London, 153

  Charles Lamb, 131, 4, 6, 8

  Charles Mathews, 223

  Chaucer, Geoffry, 1

  Cheapside Cross, The, 19

  Chelsea--Bun Houses at, 207

  Churchwarden--Pipes, 134

  Chiropodist, The, of to day, 127

  City Walls, 18

  Clause--A popular Vagabond, 83

  Clerkenwell--A Village, 124, 139

  Clint--The Liberty of, 23

  Coals, a public nuisance, 15

  Coalmen--Small, 73, 124

  Cocks--_i.e._ Catchpennies, 173

  Colebrooke Row, Islington, 132

  Coleridge and the Old clo-man, 60

  Collier, Mr. John Payne, 89

  Colly-Molly--Puff-Pastry-man, 121

  Copy of Verses, 164, 173

  Corder, Wm. Murderer, 169

  Costermongers, 29, 32, 34

  Countryman in Lunnun, The, 7

  Cow--With the iron tail, 143

  Cries of Bologna, 1

  Cries of London ever popular, 1

  Cries of London--a Collection of, 31, 56, 63, 79, 102, 115

  Cries of Rome, _i.e._--London, 64

  Curtain Road, 90

CRIES OF LONDON--Ancient and Modern. Alphabetically Arranged.

  Almanack--Buy an, 60, 341

  Aloes, that blossom rarely, 140

  Anchovies--Buy my, &c., 265

  Apples--Baked, 127

  Apricots--Buy fine, 116

  Aqua Vitæ, 60, 127

  Artichokes, 35, 60, 73, 113

  Asparagus--Any ripe, 35, 115

  Apple Tarts, Nice hot to-day, 275

  Bacon--A Suck of, 239

  Baked Potatoes, 259

  Ballads--Buy a fine, new, &c., 76

  Balm, 115

  Balsams, Buy fine, 340

  Banbury Cakes, O!, 269

  Bandstrings--Buy, 73, 82, 88

  Barley-Broth--Here's, 114

  Bay--Buy any, &c., 60

  Beans--White, Windsor &c., 35, 115, 184

  Beads and Laces, 88

  Basket, Buy a, 345

  Bear's-foot--Buy my, 115

  Beef--Ribs, fat and fine, 58

  Bellows--Old, to mend, &c., 60

  Birds and Hens--Buy any, 62

  Black your Shoes, Sir?, 155

  Blacking, Buy, 94

  Blue--Buy my, 114

  Blue Starch, 61

  Bodkin--Here's a gilt, 82

  Bone-Lace--Buy, 62, 82

  Book--Buy a new, &c., 63

  Boots--Have you any old?, 13, 14

  Bow or Bough-pot (_flower-pot_), 61

  Box--Buy my growing, 340

  Box--Bonnet or cap, 297

  Brass Pot, or an Iron Pot, 126

  Bread and Meat, for poor prisoners, &c., 61, 64, 72, 126

  Brick-Dust, 119

  Briar--Buy sweet, 127-128

  Broccoli--Here's fine, 115

  Broken-Glasses, 119

  Broom--Buy a, 80, 289

  Brooms for old shoes, 36

  Broom--New green, &c., 13, 58, 80

  Brush--Buy long, new, &c., 61, 62, 73

  Buns--See Hot-Cross-Buns

  Butter--Sixpence a-pound, 116

  Buskins--Have you any?, 14

  Buttons--Buy any?, 61

  Buttons--Hankercher, 73

  Cabbage--White-heart, &c., 62, 113

  Calf's Feet--Here's fine, 116

  Candle-stick--Buy a, 61

  Canes--For young and old, 260, 346

  Cap Box--Bonnet Box, 297

  Capers--Buy my, &c., 265

  Carrots--Buy, 62, 115, 277

  Case for a Hat--Buy a, 62

  Cat's and Dog's Meat, 368

  Cauliflowers--Here's, 115

  Celery--Buy my nice, 116

  Chairs to mend, 73, 114, 126, 371

  Cheese and Cream--Any fresh, 62, 117, 139

  Cherries--In the rise, _i.e._ stick, 6, 108

    "       Ripe, 6, 60

    "       Round and Sound, 113, 183

    "       Kentish

  Chesnuts--Roasted &c., 62, 241

  Chickens--Buy alive, 295

  Chimney Sweep, 29, 60, 252

  Cinquefoil, 115

  Clean your Boots, Sir?, 153

  Clo! Clo!--Old Clothes, 37, 354

  Clothes Pegs--Buy my, 184

  Cloth--Scotch or Russian, 126

  Clothes Lines--Props, 184, 278

  Close-stool--Buy a cover for, 66, 93

  Clove Water--Buy any?, 63

  Coal--Maids any small?, 60

  Cock or a Gelding (_Capon_), 73

  Cockles-Ho!, 60, 79, 267

  Cod--New, fine-water'd, 61, 116

  Codlings--Hot, 62, 73, 113, 183

  Codlings--Crumpling, 183

  Coife--Buy a fine, 82

  Coleworts--Here's green, 115

  Cony-Skins--(_Rabbit_), 60, 84

  Corn-Poppies--Here's, 116

  Corns--Any to cut, pick, &c., 62, 75, 113

  Cooper--Any work for a?, 60, 73, 113, 121

  Crabs--Come buy my, &c., 116, 343

  Cranberries--Buy my, &c., 259

  Cream and Cheese, 139

  Cucumbers, Ripe &c., 35, 63, 116, 256

  Curds, 81

  Currants--Here's, 81

  Cut Flowers, 255

  Dabs--Come buy my, 116, 128

  Damsons--Buy ripe, 61

  Dandelion--Here's ye, 115

  Dog's Meat, 368

  Door-Mat--Buy a, 279, 376

  Doublets--Any old?, 60

  Dragon's-tongue--Here's ye, 115

  Dumplings Diddle, diddle, 115

  Dust O!, 248

  Duck--Buy a, 116

  Earthen-Ware--To-day?, 296

  Eels--Buy a dish of, 41, 116, 298

  Eel Pies--Hot, hot!, 62

  Eggs--New laid, 10 a groat, 116

  Elder-buds--For the blood, 114

  Ells or Yards--Buy, 61

  Ends of gold, 60

  Featherfew and Rue, 115

  Felt Hats, 5

  Fenders--I paint, 231

  Figs--Buy any?, 61, 116

  Filberts--Ripe, Brown, &c., 116, 183

  Fleas--Buy a tormentor for, 66, 75

  Flounders, 30, 61, 116, 268

  Flowers--Buy my, 356

  Fowl--A choice, 116

  Footstool--Buy a, 61

  French Beans--Buy, 116

  French Garters, 71

  Garlick--Buy any?, 62

  Garters for the knee, 61, 82, 88

  Gazette, London--Here, 126, 339

  Geraniums--Scarlet, &c., 240

  Gilliflowers, &c., 115

  Gingerbread--Hot, 75, 114, 349

  Glass to mend, 61

  Glasses--Broken, 120

  Golden Pippins--Who'll buy, 290

  Gold-end--Have you any?, 60

  Goose--Buy a, 116

  Gooseberries--Buy my fine, 261

  Green Coleworts--Here's, 115

  Greens, 2d. a bunch, 355

  Green Peas--All hot-hot!, 239, 296

  Gudgeons--Fine, &c., 115

  Gaudes--Dainty for Sunday, 88

  Ground-Ivy--Buy my, 115

  Haddocks--Buy my fine, 61, 116

  Hair--Maids any to sell?, 113

  Hair Brooms, or a Brush, 289

  Hair-line--Buy a?, 62

  Hang out your Lights here, 46-47

  Handkerchief-buttons--Buy, 73

  Hare Skins--I buy, 83

  Hastings--Young and Green, 115

  Hat, or Cap Box?, 297, 356

  Hat--Buy a case for, 62

  Hats--Fine felt, 5

  Hats or Caps--To dress, 62

  Hats or Caps--Buy or sell, 38

  Hassock for your Pew, 66, 72

  Hautboys--Ripe, 115

  Hearth-stones--Want any?, 158, 362

  Heart's-ease--Buy any?, 115

  Herbs--Here's fine of every sort, 115

  Herrings--Fine new, &c., 60, 113

  Hobby-Horses, 73, 76, 106

  Holly--Christmas ho!, 234

  Hone, or Whetstone, 73

  Hornbook--Buy a, 85

  Horns--Shall I mend your?, 114

  Hot-Cross Buns, 185, 202, 263

  Hot Mutton--Pies, 61, 282

  Hot Pudding--Pies, 62

  Hot Sheep's feet, 7

  Hot Peacods, 6, 127

  Houseleek--Here's ye, 115

  Holloway Cheesecakes, 117

  Hood--Buy a?, 9

  Horehound--Buy any, 115

  Images--Come buy my, 287, 357

  Ink--Fine writing-ink, 59, 104, 126

  Ink and Pens, 59

  Iron--Old iron I buy, &c., 40, 60

  Iron Fork or shovel, 105

  Italian Falling Bands, 71

  Ivy--Ground-ivy, 115

  Jessamine--Pale, &c., 240

  Jew's Trumps (_i.e. Harps._), 76

  John Apples--Who'll buy, 81

  John the Cooper--Any work for?, 60, 126

  Kettles to mend, 64, 303

  Kentish Cherries, 288

  Kitchen-stuff--What have you maids?, 60, 113

  Knives to grind, 277, 373

  Laces--Long and Strong, 83, 126

  Lambs--Young to sell, 185, 293

  Lanthorn & Candle, 46, 66, 72

  Lavender--Blooming, 115, 270, 372

  Lawn, Silk, Velvets, 6

  Lights for your cat, 116

  Lilies of the Valley, 294

  Leeks--Here's fine, 116

  Lemons--Fine, 60

  Lettuce--Fine goss, 57, 60, 66

  Lobsters--Buy, 116, 343

  Mackerel--Fine, fresh, 7, 29, 60, 73, 271

  Maids--Buy my fresh, 116

  Marjoram--Ho!, 115

  Marking Stone, 57, 61, 64, 72

  Marroguin--Good, 60

  Marrow-bones, Maids, 73

  Marygolds--Here's ye, 115

  Mat--Buy a, 60, 66, 73

  Matches--Buy my, 231

  Milk--Maids below &c., 60, 139, 183, 344

  Mint--Any green, or a bunch, 115, 274

  Mops--Maids buy a, 219, 284

  Mousetrap--Buy a, 65, 75

  Muffins--Buy new, 284

  Muffins, Crumpets

  Mugwort--Buy my, 115

  Mulberries--Here's, 116, 266

  Mullets--Buy my, 116

  Mussels--Lilly-white, 31, 60, 73

  Mutton Dumplings--Hot, 282

  Mutton Pies--Who'll buy?, 61

  Myrtle--Dark green, 340

  Nectarines--Fine, 116, 348

  Needles--who buys my, 85

  Nettle-tops--Here's ye, 115

  New River Water--Here 129, 139

  Nosegays--Fine, 115

  Nun's Thread, 71

  Nuts--Fine, new, &c., 113

  Oat-Cakes--Fine, 62

  Old Clo! Clo!, 37, 353, 369

  Old Cloaks, Suits or Coats, 38

  Old Doublets, 60

  Old Iron--Take money for, 40

  Old Man--A penny a root, 231

  Old Satin-taffety, or Velvet, 37

  Onions--White St. Thomas', &c., 35, 66, 115

  Oranges--China, golden, ripe, &c., 60, 183, 303

  Oranges and Lemons--Fine, 60

  Oysters--New Wall-Fleet &c., 30, 113, 285, 353

  Pail--Buy a new, 231

  Paris-thread, 6

  Parsley--Heres ye, 115

  Parsnips, Buy--Here's fine, 116

  Peaches--Buy my fine, 116, 348

  Pearmains--Buy my, 81

  Pears--Baking, Stewed &c., 85, 61-62, 113, 262

  Peas and Beans--Come buy, 184

  Pea-Soup--All hot!, 239

  Peacods, Hot-hot!, 6, 127

  Penknives to grind, 231

  Pens and Ink, 59-60

  Pennyroyal--Here's ye, 115

  Pepper, Saffron and Spice, 6

  Peppermint--Nice, 237

  Perch--Buy my, 116

  Periwinkles--Quick _i.e. live_, 62, 73, 374

  Pies Hot, 62, 113

  Pigeons--Come buy my, 116

  Pike--Fine live, 116

  Pins of the maker, 63

  Pins and Needles--Who buys?, 85

  Pins for Coney-Skins, 115

  Pippins--Buy my? &c., 60, 290

  Pippin-Pies, 60

  Plaice--Buy dish of, &c., 31, 61, 116

  Plovers--Come buy my, 116

  Plum-Pudding, 4d. a pound, 114

  Plum--Buy my ripe, 116, 299

  Points--Buy any?, 61

  Pomegranites--Fine, 62

  Pompeons (Qy. Pumpkin), 62

  Potatoes--Fine new, 62, 116, 286

  Potatoes--All hot, 359

  Pot--Buy a white, 61

  Pots and Pans, 231

  Pots, Pans, Kettles to mend, 264, 301

  Powder and Wash-ball, 121

  Pretty Pins--Pretty women?, 126

  Primroses--Buy, 228, 246

  Props or Lines, 184

  Prunes--Buy, 2d. a-pound, 61, 115

  Purse--Buy a, 300

  Quick (_i.e. live_) Perriwinkles, 62, 73

  Rabbits--Who'll buy, 116, 273

  Rabbit-skins--Any to sell, buy, 60, 84

  Radish--Buy my white, &c., 35, 62, 66, 115

  Raisons--Buy any?, 61

  Rareee Show--Take a peep, 280

  Ribs of beef--Fine, 5

  Rice-milk--Here's hot, 114, 127, 347

  Rice--New, 2d. a pound, 116

  Rings--Powch-posies, 13, 88

  Rope-Mats--Buy one, 278

  Roses--Buy my fine, 340

  Rosemary--Buy my, 60, 115, 257

  Rosemary and Briar, 127, 257

  Rue--Buy a bunch, &c., 115, 274

  Rushes--Green, 7-8, 62

  Saffron, Spice and Pepper, 6

  Sage--Buy a bunch &c., 115, 274

  Salad--Ready picked, 115

  Salmon--Fine, Newcastle, &c., 30, 258

  Saloop--Hot and good, 116, 127

  Samphire--Rock, 60, 72

  Sand--Silver sand, 113

  Sashes--Ribbons or lace, 179

  Satin--Old, 37

  Sausages, 56, 61

  Save-all--Buy a, 80

  Savoys--Here's fine, 115

  Scissors ground, 1d. per pair, 277

  Screens, from the fire, 73

  Scurvy-grass--Any?, 62, 115

  Shads--Come buy my, 60, 116

  Shirt Buttons--Buy, 272

  Sheep's Trotters--Hot, 7, 127

  Shoes-Buy--I buy, 14, 61

  Shovel and Iron Fork, 105

  Shrimps--Fine, New, 61, 116, 374

  Silk Velvets lawn, 6

  Singing Bird--Buy a fine, 107, 115

  Silver Sand--Buy, 113

  Small Coals, 73, 116, 124

  Smelts--Buy my &c., 31, 62, 116

  Socks--Holland socks, 126

  Soles--Fine, &c., 62

  Songs--A choice of, 83

  Songs--Three yards a penny, 187

  Southernwood, that's very good, 115

  Spice, pepper and saffron, 6

  Spice graters, 58

  Sprats--Buy my, 61, 116

  Spinach--Here's, 116

  Starch--Blue, 61

  Stocks--Buy fine, 340

  Straw--Will you buy any?, 79

  Strawberries--Ripe, &c., 6, 62, 108, 115, 185, 276

  Steel or Tinder-box, 73

  Stopple--For your close-stool, 66

  Stomach water, 63

  Sweep, 184

  Sweet Briar--Buy my, 257, 277

  Table-mat--Buy a, 251

  Tape--Buy any?, 61

  Tarts--All hot, 113

  Teal--Come buy my, 116

  Tench--Buy my, 116

  Teeth--Any to draw?, 81

  Thornback--New, 62

  Tinder-Box--Buy a, 79

  Tinker--Have you any work for a?, 60, 73, 264

  Toasting Forks, 58, 61, 99

  Toasting-Iron, 61

  Toys, For girls and boys, 185

  Trap for fleas, 66

  Trinkets--Want any?, 291

  Tripes--Fine, 116

  Troop--Every one, 106

  Trotters--Here's, 116

  Turnips--Buy bunch, 60, 115, 277

  Turbot--All alive, 237

  Thyme, Rue, &c., 115

  Velvets, Silk, Lawn, 6

  Venice Glasses--Come buy, 59

  Vinegar--Lilly-white, 126

  Violets--Buy my, 128

  Violins--Buy, 76

  Wafers--Buy any?, 126

  Walking-sticks--Buy my, 139, 260

  Walnuts, New, crack and try, &c., 62, 115, 241, 242, 243

  Warders--Hot (Pears), 127

  Wash-Ball--Want any, 58, 62, 291

  Watch--Buy of me, 291

  Water--Buy spring here?, 129, 139

  Water-cresses--Buy fresh, &c., 115, 127

  Wax--Buy any?, 126, 281, 353

  Wheat--Buy any?, 62, 73

  Whetstone--Buy a, 73

  Whistle, for your boy, 82

  White Scallions (_Shalots_), 62

  Whiting--Any new, fresh, &c., 30, 62, 66

  Whiting Maps, 61

  Widgeon--Come buy my, 116

  Wigs--A fine tie or bob?, 126

  Wild Duck--Buy a, 116

  Windsor Beans, 115

  Wine--One penny a pint, 10

  Winter-Savoy--Here you have, 115

  Wood--Any to cleave?, 15, 62, 124

  Wood-sorrel--Here's ye, 115

  Worcestershire Salt, 61, 62

  Wormwood--Here's fine, 115

  Yards and Ells, 61

  Yorkshire Cakes, 254

  Yorkshire Muffins, 116

  Yarmouth Bloaters, 237

  Cry--_Much cry, but little wool_, 120

  Crying Things in London, 73

  Curds--A cheesewoman, 81

  Cutler's Poetry upon a knife, 52

  Deacon's Music Hall, 131

  Decker, Thomas, _alias_ Dekker, 50

  Deuteromelia, or Roundelays, 70

  Dick Tarlton--Jester, 136

  Dick, The Shoe Black, 155

  Dimsdale--Mayor Garrett, 199

  Ditty--A ballad-man, 80

  Dogberry--The Watchman, 49

  Drunken Barnaby at Holloway, 117

  Duke of Devonshire's drawings, 63

  Dumpling Woman--The, 253

  Dunstan--Sir Jeffery, 196

     "     Mayor of Garrett, 197

     "     Death of, 198

  Dustman--The, 249

  Dying Speeches, 160, 172

       "    Albert Smith's, 173

       "    Ann William's, 163

       "    Wm. Corder's, 170

       "    Couvoisier's, 112

       "    Greenacre's, 171

       "    Thurtell's, 167

  Earl of Ellesmere, 73

  Eastern Cheap-Market, 8

  Eastwood ho!--A Comedy, 62

  Ebsworth--Rev. J. W, 83

  Edmonton, 137, 138

  Ely Place--The orchards in, 108

  Elizabeth--Queen, 35, 64

    Christmas Holly, 244
    Hot-Cross Buns, 210
    Old Cries, 244
    Young Lambs to Sell, 221

  Enfield--Charles Lamb at, 136

  Falstaff and Henry V, 8

  Faux-Hall, 23

  Field Lane and Fagan, 6

  Fiddler--The blind, 283

  Finsbury, its groves, 139

  Flower Girls--Saucy, 128

  Flower Pot Man--The, 240

  Flying Stationer--The, 159

  Fish-Fags, 236

  Fish-Wives, 29, 32

  Fisherwomen, 234

  Fortunes of Nigel, 40

  Fortey Mr. _late_ Catnach, 194

  Garratt--Mayor of, 197, 200

  George Cruikshank, 222

  George Daniel--Mr., 133

  George Dyer, 133

  Gingerbread Lottery, 350

  Goldsmith--Oliver, 135

  Gravesend and Milton, 10

  Grey Friars, 18

  Greenacre, 172

  Greene Robt,--_Never too Late_, 64

  Grim--The Black Collier, 96

  Grimaldi--Old Joe, 132

  Gum--A tooth drawer, 81

  Guy Fawkes--Guy, 226

  Halliwell Street, 90

  Heath--A broom-man, 80

  Hearth Stone Merchant, 158

  Herb-wives, unruly people, 35

  Herb-wife--The, 274

  Herrick, Robert--Pretty Jane

          "        Hesperides, 50

  Heywood, T.--Rape of Lucrece

  Hobbyhorse-seller--A, 75, 106

  Hogarth's Print of "_Evening_", 131

     "      "_Enraged Musician_", 32

     "      Idle 'Prentice, 149

     "      Pieman, 214

  Holborn, 12, 35

     "     Green Pastures in, 139

  Holloway Cheese-cakes, 117

  Holywell Street, 203

  Hone's Every-Day Book, 132, 155

  Hornmen, 150

  Hot Codlings--A Catch, 101

  Hucksters, 35

  Hugh Myddleton, 131

  Hyde Park, 20

  Inigo Jones' collection of drawings, 63

  Iron-Tailed Cow--The, 143

  Islington, 131

      "    Clerks from, 155

      "    Garland, 131, 135

  Jack Drum's Entertainment, 117

  "Jerry" the spec builder, 139

  Jigs on the Stage, 80

  Jin Vin. in Prentices-riots, 41

  John Bunyan--A Tinker, 100

  John Howard, 126

  John Stow's Survey of London, 2

  John Taylor--The Water-Poet, 90

  Johnson, Dr. on London-cries, 36

  Kate Smith--Milkmaid, 241

  Kelly--Frances, M., 137

  Kempe--A Comedian, 90

  Kent--Lambarde's, 10

  Lackpenny--_see_ London

  Lambeth, 23

  Lauron's Cries--see Mauron

  Law, Thomas--The Bellman, 53

  Lawyer's and Suitors, 11

  La Zoon--Partrait Painter, 103

  Lettuce Woman--The, 57

  Life in London, 8

  Light of other Days--The, 63

  Liston, W., "London Crier", 220

  London, Barrow Women, 112, 222

     "    Bridge, 25, 26

     "    Chanticleers, a Comedy, 79

     "    Labour, 7

     "    Lackpenny, 2, 3, 10

     "    Lawyers, 11

     "    Milk Carriers, 139 to 147

     "    'Prentice riots, 42, 45

     "    Stall Keepers, 11

     "    Stone--The, 7, 11

     "    The Three Ladies of, 12

     "    Wall--The, 17

     "    Without lamps, 51

  Ludgate--Poor Prisioners in, 17, 18

  Lupton's London (1632), 234

  Luttrell's Collection of Broadsides, 52

  Lydgate--A Monk, 1, 2, 7, 9

     "     his numerous works, 2

     "     his London Lackpenny, 2, 3, 10

     "     Cornhill in his time, 9

     "     Mackerel in his day, 29

  Madame Vestris--Her legs, 223

  Maria Marten, & Corder, 168

  Marylebone, 20

  Mauron's-_alias_-Lauron--"Cryes,", 31, 103

  Mayhew's, H., London Labour, 7, 152, 165

  Mayors of Garratt, 127, 200

  Merry Bellman's--Out-Cryes, 52

  Merry Drollery--The, 83

  Milliner's Girls, 70

  Nassau Press--The, 195

  Ned Ward--His Time, 124

  Nell Gwynne, 57, 109 to 112

  New Exchange--Strand, 70

  New River--First View of, 130

      "      And Charles Lamb, 130

  News-criers, 150

  Newgate, 18

  Nightingale--A ballad-singer, 75

  Novello--Mr. Vincent, 136

  Northumberland House, 25

  Milk--London supply of, 142

  Milkmaids, 141

  Milkman--The Poetical, 147

  Milk and water, 139

  Milk from the Cow, 244

  Miller's Golden Thumb, 92

  Milton's Il Penseroso, 50

  Misson's Travels, 140

  Moorfields, 18

  Moorgate, 17

  Morely,--A Musical Composer, 70

  Morose--A Character, 28, 33

  Mother Red Cap--Holloway, 117

  Much cry, but little wool, 120

  Muffin Man--The, 202

  Muffin and Crumpet Company, 201

  Murder of Mr. Weare, 165

  Okes--A printer (1632), 234

  Old clo'--A Jew's monopoly, 39

       "    And Coleridge, 60

  Old Parr's Head--The, 131

  Old Stage waggon--The, 21

  Oliver Twist, 6

  Orange-women, 29, 32, 57

  Oranges imported by Sir. W. Raleigh, 109

  Orlando Gibbons--Musician, 72

  Oyster-wives--unruly people, 35

  O Yes--a mad merry ditty, 52

  Pammelia--a musical work, 78

  Paris Gardens, 90

  Pastyme of Pleasure--The, 2

  Paul Mr.--And Catnach, 195

  Paul's Wharf, 25

  Pedlar's French, 64

  Pepy's--His collection, &c., 102

  Pewter Pots, 8, 197

  Pewterer's 'prentice, 28

  Phillips--A comedian, 90

  Pieman--London The, 211 to 219

  Pie Shops--The Penny, 127

  Pie-Poudre--A court of, 76

  Pimlico--A country hamlet, 21

  Pinner-up--Of songs, 193

  Pitts--Ballad-monger, 161

  Place Maubert, 236

  Plate-glass windows, 6

  Playford's Select Ayres, 87

  Pope Thos.--Famous Clown, 90

  Pope's Head--in Cornhill, 10

  Porson--on Barrow-woman, 112

  Potatoes--In reign of James I., 72

  Powder-Watt, 121

  Puddle Dock, 25

  'Prentice Riots, 44

  Prick Song--What!, 52

  Queen Anne's--London, 47

  Rabbit Man--The, 273

  Raddish and Lettuce-woman, 57

  Ragg--The Bellman's copy of verses, 52

  Ragged School, 157

  Rat-catcher--The, 59

  Red Barn--Murder at, 168

  River Fleet, 17

  Robatos--a kind of Ruff, 71

  Roger Warde--Printer (1584), 12

  Rome mort--Romville, 64

  Roxburghe Ballads--The, 71, 80, 89, 113

  Rushes--Green, the strewing of &c., 7, 8

  Ryle--Mrs. Anne, 194

  Saint Fear--Years of, 52

  St. Dunstan's Church, 41, 71

  St. James' Park, 21

  St. Pauls' Cathedral, 43

  Salt, sold in the streets, 62

  Sausage-Woman The, 58

  Second Edition--Sellers, 152

  Seven Dials, 164

  Shakespeare's London, 16 to 27

  Shancke, John--Comic actor, 89

  Shoe-Black--The, 155

  Shoe-Blacks--Last of the, 153

  Shoeblack Society, 157

  Shopkeepers--Loud bawling, 6

  Shoreditch-church--Fields, 33, 90

  Singer--A Comedian, 90

  Sir Hugh Myddleton's Head, 131

  Songs--3 yards a penny, 187

  Sow--Gelder's Horn, 32, 119

  Spectacles, first sold, 5

  Spectator, The--on London cries, 118

  Spring water--Here?, 129

  Stall-keepers--The, 11

  Statutes of the Streets, 48

  Stow's Survey of London, 2, 50

  Strawberries in Holborn, 108

  Strawberry-Woman--The, 276

  Tarlton, Comedian, 20

  Tempest's, P. Cries of London, 102

  Theatres--Bankside, 23

      "     The Cockpit, 79

      "     Covent Garden, 23

      "     The Curtain, 89, 90, 95

      "     Drury Lane, 23

      "     The Globe, 22, 89, 90, 95

      "     The Hope, 75

      "     Red Bull, 64, 89, 95

      "     Sadler's Wells, 130, 132

      "     The Theatre, 64, 90

      "     The Swan, 89, 90, 95

  Thurtell--John, Murderer, 165

      "     Hook's verses on, 166

  Three Ladies of London, 12, 15

  Tiddy-Doll--Vendor of Gingerbread, 148, 264

  Tinker--The Jolly, 302

  Troop--Every One, 106

  Tripe-wives--unruly people, 35

  Trotter Yard--The, 7

  Turner's Dish of Stuff, 89, 91

  Veal, with a _hammy_ knife!, 239

  Watchman--The London, 46

  Water Carrier--The, 129

  Water-Poet--_see_ John Taylor

  Walter Raleigh and oranges, 109

  Weare Mr.--The Murder of, 165

  What do you lack?, 7, 41

  Windsor Drollery--The, 87, 101

  Wood--Any to cleave?, 15

  Wotton, Towns End--Tune of, 89

  Wynter, Dr. on our milk supply 142

  Yea by cock, 8

  Ye Bridge-foot, 234

  Year of Saint's Fear, 52


[1] "The England of Shakespeare," by E. Goadby--Cassell, Petter, Galpin &
Co., London, E.C.

[2] For the use of the woodcut blocks representing the "Smith Arms," and
the Globe Theatre, we are indebted to our friend Mr. John W. Jarvis,
author of "Musee-Phusee-Glyptic: A Scrap Book of Jottings from
Stratford-on-Avon, and Elsewhere," London, 1875, who introduces them into
the pages of his work thus:--

    "Not long since, after a pleasing and interesting walk, one fine
    morning on Bankside, and standing near the still existing Cardinal Cap
    Alley, with the aid of an artist friend, we drew up a fancy picture of
    what Bankside was in Shakespeare's day.--Here a small creek with craft
    and busy life around; a small bridge, with road leading to the Globe,
    the famous theatre afterwards to be so widely known. The sunshiny time
    of our literature and life, making a red-letter period in happy old
    England's history. We were interrupted by a kindly-faced,
    round-shouldered man of the bargee type, who asked us 'if it was
    Shakespeare, him as writ plays, we was a torkin' on; if so be it were,
    he could show us the wery 'ouse he used, least ways, all as is left on
    it.' After a twisting tramp through Cardinal Cap Alley, we were
    brought out opposite the public-house known by the name of the 'Smith
    Arms,' which had just then only escaped entire demolition from fire by
    a very near chance--(the damage done has since necessitated the
    rebuilding; so the sketch stands as a bit of rescued old London.)

    "Our informant assured us that--'Shakespeare as had a playus nigh
    there, used to use that wery 'ouse; him as writ the Merchant of
    Venice, Money, and the Forest of Bondy.' Our kind friend was
    interrupted by a companion, who said, 'Not Bondy: him didn't write
    that.' 'I won't give up Money, because the Merchant of Venice is all
    about Money. You better say he didn't write Richard the Third and
    Richard the Fourth.'

    "We gladly retired before our historic doubts were confirmed by this
    traditional scholar, about this double Gloucester. His companion, as
    we thought rather aptly, but churlishly remarked, 'cheese it,' for
    they were both getting grumpy, and after this duplicate, we were
    fearful a fifth or a sixth might appear. But the house itself, one
    among the oldest in Southwark, we considered worthy a sketch, and, as
    our guide told us, ought to be '_perpetrated_.' He said he could pull
    a bit, but draw he couldn't; but he did--that is, four-pence for

[3] PRICK-SONG, music pricked or noted down, full of flourish and

[4] NOISE.--A set, or company of musicians. "_These terrible noyses, with
threadbare cloaks_,"--_Decker's Bellman, of London_, 1608.

[5] _Pie-Poudre._ A court formerly held at a fair for the rough-and-ready
treatment of pedlars and hawkers, to compel them and those with whom they
dealt to fulfil their contracts. This court arose from the necessity of
doing justice expeditiously, among persons resorting from distant places
to a fair or market. It is said to be called the court of _pie-poudre,
curia, pedis pulverizate_, from the dusty feet of the suitors, or, as Sir
Edward Coke says, because justice is there done as speedily as dust can
fall from the feet.

[6] _The Tune of Wotton Towns End_, is the same as "Peg a' Ramsey,"
mentioned by Shakespeare in Twelfth Night, and is at least as old as 1589.
It is also in "Robin Good-Fellow: His Mad Pranks, And Merry Jests, Full of
Honest Mirth, &c., 1628."

[7] The Curtain Road, now notorious for cheap and shoddy furniture, still
marks the site of the Curtain Theatre; at the same date there was another
playhouse in the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, distinguished as "The
Theatre," where the Chamberlain's Company had settled. John Stow, in his
Survey of London, 1598, speaking of the priory of St. John Baptist, says:
"And neere thereunto are builded two publique houses for acting of shews
of comedies, tragedies, and histories, for recreation. Whereof is one
called the "Courtein," the other "The Theatre;" both standing on the South
West side toward the field." In both these James Burbadge may have been
interested; his long residence in the parish may fairly lead to the
conclusion, that he was a sharer in at least one of them. Richard Tarlton,
the famous actor of clown's parts, was a near neighbour of James Burbadge,
and a shareholder and performer at the Curtain. Thomas Pope, a performer
of rustic clowns, by his will dated July, 1603, left--"All my part, right,
title, and interest which I have in the playhouse, called the Curtein,
situated and being in Halliwell, in the parish of St. Leonard's in
Shoreditch, in the County of Middlesex." At what date one or the other of
these early Suburban playhouses ceased to be occupied, we have little or
no satisfactory evidence.

[8] Stoke's Rapid Plan of Teaching Music.

[9] The Old Parr's Head, in Upper Street, Islington.

[10] BLACK JACK. A huge leather drinking vessel. A Frenchman speaking of
it says, "The English drink out of their boots."--_Heywood._

[11] BEAU-TRAP:--A loose stone in the pavement under which the water
lodges in rainy weather, which when trodden on squirts it up to the great
damage of light-coloured clothes and clean stockings. First invented by
Sedan-chairmen, whose practice it was to loosen a flat-stone so that in
wet weather those that choose to save their money by walking, might, by
treading on the "trap" dirt their shoes and stockings.

[12] Pitts, a modern publisher of love garlands, merriments, penny
ballads, &c.

  "Who, ere he went to heaven,
  Domiciled in Dials Seven!"
                              George Daniel's, "_Democritus in London_."

[13] Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

[14] The whole market has been rebuilt during these last few years, &
Darkhouse-lane abolished.--C. H.

[15] In the glee, "Merrily rang the Bells of St. Michael's Tower," we are
told that Richard Penlake had a shrew for a wife, and though she had a
tongue that was longer, yet--

  "Richard Penlake a crabstick would take
  And show her that he was the stronger."

Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

Superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}.

Period errors, comma errors, and mismatched quotation marks have been
corrected without note.

Items in the index are out of order and some do not include missing page
numbers. These are presented as in the original text.

The original text contains hyphen and spelling variants and spelling
errors that have been retained.

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