London Labour and the London Poor: Selection (Classics) (17 page)

The business begins about the middle of August and continues to the latter end of April, or as soon as the potatoes get to any size, – until they are pronounced ‘bad’. The season, upon an average, lasts about half the year, and depends much upon the weather. If it is cold and frosty, the trade is brisker than in wet weather; indeed then little is doing. The best hours for business are from half-past ten in the morning till two in the afternoon, and from five in the evening till eleven or twelve at night. The night trade is considered the best. In cold weather the potatoes are frequently bought to warm the hands. Indeed, an eminent divine classed them, in a public speech, among the best of modern improvements, it being a cheap luxury to the poor wayfarer, who was benumbed in the night by cold, and an excellent medium for diffusing warmth into the system, by being held in the gloved hand. Some buy them in the morning for lunch and some for dinner. A newsvendor, who had to take a hasty meal in his shop, told me he was ‘always glad to hear the baked-potato cry, as it made a dinner of what was only a snack without it.’ The best time at night, is about nine, when the potatoes are purchased for supper.

The customers consist of all classes. Many gentlefolks buy them in the street, and take them home for supper in their pockets; but the working classes are the greatest purchasers. Many boys and girls lay out a halfpenny in a baked potato. Irishmen are particularly fond of them, but they are the worst customers, I am told, as they want the largest potatoes in the can. Women buy a great number of those sold. Some take them home, and some eat them in the street. Three baked potatoes are as much as will satisfy the stoutest appetite. One potato dealer in Smithfield is said to sell about 2½ cwt. of potatoes on a market-day; or, in other words, from 900 to 1,000 potatoes, and to take upwards of 2
l
. One informant told me that he himself had often sold 1½ cwt. of a day, and taken 1
l
. in halfpence. I am informed, that upon the average, taking the good stands with the bad ones throughout London, there are about 1 cwt. of potatoes sold by each baked-potato man – and there are 200 of these throughout the metropolis – making the total quantity of baked potatoes consumed every day 10 tons. The money spent upon these comes to within a few shillings of 125
l
. (calculating 300 potatoes to the cwt., and each of those potatoes to be sold at a halfpenny). Hence, there are 60 tons of baked potatoes eaten in London streets, and 750
l
. spent upon them every week during the season. Saturdays and Mondays are the best days for the sale of baked potatoes in those parts of London that are not near the markets; but in those in the
vicinity of Clare, Newport, Covent-garden, Newgate, Smithfield, and other markets, the trade is briskest on the market-days. The baked-potato men are many of them broken-down tradesmen. Many are labourers who find a difficulty of obtaining employment in the winter time; some are costermongers; some have been artisans; indeed, there are some of all classes among them.

After the baked potato season is over, the generality of the hucksters take to selling strawberries, raspberries, or anything in season. Some go to labouring work. One of my informants, who had been a bricklayer’s labourer, said that after the season he always looked out for work among the bricklayers, and this kept him employed until the baked potato season came round again.

‘When I first took to it,’ he said, ‘I was very badly off. My master had no employment for me, and my brother was ill, and so was my wife’s sister, and I had no way of keeping ’em, or myself either. The labouring men are mostly out of work in the winter time, so I spoke to a friend of mine, and he told me how he managed every winter, and advised me to do the same. I took to it, and have stuck to it ever since. The trade was much better then. I could buy a hundred-weight of potatoes for 1
s
. 9
d
. to 2
s
. 3
d
., and there were fewer to sell them. We generally use to a cwt. of potatoes three-quarters of a pound of butter – tenpenny salt butter is what we buy – a pennyworth of salt, a pennyworth of pepper, and five pennyworth of charcoal. This, with the baking, 9
d
., brings the expenses to just upon 7
s
. 6
d
. per cwt., and for this our receipts will be 12
s
. 6
d
., thus leaving about 5
s
. per cwt. profit.’ Hence the average profits of the trade are about 30
s
. a week – ‘and more to some,’ said my informant. A man in Smithfield-market, I am credibly informed, clears at the least 3
l
. a week. On the Friday he has a fresh basket of hot potatoes brought to him from the baker’s every quarter of an hour. Such is his custom that he has not even time to take money, and his wife stands by his side to do so.

Another potato-vendor who shifted his can, he said, ‘from a public-house where the tap dined at twelve’, to another half-a-mile off, where it ‘dined at one, and so did the parlour’, and afterwards to any place he deemed best, gave me the following account of his customers:

‘Such a day as this, sir [Jan. 24], when the fog’s like a cloud come down, people looks very shy at my taties, very; they’ve been more suspicious ever since the taty rot. I thought I should never have rekivered it; never, not the rot. I sell most to mechanics – I was a grocer’s porter myself before I was a baked taty – for their dinners and they’re on for good shops where I serves the taps and parlours, and pays me without grumbling, like
gentlemen. Gentlemen does grumble though, for I’ve sold to them at private houses when they’ve held the door half open as they’ve called me – aye, and ladies too – and they’ve said, “Is
that
all for 2
d
.?” If it’d been a peck they’d have said the same, I know. Some customers is very pleasant with me, and says I’m a blessing. One always says he’ll give me a ton of taties when his ship comes home, ‘cause he can always have a hot murphy to his cold saveloy, when tin’s short. He’s a harness-maker, and the railways has injured him. There’s Union-street and there’s Pearl-row, and there’s Market-street, now, – they’re all off the Borough-road – if I go there at ten at night or so, I can sell 3
s
. worth, perhaps, ‘cause they know me, and I have another baked taty to help there sometimes. They’re women that’s not reckoned the best in the world that buys there, but they pay me. I know why I got my name up. I had luck to have good fruit when the rot was about, and they got to know me. I only go twice or thrice a week, for it’s two miles from my regular places. I’ve trusted them sometimes. They’ve said to me, as modest as could be, “Do give me credit, and ’pon my word you shall be paid; there’s a dear!” I am paid mostly. Little shopkeepers is fair customers, but I do best for the taps and parlours. Perhaps I make 12
s
. or 15
s
. a week – I hardly know, for I’ve only myself and keep no ’count – for the season; money goes one can’t tell how, and ’specially if you drinks a drop, as I do sometimes. Foggy weather drives me to it, I’m so worritted; that is, now and then, you’ll mind, sir.’

There are, at present 300 vendors of hot baked potatoes getting their living in the streets of London, each of whom sell, upon an average, ¾ cwt. of potatoes daily. The average takings of each vendor is 6
s
. a day; and the receipts of the whole number throughout the season (which lasts from the latter end of September till March inclusive), a period of 6 months, is 14,000
l
.

A capital is required to start in this trade as, follows: can, 2
l
.; knife, 3
d
.; stock-money, 8
s
.; charge for baking 100 potatoes, 1
s
.; charcoal, 4
d
.; butter, 2
d
.; salt, 1
d
. and pepper, 1
d
.; altogether, 2
l
. 9
s
. 11
d
. The can and knife is the only property described as fixed, stock-money, &c., being daily occurring, amounts to 75
l
. during the season.

Of the Street-sellers of Ham-sandwiches

[p. 185] The ham-sandwich-seller carries his sandwiches on a tray or flat basket, covered with a clean white cloth; he also wears a white apron, and white sleeves. His usual stand is at the doors of the theatres.

The trade was unknown until eleven years ago, when a man who had
been unsuccessful in keeping a coffee-shop in Westminster, found it necessary to look out for some mode of living, and he hit upon the plan of vending sandwiches, precisely in the present style, at the theatre doors. The attempt was successful; the man soon took 10
s
. a night, half of which was profit. He ‘attended’ both the great theatres, and was ‘doing well’; but at five or six weeks’ end, competitors appeared in the field, and increased rapidly, and so his sale was affected, people being regardless of his urging that he ‘was the original ham-sandwich’. The capital required to start in the trade was small; a few pounds of ham, a proportion of loaves, and a little mustard was all that was required, and for this 10
s
. was ample. That sum, however, could not be commanded by many who were anxious to deal in sandwiches; and the man who commenced the trade supplied them at 6
d
. a dozen, the charge to the public being 1
d
. a-piece. Some of the men, however, murmured, because they thought that what they thus bought were not equal to those the wholesale sandwich-man offered for sale himself; and his wholesale trade fell off, until now, I am told, he has only two customers among street-sellers.

Ham sandwiches are made from any part of the bacon which may be sufficiently lean, such as ‘the gammon’, which now costs 4
d
. and 5
d
. the pound. It is sometimes, but very rarely, picked up at 3½
d
. When the trade was first started,
7d
. a pound was paid for the ham, but the sandwiches are now much larger. To make three dozen a pound of meat is required, and four quartern loaves. The ‘ham’ may cost 5
d
., the bread 1
s
. 8
d
. or 1
s
. 10
d
., and the mustard 1
d
. The proceeds for this would be 3
s
., but the trade is very precarious: little can be done in wet weather. If unsold, the sandwiches spoil, for the bread gets dry, and the ham loses its fresh colour; so that those who depend upon this trade are wretchedly poor. A first-rate week is to clear 10
s
.; a good week is put at 7
s
.; and a bad week at 3
s
. 6
d
. On some nights they do not sell a dozen sandwiches. There are halfpenny sandwiches, but these are only half the size of those at a penny.

The persons carrying on this trade have been, for the most part, in some kind of service – errand-boys, pot-boys, foot-boys (or pages), or lads engaged about inns. Some few have been mechanics. Their average weekly earnings hardly exceed 5
s
., but some ‘get odd jobs’ at other things.

‘There are now, sir, at the theatres this (the Strand) side the water, and at Ashley’s, the Surrey, and the Vic., two dozen and nine sandwiches.’ So said one of the trade, who counted up his brethren for me. This man calculated also that at the Standard, the saloons, the concert-rooms, and at Limehouse, Mile-end, Bethnal-green-road, and elsewhere, there might be more than as many again as those ‘working’ the theatres – or 70 in
all. They are nearly all men, and no boys or girls are now in the trade. The number of these people, when the large theatres were open with the others, was about double what it is now.

The information collected shows that the expenditure in ham-sandwiches, supplied by street-sellers is 1,820
l
. yearly, and a consumption of 436,800 sandwiches.

To start in the ham-sandwich street-trade requires 2
s
. for a basket, 2
s
. for kettle to boil ham in, 6
d
. for knife and fork, 2
d
. for mustard-pot and spoon, 7
d
. for ½cwt. of coals, 5
s
. for ham, 1
s
. 3
d
. for bread, 4
d
. for mustard, 9
d
. for basket, cloth, and apron, 4
d
. for over-sleeves – or a capital of 12
s
. 11
d
.

Of the Experience of a Ham Sandwich-seller

[pp. 185–6] A young man gave me the following account. His look and manners were subdued; and, though his dress was old and worn, it was clean and unpatched.

‘I hardly remember my father, sir,’ he said; ‘but I believe, if he’d lived, I should have been better off. My mother couldn’t keep my brother and me – he’s older than me – when we grew to be twelve or thirteen, and we had to shift for ourselves. She works at the stays, and now makes only 3
s
. a week, and we can’t help her. I was first in place as a sort of errand-boy, then I was a stationer’s boy, and then a news agent’s boy. I wasn’t wanted any longer, but left with a good character. My brother had gone into the sandwich trade – I hardly knew what made him – and he advised me to be a ham sandwich-man, and so I started as one. At first, I made 10
s
., and 7
s
., and 8
s
. a week – that’s seven years or so – but things are worse now, and I make 3
s
. 6
d
. some weeks, and 5
s
. others, and 6
s
. is an out-and-outer. My rent’s 2
s
. a week, but I haven’t my own things. I am so sick of this life, I’d do anything to get out of it; but I don’t see a way. Perhaps I might have been more careful when I was in it; but, really, if you do make 10
s
. a week, you want shoes, or a shirt – so what is 10
s
. after all? I wish I had it now, though. I used to buy my sandwiches at 6
d
. a dozen, but I found that wouldn’t do; and now I buy and boil the stuff, and make them myself. What
did
cost 6
d
., now costs me 4
d
. or 4½
d
. I work the theatres this side of the water, chiefly the ‘Lympic and the ‘Delphi. The best theatre I ever had was the Garding, when it had two galleries, and was dramatic – the operas there wasn’t the least good to me. The Lyceum was good, when it was Mr Keeley’s. I hardly know what sort my customers are, but they’re those that go to theaytres: shopkeepers and clerks, I think.
Gentlemen don’t often buy of me. They
have
bought, though. Oh, no, they never give a farthing over; they’re more likely to want seven for 6
d
. The women of the town buy of me, when it gets late, for themselves and their fancy men. They’re liberal enough when they’ve money. They sometimes treat a poor fellow in a public-house. In summer I’m often out ‘till four in the morning, and then must lie in bed half next day. The ‘Delphi was better than it is. I’ve taken 3
s
. at the first “turn out” (the leaving the theatre for a short time after the first piece), ‘but the turn-outs at the Garding was better than that. A penny pie-shop has spoiled us at the ‘Delphi and at Ashley’s. I go out between eight and nine in the evening. People often want more in my sandwiches, though I’m starving on them. “Oh,” they’ll say, “you’ve been ‘prenticed to Vauxhall, you have.” “They’re 1
s
. there,” says I, “and no bigger. I haven’t Vauxhall prices.” I stand by the night-houses when it’s late – not the fashionables. Their customers wouldn’t look at me; but I’ve known women, that carried their heads very high, glad to get a sandwich afterwards. Six times I’ve been upset by drunken fellows, on purpose, I’ve no doubt, and lost all my stock. Once, a gent, kicked my basket into the dirt, and he was going off – for it was late – but some people by began to make remarks about using a poor fellow that way, so he paid for all, after he had them counted. I am
so
sick of this life, sir. I
do
dread the winter so. I’ve stood up to the ankles in snow till after midnight, and till I’ve wished I was snow myself, and could melt like it and have an end. I’d do anything to get away from this, but I can’t. Passion Week’s another dreadful time. It drives us to starve, just when we want to get up a little stock-money for Easter. I’ve been bilked by cabmen, who’ve taken a sandwich; but, instead of paying for it, have offered to fight me. There’s no help. We’re knocked about sadly by the police. Time’s very heavy on my hands, sometimes, and that’s where you feel it. I read a bit, if I can get anything to read, for I was at St Clement’s school; or I walk out to look for a job. On summer-days I sell a trotter or two. But mine’s a wretched life, and so is most ham sandwich-men. I’ve no enjoyment of my youth, and no comfort.