I spent some time this weekend rereading Henry Mayhew’s London Characters And Crooks. Mayhew was a reporter in the 19th century who had something of a specialization in writing about the seedier parts of London life. London Characters And Crooks is a work that covers Mayhew’s time among the criminal and entertaining. Googling Mayew will find you lots of information, like this and this.
I have a lovely Folio Society edition of the book, which for someone with my gentle madness adds to the pleasure of reading the book.
Mayhew is perhaps more famous for his book London Labour and the London Poor, the entire text of which is available online. It’s just as detailed as Characters and Crooks, but the subjects aren’t as interesting to me. Check out the section on the Street Irish particularly–I was amused by what I read about the street Irish and drinking:
Indeed, from all I could ascertain, the Irish street-sellers, whether from inferior earnings, their early training, or the restraints of their priests, drink less beer, by one-fourth, than their English brethren, but a larger proportion of gin. “And you must bear this in mind, sir,” I was told by an innkeeper, “I had rather have twenty poor Englishmen drunk in my tap-room than a couple of poor Irishmen. They’ll quarrel with anybody — the Irish will — and sometimes clear the room by swearing they’ll `use their knives, by Jasus;’ and if there’s a scuffle they’ll kick like devils, and scratch, and bite, like women or cats, instead of using their fists. I wish all the drunkards were teetotallers, if it were only to be rid of them.”
Whiskey, I was told, would be drunk by the Irish, in preference to gin, were it not that gin was about half the price.
Anyway, back to Characters and Crooks: I’ve scanned and OCR‘d a little segment from the book, to entice you, if you’re the type who can be enticed…
A YOUNG PICKPOCKET
I will now give the statement of a boy—a young pickpocket—without shoes or stockings. He wore a ragged, dirty, and very thin great-coat, of some dark jean or linen, under which was another thin coat, so arranged that what appeared rents—and, indeed, were rents, but designedly made—in the outer garment, were slits through which the hand readily reached the pockets of the inner garment, and could there deposit any booty. He was a slim, agile lad, with a sharp but not vulgar expression, and small features. His hands were of singular delicacy and beauty. His fingers were very long, and no lady’s could have been more taper. A burglar told me that with such a hand he ought to have made his fortune. He was worth 20l. a week, He said, as a ‘wire’, that is a picker of ladies’ pockets. When engaged ‘for a turn’, as he told me he once was by an old pickpocket, the man looked minutely at his fingers, and approved of them highly. His hands, the boy said, were hardly serviceable to him when very cold. His feet were formed in the same symmetrical and beautiful mould as his hands.
‘I am fifteen,’ he said. ‘My father was a potter, and I can’t recollect my mother’ (many of the thieves are orphans or motherless). ‘My father has been dead about five years. I was then working at the pottery in High Street, Lambeth, earning about 4s. a week; in good weeks 4s. 6d., I was in work eight months after my father died; but one day I broke three bottles by accident, and the foreman said “I shan’t want you any more”; and I took that as meant for a discharge; but I found afterwards that he didn’t so mean it. I had 2s. and a suit of clothes then, and tried for work at all the potteries; but I couldn’t get any. It was about the time Smithfield fair was on. I went, but it was a very poor concern. I fell asleep in a pen in the afternoon, and had my shoes stolen off my feet. When I woke up, I began crying. A fellow named Gyp then came along (I knew his name afterwards), and he said, “What are you crying for?” and I told him, and he said, “Pull off your stockings, and come with me, and I’ll show you where to sleep.” So I did, and he took me to St Olave’s workhouse, having first sold my stockings. I had never stolen anything until then.
‘There I slept in the casual ward, and Gyp slept there too. In the morning we started together for Smithfield, where he said he had a job to sweep the pens, but he couldn’t sweep them without pulling off his coat, and it would look so queer if he hadn’t a shirt—and he hadn’t one. He promised to teach me how to make a living in the country if I would lend him mine, and I was persuaded—for I was an innocent lad then—and went up a gateway and stripped off my shirt and gave it to him, and soon after he went into a public-house to get half a pint of beer; he went in at one door and out at another, and I didn’t see him for six months afterwards. That afternoon I went into Billingsgate market and met some boys, and one said, “Mate, how long have you been knocking about; where did you doss?” I didn’t know what they meant, and when they’d told me they meant where did I sleep? I told them how I’d been served. And they said, “Oh! you must expect that, until you learn something,” and they laughed. They all know’d Gyp; he was like the head of a Billingsgate gang once.
‘I became a pal with these boys at Billingsgate, and we went about stealing fish and meat. Some boys have made 2s. in a morning when fish is dear—those that had pluck and luck; they sold it at half-price. Billingsgate Market is a good place to sell it; plenty of costermongers are there who will buy it, rather than of the salesmen. I soon grew as bad as the rest at this work. At first I sold it to other boys, who would get 3d. for what they bought at 1d. Now they can’t do me. If I get a thing cheap where I lodge, and have the money, and can sell it dear, that’s the chance. I carried on this fish rig for about two years, and went begging a little, too. I used to try a little thieving sometimes in Petticoat Lane. They say the “fliest” is easy to take in sometimes—that’s the artfullest; but I could do no good there. At these two years’ end, I was often as happy as could be; that is, when I had made money.
‘Then I met B——, whom I had often heard of as an uncommon clever pickpocket; he could do it about as well as I can now, so as people won’t feel it. Three of his mates were transported for stealing silver plate. He and I became pals, and started for the country with 1d. We went through Foot’s Cray, and passed a farm where a man’s buried at the top of a house; there’s something about money while a man’s above ground; I don’t understand it, but it’s something like that. A baker, about thirty miles from London, offended us about some bread; and B—said “I’ll serve him out.” We watched him out, and B—tried at his pocket, saying, “I’ll show you how to do a handkerchief”; but the baker looked round, and B—stopped; and just after that I flared it (whisked the handkerchief out); and that’s the first I did. It brought 1s. 3d. We travelled across country, and got to Maidstone, and did two handkerchiefs. One I wore round my neck, and the other the lodging-house keeper pawned for us for 1s. 6d. In Maidstone, next morning, I was nailed, and had three months of it. I didn’t mind it so much then, but Maidstone’s far worse now, I’ve heard. I have been in prison three times in Brixton, three times in the Old Horse (Bridewell), three times in the Compter, once in the Steel[1], and once in Maidstone—thirteen times in all, including twice I was remanded, and got off; but I don’t reckon that prison.
‘Every time I came out harder than I went in. I’ve had four floggings; it was bad enough—a flogging was—while it lasted; but when I got out I soon forgot it. At a week’s end I never thought again about it. If I had been better treated I should have been a better lad. I could leave off thieving now as if I had never thieved, if I could live without.’ (I am inclined to doubt this part of the statement.) ‘I have carried on this sort of life until now. I didn’t often make a very good thing of it.
‘I saw Manning[2] and his wife hanged. Mrs Manning was dressed beautiful when she came up. She screeched when Jack Ketch pulled the bolt away. She was harder than Manning, they all said; without her there would have been no murder. It was a great deal talked about, and Manning was pitied. It was a punishment to her to come on the scaffold and see Manning with the rope about his neck, if people takes it in the right light. I did 4s. 6d. at the hanging—two handkerchiefs, and a purse with 2s. in it—the best purse I ever had; but I’ve only done three or four purses. The reason is, because I’ve never been well dressed. If I went near a lady, she would say, “Tush, tush, you ragged fellow!” and would shrink away. But I would rather rob the rich than the poor; they miss it less. But 1s. honest goes further than 5s. stolen. Some call that only a saying, but it’s true.
‘All the money I got soon went—most of it a-gambling. Picking pockets, when anyone comes to think on it, is the daringest thing that a boy can do. It didn’t in the least frighten me to see Manning and Mrs Manning hanged. I never thought I should come to the gallows, and I never shall—I’m not high-tempered enough for that. The only thing that frightens me when I’m in prison is sleeping in a cell by myself—you do in the Old Horse and the Steel—because I think things may appear. You can’t imagine how one dreams when in trouble. I’ve often started up in a fright from a dream. I don’t know what might appear. I’ve heard people talk about ghosts and that. Once, in the County, a tin had been left under a tap that went drip-drip-drip. And all in the ward were shocking frightened; and weren’t we glad when we found out what it was! Boys tell stories about haunted castles, and cats that are devils; and that frightens one. At the fire in Monument Yard I did 5s. 7d.—3s. in silver and 2s. 3d. in handkerchiefs, and 4d. for three pairs of gloves. I sell my handkerchiefs in the Lane (Petticoat Lane). I carry on this trade still. Most times I’ve got in prison is when I’ve been desperate from hunger, and have said to B—“Now I’ll have money, nailed or not nailed.”
‘I can pick a woman’s pocket as easy as a man’s, though you wouldn’t think it. If one’s in prison for begging, one’s laughed at. The others say, “Begging! Oh, you cadger!” So a boy is partly forced to steal for his character. I’ve lived a good deal in lodging-houses, and know the ways of them. They are very bad places for a boy to be in. Where 1 am now, when the place is full, there’s upwards of 100 can be accommodated. I won’t be there long, I’ll do something to get out of it. There’s people there will rob their own brother. There’s people there talk backward—for one they say eno, for two owl, for three eerht, for four roof, for five devif, for six exis. I don’t known any higher. I can neither read nor write. In this lodginghouse there are no women. They talk there, chiefly about what they’ve done, or are going to do, or have set their minds upon, just as you and any other gentlemen might do.
‘I have been in lodging-houses in Mint Street and Kent Street, where men and women and children all slept in one room. I think the men and women who slept together were generally married, or lived together; but it’s not right for a big boy to sleep in the same room. Young men have had beds to themselves, and so have young women there; but there’s a deputy comes into the room, every now and then, to see there’s nothing wrong. There’s little said in these places, the people are generally so tired. Where I am there’s horrid language-swearing, and everything that’s bad. They are to be pitied, because there’s not work for honest people, let alone thieves. In the lodging-houses the air is very bad, enough to stifle one in bed-so many breaths together. Without such places my trade couldn’t be carried on; I couldn’t live. Some though would find another way out. Three or four would take a room among them. Anybody’s money’s good—you can always get a room.
‘I would be glad to leave this life, and work at a pottery. As to sea, a bad captain would make me run away—sure. He can do what he likes with you when you’re out at sea. I don’t get more than 2s. a week, one week with the other, by thieving; some days you do nothing until hunger makes your spirits rise. I can’t thieve on a full belly. I live on 2s. a week from thieving, because I understand fiddling—that means, buying a thing for a mere trifle, and selling it for double, or for more, if you’re not taken in yourself. I’ve been put up to a few tricks in lodging-houses and now I can put others up to it. Everybody must look after themselves, and I can’t say I was very sorry when I stole that 2s. from a poor woman, but I’d rather have had 1s. 6d. from a rich one. I never drink—eating’s my part.
‘I spend chief part of my money in pudding. I don’t like living in lodging-houses, but I must like it as I’m placed now—that sort of living, and those lodging-houses, or starving. They bring tracts to the lodging-houses—pipes are lighted with them; tracts won’t fill your belly. Tracts is no good, except to a person that has a home; at the lodging-houses they’re laughed at. They seldom are mentioned. I’ve heard some of them read by missionaries, but can’t catch anything from them. If it had been anything bad, I should have caught it readily. If an innocent boy gets into a lodging-house, he’ll not be innocent long—he can’t. I know three boys who have run away, and are in the lodging-houses still, but I hope their father has caught them. Last night a little boy came to the lodging-house where I was. We all thought he had run away, by the way he spoke. He stayed all night, but was found out in two or three falsehoods. I wanted to get him back home, or he’ll be as bad as I am in time, though he’s nothing to me; but I couldn’t find him this morning; but I’ll get him home yet, perhaps.
‘The Jews in Petticoat Lane are terrible rogues. They’ll buy anything of you—they’ll buy what you’ve stolen from their next-door neighbours—that they would, if they knew it. But they’ll give you very little for it, and they threaten to give you up if you won’t take a quarter of the value of it. “Oh! I shee you do it,” they say, “and I like to shee him robbed, but you musht take vot I give.” I wouldn’t mind what harm came to those Petticoat Laners. Many of them are worth thousands, though you wouldn’t think it.’
After this I asked him what he, as a sharp lad, thought was the cause of so many boys becoming vagrant pickpockets? He answered, ‘Why, sir, if boys runs away, and has to shelter in low lodging-houses—and many runs away from cruel treatment at home—they meet there with boys such as me, or as bad, and the devil soon lays his hand on them. If there wasn’t so many lodging-houses there wouldn’t be so many bad boys—there couldn’t. Lately a boy came down to Billingsgate, and said he wouldn’t stay at home to be knocked about any longer. He said it to some boys like me; and he was asked if he could get anything from his mother, and he said “yes, he could”. So he went back, and brought a brooch and some other things with him to a place fixed on, and then he and some of the boys set off for the country; and that’s the way boys is trapped. I think the fathers of such boys either ill-treat them, or neglect them; and so they run away. My father used to beat me shocking; so I hated home. I stood hard licking well, and was called “the plucked one”.’ This boy first stole flowers, currants, and gooseberries out of the clergyman’s garden, more by way of bravado, and to ensure the approbation of his comrades, than for anything else.
He answered readily to my inquiry, as to what he thought would become of him? ‘Transportation. If a boy has great luck he may carry on for eight years. Three or four years is the common run, but transportation is what he’s sure to come to in the end.’ This lad picked my pocket at my request, and so dexterously did he do his ‘work’, that though I was alive to what he was trying to do, it was impossible for me to detect the least movement of my coat. To see him pick the pockets, as he did, of some of the gentlemen who were present on the occasion, was a curious sight. He crept behind much like a cat with his claws out, and while in the act held his breath with suspense; but immediately the handkerchief was safe in his hand, the change in the expression of his countenance was most marked. He then seemed almost to be convulsed with delight at the success of his perilous adventure, and, turning his back, held tip the handkerchief to discover the value of his prize with intense glee evident in every feature.
[1] This was the Coldbath Fields Prison in Westminster which was rebuilt in Francis Street in 1854 and demolished in 1885. Westminster Cathedral covers the site. The original prison, opened in 1618, served as a model for Hogarth when he was working on The Rake’s Progress.
[2] Mr. and Mrs. George Manning were hanged for murder on the top of Horsemonger Lane Gaol in 1849. In a letter to The Times, Charles Dickens protested at the ‘wickedness’ of the spectacle. The conduct of the people in the enormous crowd which had assembled to watch the execution was ‘indescribably frightful’.
