Volume 1

London labour and the London poor : the condition and earnings of those that will work, cannot work, and will not work / by Henry Mayhew.

  • Mayhew, Henry, 1812-1887.
Date:
[1861]-1862
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: London labour and the London poor : the condition and earnings of those that will work, cannot work, and will not work / by Henry Mayhew. Source: Wellcome Collection.

    554/562 (page 542)
    I now give instances of two runaway lads, who have been dishonest, and honest. The one, when he told me his history, was a slim and rather tall young man of 23 or 24, with a look, speech, and air, anything but vulgar. He was the son of a wealthy jeweller, in a town in the West of England, and ran away from home with an adult member of his father's establish- ment, who first suggested such a course, taking with them money and valuables. They came to London, and the elder thief, retaining all the stolen property, at once abandoned the child, then only ten, and little and young-looking for his age. He fell into the hands of some members of the swell-mob, and became extremely serviceable to them. He was. dressed like a gentleman's son, and was innocent-looking and handsome. His appearance, when I saw him, showed that this must have been the case as regards his looks. He lived with some.of theswell-mobsmen—then a more prosperous people than they are now—in a good house in the Southwark-Bridge-road. The women who resided with the mobsmen were especially kind to him. He was well fed, well lodged, well clad, and petted in everything. He was called the kid, a common slang name for a child, but he was the kid. He went to work in Regent- street, or wherever there were most ladies, and his appearance disarmed suspicion. He was, moreover, highly successful in church and chapel practice. At length he became spotted. The police got to know him, and he was apprehended, tried, and convicted. He was, however—he be- lieved through the interest of his friends, of whose inquiries concerning him he had heard, but of that I know nothing—sent to the Philanthropic Asy- lum, then in St. George's-road. Here he remained the usual time, then left the place well clothed, and with a sum of money, and endeavoured to obtain some permanent employment. In this endeavour he failed. Whether he exerted himself strenuously or not I cannot say, but he told me that the very circumstance of his having been in the Philan- thropic was fatal to his success. His character and recommendations necessarily showed where he had come from, and the young man, as he then was, became a beggar. His chief practice was in screeving, or writing on the pavement. Perhaps some of my readers may remember having noticed a wretched-looking youth who hung over the words I AM STARVING, chalked on the footway on the Surrey side of Waterloo Bridge. He lay huddled in a heap, and appeared half dead with cold and want, his shirtless neck and shoulders being visible through the rents in his thin jean jacket; shoe or stocking he did not wear. This was the rich jeweller's son. Until he himself told me of it—and he seemed to do so with some sense of shame — I could not have believed that the well-spoken and well- looking youth before me was the piteous object I had observed by the bridge. What he is doing now I am unable to state. Another boy, who thought he was not yet fif- teen, though he looked older, gave me the follow- ing account. He was short but seemed strong, and his career, so far, is chiefly remarkable for his perseverance, exercised as much, perhaps, from in- sensibility as from any other quality. He was sufficiently stupid. If he had parents living, he said, he didn't know nothing about them ; he had lived and slept with an old woman who said she was his grandmother, and he'd been told that she weren't no relation ; he didn't trouble himself about it. She sold lucifer-boxes or any trifle in the streets, and had an allowance of 2s. weekly, but from what quarter he did not know. About four years ago he was run over by a cab, and was carried to the workhouse or the hospital; he believed it was Clerkenwell Workhouse, but he weren't sure. When he recovered and was discharged he found the old woman was dead, and a neighbour went with him to the parish officers, by whom—as well as I could understand him— he was sent to the workhouse, after some inquiry. He was soon removed to Nor'ud. On my asking if he meant Norwood, he replied, no, Nor'ud, and there he was with a number of other children with a Mr. Horbyn. He did not know how long he was there, and he didn't know as he had any- thing much to complain of, but he ran away. He ran away because he thought he would ; and he believed he could get work at paper-staining. He made his way to Smithfield, near where there was a great paper-stainer's, but he could not get any work, and he was threatened to be sent back, as they knew from his dress that he had run away. He slept in Smithfield courts and alleys, fitting himself into any covered corner he could find. The poor women about were kind to him, and gave him pieces of bread; some knew that he had run away from a workhouse and was all the kinder. The fust browns as ivver I yarned, he said, was from a drover. He was a going into the country to meet some beasts, and had to carry some passels for somebody down there. They wasn't 'evvy, but they was orkerd to grip. His old 'oman luk out for a young cove to 'elp her old man, and saw me fust, so she calls me, and I gets the job. I gived the greatest of satisfaction, and had sixpence giv me, for Jim (the drover) was well paid, as they was vallyble passels, and he said he'd taken the greatest of care on 'em, and had engaged a poor lad to 'elp him. On his return the child slept in a bed, in a house near Gray's-inn-lane, for the first time since he had run away, he be- lieved about a fortnight. He persevered in look- ing out for odd jobs, without ever stealing, though he met some boys who told him he was a fool not to prig. I used to carry his tea from his old 'oman, he went on, to a old cove as had a stunnin' pitch of fruit in the City-road. But my best friend was Stumpy ; he had a beautiful crossin' (as a sweeper) then, but he's dead now and berried as well. I used to talk to him and whistle—I can just whistle [here he whistled loud and shrill, to convince me of his perfection in that street accomplishment] —and to dance him the double-shuffle [he favoured me with a specimen of that dance], and he said I hinterested him. Well, he meant he liked it, I s'pose. When he went to rest hisself, for he soon got tired, over