Chapter 2

“BARTHOLOMEW FAIR, 1721.This fair was granted by Henry the 1st, to one Rahere, a witty and pleasant gentleman of his Court, in aid and for the support of an Hospital, Priory, and Church, dedicated to St. Bartholomew, which he built in repentance of his former profligacy and folly. The succeeding Priors claimed, by certain Charters, to have a Fair every year, during three days: viz., on the Eve, the Day, and on the Morrow of St. Bartholomew. At this period the Clothiers of England, and drapers of London, kept their Booths and Standings there, and a Court of Piepouder was held daily for the settlement of all Debts and Contracts. About the year 1721, when the present interesting View of this popular Fair was taken, the Drama was considered of some importance, and a series of minor although regular Pieces were acted in its various Booths. At Lee and Harper’s the Siege of Berthulia is performing, in which is introduced the Tragedy of Holifernis. Persons of Rank were also its occasional visitors, and the figure on the right is supposed to be that of Sir Robert Walpole, then Prime Minister. Fawkes, the famous conjuror, forms a conspicuous feature, and is the only portrait of him known to exist. The remaining amusements are not unlike those of our day, except in the articles of Hollands and Gin, with which the lower orders were then accustomed to indulge, unfettered by licence or excise.”

“BARTHOLOMEW FAIR, 1721.

This fair was granted by Henry the 1st, to one Rahere, a witty and pleasant gentleman of his Court, in aid and for the support of an Hospital, Priory, and Church, dedicated to St. Bartholomew, which he built in repentance of his former profligacy and folly. The succeeding Priors claimed, by certain Charters, to have a Fair every year, during three days: viz., on the Eve, the Day, and on the Morrow of St. Bartholomew. At this period the Clothiers of England, and drapers of London, kept their Booths and Standings there, and a Court of Piepouder was held daily for the settlement of all Debts and Contracts. About the year 1721, when the present interesting View of this popular Fair was taken, the Drama was considered of some importance, and a series of minor although regular Pieces were acted in its various Booths. At Lee and Harper’s the Siege of Berthulia is performing, in which is introduced the Tragedy of Holifernis. Persons of Rank were also its occasional visitors, and the figure on the right is supposed to be that of Sir Robert Walpole, then Prime Minister. Fawkes, the famous conjuror, forms a conspicuous feature, and is the only portrait of him known to exist. The remaining amusements are not unlike those of our day, except in the articles of Hollands and Gin, with which the lower orders were then accustomed to indulge, unfettered by licence or excise.”

Amongst the numerous figures represented on the fan mount, but not mentioned by its publisher, Mr. Setchel, is that of the crier of apples, whose basket is piled high with tempting fruit. Another woman has charge of a barrow laden with pears as big as pumpkins; and a couple of oyster-women, whose wares are on the same gigantic scale, are evidently engaged in a hot wrangle. Although foreign to our subject, it may be mentioned that the statement as to the portrait of Fawkes the conjuror being the only one known, is incorrect.

Let not the ballad singer’s shrilling strainAmid the swarm thy listening ear detain:Guard well thy pocket, for these syrens standTo aid the labours of the diving hand;

“Ye maidens and men, come for what you lack,And buy the fair Ballads I have in my pack.”—Pedlar’s Lamentation.

Confederate in the cheat, they draw the throng,And Cambric handkerchiefs reward the song.

A state of things very graphically delineated in another print of “Barthelemew Fair” (1739), where a ballad singer is roaring out acaveat against cut purseswhilst a pick-pocket is operating on one of his audience.

The old cry of “Marking Irons” has died out. The letters were cast in iron, and sets of initials were made up and securely fixed in long-handled iron boxes. The marking irons were heated and impressed as a proof of ownership.

Hence ladders, bellows, tubs, and pails,Brooms, benches, and what not,Just as the owner’s taste prevails,Have his initials got.

“My name and your name, your father’s name and mother’s name.”

Hone says: “I well remember to have heard this cry when a boy. The type-seller composed my own name for me, which I was thereby enabled to imprint on paper with common writing-ink. I think it has become wholly extinct within the last ten years.”

Amongst later prints of the London Cries, none are at present so highly prized as the folio set engraved inthe early part of this century by Schiavonetti and others after Wheatley. Treated in the sentimentally pretty style of the period, they make, when framed, wall decorations which accord well with the prevailing old-fashioned furniture. If in good condition, the set of twelve will now readily fetch £20 at Christie’s; and if coloured, £30 would not be considered too high a price, though five-and-twenty years ago they might easily have been picked up for as many shillings. Their titles are as follows:—

Knives, scissors, and razors to grind!Old chairs to mend!Milk below, maids!Strawberrys, scarlet strawberrys!Two bundles a penny, primroses, two bundles a penny!Do you want any matches?Round and sound, fivepence a pound, Duke cherries!Sweet China oranges!Hot spiced gingerbread, smoking hot!Fresh gathered peas, young Hastings!A new love song, only a halfpenny apiece!Turnips and carrots, oh!

In connection with the last cry, here is Dr. Johnson’s humorous reference thereto:—

If the man who turnips cries,Cry not when his father dies,’Tis a proof that he had ratherHave a turnip than a father!

The modern bootblack with his “Clean yer boots, shine ’em, sir?” is the successor of the obsolete shoeblack, whose stock-in-trade consisted of liquid blacking, an old wig for removing dust or wet, a knife for use on very muddy days, and brushes. Towards the end of the last century, Finsbury Square—then an open field—was a favourite place for shoeblacks, who intercepted the city merchants and their clerks in their daily walks to and from their residences in the villages of Islington and Hoxton. At that time tight breeches and shoes were worn; and the shoeblack was careful not to smear the buckles or soil the fine white stockings of his patrons. In a print of this period the cry is “Japan your shoes, your honour?” Cake blacking, introduced by that famous, but, as regards the last mentioned, somewhat antagonistic trio, Day, Martin, and Warren, “the most poetical of blacking makers and most transparent of poets,” which was quickly taken into general use, snuffed out the shoeblack; and from about 1820 until the time of the first Exhibition in 1851, when the shoeblack brigade in connection

‘Fresh and sweet!’

with ragged schools was started, London may be said to have blacked its own boots.

“Fresh Cabbidge!”

Bill Sykes the costermonger, or “costard”-monger, as he was originally called from his trade of selling apples, now flourishes under difficulties. What with the envious complaints of the small shopkeepers whom he undersells, and the supercilious rebuffs of the policeman who keeps him dodging about and always “on the move,” Bill has a hard time of it indeed. Yet he is distinctly a benefactor to the poorer portion of humanity. He changes his cry with the stock on his barrow. He will invest one day in pine-apples, when there is a glut of them—perhaps a little over-ripe—in Pudding Lane; and in stentorian voice will then make known his willingness to exchange slices for a halfpenny each, or a whole one for sixpence. On other days it may be apples, or oranges, fish, vegetables, photographs, or even tortoises; the latter being popularly supposed to earn a free, if uncomfortable, passage to this country in homeward-bound ships as wedges to keep the cargo from shifting in the hold. It is not often that goods intended for the thriving shopkeeper find their way to the barrow of the costermonger. Some time ago amber-tipped cherry or briar-wood pipes were freely offered and as freely bought in the streets at a penny each. Suddenly the supply stopped; for the unfortunate wholesale dealer in Houndsditch, who might have known better, had mistaken “dozen” for “gross” in his advice; and at 6s.6d.per gross the pipes could readily be retailed for a penny each; whereas at the cost price of 6s.6d.a dozen, one shilling ought to have been asked. It seems that not only did the importer imagine that the amber mouthpieces were imitation, but Bill Sykes also thought he was “doing” the public when he announced them as real.

In the present race of street criers there are tricksters in a small way; as, for instance, the well known character who picks up a living by selling a bulky-looking volume of songs. His long-drawn and never varied cry of “Three un-derd an’ fif-ty songs for apenny!” is really “Three under fifty songs for a penny.” The book is purposely folded very loosely so as to bulk well; but a little squeezing reduces it to the thickness of an ordinary tract. Street criers are honest enough, however, in the main. If vegetables are sometimes a little stale, or fruit is suspiciously over-ripe, they do not perhaps feel absolutely called upon to mention these facts; but they give bouncing penn’orths, and their clients are generally shrewd enough to take good care of themselves. Petty thieves of the area-sneak type use well-known cries as a blind while pursuing their real calling,—match-selling often serving as an opportunity for pilfering. Blacker sheep than these there are; but fortunately one does not often come across them. Walking one foggy afternoon towards dusk along the Bayswater Road, I was accosted by a shivering and coatless vagabond who offered a tract. Wishing to shake off so unsavoury a companion, I attempted to cross the road, but a few yards from the kerb he barred farther progress “Sixpence, Sir, only sixpence; Imusthave sixpence!” and as he spoke he bared a huge arm knotted like a blacksmith’s. Raising a fist to match, he more than once shot it out unpleasantly near, exhibiting every time he did so an eruption of biceps perfectly appalling in its magnitude. That tract is at home somewhere.

“Antique Ballads, sung to crowds of old,Now cheaply bought at thrice their weight in gold.”

There are persons in London who get their living by manufacturing amusing or useful penny articles, with which they supply the wholesale houses in Houndsditch, who in turn find their customers in the hawkers and street criers. The principal supply, however, is imported from the Continent at prices against which English labour cannot compete. Soon forgotten, each novelty has its day, and is cried in a different manner. Until the law stepped in and put a stop to the sale, the greatest favourite on public holidays was the flexible metal tube containing scented water, which was squirted into the faces of passers-by with strict impartiality and sometimes with blinding effect.

“All the fun of the fair,”—a wooden toy which, when drawn smartly down the back or across the shoulders, emits a sound as if the garment were being rent—ranks perhaps second in the estimation of ’Arry and Emma Ann—she generally gets called Emma Ran—when out for a holiday. “The Fun of the Fair” is always about on public holidays, illuminations, Lord Mayor’s day, and in fact whenever people are drawn out of doors in, such multitudes that the pathways are insufficient to hold the slowly moving and densely packed human stream, which perforce slops over and amicably disputes possession of theroad with the confused and struggling mass of vehicles composed of everything that goes on wheels. A real Malacca cane, the smallest Bible in the world, a Punch and Judy squeaker, a bird warbler, a gold watch and chain, and Scotch bagpipes, are, with numerous others, at present popular and tempting penn’orths; while the cry of “A penny for shillin’ ’lusterated magazine”—the epitaph on countless unsuccessful literary ventures—seems to many an irresistible attraction.

In connection with ’Arry, the chief producer of street noises, it may be questioned whether London is now much better off than it was before the passing of the Elizabethan Statutes of the Streets, by which citizens were forbidden, under pain of imprisonment, to blow a horn in the night, or to whistle after the hour of nine o’clock p.m. Sudden outcries in the still of the night, and the making of any affray, or the beating of one’s wife—the noise rather than the brutality appears to have been objected to—were also specially forbidden. If this old Act is still on the Statute-book, it is none the less a dead letter. Our streets are now paraded by companies of boys or half-grown men who delight in punishing us by means of that blatant and horribly noisy instrument of dissonant, unchangeable chords, the German concertina.In many neighbourhoods sleep is rendered, until the early hours, impossible by men and women who find their principal and unmolested amusement in the shouting of music-hall songs, with an intermittent accompaniment of shriekings. Professional street music of all kinds requires more stringent regulation; and that produced by perambulating amateurs might with advantage be well-nigh prohibited altogether. The ringing of Church bells in the grey of the morning, and the early habits of the chanticleer, are often among the disadvantages of a closely populated neighbourhood. Nor are these street noises the only nuisance of the kind. London walls and partitions are nearly all thin, and a person whose neighbour’s child is in the habit of practising scale exercises or “pieces,” should clearly have the right to require the removal of the piano a foot or so from the wall, which would make all the difference between dull annoyance and distracting torment.

But we are wandering, and wandering into a dismal bye-way. Returning to our subject, it is impossible to be melancholy in the presence of the facetious salesman of the streets, with his unfailing native wit. Hone tells us of a mildly humorous character, one “Doctor Randal,” an orange-seller, who varied the description of his fruit as circumstances and occasions

“Stinking Fish!”

demanded; as “Oratorio oranges,” and so on. A jovial rogue whose beat extends to numerous courts and alleys on either side of Fleet Street, regularly and unblushingly cries, “Stinking Shrimps,” and by way of addenda, “Lor,’owthey do stink to-day, to be sure!” His little joke is almost as much relished as his shrimps and bloaters, and they appear to be always of the freshest. Were it not that insufficient clothing and an empty stomach are hardly conducive thereto, the winter cry so generally heard after a fall of snow, “Sweep yer door away, mum?” might fairly be credited to an attempt at facetiousness under difficulties, while the grave earnestness of the mirth-provoking cry of the Cockney boot-lace man, “Lice, lice, penny a pair boot-lice!” is strong evidence that he has nothought beyond turning the largest possible number of honest pennies in the shortest possible space of time.

A search in our collection of books and ballads for London Cries, humorous in themselves, discovers but two,—

“Jaw-work, up and under jaw-work, a whole pot for a halfpenny, hazel-nuts!”

and—

“New laid eggs, eight a groat—crack ’em and try ’em!”

A somewhat ghastly form of facetiousness was a favourite one with a curious City character, now defunct. He was a Jew who sold a nameless toy—a dried pea loose in a pill box, which was fastened to a horse-hair, and on being violently twirled, emitted a vibratory hum that could be heard for some distance. Unless his unvarying cry, “On’y a ’a’penny,” brought buyers to the fore, he gave vent to frequent explosions of strange and impious language, which never failed to provoke the merriment of the passer-by.

Among the many living City characters is the man—from his burr evidently a Northumbrian—who sells boot laces. His cry is, “Boot laces—ANDthe boot laces.” This man also has a temper. If sales are

“New laid eggs, eight a groat—crack ’em and try ’em!”

slow, as they not uncommonly are, his cry culminates in a storm of muttered abuse; after which mental refreshment he calmly proceeds as before, “The boot laces—ANDthe boot laces.” Most of us know by sight the penny Jack-in-the-box seller, whose cry, as Jack pops up, on the spring of the lid being released, is a peculiar double squeak, emitted without movement of the lips. The cry is supposed to belong to the internal economy of the toy, and to be a part of the penn’orth; but, alas! Jack, once out of the hands of his music-master, is voiceless. The numerous street sellers of pipe and cigar lights must have a hard time of it. Following the lucifer match, with its attendant choking sulphurous fumes, came the evil-smelling, thick, red-tipped, brown paper slip charged with saltpetre, so that it should smoulder without flaming. These slips, in shape something like a row of papered pins, were divided half through and torn off as required. Like the brimstone match which preceded, and the Vesuvian which followed, these lights (which were sold in the shops at a penny a box, but in the streets at two and sometimes three boxes for the same sum) utterly spoilt the flavour of a cigar; hence the superiority of the now dominant wax vestas. The matches of a still earlier period were long slips of dry wood smeared at either end with brimstone.

Rowlandson Delin 1819“Letters for post?”

Rowlandson Delin 1819

“Letters for post?”

They would neither “light only on the box,” nor off it, unless aided by the uncertain and always troublesome flint, steel, and tinder, or the direct application of flame. “Clean yer pipe; pipe-cleaner, a penny for two!” is a cry seldom absent from the streets. The pipe-cleaner is a thin, flexible, double-twisted wire, about a foot long, with short bristles interwoven at one end, and now, “when everybody smokes who doesn’t,” the seller is sure of a more or less constant trade.

The buyers of the so-called penny ices sold in the London streets during the summer months are charged only a halfpenny; and the numerous vendors, usually Italians, need no cry; for the streetgaminsand errand boys buzz around their barrows like flies about a sugar barrel. For obvious reasons, spoons are not lent. The soft and half-frozen delicacy is consumed by the combined aid of tongue and fingers. Parti-coloured Neapolitan ices, vended by unmistakable natives of Whitechapel or the New Cut, whose curious cry of “‘Okey Pokey” originated no one knows how, have lately appeared in the streets. Hokey Pokey is of a firmer make and probably stiffer material than the penny ice of the Italians, which it rivals in public favour; and it is built up of variously flavoured layers. Sold in halfpenny and also penny paper-covered

“Knives and Scissors to Grind?”

squares, kept until wanted in a circular metal refrigerating pot surrounded by broken ice, Hokey Pokey has the advantage over its rival eaten from glasses, inasmuch as it can be carried away by the purchaser and consumed at leisure. Besides being variously flavoured, Hokey Pokey is dreadfully sweet, dreadfully cold, and hard as a brick. It is whispered that the not unwholesome Swede turnip, crushed into pulp, has been known to form its base, in lieu of more expensive supplies from the cow, whose complex elaboration of cream from turnips is thus unceremoniously abridged.

Another summer cry recalls to memory a species of house decoration, which we may hope is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. “Ornaments for yer fire stoves,” are usually either cream-tinted willow shavings, brightened by the interspersion of a few gold threads, or mats thickly covered with rose-shaped bows and streamers of gaily-coloured tissue papers. Something more ornate, and not always in better taste, is now the fashion; the trade therefore has found its way from the streets to the shops, and the old cry, “Ornaments for yer fire stoves,” is likely to be seldomer heard.

Many of the old cries, dying out elsewhere, may still be familiar, however, in the back streets of second

“O’ Clo!”

“Dust, O!”

and third rate neighbourhoods. The noisy bell[9]of the privileged muffin-man can hardly be counted; but “dust, O,”—the dustman’s bell is almost a thing of the past—“knives and scissors,”—pronounced sitthers—“to grind,” “chairs to mend,” “cat’s and dawg’s meat,” the snapped-off short “o’ clo” of the Jewish dealer in left-off garments, “fine warnuts, penny for ten, all cracked,” “chestnuts all ’ot,” “fine ripe strawberries,” “rabbit or ’air skins,” “fine biggaroon cherries,” “fine oranges, a penny for three,” and many others, are still shouted in due season by leathern-lunged itinerant traders. The “O’ clo” man is nearly always historically represented, as in the Catnach illustration, wearing

“Cat’s and Dog’s Meat!”

several hats; but, though he may often be met with more than one in his possession, he is now seldom seen with more than one on his head. Calling the price before the quantity, though quite a recent innovation, or more probably the revival of an old style, is almost universal. The cry of “Fine warnuts, ten a penny,” is now “A penny for ten, fine warnuts,” or “A penny for ’arf a score, fine warnuts.”

The cat’s meat man has never, like some of his colleagues, aspired to music, but apparently confines himself to the one strident monosyllable. It has been stated, by the way, that the London cats, of which it seems there are at present some 350,000, annually consume £100,000 worth of boiled horse. Daintily presented on a skewer, pussy’s meat is eaten without salt; but, being impossible of verification, the statistics presented in the preceding sentence may be taken with a grain.

“Soot” or “Sweep, ho!” The sweep, accompanied by two or three thinly-clad, half-starved, and generally badly-treated apprentices, who ascended the chimneys and acted as human brushes, turned out in old times long before daylight. It was owing to the exertions of the philanthropist, Mr. Jonas Hanway, and before the invention of the jointed chimney sweeping machine, that an Act was passed at the beginning of

BY ROYAL APPOINTMENT J. W. EVANS Short’s Gardens—Drury Lane Famleys owning Fresh Cats & Dogs Tripe Boiled and Paunshes Waited on daily and regler. Taters once a ============== Cart fortnite NO CREDDIT kept

“Sw-e-e-p!”

this century, providing that every chimney-sweeper’s apprentice should wear a brass plate in front of his cap, with the name and abode of his master engraved thereon. The boys were accustomed to beg for food and money in the streets; but by means of the badges, the masters were traced, and an improvement in the general condition of the apprentices followed. But the early morning is still disturbed by the long-drawn cry, “Sw-e-e-p.” This, and the not unmusical “ow-oo,” of the jodeling milkman—all that is left of “milk below maids,”—the London milk-maids are usually strongly-built Irish or Welsh girls—and the tardier and rather too infrequent “dust-o” are amongst the few unsuppressed Cries of London-town. They aretolerated and continued because they are convenient, and from a vague sense of prescriptive right dear to the heart of an Englishman.

“Ow-oo!”

Until quite recently, the flower girls at the Royal Exchange—decent and well-behaved Irishwomen who work hard for an honest living—were badgered and driven about by the police. They are now allowed to collect and pursue their calling in peace by the Wellington statue, where their cry, “Buy a flower, sir,” is heard, whatever the weather, all the year round. “Speshill ’dishun, ’orrible railway haccident,” the outcome of an advanced civilization, is a cry that was unknown to our forefathers. Our forebears had often to pay a shilling for a newspaper, and the newsman made known his progress through the streets by sound of tin trumpet: as shown in Rowlandson’s graphic illustration, a copy of the newspaper was carried in the hatband.

Rowlandson Delin. 1819.“Great News!”

Rowlandson Delin. 1819.

“Great News!”

“C’gar lights, ’ere y’ar, sir; ’apenny a box,” and “Taters all ’ot,” also belong to the modern school of London Cries; while the piano-organ is a fresh infliction in connection with the new order of street noises. And although a sort of portable penthouse was used in remote times for screening from heat and rain, the ribbed and collapsible descendant thereof did not come into general use much before the opening of the present century; hence the cry, “Any umbrellas-termend,” may properly be classed as a modern one.

In the crowded streets of modern London the loudest and most persistent cry is that of the omnibus conductor—“Benk,” “Chairin’ Krauss,” “Pic’dilly”; or it may be, “Full inside,” or “’Igher up”; to which the cabman’s low-pitched and persuasive “Keb, sir?”—he is afraid to ply too openly for hire—plays an indifferent second. Judging from Rowlandson’s illustration, his predecessor the hackney coachman shared cabby’s sometimes too pointedly worded objection to a strictly legal fare.

The “under-street” Cries heard in our own time at the various stations on the railway enveloping London, in what by courtesy is termed a circle—the true shape would puzzle a mathematician to define—form an interesting study. While a good many of the porters

Rowlandson Delin. 1819.“Wot d’yer call that?”

Rowlandson Delin. 1819.

“Wot d’yer call that?”

are recruited from the country, it is a curious fact that in calling the names of the various “sty-shuns” they mostly settle down—perhaps from force of association “downt-tcher-now”—into one dead level of Cockney pronunciation.

As one seldom realizes that there is anything wrong with one’s own way of speaking, pure-bred Cockneys may be expected to quarrel with the phonetic rendering given; however, as Dr. James Cantlie, in his interesting and recently published “Degeneration amongst Londoners,”[10]tells us that a pure-bred Cockney is arara avisindeed, the quarrelsomely inclined may not be numerous, and they may be reminded that the writer is not alone in his ideas as to Cockney pronunciation. Appended to Du Maurier’s wonderfully powerful picture of “The Steam Launch in Venice” (Punch’s Almanac, 1882), is the following wording:—

’Andsome ’Arriet: “Ow my! if it ’yn’t that bloom-in’ old Temple Bar, as they did aw’y with out o’ Fleet Street!”Mr. Belleville(referring to Guide-book): “No, it ’yn’t! It’s the fymous Bridge o’Sighs, asByron

’Andsome ’Arriet: “Ow my! if it ’yn’t that bloom-in’ old Temple Bar, as they did aw’y with out o’ Fleet Street!”

Mr. Belleville(referring to Guide-book): “No, it ’yn’t! It’s the fymous Bridge o’Sighs, asByron

went and stood on; ’im as wroteOur Boys, yer know!”’Andsome ’Arriet: “Well, INEVER! It ’yn’t much of aSize, any’ow!”Mr. Belleville: “’Ear! ’ear! Fustryte!”

went and stood on; ’im as wroteOur Boys, yer know!”

’Andsome ’Arriet: “Well, INEVER! It ’yn’t much of aSize, any’ow!”

Mr. Belleville: “’Ear! ’ear! Fustryte!”

This paragraph is from the LondonGlobeof January 26th, 1885: “Spelling reformers take notice. The English alphabet—diphthongs and all—does not contain any letters which, singly or in combination, can convey with accuracy the pronunciation given by the newsboys to the cry, ‘A-blowin’ up of the ’Ouses of Parliament!’ that rent the air on Saturday. The word ‘blowin’’is pronounced as if the chief vowel sound were something like ‘ough’ in ‘bough’; and even then an ‘e’ and a ‘y’ ought to be got in somewhere.”

There are twenty-seven stations on the London Inner Circle Railway—owned by two companies, the Metropolitan and District—and the name of one only—Gower Street—is usually pronounced by “thet tchung men,” the railway porter, as other people pronounce it. [“Emma Smith,”[11]while not a main line station, may be cited here simply as a good exampleof Cockney, for ’Arry and ’Arriet are quite incapable of any other verbal rendering.] They are cried as follows:—

Country cousins may be reminded that theguiding lettersIorOso boldly marked on the tickets issued on the London underground railway, and, in the brightest vermilion, as conspicuously painted up in the various stations, do not mean “Inner” or “Outer” Circle, but the inner and outer lines of rails of the Inner Circle Railway. Though sanctioned by Parliament more than twenty years ago, the so-called Outer Circle Railway is still incomplete, its present form being that of a horse-shoe, with termini at Broad Street and Mansion House, and some of its principal stations at Dalston, Willesden, and Addison Road, Kensington.

TICKETS MARKED I☞ THIS WAY

TICKETS MARKED ☜O THIS WAY

It has before been said that everything that could be carried has, at some time or other, been sold in the streets; and it follows that an approximately complete list of London Cries would reach a very large total. From its mere length and sameness such a list would moreover be apt to weary the reader; for not all cries have the interest of a traditional phrase or intonation which gives notice of the natureof the wares, even when the words are rendered unintelligible by the necessity of vociferation. But a few of the most constant and curious cries may be interesting to note.

“Hot Spice Gingerbread!”

“’Tis all hot, nice smoaking hot!”You’ll hear his daily cry;But if you won’t believe, you sotYou need but taste and try

“Old Cloaths!”

Coats or preeches do you vant?Or puckles for your shoes?Vatches too me can supply:—Me monies von’t refuse.

“Knives to Grind!”

Young gentlemen attend my cry,And bring forth all your Knives;The barbers Razors too I grind;Bring out your Scissars, wives.

“Cabbages O! Turnips!”

With mutton we nice turnips eat;Beef and carrots never cloy;Cabbage comes up with Summer meat,With winter nice savoy.Holloway cheese cakes!Large silver eels, a groat a pound, live eels!Any New River water, water here?Buy a rope of onions, oh?

With mutton we nice turnips eat;Beef and carrots never cloy;Cabbage comes up with Summer meat,With winter nice savoy.

Holloway cheese cakes!Large silver eels, a groat a pound, live eels!Any New River water, water here?Buy a rope of onions, oh?

“Sand ’O!”

Buy a goose?Any bellows to mend?Who’s for a mutton pie or an eel pie?Who buys my roasting jacks?Sand, ho! buy my nice white sand, ho!

“Buy a Live Goose?”

Buy my firestone?Roasted pippins, piping hot!

“Cherries, O! ripe cherries, O!”

A whole market hand for a halfpenny—young radishes, ho!

Sw-e-ep!

Covent Garden.“Fine Strawberries!”

Covent Garden.

“Fine Strawberries!”

Brick dust, to-day?Door mats, want?Hot rolls!Rhubarb!Buy any clove-water?Buy a horn-book?Quick (living) periwinkles!Sheep’s trotters, hot!Songs, three yards a penny!Southernwood that’s very good!Cherries O! ripe cherries O!Cat’s and dog’s meat!Samphire!All a-growin’, all a-blowin’.Lilly white mussels, penny a quart!New Yorkshire muffins!Oysters, twelvepence a peck!Rue, sage, and mint, farthing a bunch!Tuppence a hundred, cockles!Sweet violets, a penny a bunch!Brave Windsor beans!Buy my mops, my good wool mops!Buy a linnet or a goldfinch?Knives, combs, and inkhornes!Six bunches a penny, sweet lavender!New-laid eggs, eight a groat!

“Sweet Lavender!”

Any wood?Hot peas!Hot cross buns!Buy a broom?Old chairs to mend!Young lambs to sell!Tiddy diddy doll!Hearth-stone!Buy my nice drops, twenty a penny, peppermint drops!Any earthen ware, plates, dishes, or jugs, to-day,—any clothes to exchange, Madam?Holly O, Mistletoe!Buy my windmills for a ha’penny a piece! [a child’s toy.]Nice Yorkshire cakes!Buy my matches, maids, my nice small pointed matches!Come, buy my fine myrtles and roses!Buy a mop or a broom?Hot rolls!Will you buy a Beau-pot?

Probably of Norman-French origin, the term “beau-pot” is still in use in out-of-the-way country districts, to signify a posy or nosegay, in which sweet-smelling herbs and flowers, as rosemary, sweet-briar, balm,

“Chairs to mend!”

roses, carnations, violets, wall-flowers, mignonette, sweet-William, and others that we are now pleased to designate “old fashioned,” would naturally predominate.

“All a blowin’!”

Come buy my sweet-briar!

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