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A boy's life in
London. Bandits on the Queen's highway. The crossing sweeper. The allure of
the docks. Intimate side-lights among the crowned heads.
London in 1865 was not
particularly fascinating to a boy of ten after the free and wild life in the
Scottish mountains. True, the great Exhibition was in full blast, the city was
humming with life over the opening of the underground railroad, and the throngs
on Piccadilly and the Strand were spotted with Oriental costumes gathered from
the four corners of the earth. Although the Exposition was within a couple of
miles of domicile, I never saw it. The intricacies of the “underground”
remained a mystery to me, and I was more interested in the proud privilege of
being selected to carry the bass drum in the Royal Band of Grenadiers at the
“Trailing of the Colors” then in all the fantastical costumes from
Afghanistan to Zanzibar.
Our home had been established in
a court running from Piccadilly near the Marble Arch, and a job was provided for
me in a coffee shop across the way, where from six in the morning to seven at
night I sliced bread and butter and brewed strong coffee at the munificent
salary of eighteen pence a week. Like a dutiful son I handed over my wages to
Mother every Saturday night and received in return a penny for pocket money. On
Sundays in company with several other boys of equally affluent circumstances, we
would tramp to the other end of London to invest our pennies in hatful of
damaged fruit, and then with our provender we would trail over to the East India
docks, on the Thames, where our visions of far-off ports were inspired by
watching the ships from all over the world unloading their cargoes. We would
arrive home in time for church, where as a reward for our piety we were given a
ticket for the next Sunday School excursion.
Promotion was slow in the coffee shop, and when I found a job in a
chemist’s establishment in the Edgeware Road at three shillings a week and my
tea, I felt that my financial future was assured. The hours were from six in the
morning to nine at night. The family had then moved to Crick Elwood, one of the
suburbs of London, and I could usually catch a ride for the three miles to the
chemist’s shop on the rear spring of a four-wheeler. Often precariously when
someone would shout, “Put the whip behind!” I was learning how to mix pills
for ailing people when a millinery shop proprietor discovered me and offered me
a raise of sixpence a week, which I promptly accepted.
Still my ambition was not appeased. I was making weekly visits to the
docks now, and I longed for the sea. In my spare time I used to read the
exploits of Dick Turpin and Black Bess, his wonderful mare, and I wanted to
emulate his hold-ups on the King’s highway of rich magnates and beautiful
ladies. I was getting more pocket money with my high wages, so with the three
other youngsters, all yearning to be Robin Hoods, we purchased a horse pistol
which had a barrel as large a modern shotgun. One morning before daylight we
crept out of our homes, met at a crossroads armed with the pistol and a goodly
supply of powder and ball, and struck out for Epsom Downs. When about four miles
from London and we could no longer hear the tolling of Big Ben, the clock in the
tower of Westminster Abbey, we held a council of war and decided it was time to
load the gun and make ready to waylay the first victims. Then an argument rose
as to who should have the honor of firing the first shot. The choice fell to
Darby Kelly. I ran down three fingers of the powder and poured in the lead. A
cap was poised on the nipple and the trigger pulled back to full cock. We all
ran as Darby raised the pistol, pointed it in the air, shut his eyes, and –
bang! The explosion was terrific, Darby was thrown to the ground by the recoil;
his hand was bleeding and his eyes raining tears. The pistol was blown to bits
and we found no trace of it. Thus ended our escapade into banditry, and it was
late at night when we reached our homes, tired, hungry, and our martial spirits
in the discard.
My millinery career soon came to
an end through the death of Madame’s husband, who was a sort of Mr. Mantalini,
a well-known character in Nicholas Nickelby, and the consequent removal of the
establishment to Burlington Arcade. There, relieved of the incubus of a
liability, which had been absorbing the profits, the concern burst forth into
immediate success.
Since I was out of a job, it
behooved me to get busy, so I purchased a birch broom and joined the ranks of
crossing sweepers on the multitudinous muddy crossing of London. Having located
by virtue of discovery a street crossing on Fleet Street where the traffic was
thickest, I soon had the mud swept aside and the grateful public rewarding me
with the pennies of the realm. Those unfortunates who either could not or would
not pay toll no doubt regretted the oversight, for either by accident or design
my broom, by some peculiar twist of the wrist, was want to fly up and a gentle
spray of soft mud sprinkled the back of the delinquent. Then I usually had to
fly! In the long run my public service was not a success. The Bobbies
vicariously watched the character of service I was rendering, and one day a
burly copper pulled his truncheon and gave chase. I darted along Fleet Street,
under the old Temple Bar, past the Bank, and finally ran among the crowd filing
into “Dirty Dick’s” near the Thames embankment. I had eluded the
policeman, but lost my broom and my job was thereafter taboo.
I was then approaching thirteen and was becoming more self-reliant every
day. My mother seldom saw me in daylight, but she made strenuous efforts to
regain control of me. The rest of the children were more tractable, but I was
obstinate, willful, and possessed of a devil-may-care disposition that boded ill
for my future. On a Sunday morning she wore herself out imploring me to go to
church. Finally she called in a policeman and then gave him a shilling to go
away again, after he had somewhat frightened me with the enormity of my offense
and vowed he would send me to Botany Bay if I did not obey my mother. For the
rest of the day I was subdued and penitent. That night my father came home and I
got a licking that has not yet been effaced from my memory.
Thompson’s Hotel in Berkley Square next availed itself of my youthful
services. From my earnings with the broom in the city, I had had sense enough to
purchase a suit of clothes that made me presentable when I appeared at the hotel
office soon after the broom episode. With five shillings a week as my emolument
and a tight-fitting black suit with three rows of bright buttons, a cute little
cap with a cockade sitting over my left ear, I felt I was not only an ornament
but a real acquisition to that far-famed hostelry. At that time the King of
-----, several other notables, and all their retinue, were stopping at the
hotel, and I think if I had been endowed with a contentment for a life of
servitude, a fortune would soon have been in my grasp. Thompson’s was not a
large hotel, but it was exclusive and enjoyed a clientele, which embraced all
the crowned heads of Europe, dukes with their duchesses, earls and their
countesses, and millionaires from America. It was a revelation to me, and the
half-crowns, half sovereigns and shillings which poured into the silver salver
that I carried were a constant delight to the crowd of servants below with whom
I had to divide. At times, when I had ushered a beautiful lady into the presence
of King -----, he would slip a half sovereign into my hand and chuck her under
the chin as I looked the other way. I was “innocence abroad” for a fact, and
was yet to learn that there was low life above stairs as well as high life below
stairs. |
