The London pieman, as he takes his walks abroad, makes a practice of "looking in" at all the taverns on his way. Here his customers are found princ.i.p.ally in the tap-room. "Here they are, all 'ot!" the pieman cries, as he walks in; "toss or buy! up and win 'em!" For be it known to all whom it may concern, the pieman is a gambler, both from inclination and principle, and will toss with his customers, either by the dallying shilly-shally process of "best five in nine," or "best two in three," or the desperate dash of "sudden death!" in which latter case the first toss decides the matter, _viz_:--a pie for a penny, or your penny gone for nothing, but he invariably declines the mysterious process of "odd man,"

not being altogether free from suspicion on the subject of collusion between a couple of hungry, and not over honestly inclined customers.

Of the "stuff" which pie-dealers usually make their wares, much has been sung and said, and in some neighbourhoods the sight of an approaching pieman seems to get about an immediate desire for imitating the harmless cat and its "Mee-yow," or the "Bow-wow-wow!" of the dog. And opprobrious epithets are hurled at the piemen as they parade the streets and alleys, and even kidnapping has been slyly hinted at, for the mother of Tom Cladpole, finding her son so determined to make a "Jurney to Lunnun"--least he should die a fool, tries to frighten the boy out of his fixed intention by informing him in pure Suss.e.x dialect that:--

"Besides, dey kidnap people dere, Ah! ketch um by supprize, An send um off where nub'dy knows, Or _baak um up in pies_."

It was ever a safe piece of comic business with Old Joey Grimaldi and his favourite pupil and successor, Tom Matthews, together with all other stage clowns following them, that a penny pieman and the bright shining block-tin can should be introduced into every Christmas pantomime. The pataloon is made to be tossing the safe game of--"heads I win, tails you lose" with the stage pieman, while the roguish clown is adroitly managing to swallow the whole of the stock of pies from the can, and which are made by the stage property-man for the occasion out of tissue-paper painted in water-colours. Then follows the wry faces and spasmodic stomach-pinchings of the clown, accompanied with the echoing cries of "_Mee, mee, mow, woo!_" while the pantaloon takes from the pieman's can some seven or eight fine young kittens and the old tabby-cat--also the handy-work of the stage property-man. The whole scene usually finishes by the pantaloon pointedly sympathizing with the now woebegone clown to the tune of "Serve ye right--Greedy! greedy!! greedy!!!" when enter six supernumeraries dressed as large and motherly-looking tabbies with ap.r.o.ns and bibs, and bedizened with white linen night caps of the pattern known in private life to middle-aged married men only. The clown and pantaloon then work together in hunting down, and then handing over the poor pieman to the tender mercies and talons of the stage-cats, who finish up the "business" of the scene by popping the pieman into what looks like a copper of boiling water.

Mr. Samuel Weller,--_otherwise_, Veller, that great modern authority on Y{e} Manners and Y{e} Customs, of Y{e} English in general, and of London Life wery Particular:--for "Mr. Weller's knowldge of London was extensive and peculiar"--has left us his own ideas of the baked "mysteries" of the pieman's ware:--

"Weal pie," said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the gra.s.s. "Werry good thing is a weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and is quite sure it an't kittens; and arter all, though, where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don't know the difference?"

"Don't they, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.

"Not they, sir," replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. "I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was--reg'lar clever chap too--made pies out o' anything, he could.

'What a number o' cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,' says I, when I'd got intimate with him. 'Ah,' says he, 'I do--a good many,' says he. 'You must be wery fond o' cats,' says I. 'Other people is,' says he, a winkin' at me; 'they an't in season till the winter though,' says he.

'Not in season!' says I. 'No,' says he, 'fruits is in, cats is out.'

'Why, what do you mean?' says I. 'Mean?' says he. 'That I'll never be a party to the combination o' the butchers, to keep up the prices o'

meat,' says he. 'Mr. Weller,' says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear--'don't mention this here agin--but it's the seasonin' that does it. They're all made o' them n.o.ble animals,' says he, a pointin' to a wery nice little tabby kitten, 'and I seasons 'em for beef-steaks, weal, or kidney, 'cordin to demand. And more than that,' says he, 'I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the market changes, and appet.i.tes wary!"

"He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam," said Mr.

Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

"Just was, sir," replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the basket, "_and the pies was beautiful_."

The "gravy" given with the meat-pies is poured out of an oil-can and consists of a little salt and water browned. A hole is made with the little finger in the top of the pie and the "gravy" poured in until the crust rises sufficiently to satisfy the young critical gourmand's taste.

"The London piemen," says Mr. Henry Mayhew, "May be numbered at about forty in winter, and twice that number in summer." Calculating that there are only fifty plying their trade the year through, and their average earnings at 8s. a week, we find a street expenditure exceeding 1,040, and a street consumption of pies amounting to nearly three quarters of a million yearly.

[Ill.u.s.tration: YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.

Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell.

If I'd as much money as I could tell, I'd not come here with young lambs to sell!

Dolly and Molly, Richard and Nell, Buy my young lambs, and I'll use you well!]

The engraving represents an old "London Crier," one William Liston, from a drawing for which he purposely _stood_ in 1826.

This "public character" was born in the City of Glasgow. He became a soldier in the waggon-train commanded by Colonel Hamilton, and served under the Duke of York in Holland, where, on the 6th of October, 1799, he lost his right arm and left leg, and his place in the army. His misfortunes thrust distinction upon him. From having been a private in the ranks, where he would have remained undistinguished, he became one of the popular street-characters of his day.

In Miss Eliza Cook's Poem "Old Cries" she sings in no feeble strain the praises of the old man of her youthful days, who cried--"Merry and free as a marriage bell":--

YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.

There was a man in olden time, And a troubador was he; Whose pa.s.sing chant and lilting rhyme Had mighty charms for me.

My eyes grew big with a sparkling stare, And my heart began to swell, When I heard his loud song filling the air About "Young lambs to sell!"

His flocks were white as the falling snow, With collars of shining gold; And I chose from the pretty ones "all of a row,"

With a joy that was untold.

Oh, why did the gold become less bright, Why did the soft fleece lose its white, And why did the child grow old?

'Twas a blithe, bold song the old man sung; The words came fast, and the echoes rung, Merry and free as "a marriage bell;"

And a right, good troubadour was he, For the hive never swarmed to the c.h.i.n.king key, As the wee things did when they gathered in glee To his musical cry--"Young lambs to sell!"

Ah, well-a-day! it hath pa.s.sed away, With my holiday pence and my holiday play-- I wonder if I could listen again, As I listened then, to that old man's strain-- All of a row--"Young lambs to sell."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LONDON BARROW-WOMAN.

Round and sound, Two-pence a pound.

Cherries, rare ripe cherries!

Cherries a ha'penny a stick Come and pick! come and pick!

Cherries big as plums! who comes, who comes.]

The late George Cruikshank, whose pencil was ever distinguished by power of decision in every character he sketched, and whose close observation of pa.s.sing men and manners was unrivalled by any artist of his day, contributed the "London Barrow-woman" to the pages of Hone's _Every-Day Book_ in 1826 from his own recollection of her.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BUY A BROOM.

These poor "Buy-a-Broom girls" exactly dress now, As Hollar etch'd such girls two cent'ries ago; All formal and stiff, with legs, only at ease-- Yet, pray, judge for yourself; and don't if you please,

But ask for the print, at old print shops--they'll show it, And look at it, "with your own eyes," and you'll _know_ it.]

Buy a Broom? was formerly a very popular London-cry, when it was usually rendered thus:--"_Puy a Proom, puy a prooms? a leetle von for ze papy, and a pig vons for ze lady: Puy a Proom_." Fifty years ago Madame Vestris charmed the town by her singing and displaying her legs as a _Buy-a-Broom Girl_.

Buy a broom, buy a broom, Large broom, small broom, No lady should e'er be without one, &c.

But time and fashion has _swept_ both the brooms and the girls from our sh.o.r.es.--Madame Vestris lies head-to-head with Charles Mathews in Kensal Green Cemetery. _Tempus omnia revelat._

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LADY AS CRIES CATS' MEAT.

Old Maids, your custom I invites, Fork out, and don't be shabby, And don't begrudge a bit of lights Or liver for your Tabby.

Hark! how the p.u.s.s.es make a rout-- To buy you can't refuse; So may you never be without The _music_ of their _mews_.

Here's famous meat--all lean, no fat-- No better in Great Britain; Come, buy a penn'orth for your Cat-- A happ'orth for your Kitten.

Come all my barrow for a bob!

Some charity diskivir; For faith, it ar'n't an easy job To _live_ by selling _liver_.

Who'll buy? who'll buy of Catsmeat-Nan!

I've bawl'd till I am sick; But ready money is my plan; I never gives no tick.

I've got no customers as yet-- In wain is my appeal-- And not to buy a single bit Is werry ungenteel!]

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR DANDY CATS' AND DOGS' MEAT MAN.]