Henry Mayhew and the London Poor: The Streetwalker's Tale

by Mark Patton

In earlier blog-posts on this site, I explored the arrival of strangers in Nineteenth Century London, and the interviews conducted by the campaigning journalist, Henry Mayhew, with some of those new arrivals who found themselves precariously self-employed, as street sellers, whether of ham sandwiches, combs or apples, in the City or the West End. These men and women, many of them disabled, were rarely more than a few days of sickness away from destitution, and were frequently subject to abuse, but there were even worse positions to be in. Young women, in particular, were often lured or tricked into prostitution, and, in many cases, found themselves in a position of effective slavery.

An encounter between prostitutes and a potential client (image is in the Public Domain).

"The Haymarket, Midnight" (image is in the Public Domain).

Mayhew's collaborator, the lawyer, Bracebridge Hemyng, spoke to a number of these women, presumably gaining access to them by posing as a client (Mayhew was too well known to attempt this himself). One of these had recently arrived from Lyme Regis, in Dorset, and had been lodging with an aunt, whilst seeking a "position." She was groomed by a "gentleman," and persuaded to accompany him to a house: from the description she gave, this was clearly a brothel, but the naive country girl did not recognise it as such when first taken there.

"We found the door half open when we arrived. 'How careless,' said my friend, 'to leave the street-door open, anyone might get in.' We entered without knocking, and seeing a door in the passage standing ajar we went in. My friend shook hands with an old lady who was talking to several girls dispersed across the room, who, she said, were her daughters. At this announcement some of them laughed, when she got very angry and ordered them out of the room. Somehow I didn't like the place, and not feeling alright asked to be put in a cab and sent home."

Kate Hamilton's "Night House" (image is in the Public Domain).

Her "friend" agreed to this, and offered her a drink whilst she waited for the cab. She refused wine, but accepted a coffee, which, predictably enough (to us), was drugged. As she slept, the man raped her. He subsequently kept her as his mistress for a few months, but then abandoned her, leaving her with no alternative to prostitution. She would have had no protection from violent clients. Pregnancies were more or less inevitable, and would have forced her into painful and dangerous back-street abortions. Ultimately, a sexually transmitted disease was likely to end both her career and her life.

"Mornington Crescent Nude," by Walter Sickert, 1907 (image is in the Public Domain).

"The Iron Bed," by Walter Sickert, 1905 (image is in the Public Domain).

Certain streets in the West End became known for prostitution (the City authorities did not tolerate it within the "Square Mile"). John Gay wrote, in 1721:

"O! May thy virtue guard thee through the roads Of Drury's mazy courts, and dark abodes!The harlot's guileful paths, who nightly stand Where Catherine Street descends into the Strand!"

The Cock and Magpie, Drury Lane, at the heart of Victorian London's sex trade (image is in the Public Domain).

Feathers Court, Drury Lane - the figure in the arch is probably a prostitute (image is in the Public Domain).

One hundred and eighty years after John Gay penned his comments, the late Victorian social reformer, Charles Booth (whose research, in a sense, picks up where Henry Mayhew's earlier work had left off), noted that prostitution was continuing in the same streets and alleys.

Charles Booth's (1889-1903) "Poverty Map," showing Feathers Court, Catherine Street, and the Strand (image is in the Public Domain).

The colour-coding of Booth's "Poverty Maps" - prostitutes would have lived in the "very poor" or "lowest class" dwellings, their clients in the "fairly comfortable" or "middle class housing (image is in the Public Domain).

"I don't leave off this sort of life," Hemyng's informant from Dorset explained, "because I'm in a manner used to it, and what could I do if I did? I've no character; I've never been used to do anything, and I don't see what employment I stand a chance of getting ... I get enough money to keep me in victuals and drink, and it's the drink, mainly, that keeps me going. You've no idea how I look forward to my drop of gin ... I don't suppose I'll live much longer, and that's another thing that pleases me. I don't want to live and yet I don't care enough about dying to make away with myself. I arn't got that amount of feeling that some has, and that's where it is I'm kinder 'fraid of it." 

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Mark Patton blogs regularly on aspects of history and historical fiction at https://mark-patton.blogspot.co.uk. He is a published author of historical fiction and nonfiction, whose books can be purchased from Amazon.

Henry Mayhew and the London Poor: The Lives of Street Sellers

By Mark Patton.

In an earlier blog-post, I followed the experiences of a stranger from the English countryside, newly arrived in London at the beginning of the Nineteenth Century, and I quoted the campaigning journalist, Henry Mayhew, describing the "sauntering forth of the unwashed poor" at the beginning of the day, as observed from the vantage-point of the balcony on the dome of Saint Paul's Cathedral.

Mayhew is one of the most important historical sources for anyone seeking to understand the life of London's streets in the first half of the Nineteenth Century. His writings on downward social mobility were surely coloured, at least in part, by his personal experience. Born in London in 1812, and educated at Westminster School, he ran away to sea as a teenager. On top of a failed career as a merchant seaman, he had failed careers as a lawyer, a playwright, and a theatre impresario, and spent much of his adult life on the brink of bankruptcy. He co-founded Punch magazine in 1841, but was manoeuvred out before it became a profitable venture.

Henry Mayhew, based on a Daguerrotype by Richard Beard (image is in the Public Domain).

He is best remembered for a series of articles that he wrote for The Morning Chronicle in 1849, based on interviews with some of London's poorest residents, ranging from barrow-boys and chimney-sweeps, to mudlarks and prostitutes. These articles were brought together, in 1851, in a three-volume work entitled London Labour and the London Poor, to which a fourth volume was added in 1861. His interviews are thought to have influenced many of the fictional accounts of the time, including Charles Dickens's novel, Our Mutual Friend, Charles Kingsley's Alton Locke, and Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth.

A young man or woman arriving in London from the countryside between 1800 and 1850 might hope, depending on his or her level of skill and literacy, to find employment as a clerk, a shop-worker, a dress-maker, or a domestic servant, but such positions were rarely secure: employers hired and fired at will; businesses often failed; and few bosses would keep positions open for employees who suffered illness or injury. In such circumstances, people had to fall back on their own resources, and many of those interviewed by Mayhew were, one way or another, precariously self-employed.

A street seller of nutmeg-graters and funnels: this man was crippled from birth, and had to pay someone to help dress him in the mornings (image is in the Public Domain).

A street seller of apples (image is in the Public Domain).

A street seller of oysters (image is in the Public Domain).

A street seller of combs (image is in the Public Domain).

One such was a man who sold ham sandwiches on the streets of the West End. "I hardly remember my father," he told the journalist, "but I believe, if he'd lived, I should have been better off ... My brother had gone into the sandwich trade ... and he advised me to be a ham sandwich-man, and so I started as one. At first, I made 10s., and 7s., and 8s. a week - that's seven years or so - but things are worse now, and I make 3s. 6d. some weeks, and 5s. others ... My rent's 2s. a week, but I haven't my own things ... I used to buy my sandwiches at 6d. a dozen, but I found that wouldn't do; and now I buy and boil the stuff, and make them myself. What did cost me 6d., now only costs me 4d. ... "

The sandwich seller might have been, in modern terms, "just about managing" (he did, at least, have a home to go to at night, with facilities for boiling ham); and, in Victorian terms, one of the "deserving poor" (making a living through his own efforts, rather than seeking charity or resorting to crime), but this did not always protect him from abuse by those better off than he was:

"Six times I've been upset by drunken fellows on purpose, I've no doubt, and lost all my stock. Once, a gent kicked my basket into the dirt ... I've been bilked by cabmen, who've taken a sandwich; but, instead of paying for it, have offered to fight me ... we're knocked about sadly by the Police."

Unlike many on the streets, this man was literate:

"I read a bit, if I can get anything to read, for I was at St Clement's School; or I walk out and look for a job. On summer-days I sell a trotter or two. But mine's a wretched life, and so is most ham sandwich-men. I've no enjoyment of my life and no comfort."

Most of Mayhew's interviews provide us only with a snapshot of an individual's life, and we do not know what became of this young man. On the one hand, he might have found employment a few days later; on the other, the briefest of illnesses could have ended his business and left him destitute, with few opportunities to claw his way back.

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Mark Patton blogs regularly on aspects of historical fiction and non-fiction at https://mark-patton.blogspot.co.uk. He is a published author of historical fiction and non-fiction, whose books may be purchased from Amazon.

It's No Joke: The Life of a Victorian Street Clown

by Grace Elliot

Do you like clowns?

I suspect clowns are one of those things in life (like Marmite) that fall into the ‘love ‘em’ or ‘hate ‘em’ category. Me? I find clowns creepy and they make me cringe.  Sadly, in the modern age, comedians seem to be over-represented when it comes to suffering from depression – perhaps because of the pressure of being funny for a living.

Some things never change, because in 1851 when Henry Mayhew interviewed one of London’s three full-time street clowns, he discovered a pathetic figure who was ashamed of how he made his living.

Mayhew describes a sad man: “He was a melancholy looking man…whilst his face was scored with lines and wrinkles, telling of paint and premature age.”

This clown, it seems, had little to be cheerful about.  Orphaned at the age of nine, he worked as a stable lad and then became a general dogs-body at Astley’s (renowned as the first circus) It was there he watched the other performers and found he had a semi-decent singing voice. 

 He eventually tried his luck entertaining on the streets: “With a heavy heart.”

Some days were better than others. On race days he made ten shillings, but this then had to stretch to cover the lean days. And as he records, the day his wife was in labor he worked for 10 hours straight and earnt one shilling and three pence. Many times he started work without breaking his fast (having breakfast) and didn’t eat until he’d earned enough to buy food.

What made his trade even harder were the ‘part time’ clowns, who emerged on high-paying holidays and at fairs, and taking money away from those who relied on clowning for a living. The part-timers then went back to their trades, leaving thin-pickings for the full-timers.

So how funny was the street clown? Here are some of his jokes so you can judge for yourself.

“A horse has ten legs: he has two fore legs and two hind legs – a total of ten”

“Why is the city of Rome [sic] like a candle? Because it’s in the midst of Greece.”

The street clown costume consisted of red striped stockings, full-trunks dotted red and block, and a tight top with full sleeves and frills. He wore a wig sewn into a white cap, and painted his face with grease then painted it white, coloring his lips and cheeks with vermillion.

He declined, however, to change at home as he strove to keep his trade a secret from his neighbours.  This poor fellow told Mayhew how playing the fool made him feel very sad at heart, but only had to think of the bare cupboards at home to carry on. But as Mayhew goes on to write, a few minutes after their interview he spotted the clown dressed up to perform:  Dancing and singing in the streets as if he was the lightest-hearted fellow in all London.

Who knows, perhaps my instinctive dislike of clowns springs from sensing their inner sadness.. 

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A Victorian Photographer: Tricks of the Trade

by Grace Elliot

My most recent bedtime reading is Henry Mayhew’s fascinating book London Labour and London Poor. First published in bound volumes between 1851-2, it is a fascinating glimpse into the lives of ordinary Victorians trying to scratch out a living. Mayhew's huge achievement is to create a written ‘snapshot’ of lives that would otherwise have been forgotten in the mists of time. I chose the word ‘snapshot’ deliberately, because the character that most recently caught my attention is the ‘Victorian photographer’. His name isn’t given, so let’s call him Mr. Snap.

Catherine Draper - 1839
One of the earliest known photographic portraits

This photographer tells with astonishing frankness of the antics and dodges Mr. Snap got up to.  Put simply, the man may not have been a good photographer, but he was certainly a talented salesman and had the gift of the gab. But let the man speak in his own words (as recorded by Mr Mayhew).

“I had a customer before I had even tried it [the camera] and so I tried it on him and give him a black picture (for I didn’t know how to make a portrait and it was all black when I took the glass out) and told him it would come bright as it dried. He went away happy delighted as anything.”

It seems the first weekend Mr. Snap opened his premises, he did a brisk trade taking “spotted and black” photographs for equally delighted customers. His tactic was to learn his trade on the job and seize trade while it was there. When he did a poor job the customer returned to complain, he simply took another portrait – which sometimes turned out better – “they had middling pictures for I picked it up quick.”

One customer posed smoking his pipe, not once, not twice, but three times – to be sent away each time with a black plate. Eventually the photographer’s will prevailed and the sitter appreciated that: “It’s the best he ever had took, for it don’t fade and will  stop black to the end of the world, though he remarks in that I deceived him in one thing, that it didn’t brighten.”

Frederick Langenheim -circa 1849
Note the hair: Highlights have been scratched out of the emulsion with a pin

Mr. Snap remains frank about why his portraiture was so poor. He reveals that when he bought the camera, the salesman showed how to use the device by taking his portrait and exposing the plate for 90 seconds. Our photographer friend then proceeded to take all subsequent pictures at an exposure of 90 seconds, regardless of whether it was bright sunlight or dusk. When, eventually, Mr. Snap realised his mistake (and it sounds as though this took a while), he at last referred to the instruction book (!)  and afterwards could take “a very tidy picture”.

Taking halfway decent photographs was good for trade, and the following spring he was taking upwards of 60 portraits a day! The photographer bemoaned that he lived in a religious neighbourhood and was therefore forced to close on a Sunday. Apparently the Sabbath was the best day for trade, because people had been paid the day before and had wages burning a hole in the workers' pockets.

The photographer was ingenious enough to maximise his profits with ‘add-on’ products. He invented the ‘American air-saver’, the purpose of which was to stop the photograph from fading. In actuality it was a piece of paper coated in varnish and applied to the back of the photograph. Trading on people’s gullibility, the air-saver was an instant success – although he did see a fall in sales when he renamed it a ‘London air-saver’, and swiftly reverted to the original name.

A photographer's studio in 1893.
Note the clamp to keep the subject's head steady during a long exposure

Another dodge was ‘brightening solution’, which it probably won’t surprise you to learn was water. The self-proclaimed ‘dodge’ was, when a client complained the picture was too dark,

“Why this isn’t like me there’s no picture at all” Then Jim says “It will be better as it dries and comes to your natural complexion.” If she grumbles, he offers to pass it through a brightening solution, which involves an extra fee.

With due deference the photographer passed the paper through water and then rolled it up, with instructions not to unroll until completely dry. If the client returned later to complain, he simply retook the picture and got yet more money out of them on the pretext of using superior chemicals.

And finally, taking and processing a photograph took time, but for those in a hurry, Mr. Snap had the answer. He simply took a photograph and then gave the sitter a picture he’d taken earlier. Frequently the dark and blurry image was so indistinct that the sitter didn’t realise the portrait was of someone else, and went away happy. This rouse failed once – when he gave an old woman a likeness featuring a man with a beard…


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Grace Elliot is a veterinarian, freelance writer, and author of historical romance. Her latest release, The Ringmaster's Daughter is a story of a determined young woman trying to survive in male dominated Georgian England.