Sinks of London Laid Open | Page 6

tall,
genteel woman, with the manners of one apparently used to better
society. After putting down our groat, and giving into her hand a

certain garment wrapped in a handkerchief, in case of accidents, we
were told that the men's kitchen was in the next house, the first door on
the right hand side, in the entry. By this, we found that the threshold on
which we then stood, was no less than the high quarters set apart for the
barrack-master himself. Accordingly, we sallied out for No. 12: but,
before going in, we took the liberty to make a survey of this
"Vagabond's Home!" and, in troth, it did well deserve that name.
[Illustration]
The low front room or parlour, whose fate it was now to be the
Cadger's Kitchen, had certainly the same shop-like appearance as that
of No. 13--but there the likeness ended. The door, which led into the
street, instead of having the clean, welcome, and open look of its
neighbour, was fast nailed up, and bore evident marks that many a sick
man had leaned against it. The door-light--the window above the
door--had been taken out, or what is more likely, knocked out, and its
place supplied with a wooden shutter, which was raised up during the
day, to let in the light, and air: and as for the window itself, with the
exception of a few panes of glass in the centre, here and there patched
with brown paper, it was almost wholly made up with squares of
wood--giving ocular proof that glass was of a very brittle nature in St.
Giles's.
After satisfying ourselves thus far, we proceeded to explore the interior.
A narrow passage ran between the houses, and led into a tolerably large
court, which, with those two, contained the number of houses already
stated. At the foot of this entry stood two or three Moll Flanders
looking husseys, who, it may be supposed, did not neglect a passing
salute. Farther up the yard, were some half-dozen fellows, in
parti-coloured dresses, (and not over particular about shoes and
stockings) smoking their cutties, and gambling at pitch-penny.
We next proceeded to the kitchen--and a den-like retreat it was--dark
and gloomy from the partial light let in by the few remnants of glass, it
seemed well calculated to harbour felon thoughts. The room itself was
moderate enough in size--a good fire, and an excellent grate, containing
a copper of boiling water, always kept full by a pipe conveyed to it

from a cask raised on one side of the fire-place, was all that we could
see that approached to anything like luxury or comfort. Beneath this
cask lay a heap of coke and coal, and a coal-heaver's shovel leaned
against the wall, at the service of any one who loved a cheerful hearth.
The floor and walls did not differ much in colour, the former being of a
dusky hue, that knew of no other purifier save the birchen broom; and
the latter, a dirty red--a daub long since and clumsily made. A
cuckoo-clock ticked on one side of an old cupboard, and before the
window was spread a large deal table, at which sat the landlord playing
at cards with a couple of ruffian-like fellows. A small table (whose
old-fashioned, crooked, mahogany legs, showed that it had once been
in a more honoured place; but the rough deal covering with which it
had been repaired, denoted that it was now only fit for cadger's
plate)--stood at the other end of the room, behind the door. A man, in a
decent but faded suit of clothes, sat on one side--his arms were
stretched over the table, and his head half-buried within them--he was,
apparently, asleep. The white apron, that was wrapped round his waist,
clearly proclaimed to what class he belonged--the "Begging
Tradesmen." A few things, tied to a blue handkerchief, rested on one
side of his head; and a parcel of ballads, his whole stock-in-trade, lay
on the other. Before the fire, warming his back, stood a short, thick-set
man, humming the air of a vulgar ditty; his hands were thrust into the
pockets of a velvet shooting-jacket, ornamented with large ivory
buttons, such as are commonly worn by cabmen and other tap-room
blackguards. His countenance was by far too dark and sinister-looking
to be honest, and, as he occasionally favoured us with a few oblique
and professional glances from beneath a white castor, half-pulled over
his brow, it instinctively, as it were, reminded us of "my lord--the
prisoner at the bar."
[Illustration]
On a form against the wall, sat a tall and aged man, with a beard like a
hermit, all fluttering in rags--the very emblem of wretchedness. He was
relieving his uneasiness by giving his back every now and then, a
comfortable