The London Underworld in the Victorian Period: Authentic First-Person Accounts by Beggars, Thieves and Prostitutes: v. 1

by Mayhew, Henry

  It is very proper that the Parks should be closed at an early hour, when such creatures as I have been describing exist and practise their iniquities so unblushingly. One only gets at the depravity of mankind by searching below the surface of society; and for certain purposes such knowledge and information are useful and beneficial to the community. Therefore the philanthropist must overcome his repugnance to the task, and draw back the veil that is thinly spread over the skeleton.

  THE DEPENDANTS OF PROSTITUTES.

  HAVING described the habits, &c., of different classes of prostitutes, I now come to those who are intimately connected with, and dependant upon, them. This is a very numerous class, and includes “Bawds,” or those who keep brothels, the followers of dress lodgers, keepers of accommodation houses, procuresses, pimps, and panders, fancy men, and bullies.

  Bawds.—The first head in our classification is “Bawds.” They may be either men or women. More frequently they are the latter, though any one who keeps an immoral house, or bawdy-house, as it is more commonly called, is liable to that designation. Bawdy-houses are of two kinds. They may be either houses of accommodation, or houses in which women lodge, are boarded, clothed, &c., and the proceeds of whose prostitution goes into the pocket of the bawd herself, who makes a very handsome income generally by their shame.

  We cannot have a better example of this sort of thing than the bawdy-houses in King’s Place, St. James’s, a narrow passage leading from Pall Mall opposite the “Guards Club” into King Street, not far from the St. James’s theatre. These are both houses of accommodation and brothels proper. Men may take their women there, and pay so much for a room and temporary accommodation, or they may be supplied with women who live in the house. The unfortunate creatures who live in these houses are completely in the power of the bawds, who grow fat on their prostitution. When they first came to town perhaps they were strangers, and didn’t know a soul in the place, and even now they would have nowhere to go to if they were able to make their escape, which is a very difficult thing to accomplish, considering they are vigilantly looked after night and day. They have nothing fit to walk about the streets in. They are often in bed all day, and at night dressed up in tawdry ball costumes. If they ever do go out on business, they are carefully watched by one of the servants: they generally end when their charms are faded by being servants of bawds and prostitutes, or else watchers, or perhaps both.

  There are houses in Oxendon Street too, where women are kept in this way.

  A victim of this disgraceful practice told me she was entrapped when she was sixteen years old, and prostituted for some time to old men, who paid a high price for the enjoyment of her person.

  “I was born at Matlock in Derbyshire,” she began; “father was a stonecutter, and I worked in the shop, polishing the blocks and things, and in the spring of ’51 we heard of the Great Exhibition. I wished very much to go to London, and see the fine shops and that, and father wrote to an aunt of mine, who lived in London, to know if I might come and stay a week or two with her to see the Exhibition. In a few days a letter came back, saying she would be glad to give me a room for two or three weeks and go about with me. Father couldn’t come with me because of his business, and I went alone. When I arrived, aunt had a very bad cold, and couldn’t get out of bed. Of course, I wanted to go about and see things, for though I didn’t believe the streets were paved with gold, I was very anxious to see the shops and places I’d heard so much about. Aunt said when she was better she’d take me, but I was so restless I would go by myself. I said nothing to aunt about it, and stole out one evening. I wandered about for some time, very much pleased with the novelty. The crowds of people, the flaring gas jets, and everything else, all was so strange and new, I was delighted. At last I lost myself, and got into some streets ever so much darker and quieter. I saw one door in the middle of the street open, that is standing a-jar. Thinking no harm, I knocked, and hearing no sound, and getting no answer, I knocked louder, when some one came and instantly admitted me, without saying a word. I asked her innocently enough where I was, and if she would tell me the way to Bank Place. I didn’t know where Bank Place was, whether it was in Lambeth, or Kensington, or Hammersmith, or where; but I have since heard it is in Kensington. The woman who let me in, and to whom I addressed my questions, laughed at this, and said, ‘Oh! yes, I wasn’t born yesterday.’ But I repeated, ‘Where am I, and what am I to do?’

  “She told me to ‘ax,’” and said she’d heard that before.

  “I suppose I ought to tell you, before I go further,” she explained, “that ‘ax’ meant ask, or find out.

  “Just then a door opened, and an old woman came out of a room which seemed to me to be the parlour. ‘Come in, my dear,’ she exclaimed, ‘and sit down.’ I followed her into the room, and she pulled out a bottle of gin, asking me if I would have a drop of something short, while she poured out some, which I was too frightened to refuse. She said, ‘I likes to be jolly myself and see others so. I’m getting on now. Ain’t what I was once. But as I says I likes to be jolly, and I always is. A old fiddle, you know, makes the best music.

  “‘Market full, my dear,’ she added, pushing the wine-glass of gin towards me. ‘Ah! I s’pose not yet; too arly, so it is. I’s glad you’ve dropped in to see a body. I’ve noticed your face lots of times, but I thought you was one of Lotty’s girls, and wouldn’t condescend to come so far up the street, though, why one part should be better nor another, I’m sure, I can’t make out.’

  “‘Really you must make a mistake,’ I interposed. ‘I am quite a stranger in London; indeed I have only been three days in town. The fact is, I lost myself this evening, and seeing your door open, I thought I would come in and ask the way.’

  “Whilst I was saying this, the old woman listened attentively. She seemed to drink in every word of my explanation, and a great change came over her features.

  “‘Well, pet,’ she replied, ‘I’m glad you’ve come to my house. You must excuse my taking you for some one else; but you are so like a gal I knows, one Polly Gay, I couldn’t help mistaking you. Where are you staying?’

  “I told her I was staying with my aunt in Bank Place.

  “‘Oh! really,’ she exclaimed; ‘well, that is fortunate, ’pon my word, that is lucky. I’m gladder than ever now you came to my shop—I mean my house—cos I knows your aunt very well. Me an’ ’er’s great frens, leastways was, though I haven’t seen her for six months come next Christmas. Is she’s took bad, is she? Ah! well, it’s the weather, or somethink, that’s what it is; we’re all ill sometimes; and what is it as is the matter with her? Influenzy, is it? Now, Lor’ bless us, the influenzy! Well, you‘ll stay with me to-night; you’s ever so far from your place. Don’t say No; you must, my dear, and we’ll go down to aunt’s to-morrow morning arly; she’ll be glad to see me, I know. She always was fond of her old friends.’

  “At first I protested and held out, but at last I gave in to her persuasion, fully believing all she told me. She talked about my father, said she hadn’t the pleasure of knowing him personally, but she’d often heard of him, and hoped he was quite well, more especially as it left her at that time. Presently she asked if I wasn’t tired, and said she’d show me a room up-stairs where I should sleep comfortable no end. When I was undressed and in bed, she brought me a glass of gin and water hot, which she called a night-cap, and said would do me good. I drank this at her solicitation, and soon fell into a sound slumber. The ‘night-cap’ was evidently drugged, and during my state of insensibility my ruin was accomplished. The next day I was wretchedly ill and weak, but I need not tell you what followed. My prayers and entreaties were of no good, and I in a few days became this woman’s slave, and have remained so ever since; though, as she has more than one house, I am occasionally shifted from one to the other. The reason of this is very simple. Suppose the bawd has a house in St. James’s and one in Portland Place. When I am known to the habitués of St. James’s, I am sent as something new to Portland Pla
ce, and so on.”

  If I were to expatiate for pages on bawds, I don’t think I could give a better idea than this affords. Their characteristics are selfishness and avariciousness, combined with want of principle and the most unblushing effrontery.

  Followers of Dress-Lodgers.—I have spoken before of dress-lodgers, and I now come to those women who are employed by the keepers of the brothels in which the dress-lodgers live, to follow them when they are sent into the streets to pick up men. They are not numerous. They are only seen in the Strand and about the National Gallery. This species of vice is much magnified by people who have vivid imaginations. It might have assumed larger dimensions, but at the present time it has very much decreased. They follow the dress-lodgers for various reasons, which I have mentioned already. For the sake of perspicuity and putting things in their proper sequence, I may be excused for briefly recapitulating them. If they were not closely watched, they might, imprimis, make their escape with all the finery they have about them, which of course they would speedily dispose of for its market value to the highest-bidding Jew, and then take lodgings and set up on their own account. These unfortunate dress-lodgers are profoundly ignorant of the English law. If they were better acquainted with its provisions, they would know very well that the bawds would have no legal claim against them for money, board, or clothes, for if the bawds could prove any consideration, it would be an immoral one, and consequently bad in law. But the poor creatures think they are completely in the wretch’s power, and dare not move hand or foot, or call their hair their own. Instances have been known of bawds cutting off the hair of their lodgers when it became long, and selling it if it was fine and beautiful for thirty shillings and two pounds.

  There is a dress-lodger who perambulates the Strand every night, from nine, or before that even, till twelve or one, who is followed by the inseparable old hag who keeps guard over her to prevent her going into public-houses and wasting her time and money, which is the second reason for her being watched, and to see that she does not give her custom to some other bawdy-house, which is the third reason.

  This follower is a woman of fifty, with grey hair, and all the peculiarities of old women, among which is included a fondness for gin, which weakness was mainly instrumental in enabling me to obtain from her what I know about herself and her class. She wore no crinoline, and a dirty cotton dress. Her bonnet was made of straw, with a bit of faded ribbon over it by way of trimming, fully as shabby and discreditable as the straw itself.

  She told me by fits and starts, and by dint of cross questioning, the subjoined particulars.

  “They call me ‘Old Stock’; why I shan’t tell you, though I might easy, and make you laugh too, without telling no lies; but it ain’t no matter of your’n, so we’ll let it be. They do say I’m a bit cracky, but that’s all my eye. I’m a drunken old b——if you like, but nothing worser than that. I was once the swellest woman about town, but I’m come down awful. And yet it ain’t awful. I sometimes tries to think it is, but I can’t make it so. If I did think it awful I shouldn’t be here now; I couldn’t stand it. But the fact is life’s sweet, and I don’t care how you live. It’s as sweet to the w——, as it is to the hempress, and mebbe it’s as sweet to me as it is to you. Yes, I was well known about some years ago, and I ain’t got bad features now, if it wasn’t for the wrinkles and the skin, which is more parchmenty than anything else, but that’s all along of the drink. I get nothing in money for following this girl about, barring a shilling or so when I ask for it to get some liquor. They give me my grub and a bed, in return for which in the day-time I looks after the house, when I ain’t drunk, and sweeps, and does the place up, and all that. Time was when I had a house of my own, and lots of servants, and heaps of men sighing and dying for me, but now my good looks are gone, and I am what you see me. Many of the finest women, if they have strong constitutions, and can survive the continual racket, and the wear and tear of knocking about town, go on like fools without making any provision for themselves, and without marrying, until they come to the bad. They are either servants, or what I am, or if they get a little money given them by men, they set up as bawdy-housekeepers. I wish to God I had, but I don’t feel what I am. I’m past that ever so long, and if you give me half a crown, or five bob, presently, you’ll make me jolly for a week. Talking of giving a woman five bob reminds me of having fivers (5l. notes) given me. I can remember the time when I would take nothing but paper; always tissue, nothing under a flimsy. Ah! gay women see strange changes; wonderful ups and downs, I can tell you. We, that is me and Lizzie, the girl I’m watching, came out to night at nine. It’s twelve now, ain’t it? Well; what do ye think we’ve done? We have taken three men home, and Lizzie, who is a clever little devil, got two pound five out of them for herself, which ain’t bad at all. I shall get something when we get back. We ain’t always so lucky. Some nights we go about and don’t hook a soul. Lizzie paints a bit too much for decent young fellows who’ve got lots of money. They aren’t our little game. We go in more for tradesmen, shop-boys, commercial travellers, and that sort, and men who are a little screwy, and although we musn’t mention it, we hooks a white choker now and then, coming from Exeter Hall. Medical students are sometimes sweet on Lizzie, but we ain’t in much favour with the Bar. Oh! I know what a man is directly he opens his mouth. Dress too has a great deal to do with what a man is—tells you his position in life as it were. ‘Meds’ ain’t good for much; they’re larky young blokes, but they’ve never much money, and they’re fond of dollymopping. But talk of dollymopping—lawyers are the fellows for that. Those chambers in the Inns of Court are the ruin of many a girl. And they are so convenient for bilking, you’ve no idea. There isn’t a good woman in London who’d go with a man to the Temple, not one. You go to Kate’s, and take a woman out, put her in a cab, and say you were going to take her to either of the Temples, which are respectable and decent places when compared to the other inns which are not properly Inns of Court, except Gray’s Inn and Lincoln’s Inn, and she’d cry off directly. I mean Barnard’s Inn, and Thavies’ Inn, and New Inn, and Clement’s Inn, and all those. I’ve been at this sort of work for six or seven years, and I suppose I’ll die at it. I don’t care if I do. It suits me. I’m good for nothing else.”

  I gave her some money in return for her story, and wished her good night. What she says about women who have once been what is called “swell,” coming down to the sort of thing I have been describing, is perfectly true. They have most of them been well-known and much admired in their time; but every dog has its day. They have had theirs, and neglected to make hay while the sun was shining. Almost all the servants of bawds and prostitutes have fallen as it were from their high estate into the slough of degradation and comparative despair.

  As I have before stated, there are very few dress-lodgers now who solicit in the streets, and naturally few followers of dress-lodgers whose condition does not afford anything very striking or peculiar, except as evidencing the vicissitudes of a prostitute’s career, and the end that very many of them arrive at.

  Keepers of Accommodation Houses.—Those who gain their living by keeping accommodation houses, or what the French call maisons de passé, are of course to be placed in the category of the people who are dependant on prostitutes, without whose patronage they would lose their only means of support.

  When you speak of bawds you in a great measure describe this class also, for their avocations are the same, and the system they exist upon very similar. The bawds keep women in their houses, and the others let out their rooms to chance comers, and any one who chooses to take them. The keepers are generally worn-out prostitutes, who have survived their good looks and settled down, as a means of gaining a livelihood; in Oxenden Street and similar places an enormous amount of money is made by these people. The usual charge for rooms of course varies according to the height and the size of the room engaged. A first-floor room is worth seven or ten shillings, then the rooms on the second-floor are five shillings, and
three shillings, and so on. The average gains of keepers of accommodation houses in Oxenden Street and James Street, Haymarket, are from two pounds to ten pounds a night; the amount depending a good deal on the popularity of the house, its connection with women, its notoriety amongst men, and its situation. More money is made by bawdy-house keepers, but then the expenses are greater. A story is told of a celebrated woman who kept a house of ill-fame in the neighbourhood of May Fair. The several inmates of her establishment were dilatory on one occasion, and she gave vent to her anger and disapointment by exclaiming, “Twelve o’clock striking. The house full of noblemen, and not a——girl painted yet.” I introduce this anecdote merely to exemplify what I have been advancing, namely, that the best brothels in London, such as Mrs. C——’s in Curzon Street, and others that I could mention, are frequented by men who have plenty of money at their command, and spend it freely.

  A Mrs. J——, who kept a house in James Street, Haymarket, where temporary accommodation could be obtained by girls and their paramours, made a very large sum of money by her house, and some time ago bought a house somewhere near Camberwell with her five-shilling pieces which she had the questionable taste to call “Dollar House.” A woman who kept a house in one of the small streets near the Marylebone Road told me she could afford to let her rooms to her customers for eighteen pence for a short time, and three and sixpence for all night, and she declared she made money by it, as she had a good many of the low New Road women, and some of those who infest the Edgware Road, as well as several servants and dress-makers, who came with their associates. She added, she was saving up money to buy the house from her landlord, who at present charged her an exorbitant rent, as he well knew she could not now resist his extortionate demands. If he refused to sell it, she should go lower down in the same street, for she was determined before long to be independant.