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[-79-]
"BUMMARAREES."
THE title of this paper will, doubtless, be more or less an enigma to the
vast majority of readers. The origin of the name is involved in deep mystery.
Who the first Bummaree was I am not in a position to state; but he has left a
goodly progeny behind, not one of whom, however, so far as I am aware, is able
to throw any light on the circumstances from which his peculiar name is derived.
We are left, therefore, simply to accept the Bummaree as an established fact,
and, antiquarian research on the subject of his appellation failing us, to look
at him as he is - a link in the chain through which London is supplied with an
all-important article of consumption.
The Bummaree is not widely and casually diffused over the
metropolis. Indeed, the fraternity are all concentrated in one locality, and
that locality is not one affected from special choice by any great proportion of
the reading population of London. Nor is he, even there, visible to the naked
eye at any hour of the day we may choose to go in search of him In fact, he has
left the scene of his labours before many of us have finished our matutinal tea
and toast, and long before noon he has vanished for the day and left not a trace
behind. If we want to see him in all his glory, a task of no ordinary magnitude
is before us-a task only to be accomplished by a stern resolve.
Four o'clock in the morning must see us out of bed, and on
the way to study this variety of the human species. One word
[-80-] of caution is necessary before leaving home. It will be prudent in
more than one sense that we put on the very worst garments our wardrobe can
furnish. Special precaution is needful in the article of head covering. The
conventional tall hat must be abjured peremptorily, for various cogent reasons
which will appear hereafter, and a cap of the most tight-fitting type will be
found the most correct and comfortable wear under the circumstances. Thin boots,
too, are to be repudiated. A pair of long thigh boots, if we have them, will
stand us in excellent stead, in default whereof our thickest pair of ankle
boots, surmounted by a pair of leather knickerbockers, will tend materially to
comfort and cleanliness.
Billingsgate is the theatre of our observation of the
Bummaree. Arriving here about half-past four o'clock, we find the market just
awakening into full life. The approaches to it are blocked half a mile each way
by railway vans piled high with fish hampers and salmon boxes. Two or three
smacks, countless lighters, and a screw steamer are fast to the jetty, and the
market porters busily engaged in conveying into the market the fish with which
they are laden. They deposit their burdens on and around the various stands of
the fish auctioneers, who have not yet commenced business, but whose men are in
attendance seeing to the correct disposal of the various consignments. Strange,
amphibious-looking individuals are, without much apparent aim, dodging about in
the open unoccupied space of the market; but soon we find them doff their coats,
and having seized on a coign of vantage, proceed to erect a rampart of baskets
round the position they have taken up.
Suddenly a discordant bell rings out with a harsh
"cling, clang," the market is opened, and everybody starts into
activity, and becomes preternaturally wide awake. Porters rush about frantically
with huge loads on their heads, and now you bless your stars that your
chimney-pot hat is safe at home. You are hustled on one side by a Colossus with
a salmon-box on [-81-] his head, who imagines that
the magic words "By your leave!" give him full license to butt you out
of his path. Getting out of his way rather precipitately, you are brought up by
an attack of fish-baskets on the stomach; an urchin with a wicker stack on his
head is running a muck, and you are the victim.
In much discomfiture you take refuge in a comparatively quiet
corner by one of the pillars, and are congratulating your self that you are out
of harm's way when a sudden slam on the sloppy pavement about an inch in front
of you of a ponderous box, accompanied with the warning shout of
"Toes," rudely dispels this belief, and sends you backward with an
impetus which probably procures you a volley of oaths both loud and deep from
the lips of some unfortunate you have cannoned against. The auctioneers are by
this time in their rostrums, selling away with desperate rapidity and wonderful
power of lung. "Turbot! turbot! turbot!" is shouted in stentorian
tones from one pulpit; loud roars of "Salmon! salmon! salmon!" emanate
from the opposite one; the shouts of the auctioneer mingle with the responsive
yells of the buyers; the din becomes tremendous, and you feel you would give
anything for peace. The leathern-throated auctioneers bellow louder, their men
vie with them in the din, the buyers get excited and "bid out"
vociferously; the rush of porters gets more bewildering, the general turmoil and
burly-burly more wildly confusing.
It is not unlikely that after having been jostled, trodden
on, plentifully besprinkled with fishy water, sworn at, chaffed, and utterly
deafened, you will be sorely tempted to spurn the mud of Billingsgate from off
your feet and rush impetuously from the scene of your tribulation up one of the
many narrow lanes which lead out of it. But if you lose courage at this stage,
and suffer yourself to be disheartened thus on the threshold, you will lose your
golden opportunity of making acquaintance with and studying the idiosyncracies
of the very men you are in search [-82-] of -
the Bummarees. Wherefore, buffeted one, take heart and keep your eyes open, and
see what manner of men they are who are thronging round the auctioneers' stands.
The contrast between the auctioneers and those who surround them, you will
observe, is very strongly marked. The former are sprightly, well-dressed,
gentlemanly-looking fellows, most of them gifted with brazen throats, and with a
volubility which would almost put Mr. Charles Mathews in the shade, but
evidently the patrons of fashionable tailors of a sort, and not insensible to a
weakness for well-fitting kid-gloves, and the latest pattern in shirt collars
and the newest thing in neckties.
The latter are of a different stamp altogether. They may be
classed under three heads : Rough, rougher-roughest. Great burly fellows the
majority, with bluff faces, deep chests, and still deeper voices, with a smack
of the waterman about them, a lingering suspicion of the costermonger, and a
faculty for mental arithmetic which is perfectly surprising. These, good reader,
are Bummarees and Bummarees' men. They fill an important niche in the economy of
the fish market. The leading fishmongers, who have a large demand for the
different kinds of fish, no doubt come in person or by deputy to the
auctioneer's stand, and are purchasers at first hand of the large quantities
they require to meet their extensive custom. But they are the exception. The
great bulk of fishmongers and the whole fraternity of costermongers do not
require fish in parcels so large as those sold by the auctioneers, and here the
Bummaree steps in and makes his livelihood by acting as middleman between the
large salesman and the retailer. He buys in the bulk from the auctioneer, and
removing to his own "pitch" the fish so bought he sorts it into
convenient parcels such as his experience tells him will meet the requirements
of the class of customers he cares to attract. Of course he does not do this for
nothing. Let us take the case of salmon, for instance. The Bummaree buys half a
dozen boxes from the [-83-] auctioneer, sends
them to his own pitch, and lots them out into various qualities and sizes,
according to the contents of each box.
The market price for salmon is fixed early in the morning by
a sort of committee of the leading salesmen, and this the Bummaree pays to the
auctioneer for his wholesale purchase. He puts a price on his assorted goods
sufficient to recoup him and leave a fair profit besides. The profit in the case
of salmon is a penny to three-halfpence per pound, or as high as twopence if the
customer make but a small investment. This increase in the cost the fishmongers
find it their interest to submit to, and in preference deal with the Bummaree
rather than with the auctioneer, because the latter sells in the pile and with
all faults, so that the purchaser from him, in addition to having to make a
large investment, has to take his purchase as it comes, good, bad, and
indifferent all together, when perhaps he has a market for only one quality. The
Bummaree, with one or another customer, has the means of disposing of all kinds;
therefore, it suits his purpose to sort the large parcels, and he is accordingly
patronized in preference by the retailer, whether he is a swell suburban
fishmonger or a Whitechapel costermonger. I say in preference; but the truth is
that a dealing with him in many cases is without choice, as when, from whatever
cause - whether it be a limited requirement or a slender purse - a smaller
purchase is desired than one of the large lots put up by the auctioneers.
A Bummaree's judgment of fish in the bulk must be not only
accurate, but has to be arrived at with a promptitude which in the midst of the
hurry-skurry of the market, and formed, as it apparently is, at little more than
a simple glance, is something perfectly wonderful to the uninitiated. Besides,
he is, from the nature of his business, an habitual speculator. Fish is one of
the few articles in which supply and demand do not bear a reliable relation to
each other, and the Bummaree who buys incautiously may find himself at the close
of the morning's [-84-] transaction in danger of
being left with a large unsaleable stock of a very perishable nature on his
hands. Rather than do this, towards the close of the market he takes for his
motto "No reasonable offer refused," and then is the time for the wary
and astute costermonger, who has studied the signs of the times, to make a cent.
per cent. bargain, long after his more impetuous fellows have supplied
themselves at much higher rates or with other varieties, and are off on their
rounds.
There are grades in this profession of the curious name.
There is the swell Bummaree, whom you can hardly tell from the auctioneer (the
aristocrat of the market), and who "bids out" freely for the choicest
consignment of turbot and the highest-priced parcels of Tweed and Severn salmon,
knowing that he will make his money out of West-End fishmongers, who must buy
the pick of the market, no matter what the price may be. He doesn't trouble
himself with the lower and cheaper classes of fish, but confines himself to the
higher qualities, and the fishmongers mostly clear him out by eight or
half-past. The second-rate Bummaree, again, leaves alone sturgeon and turbot,
and mullet, and salmon, and goes in for soles, whitings, haddocks, and herrings.
His harvest is not over so early. About eight o'clock there comes a fresh
incursion into the market in the shape of small vendors, stall keepers, and
costermongers, rough of speech and gesture, frill of strange oaths and practical
jokes, "hail fellow, well met" with every one in a good-humoured way;
and these are the chief customers of the second-rate Bummaree. He doesn't do
badly with them, although they have not so much money as the West-End
fishmongers; but they are ready, eager buyers, and the class of fish they deal
in is always in demand.
There is a casual Bummaree lower still in the scale. He is a
"coster" who has made a little money, or perhaps he is a broken-down
fishmonger who is turning his experience to account. Knowing the sort of fish
likely to be most in [-85-] demand, he "throws
in" for a single lot (all he can afford) at the auctioneer's rostrum, and
then removes his purchase to some pitch he has previously fixed on-perhaps had
to fight for; and having sorted it into the quantities he knows will suit the
twopenny-halfpenny customers who are all he can hope for, takes his chance of
making a profit out of them. These casual Bummarees are principally found about
the pillars supporting the water-front of the market, and are objects of the
special vigilance of the market constable, who often finds it a matter of some
difficulty to extract from them the market fee of sixpence, to which every one
makes himself liable who takes up a pitch within the market boundaries.