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Chapter 21

BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

When we affirm that brokers' shops are strange places, and that if
an authentic history of their contents could be procured, it would
furnish many a page of amusement, and many a melancholy tale, it is
necessary to explain the class of shops to which we allude.
Perhaps when we make use of the term 'Brokers' Shop,' the minds of
our readers will at once picture large, handsome warehouses,
exhibiting a long perspective of French-polished dining-tables,
rosewood chiffoniers, and mahogany wash-hand-stands, with an
occasional vista of a four-post bedstead and hangings, and an
appropriate foreground of dining-room chairs. Perhaps they will
imagine that we mean an humble class of second-hand furniture
repositories. Their imagination will then naturally lead them to
that street at the back of Long-acre, which is composed almost
entirely of brokers' shops; where you walk through groves of
deceitful, showy-looking furniture, and where the prospect is
occasionally enlivened by a bright red, blue, and yellow hearth-
rug, embellished with the pleasing device of a mail-coach at full
speed, or a strange animal, supposed to have been originally
intended for a dog, with a mass of worsted-work in his mouth, which
conjecture has likened to a basket of flowers.

This, by-the-bye, is a tempting article to young wives in the
humbler ranks of life, who have a first-floor front to furnish--
they are lost in admiration, and hardly know which to admire most.
The dog is very beautiful, but they have a dog already on the best
tea-tray, and two more on the mantel-piece. Then, there is
something so genteel about that mail-coach; and the passengers
outside (who are all hat) give it such an air of reality!

The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to the means, of
cheap purchasers. There are some of the most beautiful LOOKING
Pembroke tables that were ever beheld: the wood as green as the
trees in the Park, and the leaves almost as certain to fall off in
the course of a year. There is also a most extensive assortment of
tent and turn-up bedsteads, made of stained wood, and innumerable
specimens of that base imposition on society--a sofa bedstead.

A turn-up bedstead is a blunt, honest piece of furniture; it may be
slightly disguised with a sham drawer; and sometimes a mad attempt
is even made to pass it off for a book-case; ornament it as you
will, however, the turn-up bedstead seems to defy disguise, and to
insist on having it distinctly understood that he is a turn-up
bedstead, and nothing else--that he is indispensably necessary, and
that being so useful, he disdains to be ornamental.

How different is the demeanour of a sofa bedstead! Ashamed of its
real use, it strives to appear an article of luxury and gentility--
an attempt in which it miserably fails. It has neither the
respectability of a sofa, nor the virtues of a bed; every man who
keeps a sofa bedstead in his house, becomes a party to a wilful and
designing fraud--we question whether you could insult him more,
than by insinuating that you entertain the least suspicion of its
real use.

To return from this digression, we beg to say, that neither of
these classes of brokers' shops, forms the subject of this sketch.
The shops to which we advert, are immeasurably inferior to those on
whose outward appearance we have slightly touched. Our readers
must often have observed in some by-street, in a poor
neighbourhood, a small dirty shop, exposing for sale the most
extraordinary and confused jumble of old, worn-out, wretched
articles, that can well be imagined. Our wonder at their ever
having been bought, is only to be equalled by our astonishment at
the idea of their ever being sold again. On a board, at the side
of the door, are placed about twenty books--all odd volumes; and as
many wine-glasses--all different patterns; several locks, an old
earthenware pan, full of rusty keys; two or three gaudy chimney-
ornaments--cracked, of course; the remains of a lustre, without any
drops; a round frame like a capital O, which has once held a
mirror; a flute, complete with the exception of the middle joint; a
pair of curling-irons; and a tinder-box. In front of the shop-
window, are ranged some half-dozen high-backed chairs, with spinal
complaints and wasted legs; a corner cupboard; two or three very
dark mahogany tables with flaps like mathematical problems; some
pickle-jars, some surgeons' ditto, with gilt labels and without
stoppers; an unframed portrait of some lady who flourished about
the beginning of the thirteenth century, by an artist who never
flourished at all; an incalculable host of miscellanies of every
description, including bottles and cabinets, rags and bones,
fenders and street-door knockers, fire-irons, wearing apparel and
bedding, a hall-lamp, and a room-door. Imagine, in addition to
this incongruous mass, a black doll in a white frock, with two
faces--one looking up the street, and the other looking down,
swinging over the door; a board with the squeezed-up inscription
'Dealer in marine stores,' in lanky white letters, whose height is
strangely out of proportion to their width; and you have before you
precisely the kind of shop to which we wish to direct your
attention.

Although the same heterogeneous mixture of things will be found at
all these places, it is curious to observe how truly and accurately
some of the minor articles which are exposed for sale--articles of
wearing apparel, for instance--mark the character of the
neighbourhood. Take Drury-Lane and Covent-garden for example.

This is essentially a theatrical neighbourhood. There is not a
potboy in the vicinity who is not, to a greater or less extent, a
dramatic character. The errand-boys and chandler's-shop-keepers'
sons, are all stage-struck: they 'gets up' plays in back kitchens
hired for the purpose, and will stand before a shop-window for
hours, contemplating a great staring portrait of Mr. Somebody or
other, of the Royal Coburg Theatre, 'as he appeared in the
character of Tongo the Denounced.' The consequence is, that there
is not a marine-store shop in the neighbourhood, which does not
exhibit for sale some faded articles of dramatic finery, such as
three or four pairs of soiled buff boots with turn-over red tops,
heretofore worn by a 'fourth robber,' or 'fifth mob;' a pair of
rusty broadswords, a few gauntlets, and certain resplendent
ornaments, which, if they were yellow instead of white, might be
taken for insurance plates of the Sun Fire-office. There are
several of these shops in the narrow streets and dirty courts, of
which there are so many near the national theatres, and they all
have tempting goods of this description, with the addition,
perhaps, of a lady's pink dress covered with spangles; white
wreaths, stage shoes, and a tiara like a tin lamp reflector. They
have been purchased of some wretched supernumeraries, or sixth-rate
actors, and are now offered for the benefit of the rising
generation, who, on condition of making certain weekly payments,
amounting in the whole to about ten times their value, may avail
themselves of such desirable bargains.

Let us take a very different quarter, and apply it to the same
test. Look at a marine-store dealer's, in that reservoir of dirt,
drunkenness, and drabs: thieves, oysters, baked potatoes, and
pickled salmon--Ratcliff-highway. Here, the wearing apparel is all
nautical. Rough blue jackets, with mother-of-pearl buttons, oil-
skin hats, coarse checked shirts, and large canvas trousers that
look as if they were made for a pair of bodies instead of a pair of
legs, are the staple commodities. Then, there are large bunches of
cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, in colour and pattern unlike any one
ever saw before, with the exception of those on the backs of the
three young ladies without bonnets who passed just now. The
furniture is much the same as elsewhere, with the addition of one
or two models of ships, and some old prints of naval engagements in
still older frames. In the window, are a few compasses, a small
tray containing silver watches in clumsy thick cases; and tobacco-
boxes, the lid of each ornamented with a ship, or an anchor, or
some such trophy. A sailor generally pawns or sells all he has
before he has been long ashore, and if he does not, some favoured
companion kindly saves him the trouble. In either case, it is an
even chance that he afterwards unconsciously repurchases the same
things at a higher price than he gave for them at first.

Again: pay a visit with a similar object, to a part of London, as
unlike both of these as they are to each other. Cross over to the
Surrey side, and look at such shops of this description as are to
be found near the King's Bench prison, and in 'the Rules.' How
different, and how strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of
the unfortunate residents in this part of the metropolis!
Imprisonment and neglect have done their work. There is
contamination in the profligate denizens of a debtor's prison; old
friends have fallen off; the recollection of former prosperity has
passed away; and with it all thoughts for the past, all care for
the future. First, watches and rings, then cloaks, coats, and all
the more expensive articles of dress, have found their way to the
pawnbroker's. That miserable resource has failed at last, and the
sale of some trifling article at one of these shops, has been the
only mode left of raising a shilling or two, to meet the urgent
demands of the moment. Dressing-cases and writing-desks, too old
to pawn but too good to keep; guns, fishing-rods, musical
instruments, all in the same condition; have first been sold, and
the sacrifice has been but slightly felt. But hunger must be
allayed, and what has already become a habit, is easily resorted
to, when an emergency arises. Light articles of clothing, first of
the ruined man, then of his wife, at last of their children, even
of the youngest, have been parted with, piecemeal. There they are,
thrown carelessly together until a purchaser presents himself, old,
and patched and repaired, it is true; but the make and materials
tell of better days; and the older they are, the greater the misery
and destitution of those whom they once adorned.


Charles Dickens