[Illustration: THOMAS BRITTON, _The Musical Small Coal Man_.]
Britton was buried in the church-yard of Clerkenwell, being attended to the grave by a great concourse of people, especially by those who had been used to frequent his concerts.
To resume our argument, we may ask what chance would an aged man now have with his flattering solicitation of "_Pretty Pins, pretty Women_?" and the musical distich:--
"Three-rows-a-penny, pins, Short whites, and mid-de-lings!"
Every stationer's or general-shop can now supply all the "_Fine Writing-ink_," wanted either by clerks or authors. There is a grocer's shop, or co-operative store at every turn; and who therefore needs him who cried aloud "_Lilly white Vinegar, three-pence a quart_?" When everybody, old and young, wore wigs--when the price for a common one was a guinea, and a journeyman had a new one every year; when it was an article in every city apprentice's indenture that his master should find him in "One good and sufficent wig, yearly, and every year, for, and during, and unto the expiration of the full end and term of his apprenticeship"--then, a wig-seller made his stand in the street, or called from door to door, and talked of a "_Fine Tie, or a fine Bob-wig sir?_" Formerly, women cried "_Four pair for a shilling, Holland Socks_," also "_Long Thread Laces, long and strong_," "_Scotch or Russian Cloth_," "_Buy any Wafers or Wax_." "_London's Gazette, here?_" The history of cries is a history of social changes. Many of the _working_ trades, as well as the vendors of things that can be bought in every shop, are now nearly banished from our thoroughfares. "_Old Chairs to mend_," or "_A brass Pot or an iron Pot to mend?_" still salutes us in some retired suburb; and we still see the knife-grinder's wheel; but who vociferates "_Any work for John Cooper?_" The trades are gone to those who pay scot and lot. What should we think of prison discipline, now-a-days, if the voice of lamentation was heard in every street, "_Some Bread and Meat for the poor Prisoners; for the Lord's sake, pity the Poor_?" John Howard put down this cry. Or what should we say of the vigilance of excise-officers if the cry of "_Aqua Vitæ_" met our ears? The Chiropodist has now his guinea, a country villa, and railway season ticket; in the old days he stood at corners, with knife and scissors in hand, crying "_Corns to pick_." There are some occupations of the streets, however, which remain essentially the same, though the form be somewhat varied. The sellers of food are of course among these. "_Hot Peascod_," and "_Hot Sheep's-feet_," are not popular delicacies, as in the time of Lydgate. "_Hot Wardens_," and "_Hot Codlings_," are not the cries which invite us to taste of stewed pears and baked apples. But we have still apples hissing over a charcoal fire; also roasted chesnuts, and potatoes steaming in a shining apparatus, with savoury salt-butter to put between the "fruit" when cut; the London pieman still holds his ground in spite of the many penny pie-shops now established. Rice-milk is yet sold out in halfpennyworths. But furmety, barley broth, greasy sausages--"bags of mystery," redolent of onions and marjoram--crisp brown flounders, and saloop are no longer in request.