Old-established shops.
Considering the pace at which Birmingham
moved forward during the latter half of the nineteenth
century, it is not, perhaps, surprising that few shops
and houses of old date are now to be seen in the chief
centre streets of the city. A few, however, remain
to remind us that Birmingham was not built yesterday,
and that it has a respectable past, and is not a place
of that mushroom growth which comes into existence
in a night.
Chief among the old order of retail
trading establishments still flourishing in our midst
I may particularly mention the shop of Mr. William
Pearsall, silversmith, &c. As many of my readers
are aware, it is situated in High Street, opposite
the end of New Street, and is conspicuous for its
pretty I had almost said petite quaintness
and its genuine old-time appearance and origin.
There are the small bow windows, the little panes
of glass, that are so suggestive of the architecture
of a century ago, and outside the shop everything
bespeaks a past which was not exactly of yesterday.
This great-grandfather shop, so to
speak, has, indeed, been established for more than
a century, and when the present proprietor first went
to the business the trade done was chiefly in silver
and silver made goods, whereas now it is largely in
electro plate, in jewellery, cutlery, &c. The
proprietor, indeed, like others in his position, has
found himself obliged to keep in step with the times
or go under. He has preferred the former course,
but without abandoning what I may call the antique
department of his business.
It is, indeed, a most attractive kind
of shop, especially for ladies of a matured taste
and mind who like to see pretty things, some of which
have a quaint charm which is often especially dear
to the feminine soul. I can fancy ladies going
there and spending a right down happy time in looking
at the dainty specimens of antique silver, and also
the modern reproductions of old patterns in electro
plate. I can, indeed, by a stretch of the imagination
picture in my mind ladies who will go and look at
many things at such a shop, admire all, and buy none.
Indeed, I do not know that I should
mind indulging in this little luxury myself, but,
being of the masculine order of creation, I, perhaps,
hardly like to spend hours in a shop and leave the
shopkeeper with the cold comfort of a promise that
I will “think about it.” Quaint and
inviting shops, however, stocked with articles that
form a little exhibition in themselves must pay the
penalty of their attractiveness, and possibly the
proprietors have no objection.
It goes, of course, without saying
that a business that has been carried on for over
a century has seen great changes in regard to custom
and customers. Consequently, it is not surprising
to learn that wealthy iron-masters, the country gentry,
and prosperous farmers no longer make the purchases
of silver and fancy wares they did in the days that
are no more. Black country magnates have discovered
they can now do without many solid silver services,
and even fairly well-to-do rural people find they
can at a pinch put up with electro plate.
I confess I like to look at the bijou
shop in High Street and think what it must have seen
and heard in its time. It must have heard the
bells of St. Martin’s toll for the death of
Nelson and ring out joyous peals after Waterloo.
It must have seen disorderly crowds march past its
doors at the time of the Birmingham riots; more than
this, it felt something of the lawlessness that prevailed,
since the shop was looted and some of its contents
carried off by the rioters.
Yes, as I have said, it must have
heard some pealing and tolling of the St. Martin’s
Church bells and what charmingly mellifluous
and melodious bells they are! I do not profess
to be a campanologist or a bell hunter, but I have
a loving ear for a sweet-toned church bell, and can
think of few belfries whose contents surpass St. Martin’s,
Birmingham. Although I have not heard the “Bells
of Shandon” immortalised by Father Prout, I
have, however, heard Great Tom of Lincoln. I have
listened to the “bonny Christ Church bells”
of Oxford, and my ears have dwelt upon the sweet jinglings
of the Carrillion at Antwerp and in other Flemish cities.
I have also heard the dulcet chimings of many village
church bells in various parts of the land, and I have
listened with undelight to the unmusical tones of
Big Ben of Westminster, but so far as mellow tone is
concerned, I rarely hear any ordinary church bells
that are more dulcet and harmonious than the bells
of St. Martin’s, Birmingham.
Few people heed their beauties I am
afraid; indeed, some singularly insensible residents
and traders in the neighbourhood have been known to
protest against the charming chimings of the bells
of St. Martin’s. Those, however, who want
to hear the true musical quality and tone of these
bells must select a quiet time, as the Bull Ring is
not a particularly peaceful spot in the busy hours
of day. Midnight is the witching hour that should
be chosen to listen to the music of St. Martin’s
belfry. It may be a late and inconvenient hour
for the experiment, but it is worth it if
the bells still chime at that “ghostly”
hour.
I am afraid I have indulged in a somewhat
extensive parenthesis, but my pen has run away with
me, and now it must come back to the old-fashioned
High Street shop where I lingered a few paragraphs
back. The adjoining premises to Mr. Pearsall’s,
on the east side, are also old and well in years.
They have been altered and provided with a modern “dickey” I
should say, front which rather hides their
antiquity. There is, however, still conspicuous
a quaint and curious spout-head which bears the date
1687, showing that these premises have more than passed
their bicentenary.
The only little old-date shop in the
heart of Birmingham that, till recently, rivalled
the “silver-smithy” I have described in
High Street, was a saddler’s at the top of New
Street, which nestled under the shadow of Christ Church.
It had the old-style small bow windows, the low roof,
and the circumscribed area of old-fashioned shops.
The ancient saddler who formerly tenanted it had not
enough space to crack a whip, let alone swing a cat
in. In past days, however, business was carried
on under “limited” principles, but chiefly
limited as to extent and space.
When walking about Birmingham, archaeological
observers should look up if they wish to see and note
any traces of age and antiquity. The lower portions
of old premises have often been so enlarged and modernized
that they give no sign of the real date of the buildings.
In Bull Street, for instance, there are narrow old
style windows that are very suggestive of a bygone
day. But these are becoming few and far between,
and will doubtless soon be seen no more.
Old-fashioned shops naturally suggest
new and old-style shopkeeping. In a recent chapter
I alluded to some long-established trading houses in
Birmingham that within certain limits carry on their
trade in a manner that differs from the very modern
and obtrusively pressing fashion which is so much
the custom of the day. Something of the same kind
may be said of shops, as I generally remarked in my
earlier observations. But to descend more into
detail, there are still among its at any rate a limited
number of shopkeepers who like to do their business
on good, safe, and steady lines, and keep together
a nice respectable connection by upholding the dependable
quality of their wares. Some of these shopkeepers
do not make much of an outward show, but I have reason
to know that many of them in a quiet undemonstrative
manner do a snug and prosperous trade without fuss
or display.
I will just briefly particularize.
Opposite King Edward’s School in New Street
is a quiet, unostentatious-looking tobacconist’s
shop. The window plate bears the name of Evans,
and in the window is a modest show of smoking wares
and materials. If you step inside the shop, it
is comparatively calm and quiet. You do not see
young men sitting about smoking, chatting, and joking
with girls across the counter. There is no constant
succession of customers coming in and out and buying
their ounces and half ounces of “Returns,”
“Bird’s Eye,” “Shag,”
and “Old Virginia.” Yet an evident
perfume of tobacco and prosperity seems to pervade
the shop, but no sign of the Tom, Dick, and Henry sort
of trade that is done by more ostentatious modern
traders. It is, I believe, a case of half a century’s
trading in good tobacco stuffs having established
a connection among those who like good tobacco, will
pay a proper price for it, and deal where they can
get it.
These remarks apply more or less to
a jewellery, watch and clock shop next door, kept
for many years by Mr. L.N. Hobday. Here again
there is a look of quality rather than mere quantity.
There is no ticketed crowded display of wares, but
the look of the shop inspires a feeling of confidence
and an assurance that the quality of what you purchase
may be relied upon. I am not in the secrets of
the proprietor of this establishment, and have no
interest in it beyond being an occasional small customer,
yet I should not wonder if he does not do a nice,
steady, quiet trade among those who have found out
the advantages of dealing with a trader who personally
understands his business, and will give them good
value for their money.
There are, as I have hinted, other
shops that prefer adhering to well-established lines
of business, rather than up-to-dating their trade
past all recognition. There are a few drapers
still left, who, like Turner, Son, and Nephew, do
not go in for a general all round-my-hat sort of business,
but who restrict themselves within certain limited
lines and on them keep up a well-established connection.
There are, however, others who prefer a more pushing,
store-competing, Whiteley-emulating style of trade.
They follow their bent and probably make it pay.
It is, of course, well that we should have traders
of all kinds to minister to the requirements of a
large and varied community. For myself, however,
I am glad that there are still some shopkeeper specialists
left who limit themselves to dealing in such things
as they understand, and know what they buy, and sell
that they know.