ONE NOISE SUBSTITUTED FOR ANOTHER.--THE CLAMOURS OF STRIFE EXCHANGED
FOR THE SONGS OF PEACE.
"Music soothes the savage breast."
It was now two o'clock in the morning, and the streets of St. Giles's
were as lively as the other back parts of the metropolis are at eleven
at night. The several lodging houses round about were sending forth
their various sounds, and an occasional meeting, at the doors, between
two friends, with an interchange of blows, tended to keep the
policeman from being weary on his duty.
Our company had been too strongly excited, notwithstanding the little
check they had received, to sink into anything like sober chat. As
soon as this profligate crew were left to themselves, they began to
recover their spirits, by whistling and singing--beating time, with
their hands upon the tables, and their heels upon the floor, so that
one noise was substituted for another and the clamours of strife
exchanged for the songs of peace.
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The he-woman gave two or three of the sentimental songs of the day,
with her usual ability; and that popular song, "The Sea," was sung in
fine taste by a chorus singer of Drury Lane. _Richard's_ soliloquy was
ranted in stark staring style by a young vagabond who spouted from
tavern to tavern for a living. An Italian air was screamed and
quivered by an elderly female, who once strutted upon the stage, but
who now was half bent with care, want, and blue ruin (gin). It was
considered by all to be excellent, (the poor always feeling a respect
for what the rich admire) although there were none there that had
either hearts or heads to feel or understand it.
Some curious imitations of birds were given by a comical sort of a
character, who had a good deal of wit and foolery about him. A jolly
drinking song with admirable humour by a hawker of flower-pots--a
stout middle-sized young fellow, in a smock frock, and a low crowned
hat, with a round ruddy face, and merry eye--one, too, who was all
lark, frolic and fun--a very English John with a pipe and jug.
A tall athletic youth, and a short thick-set man (brothers) dressed in
flash coats, (velvet shooting jackets), ornamented with large ivory
buttons, and their hats slouched on, sat in a corner smoking their
pipes. They bore the exact appearance of being half poachers, and half
tillers of the earth; fellows who, upon a pinch, would have no
objections to take the road with a bludgeon--the very models of
country blackguards. They were both in liquor--the shorter one so much
so, that he had became quite obstreperous, and had once or twice
interrupted the other vocalists; and now, as if unable to contain
himself any longer, broke out with a strong voice slobbered a little
though from too much malt--
"With a dog and gun, and all such ware,
To Donerby woods we did repair.
We went till we came to Ryburn town,
And there we drank of ale around.
"We ran these dogs till almost one,
Which made the gamekeeper load his gun--"
here the honest fellow hiccuped, which rather interrupted his harmony;
at length, after a stare, as if to collect his ideas, an extra
exertion, and a kind of vaunting look--again stammered forth with--
"If they had took us, and fought us like men,
We should not have valued them two to their ten."
This last burst was too much for his remaining senses; he dropped on
the floor--the proper level for all topers.
But the best specimens were the street singers, that ragged, squalling
class. A dirty tattered, coarse-featured wench whose visits from the
cadging house could only be varied to the gin shop and pawn shop, came
singing and dancing in rocking her body to and fro. She was saluted by
the name, of "Bristol Bet," and "Give us the sergeant;" but Bet had
tasted too much of the inspiring liquid, to answer their calls with
promptitude. She footed away vigorously, to drive away care, seconding
every caper with a shout, and "Jack's the lad," and slapping her body,
and heel, in rather an unlady-like style.
After giving her legs a proper shaking, she laid her head a little on
one side, and moving it, with her foot to keep time, screamed out, in
notes both loud and shrill,
"One lovely morning as I was walking,
In the merry month of May,
Alone a smart young pair were talking,
And I overheard what they did say.
The one appeared a lovely maiden,
Seemingly in grief and pain,
The other was a gay young soldier,
A sergeant in the waggon train."
This appeared to be a real "Sweet Home" song; it went to the heart of
every one in the room, who roared and bellowed applause, and thumped
away with their hands and feet on the floor and tables. Bet never
stopped until she had given the whole history of the Sergeant and his
dearest Nancy. This poetry and music was too congenial to be easily
set aside.
One of the same sex, and certainly one of the same family, a low,
squat, scowling, weather-beaten looking hussey, a cadger born and
bred, whose shoulders seemed as if they had been squared and rounded
by a child continually laying upon them. She was the real songstress
of low life; Vulgarity might have taken her by the hand. Throwing up
her face which was the very symbol of bad weather and an easterly
wind, doled out.
"It was down in the lowlands a poor boy did wander,
It was down in the lowlands a poor boy did roam;
By his friends he was neglected, he looked so dejected,
A poor little fisherman's boy so far away from home."
This dismal ditty, although it brought down thunders of applause, made
our very flesh to creep, as it brought to our mind cauld rainy nights,
starving times, Ratcliff Highway, and Whitechapel, as the other had
street mobs and lads whistling and singing the popular sergeant, as
they trudged home from their work at night.
They were all now in the piping mood. The wooden-legged sailor, Jack,
our old friend, would have given them "Rude Boreas," but only stiff
Mr. Grog would not let him; and, after one or two ineffectual attempts
to clear his throat was persuaded to stagger off to his berth above
stairs, respectably propped on one side by his mate, a _gemman_
rather top heavy, and his noble timber supporter on the other.
York who had slept the sleep of "deep sleep," never once being
disturbed by the din,--for as the seaman is used to the roar of the
ocean, so the cadger is used to the roar of revelry,--now opened his
eyes, and feeling his lungs and his spirits in refreshing order, made
bold to rehearse the exploits of "Bauld Turpin," that mischievous
blade; but, unfortunately for his talents as a vocalist, sung it so
much in the dry and drawling dialect of a canny Doncaster lad, that
the whole company, one and all, were fit to split their sides at York.
Songs, English, Irish, and even Welsh ditties, were bawled and drawled
out, until one after one sunk into the arms of the sleeping god.
The master and his man seized this favourable opportunity to haul and
coax away a number to bed. Harlequin, who had become fresh again, as
he would have termed it, raised the Welshman who had had the fray in
his arms, as if he had been a child, and carried him above stairs to
his resting-place. York was led most lovingly out by a comely maiden
from the mountains of Wales, who had lately become his wife for so
long a time.
By the by, this is a great place for the ancient Britons; numbers of
whom, with their Welsh names and broken English, make this house their
home. There, there might be seen, William Williams fra Glamorganshire,
and Hugh Morgan fra Glamorganshire, and David Jones fra Swansea, and
Thomas Thomas fra Monmouthshire; with a host of round-faced, and had
once been decent, man-hatted wenches.
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