"Give me the songs of the people, and you may make its laws," said old
Fletcher, of Saltoun, with a knowledge of human nature which statesmen do
not frequently possess. Necessity is a stern taskmaster, and the workman
in the factory, and the clerk in the counting-house, and the shopman
behind the counter, are generally compelled to stick pretty close to
work, and to the eye of the observer present very much the same
appearance. They come at certain hours, they go at certain hours, and
perform their daily toil with a certain amount of effectiveness and
skill. Very little credit is due to them for this--their livelihood
depends upon their being diligent and active--and hence I know little of
the individual by merely witnessing him toiling for his daily bread. I
must follow him home; I must be with him in his hours of relaxation; I
must listen to the songs he sings and the jokes he attempts; I must see
what is his idea of pleasure, and thus only can I get at the man as he
is. Even his church or chapel goings I cannot take as indications of his
real nature. He may go because his parents go, because his master goes,
because his friends go, because he has been trained to go, because
society expects him to go,--for a hundred reasons all equally vain in the
eyes of Him who searcheth the heart and trieth the reins of the children
of men; but no man is a hypocrite where his pleasures are concerned. I
can gather more about him from the way in which he spends his leisure
hours than I can from his active employments of the day. They are poor
miserable philosophers indeed, and guilty of an enormous blunder, who, in
their investigation into the moral and social condition of the people,
refuse to notice the amusements of the people in their hours of gaiety
and ease. I make, then, no apology for introducing you to Canterbury
Hall.
The Upper Marsh, Westminster-road, is what is called a low neighbourhood.
It is not far from Astley's Theatre. Right through it runs the South
Western Railway, and everywhere about it are planted pawnbrokers' shops,
with an indescribable amount of dirty second-hand clothes, and monster
gin-palaces, with unlimited plate-glass and gas. Go along there what
hour of the day you will, these gin-palaces are full of ragged children,
hideous old women, and drunken men. "The bane and the antidote," you may
say, "are thus side by side." True, but you forget that youth in its
search for pleasure is blind, and sees not the warning till it is too
late; and of the hundreds rushing on to the Canterbury Hall for a quiet
glass, none think they will fall so low as the victims of intemperance
reeling, cursing, fighting, blaspheming, in their path. But let us pass
on. A well-lighted entrance attached to a public-house indicates that we
have reached our destination. We proceed up a few stairs, along a
passage lined with handsome engravings, to a bar, where we pay sixpence
if we take a seat in the body of the hall, and nine-pence if we do the
nobby and ascend into the balcony. We make our way leisurely along the
floor of the building, which is really a very handsome hall, well
lighted, and capable of holding fifteen hundred persons; the balcony
extends round the room in the form of a horseshoe. At the opposite end
to which we enter is the platform, on which is placed a grand piano and a
harmonium, on which the performers play in the intervals when the
professional singers have left the stage. The chairman sits just beneath
them. It is dull work to him; but there he must sit every night smoking
cigars and drinking, from seven till twelve o'clock. I fancy I detect a
little touch of rouge just on the top of his cheek; he may well need it,
for even on a fine summer night like this the room is crowded, and almost
every gentleman present has a pipe or a cigar in his mouth. Let us look
round us; evidently the majority present are respectable mechanics, or
small tradesmen with their wives and daughters and sweethearts there.
Now and then you see a midshipman, or a few fast clerks and warehousemen,
who confidentially inform each other that there is "no end of talent
here," and that Miss --- "is a doosed fine gal;" and here, as elsewhere,
we see a few of the class of unfortunates, whose staring eyes would fain
extort an admiration which their persons do not justify. Every one is
smoking, and every one has a glass before him; but the class that come
here are economical, and chiefly confine themselves to pipes and porter.
The presence of the ladies has also a beneficial effect; I see no
indication of intoxication, and certainly none of the songs are obscene.
I may question the worth of such stanzas as the following, sung by Mr R.
Grover, Miss Pearce, and the whole of the company:--