A writer in _Chambers's Journal_ some time since called attention to the
peculiar attractions of Highbury Barn. What are these attractions? I
confess that the place has connected it with the eating and drinking
associations of years; that here generations of cockneys have dined; that
here, Sunday after Sunday, they have come to drink bottled stout and
smoke; that it is extensively patronized by shopmen and milliners; that
the society is not of the most refined order; and that the love made in
it is not of the noblest and purest character. I cannot understand how
_Chambers_ could have been got to puff up such a place to the public. I
am sure the decent public will not thank _Chambers_ for the puff.
Highbury Barn is an admirable illustration of the way in which Acts of
Parliament are evaded. In 1852 Mr Hinton applied for and obtained a
license for music, and he stated in his petition on that occasion, that
his object was to have the license as an adjunct to dinner-parties, a
great number of which were held there; and at that time he had no idea
whatever of having dancing in the place. In 1854, however, a different
state of things arose, and, from a combination of causes, the parties and
festivals at Highbury Barn fell off, and competition was so great, that
Mr Hinton, having a large establishment, in which a great deal of capital
was invested, was compelled to do something to meet the public taste, as
he says, or, as I might say, to create it. Accordingly, on Whit Monday
of that year, he opened his establishment for musical entertainments with
the band of the Grenadier Guards. This was considered by the magistrates
as an infraction of his agreement with them, and his license was refused.
But Mr Hinton was not beaten; he had his large capital invested, and
somehow or other the public must be got into his house. An ingenious
plan was devised, by which Mr Hinton was enabled to carry on his music
and dancing without a license, and yet be secure from the penalties
incurred by the breakers of law. There is an assembly called Almack's,
frequented by the _elite_ of the land, held in Willis's Rooms. Those
rooms are not licensed according to Act of Parliament, yet all the
leaders of _bon ton_ there congregate, and they would be liable to be
taken up as rogues and vagabonds under the Act. But the dancing is
carried on there by an association, under the auspices of which tickets
are sold. Well, Mr Hinton adopted a similar plan. The Highbury Club was
formed, and the club kindly provided the youthful votaries of pleasure
with the desired amusement. If we are to believe Mr Hinton, the result
has not been very advantageous, as his receipts on the sale of alcoholic
liquors fell off 600 pounds--a statement rather difficult to reconcile
with his former one, that he found his customers had left him, and that
he must do something to call them back. Be that as it may, Mr Hinton has
now his license, though three clergymen connected with the district
concurred in stating that parties on leaving the Barn were disorderly and
riotous, and disturbed the quiet of the locality, and that the licensing
of that establishment would have a very demoralizing effect.
And now let us go to Highbury Barn. As we walk alone Highbury-place, we
pass by many a father of a family grumbling at the idea of having his
quiet invaded by parties coming home from the Barn; and yet there was a
time, probably, when he heard the chimes at midnight; and the chances
are, so wretchedly are our lads educated, that while the father is at
home reading his religious magazine, the son is being initiated into fast
life at the Barn. But on we go through a dark passage, admirably adapted
for a garotte walk, till we come to the place of rendezvous. We pay
sixpence and walk in. The first thing that strikes us is the Master of
the Ceremonies. We are amazed,--in the distant West never have we met a
more distinguished swell. His attitude is faultless; his raven hair is
parted in the middle; his dark eye is turned in a languishing manner
upward to the orchestra. In the intervals between the dances he walks up
and down the room in an abstract and poetic manner, and Melancholy marks
him for her own. You believe in the doctrine of metamorphoses as you
look at him. He is a star fallen upon evil days. Beneath that faultless
black dress-coat there lies the soul of a Beau Brummel or a Nash. Well,
then, may there be a tinge of sadness on his cheek, and a cloud upon his
brow. But let us leave him awhile and look about us. What a noble room!
we shall not see a finer one in London. At one end is a gallery; at the
other a raised platform with very comfortable seats and tables. All
round the room are illustrations of oriental scenery, and over the bar is
the orchestra. But the place is not so crowded as we might expect, and
the visitors are quieter than in the casinos of the West; the men and
women are most of them much younger,--the men, many of them, have an
exceedingly juvenile appearance, and think it fine to dance with young
ladies of uncertain occupations, and to drink brandy-and-water and smoke
cigars; but they have yet to cut their wisdom-teeth. As Thackeray says,
"Pretty page with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin,--
Wait till you come to forty year."
Come here in the summer-time, and the attendance is then numerous; and of
a Sunday evening, on the lawn before the Barn, or in the bowers and
alcoves by its side, what vows have been uttered only to be broken; and
what snares have been set for youth, and beauty, and innocence; and how
many have come here with gay hearts who have left with them bruised
beyond the power of man to heal! Even in this room itself, what changes
have been wrought by the magic hand of time! Where are the Finsbury
radicals--all beery and Chartist, who here dined; the demagogues who
duped them, the hopes they cherished, the promises they made? One after
another have the bubbles burst, have the leaders palpably become shams,
have the people woke up to disappointment and despair; and yet the nation
has yet to learn that it is only by individual righteousness its
salvation can be wrought. The dancing, instead of speech-making, is a
sign of the times. Accompanied as it is by less drinking, let us hope it
is a favourable sign. Let us judge in the spirit of charity and hope.
But let us not be too sanguine,--it was during the terrors of the French
Directory, when the
"Streets ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That they blush'd like the waves of hell,"
that Paris became a city of dancers, and that the art reached a climax
unknown before or since.