SUNDAY LINNET-SINGING.
There is something very Arcadian and un-Cockney-like in the idea of
linnet-singing in Lock's Fields. Imagination pictures so readily the
green pastures and the wild bird's song, and Corydon with his pipe and
his Phyllis, that it seems a pity to disabuse that exquisite faculty of
our nature so far as to suggest that the linnets of which we speak are
not wild, but tame and caged, and the fields very much less rural than
those of Lincoln's Inn. This was the announcement that drew me to the
New Kent Road on a recent Sunday morning to hear what poor Cockney Keats
called the "tender-legged linnets:" "Bird-singing.--A match is made
between Thomas Walker (the Bermondsey Champion) and William Hart
(Champion of Walworth) to sing two linnets, on Sunday, for _2l._ a side;
birds to be on the nail precisely at two o'clock; the host to be
referee. _10s._ is now down; the remainder by nine this evening, at the
Jolly Butchers, Rodney Road, Lock's Fields. Also a copper kettle will be
sung for on the same day by six pairs of linnets; first pair up at
half-past six o'clock in the evening. Any person requiring the said
room for matches, &c., on making application to the host, will
immediately be answered."
Rodney Road, be it known, is anything but a romantic thoroughfare,
leading out of the New Kent Road, a little way from the Elephant and
Castle; and the caravanserai bearing the title of the Jolly Butchers is
an unpretending beershop, with no outward and visible signs of especial
joviality. On entering I met mine host, rubicund and jolly enough, who
politely pioneered me upstairs, when I reported myself as in quest of
the linnets. The scene of contest I found to be a largish room, where
some twenty or thirty most un-Arcadian looking gentlemen were already
assembled, the only adjunct at all symptomatic of that pastoral district
being their pipes, at which they were diligently puffing. The whole of
the tender-legged competitors, both for the money and the copper kettle,
were hanging in little square green cages over the fireplace; and the
one idea uppermost in my mind was how well the linnets must be seasoned
to tobacco smoke if they could sing at all in the atmosphere which those
Corydons were so carefully polluting. Corydon, besides his pipe, had
adopted nuts and beer to solace the tedium of the quarter of an hour
that yet intervened before the Bermondsey bird and its Walworth
antagonist were to be "on the nail;" and ever and anon fresh Corydons
kept dropping in, until some fifty or sixty had assembled. They were all
of one type. There was a "birdiness" discernible on the outer man of
each; for birdiness, as well as horseyness, writes its mark on the
countenance and the attire. In the latter department there was a
proclivity to thick pea-jackets and voluminous white comforters round
the neck, though the day was springlike and the room stuffy. The talk
was loud, but not boisterous, and garnished with fewer elegant flowers
of speech than one would have expected. Five minutes before two the
non-competing birds were carefully muffled up in pocket-handkerchiefs,
and carried in their cages out of earshot, lest their twitterings might
inspire the competing minstrels. Bermondsey and Walworth alone occupied
the nails. Scarcely any bets were made. They seemed an impecunious
assemblage, gathered for mere sport. One gentleman did, indeed, offer to
stake "that 'ere blowsy bob," as though a shilling in his possession
were a rarity of which his friends must be certainly aware. What was the
occult meaning of the epithet "Blowsy" I could not fathom, but there
were no takers; and, after the windows had been opened for a few minutes
to clear the atmosphere, they were closed again; the door locked; the
two markers took their place at a table in front of the birds, with bits
of chalk in their hands; mine host stood by as referee in case of
disputes; time was called; and silence reigned supreme for a quarter of
an hour, broken only by the vocal performances of the Bermondsey and
Walworth champions respectively. If a hapless human being did so far
forget himself as to cough or tread incontinently upon a nutshell, he
was called to silence with curses not loud but deep.
The Walworth bird opened the concert with a brilliant solo by way of
overture, which was duly reported by the musical critic in the shape of
a chalk line on the table. The length of the effusion did not matter; a
long aria, or a brilliant but spasmodic cadenza, each counted one, and
one only. The Bermondsey bird, heedless of the issue at stake, devoted
the precious moments to eating, emitting nothing beyond a dyspeptic
twitter which didn't count; and his proprietor stood by me evidently
chagrined, and perspiring profusely, either from anxiety or superfluous
attire. Nearly half the time had gone by before Bermondsey put forth its
powers. Meanwhile, Walworth made the most of the opportunity, singing in
a manner of which I did not know linnets were capable. There were notes
and passages in the répertoire of Walworth which were worthy of a
canary. The bird no doubt felt that the credit of home art was at stake,
and sang with a vigour calculated to throw foreign feathered artistes
into the shade. Bermondsey evidently sang best after dinner, so he dined
like an alderman; yet dined, alas! not wisely, but too well, or rather
too long. Then he sang, first, a defiant roulade or so, as much as to
say, "Can you beat that, Walworth?" pausing, with his head wickedly on
one side, for a reply. That reply was not wanting, for Walworth was
flushed with success; and one could not help regretting ignorance of
bird-language so as to gather exactly what the reply meant. Then came a
protracted duet between the two birds, which was the pièce de résistance
of the whole performance. The silence became irksome. I could not help
congratulating myself on the fact that no Corydon had brought his
Phyllis; for Phyllis, I am sure, would not have been able to stand it.
Phyllis, I feel certain, would have giggled. We remained mute as mice,
solemn as judges. The ghost of a twitter was hailed with mute signs of
approval by the backers of each bird; but a glance at the expressive
features of the host warned the markers that nothing must be chalked
down that did not come up to his idea of singing. Had the destinies of
empires hung upon his nod he could scarcely have looked more oracular.
But Walworth could afford to take matters easily now. For the last five
minutes the Bermondsey bird did most of the music; still it was a
hopeless case. Success was not on the cards. By-and-by, time was again
called. Babel recommenced, and the result stood as follows:
Walworth 3 score 18
Bermondsey 1 score 10
It was an ignominious defeat truly; and, had one been disposed to
moralize, it had not been difficult to draw a moral therefrom. It was
not a case of "no song, no supper;" but of supper--or, rather,
dinner--and no song. Bermondsey had failed in the artistic combat, not
from lack of powers, as its brilliant part in the duet and its
subsequent soli proved, but simply from a Sybaritic love for creature
comforts. I ventured to suggest it might have been expedient to remove
the seed, but was informed that, under those circumstances, the
creature--its proprietor called it an uglier name--would not have sung
at all. The remarkable part of the business to me was that they did sing
at the proper time. They had not uttered anything beyond a twitter until
silence was called, and from that moment one or the other was singing
incessantly. I suppose it was the silence. I have noticed not only caged
birds, but children--not to speak ungallantly of the fair sex--generally
give tongue most freely when one is silent, and presumably wants to keep
so.
The contest, however, was over, the stakes paid, and Corydon sought his
pastoral pipe again--not without beer. It was a new experience, but not
a very exciting one--to me, at least. It evidently had its attractions
for the very large majority of attendants. In fact, Rodney Road is
generally a "birdy" neighbourhood. Its staple products, to judge by the
shops, seemed birds and beer. I was much pressed by mine host to stay
for the evening entertainment, when six birds were to sing, and the
attendance would be more numerous. As some five hours intervened I
expressed regret at my inability to remain, reserving my opinion that
five hours in Lock's Fields might prove the reverse of attractive, and
Corydon in greater force might not have an agreeable effect on that
already stuffy chamber. So I took myself off, wondering much, by the
way, what strange association of ideas could have led any imaginative
man to propose such an incongruous reward as a copper kettle by way of
præmium for linnet-singing.