Sinks of London Laid Open Part 5

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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 b.u.t.tons, 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 s...o...b..red 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 cla.s.s. A dirty tattered, coa.r.s.e-featured wench whose visits from the cadging house could only be varied to the gin shop and p.a.w.n 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 prompt.i.tude. 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 s.e.x, 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 n.o.ble 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 rehea.r.s.e 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 G.o.d.

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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CHAPTER XIII.

THE CLOSE OF THE NIGHT.

The point of time was now moving fast to the stroke of four. The nymphs of the _pave_, who made this place their habitation, were all returned from the toils of the night. About a dozen or two of both s.e.xes were gathered together around the fire, chatting of the various occurrences of the preceding day, or otherways quietly amusing themselves. The females--the most of whom cohabited with the men now in the kitchen--were a miscellaneous set; cadgers, flower-girls, servants out of place--or of that cla.s.s denominated unfortunate. Some, too, went out to char and wash, and all united to their several professions the privilege of the _pave_. One or two, about a twelvemonth ago, had been the _belles_ of Regent-street walk, but whose bloated cheeks and tattered shawls now made them fit denizens for St. Giles's.

A stout, middle-aged, good-looking woman, who had once been cook and housekeeper in a gentleman's family, and who still retained something of the decency and respectability of her former appearance, was now by misfortune reduced to be their a.s.sociate. A few were young and handsome, and, what would appear strange in such a place, even well dressed.

There were two girls (sisters) who were romping about with a young lad, certainly in rather an unboarding-school-like manner, that particularly attracted our attention. They were both neat and clean, and genteel in their apparel. One of them, indeed, might be called beautiful. These girls had three ways of making a living. The first was that of selling flowers; the second, begging as servants out of place; the third, and certainly the best, was, to use their own phrase, "seeing gentlemen." It is a fact what we are going to state, that one of these girls has been known to make as much as five pounds a day--doubtless by the _seeing_ profession and although cadgers from their birth, and born and bred, as we may say, in vice, yet it was but a few days before this, that we heard these young strumpets (for they deserve no better name) abusing an unfortunate woman who lodged in the house, using the most opprobrious language; and had at the same time, the most singular audacity to style themselves modest girls.

Of the males, the most of them were young men who had once been in better circ.u.mstances, but who now were reduced to get their living by calling papers about the streets. A few fine characters might have been picked out amongst those prodigal sons, as they stood warming their backs, or grouped together in this Vagabond's Hall.

There was an Anglo-German; he was very respectably dressed, only he had neither shoes or stockings, and though of small stature, had a voice like thunder; he was of course, considered a first-rate patterer (caller). Another, a merchant's clerk and active young man, and an excellent mimic, but a _Careless_ himself. The third, a Welshman; one who might have caused a painter to halt--a model of strength; in size and form like one of his own mountain bulls, with a voice as hoa.r.s.e as the winter's blast on Snowdon. He was a fine compound of ruffianism, shrewdness, and a sort of caustic humour. The fourth and last, was a tall, genteel young man, a draper, or, rather had been; he was still very smart, although much out at elbows. He had a pair of fine large, showy, sharp-pointed whiskers; was exceedingly fond of hard words, and, in his speech, superfine in the extreme. He had been highly chagrined that very night, at a person expressing surprise at seeing him at Cadger's Hall, he considering that a man might make himself respectable wherever he might be, always provided that he conducted himself with propriety; in short, maintaining to the very last, the shadow of his former consequence.

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The clock chimed the warning to the final hour. A policeman came in, supporting a man he had picked up in the streets in the last stage of inebriation. Ben put out one of the lights, and gave notice that it was time to move.

The landlord busied himself in rousing two or three slumberers by sundry shakes and pushes with his foot,--not, reader to go to bed, but to go out,--they being lodgers who, having run out of coin and out of credit, were allowed for old acquaintance sake, to lie about the kitchen while it was open, but were invariably desired to depart at the lock-up hour.

The poor wretches got up, b.u.t.toned their clothes about them, thrust their hands into their bosoms, and shuffled out half asleep, a melancholy instance of the trials of the children of poverty and crime. The lodgers moved slowly off to bed, one by one; the kitchen was securely locked up, and the landlord then walked away, leaving drunkenness, misery and debauchery about the door.

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