A few weeks ago we went to one of Mr Whelks’s favourite theatres, to see an attractive melodrama called MAY MORNING, OR THE MYSTERY OF 1715, AND THE MURDER! We had an idea that the former of these titles might refer to the month in which either the Mystery or the Murder happened, but we found it to be the name of the heroine, the pride of Keswick Vale; who was ‘called May Morning’ (after a common custom among the English peasantry) ‘from her bright eyes and merry laugh’. Of this young lady, it may be observed, in passing, that she subsequently sustained every possible calamity of human existence in a white muslin gown with blue tucks; and that she did every conceivable and inconceivable thing with a pistol that could anyhow be effected by that description of firearms. . . .
The curtain rose, and we were presently in possession of the following particulars. Sir George Elmore, a melancholy Baronet . . . in . . . an advanced stage of indigestion . . . was found to be living in a very large castle, in the society of one round table, two chairs, and Captain George Elmore, ‘his supposed son, the Child of Mystery, and the Man of Crime’ . . . M.M. being then on the eve of marriage to Will Stanmore, a cheerful sailor with very loose legs. . . . The theatre resounded with applause, and Mr Whelks fell into a fit of unbounded enthusiasm, consequent upon the entrance of ‘Michael the Mendicant’. It soon came out that Michael the Mendicant had been hired in old time by Sir George Elmore, to murder his (Sir George Elmore’s) elder brother – which he had done; notwithstanding which little affair of honour, Michael was in reality a very good fellow; quite a tender-hearted man; who, on hearing of the Captain’s determination to settle Will Stanmore, cried out, ‘What! more bel-ood!’ and fell flat – overpowered by his nice sense of humanity. In like manner, in describing that small error of judgment into which he had allowed himself to be tempted by money, this gentleman exclaimed, ‘I ster-ruck him down, and fell-ed in error!’ and further he remarked, with honest pride, ‘I have liveder as a beggar – a roadersider vaigerant, but no ker-rime since then has stained these hands!’ All these sentiments of the worthy man were hailed with showers of applause; and when, in the excitement of his feelings on one occasion, after a soliloquy, he ‘went off’ on his back, kicking and shuffling along the ground, after the manner of bold spirits in trouble who object to be taken to the station-house, the cheering was tremendous.
Charles Dickens, ‘The Amusements of the People’, Household Words, Vol I. (1850)
A ‘PENNY GAFF’
In many of the thoroughfares of London there are shops which have been turned into a kind of temporary theatre (admission one penny), where dancing and singing take place every night. . . . The ‘penny gaff’ chosen was situated in a broad street near Smithfield; and for a great distance off, the jingling sound of music was heard, and the gas-light streamed out into the thick night air as from a dark-lantern, glittering on the windows of the houses opposite, and lighting up the faces of the mob in the road, as on an illumination night. The front of a large shop had been entirely removed, and the entrance was decorated with paintings of the ‘comic singers’ in their most ‘humorous’ attitudes. On a table against the wall was perched the band, playing what the costers call ‘dancing tunes’ with great effect, for the hole at the money-taker’s box was blocked up with hands tendering the penny. . . .
The visitors, with a few exceptions, were all boys and girls, whose ages seemed to vary from eight to twenty years. Some of the girls – though their figures showed them to be mere children – were dressed in showy cotton-velvet polkas, and wore dowdy feathers in their crushed bonnets. They stood laughing and joking with the lads, in an unconcerned, impudent manner, that was almost appalling. Some of them, when tired of waiting, chose their partners, and commenced dancing grotesquely, to the admiration of the lookers-on, who expressed their admiration in obscene terms, that, far from disgusting the poor little women, were received as compliments, and acknowledged with smiles and coarse repartees. The boys clustered together, smoking their pipes and laughing at each other’s anecdotes, or else jingling halfpence in time with the tune, while they whistled an accompaniment to it. . . .
To discover the kind of entertainment, a lad near me and my companion was asked ‘if there was any flash dancing’. With a knowing wink the boy answered, ‘Lots! Show their legs and all, prime!’ and immediately the boy followed up his information by a request for a ‘yennep’ to get a ‘tib of occabot’. . . .
Singing and dancing formed the whole of the hours’ performance, and, of the two, the singing was preferred. A young girl of about fourteen years of age danced with more energy than grace, and seemed to be well-known to the spectators, who cheered her on by her Christian name. When the dance was concluded, the proprietor of the establishment threw down a penny from the gallery, in the hopes that others might be moved to similar acts of generosity; but no one followed up the offering, so the young lady hunted after the money and departed. The ‘comic singer’, in a battered hat and a huge bow to his cravat, was received with deafening shouts. Several songs were named by the costers, but the ‘funny gentleman’ merely requested them ‘to hold their jaw’, and putting on a ‘knowing’ look, sang a song, the whole point of which consisted in the mere utterance of some filthy word at the end of each stanza. Nothing, however, could have been more successful. The lads stamped their feet with delight; the girls screamed with enjoyment. . . .
There were three or four of these songs sung in the course of the evening, each one being encored, and then changed. One written about ‘Pineapple rock’ was the grand treat of the night, and offered greater scope to the rhyming powers of the author than any of the others. In this, not a single chance had been missed; ingenuity had been exerted to its utmost, lest an obscene thought should be passed by, and it was absolutely awful to behold the relish with which the young ones jumped to the hideous meaning of the verses.
Henry Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor, 2 vols 1851–2; 4 vols 1861–2
SOME MUSIC-HALL SONGS
(I)
A version of ‘Villikins and his Dinah’, for performance:
Verse:
It is of a rich merchant I am going for to tell,
Who had for a daughter an uncommon nice young gal;
Her name it was Dinah, just sixteen years old,
With a werry large chest full of silver and gold.
Singin’ Too-ra-li, too-ra-li, too-ra-li-ay.
Spoken:
Chorus, which I sings by myself.
Chorus:
Too-ra-li, too-ra-li, too-ra-li-ay.
Verse:
Now as Dinah was a-walking in the garding one day,
Spoken
It was the front garding.
Verse:
The father comed up to her and thus to her did say,
‘Go dress yourself, Dinah, in gor-ge-us array,
Spoken:
Take your hair out of paper.
Verse:
And I’ll bring you home a hus-i-band both gal-li-ant and gay.
Singin’ . . .
Spoken:
In favour of the pari-ent’s desire, and the wedding breakfast he was about to order of the pastrycook round the corner.
Chorus:
Too-ra-li . . .
Spoken:
Now this is what the daughter said to her pari-ent in reply.
Verse:
‘Oh, father, dear father,’ the daughter she said,
I don’t feel incli-ned to be mar-ri-ed;
And all my large fortin I’d gladly give o’er,
If you’ll let me live single a year or two more,
Singin’ . . .
Spoken:
Wheedling and persuasive chorus to the author of her being.
Chorus:
Too-ra-li . . .
Spoken:
Now this is what the paternal pari-ent said again to the daughter.
Verse:
‘Go, go, boldest daughter, ‘ the pari-ent replied,
If you don’t feel incli
ned to be this young man’s bride,
Spoken:
He was a merchant pieman from Abyssinia and sold baked potatoes in Timbuctoo for the Hottentots.
Verse:
‘I’ll give all your large fortin to the nearest of kin,
And you’ll not get the benefit, not one single pin, Singin’ . . .
Spoken:
Chorus of the outraged pari-ent against his offspring.
Chorus:
Singin’ . . .
Spoken:
Now this is the most melancholy part, and shows what his offspring was drove to, in conskivence of the ferocity of the parient.
Verse:
Now as Villikins was a-walking the garding all round
Spoken:
It was the back garding this time.
Verse:
He spied his dear Dinah lying dead on the ground,
With a cup of cold pizen all down by her side,
And a billy-do which said as ’ow ’twas by pizen she died.
Spoken:
The label was marked, British Brandy.
Verse:
Singin’ Too-ra-li . . .
Spoken:
Mournful and desponding chorus of sympathising sparrows.
Chorus:
Singin’ Too-ra-li . . .
Spoken:
This is what the father did on the discovery.
Verse:
Then he kissed her cold corpses a thousand times o’er,
And called her his dear Dinah, though she was no more;
Then he swallered up the pizen, and sung a short stave -
Spoken:
Neither agreed with him.
Verse:
And Villikins and his Dinah were laid in one grave.
Singin’, together, Too-ra-li . . .
Spoken:
Dismal and duplicated chorus on the double disaster.
Chorus:
Too-ra-li, too-ra-li, too-ra-li-ay.
Anon., Early Victorian
(II)
‘Cushie Butterfield’ [from the north-east]
Ah’s a broken-hearted keelman and Ah’s ower heed in luv
Wiv a young lass in Gateshead and Ah call her me duv.
Hor neem’s Cushie Butterfield and she sells yaller clay,
And hor cousin is a muckman and they call ’im Tom Gray.
Chorus: She’s a big lass an’ a bonny lass an’ she likes hor beer,
An’ they call her Cushie Butterfield an’ Ah wish she was here.
Hor eyes is like two holes in a blanket burnt through,
An’ hor broos of a mornin’ wad spine a young coo, [cow]
An’ when Ah hear hor shoutin’, ‘Will ye buy any clay?’
Like a candyman’s [bailiff’s] trumpet, it steals me young heart away.
Chorus: . . .
Ye’ll oft see hor doon at Sangit when the fresh herrin’ comes in,
She’s like a bagful of sawdust tied roond wi’ a string’
She wears big galoshes tee [too], an’ hor stockins once was white,
An’ hor big-gown it’s lilac, an’ her hat’s niver strite.
Chorus: . . .
When Ah axed hor to marry us, she started ter laff;
‘Noo, none o’ yer monkey tricks, for Ah like nee sic chaff.’
Then she started a-blubbin’ an’ roared like a bull,
An’ the chaps on the Keel sez Ah’s nowt but a fool.
Chorus: . . .
She sez the chap ’at gets us ’ill ha’ ter work ivry day,
An’ when he comes heem at neet he’ll hae to gan an’ seek clay,
An’ when he’s away seekin’t Ah’ll make baals an’ sing,
O weel may the keel row that ma laddie’s in.
Chorus: She’s a big lass an’ a bonny lass an’ she likes hor beer,
An’ they call her Cushie Butterfield an’ Ah wish she was heer.
George Ridley, mid-nineteenth century
(III)
If you saw my little backyard, ‘Wot a pretty spot!’ you’d cry –
It’s a picture on a summer day;
Wiv the turnip tops and cabbages wot people don’t buy
I makes it on a Sunday look all gay.
The neighbours fink I grows ’em, and you’d fancy you’re in Kent,
Or at Epsom, if you gaze into the mews;
It’s a wonder as the landlord doesn’t want to raise the rent,
Because we’ve got such nobby distant views. [superior]
Oh! it really is a werry pretty garden,
And Chingford to the eastward could be seen;
Wiv a ladder and some glasses,
You could see to ’Ackney Marshes,
If it wasn’t for the ’ouses in between.
We’re as countrified as can be wiv a clothes-prop for a tree,
The tub-stool makes a rustic little stile;
Every time the blooming clock strikes there’s a cuckoo sings to me,
And I’ve painted up ‘To Leather Lane, a mile’.
Wiv tom-ar-toes and wiv radishes wot ’adn’t any sale,
The backyard looks a puffick mass o’ bloom;
And I’ve made a little beehive wiv some beetles in a pail,
And a pitchfork wiv the ’andle o’ the broom.
Oh! it really is a werry pretty garden,
An’ the Rye ’Ouse from the cockloft could be seen, [garret in roof]
Where the chickweed man undresses
To bathe among the watercresses,
If it wasn’t for the ’ouses in between.
There’s the bunny shares ’is egg-box wiv the cross-eyed cock and hen,
Though they ’as got the pip, and ’im the morf; [morphew, scurf]
In a dog’s-house on the line-post there was pigeons nine or ten,
Till someone took a brick and knocked it off.
The dustcart though it seldom comes, is just like ’arvest ’ome,
And we mean to rig a dairy up some’ow –
Put the donkey in the wash-house wiv some imitation ’orns,
For we’re teaching ’im to moo just like a cow.
Oh! it really is a werry pretty garden,
And ’Endon to the westward could be seen;
And by clinging to the chimbley
You could see across to Wembley,
If it wasn’t for the ’ouses in between.
Though the gasworks isn’t wiolets, they improve the rural scene –
For mountains they would werry nicely pass;
There’s the mushrooms in the dust-’ole, wiv the cowcumbers so green –
It only wants a bit o’ ’ot-’ouse glass.
I wears this milkman’s nightshirt, and I sits outside all day,
Like the ploughboy cove wot mizzled o’er the lea;
And when I goes indoors at night they dunno wot I say,
’Cause my language gets as yokel as can be.
Oh! it really is a werry pretty garden,
And the soap-works from the ’ouse-tops could be seen;
If I got a rope and pulley,
I’d enjoy the breeze more fully,
If it wasn’t for the ’ouses in between.
Edgar Bateman?, late Victorian
‘A VIEW OF MR LORDE HIS CRYKET GROHNDE’
[Supposedly in the style of Pepys’s Diary]
This Day a great Cricket Match, Surrey against England, at LORD’S, and I thither, all the way to St John’s Wood, to see the Place, having often heard Talk of it, and the Playing, which Mr LONGSTOPPE did tell me was a pretty Sight. Paid 6d. to be let in, and 2d. for a card of the Innings, and bought a little Book of the Laws of the Game, cost me 1s. 6d. more, though when I had got it, could hardly understand a Word of it; but to think how much money I spend out of Curiosity, and how inquisitive I am, so as to be vexed to the Heart if I cannot thoroughly make out every Thing I see! The Cricketing I believe very fine; but could not judge of it; for I think I did never before see any Cricket since I w
as a little Varlet Boy at School. But what a Difference between the manner of Bowling in those Days, and that Players now use! for then they did moderately trundle the Ball underhand; but now they fling it overhanded from the Elbow, as though viciously, and it flies like a Shot, being at least Five Ounces and a Half in Weight, and hard as a Block. I saw it strike one of the Bat-men on the Knuckles, who Danced and shook his Fist, as methought well he might. But to see how handy some did catch it, though knocked off the Bat by a strong Man with all his Force, albeit now and then they missing it, and struck by it on the Head, or in the Mouth, and how anyone can learn to play Cricket without losing his front Teeth is a wonder. The Spectators sitting on Benches in a Circle, at a Distance, and out of the way of the Ball, which was wise; but some on a raised Stand, and others aside at Tables, under a Row of Trees near a Tavern within the Grounds, with Pipes and Beer; and many in the Circle also Smoking and Drinking, and the Drawers continually going the Round of them to serve them Liquor and Tobacco. But all as quiet as a Quakers’ Meeting, except when a good Hit made, or a Player bowled out, and strange to see how grave and solemn they looked, as if the sight of Men in white Clothes, knocking a Ball about, were Something serious to think on. Did hear that many had Wagers on the Game, but doubt it, for methinks there had been more Liveliness if much Betting, and chance of winning or losing, Money. The Company very numerous, and among them some in Carriages, and was glad to see so many People diverted, although at what I could not tell. But they enjoyed themselves in their Way, whatever that was, and I in mine, thinking how droll they looked, so earnestly attending to a mere Show of Dexterity. I, for my Part, soon out of Patience with the length of the Innings, and the Stopping and Interruption after each Run, and so away, more tired, I am sure, than any of the Cricketers. Yet I do take Pride, as an Englishman, in our Country Sport of Cricket, albeit I do not care to watch it playing; and certainly it is a manly Game, throwing open the Chest, and strengthening the Limbs, and the Player so often in Danger of being hit by the Ball.
Dickens's England: Life in Victorian Times Page 29