I may think I have heard sublimer compositions than the following, sung by Mrs Caulfield with great applause:—
Fare you well, my own Mary Anne,
Fare you well for a while:
For the ship it is ready, and the wind it is fair,
And I am bound for the sea, Mary Anne.
Fare you well, &c.Don’t you see that turtle dove,
A sitting on yonder pile,
Lamenting the loss of its own true love?—
And so am I for mine, Mary Anne.
Fare you well, &c.A lobster in a lobster-pot,
A blue-fish wriggling on a hook,
May suffer some, but, oh! no not
What I do feel for my Mary Anne.
Fare you well, &c.The pride of all the produce rare,
That in our kitchen-garden grow’d,
Was pumpkins, but none could compare
In angel-form to my Mary Anne.
Fare you well, &c.
or of the following, sung by Mrs Caulfield with still greater applause:—
Down in Skytown lived a maid,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
Churning butter was her trade,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
She loved a feller whose name was Will,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
His dad he used to own the mill,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?Chorus.
Kemo, kimo, where? oh there! my high, my low,
Then in came Sally singing,
Sometimes, Medley winkum lingtum nip cat.
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?She wanted Will for worse or better,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
She’d have married, but dad wouldn’t let her.
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
And so she went and got a knife,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
She broke her heart and lost her life,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
Kemo, kimo, &c.Then Josh he felt his dander risin’,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
So he went and swallow’d pisin,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
The village folks laugh’d in their sleeve,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
For Jordan’s a hard road to travel, I believe,
Sing song Polly won’t you try me, oh?
Kemo, kimo, &c.
But, compared with many of the places frequented by both sexes, Canterbury Hall is a respectable place. I may think that more rational amusement might be found than by sitting smoking and drinking in a large room on a hot summer’s night. I may have my doubts whether all go home sober—the presence of a policeman in the room indicated that at times there was need for his services—but I believe the association of song and drinking and amusements pernicious in the extreme; and, knowing that man needs relaxation—that he must have his hour of amusement as well as of work—I cannot too earnestly press upon the advocates of Temperance reform the desirableness of their out-bidding the public-house in the attempts to cater for the entertainment of the people. That they do not do so, is clear. Where once we had a National Hall in Holborn, for the action of moral influences, a publican has erected a hall—for singing and drinking—capable, I should think, of holding 1200 people, and crammed every night. Then the “Lord Raglan” holds as many. Nor are these alone the only competitors for public patronage; their name is Legion.
RATCLIFFE-HIGHWAY.
London is several cities rolled into one. If we walk along Regent-street, it is a city of gorgeous shops,—if you turn into the West, of parks and palaces,—if you traverse St Giles, of gin and dirt;—again, in Belgravia it is rich and grand,—in Pimlico it is poor and pretentious,—in Russell-square it is well to do,—in Islington it is plain and pious; and, strange as it may seem, the people are equally localised in their ideas. Jobson, the Stock-broker, lives at Clapham, and for years he has never set foot in any other streets than those leading from the Stock Exchange to that select and favoured spot. The law clerks, who live in Pimlico, seldom stray further than John-street, Bedford-row. The city gents from Islington and Holloway generally cluster round the Bank or the Post-office, and for years go in the morning and return at night by one unvaried route. The races are equally distinct. The swells in the Park, the millers in
Mark-lane, the graziers in the new cattle-market, the Jews in Houndsditch or Holywell-street, the prim pale lads in the city, the sailors in Deptford and Wapping, the German sugar-bakers in Whitechapel, really form distinct communities, and are as worth studying as any race of
“Red Indians dwelling beyond the sunset,
And the baths of all the Western stars.”
I should not like a son of mine to be born and bred in Ratcliffe-highway. That there would be a charming independence in his character, a spurning of that dreary conventionalism which makes cowards of us all, and under the deadly weight of which the heart of this great old England seems becoming daily more sick and sad, a cosmopolitanism rich and racy in the extreme,—all this I admit I should have every reason to expect, but, at the same time, I believe the disadvantages would preponderate vastly. How is this? you ask. Does not Ratcliffe-highway form part of our highly-favoured land? I grant it does. I confess that there the Queen’s writ is a power, that it boasts the protection of the police, that it pays rates and taxes, that it has