Читать книгу Modern Street Ballads - John Ashton - Страница 3
ОглавлениеBY
JOHN ASHTON
AUTHOR OF “SOCIAL LIFE IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE,” ETC.
WITH FIFTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS London CHATTO & WINDUS PICCADILLY 1888 [The right of translation is reserved]
INTRODUCTION.
Over Street Ballads may be raised the wail of “Ichabod, Ichabod, their glory is departed.” They held their own for many centuries, bravely and well, but have succumbed to a changed order of things, and a new generation has arisen, who will not stop in the streets to listen to these ballads being sung, but prefer to have their music served up to them “piping hot,” with the accompaniment of warmth, light, beer, and tobacco (for which they duly have to pay) at the Music Halls; but whether the change be for the better, or not, may be a moot question.
These Street Ballads were produced within a very few hours of the publication of any event of the slightest public interest; and, failing that, the singers had always an unlimited store to fall back upon, on domestic, or humorous subjects, love, the sea, etc., etc. Of their variety we may learn something, not only from this book, but from the ballad of “Chaunting Benny” of which the following is a portion:—
..........
“My songs have had a tidy run, I’ve plenty in my fist, Sirs,
And if you wish to pick one out, I’ll just run through my list, Sirs.
Have you seen “My daughter Fan,” “She wore a wreath of roses,”
And here you see “My son Tom,” “The Sun that lights the roses,”
“Green grow the rushes O,” “On the Banks of Allan Water,”
“Such a getting out of bed,” with “Brave Lord Ullin’s daughter.”
“Poor Bessie was a Sailor’s bride,” “Sitting on a rail,” Sirs,
“Is there a heart that never loved?” “The Rose of Allandale,” Sirs,
“The Maid of Judah,” “Out of Place,” with “Plenty to be sad at,”
“I say, my rum un, who are you?” with “What a shocking bad hat,” etc., etc.
Rough though some of these Street Ballads may be, very few of them were coarse, and, on reading them, we must ever bear in mind the class for whom they were produced, who listened to them, and—practical proof of interest—bought them. In this collection I have introduced nothing which can offend anybody except an absolute prude; in fact, “My bear dances only to the genteelest of tunes.”
There are plenty of my readers old enough to remember many of these Ballads, and they will come none the worse because they bring with them the reminiscence of their youth. Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit. They owe a great deal of their charm to the fact that they were absolutely contemporary with the events they describe, and, though sometimes rather faulty in their history, owing to the pressure under which they were composed and issued, yet those very inaccuracies prove their freshness.
The majority were illustrated—if, indeed, any can be called illustrated—for the woodcuts were generally served out with a charming impartiality, and without the slightest regard to the subject of the ballad. What previous work these blocks had served, goodness only knows; they were probably bought at trade sales, and had illustrated books that were out of date or unsaleable. They vary from the sixteenth century to Bewick, some of whose works are occasionally met with; but, taking them as a whole, we must fain confess that art as applied to these Ballads was at its very lowest. Their literary merit is not great—but what can you expect for half-a-crown? which was the price which Jemmy Catnach,[1] of Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, used to pay for their production. Catnach issued a large number from his press (in fact, his successor, Fortey, advertised that he had four thousand different sorts for sale), and his name is used as a “household word” to designate this class of Ballad. But, in fact, he only enjoyed the largest share of the London trade, whilst the Provinces were practically independent—Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle, Preston, Hull, Sheffield, Durham, etc., had their own ballad-mongers, who wrote somewhat after the manner of the author of “The Bard of Seven Dials.”
“And it’s my plan, that some great man
Dies with a broken head, Sirs,
Vith a bewail, I does detail
His death ’afore e’s dead, Sirs.
And while his friends and foes contends,
They all my papers buy, Sirs,
Yes, vithout doubt, I sells ’em out,
’Cos there my talent lies, Sirs.”
The Ballad singers and vendors made money rapidly over any event which took the popular fancy—a good blood-curdling murder being very profitable; and the business required very little capital, even that being speedily turned over. Generally, the singers worked singlehanded, but sometimes two would join, and then the Ballad took an antiphonal form, which must have relieved them very much, and the crowd which gathered round them was the surest proof that their vocal efforts were appreciated.
They are gone—probably irrevocably—but a trace of the vendor still lingers amongst us. One or two still remain about Gray’s Inn Road, Farringdon Road, and other neighbourhoods; but I venture to say, as they drop out, they will find no successors. You may know them, if ever lucky enough to meet with one, by their canvas screens, on which are pinned the ballads—identical with that immortal screen of which Mr. Silas Wegg (in Dickens’s “Our Mutual Friend”) was the proud proprietor; but these modern Ballads are mostly reproductions of Music Hall songs, and have very little in common with those about which I write.
I have taken the first fifty years of this century, when this style of Street Ballad was at its best, but I have liberally interpreted my fifty years, by extending its margin by a year or two either way—thus, I include the Mutiny at the Nore in 1798, and the Great Exhibition of 1851, and I have selected those that bear on most, and elucidate best, the social manners and customs of that period.
JOHN ASHTON.
SALE OF A WIFE.
Whenever a foreigner used to write that Englishmen sold their wives in open market, with halters round their necks, they were not believed in England; but it was nevertheless a fact, and even as lately as last year a man sold his wife. In two of my books (“Old Times” and “The Dawn of the Nineteenth Century”) I have given numerous instances. The halter round the neck was used when the wife was sold at market, it being considered that, being thus accoutred, she was on a level with the cattle, and thus could legally be sold.
Attend to my ditty, you frolicsome folk,
I’ll tell you a story—a comical joke;
’Tis a positive fact, what I’m going to unfold,
Concerning a woman, who by auction was sold.
Chorus.
Then long may he flourish, and prosper through life,
The Sailor that purchased the Carpenter’s wife.
A carpenter lived not a mile off from here,
Being a little, or rather too, fond of his beer;
Being hard up for brass—it is true, on my life,
For ten shillings, by auction, he sold off his wife.
The husband and wife they could never agree,
For he was too fond of going out on the spree;
They settled the matter, without more delay,
So, tied in a halter, he took her away.
He sent round the bellman announcing the sale,
All in the hay-market, and that without fail;
The auctioneer came, with his hammer, so smart,
And the Carpenter’s wife stood up in a Cart.
Now she was put up without grumble or frown,
The first bid was a tailor, that bid half a crown;
Says he, I will make her a lady so spruce,
And fatten her well upon Cabbage and goose.[2]
Five and sixpence three farthings, a butcher then said,
Six and ten said a barber, with his curly head;
Then up jump’d a cobbler, said he, in three cracks,
I’ll give you nine shillings, and two balls of wax.
Just look at her beauty, the auctioneer cries,
She’s mighty good-tempered, and sober likewise;
Damme, said a sailor, she’s three out of four,
Ten shillings I bid for her, not a screw more.
Thank you, sir, thank you, said the bold auctioneer,
Going for ten—is there nobody here
Will bid any more? Is not this a bad job?
Going! Going! I say—she is gone for ten bob.
The hammer was struck—that concluded the sale,
The sailor he paid down the brass on the nail;
He shook hands with Betsy, and gave her a smack,
And she jump’d straddle-legs on to his back.
The people all relished the joke, it appears,
And gave the young Sailor three hearty good cheers;
He never cried stop, with his darling so sweet,
Until he was landed in Denison Street.
They sent for a fiddler, and piper to play,
They danced and they sung, untill the break of day,
Then Jack to his hammock with Betsy did go,
While the fiddler and the piper played “Rosin, the beau.”
* * * * * *
Wives at the market did not fetch good prices; the highest I know of, is recorded in The Times, September 19, 1797: “An hostler’s wife, in the country, lately fetched twenty-five guineas.” But this was extravagance, as, with the exception of a man who exchanged his wife for an ox, which he sold for six guineas, the next highest quotation is three and a half guineas; but this rapidly dwindled down to shillings, and even pence. In 1881, a wife was sold at Sheffield for a quart of beer; in 1862, another was purchased at Selby Market Cross for a pint; and the South Wales Daily News, May 2, 1882, tells us that one was parted with for a glass of ale. Sometimes they were unsaleable, as we learn by the following ballad:—
