The Down and Out King - 20

WILLIAM

Here are nine at a time who work on the mill;

We take it in turns so it never stands still:

A half hour each gang, so 'tis not very hard,

And when we are off we can walk in the yard.

I sometimes look up at the bit of blue sky

High over my head, with a tear in my eye.

Surrounded by walls that are too high to climb,

Confined like a felon without any crime,

Saturday night, for various reasons, is a lively night in our workhouse dormitories. It is the close of the week here as well as elsewhere, and the morrow is a day of rest, with an additional hour in bed. Therefore the younger men, at least, are disposed to lie awake longer on that night and amuse themselves somehow or other. Then there is old habit. Saturday night, in better times, was public-house and concert-hall night so we do a little roystering even here. Here is what Sam has to say about it.

“Up we go to the dormitories at a quarter to eight. Ten minutes or so are occupied in changing under-clothing and getting between the sheets. The Master, Mr. Saunders, goes his round and sees that all is right. By a quarter-past eight at latest all doors are locked, and all lights, save that of the recently introduced night-lamps, extinguished, and the men are left to themselves for eleven long
hours.

“There is a good deal of desultory chat between the occupants of adjoining beds, who are always more intimate than the rest - comrades, in fact. This, however, soon drops. Then comes a voice, belonging to one of the influential personages in the room, calling '.Order - order!'

“Order it is in an instant - a pin-drop silence, in fact. This obtained, the influential personage requests in his politest manner - and he can be very courteous when it pleases him - Mr. Nameless to oblige the company with the story of one of his innumerable thrilling adventures. Mr. Nameless is a dark-haired man, rather under the middle height, spare of figure, but broad-shouldered and long in the arm, with an erect form and a firm elastic tread. His face is frank and open, and his dark eye remarkably brilliant. As a rule he is reserved; and just as quiet. He knows every mortal thing that man can know, and he's been all over the world; at least, nobody could describe foreign scenes and peoples as he can, unless from personal observation; he speaks no end of languages, too, and keeps a Greek play and a copy of Dante at the head of his bed. He spends most of his leisure time in writing, though what it is all about none of us can guess. We have our suspicions, however, and not respecting his writing only. I shall not be surprised, myself, to find him missing any morning. It is my own private opinion that he is a Continental conspirator - a Nihilist, or something of that sort, who has come in here as the best place of hiding for a time.”

I really do have to interject here, that I think Sam is describing himself, as I know of no one else here who meets his description. He is the one who does the story telling and speaks several languages,
but I must not let him know what I suspect. And I do think he is in here as a place of hiding, although for what crime I cannot imagine. He is not a violent man. I think it must be something to do
with the work he has done. Perhaps he was injudicious in pocketing money that was not his. Of perhaps he spoke or wrote of things that did not please those in power. I think that is the more likely
reason. But hopefully one day he will trust me enough to tell me his story. But back to his words again.

“As to the story itself, it is a vivid account of a tiger-hunt in Upper India. The speaker never uses the first person, but it is clear that he was an eye-witness of what he describes, moreover an actor in the
affair. The incident is admirably told in a series of word-pictures. Evidently the man is an artist in narrative. The language and manner are equally choice - not a word too much, no slurring over
interesting details.

“How well he recounts is evinced in the breathless interest and hasty exclamations of the audience, who manifest almost as much emotion as if they were there and then taking part in a tiger-hunt.

“The story occupies about half an hour, and is followed by a storm of applause, which again is succeeded by a number of eager questions respecting the sport and the appliances used in it, which would be spun out to any extent, did not the influential personage interpose imperiously and forbid his comrades to worry 'the gentleman' - the story-teller's distinctive title - with any more of their 'stupid queries.'

“Silence once again secured, somebody is called upon for a song. There is seldom any reluctance in acceding. The song over, the singer uses his privilege in calling upon somebody else. Now and again a recitation or an anecdote is accepted instead, but there are no more set stories. The 'gentleman' gives but one of a night, and after him the story-telling of anybody else were wearisome and unprofitable.

“Our dormitory is tenanted by a number of choice singers, three or four of whom possess voices of musical harmony quite sufficient to secure their success as professionals; they are good fellows into the bargain. Conspicuous among them is my own particular acquaintance and next bedfellow on one side, 'the Pensioner.' (Not me, the person on the other side of him.)

“'Tune up, Mac!' calls out a fellow from the other end of the room.

“'Yes, yes,' repeat a dozen voices. 'A song from Mac. Order for a song from Mac!'

“'Well, I suppose I must,' replies Mac. 'A few more whiffs of the pipe, and I am ready.'

“Mac, I must explain, has a habit, which is general, of smoking in bed; that is to say, when he happens to have any tobacco to smoke, which is not always. It is a habit, however which has never led to mischief, and - say the smokers - is never likely to lead to any. There are too many men in the room not to detect a fire in its incipient and harmless state, and prevent it from acquiring dangerous
proportions.

“'All right,' reply a dozen men together, 'we can wait; only don't be long.'

“A few minutes of conversation follow while Mac finishes his smoke. Then he pulls his pipe from his mouth and clears his throat - a signal that he is ready. It is also a signal for silence, which is instantly obtained. Then Mac pours forth in a rich mellow voice, and in right good style, 'The Old Musqueteer.'

“The song is received with enthusiasm. When the applause dies away, Mac exercises his right, and calls upon somebody else to aid in entertaining the company.

“Somebody else, it is well known, can sing; but he either is, or pretends to be, out of voice, and recites with deep feeling Lord Ullin's Daughter instead. It takes almost as well as a song. Then the reciter calls upon our singer of singers - the Sims Reeves or Braham of the house, Jack Blades.

“'Hear, hear!' respond all the rest; 'Jack Blades, Jack Blades! One with a chorus, Jack, one with a chorus;' and several of Jack's favourites are suggested. Jack, however, gives none of these.

“Even before the last voice is silent, Jack commences one as yet unheard in the dormitory from his lips. Beginning low, almost in a whisper, but such a whisper - one heard distinctly in every corner of the room - Jack's splendid baritone is heard rising higher and higher - piling note upon note, as it were, gathering power as it peals, until it develops into a perfect torrent of richest music; then it sails down the gamut in a lilt without words. All this by way of prelude.

“Everybody is now still as death. When the lilt ceases you may hear even the hearts around you beating. Not for more than five seconds, though. That short interval past, Jack bursts forth in a grand old sea song, with the right sort of chorus, commencing 'A long, long pull, and a strong, strong pull,' and does it ample justice. The splendid voice - for such it really is - absolutely fills the room with delicious sound. Better still, every word of the song is distinctly audible.

“So one can fancy Incledon sang in his day. And with the same rapt delight as Incledon's listeners hung on his voice, so do we hang on Jack's.”

I feel the need to put an explanation in here, as to what he means by Incledon. He is obviously expecting the readers of his book to know, but as I didn't – and I very much doubt if many of those in the workhouse do – I asked him about it.

Charles Benjamin Incledon was apparently a wonderful singer from a very young age, and received his musical education at Exeter Cathedral. As an adult, he joined the navy, but his voice attracted the attention of the commander of the fleet where he was asked to perform for the hierarchy of the waves. When he left the navy, he tried to get a theatrical job and in 1784 he started his professional career. In 1817, he visited America and had quite a following there too. He is described as having a voice of uncommon power, with a fourteen note range, going into falsetto. He mainly sang ballads. Those who heard him sing were unanimous in pronouncing it unique. So now you know.
Back to Sam's account.

“But when Jack comes to the chorus - how am I to describe that? 'The long, long pull, and the strong, strong pull' is indeed given with a will, with a dash and a spirit which show how completely everybody has been carried away by Jack's lyric.

“Another recitation is now given, but nobody seems to care for it. It is therefore the last attempted. Then an inmate of the heavy-swell order, who turns all his 's' into w's,' gives us a music-hall ditty.
Every lengthy stanza is a monotonous rigmarole; but that is excused on account of the rattling, though somewhat vulgar, refrain.

“Then our own particular rival in the singing line to Jack Blades is called upon, and responds willingly. He has a capital voice, a more than average knowledge of music, and a choice collection of songs. Jack out of the way, this man would be an easy first in this particular line. He gives 'Tom Bowling,' and gives it well - with a taste and feeling that would have satisfied Dibdin. Everybody relishes it exceedingly. But the chorus?”

Again, for those of you who might be reading this without a musical background, there were two Dibdin's, father Thomas and son Charles who both wrote sea chanty type music much favoured in the music halls. Back to Sam again.

“Unfortunately for the singer, Jack Blades joins in here - is bound to do so, in fact. All other voices are reduced to silence by the manifest contest that opens between these two. For a few seconds there is little to choose between them. Then, however, Blades lets his voice loose in all its vigour, and his rival is nowhere, his voice being drowned, swallowed up, rendered altogether imperceptible by the fascinating tones of the grander organ.

“'Tom Bowling' is encored, and Jack Blades gives the closing verse as he alone can give it.

“My other next-bedfellow, the King, is now called upon. (I'm almost afraid to read this bit.) This man is probably the quietest and best conducted among us. Not long ago he was manager of a concern,
understanding his particular department thoroughly, as well he might, seeing that he had been brought up in it, and discharging his duties on all occasions to the satisfaction of everyone. He has, besides, a faculty of dealing with men which renders him popular with all who work with and under him.

“The man would be an acquisition to any company. He bears the highest character; he is thoroughly up to his work, and, I repeat - here he is.

“The King's song, 'Meet me by Moonlight alone,' is sung in a rather subdued way. He has evidently had musical training, and a tolerable voice, too; but it is the unquestionable touch of personal feeling
ringing in it that gives it its chief interest. Everybody understands that though King himself is with us, his memory is far away in the past; that every line of his song speaks to him of what will never be
again for him. Nobody, however, attempts to utter the general sentiment. When he has completed his song - giving the last line with a very perceptible quiver of voice - he buries his head in his pillow, and nothing more is heard of him for the rest of the night. No need to remark on the reason why.

“A short interval of silence follows, a quarter to eleven booms slowly from the great clock, and then my friend, Mac, gives 'Auld Lang Syne' as he alone can give it, in the dialect of Burns, and in a manner that would have won the hearty approval of the poet.

“Thus the entertainment of the indoor paupers' Saturday evening is wound up. There is a little more chat between individuals, but it soon dies away, and, in ten minutes more, everybody is asleep.

“From beginning to end, not a single wanton joke has been attempted, and not a single licentious song has been sung. We have been somewhat noisy, and considerably altogethery at times; but, in all other respects, we have kept well within the bounds of decorum. It is not that the dormitory is without its proportion of blackguards. The respectable men, however, predominate, and their weight of character represses the truculent and low-lived.”