Quickear suggested why not strike up? ‘Ah, la’ads!’ said a negro
sitting by the door, ‘gib the jebblem a darnse. Tak’ yah pardlers,
jebblem, for ‘um QUAD-rill.’
This was the landlord, in a Greek cap, and a dress half Greek and
half English. As master of the ceremonies, he called all the
figures, and occasionally addressed himself parenthetically – after
this manner. When he was very loud, I use capitals.
‘Now den! Hoy! ONE. Right and left. (Put a steam on, gib ‘um
powder.) LA-dies’ chail. BAL-loon say. Lemonade! TWO. ADwarnse
and go back (gib ‘ell a breakdown, shake it out o’ yerselbs,
keep a movil). SWING-corners, BAL-loon say, and Lemonade! (Hoy!)
THREE. GENT come for’ard with a lady and go back, hoppersite come
for’ard and do what yer can. (Aeiohoy!) BAL-loon say, and leetle
lemonade. (Dat hair nigger by ‘um fireplace ‘hind a’ time, shake
it out o’ yerselbs, gib ‘ell a breakdown.) Now den! Hoy! FOUR!
Lemonade. BAL-loon say, and swing. FOUR ladies meet in ‘um
middle, FOUR gents goes round ‘um ladies, FOUR gents passes out
under ‘um ladies’ arms, SWING – and Lemonade till ‘a moosic can’t
play no more! (Hoy, Hoy!)’
Page 29
Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
The male dancers were all blacks, and one was an unusually powerful
man of six feet three or four. The sound of their flat feet on the
floor was as unlike the sound of white feet as their faces were
unlike white faces. They toed and heeled, shuffled, doubleshuffled,
double-double-shuffled, covered the buckle, and beat the
time out, rarely, dancing with a great show of teeth, and with a
childish good-humoured enjoyment that was very prepossessing. They
generally kept together, these poor fellows, said Mr.
Superintendent, because they were at a disadvantage singly, and
liable to slights in the neighbouring streets. But, if I were
Light Jack, I should be very slow to interfere oppressively with
Dark Jack, for, whenever I have had to do with him I have found him
a simple and a gentle fellow. Bearing this in mind, I asked his
friendly permission to leave him restoration of beer, in wishing
him good night, and thus it fell out that the last words I heard
him say as I blundered down the worn stairs, were, ‘Jebblem’s elth!
Ladies drinks fust!’
The night was now well on into the morning, but, for miles and
hours we explored a strange world, where nobody ever goes to bed,
but everybody is eternally sitting up, waiting for Jack. This
exploration was among a labyrinth of dismal courts and blind
alleys, called Entries, kept in wonderful order by the police, and
in much better order than by the corporation: the want of gaslight
in the most dangerous and infamous of these places being quite
unworthy of so spirited a town. I need describe but two or three
of the houses in which Jack was waited for as specimens of the
rest. Many we attained by noisome passages so profoundly dark that
we felt our way with our hands. Not one of the whole number we
visited, was without its show of prints and ornamental crockery;
the quantity of the latter set forth on little shelves and in
little cases, in otherwise wretched rooms, indicating that
Mercantile Jack must have an extraordinary fondness for crockery,
to necessitate so much of that bait in his traps.
Among such garniture, in one front parlour in the dead of the
night, four women were sitting by a fire. One of them had a male
child in her arms. On a stool among them was a swarthy youth with
a guitar, who had evidently stopped playing when our footsteps were
heard.
‘Well I how do YOU do?’ says Mr. Superintendent, looking about him.
‘Pretty well, sir, and hope you gentlemen are going to treat us
ladies, now you have come to see us.’
‘Order there!’ says Sharpeye.
‘None of that!’ says Quickear.
Trampfoot, outside, is heard to confide to himself, ‘Meggisson’s
lot this is. And a bad ‘un!’
‘Well!’ says Mr. Superintendent, laying his hand on the shoulder of
the swarthy youth, ‘and who’s this?’
‘Antonio, sir.’
‘And what does HE do here?’
‘Come to give us a bit of music. No harm in that, I suppose?’