“The proper name of my exhibition,” said a showman of this class to me,
“is _Lez Hombres_, or the shades; that’s the proper name for it, for
Baron Rothschild told me so when I performed before him. We calls it
the Chinese galantee show. It was invented over there with the Chinese,
and some travellers went over there and see them doing it, and they
come over here and tell us about it. They didn’t do it as we do, you
know. As for doing pieces, we lick them out of the field. Them only did
the shadows, we do a piece with ’em.
“I should say, sir,--let me calculate--it is about twenty-six years
since the ombres first come out. Reduce it if you like, but that’s
the time. Thomas Paris was the first as come out with them. Then Jim
Macklin, and Paul Herring the celebrated clown, and the best showman
of Punch in the world for pantomime tricks--comic business, you know,
but not for showing in a gentleman’s house--was the next that ever come
out in the streets with the Chinese galantee show. I think it was his
own ingenuity that first gave him the notion. It was thoughts of mind,
you know,--you form the opinion in your own mind, you know, by taking
it from the Chinese. They met a friend of theirs who had come from
China, and he told him of the shadows. One word is as good as fifty, if
it’s a little grammatical--sound judgment. When it first come out, he
began with the scene called ‘Mr. Jobson the Cobbler,’ and that scene
has continued to be popular to the present day, and the best scene out.
He did it just equally the same as they do it now, in a Punch-and-Judy
frame, with a piece of calico stretched in front, and a light behind to
throw the shadows on the sheet.
“Paul Herring did excellent well with it--nothing less than 30_s._
or 2_l._ a-night. He didn’t stop long at it, because he is a stage
clown, and had other business to attend to. I saw him the first time he
performed. It was in the Waterloo-road, and the next night I were out
with one of my own. I only require to see a thing once to be able to do
it; but you must have ingenuity, or it’s no use whatsumdiver. Every one
who had a Punch-and-Judy frame took to it; doing the regular business
in the day and at night turning to the shadows. In less than a week
there were two others out, and then Paul Herring cut it. He only done
it for a lark. He was hard up for money and got it.
“I was the first that ever had a regular piece acted in his show. I
believe there’s nobody else as did, but only them that’s copied me.
They come and follow me, you understand, and copied me. I am the author
of ‘Cobbler Jobson,’ and ‘Kitty biling the Pot, or the Woodchopper’s
Frolic.’ There’s ‘Billy Button’s journey to Brentford on horseback, and
his favorite servant, Jeremiah Stitchem, in want of a situation.’ I’m
the author of that, too. It’s adapted from the equestrian piece brought
out at Astley’s. I don’t know who composed ‘the Broken Bridge.’ It’s
too far gone by to trace who the first author is, but it was adapted
from the piece brought out formerly at Drury-lane Theatre. Old ancient
gentlemen has told me so who saw it, when it was first brought out, and
they’re old enough to be my grandfather. I’ve new revised it.
“We in general goes out about 7 o’clock, because we gets away from
the noisy children--they place them to bed, and we gets respectable
audiences. We choose our places for pitching: Leicester-square is a
very good place, and so is Islington, but Regent-street is about the
principal. There’s only two of us about now, for it’s dying away. When
I’ve a mind to show I can show, and no mistake, for I’m better now than
I was twenty years ago.
“‘Kitty biling the Pot, or the Woodchopper’s Frolic,’ is this. The
shadow of the fireplace is seen with the fire alight, and the smoke
is made to go up by mechanism. The woodchopper comes in very hungry
and wants his supper. He calls his wife to ask if the leg of mutton is
done. He speaks in a gruff voice. He says, ‘My wife is very lazy, and
I don’t think my supper’s done. I’ve been chopping wood all the days
of my life, and I want a bullock’s head and a sack of potatoes.’ The
wife comes to him and speaks in a squeaking voice, and she tells him
to go and chop some more wood, and in half-an-hour it will be ready.
Exaunt. Then the wife calls the daughter Kitty, and tells her to see
that the pot don’t boil over; and above all to be sure and see that the
cat don’t steal the mutton out of the pot. Kitty says, ‘Yes, mother,
I’ll take particular care that the mutton don’t steal the cat out of
the pot.’ Cross-questions, you see--comic business. Then mother says,
‘Kitty, bring up the broom to sweep up the room,’ and Kitty replies,
‘Yes, mummy, I’ll bring up the room to sweep up the broom.’ Exaunt
again. It’s regular stage business and cross-questions. She brings
up the broom, and the cat’s introduced whilst she is sweeping. The
cat goes Meaw! meaw! meaw! and Kitty gives it a crack with the broom.
Then Kitty gets the bellows and blows up the fire. It’s a beautiful
representation, for you see her working the bellows, and the fire get
up, and the sparks fly up the chimney. She says, ‘If I don’t make haste
the mutton will be sure to steal the cat out of the pot.’ She blows
the fire right out, and says, ‘Why, the fire’s blowed the bellows out!
but I don’t mind, I shall go and play at shuttlecock.’ Child like, you
see. Then the cat comes in again, and says, Meaw! meaw! and then gets
up and steals the mutton. You see her drag it out by the claw, and she
burns herself and goes, spit! spit! Then the mother comes in and sees
the fire out, and says, ‘Where my daughter? Here’s the fire out, and
my husband’s coming home, and there isn’t a bit of mutton to eat!’ She
calls ‘Kitty, Kitty!’ and when she comes, asks where she’s been. ‘I’ve
been playing at shuttlecock.’ The mother asks, ‘Are you sure the cat
hasn’t stolen the mutton.’ ‘Oh, no, no, mother,’ and exaunt again.
Then the mother goes to the pot. She’s represented with a squint, so
she has one eye up the chimney and another in the pot. She calls out,
‘Where’s the mutton? It must be down at the bottom, or it has boiled
away.’ Then the child comes in and says, ‘Oh! mother, mother, here’s
a great he-she-tom cat been and gone off with the mutton.’ Then the
mother falls down, and calls out, ‘I shall faint, I shall faint! Oh!
bring me a pail of gin.’ Then she revives, and goes and looks in the
pot again. It’s regular stage business, and if it was only done on a
large scale would be wonderful. Then comes the correction scene. Kitty
comes to her, and her mother says, ‘Where have you been?’ and Kitty
says, ‘Playing at shuttlecock, mummy;’ and then the mother says, ‘I’ll
give you some shuttlecock with the gridiron,’ and exaunt, and comes
back with the gridiron; and then you see her with the child on her
knee correcting of her. Then the woodchopper comes in and wants his
supper, after chopping wood all the days of his life. ‘Where’s supper?’
‘Oh, a nasty big he-she-tom cat has been and stole the mutton out of
the pot.’ ‘What?’ passionate directly, you see. Then she says, ‘You
must put up with bread and cheese.’ He answers, ‘That don’t suit some
people,’ and then comes a fight. Then Spring-heeled Jack is introduced,
and he carries off the fireplace and pot and all. Exaunt. That’s the
end of the piece, and a very good one it was. I took it from Paris, and
improved on it. Paris had no workable figures. It was very inferior. He
had no fire. It’s a dangerous concern the fire is, for it’s done with
a little bit of the snuff of a candle, and if you don’t mind you go
alight. It’s a beautiful performance.
“Our exhibition generally begins with a sailor doing a hornpipe,
and then the tight-rope dancing, and after that the Scotch hornpipe
dancing. The little figures regularly move their legs as if dancing,
the same as on the stage, only it’s more cleverer, for they’re made
to do it by ingenuity. Then comes the piece called ‘Cobbler Jobson.’
We call it ‘the laughable, comic, and interesting scene of old Father
Jobson, the London cobbler; or, the old Lady disappointed of her
Slipper.’ I am in front, doing the speaking and playing the music on
the pandanean pipe. That’s the real word for the pipe, from the Romans,
when they first invaded England. That’s the first music ever introduced
into England, when the Romans first invaded it. I have to do the
dialogue in four different voices. There is the child, the woman, the
countryman, and myself, and there’s not many as can do it besides me
and another.
“The piece called Cobbler Jobson is this. It opens with the shadow of a
cottage on one side of the sheet, and a cobbler’s stall on the other.
There are boots and shoes hanging up in the windows of the cobbler’s
stall. Cobbler Jobson is supposed at work inside, and heard singing:
‘An old cobbler I am,
And live in my stall;
It serves me for house,
Parlour, kitchen, and all.
No coin in my pocket,
No care in my pate,
I sit down at my ease,
And get drunk when I please.
Hi down, hi derry down.’
“Then he sings again:
‘Last night I took a wife,
And when I first did woo her,
I vowed I’d stick through life
Like cobblers’ wax unto her.
Hi down, derry down down down.’
“Then the figure of a little girl comes in and raps at the door: ‘Mr.
Jobson, is my mamma’s slipper done?’ ‘No, miss, it’s not done; but if
you’ll call in half-an-hour it shall be well done, for I’ve taken the
soles off and put the upper leathers in a pail to soak.’ ‘What, in a
pail?’ ‘Yes, my dear, without fail.’ ‘Then you won’t disappint.’ ‘No,
my dear, I’d sooner a pot than a pint.’ ‘Then I may depend?’ ‘Yes, and
you won’t have it.’ He says this aside, so the girl don’t hear him.
Then Jobson begins to sing again. He comes in front and works. You see
his lapstone and the hammer going. He begins to sing:
‘’T’other morning for breakfast on bacon and spinnage,
Says I to my wife, ‘I’m going to Greenwich;’
Says she, ‘Dicky Hall, then I’ll go too!’
Says I, ‘Mrs. Hall, I’ll be dished if you do.’
Hi down, hi derry down.’
“Then the little girl comes in again to know if the slipper is done,
and as it isn’t, it’s ‘My dear, you must go without it.’ Then she
gets impertinent, and says, ‘I shan’t go with it, you nasty old waxy,
waxy, waxy, waxy, waxy! Oh, you nasty old ball of bristles and bunch
of wax!’ Then he tries to hit her, and she runs into the house, and as
soon as he’s at work she comes out again: ‘Ah, you nasty cobbler! who’s
got a lump of wax on his breeches? who sold his wife’s shirt to buy a
ha’porth of gin?’ Then the cobbler is regularly vexed, and he tries to
coax her into the stall to larrup her. ‘Here, my dear, here’s a lump
of pudden and a farden.’ ‘Oh, yes, you nasty old cobbler! you only want
to give me a lump of pudden on my back.’ ‘Here’s a penny, my dear, if
you’ll fetch it.’ ‘Chuck it here, and I’ll fetch it.’ At last she goes
into the stall, and she gets a hiding with the hammer. She cries out,
‘You nasty old cobbler waxy! waxy, waxy! I’ll go and tell my mother all
about it.’ That’s what we call the aggriwating scene; and next comes
the passionate scene.
“He begins singing one of his songs. He thinks he’s all right now he’s
got rid of the girl.
“Then comes in the old lady, shaking with rage. ‘How dare you to strike
my child in this here kind of a manner! Come out of the stall, or I’ll
pull you out neck and crop!’ Then Jobson is in a funk, and expects
a hiding. ‘Oh, mum! I’m very sorry, but your child said, I skinned
a cat for ninepence, and called me cobbler waxy, waxy, waxy.’ ‘I
won’t believe a word of it, Mr. Jobson.’ ‘Yes, mum, your child’s very
insaulting.’ ‘How dare you strike the chick? You nasty old villain!
I’ll tear the eyes out of you.’
“A fight then commences between them, and the old lady gets the worst
of it. Then they make it up, and they’ll have some gin. ‘I’ll be a
penny to your threepence,’ says the cobbler; and the old lady says,
‘Oh, I can always treat myself.’ Then there’s another fight, for
there’s two fights in it. The old lady gets the worst of it, and runs
into the cottage, and then old Jobson cries, ‘I’d better be off, stall
and all, for fear she should come back with the kitchen poker.’ That
finishes up the scene, don’t you see, for he carries off the stall with
him.
“Cobbler Jobson is up to the door, I think. It’s first rate; it only
wants elaborating. ‘Billy Button’ is a very laughable thing, and
equally up to the door. There’s another piece, called ‘Billy Waters,
the celebrated London Beggar;’ and that’s a great hit. There’s the
‘Bull-baiting.’ That’s all the scenes I know of. I believe I am the
only man that knows the words all through. ‘Kitty biling the pot’ is
one of the most beautifullest scenes in the world. It wants expounding,
you know; for you could open it the whole length of the theatre. I
wanted to take Ramsgate Theatre, and do it there; but they wanted 2_l._
a-night, and that was too much for me. I should have put a sheet up,
and acted it with real figures, as large as life.
“When I was down at Brighton, acting with the Chinese galantee show, I
was forced to drop performing of them. Oh dear! oh dear! don’t mention
it. You’d have thought the town was on fire. You never saw such an
uproar as it made; put the town in such an agitation, that the town
authorities forced me to desist. I filled the whole of North-street,
and the people was pressing upon me so, that I was obliged to run away.
I was lodging at the Clarence Hotel in North-street, at the time. I
ran off down a side-street. The next day the police come up to me and
tell me that I mustn’t exhibit that performance again.
“I shall calculate it at 5_s._ a-night, when I exhibit with the ombres.
We don’t go out every night, for it’s according to the weather; but
when we do, the calculation is 5_s._ every night. Sometimes it is
10_s._, or it may be only 2_s._ 6_d._; but 5_s._ is a fair balance.
Take it all the year round, it would come to 9_s._ a-week, taking the
good weather in the bad. It’s no use to exaggerate, for the shoe is
sure to pinch somewhere if you do.
“We go out two men together, one to play the pipes and speak the
parts, and the other to work the figures. I always do the speaking and
the music, for that’s what is the most particular. When we do a full
performance, such as at juvenile parties, it takes one about one hour
and a quarter. For attending parties we generally gets a pound, and,
perhaps, we may get three or four during the Christmas holiday-time, or
perhaps a dozen, for it’s according to the recommendation from one to
another. If you goes to a gentleman’s house, it’s according to whether
you behave yourself in a superior sort of a manner; but if you have any
vulgarity about you you must exaunt, and there’s no recommendation.
“Tom Paris, the first man that brought out the ombres in the streets,
was a short, stout man, and very old. He kept at it for four or five
years, I believe, and he made a very comfortable living at it, but he
died poor; what became of him I do not know. Jim Macklin I’ve very
little knowledge of. He was a stage performer, but I’m not aware what
he did do. I don’t know when he died, but he’s dead and gone; all the
old school is dead and gone--all the old ancient performers. Paul
Herring is the only one that’s alive now, and he does the clown. He’s a
capital clown for tricks; he works his own tricks: that’s the beauty of
him.
“When we are performing of an evening, the boys and children will annoy
us awful. They follow us so that we are obliged to go miles to get away
from them. They will have the best places; they give each other raps
on the head if they don’t get out of each other’s way. I’m obliged to
get fighting myself, and give it them with the drumsticks. They’ll
throw a stone or two, and then you have to run after them, and swear
you’re going to kill them. There’s the most boys down at Spitalfields,
and St. Luke’s, and at Islington; that’s where there’s the worst boys,
and the most audaciousest. I dare not go into St. Luke’s; they spile
their own amusement by making a noise and disturbance. Quietness is
everything; they haven’t the sense to know that. If they give us any
money it’s very trifling, only, perhaps, a farden or a halfpenny, and
then it’s only one out of a fifty or a hundred. The great business
is to keep them quiet. No; girls ain’t better behaved than boys; they
was much wus. I’d sooner have fifty boys round me than four girls. The
impertinence of them is above bearing. They come carrying babies, and
pushing, and crowding, and tearing one another to pieces. ‘You’re afore
me--I was fust--No you wasn’t--Yes I was’--and that’s the way they go
on. If a big man comes in front I’m obliged to ask him to go backwards,
to let the little children to see. If they’re drunk, perhaps they
won’t, and then there’s a row, and all the children will join in. Oh,
it’s dreadful erksome!
“I was once performing on Islington-green, and some drunken people,
whilst I was collecting my money, knocked over the concern from wanton
mischief. They said to me, ‘We haven’t seen nothing, master.’ I said,
‘I can see you; and haven’t you got a brown?’ Then they begun laughing,
and I turned round, and there was the show in a blaze, and my mate
inside a kicking. I think it was two or three drunken men did it, to
injure a poor man from gaining his livelihood from the sweat of his
brow. That’s eighteen years ago.
“I was up at Islington last week, and I was really obliged to give
over on account of the children. The moment I put it down there was
thousands round me. They was sarcy and impertinent. There was a good
collection of people, too. But on account of the theatrical business we
want quiet, and they’re so noisy there’s no being heard. It’s morals is
everything. It’s shameful how parents lets their children run about the
streets. As soon as they fill their bellies off they are, till they are
hungry again.
“The higher class of society is those who give us the most money. The
working man is good for his penny or halfpenny, but the higher class
supports the exhibition. The swells in Regent-street ain’t very good.
They comes and looks on for a moment, and then go on, or sometimes they
exempt themselves with ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got no pence.’ The best is
the gentlemen; I can tell them in a minute by their appearance.
“When we are out performing, we in generally burn three candles at
once behind the curtain. One is of no utility, for it wants expansion,
don’t you see. I don’t like naphtha or oil-lamps, ’cos we’re confined
there, and it’s very unhealthy. It’s very warm as it is, and you must
have a eye like a hawk to watch it, or it won’t throw the shadows. A
brilliant light and a clean sheet is a great attraction, and it’s the
attraction is everything. In the course of the evening we’ll burn six
penny candles; we generally use the patent one, ’cos it throws a clear
light. We cut them in half. When we use the others I have to keep a
look-out, and tell my mate to snuff the candles when the shadows get
dim. I usually say, ‘Snuff the candles!’ out loud, because that’s a
word for the outside and the inside too, ’cos it let the company know
it isn’t all over, and leads them to expect another scene or two.”