A man who, as he said, “had all his life been engaged in the profession
of Acrobat,” volunteered to give me some details of the life led and
the earnings made by this class of street-performers.
He at the present moment belongs to a “school” of five, who are dressed
up in fanciful and tight-fitting costumes of white calico, with blue
or red trimmings; and who are often seen in the quiet by-streets
going through their gymnastic performances, mounted on each other’s
shoulders, or throwing somersaults in the air.
He was a short, wiry-built man, with a broad chest, which somehow or
another seemed unnatural, for the bones appeared to have been forced
forward and dislocated. His general build did not betoken the great
muscular strength which must be necessary for the various feats which
he has to perform; and his walk was rather slovenly and loutish than
brisk and springy, as one would have expected. He wore the same brown
Chesterfield coat which we have all seen him slip over his professional
dress in the street, when moving off after an exhibition.
His yellow hair reached nearly to his shoulders, and not being confined
by the ribbon he usually wears across his forehead in the public
thoroughfare, it kept straggling into his eyes, and he had to toss it
back with a jerk, after the fashion of a horse with his nose-bag.
He was a simple, “good-natured” fellow, and told his story in a
straightforward manner, which was the more extraordinary, as he
prefaced his statement with a remark, “that all in his ‘school,’ (the
professional term for a gang or troop,) were terribly against his
coming; but that as all he was going to say was nothing but the truth,
he didn’t care a fig for any of ’em.”
It is a singular fact, that this man spoke fluently both the French
and German languages; and, as will be seen in his statement, he has
passed many years of his life abroad, performing in several circuses,
or “pitching” (exhibiting in the streets) in the various large towns of
Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, Switzerland, and France.
The following is the history of his life, from his earliest
remembrance,--from two years old, indeed,--down to his present age,
thirty-six:--
“I am what is known as a street-posturer, or acrobat. I belong to a
school of five, and we go about the streets doing pyramids, bending,
juggling, and la perche.
“I’ve been at acrobating for these thirty-five years, in London and all
parts of England, as well as on the Continent, in France and Germany,
as well as in Denmark and Sweden; but only in the principal towns,
such as Copenhagen and Stockholm; but only a little, for we come back
by sea almost directly. My father was a tumbler, and in his days very
great, and used to be at the theatres and in Richardson’s show. He’s
acted along with Joe Grimaldi. I don’t remember the play it was in,
but I know he’s acted along with him at Sadler’s Wells Theatre, at the
time there was real water there. I have heard him talk about it. He
brought me regular up to the profession, and when I first came out I
wasn’t above two years old, and father used to dance me on my hands in
Risley’s style, but not like Risley. I can just recollect being danced
in his hands, but I can’t remember much about it, only he used to throw
me a somersault with his hand. The first time I ever come out by myself
was in a piece called ‘Snowball,’ when I was introduced in a snowball;
and I had to do the splits and strides. When father first trained me,
it hurt my back awfully. He used to take my legs and stretch them, and
work them round in their sockets, and put them up straight by my side.
That is what they called being ‘cricked,’ and it’s in general done
before you eat anything in the morning. O, yes, I can remember being
cricked, and it hurt me terrible. He put my breast to his breast, and
then pulled my legs up to my head, and knocked ’em against my head and
cheeks about a dozen times. It seems like as if your body was broken in
two, and all your muscles being pulled out like India rubber.
“I worked for my father till I was twelve years of age, then I was
sold for two years to a man of the name of Tagg, another showman,
who took me to France. He had to pay father 5_l._ a-year, and keep
me respectable. I used to do the same business with him as with
father,--splits, and such-like,--and we acted in a piece that was wrote
for us in Paris, called “Les deux Clowns anglais,” which was produced
at the Porte St. Antoine. That must have been about the year 1836. We
were dressed up like two English clowns, with our faces painted and
all; and we were very successful, and had plenty of flowers thrown to
us. There was one Barnet Burns, who was showing in the Boulevards, and
called the New Zealand Chief, who was tattooed all over his body. He
was very kind to me, and made me a good many presents, and some of the
ladies were kind to me. I knew this Barnet Burns pretty well, because
my master was drunk all day pretty well, and he was the only Englishman
I had to speak to, for I didn’t know French.
“I ran away from Tagg in Paris, and I went with the ‘Frères de
Bouchett,’ rope-dancers, two brothers who were so called, and I had
to clown to the rope. I stopped with them three years, and we went
through Belgium and Holland, and done very well with them. They was my
masters, and had a large booth of their own, and would engage paraders
to stand outside the show to draw the people; but they did all the
performances themselves, and it was mostly at the fairs.
“From them I came to England, and began pitching in the street. I
didn’t much like it, after being a regular performer, and looked upon
it as a drop. I travelled right down by myself to Glasgow fair. I kept
company with Wombwell’s show,--only working for myself. You see they
used to stop in the towns, and draw plenty of people, and then I’d
begin pitching to the crowd. I wasn’t lonely because I knew plenty
of the wild-beast chaps, and, besides, I’ve done pretty well, taking
two or three shillings a day, and on a Saturday and Monday generally
five or six. I had a suit of tights, and a pair of twacks, with a few
spangles on, and as soon as the people came round me I began to work.
“At Glasgow I got a pound a day, for I went with Mr. Mumford, who had
some dancing dolls showing at the bottom of the Stone buildings. The
fair is a week. And after that one of our chaps wrote to me that there
was a job for me, if I liked to go over to Ireland and join Mr. Batty,
who had a circus there. They used to build wooden circuses in them
days, and hadn’t tents as now. I stopped a twelvemonth with him, and we
only went to four towns, and the troupe did wonders. Mr. Hughes was the
manager for Mr. Batty. There was Herr Hengler, the great rope-dancer
among the troupe, and his brother Alfred, the great rider, as is dead
now, for a horse kicked him at Bristol, and broke his arm, and he
wouldn’t have it cut off, and it mortified, and he died.
“When I left Ireland I went back to Glasgow, and Mr. David Miller gave
the school I had joined an engagement for three months. We had 6_l._
a-week between four of us, besides a benefit, which brought us 2_l._
each more. Miller had a large penny booth, and had taken about 12_l._
or 14_l._ a-night. There was acting, and our performances. Alexander,
the lessee of the Theatre Royal, prevented him, for having acted, as
he also did Anderson the Wizard of the North, who had the Circus, and
acted as well, and Mumford; but they won the day.
“I left Glasgow with another chap, and we went first to Edinburgh and
then to Hamburgh, and then we played at the Tivoli Gardens. I stopped
abroad for fourteen years, performing at different places through
France and Switzerland, either along with regular companies or else by
ourselves, for there was four on us, in schools. After Hamburgh, we
went to Copenhagen, and then we joined the brother Prices, or, as they
call ’em there, Preece. We only did tumbling and jumping up on each
other’s shoulders, and dancing the pole on our feet, what is called
in French ‘trankr.’ From there we joined the brothers Layman,--both
Russians they was,--who was very clever, and used to do the ‘pierrot;’
the French clown, dressed all in white,--for their clown is not like
our clown,--and they danced the rope and all. The troupe was called
the Russian pantomimists. There we met Herr Hengler again, as well as
Deulan the dancer, who was dancing at the Eagle and at the theatres as
Harlekin; and Anderson, who was one of the first clowns of the day, and
a good comic singer, and an excellent companion, for he could make puns
and make poems on every body in the room. He did, you may recollect,
some few years ago, throw himself out of winder, and killed himself. I
read it in the newspapers, and a mate of mine afterwards told me he was
crazy, and thought he was performing, and said, “Hulloa, old feller!
I’m coming!” and threw himself out, the same as if he’d been on the
stage.
“In Paris and all over Switzerland we performed at the fairs, when
we had no engagements at the regular theatres, or we’d pitch in the
streets, just according. In Paris we was regular stars. There was only
me and R----, and we was engaged for three months with Mr. Le Compte,
at his theatre in the Passage Choiseul. It’s all children that acts
there; and he trains young actors. He’s called the ‘Physician to the
King;’ indeed, he is the king’s conjurer.
“I’m very fond of France; indeed, I first went to school there, when I
was along with Tagg. You see I never had no schooling in London, for
I was so busy that I hadn’t no time for learning. I also married in
France. My wife was a great bender (used to throw herself backwards on
her hands and make the body in a harch). I think she killed herself at
it; indeed, as the doctors telled me, it was nothing else but that. She
would keep on doing it when she was in the family way. I’ve many a time
ordered her to give over, but she wouldn’t; she was so fond of it; for
she took a deal of money. She died in childbed at St. Malo, poor thing!
“In France we take a deal more money than in England. You see they
all give; even a child will give its mite; and another thing, anybody
on a Sunday may take as much money as will keep him all the week, if
they like to work. The most money I ever took in all my life was at
Calais, the first Sunday cavalcade after Lent: that is the Sunday after
Mardi-gras. They go out in a cavalcade, dressed up in carnival costume,
and beg for the poor. There was me, Dick S----, and Jim C---- and his
wife, as danced the Highland fling, and a chap they calls Polka, who
did it when it first came up. We pitched about the streets, and we took
700 francs all in half-pence--that is, 28_l._--on one Sunday: and you
mustn’t work till after twelve o’clock, that is grand mass. There were
liards and centimes, and half-sous, and all kinds of copper money,
but very little silver, for the Frenchmen can’t afford it; but all
copper money change into five-franc pieces, and it’s the same to me.
The other chaps didn’t like the liards, so I bought ’em all up. They’re
like button-heads, and such-like; and they said they wouldn’t have
that bad money, so I got more than my share: for after we had shared
I bought the heap of liards, and gave ten francs for the heap, and I
think it brought me in sixty francs; but then I had to run about to
all the little shops to get five-franc pieces. You see, I was the only
chap that spoke French; so, you see, I’m worth a double share. I always
tell the chaps, when they come to me, that I don’t want nothink but my
share; but then I says, ‘You’re single men, and I’m married, and I must
support my children;’ and so I gets a little out of the hôtel expenses,
for I charges them 1_s._ 3_d._ a-day, and at the second-rate hôtels I
can keep them for a shilling. There’s three or four schools now want
me to take them over to France. They calls me ‘Frenchy,’ because I can
talk French and German fluently--that’s the name I goes by.
“I used to go to all the fêtes in Paris along with my troupe. We have
been four and we have been five in one troupe, but our general number
is four, for we don’t want any more than four; for we can do the three
high and the spread, and that’s the principal thing. Our music is
generally the drum and pipes. We don’t take them over with us, but
gets Italians to do it. Sometimes we gets a German band of five to
come for a share, for you see they can’t take money as we can, for our
performance will cause children to give, and with them they don’t think
about it, not being so partial to music.
“Posturing to this day is called in France ‘Le Dislocation anglais;’
and indeed the English fellows is the best in the world at posturing:
we can lick them all. I think they eat too much bread; for though
meat’s so cheap in the south of France (2_d._ a-lb.), yet they don’t
eat it. They don’t eat much potatoes either; and in the south they
gives them to the pigs, which used to make me grumble, I’m so fond of
them. Chickens, too, is 7_d._ the pair, and you may drink wine at 1_d._
the horn.
“At St. Cloud fête we were called ‘Les Quatre Frères anglais,’ and we
used to pitch near the Cascade, which was a good place for us. We have
shared our 30_s._ each a-day then easy; and a great deal of English
money we got then, for the English is more generous out of England.
There was the fête St. Germain, and St. Denis, and at Versailles, too;
and we’ve done pretty well at each, as well as at the Champs Elysées
on the 1st of May, as used to be the fête Louis-Philippe. On that fête
we were paid by the king, and we had fifty francs a man, and plenty to
eat and drink on that day; and every poor man in Paris has two pound of
sausages and two pounds of bread, and two bottles of wine. But we were
different from that, you know. We had a _déjeûné_, with fish, flesh,
and fowl, and a dinner fit for a king, both brought to us in the Champs
Elysées, and as much as ever we liked to drink all day long--the best
of wine. We had to perform every alternate half-hour.
“I was in Paris when Mr. Macready come to Paris. I was engaged with my
troupe at the Porte St. Martin, where we was called the Bedouin Arabs,
and had to brown our faces. I went to see him, for I knew one of the
actors. He was very good, and a beautiful house there was--splendid.
All my other partners they paid. The price was half-a-guinea to the
lowest place. The French people said he was very good, but he was
mostly supported by the English that was there. An engagement at the
Porte St. Martin was 1000 francs a-week for five of us; but of course
we had to leave the streets alone during the four weeks we was at the
theatre.
“I was in Paris, too, at the revolution in 1848, when Louis-Philippe
had to run off. I was in bed, about two o’clock in the morning, when
those that began the revolution was coming round--men armed; and they
come into everybody’s bed-room and said, ‘You must get up, you’re
wanted.’ I told them I was English; and they said, ‘It don’t matter;
you get your living here, and you must fight the same as we fight for
our liberty.’ They took us--four English as was in the same gang as I
was with--to the Barrière du Trône, and made us pick up paving-stones.
I had to carry them; and we formed four barricades right up to the
Faubourg St. Antoine, close to the Bastille. We had sometimes a bit
of bread and a glass of wine, or brandy, and we was four nights and
three days working. There was a great deal of chaff going on, and they
called me ‘le petit Supplier’ posturer, you know--but they was of all
countries. We was put in the back-ground, and didn’t fire much, for
we was ordered not to fire unless attacked; and we had only to keep
ground, and if anything come, to give warning; but we had to supply
them with powder and ammunition of one sort and another. There was one
woman--a very clever woman--from Normandy, who used to bring us brandy
round. She died on the barricade; and there’s a song about her now. I
was present when part of the throne was burned. After that I went for
a tour in Lorraine; and then I was confined in Tours for thirty-four
days, for the Republicans passed a bill that all foreigners were to be
sent home to their own countries; and, indeed, several manufactories
where English worked had to stop, for the workmen was sent home.
[Illustration: STREET ACROBATS PERFORMING.]
“I came back to England in 1852, and I’ve been pitching in the streets
ever since. I’ve changed gangs two or three times since then; but
there’s five in our gang now. There’s three high for ‘pyramids,’ and
‘the Arabs hang down;’ that is, one a-top of his shoulders, and
one hanging down from his neck; and ‘the spread,’ that’s one on the
shoulders, and one hanging from each hand; and ‘the Hercules,’ that is,
one on the ground, supporting himself on his hands and feet; whilst one
stands on his knees, another on his shoulders, and the other one a-top
of them two, on their shoulders. There’s loads of tricks like them that
we do, that would a’most fill up your paper to put down. There’s one
of our gang dances, an Englishman, whilst the fifth plays the drum and
pipes. The dances are mostly comic dances; or, as we call them, ‘comic
hops.’ He throws his legs about and makes faces, and he dresses as a
clown.
“When it’s not too windy, we do the perch. We carry a long fir pole
about with us, twenty-four feet long, and Jim the strong man, as they
calls me, that is I, holds the pole up at the bottom. The one that
runs up is called the sprite. It’s the bottom man that holds the pole
that has the dangerous work in la perche. He’s got all to look to.
Anybody, who has got any courage, can run up the pole; but I have to
guide and balance it; and the pole weighs some 20 lbs., and the man
about 8 stone. When it’s windy, it’s very awkward, and I have to walk
about to keep him steady and balance him; but I’m never frightened, I
know it so well. The man who runs up it does such feats as these; for
instance, ‘the bottle position,’ that is only holding by his feet, with
his two arms extended; and then ‘the hanging down by one toe,’ with
only one foot on the top of the pole, and hanging down with his arms
out, swimming on the top on his belly; and ‘the horizontal,’ as it is
called, or supporting the body out sideways by the strength of the
arms, and such-like, winding up with coming down head fust.
“The pole is fixed very tightly in a socket in my waistband, and it
takes two men to pull it out, for it gets jammed in with his force on
a-top of it. The danger is more with the bottom one than the one a-top,
though few people would think so. You see, if he falls off, he is sure
to light on his feet like a cat; for we’re taught to this trick; and
a man can jump off a place thirty feet high, without hurting himself,
easy. Now if the people was to go frontwards, it would be all up with
me, because with the leverage and its being fixed so tight to my
stomach, there’s no help for it, for it would be sure to rip me up and
tear out my entrails. I have to keep my eyes about me, for if it goes
too fur, I could never regain the balance again. But it’s easy enough
when you’re accustomed to it.
“The one that goes up the pole can always see into the drawing-rooms,
and he’ll tell us where it’s good to go and get any money, for he can
see the people peeping behind the curtains; and they generally give
when they find they are discovered. It’s part of his work to glance
his eyes about him, and then he calls out whilst he is up, ‘to the
right,’ or ‘the left,’ as it may be; and although the crowd don’t
understand him, we do.
“Our gang generally prefer performing in the West-end, because there’s
more ‘calls’ there. Gentlemen looking out of window see us, and call
to us to stop and perform; but we don’t trust to them, even, but make
a collection when the performance is half over; and if it’s good we
continue, and make two or three collections during the exhibition.
What we consider a good collection is 7_s._ or 8_s._; and for that we
do the whole performance. And besides, we get what we call ‘ringings’
afterwards; that’s halfpence that are thrown into the ring. Sometimes
we get 10_s._ altogether, and sometimes more and sometimes less; though
it’s a very poor pitch if it’s not up to 5_s._ I’m talking of a big
pitch, when we go through all our ‘slang,’ as we say. But then we
have our little pitches, which don’t last more than a quarter of an
hour--our flying pitches, as we call them, and for them 5_s._ is an
out-and-outer, and we are well contented if we get half-a-crown. We
usually reckon about twenty pitches a-day, that’s eight before dinner
and twelve after. It depends greatly upon the holidays as to what
we makes in the days. If there’s any fairs or feasts going on we do
better. There’s two days in the week we reckon nothing, that’s Friday
and Saturday. Friday’s little good all day long, and Saturday’s only
good after six o’clock, when wages have been paid. My share may on the
average come to this:--Monday, about 7_s._ or 8_s._, and the same for
Tuesday. Then Wednesday and Thursday it falls off again, perhaps 3_s._
or 4_s._; and Friday ain’t worth much; no more is Saturday. We used to
go to Sydenham on Saturdays, and we would find the gents there; but now
it’s getting too late, and the price to the Palace is only 2_s._ 6_d._,
when it used to be 5_s._, and that makes a wonderful difference to us.
And yet we like the poor people better than the rich, for it’s the
half-pence that tells up best. Perhaps we might take a half-sovereign,
but it’s very rare, and since 1853 I don’t remember taking more than
twenty of them. There was a Princess--I’m sure I’ve forgotten her name,
but she was German, and she used to live in Grosvenor-square--she used
to give us half-a-sovereign every Monday during three months she was
in London. The servants was ordered to tell us to come every Monday
at three o’clock, and we always did; and even though there was nobody
looking, we used to play all the same; and as soon as the drum ceased
playing, there was the money brought out to us. We continued playing
to her till we was told she had gone away. We have also had sovereign
calls. When my gang was in the Isle of Wight, Lord Y---- has often give
us a sovereign, and plenty to eat and drink as well.
“I can’t say but what it’s as good as a hundred a-year to me; but I
can’t say, it’s the same with all posturers: for you see I can talk
French, and if there’s any foreigners in the crowd I can talk to them,
and they are sure to give something. But most posturers make a good
living, and if they look out for it, there are few but make 30_s._
a-week.
“Posturing as it is called (some people call it contortionists, that’s
a new name; a Chinese nondescript--that’s the first name it came out
as, although what we calls posturing is a man as can sit upon nothing;
as, for instance, when he’s on the back of two chairs and does a split
with his legs stretched out and sitting on nothing like)--posturing
is reckoned the healthiest life there is, because we never get the
rheumatics; and another thing, we always eat hearty. We often put on
wet dresses, such as at a fair, when they’ve been washed out clean,
and we put them on before they’re dry, and that’s what gives the
rheumatism; but we are always in such a perspiration that it never
affects us. It’s very violent exercise, and at night we feels it in
our thighs more than anywhere, so that if it’s damp or cold weather it
hurts us to sit down. If it’s wet weather, or showery, we usually get
up stiff in the morning, and then we have to ‘crick’ each other before
we go out, and practise in our bed-rooms. On the Sunday we also go out
and practise, either in a field, or at the ‘Tan’ in Bermondsey. We used
to go to the ‘Hops’ in Maiden-lane, but that’s done away with now.
“When we go out performing, we always take our dresses out with us,
and we have our regular houses appointed, according to what part of
the town we play in, if in London; and we have one pint of beer a man,
and put on our costume, and leave our clothes behind us. Every morning
we put on a clean dress, so we are obliged to have two of them, and
whilst we are wearing one the other is being washed. Some of our men
is married, and their wives wash for them, but them as isn’t give the
dress to anybody who wants a job.
“Accidents are very rare with posturers. We often put our hip-bone out,
but that’s soon put right again, and we are at work in a week. All our
bones are loose like, and we can pull one another in, without having no
pullies. One of my gang broke his leg at Chatham race-course, through
the grass being slippery, and he was pitched down from three high; but
we paid him his share, just the same as if he was out with us;--it
wouldn’t do if we didn’t, as a person wouldn’t mount in bad weather.
That man is getting on nicely,--he walks with a crutch though,--but
he’ll be right in another month, and then he’ll only be put to light
work till he’s strong. He ought not to be walking out yet, but he’s so
daring there’s no restraining him. I, too, once broke my arm. I am a
hand-jumper; that is, I a’most always light on my hands when I jump. I
was on a chair on a top of a table, and I had to get into the chair
and do what we call the frog, and jump off it, coming down on my hands.
Everything depends upon how you hold your arms, and I was careless,
and didn’t pay attention, and my arm snapped just below the elbow. I
couldn’t work for three months. I was at Beauvais, in France, at the
time, but the circus I was with supported me.
“My father’s very near seventy-six, and he has been a tumbler for fifty
years; my children are staying with him, and he’s angry that I won’t
bring them up to it: but I want them to be some trade or another,
because I don’t like the life for them. There’s so much suffering
before they begin tumbling, and then there’s great temptation to drink,
and such-like. I’d sooner send them to school, than let them get their
living out of the streets. I’ve one boy and two girls. They’re always
at it at home, indeed; father and my sister-in-law say they can’t keep
them from it. The boy’s very nimble.
“In the winter time we generally goes to the theatres. We are a’most
always engaged for the pantomimes, to do the sprites. We always
reckon it a good thirteen-weeks’ job, but in the country it’s only
a month. If we don’t apply for the job they come after us. The
sprites in a pantomime is quite a new style, and we are the only
chaps that can do it,--the posturers and tumblers. In some theatres
they find the dresses. Last winter I was at Liverpool, and wore a
green dress, spangled all over, which belonged to Mr. Copeland, the
manager. We never speak in the play, but just merely rush on, and
throw somersaults, and frogs, and such-like, and then rush off again.
Little Wheeler, the greatest tumbler of the day, was a posturer in the
streets, and now he’s in France doing his 10_l._ a-week, engaged for
three years.”