The “professional” from whom I elicited my knowledge of penny-gaff
clowning is known among his companions as “Funny Billy.” He appeared
not a little anxious to uphold the dignity of the penny theatre,
frequently assuring me that “they brought things out there in a style
that would astonish some of the big houses.” His whole being seemed
wrapped up in these cheap dramatic saloons, and he told me wonderful
stories of first-class actors at “The Effingham,” or of astonishing
performers at “The Bower,” or “Rotunda.” He was surprised, too, that
the names of several of the artistes there were not familiar to me,
and frequently pressed me to go and see so-and-so’s “Beadle,” or hear
so-and-so sing his “Oh! don’t I like my Father!”
Besides being a clown, my informant was also “an author,” and several
of the most successful ballets, pantomimes, and dramas, that of late
years have been brought out at the City gaffs, have, I was assured,
proceeded from “his pen.”
In build, even in his every-day clothes, he greatly resembles a
clown--perhaps from the broadness of his chest and high-buttoned
waistcoat, or from the shortness and crookedness of his legs; but he
was the first I had seen whose form gave any indication of his calling.
Since the beginning of this year (1856) he has given up clowning, and
taken to pantalooning instead, for “on last boxing-day,” he informed
me, “he met with an accident which dislocated his jaw, and caused a
swelling in his cheek as if he had an apple inside his mouth.” This he
said he could conceal in his make-up as a pantaloon, but it had ruined
him for clown.