“I’m a clown at penny gaffs and the cheap theatres, for some of the
gaffs are twopence and threepence--that’s as high as they run. The
Rotunda in the Blackfriars’-road is the largest in London, and that
will hold one thousand comfortably seated, and they give two in one
evening, at one penny, twopence, and threepence, and a first-class
entertainment it is, consisting of a variety of singing and dancing,
and ballets, from one hour and a-half to two hours. There are no penny
theatres where speaking is legally allowed, though they do do it to a
great extent, and at all of ’em at Christmas a pantomime is played, at
which Clown and Pantaloon speaks.
“The difference between a penny-gaff clown and a fair, or, as we call
it, a canvas clown, is this,--at the fairs the principal business is
outside on the parade, and there’s very little done (seldom more than
two scenes) inside. Now at the penny gaffs they go through a regular
pantomime, consisting of from six to eight scenes, with jumps and all
complete, as at a regular theatre; so that to do clown to one of them,
you must be equal to those that come out at the regular theatres; and
what’s more, you must strain every nerve; and what’s more still, you
may often please at a regular theatre when you won’t go down at all at
a penny gaff. The circus clown is as different from a penny-gaff clown
as a coster is from a tradesman.
“What made me turn clown was this. I was singing comic songs at the
Albion Saloon, Whitechapel, and playing in ballets, and doing the
scene-painting. Business was none of the best. Mr. Paul Herring, the
celebrated clown, was introduced into the company as a draw, to play
ballets. The ballet which he selected was ‘The Barber and Beadle;’ and
me being the only one who played the old men on the establishment,
he selected me to play the Beadle to his Barber. He complimented me
for what I had done, when the performance was over, for I done my
uttermost to gain his applause, knowing him to be such a star, and
what he said was--I think--deserved. We played together ballets for
upwards of nine months, as well as pantomimes, in which I done the
Pantaloon; and we had two clear benefits between us, in which we
realised three pounds each, on both occasions. Then Mr. Paul Herring
was engaged by Mr. Jem Douglass, of the Standard, to perform with the
great clown, Mr. Tom Matthews, for it was intended to have two clowns
in the piece. He having to go to the Standard for the Christmas, left
about September, and we was without a clown, and it was proposed that I
should play the clown. I accepted the offer, at a salary of thirty-five
shillings a-week, under Hector Simpson, the great pantomimist--who was
proprietor. This gentleman was well known as the great dog-and-bear man
of Covent Garden, and various other theatres, where he played Valentine
and Orson with a living bear. He showed me various things that I were
deficient in, and with what I knew myself we went on admiringly well;
and I continued at it as clown for upwards of a year, and became a
great favourite.
“I remember clowning last Christmas (1856) particularly, for it was
a sad year for me, and one of the busiest times I have ever known.
I met with my accident then. I was worked to death. First of all, I
had to do my rehearsals; then I had the scene-painting to go on with,
which occupied me night and day, and what it brought me in was three
shillings a-day and three shillings a-night. The last scene, equal
to a pair of flats, was only given to me to do on Christmas-eve, to
accomplish by the boxing-day. I got them done by five o’clock at
Christmas morning, and then I had to go home and complete my dress,
likewise my little boy’s, who was engaged to sing and play in ballets
at two shillings a-night; and he was only five years old, but very
clever at singing, combating, and ballet performing, as also the
illustrations of the Grecian statues, which he first done when he was
two and a half years old.
“The pantomime was the original Statue Blanche, as performed by Joe
Grimaldi, as Mr. Hector Simpson had produced it--for it was under his
superintendence--at Covent Garden Theatre. It’s title was, ‘The Statue
Blanche, or Harlequin and the Magic Cross.’ I was very successful on
the boxing-night, but on the second occasion of my acting in it I
received an accident, which laid me up for three months, and I was not
off my bed for ten weeks.
“I had, previous to this, played clown very often, especially on the
Saturday evenings, for the Jews, for I was a great favourite with them;
so far, that I knew they would go far and near to serve me. I had
performed in ‘Harlequin Blue Beard,’ and ‘Harlequin Merry Milliners, or
The Two Pair of Lovers,’ and several others, from eight to ten of them;
but that was during the summer season. But I had never had a chance of
coming out at Christmas before, and to me it was quite an event, and
there’s no doubt I should have prospered in it only for my accident.
“This accident was occasioned by this. During the comic scene--the
scene of the stripping of the child--they allowed an inexperienced
person to play the part of the Beadle, and the doll for the child was
stuffed with oak sawdust, and weighed twenty-six pounds. He took it
up by the leg and struck me a blow in the face, which dislocated the
jaw-bone, and splintered it all to pieces. I went through the pantomime
with the remnants of the broken jaw still in my face, having then
four hours to perform, for we played sixteen houses that boxing-day,
to upwards of from three to four thousand people, and we began at
half-past eleven in the day, and terminated at twelve at night. I had
met with great approbation the whole of the time, and it was a sad
event for me. It was quite accidental was my accident, and of course I
bore the man no malice for one, but more blamed the manager for letting
him come on.
“When I had done that night, after my blow, I felt very fatigued, and
my face was very sore. I was completely jaw-locked, and I imagined I
had caught a cold. It hurt me awfully every time I closed my teeth,
but I drowned my feelings in a little brandy, and so forth; and the
next night I resumed my clowning. After I had done that evening, I
found I was so very bad I could hardly move; and going home with my
wife and children, I was obliged to sit down every other yard I took,
which occupied me very near two hours to do the mile and a quarter.
I went to bed, and never got up again for ten weeks, for it brought
on fever again. Ah! what I have suffered, God, and God only, knows!
When the doctor came, he said I were under a very severe fever, and he
thought I had caught a cold, and that I had the erysiphilas, my face
being so swollen that it hung on my shoulders as they propped me up
with pillows. He knew nothing about it. He made ’em bathe my face with
poppy-heads, and wash my mouth out with honey, which drove me out of
my mind, for I was a fortnight deranged. My wife told me, that whilst
I was mad I had behaved very ill to her--poor thing!--for I wouldn’t
let anybody come near me but her; and when she’d come I’d seize her
by the hair, and fancy she was the man who had broke my jaw; and once
I near strangled her. I was mad, you know. Ah! what I suffered then,
nobody knows. Through that accident my wife and children has had many a
time to go without victuals. Everything was sold then to keep me from
the workhouse--even my poor little children’s frocks. My poor wife
saved my life, if anybody did, for three doctors gave me up. I don’t
believe they knew what I had. The teeth was loose, but the mouth was
closed, and I couldn’t open it. They thought I had an abscess there,
and they cut me three or four times in the neck to open the gathering.
At last they found out the jaw-bone was smashed. When I got better,
the doctor told me he could do nothing for me, but give me a letter to
Dr. Fergusson, at the King’s College Hospital. I went to him, and he
examined and probed the jaw through the incision under the gland of the
neck, and then he said he must take the jaw out. I said I would consult
my friends and hear what they said first; and with the idea of such an
operation, and being so weak, I actually fainted down in the passage as
I was leaving.
“Ah! fancy my distress to make such a hit, and everybody to compliment
me as they did, and to see a prospect of almost coining money, and then
suddenly to be thrown over, and be told it was either life or death for
me!
“I wouldn’t undergo the operation. So I went home, and here comes
fortitude. I pulled out the teeth with a pair of cobbler’s pincers, and
cut open my face with a penknife to take out the bits of bone. If I
hadn’t been a prudent, sober man, I should have died through it.
“There was a friend of mine who was like a brother to me, and he stuck
to me every inch. There was lots of professionals I had supported in
their illness, and they never come near me; only my dear friend, and
but for him I should have died, for he saved up his money to get me
port wine and such things.
“Many a time I’ve gone out when I was better to sing comic songs at
concerts, when I could feel the bits of bone jangling in my mouth. But,
sir, I had a wife and family, and they wanted food. As it was, my poor
wife had to go to the workhouse to be confined. At one time I started
off to do away with myself. I parted with my wife and children, and
went to say good-by to my good friend, and it was he who saved my life.
If it hadn’t been for him it would have been a gooser with me, for I
was prepared to finish all. He walked about with me and reasoned me
out of it, and says he, ‘What on earth will become of the wife and the
children?’
“I’m sufficiently well now to enable me to resume my old occupation,
not as Clown but as Pantaloon.
“Altogether--taking it all in all--I was three years as clown, and very
successful and a great favourite with the Jews. My standing salary
for comic singing and clown was eighteen shillings a-week; but then
at Christmas it was always rose to thirty shillings or thirty-five
shillings. Then I did the writing and painting, such as the placards
for the outside; such as, ‘This saloon is open this evening,’ and
such-like; and that, on the average, would bring me in eight shillings
a-week.
“There was seven men and three females in my company when we played
‘Harlequin Blue Beard,’ for that’s the one I shall describe to you, and
that we played for a considerable time. I was manager at the time, and
I always was liked by the company, for I never fined them or anything
like that; for, you see, I knew that to take sixpence from a poor man
was to take a loaf of bread from the children.
“This pantomime was of my own writing, and I managed the chorus and
the dances, and all. I painted the scenery, too, and moulded the
masks--about six altogether--and then afterwards played clown. All this
was included in my salary of eighteen shillings a-week, and that was
the top price of the company.
“The first scene was with a cottage on the left hand and with the
surrounding country in the back; three rows of waters, with the distant
view of Blue Beard’s castle. Enters the lover (he’s the Harlequin) in a
disguise dressed as a Turk; he explains in the pantomime that he should
like to make the lady in the cottage his bride (which is Fatima, and
afterwards Columbine). He goes to the cottage and knocks three times,
when she appears at the window. She comes out and dances with him. At
the end of the dance the old man comes in, to the tune of ‘Roast Beef
of Old England.’ He wears a big mask, and is the father to Fatima, and
afterwards Pantaloon. He drives lover off stage, and is about to take
Fatima back to cottage, when castle gates at back opens and discovers
Blue Beard in gondola, which crosses the stage in the waters. Blue
Beard wears a mask and a tremendous long sword, which takes two men to
pull out. He’s afterwards Clown, and I played the part.
“Several other gondolas cross stage, and when the last goes off the
chorus begins in the distance, and increases as it approaches, and is
thus:
‘In fire or in water, in earth or in air:
Wake up, old Blue Beard, these good things to share:
Wake up! wake up! wake up old Blue Beard, these good things to share.’
“Then comes Blue Beard’s march, and enter troops, followed by
Shackaback in a hurry. He’s Blue Beard’s servant. He bears on his
shoulder an immense key, which he places in the middle of stage. He
then comes to the front with a scroll, which he exhibits, on which is
written:
‘Blue Beard comes this very day,
A debt of gratitude to pay:
Aye, you needn’t trouble, it is all right,
He intends to wed Fatima this very night.’
At which they all become alarmed, and in an immense hurry of music
enters Blue Beard majestically. He sings, to the tune of ‘The Low-back
Car:’
‘When first I saw that lady,
As you may plainly see,
I thought she was the handsomest girl
As ever there could be;
Such a cheerful chubby girl was she,
With such a pair of eyes,
With such a mouth, and such a nose,
That she did me so surprise:
Which made me cry out,
Ha! Ha!’
“The lover from the side says:
‘You’re no credit to your dada.’
“Then Blue Beard looks round fiercely, and his mask is made with eyes
to work with strings:
‘But I shall him surprise
When I opens my eyes,’
(and he opens a tremendous pair of saucer eyes),
‘That talks of my dear dada.’
Then the music goes ‘Ha! ha!’ As he draws his sword into the army of
four men, Shackaback gets it on the nose.
“Then Blue Beard goes direct to the old man and embraces him, and
shows him a big purse of money. He then goes to the young lady, but
she refuses him, and says she would sooner wed the young trooper. The
old man gets in a rage, when enters Demon unseen by all; he waves over
their heads; they then catch hold of hands and dance round the key
again, to the tune of ‘The Roast Beef of Old England.’ Then begins a
chorus which is thus, to the tune of ‘Stoney Batter:’
‘Round this magic key
Gaily let us trudge it;
Hoping something new
Will be brought to our Christmas budget.
But a song about a key,
Is but a doleful matter,
So we’ll sing one of our own,
And we’ll call it Stoney Batter.
Ri too loo ral loo.’
(Fairies from the side:)
‘Ri too loo ral rido.’
(Others:)
‘Ri too loo ral roo, loo ral lido.’
“After dancing round key, Blue Beard orders two of the troops to seize
the girl and carry her to the castle. Then they catch hands and begin
singing, to the time of ‘Fine Young Bachelors:’
‘Here’s a jolly lot of us,
Fine Turkish gentlemen;
With plenty of money in our purse,
Fine Turkish gentlemen,’ &c. &c.
“And the scene closes on this. Then the lover just crosses, so as
to give time to arrange the back scene. He vows vengeance on Blue
Beard. Then scene opens, and discovers a chamber with Fatima on couch,
and Demon behind with a large heart, on the scene over which is in
illuminated letters:
‘Whosoe’er this dagger takes,
The magic spells of Blue Beard breaks.’
The large key is placed at the foot of the couch on which she is
laying. We don’t introduce the haunted chamber scenes, as it would have
been too lengthened; but it was supposed that she had been there and
examined it, and terror had overcome her and she had swooned. That’s
when the audience sees her. We couldn’t do all the story at a penny
gaff, it was too long. To return to the plot.
“Enter Fairy, who dances round the stage, and sees the heart. She goes
and snatches the dagger; then a loud crash, and the key falls to pieces
on the stage.
“I had five shillings given me as a present for that scene, for I had
painted the scene all arches, and round every pillar was a serpent
with fire coming from the mouth. I produced that pantomime, so that
altogether it did not cost thirty shillings, because each man found his
own dress, don’t you see.
“After the crash enters Blue Beard. He says the lady has broken the
key, and he is about to kill her; when enter lover, and he has a
terrific combat, in which they never hit a blow (like a phantom-fight);
but the lover is about to be struck to the ground, when enters Fairy,
who speaks these words:
‘Hold! turn and turn is the Yorkshire way.
You think ours. Now your dog shall have its day.
Behold!’
“Then the scene falls, and discovers a fairy palace at back, with
fairies, who sing:
‘Come, listen, gentle lover,
Come, listen unto me;
Be guided by our fairy queen,
Who gained your liberty.’
“They all look dismayed at one another, and go to the sides ready for
changing their dresses for the comic work.
“The Fairy Queen then says:
‘You, the true lover, I think knows no sin,
Therefore grace our pantomime as Harlequin.’
“And turning to the lady she adds:
‘Nay, young lady, do not pine,
But attend him as his faithful Columbine.’
“Turning to Blue Beard:
‘You, Blue Beard, a man of great renown,
Shall grace our pantomime as Christmas Clown.’
“Then Clown comes forward, and cries: ‘Halla! ha, ha, ha! here we are!
Shobbus is out;’ (that’s the Jewish Sunday); and, oh dear! how they
used to laugh at that!
“Then she turns to the old man:
‘You, old man, you’ve been a silly loon,
Attend him as slippery fidgetty Pantaloon!’
“Then as she’s going off she says:
‘Ah! I’d almost forgotten;
Never mind, it is all right;
Demon of the magic key,
Attend as Sprite.’
“Then the fairies sing:
‘We fairies dance, we fairies sing,
Whilst the silver moon is beaming;
We fairies dance, we fairies sing,
To please our Fairy Queen.’
“Then there is blue fire, and the scene closes, and the comic business
begins.
“Clown dances first with Harlequin, and at the end of trip hollars out:
‘Ha, here we are!’ Then he sings out, each time Harlequin beats him,
‘A, E, I,’ (Pantaloon drops in and gets a blow, O!); and Clown says,
‘Tuppence! all right, you owe me nothing; I shan’t give you no change.’
“Then there’s a photography scene, and Clown comes on and says, ‘Here,
I say, what shall we do for a living?’ Then Pantaloon says, ‘We’ll
become dancing-masters.’ The Clown says, ‘They’ll take likenesses.’
“‘Ah, here’s somebody coming!’
“Enter a swell with white ducks, and a blacking-boy follows, says,
‘Clean your boots, sir?’ Clown asks him to clean his. As the boy is
beginning, Harlequin bangs him, and he knocks the boy over. Next bang
he gets he hits Pantaloon, and says he did it. Pantaloon says, ‘I
never touched you;’ and Clown replies, ‘Then don’t do it again.’ Then
I’d give ’em a rub up on the smoking mania. I’d say to boy, ‘Here,
boy, take this farden to get yourself a pipe of tobacco, little boys
is fond of smoking;’ and Pantaloon would add, ‘Yes, men’s left off.’
Boy goes off to buy the tobacco, and leaves his blacking-box, which
Clown promises to take care of and clean the boots. He hollows out,
‘Clean your boots?’ and Pantaloon puts his foot down, and gets his
toes rapped. Enter a lady, who asks where she can have her portrait
taken,--Yes, marm; over there,--Clown steals parcel. When lady is
gone, Clown discovers parcel to contain blank cards. This is what
he takes the portraits on, and it was at a time when they was all
the rage at a shilling. Clown then says, he’s taking portraits, and
makes a camera out of the blacking-box. He cuts a hole in the box,
and sticks the blacking-bottle for a lens. Then he places the box on
Pantaloon’s back for a stand. Then, of course, Clown knocks him over,
and he asks what that’s for. ‘Why, if you’re a stand, what do you fall
for? I never see such a stand.’ Then ladies and gentlemen come in to
have their portraits taken, and Clown smears the cards with blacking
and gives it, and asks a shilling; when they grumble and won’t pay, he
rubs the blacking in their faces. General row, and the scene changes
to a street-scene. There’s another trip by Harlequin and Columbine,
and enters Clown in a hurry with six fish, and he meets Pantaloon.
‘Look’ee here, what I’ve found!’ ‘Oh, fair halves!’ ‘All right! sit
down, and you shall have them.’ Pantaloon declines, and Clown knocks
him down, and they begin sharing fish. ‘There’s one for you and one for
me, another for you and another for me, another for you and another
for me.’ ‘How many have you got?’ asks Clown, and Pantaloon says,
‘One--two--three.’ Clown says, ‘No! you’ve got more than three.’ Then,
taking one up, he asks, ‘How many is that?’--‘One.’ Taking another up,
‘How many’s that?’ Pantaloon exclaims, ‘Two!’ Clown says, ‘Then two
and one is three,’ and takes up another, and asks how many that is.
Pantaloon exclaims, ‘Three!’ Clown says, ‘Then three and three makes
six.’ Clown then counts his own, and says, ‘I’ve only got three; you
must give me these three to make me six. That’s fair halves. Ain’t you
satisfied?’ ‘No!’ ‘Then take that,’ and he knocks him over with a fish.
“The next scene is a public-house--‘The Freemasons’ Arms, a select
club held here.’ After trip by Harlequin and Columbine, enters Clown
and Pantaloon. ‘Look’ee here! it’s a public-house! let’s have half a
pint of half-and-half.’ Clown hollows, ‘Now ramrod!’ meaning landlord,
and he comes on. ‘Why don’t you attend to gentlemen?’ ‘What’s your
pleasure, sir?’ ‘Half a pint of half-and-half for me and my friend.’
He brings a tumbler, which Harlequin breaks, and it comes in half.
‘Hallo!’ cries Clown; ‘this is rum half-and-half! Here’s half for you
and half for me.’
“Then they say, ‘I say, here’s somebody coming.’ Enter two Freemasons,
who give each other the sign by shaking both hands, bumping up against
each other, whispering in each other’s ear, and going into the
public-house. Clown then calls the landlord, and says he belongs to the
club. Landlord asks him for the sign. Clown says he’s got it over the
door. He then takes Pantaloon and shakes his hands, and bumps him, and
asks if that is the sign. The landlord says ‘No.’ ‘Is that it?’ ‘No,
this is,’ and he gives Clown a spank; and he passes it to Pantaloon,
and knocks him down. ‘That’s the sign; now we’ve got it between us.’
‘Yes, and I’ve got the best half.’
“Clown says, ‘Never mind, we will get in;’ and he goes to the door and
knocks, when the club descends and strikes them on the head. Clown then
tells Pantaloon to go and knock, and he’ll watch and see where it comes
from. The club comes down again, and knocks Pantaloon on the head; but
Clown sees from whence it comes and pulls a man in fleshings out of the
window. Clown and Pantaloon pursues him round stage, and he knocks them
both over, and jumps through a trap in the window with a bottle on it,
marked ‘Old Tom,’ and a scroll falls down, written ‘Gone to blazes.’
Pantaloon follows, and flap falls, on which is written, ‘To be left
till called for.’ Clown is about to follow, when gun fires and scroll
falls with ‘Dead letter’ on it. Pantaloon is bundled out by landlord
and others; general row; policemen springing rattles, fireworks, &c.
“There are from four to five comic scenes like this. But it would take
too long to describe them. Besides, we don’t do the same scenes every
evening, but vary them each night.
“Then comes the catch, or the dark scene, in which Clown, Pantaloon,
Harlequin, and Columbine are in the dark, and seize one another.
‘Hold! you’ve done your best with all your might,
And we’ll give our friends a charge another night.’
“You see the poetry is always beautifully adapted to ourselves. They’ve
very clever fairies.
“We in generally finale with that there:
‘We fairies dance, we fairies sing,
Whilst the silver moon is beaming;
We fairies dance, we fairies sing,
And we have pleased our Fairy Queen.’
“Then the bell rings, and the man who keeps order cries out, ‘Pass out!
pass out!’
“The performance generally takes from one hour and a half to an hour
and three-quarters, and we do three of ’em a night. It makes the
perspiration run off you, and every house I have a wet shirt. The only
rest I have is with my boy singing ‘Hot codlins.’ When they call for
the song I say, ‘Yes, yes; all right; you shall have them; only there’s
a chip of mine will sing it for me,’ and I introduce my little boy--of
four then--to sing.
“The general pay for Clowns at penny exhibitions is averaging
from twenty to twenty-five shillings a-week. You can say without
exaggeration, that there are twenty of these penny exhibitions in
London. They always produce a new pantomime at Christmas; and all the
year round, in summer as well as winter, they bring ’em out, when
business is shy, for a draw, which they always find them answer.
“A Clown that can please at a penny gaff, is capable of giving
satisfaction at any theatre, for the audience is a very difficult one
to entertain. They have no delicacy in ’em, and will hiss in a moment
if anything displeases them.
“A pantomime at a penny exhibition will run at Christmas three weeks
or a month, if very successful; and during that time it’s played to
upwards of twelve hundred persons a-night, according to the size of the
house, for few penny ones hold more than four hundred, and that’s three
times a-night. The Rotunda in the Blackfriars’-road, and the Olympic
Circus in the Lower Marsh, Lambeth, do an immense business, for they
hold near a thousand each, and that’s three thousand spectators the
night.
“When the pantomime is on we only do a little comic singing before it
begins playing.”