A man who had passed many years of his life as jester at the cheap
circuses, or penny equestrian shows frequenting the fairs in the
neighbourhood of London, obliged me with the following details:--
“There are only two kinds of clowns, the stage and the circus clown,
only there is different denominations: for instance, the clown at the
fair and the clown at the regular theatre, as well as the penny gaff
(when they give pantomimes there), are one and the same kind of clown,
only better or worse, according to the pay and kind of performance;
but it’s the same sort of business. Now the circus clown is of the
same kind as those that go about with schools of acrobats and negro
serenaders. He is expected to be witty and say clever things, and
invent anything he can for the evening’s performance; but the theatre
clown is expected to do nothing but what enters into the business of
the piece. Them two are the main distinctions we make in the perfession.
“I’ve travelled along with only two circuses; but then it’s the time
you stop with them, for I was eighteen months along with a man of the
name of Johnson, who performed at the Albion, Whitechapel, and in
Museum-street, opposite Drury-lane (he had a penny exhibition then),
and for above two years and a half along with Veale, who had a circus
at the Birdcage, Hackney-road, and at Walworth.
“At Museum-street we only had one ‘prad,’ which is slang for pony,
although we used to introduce all the circus business. We had jugglers,
and globe-runners, and tight-rope dancers also. We never had no ring
built, but only sawdust on the stage, and all the wings taken out. They
used to begin with a chant and a hop (singing and dancing), after which
there was tight-rope hopping. As soon as ever the rope was drawn up,
Johnson, who had a whip in his hand, the same as if it was a regular
circus, used to say, ‘Now, Mr. Merryman.’ Then I’d run on and answer,
‘Here I am, sir, all of a lump, as the old man said what found the
sixpence. I’m up and dressed, like a watchbox. What shall I have the
pleasure for to come for to go, for to go for to fetch, for to fetch
for to carry, to oblige you?’ I usually wore a ring dress, with red
rings round my trunks, and a fly to correspond. The tights had straight
red lines. My wig was a white one with a red comb. Then Johnson would
say, ‘Have the pleasure to announce Madame Leone.’ Then I give it:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Madame Leone, a young lady that threw
her clothes into bed and hung herself upon the door-nail.’ Then she
just gets up on the rope, and I go and sit down as if I was going to
sleep. Mr. Johnson then says, ‘Come, sir, you’re going to sleep; you’ve
got your eyes shut.’ I answer, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I was not
asleep.’ And then he says I was, and I contradict him, and add, ‘If I
had my eyes shut, I am the first of the family that went to sleep so.’
Then he asks how that is? and I reply, ‘Because they were afraid of
having their pockets picked;’ and he says, ‘Nonsense! all your family
was very poor, there was nothing in their pockets to pick;’ and I add,
‘Yes, but there was the stitches though.’ All these puns and catches
goes immense. ‘Now, sir,’ he continues, ‘chalk the rope.’ I say, ‘Whose
place is it?’ and he replies, ‘The fool’s.’ ‘Then do it yourself,’ I
answer. And then we go on in this style. He cries, ‘What did you say,
sir?’ ‘I said I’d do it myself.’ ‘Now, Madame Leone, are you ready?’
and she nods; and then I tell the music to toodelloo and blow us up.
She then does a step or two--a little of the polka--and retires, and
I am told to chalk the rope again, and this is our talk: ‘Oh dear, oh
dear! there’s no rest for the wicked. Sir, would you be so kind, so
obliging, as to inform me why I chalk the top of the rope?’ ‘To prevent
the young lady from slipping down, sir.’ ‘Oh, indeed! then I’ll chalk
underneath the rope.’ He then asks, ‘What are you doing of, sir?’ ‘Why
didn’t you tell me when I chalked the top it’s to prevent the young
lady from slipping down?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Then I chalked underneath, to
prevent her from slipping up again. Would you oblige me with your
hand?’ Then I look at it and say, ‘Plenty of corns in it; you’ve done
some hard work in your time.’ ‘I have, sir.’ ‘Beautiful nails, too;’
and then I rub the chalk on his hand, and when he asks what I’m doing
of, I say ‘Chalking it.’ ‘What for, sir?’ ‘Why, sir, to keep it from
slipping into other people’s pockets.’ Then he gives me a click of whip
and says, ‘Out of the way, sir! Now, Madame Leone, proceed.’
“When she’s finished the dance I cry, ‘Now I’ll get on the rope and
have a try,’ and I mount very courageously, crying,
‘I’d be a butcher’s boy,
Born in the Borough,
Beef-steaks to-day
And mutton chops to-morrow.’
“Then I find the rope move, and pretend to be frightened, and cry, ‘O
Lord, don’t! it shakes.’ Then I ask, ‘Mr. Johnson, will you chalk my
pulse and hand me up the barber’s-pole?’ and when I’ve got it I say,
‘Here’s a nice ornament on a twelfth-cake.’ I also ask him, ‘I say,
sir, did you ever know some of my friends was first-rate rope-dancers?’
‘No, sir.’ ‘Oh yes, sir, they danced to some of the large houses.’
‘What house was that, sir? was it Victoria?’ ‘I know nothing about
Victoria, sir; you must ask Albert.’ ‘Perhaps, sir, it was the
Garrick.’ ‘Oh, catch my brother dancing in a garret.’ ‘Perhaps, sir,
it was Covent Garden.’ ‘No, sir, he never danced in no garden, nor a
lane neither.’ ‘Perhaps, sir, it was the Haymarket.’ ‘No, sir; nor the
Corn-market.’ ‘I see, sir, you can’t remember the house.’ ‘No, sir;
I’ll tell you, sir, it’s a high stone building between Holborn and
Newgate-market.’ ‘Oh, you mean Newgate.’ ‘Yes, sir; don’t you remember
we were both in there for pot stealing?’ ‘Come down here, sir, and I’ll
give you a flogging.’ ‘You mean to say, sir, you’ll give me a flogging
if I come down?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Then, sir, I shall remain where I am.’
I then tell the music to toodelloo and blow us up, and I attempt to
dance, and he lets the rope down, which throws me on to my back. He
asks, ‘Are you hurt?’ and I reply, ‘No, I’m killed.’ ‘Get up, sir.’
‘I’ll not move, sir.’ ‘I’ll give you the whip, sir.’ ‘That’s no use,
sir; I’ve made a bargain with it, that if I don’t touch it it won’t
touch me. Oh, ain’t I bad! I’ve got the cobbler’s marbles, or else the
hen-flew-out-of-the-window.’ ‘Here’s a policeman coming!’ and then I
jumps up in a minute, and ask, ‘Where?’
“Then I go to his whip, and touch it. ‘What’s this, Mr. Johnson?’ ‘My
whip, sir.’ ‘I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Johnson, I’ll bet you a
bottle of blacking and a three-out brush, that you can’t say ‘my whip’
to three questions that I shall put to you.’ ‘I’ll take you, sir.’
I then take the whip from him, and say, ‘Providing, sir, you was to
meet a poor blind old man, and you was to give him a ha’penny, and you
was to meet me and make me a present of a 5_l._ note, what would you
deserve?’ He says, ‘My whip, sir.’ ‘Yes, sir; that’s one to you. I say,
sir, you’ve got a daughter, and if she was to marry and get a great
deal of money, what would you deserve?’ ‘My whip, sir.’ ‘Certainly,
sir; that’s two to you. Now, sir, providing you was a top of that rope,
and I was to undo the rope and let you down, and I was to give you the
cobbler’s marbles with the hen-flew-out-of-the-window, and tell you
that a policeman was a-coming, what should I deserve?’ Then he don’t
like to say, ‘My whip,’ and stammers out; at last he says it, and then
I beat him round the stage till he runs off. Then I lay it down and cry
cock-a-doodle-do, crowing for victory, and he creeps in and gets the
whip again, and then lashes me.
[Illustration: CIRCUS CLOWN AT FAIR.]
“After juggling and globes, we always did ‘a laughable sketch entitled
Billy Button’s ride to Brentford,’ and I used to be Jeremiah Stitchem,
a servant of Billy Button’s, that comes for a ‘sitiation.’ It opens
this way. Jeremiah makes applications for this situation. He asks,
‘What can you do?’ ‘Everythink and nothink.’ ‘Can you clean plates?’
‘I can break ’em.’ ‘Can you run errands?’ ‘All ways.’ He is engaged at
4_s._ a-week and his board; and then comes some comic business about
a letter coming by post. Billy tells him to bring him a light to read
this letter, and he sets fire to it. This letter is from Brentford,
saying that his sister’s ill and that he’s wanted directly. He goes to
a livery stable and asks for a lady’s pony, at the same time saying he
wants it quiet. The man says he’s got three: one that is blind, and
threw the last gentleman that rode it into a ditch, and Billy won’t
have that. The other is lame of one leg, and he don’t like that, for
he wants a lady’s pony that is very quiet. Then this stable-keeper
recommends this pony, saying it’s very quiet, but it’s a kicker. Then
first he gets up the wrong way, and the head comes round to the tail of
the horse; Jerry then tells him he’s wrong, and then offers to give him
a ‘bung up,’ and chucks him right over the pony’s back on to the ground
on the other side. He then gets on properly, ready for starting, and
tells Jerry he may expect him home in a day or two. He tries to start
the pony, but it won’t go. Jerry takes a needle and pretends to stick
it into the pony’s flank, which causes it to kick and rear until he
throws Billy Button off; and then the pony chases Jerry round the stage
with his mouth open to bite him. Then there’s a regular confusion, and
that winds it up.
“If that pony catched you he’d give it you, too. He caught hold of me
one night by my trousers, and nearly shook my life out of me. It hurt
me, but everybody roared and thought it all right. After that I hit
upon a dodge. I used to have a roll of calico tacked on to my back, and
the pony would catch hold of it and pull out about four yards of what
looked like a shirt. Those ponies are very playful, and may be taught
anything.
“The stage-clown’s dress is what we term full dresses, with a wig and
a tail, but the circus clown’s is merely the top-knot, and the ring
dress, as if they are spangled they are always on the twist, something
in the style of the serpent. They don’t do the red half-moon on the
cheek, like stage clowns, but they have just a dab, running up to the
cheek-bone. A stage-clown’s dress costs from 5_l._ to 10_l._; but a
circus clown can make a suit complete, with pumps and all, for from
30_s._ to 35_s._ There’s such a thing as fourteen or fifteen yards of
canvas in a stage-clown’s full dress; and that’s without exaggerating.
“Veal’s was the best circus I was at; there they had six prads (horses)
and two ponies, and the performers were the best then of the day;
for they had Monsieur Ludowic, a Frenchman, and the best bare-back
juggler about. Mr. Moffat’s troupe, and Mr. Emery’s, was there also.
Mr. Douglas was clown along with me, and little Ned and Sam was the
tumblers. We had a large tent and regular circus, and could accommodate
1500 or 1600 people. I had 35_s._ a-week all the time I was there,
(near 2-1/2 years), and it wasn’t much, considering the work, for I had
to produce all the pantomimes and act as ballet-master as well.
“It is, and it ain’t, difficult to ride round a circus standing up.
I’ve known one man, who had never rode before in all his life, and
yet went on one night, when they were short of hands, and done the
Olympians to the best of his abilities, without falling off, though he
felt very nervous. For these scenes they go slowly. You have to keep
your eye fixed on the horse’s head. I’ve been in a circus so long, and
yet I can’t ride. Even following the horse round the ring makes me feel
so giddy at times, that I have had to catch hold of the tent-pole in
the middle just to steady myself.
“I wasn’t the regular principal clown at Veal’s--only on occasions;
I was the speaking clown and jester. I used to do such things as
those:--For instance, there is a act--which is rode--called ‘The
Shipwrecked Sailors,’ where he rides round the ring, introducing the
shipwreck hornpipe, and doing a pantomime of giving a imitation of the
sinking of the ship, and his swimming and returning safe on shore.
Between the parts I used to say to the ring-master, ‘Are you aware,
sir, that I’ve been to sea?’ He’d say, ‘No, sir.’ Then we’d go on:
‘Yes, sir; I once took a voyage to the Ickney Nockney Islands, off
Bulbusen, just by the Thames Tunnel, in the mud.’ ‘Indeed, sir!’ ‘Yes,
sir; and I’ve seen some wonderful sights, sir, in my time.’ ‘Indeed,
sir!’ ‘Yes, sir: on this occasion it come so cold, that as the captain
was on the quarter-deck, as he gave the word of command to the men, the
words dropped out of his mouth lumps of ice on the deck. The ship would
have been lost, had I not had the presence of mind to pick the words
up, put them into a fryingpan, and warm them over the galley-fire:
and as they thawed, so I gave the word of command to the men.’ ‘Dear
me, sir! that was a wonderful sight!’ ‘It was indeed, sir!’ ‘I don’t
believe a word of it.’ ‘Ah, sir, if you’d have been there, you’d have
seen it yourself.’ ‘I don’t believe a word of it, Mr. Merryman.’ ‘Oh!
come, sir, you must believe some.’ ‘Well, I believe a part it.’ ‘Then
I believe the other part, sir, and so that makes the lot.’ ‘That’s
right, sir.’ ‘Well, sir, I went for another voyage; and going through
the Needles our vessel sprung a leak; not an onion, a leak; and she got
a hole in her side.’ ‘She, sir?’ ‘Yes, sir, the ship; so the pumps was
put to work; but as fast as they pumped the water out it came in at the
hole, and the ship was sinking, when the captain came on deck and asked
if there was any man courageous enough to stop the hole. Of course,
sir, I was there.’ ‘But you’re not courageous.’ ‘Ain’t I, sir? try me.’
‘Now,’ says he, ‘if there’s any man will stop this hole, to him will I
give the hand of my daughter and 150_l._’ So away I went down in the
hold, and there was more than about 15 foot of water, and I pops my
head in the hole until they got the vessel ashore. So you see, sir, I
had the hand of his daughter and the 150_l._ ‘That was a good job for
you, Mr. Merryman.’ ‘No, sir; it was a bad job.’ ‘How was that, sir?’
‘Because when I was married I found that she was a cream of tartar.’
‘Then, sir, you had the money; that was a good job for you.’ ‘No, sir;
that was a bad job, sir.’ ‘How so?’ ‘I bought some sheep and oxen, and
they died of the rot.’ ‘Ah! that was a bad job, Mr. Merryman.’ ‘No,
sir; it was a good job; for shoes were very dear, and I sold the hides
for more than I gave for the cattle.’ ‘Well, that was a good job.’ ‘No,
sir, that was a bad job: for I built houses with the money and they got
burned down.’ ‘Indeed, sir! that was a _very_ bad job for you.’ ‘Oh no,
sir; it was a very good job, because my wife got burnt in them, and,
you see, I got rid of a tormenting wife.’
“There’s another famous gag ring-jesters always do, and I was very
successful with it. After the act of horsemanship is over, when the
ring-master is about leaving the ring, I say, ‘Allow me to go first,
sir;’ and he replies, ‘No, sir, I never follow a fool.’ Then we go
on:--‘I always do,’ meaning him. ‘What did you say, sir?’ ‘That’s
quite true, sir.’ ‘I say, sir, did ever you see my sweetheart?’ ‘No,
sir.’ ‘There she is, sir; that nice young girl sitting there.’ ‘I
don’t see her.’--‘Yes, there, sir, a-winking at me now. Ah! you little
ducksey, ducksey, ducksey!’ ‘I don’t see her, sir.’ Then I gets him to
the middle of the ring, and whilst he is pretending to stare in the
direction I pointed to, I bolt off, saying, ‘I never follows a fool.’
“At fairs we do pretty well, and a circus always pays better than an
acting-booth. We are always on salaries, and never go upon shares.
The actors often say we look down upon them, and think them beneath
our notice; and I dare say it’s true, to a great extent. I’ve heard
our chaps cry out, ‘Won’t you be glad when herrings are cheap?’ or,
‘How were you off for bits of candle and lumps of coke last night at
sharing?’ Then, no doubt, we live better at circuses, for we do our
steaks and onions, and all that sort of thing; and, perhaps, that makes
us cheeky.
“Some jesters at circuses get tremendous engagements. Mr. Barry, they
say, had 10_l._ a-week at Astley’s; and Stonalfe, with his dogs, is,
I should think, equal to him. There’s another, Nelson, too, who plays
on the harmonicon, and does tunes on bits of wood--the same as went
on the water in a tub drawn by geese, when the bridge broke down at
Yarmouth--he’s had as much as 15_l._ a-week on a regular travelling
engagement.
“There ain’t so many jesters as tumbling clowns. I think it’s because
they find it almost too much for them; for a jester has to be ready
with his tongue if anything goes wrong in the ring. I shouldn’t think
there was more than from thirty to forty jesters in England. I reckon
in this way. There are from ten to fifteen circuses, and that’s
allowing them two jesters each. In the threepenny circus, such as
Clarke’s or Frazier’s, the salary for a jester is about 2_l._ a-week,
take the year round.”