What are called strolling actors are those who go about the country and
play at the various fairs and towns. As long as they are acting in a
booth they are called canvas actors; but supposing they stop in a town
a few days after a fair, or build up in a town where there is no fair,
that constitutes what is termed private business.
“We call strolling acting ‘mumming,’ and the actors ‘mummers.’ All
spouting is mumming. A strolling actor is supposed to know something
of everything. He doesn’t always get a part given to him to learn, but
he’s more often told what character he’s to take, and what he’s to do,
and he’s supposed to be able to find words capable of illustrating the
character; in fact, he has to ‘gag,’ that is, make up words.
“When old Richardson was alive, he used to make the actors study their
parts regularly; and there’s Thorne and Bennett’s, and Douglas’s, and
other large travelling concerns, that do so at the present time; but
where there’s one that does, there’s ten that don’t. I was never in one
that did, not to study the parts, and I have been mumming, on and off,
these ten years.
“There’s very few penny gaffs in London where they speak; in fact, I
only know one where they do. It ain’t allowed by law, and the police
are uncommon sewere. They generally play ballets and dumb acting,
singing and dancing, and such-like.
“I never heard of such a thing as a canvas theatre being prosecuted for
having speaking plays performed, so long as a fair is going on, but if
it builds at other times I have known the mayor to object to it, and
order the company away. When we go to pitch in a town, we always, if
it’s a quiet one, ask permission of the mayor to let us build.
“The mummers have got a slang of their own, which parties connected
with the perfession generally use. It is called ‘mummers’ slang,’ and I
have been told that it’s a compound of broken Italian and French. Some
of the Romanee is also mixed up with it. This, for instance, is the
slang for ‘Give me a glass of beer,’--‘Your nabs sparkle my nabs,’ ‘a
drop of beware.’ ‘I have got no money’ is, ‘My nabs has nanti dinali.’
I’ll give you a few sentences.
“‘Parni’ is rain; and ‘toba’ is ground.
“‘Nanti numgare’ is--No food.
“‘Nanti fogare’ is--No tobacco.
“‘Is his nabs a bona pross?’--Is he good for something to drink?
“‘Nanti, his nabs is a keteva homer’--No, he’s a bad sort.
“‘The casa will parker our nabs multi’ means,--This house will tumble
down.
“‘Vada the glaze’ is--Look at the window.
“These are nearly all the mummers’ slang words we use; but they apply
to different meanings. We call breakfast, dinner, tea, supper, all of
them ‘numgare;’ and all beer, brandy, water, or soup, are ‘beware.’ We
call everybody ‘his nabs,’ or ‘her nabs.’ I went among the penny-ice
men, who are Italian chaps, and I found that they were speaking a lot
of mummers’ slang. It is a good deal Italian. We think it must have
originated from Italians who went about doing pantomimes.
“Now, the way we count money is nearly all of it Italian; from one
farthing up to a shilling is this:--
“‘Patina, nadsa, oni soldi, duey soldi, tray soldi, quatro soldi,
chinqui soldi, say soldi, seter soldi, otter soldi, novra soldi, deshra
soldi, lettra soldi, and a biouk.’ A half-crown is a ‘metsa carroon;’ a
‘carroon’ is a crown; ‘metsa punta’ is half-a-sovereign; a ‘punta’ is a
pound. Even with these few words, by mixing them up with a few English
ones, we can talk away as fast as if we was using our own language.
“Mumming at fairs is harder than private business, because you have to
perform so many times. You only wear one dress, and all the actor is
expected to do is to stand up to the dances outside and act in. He’ll
have to dance perhaps sixteen quadrilles in the course of the day,
and act about as often inside. The company generally work in shares,
or if they pay by the day, it’s about four or five shillings a-day.
When you go to get engaged, the first question is, ‘What can you do?’
and the next, ‘Do you find your own properties, such as russet boots,
your dress, hat and feathers, &c.?’ Of course they like your dress
the better if it’s a showy one; and it don’t much matter about its
corresponding with the piece. For instance, Henry the Second, in ‘Fair
Rosamond,’ always comes on with a cavalier’s dress, and nobody notices
the difference of costume. In fact, the same dresses are used over and
over again for the same pieces. The general dress for the ladies is a
velvet skirt with a satin stomacher, with a gold band round the waist
and a pearl band on the forehead. They, too, wear the same dresses
for all the pieces. A regular fair show has only a small compass of
dresses, for they only goes to the same places once in a-year, and of
course their costumes ain’t remembered.
“The principal fair pieces are ‘Blue Beard,’ ‘Robert, duke of
Normandy,’ and ‘Fair Rosamond, or the Bowers of Woodstock.’ I recollect
once they played ‘Maria Martin,’ at a fair, in a company I was with,
and we played that in cavalier costume; and so we did ‘The Murder at
Stanfield Hall,’ Rush’s affair, in dresses of the time of Charles the
Second.
“An actor’s share will average for a fair at five shillings a-day, if
the fair is anything at all. When we don’t work we don’t get paid, so
that if we only do one fair a-week, that’s fifteen shillings, unless we
stop to do a day or two private business after the fair.
“‘Fair Rosamond’ isn’t so good a piece as ‘Blue Beard,’ for that’s
a great fair piece, and a never-failing draw. Five years ago I was
with a company--Star and Lewis were the acting managers. Then ‘Blue
Beard’ was our favourite piece, and we played it five fairs out of
six. ‘Fair Rosamond’ is too sentimental. They like a comedy man, and
the one in ‘Fair Rosamond’ isn’t nothing. They like the secret-chamber
scene in ‘Blue Beard.’ It’s generally done by the scene rolling up and
discovering another, with skeletons painted on the back, and blue fire.
We always carried that scene with us wherever we went, and for the
other pieces the same scenes did. At Star’s, our scenes were somewhat
about ten feet wide and eight feet high. They all rolled up, and there
were generally about four in working order, with the drop curtain,
which made five.
“You may put the price of a good fair theatrical booth down at from
fifty pounds to two hundred and fifty pounds. There’s some of them more
expensive still. For instance, the paintings alone on the front of
Douglas’s Shakesperian theatre, must have cost seventy pounds; and his
dress must have cost a deal, for he’s got a private theatre at Bolton,
and he works them there as well as at fairs.
“The ‘Bottle Imp’ is a very effective fair piece. It opens with a scene
of Venice, and Willebald and Albert, which is the comedy man and the
juvenile. The comic man’s principal line is, ‘I’ll tell your mother,’
every time Albert wants to go and see his sweetheart, or if he’s doing
anything that he thinks improper. In the first act Albert goes to his
sweetheart’s house, and the father consents to their union, provided
he can gain so many ducats. Albert then finds out a stranger, who
is Nicolo, who asks him to gamble with him at dice: Albert says he
is poor. Nicolo says he once was poor, but now he has great wealth.
He then tells Albert, that if he likes he can be rich too. He says,
‘Have you not heard of imps and bottle imps?’ ‘Stuff!’ says Albert;
‘me, indeed! a poor artist; I have heard of such things, but I heed
them not.’ ‘But, boy,’ says Nicolo, ‘I have that in my possession will
make you rich indeed; a drop of the elixir in this bottle, rubbed on
the outside, will give you all you require; and if ever you wish to
part with it, you must sell it for less than you gave.’ He gives three
ducats for it, and as he gives the money the demon laughs from the
side, ‘Ha! ha! ha! mine, mine!’ Albert looks amazed. Nicolo says, ‘Ah,
youth! may you know more happiness than I have whilst I had that in
my possession:’ and then he goes off. Albert then tries the power of
the bottle. He says, ‘What, ho! I wish for wine,’ and it’s shoved on
from the side. As he is drinking, Willebald exclaims, ‘O dear, O dear!
I’ve been looking for my master. O that I were only safe back again
in Threadneedle-street! I’ll never go hunting pretty girls again. Oh,
won’t I tell his mother!’ ‘How now, caitiff!--Leave me!’ says Albert.
‘All right,’ says Willebald; ‘I’ll leave you--won’t I tell your mother!’
“When Willebald goes, Albert wishes for sleep, and the Bottle Imp
replies, ‘All your wishes shall be gratified, excepting one. Sleep
you cannot have while I am in your possession.’ The demon then seizes
him by the throat, and Albert falls on stage, demon exulting over him.
Enter Willebald, who, seeing the demon, cries, ‘Murder! murder! Oh,
won’t I tell their mothers!’ and that ends the first act.
“In the second and last act, Albert gives Willebald instructions
to sell the bottle; ‘but it is to be for less than three ducats.’
Willebald says, ‘No marine-storekeeper would give three ducats for
an old bottle;’ but he goes off shouting, out ‘Who’ll buy a bottle?
Who’ll buy a bottle?’ In the next scene, Willebald is still shouting
his bottle for sale, with folks laughing off stage and dogs barking.
He says, ‘Ah! laugh away. It’s well to be merry, but I’m obliged to
cry--Who’ll buy a bottle?’ He then says he’s ‘not going walking about
all day selling a bottle;’ and then he says he’s got two ducats, and
he’ll buy the bottle himself, sooner than trudge about Venice. Then he
says, ‘Oh, Mr. Bottle, here are the ducats; now you are mine.’ Then
the demon cries, ‘Mine, mine!’ He says it was only the wind. Then he
says, ‘Oh, how I wish I was at home again, and heard my little brothers
and sisters singing!’ And instantly from the sides you hear, ‘Boys and
girls come out to play!’ Then Willebald says, ‘I wish you’d hold your
tongue, you little brutes!’ and they cease. Next he complains that
he’s so poor, and he wishes it would rain gold on him, and then down
comes a shower. Then in comes Albert, who asks whether the bottle has
been sold; and Willebald replies that it’s all right. ‘Thank heavens,’
cries Albert; ‘but yet I pity the miserable wretch who has bought it.’
‘What do you mean? O dear, O dear! to frighten one so! I’ll tell your
mother!’ ‘Know ye not, caitiff!’ continues Albert, ‘that that bottle
contains a demon? O what a weight hast thou removed from my heart!’
As Willebald is deploring his lot, enter a poor man, who asks for a
drink of water; and Willebald tells him he can’t give him any water,
but he has an elixir he shall have very cheap. The old man replies
that he hasn’t got more than a petani, which is the sixtieth part of
a farthing. However, Willebald sells him the bottle; and as it’s the
smallest coin in the world, and the bottle can’t go no cheaper, the
demon rushes in and seizes the beggar, who turns out to be Nicolo, the
first who sold the bottle. As he is being carried off, Willebald cries
out, ‘For shame, you ugly devil! to treat the old gentleman like that!
Won’t I tell your mother!’ and down comes the curtain.
“The ‘Bottle Imp’ is a very successful romantic drama. There’s plenty
of blue fire in it. The ‘Bottle Imp’ have it at every entrance that
fellow do. There is some booths that are fonder of the ‘Bottle Imp’
than any other piece. We played it at Bill Weale’s theatre more than
any other drama. The imp is always acted by a man in a cloak with a
mask on. You can see his cavalier boots under his cloak, but that don’t
matter to holiday folk when once they know it’s intended to be a demon.
“It’s a very jolly life strolling, and I wouldn’t leave it for any
other if I had my choice. At times it’s hard lines; but for my part
I prefer it to any other. It’s about fifteen shillings a-week for
certain. If you can make up your mind to sleep in the booth, it ain’t
such bad pay. But the most of the men go to lodgings, and they don’t
forget to boast of it. ‘Where do you lodge?’ one’ll ask. ‘Oh, I lodged
at such a place,’ says another; for we’re all first-rate fellows, if
you can get anybody to believe us.
“Mummers’ feed is a herring, which we call a pheasant. After
performance we generally disperse, and those who have lodgings go to
’em; but if any sleep in the booth, turn in. Perhaps there’s a batch of
coffee brought forwards, a subscription supper of three. The coffee and
sugar is put in a kettle and boiled up, and then served up in what we
can get: either a saucepan lid, or a cocoa-nut shell, or a publican’s
pot, or whatever they can get. Mummers is the poorest, flashest, and
most independent race of men going. If you was to offer some of them a
shilling they’d refuse it, though the most of them would take it. The
generality of them is cobblers’ lads, and tailors’ apprentices, and
clerks, and they do account for that by their having so much time to
study over their work.
“Private business is a better sort of acting. There we do nearly the
entire piece, with only the difficult parts cut out. We only do the
outline of the story, and gag it up. We’ve done various plays of
Shakspeare in this way, such as ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Othello,’ but only on
benefit occasions. Then we go as near as memory will let us, but we
must never appear to be stuck for words. Our prices of admission in the
country for private business is threepence and sixpence, or sometimes
sixpence or one shilling, for it all depends upon the town, but in
London it’s oftener one penny and twopence. We only go to the outskirts
and act there, for they won’t allow us in the streets. The principal
parts for pitching the booth for private business in London, is about
Lock’s-fields, Walworth. We opened there about six years ago last
Easter.
“Our rehearsals for a piece are the funniest things in the world.
Perhaps we are going to play ‘The Floating Beacon, or The Weird Woman
of the Wreck.’ The manager will, when the night’s performance is over,
call the company together, and he’ll say to the low-comedyman, ‘Now,
you play Jack Junk, and this is your part: you’re supposed to fetch
Frederick for to go to sea. Frederick gets capsized in the boat, and
gets aboard of the floating beacon. You go to search for him, and the
smugglers tell you he’s not aboard, and they give you the lie; then
you say, ‘What, the lie to a English sailor!’ and you chuck your quid
in his eye, saying, ‘I’ve had it for the last fourteen days, and now I
scud it with a full sail into your lubberly eye.’ Then you have to get
Frederick off.’
“Then the manager will turn to the juvenile, and say, ‘Now, sir, you’ll
play Frederick. Now then, Frederick, you’re in love with a girl, and
old Winslade, the father, is very fond of you. You get into the boat
to go to the ship, and you’re wrecked and get on to the beacon. You’re
very faint, and stagger on, and do a back fall. You’re picked up by
the weird woman, and have some dialogue with her; and then you have
some dialogue with the two smugglers, Ormaloff and Augerstoff. You
pretend to sleep, and they’re going to stab you, when the wild woman
screams, and you awake and have some more dialogue. Then they bring
a bottle, and you begin drinking. You change the cups. Then there’s
more dialogue, and you tackle Ormaloff. Then you discover your mother
and embrace. Jack Junk saves you. Form a picture with your mother, the
girl, and old Winslade, and Jack Junk over you.’
“That’s his part, and he’s got to put it together and do the talk.
“Then the manager turns to Ormaloff and Augerstoff, and says: ‘Now, you
two play the smugglers, do you hear? You’re to try and poison the young
fellow, and you’re defeated.’
“Then he say to the wild woman: ‘You’re kept as a prisoner aboard the
beacon, where your husband has been murdered. You have refused to
become the wife of Ormaloff. Your child has been thrown overboard. You
discover him in Frederick, and you scream when they are about to stab
him, and also when he’s about to drink. Make as much of it as you can,
please; and don’t forget the scream.’
“‘Winslade, you know your part. You’ve only got to follow Junk.’
“‘You’re to play the lady, you Miss. You’re in love with Frederick. You
know the old business: ‘What! to part thus? Alas! alas! never to this
moment have I confessed I love you!’’
“That’s a true picture of a mumming rehearsal, whether it’s fair or
private business. Some of the young chaps stick in their parts. They
get the stage-fever and knocking in the knees. We’ve had to shove them
on to the scene. They keep on asking what they’re to say. ‘Oh, say
anything!’ we tell ’em, and push ’em on to the stage.
“If a man’s not gifted with the gab, he’s no good at a booth. I’ve been
with a chap acting ‘Mary Woodbine,’ and he hasn’t known a word of his
part. Then, when he’s stuck, he has seized me by the throat, and said,
‘Caitiff! dog! be sure thou provest my wife unfaithful to me.’ Then I
saw his dodge, and I said, ‘Oh, my lord!’ and he continued--‘Give me
the proof, or thou hadst best been born a dog.’ Then I answered, ‘My
lord, you wrong your wife, and torture me;’ and he said, ‘Forward,
then, liar! dog!’ and we both rushed off.
“We were acting at Lock’s-fields, Walworth, once, doing private
business, when we got into trouble, and were all put into prison for
playing without a license. We had built up in a piece of private
ground--in a dust-yard known as Calf’s--and we had been there eleven
months doing exceedingly well. We treated the policeman every night,
and gave him as much, with porter and money, that was equal to one
shilling a-night, which was taken up from the company. It was something
like a penny a-piece for the policeman, for we were rather afraid of
something of the kind happening.
“It was about the time that ‘Oliver Twist’ was making such a success
at the other theatres, and so we did a robbery from it, and brought
out our version as ‘The Golden Farmer.’ Instead of having an artful
dodge, we called our comic character Jimmy Twitcher, and made him do
all the artful-dodgery business. We had three performances a-night in
those days. We was in our second performance, and Jimmy Twitcher was
in the act of getting through the window, and Hammer, the auctioneer,
was asleep, saying in his sleep, ‘Knock ’em down! going! going! gone!’
when I saw the police in private clothes rising from the front seats,
and coming towards the stage. They opened the side door, and let the
other police in, about forty of them. Then the inspector said, ‘Ladies
and gentlemen, I forbid any of you to move, as I arrest those people
for performing without a license.’ Nobody moved. Three police took hold
of me, one at each arm, and one at the back of the neck. They wouldn’t
allow us to change our dresses, nor to take our other clothes, though
they were close by. They marched us off to the Walworth station, along
with about a hundred of the spectators, for some of them got away.
My wife went to fetch my clothes for me, and they took her, too, and
actually locked her up all night, though she was so near her pregnancy
that the doctor ordered her pillows to sleep on. In the morning they
took us all before the magistrate. The audience were fined one shilling
a-head, or seven days; but they paid the shilling. We were all fined
twenty shillings, or fourteen days. Some paid, but I couldn’t raise it,
so I was walked off.
“We were all in an awful fright when we found ourselves in the
police-cell that night. Some said we should get six months, others
twelve, and all we could say was, ‘What on earth will our old women do?’
“We were all in our theatrical costumes. I was Hammer, the auctioneer,
dressed in a long white coat, with the swallow-tails touching the
ground, and blue bottoms. I had a long figured chintz waistcoat, and a
pair of drab knee-breeches, grey stockings, and low shoes, and my hat
was a white one with a low crown and broad brim, like a Quaker’s. To
complete it, I wore a full bushy wig. As we were being walked off from
Walworth to Kennington-lane, to go before the magistrate, the tops of
the houses and the windows were full of people, waiting to see us come
along in our dresses. They laughed more than pitied us. The police got
pelted, and I caught a severe blow by accident, from a turnip out of a
greengrocer’s shop.
“I served all the time at Kingston, in my theatrical dress. I had
nothing but bread and water all the time, with gruel for breakfast
and supper. I had to pick oakum and make mats. I was only there two
days before I was made deputy-wardsman, for they saw I was a decent
sort of fellow. I was very much cut up, thinking of the wife so near
her confinement. It was very hard, I thought, putting us in prison
for getting our bread, for we never had any warning, whatever our
master may have had. I can tell you, it was a nail in my coffin, these
fourteen days, and one of us, of the name of Chau, did actually die
through it, for he was of a very delicate constitution, and the cold
laid hold of him. Why, fellows of our life and animation, to be shut up
like that, and not allowed to utter a word, it was dreadful severe.
“At this time a little penny work came out, entitled the ‘Groans of
the Gallows.’ I was working at an establishment in Whitechapel, and it
was thought that something fresh would be a draw, and it was suggested
that we should play this ‘Groans of the Gallows,’ for everything about
hanging was always a hit. There was such a thing as ten people in the
piece, and five was prominent characters. We got it written by one
of the company, and it was called ‘The Groans of the Gallows, or The
Hangman’s Career, illustrated with pictures.’ This is how we brought
it out. After an overture, the curtain rose and discovered a group on
the stage, all with pots and pipes, gin measures, &c. They sing, ‘We
won’t go home till morning,’ and ‘Kightly’s a jolly good fellow.’ Here
the hangman is carousing with them, and his wife comes in and upbraids
him with his intoxicating habits, and tells him that he spends all the
money instead of purviding food for the children. A quarrel ensues, and
he knocks her down with a quart pot and kills her. I was the hangman.
There is then a picture of amazement from all, and he’s repenting of
what he’s done. He then says, ‘This comes of a little drinking. From
the half-pint to the pint, from the pint to the pot, and so on, till
ruin stares me in the face. Not content with starving my children, I
have murdered my wife. Oh that this may be a moral to all!’
“The officers come in and arrest him, when enters the sheriff, who
tells him that he has forfeited his life; but that there is a vacancy
for the public executioner, and that if he will accept the office his
life shall be spared. He accepts the office, and all the characters
groan at him. This ends the first scene. In the second enters Kightly
and two officers, who have got him and accuse him of murder. He
is taken off proclaiming his innocence. Scene the third. Kightly
discovered at table in condemned cell, a few months supposing to have
elapsed. The bell is tolling, and the hour of seven is struck. Enter
sheriffs with hangman, and they tell him to do his duty. They then
leave him, and he speaks thus: ‘At length, then, two little months only
have elapsed, and you, my friend and pot-companion, aye, and almost
brother, are the first victim that I have to execute for murder,’--and
I shudder you know--‘which I know you are innocent of. Am _I_ not a
murderer, and do I not deserve hanging more than you? but the law will
have it’s way, and I, the tool of that law, must carry it into force.
It now becomes my painful duty to pinion your arms.’ Then I do so, and
it makes such a thrill through the house. ‘I now take you from this
place to your execution, where you will be suspended for one hour, and
then it is my duty to cut you down. Have you any request to make?’ He
cries ‘None!’ and I add, ‘Then follow me.’ I always come on to that
scene with a white night-cap and a halter on my arm. All the audience
was silent as death as I spoke, and with tears in their eyes. Scene
the fourth. Gallows being erected by workmen. That’s a picture, you
know, our fixing the top beam with a hammer, another at the bottom,
and a third arranging the bolt at the top. The bell still tolling, you
know. Ah, it brought it home to one or two of them, I can tell you.
As soon as the workmen have finished they go off. Enter procession of
sheriff, parson, hangman, and the victim, with two officers behind.
The parson asks the victim if he has any request to make, and he still
says ‘None,’ only he is innocent. The sheriffs then tell the hangman
to do his duty. He then places the white cap over the man’s head, and
the noose about his neck, and is about leaving to draw the bolt, when
I exclaim, ‘Something here tells me that I ought not to hang this man.
He is innocent, and I know it. I cannot, and I will not take his life.’
Enter officer in haste, with pardon for Kightly. I then say, ‘Kightly,
you are free; live and be happy, and I am----’ Here the sheriff adds,
‘Doomed to the galleys for life.’ That’s because I refused to kill him,
you know. I then exclaim, ‘Then I shall be happy, knowing that I have
not taken this man’s life, and be thus enabled to give up the office of
executioner and it’s most horrid paraphernalia.’ Then there’s blue fire
and end of piece.
“That piece was very successful, and run for three weeks. It drew in a
deal of money. The boys used to run after me in the streets and call
me Calcraft, so great was the hit I made in the part. On one occasion a
woman was to be hung, and I was going along Newgate, past the prison,
on the Sunday evening. There was a quantity of people congregated, and
some of the lads then recognised me from seeing me act in the ‘Groans
from the Gallows,’ and they sung out ‘Here comes Calcraft!’ Every eye
was turned towards me. Some said, ‘No, no; that ain’t him;’ but the
boys replied, ‘Oh, yes it is; that’s the man that played it at the
gaff.’ Of course I mizzled, for fear of a stone or two.
“The pay of an actor in private business varies from two shillings and
sixpence to three shillings, and each man is also supposed to sing
two songs in each performance, which makes three performances a night
besides performing a sketch. Your engagement lasts as long as you suit
the audience; for if you’re a favourite you may have such a thing as
nine months at a time. Whenever we have a benefit it’s a ticket one,
which amounts to two hundred tickets and your night’s salary, which
generally brings you in a pound, with your pay included. There’s one in
the company generally has a benefit every Thursday, so that your turn
comes once in about six months, for the musicians, and the checktakers,
and all has their turn.
“The expense of putting a new piece on the stage is not more than a
pound, and that includes new scenery. They never do such a thing as
buy new dresses. Perhaps they pay such a thing as six shillings a-week
for their wardrobe to hire the dresses. Some gives as much as ten
shillings; but then, naturally, the costume is more showy. All that
we are supposed to find is russet boots, a set of fleshings, a ballet
shirt, and a wig.
“Town work is the more quiet and more general-business like. There’s
no casualty in it, for you’re not in shares, but on salaries, and
after your work there’s your money, for we are paid nightly. I have
known as much as thirty-five shillings a-week given at one of these
theatres, when the admission is only a penny and twopence. Where I was
at it would hold from six to seven hundred people, and there was three
performances a-night; and, indeed, on Saturdays and Mondays generally
four. We have no extra pay for extra performances. The time allowed for
each representation is from one hour to an hour and three-quarters.
If we find there is a likelihood of a fourth house, we leave out a
song each singer, and that saves half an hour. As soon as one house is
turned out another comes in, for they are always waiting outside the
doors, and there is a rush immediately the house is empty. We begin at
six and are over by a few minutes before twelve. When we do speaking
pieces we have to do it on the sly, as we should be stopped and get
into trouble.”