“The Ballet,” said a street-dancer to me, “is a very favourite
amusement with the people who go to cheap penny theatres. They are
all comic, like pantomimes; indeed, they come under that term, only
there’s no comic scenes or transformations. They’re like the story of a
pantomime, and nothing else. Nearly all the popular clowns are famous
for their ballet performances; they take the comic parts mostly, and
the pantaloons take the old men’s parts. Ballets have been favourites
in this country for forty or fifty year. There is always a comic part
in every ballet. I have known ballets to be very popular for ever since
I can remember,--and that’s thirty years. At all the gaffs, where they
are afraid to speak their parts, they always have a ballet. Every one
in London, and there are plenty of them, have one every night, for it’s
very seldom they venture upon a talking play.
“In all ballets the costume is fanciful. The young ladies come on in
short petticoats, like them at the opera. Some of the girls we have
are the same as have been in the opera corps-de-ballet. Mr. Flexmore,
the celebrated clown, is a ballet performer, and there’s not a greater
man going for the ballet that he appears in, called ‘The Dancing
Scotchman.’ There’s Paul Herring, too; he’s very famous. He’s the only
man I know of that can play Punch, for he works the speaker in his
mouth; and he’s been a great Punch-and-Judy man in his time. He’s very
clever in ‘The Sprite of the Vineyard, or the Merry Devil of Como.’
They’ve been playing it at Cremorne lately, and a very successful
affair it was.
“When a professional goes to a gaff to get an engagement, they in
general inquires whether he is a good ballet performer. Everything
depends upon that. They also acts ballets at some of the concert-rooms.
At the Rising Sun, Knightsbridge, as well as the Brown Bear,
Knightsbridge, they play them for a week at a time, and then drop them
for a fortnight for a change, and perhaps have tumblers instead; then
they have them again for a week, and so on. In Ratcliffe Highway, at
Ward’s Hoop and Grapes, and also the Albion, and the Prince Regent,
they always play ballets at stated intervals. Also the Effingham
Saloon, Whitechapel, is a celebrated ballet-house. The admission to all
these houses is 2_d._ I believe. At the Highway, when the ships are up
and the sailors ashore, business is very brisk, and they are admitted
to the rooms gratuitously; and a fine thing they make of them, for
they are good-hearted fellows and don’t mind what money they spend.
I’ve known one who was a little way gone to chuck half-a-crown on the
stage to some actor, and I’ve known others to spend a pound at one
bit,--standing to all round! One night, when I was performing ballets
at the Rising Sun, Knightsbridge, Mr. Hill, the Queen’s coachman,
threw me two half-crowns on to the stage. We had been supposed to be
fighting,--I and my mate,--and to have got so exhausted we fell down,
and Mr. Hill came and poured three glasses of port-wine negus down our
throats as we laid. I’ve repeatedly had 1_s._ and 6_s._ thrown to me by
the grooms of the different people of nobility, such as the Russells
and various other families.
“A good ballet performer will get averaging from a pound to 35_s._
a-week. They call Paul Herring a star, and he is one, for he always
draws wherever he goes. I generally get my 25_s._, that’s my running
price, though I try for my 30_s._; but 25_s._ is about my mark. I have
always made Paul Herring my study, and I try to get to perform with
him, for he’s the best clown of the day, and a credit to work with.
“It’s impossible to say how many ballet performers there are. There
are such a host of them it’s impossible to state that, for they change
so. Then a great many are out of employment until Christmas, for that
generally fills the vacancies up. My wife does a little in ballets,
though she is principally a poses plastique girl. I married my wife off
the table.
“One of the most successful ballets is the Statue Blanche. It has been
performed at every theatre in London, both the cheap and the regular.
The Surrey is an enormous place for it. It came out, I believe, in
Grimaldi’s time. It was played a fortnight ago at the Bower, and I took
the part of the old man, and I was very successful; so far so, that I
got a situation for Christmas. It’s an excellent plot, and runs an hour
and a quarter to play.
“It begins with a romantic view, with a cottage on the right hand, and
white palings round it, and a quantity of straw laying on the stage.
The villagers and the lover come on. Lover goes to cottage door and
knocks three times, when lady appears at window. He ballets to her,
‘Will you come down here and dance?’ She comes, and they all do a
country dance. At the end of the dance the old man is heard to cough
inside cottage. He opens the window and sees the girl outside, and
shakes his fist at her. The lover hides behind the lady. He comes out
and sends his daughter into cottage, and sends the lover off about his
business. He refuses to do so. The old man makes a blow at him with his
stick; he makes another, when lover bobs down and stick strikes Pierrot
in the face, and knocks him down. This Pierrot is the Simpkin of the
ballet, and he’s dressed in white, with long sleeves, and a white
face, and white scalp on his head. The ballet is from the French, and
its real title is ‘La Statue Blanche,’ though we call it ‘The Statue
Blanche.’
“Lover is driven off stage, and old man picks up Simpkin, and ballets
to him that he’s very sorry but he thought it was the lover, and tells
him to hide under the straw which is on the stage, and that if the
lover comes again to lay hold of him, to call assistance. He hides, and
old man goes into cottage.
“Lover comes again with villagers carrying flails, and they begin to
thresh this straw with Simpkin under it. They thresh him round stage.
He knocks at door three times, and the third blow knocks old man in the
face. Out he comes staggering. The old man threatens to sack lover.
He goes into cottage and brings out lover’s bundle, and throws it to
lover, and sends him away. The lover appeals to old man, but all to no
use. The lover then ballets to him that he has got no money, so the
old man hands his purse, which Simpkin takes and carries up stage. The
lover still asks for money, and the old man is astonished, and then
turns round and sees Simpkin, and makes him return it. Exit old man and
Simpkin into cottage, leaving lover on stage. He leans against wing
very disconsolate, when an artist comes on with a scrap-book to sketch
the scene. He asks the lover what is the matter, and then he tells
him he has a plan if lover will become a sketcher; and if he likes to
do so, he will make a statue of him and sell him to the old man, as
he deals in antiquities, and by that plan he will be able to gain the
girl. They go off, and another old man comes on and knocks at door,
which old father opens, and thinking it is lover tumbles him over. He
then says he’s very sorry for mistaking him for the lover. They make
it up, and the old man says he has plenty of money, and has come to
marry the daughter. They embrace, and old father invites old man to
step inside and have something to drink. As the second old man is going
in, the Simpkin jumps over his head and hides; and old man swears it is
the lover, and hunts for him, but can’t find him, and enters cottage.
The second scene has got the tea business in it, and the blacking of
the old lover’s face. The comic business here is, they are having tea,
and Simpkin is waiting on them, and does every thing very clumsy. He
carries on the old business of stirring the tea up with a candle, and
then he puts the dirty kettle on the cloth and makes a mark; so he
thinks for a minute, and then wipes the bottom of the kettle with the
old lover’s handkerchief when he is not looking. Then Simpkin steals
the milk-jug, and as he is drinking the old father hits him on the
stomach, and makes him sputter in old lover’s face, who instantly
snatches up the dirty handkerchief to wipe his face, and blacks it all
over with the soot from the bottom of the kettle. Then there is some
comic business about Simpkin breaking the tea-things, and bursting a
coat in two; and then scene changes to a romantic view, with a pedestal
in the centre, and statue on it. The old father comes on with the girl
and Simpkin, and the villagers, who have all come to view the statue.
The old man then calls the artist, and tells him to wind up the statue
that he may see how it works. The statue does several positions, and
the old man buys it. They all go off but Simpkin, the lady, and the
old man. (The statue is still on the pedestal, you know.) The old man
cautions Simpkin not to touch the statue, for he’s going away. As soon
as he is gone, Simpkin goes and winds it up until he breaks the spring.
Then in comes the old man again, and the fool goes to a corner and
pretends to be asleep. He is pulled up by the ear and shown what he
has done, and is about to be beaten, when girl intercedes and puts the
statue to rights. They go off, leaving Simpkin with the statue. Lady
returns, and statue jumps down and embraces her. The statue then takes
off his helmet and wig, and chucks it at Simpkin, and rushes off with
girl, and the clown mounts the pedestal. Enter old man, who ballets
that he’ll have a turn as nobody is there. He goes and looks at statue,
and perceives that he is in a different position. He turns the handle
and Simpkin jumps about, burlesquing what the lover has done. Then
Simpkin jumps down, and pushes the old man round stage with a club in
his hand. Old man sings out ‘Murder!’ when lover returns with girl and
stops Simpkin from knocking him down. They tell the old man they are
married, and he joins their hands, and a general dance winds up the
performance.
“That’s one of the most successful ballets ever imagined, and in
its time has drawn thousands and thousands to see it. I don’t know
who wrote the ballet, but I should imagine it was the property of
Grimaldi’s father, who was a great pantomimist.
“There’s a new ballet, called ‘The Dream before the Wedding, or the
Ploughboy turned Sailor.’ That one depends more upon the lover than the
comic man. There’s another, called ‘The Boatman of the Ohio.’ That’s
a comic nigger ballet, in which the banjo and bones are introduced;
and there’s a very funny duet song, to the tune of ‘Roley poley.’ They
both hide in a clock-case to hide from the old man, and they frighten
each other, for they put their ugly black faces out and take each other
for the devil. Then there’s ‘The Barber and the Beadle.’ The barber is
one of Paul Herring’s favourite characters. I’ve done the beadle to
his barber. There’s a very first-rate scene in it with the fop,--Jemmy
Green he’s called, a cockney sort of a fellow,--and this barber has to
shave him, and cuts his nose, and ties him in a chair, and shoves the
soap-suds in his mouth. This fop is arranging with the father about the
daughter, and the barber ties a line to a pole and fishes off the old
man’s wig. The beadle is the father of the girl. It goes immense. I’ve
played in it during my time more than 400 times.
“Another famous ballet is ‘The Cobbler and the Tailor.’ There’s a
celebrated fight in that, between the tailor with his sleeve-board and
goose, and the cobbler with his clam and his awl. The tailor tries
to burn me with the goose, and he hunts me all about. We are about
twenty minutes fighting. It’s a never-failing fight, that is. The
sleeve-boards are split to make a noise at each knock, and so is the
clam. There’s one, two, three, four, and a crack on the nob. We keep it
up till both are supposed to fall down exhausted. Then there’s crowing
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’ at each other. We enjoy it just as much as the
audience do, for it’s very funny. Although the shirt is sticking to our
backs with perspiration, we enter into the sport quite like them in
front. We generally prefer winter for this ballet, for it’s hot work;
or if it’s in the open air, like in gardens, then it’s very delightful.
“One of the principal things in ballet performing is to be able to do
the raps, or slaps, well and quickly. A fellow gives me a clap on the
face in the piece, then I have to slap my hands together, and make a
noise as if he had given me a tremendous knock down. Of course, the
closer the sound is to the blow, the better is the effect; and the
art is to do it close. That’s what we call good working. The people,
of course, follow with their eye the fist of the striker, and the one
struck has his arms down in front, and claps them together. It is the
same work as they do in the pantomimes. Another trick is hitting the
knuckles when fighting, also striking on the head. That’s done by
holding the stick close to the pate, and that takes the blow. On the
knuckles the striker aims just above the fingers. It wants a quick eye.
A fellow caught me on the nose, at the Bower, the other night, and took
the skin off the tip; and there’s the mark now, you see. The principal
distinction between pantomimes and ballets is that there are more
cascades, and trips, and valleys in pantomimes, and none in ballets.
“A trip is a dance between Harlequin and the Columbine; and cascades
and valleys are trundling and gymnastic performances, such as tumbling
across the stage on wheels, and catching hold of hands and twirling
round.
“We have done a kind of speaking ballet, where there is a little
singing and talking just to help out the plot. It is a kind of
pantomime sketch. It is entitled, ‘The Magic Mirror, or how to reclaim
a drunken Servant.’ I was the author of it, for I’m generally engaged
expressly to get up ballets, and occasionally they expect me to do
a new one for them. I get from 25_s._ to 30_s._ a-week for such an
engagement. The scene opens with a chamber in the front of the stage,
with a candle on the table nearly burnt out. The clock strikes four.
A servant in livery is waiting up for his other servant. He yawns
and does the sleepy business. Then he says, ‘Whenever it is Thomas’s
day out he stops so very late; master has threatened to discharge
him, and he will get the sack. Would that I could reclaim him! I will
endeavour to do so. I wish he would return.’ And that’s the cue for
the other one off the stage to begin singing ‘I’ve been roving, I’ve
been roving,’ &c. Then the honest servant says, ‘He comes! Now then
to form a magic looking-glass, wherein he can see his errors. Now to
procure four pieces of timber.’ He does so, and makes a square frame or
strainer. ‘Now for a few tacks.’ He gets them, and then takes a gauze
curtain down from the window, and places it on the back of the frame,
which forms a looking-glass. Then lights is turned down on stage, and
he puts a candle behind the mirror, which illuminates this gauze, you
see. He then hides behind the glass.
“Thomas comes in very tipsy. He does the drunken business, and then
says, ‘I’ve had the best of cheer. I’ve been down to farmer Cheer’s,
and had the best of ale, and some good gin, and better brandy;’ at
which the man behind the frame echoes, ‘Better brandy.’ Thomas is
alarmed. He looks around and says, ‘That was the echo.’ To which the
voice replies, ‘That was the echo.’ Then they repeat this business;
Thomas getting still more nervous. He says, ‘Well, I declare, I’m
getting quite melancholy. I’ll see what singing can do to rouse me a
little.’ He then begins,--
‘’Tis love that rules the courts and the city,
It rules both the high and the low;
But sometimes--the more is the pity--
Young Cupid won’t rosin his bow.
Won’t rosin his bow.’
“The glass takes up ‘Rosin his bo-o-o-o-w.’ The time this is going on,
the other servant is dressing himself to represent the other; combing
his hair, and painting his face, and everything. Thomas gets quite I
don’t know how; and he says, ‘I wonder if I look frightened?’ And he
goes to the glass, and the other appears at the same time, and it looks
like the reflection in the glass. I’ve had some fools imagine it was
the reflection. Thomas says ‘Oh, I look very nice!’ and as he speaks
the other opens his mouth too. Then Thomas says, ‘Why I’ve got some
black on my nose!’ and he goes to wipe it, and the form behind imitates
him.
“He then goes down the stage and returns to glass again. There’s a
deal of business carried on. At last Thomas sees the figure turn round
whilst he’s looking in front, and then he exclaims, ‘That’s not me! My
waistcoat ain’t split up the back! I’ll smash the glass.’ He knocks
down the gauze, and out pops the figure, yelling ‘Ah! I’m the glass
imp!’ Thomas falls down on the stage, and as the imp walks about, one
off the side at the wing thumps the ground at each step with a piece
of wood, to mark the steps. Then the servant says, ‘Fe fi fo fum, I
smell the blood of an Englishman;’ and Thomas answers, ‘Oh no, Mr.
Ghost, I ain’t an Englishman; I’m a Irish woman;’ and there’s a shout
at that, of course. The servant continues,--‘Let him be alive, let him
be dead,’--and Thomas says ‘I’m as dead as a red herring!’ and there’s
another shout. The fellow-servant then catches hold of Thomas by the
hair of the head, and tells him to follow him below. Thomas replies ‘Oh
don’t! please, don’t, Mr. Ghost! I’ll do anything but follow you below,
though you are so good-looking.’ ‘Will you promise to come home early
for the future?’ ‘I will.’ ‘And never drink no more brandy nor stout?’
‘I will.’ The fellow-servant shouts in a hoarse voice, ‘Nay, Slave!
not I will, but I will not.’ ‘Not.’ ‘Enough! rise and look at me.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t for the world.’ ‘Don’t you know me?’ ‘Oh no! no! no!
I never saw you before.’ ‘It’s all right, I’m your friend James: your
fellow-servant!’ Then Thomas gets up and sees him, and begins laughing.
‘Oh, I wasn’t frightened: I knew you all the time.’ The other cove then
shouts, ‘Fe fi fo fum;’ and down goes Thomas on his face and screams
‘Murder! murder!’ Then James says, ‘Oh, it’s only me; look!’ Then
Thomas looks and says, ‘Well, I declare I thought you was the glass
imp.’ ‘No, I only played this prank to reclaim you. Has it had its
effect?’ ‘It has.’ ‘Then I have gained my end, since you are reformed;
and I hope you are reformed.’ ‘I am; and I hope it will be a lesson to
my friends in front, and that they will never take a drop too much.’
Then they sing together--
‘Troubles all, great and small,
You must think not of the past;
For life is short, and mirth and sport
Cannot ever last.
Cannot ever last.
Cannot ever last.’
“That pantomimic farce always goes down with wonderful success. It
has a regular round of applause, which is everybody clapping as hard
as they can. Some of the tavern-keepers, in whose concert-rooms we
done this ballet pantomime, don’t much like the wind-up to this
piece,--about hoping our friends will take a lesson, and not drink too
much. At one place the landlord happened to come just as that line was
spoke, and he told me he’d fine me sixpence if I done it again. ‘Why,
I ain’t sold a dozen pots of beer through it,’ he says. So I agreed
with him to alter the tag to this,--‘and not drink no more than you can
carry, for that never did any one any harm, but more is injurious.’
At some of these rooms, if a song is going too long and no drinking,
the landlord will come in, and hold his hand up, as a cue for us to
leave off and let the drinking begin again. Then the waiters looks the
audience up again with their ‘Give your orders, gentlemen; give your
orders.’
“This ballet pantomime was quite an innovation, and isn’t strictly
ballet, but in the same line.
“Of all ballets, the one that has found the longest run is the ‘Statue
Blanche.’ I’ve known it to go a month. All the young ladies in these
pieces are regular ballet-girls, and all ‘turned out;’ that is, taught
to stand with their dancing position. You know all of them is supposed
to be able to kick their nose with their knees. You know they crick
them when young, the same as a contortionist or acrobat. They are
always practising. You see them in the green-room kicking their legs
about. The men have to do the same, except the comic characters that
don’t dance. Paul Herring is very clever at these things, and don’t
want no practising. He can scratch his head with his foot. He’s the
finest clown that ever trod in shoe-leather.
“The green-rooms at the concert-rooms are very tidy. Even at the penny
gaffs the men and women have separate rooms. The women there have got
their decency the same as at a theatre, and they wouldn’t go there if
there wasn’t separate dressing-rooms. In fact, they keep themselves
more from the men than the men from them, for they are all madames; and
though they only keep a wheelbarrow, they carry themselves as if they
had a coach.
“At the concert-rooms they have always a useful set of scenery, about
similar to that at the penny gaffs. At some of them you don’t get so
good scenery as at the gaffs. There’s in general a romantic scene,
and a cottage, and so forth, and that’s all that’s wanted. There’s a
regular proscenium to the theatres, with lights in front and all. The
most usual manner is to have a couple of figures at the sides holding
lights, and curtains behind them, because it answers for the ballets
and also for the singing. At some of the concert-rooms there’s no
side-entrance to the stage, and then you have to go across the audience
dressed in your costume, before you can get on to the stage. It’s
horrid, that is. I’ve done it many and many a time at Knightsbridge.
It’s very bad, for everything depends upon being discovered when the
curtain draws up. Some of the people will say, ‘Oh, that’s nothing;
I’ve seen him before.’
“I have repeatedly seen people in front go to the stage and offer their
glass to the actor to drink. We are forbid to receive them, because it
interferes with business; but we do take it. I’ve seen drink handed on
to the stage from three to four times a-night.
“Sometimes, when a dance has pleased the audience, or an acrobat, or a
bottle equilibrist, they’ll throw halfpence on to the stage, to reward
the performer. We sometimes do this for one another, so as to give the
collection a start. We are forbidden to take money when it is thrown on
to us, but we do. If a sixpence comes, we in general clap our foot on
to it, and then your mate gives you a rap on the face, and we tumble
down and put it in our mouth, so that the proprietor shan’t see us. If
he saw it done, and he could find it, he’d take it away if he could.
I have known a man pick up as much as 3_s._ after a dance. Then there
are generally some one who is not engaged on the establishment, and he
comes for what we term ‘the nobbings,’ that’s what is throw’d to him.
I’ve known a clog-dancer, of the name of Thompson, to earn as much as
10_s._ of a night at the various concert-rooms. He’s very clever, and
may be seen any night at the Hoop and Grapes, Ratcliffe-highway. He
does 108 different steps, and 51 of them are on his toes.
“There’s in general from five to six people engaged in a concert-room
performances, and for professionals alone that’ll come to from 30_s._
to 2_l._ a-night for expenses for actors and singers. That’s putting
down nothing for the conductor, or musicians, or gas. Some of them
charge 2_d._ or 1_d._ admission, but then there’s something extra put
on to the drink. Porter is 5_d._ a pot, and fourpenny ale is charged
6_d._; besides, you can’t have less than 6_d._ worth of gin-and-water.
At such a room as the Nag’s Head in Oxford-street, I’ve known as
many as from 200 to 300 go there in the evening; and the Standard,
Pimlico, will hold from 400 to 450 people, and I’ve seen that full for
nights together. There they only have merely a platform, and seldom do
ballets, or Grecian statues, dancing, gymnastics, and various other
entertainments, such as ventriloquism. There the admission is 4_d._,
and on benefit occasions 6_d._”