Street reciters are somewhat scarce now-a-days, and I was a long time
before meeting with one; for though I could always trace them through
their wanderings about the streets, and learn where they had been
seen the night before, still I could never find one myself. I believe
there are not more than ten lads in London,--for they seem to be all
lads,--who are earning a livelihood by street-reciting.
At length I heard that some street actors, as they call themselves,
lived in a court in the City. There were two of them--one a lad, who
was dressed in a man’s ragged coat and burst boots, and tucked-up
trowsers, and seemingly in a state of great want; and the other
decently enough attired in a black paletot with a flash white-and-red
handkerchief, or “fogle,” as the costermongers call it, jauntily
arranged so as to bulge over the closely-buttoned collar of his coat.
There was a priggish look about the latter lad, while his manner
was “cute,” and smacked of Petticoat-lane; and though the other one
seemed to slink back, _he_ pushed himself saucily forward, and at once
informed me that he belonged “to the profession” of street declaimer.
“I and this other boy goes out together,” he said, as he took a short
pipe from his mouth; and in proof of his assertion, he volunteered that
they should on the spot give me a specimen of their histrionic powers.
I preferred listening to the modest boy. He was an extremely
good-looking lad, and spoke in a soft voice, almost like a girl’s. He
had a bright, cheerful face, and a skin so transparent and healthy, and
altogether appeared so different from the generality of street lads,
that I felt convinced that he had not long led a wandering life, and
that there was some mystery connected with his present pursuits. He
blushed when spoken to, and his answers were nervously civil.
When I had the better-natured boy alone with me, I found that he had
been well educated; and his statement will show that he was born of
respectable parents, and the reason why he took to his present course
of life. At first he seemed to be nervous, and little inclined to talk;
but as we became better acquainted, he chatted on even faster than
my pen could follow. He had picked up several of the set phrases of
theatrical parlance, such as, “But my dream has vanished in air;” or,
“I felt that a blight was on my happiness;” and delivered his words
in a romantic tone, as though he fancied he was acting on a stage. He
volunteered to show me his declamatory powers, and selected “Othello’s
Apology.” He went to the back of the room, and after throwing his
arms about him for a few seconds, and looking at the ceiling as if to
inspire himself, he started off.
Whilst he had been chatting to us his voice was--as I said before--like
a girl’s; but no sooner did he deliver his, “Most potent, grave, and
reverend Signiors,” than I was surprised to hear him assume a deep
stomachic voice--a style evidently founded upon the melo-dramatic
models at minor theatres. His good-looking face, however, became
flushed and excited during the delivery of the speech, his eyes rolled
about, and he passed his hands through his hair, combing it with his
fingers till it fell wildly about his neck like a mane.
When he had finished the speech he again relapsed into his quiet ways,
and resuming his former tone of voice, seemed to think that an apology
was requisite for the wildness of his acting, for he said, “When I act
Shakspeare I cannot restrain myself,--it seems to master my very soul.”
He had some little talent as an actor, but was possessed of more
memory than knowledge of the use of words. Like other performers, he
endeavoured to make his “points” by dropping his voice to almost a
whisper when he came to the passage, “I’ faith ’twas strange, ’twas
passing strange.”