“The pole is fixed very tightly in a socket in my waistband, and it takes two men to pull it out, for it gets jammed in with his force on a-top of it. The danger is more with the bottom one than the one a-top, though few people would think so. You see, if he falls off, he is sure to light on his feet like a cat; for we’re taught to this trick; and a man can jump off a place thirty feet high, without hurting himself, easy. Now if the people was to go frontwards, it would be all up with me, because with the leverage and its being fixed so tight to my stomach, there’s no help for it, for it would be sure to rip me up and tear out my entrails. I have to keep my eyes about me, for if it goes too fur, I could never regain the balance again. But it’s easy enough when you’re accustomed to it.
“The one that goes up the pole can always see into the drawing-rooms, and he’ll tell us where it’s good to go and get any money, for he can see the people peeping behind the curtains; and they generally give when they find they are discovered. It’s part of his work to glance his eyes about him, and then he calls out whilst he is up, ‘to the right,’ or ‘the left,’ as it may be; and although the crowd don’t understand him, we do.
“Our gang generally prefer performing in the West-end, because there’s more ‘calls’ there. Gentlemen looking out of window see us, and call to us to stop and perform; but we don’t trust to them, even, but make a collection when the performance is half over; and if it’s good we continue, and make two or three collections during the exhibition. What we consider a good collection is 7s. or 8s.; and for that we do the whole performance. And besides, we get what we call ‘ringings’ afterwards; that’s halfpence that are thrown into the ring. Sometimes we get 10s. altogether, and sometimes more and sometimes less; though it’s a very poor pitch if it’s not up to 5s. I’m talking of a big pitch, when we go through all our ‘slang,’ as we say. But then we have our little pitches, which don’t last more than a quarter of an hour—our flying pitches, as we call them, and for them 5s. is an out-and-outer, and we are well contented if we get half-a-crown. We usually reckon about twenty pitches a-day, that’s eight before dinner and twelve after. It depends greatly upon the holidays as to what we makes in the days. If there’s any fairs or feasts going on we do better. There’s two days in the week we reckon nothing, that’s Friday and Saturday. Friday’s little good all day long, and Saturday’s only good after six o’clock, when wages have been paid. My share may on the average come to this:—Monday, about 7s. or 8s., and the same for Tuesday. Then Wednesday and Thursday it falls off again, perhaps 3s. or 4s.; and Friday ain’t worth much; no more is Saturday. We used to go to Sydenham on Saturdays, and we would find the gents there; but now it’s getting too late, and the price to the Palace is only 2s. 6d., when it used to be 5s., and that makes a wonderful difference to us. And yet we like the poor people better than the rich, for it’s the half-pence that tells up best. Perhaps we might take a half-sovereign, but it’s very rare, and since 1853 I don’t remember taking more than twenty of them. There was a Princess—I’m sure I’ve forgotten her name, but she was German, and she used to live in Grosvenor-square—she used to give us half-a-sovereign every Monday during three months she was in London. The servants was ordered to tell us to come every Monday at three o’clock, and we always did; and even though there was nobody looking, we used to play all the same; and as soon as the drum ceased playing, there was the money brought out to us. We continued playing to her till we was told she had gone away. We have also had sovereign calls. When my gang was in the Isle of Wight, Lord Y—— has often give us a sovereign, and plenty to eat and drink as well.
“I can’t say but what it’s as good as a hundred a-year to me; but I can’t say, it’s the same with all posturers: for you see I can talk French, and if there’s any foreigners in the crowd I can talk to them, and they are sure to give something. But most posturers make a good living, and if they look out for it, there are few but make 30s. a-week.
“Posturing as it is called (some people call it contortionists, that’s a new name; a Chinese nondescript—that’s the first name it came out as, although what we calls posturing is a man as can sit upon nothing; as, for instance, when he’s on the back of two chairs and does a split with his legs stretched out and sitting on nothing like)—posturing is reckoned the healthiest life there is, because we never get the rheumatics; and another thing, we always eat hearty. We often put on wet dresses, such as at a fair, when they’ve been washed out clean, and we put them on before they’re dry, and that’s what gives the rheumatism; but we are always in such a perspiration that it never affects us. It’s very violent exercise, and at night we feels it in our thighs more than anywhere, so that if it’s damp or cold weather it hurts us to sit down. If it’s wet weather, or showery, we usually get up stiff in the morning, and then we have to ‘crick’ each other before we go out, and practise in our bed-rooms. On the Sunday we also go out and practise, either in a field, or at the ‘Tan’ in Bermondsey. We used to go to the ‘Hops’ in Maiden-lane, but that’s done away with now.
“When we go out performing, we always take our dresses out with us, and we have our regular houses appointed, according to what part of the town we play in, if in London; and we have one pint of beer a man, and put on our costume, and leave our clothes behind us. Every morning we put on a clean dress, so we are obliged to have two of them, and whilst we are wearing one the other is being washed. Some of our men is married, and their wives wash for them, but them as isn’t give the dress to anybody who wants a job.
“Accidents are very rare with posturers. We often put our hip-bone out, but that’s soon put right again, and we are at work in a week. All our bones are loose like, and we can pull one another in, without having no pullies. One of my gang broke his leg at Chatham race-course, through the grass being slippery, and he was pitched down from three high; but we paid him his share, just the same as if he was out with us;—it wouldn’t do if we didn’t, as a person wouldn’t mount in bad weather. That man is getting on nicely,—he walks with a crutch though,—but he’ll be right in another month, and then he’ll only be put to light work till he’s strong. He ought not to be walking out yet, but he’s so daring there’s no restraining him. I, too, once broke my arm. I am a hand-jumper; that is, I a’most always light on my hands when I jump. I was on a chair on a top of a table, and I had to get into the chair and do what we call the frog, and jump off it, coming down on my hands. Everything depends upon how you hold your arms, and I was careless, and didn’t pay attention, and my arm snapped just below the elbow. I couldn’t work for three months. I was at Beauvais, in France, at the time, but the circus I was with supported me.
“My father’s very near seventy-six, and he has been a tumbler for fifty years; my children are staying with him, and he’s angry that I won’t bring them up to it: but I want them to be some trade or another, because I don’t like the life for them. There’s so much suffering before they begin tumbling, and then there’s great temptation to drink, and such-like. I’d sooner send them to school, than let them get their living out of the streets. I’ve one boy and two girls. They’re always at it at home, indeed; father and my sister-in-law say they can’t keep them from it. The boy’s very nimble.
“In the winter time we generally goes to the theatres. We are a’most always engaged for the pantomimes, to do the sprites. We always reckon it a good thirteen-weeks’ job, but in the country it’s only a month. If we don’t apply for the job they come after us. The sprites in a pantomime is quite a new style, and we are the only chaps that can do it,—the posturers and tumblers. In some theatres they find the dresses. Last winter I was at Liverpool, and wore a green dress, spangled all over, which belonged to Mr. Copeland, the manager. We never speak in the play, but just merely rush on, and throw somersaults, and frogs, and such-like, and then rush off again. Little Wheeler, the greatest tumbler of the day, was a posturer in the streets, and now he’s in France doing his 10l. a-week, engaged for three years.”