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.”
In answer to my questions he gave me the following statement:—
“I am a street reciter, that is, I go about the streets and play Shakspeare’s tragedies, and selections from poets. The boys in the streets call me Shakspeare. The first time they called me so I smiled at them, and was honoured by the name, though it’s only passing! it’s only fleet!
“I was born in Dublin, and my father was in the army, and my mother was a lady’s nurse and midwife, and used to go out on urgent business, but only to ladies of the higher classes. My mother died in Dublin, and my father left the army and became a turnkey in Dublin prison. Father left Dublin when I was about ten years of age, and went to Manchester. Then I went into an office—a herring-store, which had agents at Yarmouth and other fishing-ports; and there I had to do writing. Summer-time was our busiest time, for we used to have to sit up at night waiting for the trains to come in with the fish. I used to get 3d. an hour for every hour we worked over, and 6d. in the morning for coffee, and 8s. 6d. standing wages, whether I worked or played. I know all about herrings and herring-packing, for I was two years there, and the master was like a father to me, and would give me money many times, Christmas-boxes, and new-years’ gifts, and such-like. I might have been there now, and foreman by this time, in the Isle of Man, where we had a house, only I was too foolish—going to theatres and such-like.
“You see, I used, before I went out as clerk, to go to a school in Manchester, where the master taught recitation. We used to speak pieces from Uwin’s ‘Elocution,’ and we had to get a piece off to elocution, and attitude, and position; indeed, elocution may be said to be position and attitude. We used to do ‘The Downfall of Poland,’ and ‘Lord Ullen’s Daughter,’ and ‘My name is Norval,’ and several others—‘Rolla,’ and all them. Then we used to speak them one at a time, and occasionally we would take different parts, such as the ‘Quarrel of Brutus,’ and ‘Cassius,’ and ‘Rolla,’ and the ‘American Patriot,’ and such-like. I will not boast of myself, but I was one of the best in the class, though since I have gone out in the streets it has spoiled my voice and my inclinations, for the people likes shouting. I have had as many as 500 persons round me in the Walworth-road at one time, and we got 4s. between us; and then we lost several halfpence, for it was night, and we could not see the money that was thrown into the ring. We did the ‘Gipsy’s Revenge,’ and ‘Othello’s Apology.’
“Whilst I was at the herring-stores I used to be very fond of the theatre, and I’d go there every night if I could, and I did nearly manage to be there every evening. I’d save up my money, and if I’d none I’d go to my master and ask him to let me have a few halfpence; and I’ve even wanted to go to the play so much that, when I couldn’t get any money, I’d sell my clothes to go. Master used to caution me, and say that the theatre would ruin me, and I’m sure it has. When my master would tell me to stop and do the books, I’d only just run them over at night and cast them up as quickly as I could, and then I’d run out and go to the twopenny theatre on the Victoria-bridge, Manchester. Sometimes I used to perform there for Mr. Row, who was the proprietor. It was what is called a travelling ‘slang,’ a booth erected temporarily. I did William Tell’s son, and I’ve also done the ‘Bloody Child’ in Macbeth, and go on with the witches. It was a very little stage, but with very nice scenery, and shift-scenes and all, the same as any other theatre. On a Saturday night he used to have as many as six houses; start off at three o’clock, after the factory hands had been paid off. I never had any money for acting, for though he offered me half-a-sovereign a-week to come and take a part, yet I wouldn’t accept of it, for I only did it for my own amusement like. They used to call me King Dick.
“My master knew I went to the theatre to act, for he sent one of the boys to follow me, and he went in front and saw me acting in Macbeth, and he went and told master, because, just as the second act was over, he came right behind the scenes and ordered me out, and told me I’d have to get another situation if I went there any more. He took me home and finished the books, and the next morning I told him I’d leave, for I felt as if it was my sole ambition to get on to the stage, or even put my foot on it; I was so enamoured of it. And it is the same now, for I’d do anything to get engaged—it’s as if a spell was on me. Just before I left he besought me to remain with him, and said that I was a useful hand to him, and a good boy when I liked, and that he wanted to make a gentleman of me. He was so fond of me that he often gave me money himself to go to a theatre; but he said too much of it was bad.
“After I left him I went with another boy to go to sea. I forgot all about the theatre, for it agitated my feelings when I left him, and I wished I had been back, for I’d been with him eighteen months, and he’d been like a father to me; but I was too ashamed to see him again. This boy and me started for Scarborough, and he had no money, and I had 5s., that was all between us; but I had a black suit of clothes cost 2l. 10s., which my master had made me a present of, for excelling the foreman in making up the books—for the foreman was 208 hands of herrings (five herrings make a hand) short in one week; and then I took the books the next week, and I was only four herrings short, and master was so pleased that he bestowed upon me a present of a new suit of clothes.
“I parted with my companion for this reason. One day, after we had been walking, we were so hungry we could eat anything, and I had been accustomed to never being hungry, so that I was very much exhausted from fatigue, for we had walked thirty miles that day, only eating one piece of bread, which I got at a public-house where I gave a recitation. We came to a farm-house at a place called Bishop Wilton, in Yorkshire, and he went inside the door to beg for something to eat. There was a young lady came out and talked to him and gave him some bread, and then she saw me and had compassion on me, because I looked respectable and was so miserable. We told her we were cousins, and had left our fathers and mothers (for we didn’t like to say we had left our masters), and she said, ‘Poor boys! your parents will be fretting after you; I’d go back, if I was you.’ She gave him a large bit of bread, and then she gave me a big bit of cold plum-pudding. My companion wanted half my pudding besides his own bread, and I preferred to give him part of the pudding and not have any bread; but he wouldn’t, and struck out at me. I returned it, and then we fought, and an old woman came out with a stick and beat us both, and said we were incorrigible young beggars, and couldn’t be very hungry or we shouldn’t fight that way. Then I parted from my companion, and he took the direct road to Scarborough, and I went to York. I saw him afterwards when I returned to Manchester. His father left him 200l., and he’s doing very well in a good situation in a commercial office.