“Houghton’s gang make the tour of the watering-places every year. I’ve been to Brighton with them, and we did pretty well there in the fine season, making sure of 30s. a-week a man; and it’s work that continues all the year round, for when it’s fine weather we do pitching, and when it’s wet we divide a school into parties of two, and go busking at the public-houses.”
The following comic dialogue was composed by the “professional” who was kind enough to favour me with his statement:—
“We are finishing a song, and after the song we generally do a sympathy, as we calls it (a symphony, you know); and when I’ve finished, Jim, my mate, keeps on beating the tambourine, as if he couldn’t leave off. Then I turn round to him and say, ‘By golly, if you don’t leave off, I’ll broke you over de jaw.’ He answers, ‘Go on, dig a hole and bury yourself.’ Then I say, ‘Why don’t you ’splain yourself properly.’ Then he keeps on playing still, and I say, ‘Can’t you leave off, nigger?’ and he replies, ‘I’m trying to broke my trowsers.’ Then he leaves off, and I say, ‘What de debil do you do dat for?’ and he says, ‘Because I belong to de boulding (building) society.’ Then I puts another question, and then begins this dialogue:—
“He says, ‘I’m going to sustire from dis profession.’ ‘What shall you do den?’ ‘I’m going to be a boulder.’ ‘Go along! what shall you build?’ ‘I’m going to be a boulder of trousers.’ ‘By golly, you shall bould me a pair den.’ ‘Well, den, how would you like dem made? would you like dem with high-pointed collars, full bozomed, and nice wristbands?’ ‘What, de trowsems?’ ‘Made of lining nor calico?’ ‘What! lining or calico trowsems?’ ‘No! shirt!’ ‘Why, you neber said a word about shirt!’ ‘By golly, you did though.’ ‘Well, den, bould me a shirt.’ ‘Well, den, how would yer like it? will you like it with nice square toes, and bilingtary heels?’ ‘What! bilingtary heels shirts?’ ‘With a row of hobnails?’ Then I turn round in a passion, and cry, ‘By golly, I can’t stand this! What! hobnails shirt?’ ‘No; I was talking about a pair of boots.’ ‘Now, you neber said a word about boots.’ ‘Oh yes, I did.’ Then I get into a passion, and afterwards say, ‘Well, bould me a pair of boots: now mind, you say a pair of boots.’ ‘Yes. Well, how would you like dem boulded? Newmarket cut, rolling collar, face of welwet?’ Then I say, aside, ‘What! rolling collar and faced with welwet boots?’ and he continues, ‘With pockets in de tail, and two row of gold buttons?’ ‘What! pockets in de tail, and two row of gold button boots? By golly, dat’s a coat.’ ‘Yes; didn’t you say a coat?’ ‘Neber spoke a word about coat in all my life. Did I?’ (that to the audience). ‘Yes, ob course yer did.’ Then I get into a passion again, but at last I say, ‘Well, den, bould me a coat.’ ‘Well, how would yer like it? with a nice high crown?’ Then I say, aside, ‘What! a high-crowned coat?’ ‘With a nice cork body, patent Paris nap, and silk lining, with a return-up rim?’ ‘What! turn-up rim coat? Golly, dat’s a hat!’ ‘Yas.’ ‘Neber spoked a work about a hat.’ ‘Oh, yer did now.’ Then I get excited again; but at last say, ‘Well, den, bould me a hat.’ ‘Well, den, how would you like it? Seben story high, with a nice green waterbutt behind, and de nice palings round the garden?’ ‘What! de palings round de garden of a hat?’ ‘No; I said de house.’ ‘By golly, you said hat!’ ‘No; I said de house.’ ‘By golly, you said hat!’ Then we get into a terrific passion, and he gets up and hits my tambourine, and say, ‘By golly, you said de house!’ and I get up and hit him with the banjo on the head, and cry, ‘By golly, you said a hat!’ Then, in the height of my excitement, I turn to the people, and ask, ‘Didn’t he say a hat?’ Of course they don’t answer, and I conclude I must have made a mistake, so I reply, ‘Well, den, bould me a house.’ ‘Well, den, how would you like it made? Of the best elm, with de inscription-plate on the lid, tree rows of nails, and handles at each side?’ ‘Well, by golly, dat’s a coffin!’ ‘Yas, Jim.’ ‘What do yer tink I wants a coffin for?’ ‘Why, because you gets in such a passion, I thought you’d going to die.’ Then I get sulky, and growl out, ‘Well, den, go on wid de consort.’”
Street Glee-Singers.
An experienced street vocalist of the better kind, upon whose statements I satisfied myself that every reliance might be placed, described to me the present condition of his calling. He was accompanied by his wife.
“I have been in the profession of a vocalist,” he said, “for twenty-five years. Before that I was a concert-singer. I was not brought up to the profession; I was a shipping agent, but I married a concert-singer, and then followed the profession. I was young, and a little stage-struck,”—(“Rather,” said his wife, smiling, “he was struck with those who were on the stage”)—“and so I abandoned the ship-agency. I have tried my fortune on the stage as a singer, and can’t say but what I have succeeded. In fact, my wife and I have taken more than any two singers that have ever appeared in the humble way. We have been street vocalists for twenty-five years. We sing solos, duets, and glees, and only at night. When we started, the class of songs was very different to what it is now. We were styled ‘the Royal Glee-singers.’ ‘Cherry ripe,’ ‘Meet me by moonlight,’ ‘Sweet home,’ were popular then. Haynes Bailey’s ballads were popular, and much of Bishop’s music; as, indeed, it is still. Barnett’s or Lee’s music, however, is now more approved in the concert-rooms than Bishop’s. Our plan was, and is, to inquire at gentlemen’s houses if they wish to hear glee or solo singing, and to sing in the street or in the halls, as well as at parties. When we first commenced we have made 3l. and 3l. 10s. in a night this way; but that was on extraordinary occasions; and 3l. a-week might be the average earnings, take the year through. These earnings continued eight or ten years, and then fell off. Other amusements attracted attention. Now, my wife, my daughter, and I may make 25s. a-week by open-air singing. Concert-singing is extra, and the best payment is a crown per head a night for low-priced concerts. The inferior vocalists get 4s., 3s., 2s. 6d., and some as low as 2s. Very many who sing at concerts have received a high musical education; but the profession is so overstocked, that excellent singers are compelled to take poor engagements.” The better sort of cheap concert-singers, the man and wife both agreed in stating, were a well-conducted body of people, often struggling for a very poor maintenance, the women rarely being improper characters. “But now,” said the husband, “John Bull’s taste is inclined to the brutal and filthy. Some of the ‘character songs,’ such as ‘Sam Hall,’ ‘Jack Sheppard,’ and others, are so indelicate that a respectable man ought not to take his wife and daughters to see them. The men who sing character songs are the worst class of singers, both as regards character and skill; they are generally loose fellows; some are what is called ‘fancy men,’ persons supported wholly or partly by women of the town. I attempted once to give concerts without these low-character singings; but it did not succeed, for I was alone in the attempt. I believe there are not more than half-a-dozen street vocalists of the same class as ourselves. They are respectable persons; and certainly open-air singing, as we practise it, is more respectable than popular concert-singing as now carried on. No one would be allowed to sing such songs in the streets. The ‘character’ concerts are attended generally by mechanics and their families; there are more males than females among the audiences.”
Street Ballad-Singers, or Chaunters.
The street classes that are still undescribed are the lower class of street singers, the Street Artists, the Writers without Hands, and the Street Exhibition-keepers. I shall begin with the Street Singers.