A TALL, fine-looking young fellow, with a quantity of dark hair, which he wore tucked behind his ears, obliged me with his experience as a clown at the fairs. He came to me dressed in a fashionable "paletot," of a gingerbread colour, which, without being questioned on the subject, he told me he had bought in for .

I have seldom seen a finer-built youth than this clown, for he was proportioned like a statue. The peculiarity of his face was that, at the junction of the forehead with the nose there was a rising, instead of a hollow, somewhat like that which is seen in Roman antiquities.

His face, whilst talking, was entirely without emotion, and he detailed the business outside the show, on the parade, in a singsong voice, like a child saying its lesson; and although he often said "This makes "em shout with laughter," his own face remained as solemn as a parish clerk"s.

He furnished me with the following particulars of his life:—

"On and off, I"ve been clowning these year. Previous to that time, I have done busking in public-houses, and comic singing, and ballet performing at penny exhi- bitions; as well as parading outside shows at fairs. I"ve done clowning at near every place, at fairs and in the streets, along with a school of acrobats, and at circuses, and at penny gaffs, and at the Standard, and such-like. I commenced some years ago, at Enfield fair. It was a travelling concern I was with,—the "Thespian Temple," or Johnson"s Theatre,—where I was engaged to parade on the outside as a walking gentleman. There was no clown for the pantomime, for he had disappointed us, and of course they couldn"t get on without ; so, to keep the concern going, old Johnson, who knew I was a good tumbler, came up to me, and said "he had , and your must it;" which means,—We have no clown, and you must do it. So I done the clowning on the parade, and then, when I went inside, I"d put on a pair of Turkish trousers, and a long cloak, and hat and feathers, to play "Robert, duke of Normandy," in the piece.

You see the performances consisted of all gag. I don"t suppose anybody knows what the words are in the piece. Everybody at a show theatre is expected to do general business, and when you"re short of people (as we was at Johnson"s, for we played "Robert, duke of Normandy," with men and girls), Clown is expected to come on and slip a cloak over his dress, and act tragedy in the piece. We don"t make up so heavy for the clown for fairs, only a little dab of red on the cheeks, and powder on the face; so we"ve only just got to wipe off the "slop" when it"s in the way. You looks rather pale, that"s all. The dress is hidden by the we put over it.

The plot of "Robert, duke of Normandy," is this: He and his slave Piccolo come in; and after a little business between them, all gagging, he says, "Slave! get back to the castle!" he answers, "Your orders shall be attended to!" Then he says, "At the peril of your life, and prevent the fair Angeline to escape!" That"s the scene. In the , of Robert"s slaves attack his rival, and then Robert rushes in and pretends to save him. He cries "Hold! to !" The men go off, saying, "Well, we part as friends! when next we meet, we meet as foes!" As soon as Robert leaves the rival the lady comes in, and tells him she is flying from Robert"s castle, and that Robert has seduced her, and seeks her life. She tells him that the man who just left him is he. "It is false!" he says; "that is my friend!" She cries, "Test him!" "But how?" he asks. She replies," Follow me to the statue, at the bottom of the grove, and then I will tell you!" Then the comes on. Enter Robert and slave, and the marble statue discovered: that is, it is supposed to be, but it is only Angeline dressed up. He gives the slave instructions to put a ring on the finger of the statue,—for he is supposed to have dealings with Old Nick,

Elves of the mountain, dale, and dell,

This young maid to please within her cell,

Attend unto us, one and all—

Listen to your potent master"s call.

Then all of us at the sides put their fingers in their mouths and howl like Indians. there"s generally a cue given of "Now, demons." After that the heavy man says:—

You, young man, that knows no sin,

Appear as russet-booted Harlequin.

We called him russet-booted, because he had been playing the lover in the piece. At Richardson"s they called him "Spangled Harlequin," but old Johnson couldn"t do that, he hadn"t no wardrobe. Then the heavy man continues:—

And you, young maid, no longer pine,

Attend him as his faithful Columbine.

Then he goes on:—

Two more slaves will I rise from out the unfathom-

able deep,

Who for a long time have been in perpetual sleep;

They, too, shall share my boon—

Appear as Clown and tottering Pantaloon.

Now away! begin your magic sport,

And bring me back a good report.

Then I cried, "Hulloa! here we are!" and the sports begin.

"The , as we calls it—a dance, to use your terms—is Harlequin comes in with Columbine for a hornpipe. If he can"t dance, Clown, as soon as he begins, cries, "Here we are!" and rushes in and drives them off.

After that, Clown runs on and says, "Here we are!" and knocks Pantaloon down; who exclaims, "Oh! ain"t I got the tooth-ache! Clown says, "Let me feel your tooth. Oh, it"s quite loose! I"ll get a bit of string and soon have it out." Clown goes off for string, Pantaloon singing out, "Murder! murder!" Clown returns with string and a pistol, and then ties the string, and cries, "Here goes , and now it"s , and here goes ," and fires and pulls a wooden tooth, as big as your fist, with sharp prongs to it. I"ve had these teeth often as big as a quartern loaf, but I"m talking of my appearance. Pantaloon says, "Here, that"s my tooth!" and Clown replies. "So it is," and hits him on the head with it. Then he asks Pantaloon if he"s better; but he answers, "No, I"m worse. Oh! oh! I"ve got a cold in my gum!" Then a redhot poker is introduced, and he burns him with it all round the stage. That concludes the scene. Then there"s another trip, a wouldbe polka or so; and then comes the bundlescene. Enter a Yorkshireman—it"s mostly Harlequins do this, because most of the others are outside parading, to keep the crowd together—he"s got a smockfrock on and russet boots at Johnson"s, and he says, "I"ve coome up here to Lunnon to see my Dolly. I feel rather dry, and I"ll just gi" in here to get half-a-point of yale. I"ll just leave my bunnel outside, and keep a strict eye on it, for they say as how Lunnon has plenty of thieves in it." Enter Clown, very cautiously. He sees the bundle, and calls Pantaloon. He tells Pantaloon, "I must have it, because I want it." He goes and picks up the bundle, and says to Pantaloon, "I shouldn"t wonder but what this bundle belongs to——" "Me," the Yorkshireman says, and the Clown says, "Ah, I thought so;" and then he takes Pantaloon"s hand, and says, "Come along, little boy, we shall get into trouble," and leads him off. They come on again, and this time Clown tells Pantaloon to get it; so he goes and picks up the bundle, and Yorkshireman knocks him down. Clown runs off and Pantaloon after. Clown then returns on his belly, drawing himself on with his hands.

Now our pantomime"s done,

Here"s an end to our fun,

We shall shortly commence again:

Our tricks are o"er,

And we"re friends once more,

We shall shortly commence again.

Then the curtain falls, and Clown puts his head out on side and exclaims, "It"s all," and Pantaloon pops out at the other side and adds, "over."

The handing man, who has done Robert, then shouts out from the top, "Pass out!" in a sepulchral voice, and a door opens in the side of the stage for the people to leave by. That day I was with old Johnson—we used to call him "Snuffy Johnson," "cos he carried a lot of snuff in his waistcoat pocket—we were very busy, and there was a good many people waiting on the outside to come in, so we only did about of them regular performances; and then about o"clock in the evening the crowd got so great, old Johnson used to hollow through the parade-door, over people"s heads, "John Aderley," just as we had commenced playing, and that meant "Cut it short." We used to finish it up sharp then, and finish all up in or minutes. We used to knock Robert the Devil into a very little space, doing the scenes, but cutting them short; and as for the pantomime, we had scarcely commenced with " more slaves will I rise from out the unfathomable deep," than we were singing, "Our pantomime"s done, here"s an end to our fun." Sometimes the people would grumble awful, and at others they laughed to see how they was swindled.

I got on very fair on my appearance as Clown, considering the circumstances, but I had, you see, of the best parading comic men opposing me. There was Teddy W—— as Silly Billy, and Black Sambo as Black Fop, and Funny Felix as ring clown, and Steve Sanderson, another clown, at Frazier"s Circus, next door to us; and we didn"t stand much chance at clowning alongside of them, as they"re the best paraders out. Besides, Frazier"s booth took nearly all the ground up; and as we drawed up on the ground (that is, with the parade-carriages) late on Sunday evening, we were obliged to have a plot next to the Circus, and we had the town pump right in the audience part, close to the seat in the gallery, and the Obelisk—or rather a cross it is—took up side of the stage, which next day we used as the castle in Blue Beard, when the girl gets up on a ladder to the top of the railings, which had a shutter on "em, and that was Fatima looking out from the spire of the castle for her Salem. Ah! "twas a great hit, for we put an old scene round it, and it had a capital effect.

What we do when we go out clowning to a travelling theatre is this. This is what I did at Enfield: we arrived late and drawed up the parade-carriages on the ground, which the gov. had gone on a-head to secure. Then we went to sleep for awhile—pitched on a shutter underneath the parade-carriages, for it had been wet weather, and we couldn"t sleep on the canvas for the booth, for it had been sopped with rain at Edmonton fair. As soon as it was break of day we begun getting up the booth, and being short-handed it took us till o"clock before we was ready. we had to measure our distances and fix the parade-waggons. Then we planted our king pole on the in the centre; then we put our back-pole on the near the parade; then we put on our ridge at top, and our siderails; and then we put our side-ridges, and sling our rafters. We then roll the tilt up, which is for the roof, and it gets heavy with dirt, and we haul it up to the top and unroll it again and fasten it again; then we fix the sides up, with shutters about feet square, which you see on the top of the travelling parade-carriages. We fixes up the theatre and the seats which we take with us. All the scenes roll up, and is done up in bundles. The performers drop under the parade-waggons, and there"s a sacking up to divide the men"s part from the women. There"s a lookingglass—sometimes an old bit or a -penny starred, or any old thing we can get hold of—and the gov. gives you out your dress. We always provide our own slips and suchlike.

When we parade outside, it all depends upon what kind of Pantaloon you"ve got with you, as to what business you can make. When we come out on the parade all the company is together, and we march round, form a half-circle, or dress it, as we say, while the band plays "Rule Britannia," or some other operatic air. Then the manager generally calls out, "Now, Mr. Merryman, state the nature of the performances to be given here to-day." Then I come forward, and this is the

Then I begin spouting again and again, always ending up with "to be witnessed for the low charge of threepence." Then Pantaloon comes up to say what he"s going to do, and I give him the "nap," and knock him on his back. He cries "I"m down," and I turn him over and pick him up, and say, "And now you"re up." Then the company form a half set and do a quadrille. When they have scrambled through that, Clown will do a comic dance, and then some burlesque statues. This is the way them statues are done: I go inside and get a birch-broom, and put a large piece of tilt or old cloth round me, and stand just inside the curtains at the entrance from the parade, ready to come out when wanted. Then the male portion of the company get just to the top of the steps, and Pantaloon says to of them, "Did you speak?" He says, "When?" and Pantaloon says, "Now;" and the whole lot make a noise, hollowing out, "Oh, oh, oh!" as if they was astonished, but it"s only to attract attention. Then the gong strikes, and the trumpets flourishes, and everybody shouts, "Hi, hi! look here!" Then, naturally, all the people turn towards the caravan to see what"s up. Then they clear a passage-way from the front to the entrance and back, and bring me forth with this bit of cloth before me. The music flourishes again, and they make a tremendous tumult, crying out, "Look here! look here!" and when all are looking I drop the cloth, and then I stand in the position of Hercules, king of Clubs, with a birch-broom across my shoulders, and an old hat on a-top of my wig. Then the band strikes up the statue music, and I goes through the statues; such as Ajax defying the lightning, and Cain killing his brother Abel; and it finishes up with the fighting and dying Gladiator. As a finale I do a back-fall, and pretend to be dead. The company then picks me up and carry me, lying stiff, on their shoulders round the parade. They carry me inside, and shout out, "All in to begin; now we positively commence." Then they drive everybody in off the parade. When the public have taken their seats then we come strolling out, at a time, till we all get out on the parade again, because the place isn"t sufficiently full. It"s what we call "making a sally." The checktakers at the door prevent anybody leaving if they want to come out again.

Then I get up to some nonsense again. Perhaps I"ll get up a lot of boys out of the fair, and make "em sit on the parade in a row, and keep a school, as I call it. I get an old property fiddle, and I tell them, when I play they must sing. Then I give out a hymn. The bow has a lot of notches in it, and there"s a bit of wood sticking up in the fiddle; so that when I plays it goes "ricketty, ricketty," like. This is the hymn I gives out:—

When I can shoot my rifle clear

At pigeons in the skies,

I"ll bid farewell to pork and peas,

And live on pigeon pies.

Of course, when they sings, they make a horrible noise, or even if they dont, I begin to wallop them with my bow. I then tell them I must teach them something easier . Then I give them—

Alas! old Grimes is dead and gone,

We ne"er shall see him more;

He used to wear a old great coat

All buttoned down before.

Then I finish up by putting on the boys a lot of masks, and some have old soldiers" coats; and I give them implements of war, such as old brooms or sticks, and then I put them through their military exercises. I stand in front, with the birch-broom as my gun, and I tell them they must do as I do. Then I cry, "File arms," and all mark their own muskets. I tell them to lay them all down; and after they have laid down their arms I tell them to shoulder arms, which makes a shout, because they haven"t got no arms. boy, who is put up to it, says, "I"ve got no arms;" I go up to him and catch hold of his arms, and ask him what he calls "these here." Then I make him put them on his shoulders, and tell him, that"s "shoulder arms." Then I tell them to ground arms, and I do it at the time, stooping down and putting my arms on the ground. I then call them to attention, and up comes the Pantaloon on a basket-horse, and I tell them they are going to be reviewed by the Duke. I give them all the implements again, and put them to stand attention. Pantaloon gallops round them, reviewing. He wears a large flap cocked-hat and soldier"s old coat. He makes a bit of fun with his horse, making

This is the parade business that is most popular at fairs; we do a few other things, but they are all much of a muchness. It"s very hard work; and I have worked, since being with Snuffy Johnson, seventeen hours of a-day; but then we have not had so much to do on the outside. Sometimes I"ve been so tired at night, that I"ve actually laid down in my dress and never washed, but slept like that all night.

The general pay for a clown, during fairtime, is 5s. or 6s. a-day, but that usually ends in your moving on the first day; then 4s. on the second, and, perhaps, 3s. on the third. The reason is, that the second and third day is never so good as the first. The excuse is, that business is not so good, and expenses are heavy; and if you don"t like it, you needn"t come again. They don"t stand about what you agree for; for instance, if it"s a wet day and you don"t open, there"s no pay. Richardson"s used, when the old man was alive, to be more money, but now it"s as bad as the rest of "em. If you go on shares with a sharing company it averages about the same. We always share at the drum-head at night, when all"s over. It"s usually brought out between the stage and the bottom seat of the gallery. The master or missus counts out the money. The money on the drumhead may, if it"s a good fair, come to 16l. or 18l., or, as it most usually is, 9l. or 10l. I have known us to share 1l. a-piece afore now; and I"ve known what it is to take 10d. for a share. We usually take two fairs aweek, or we may stay a night or two after the fair"s over, and have a bespeak night. The wages of a clown comes to—if you average it—1l. a-week all the year round, and that"s puffing it at a good salary, and supposing you to be continually travelling. Very likely, at night we have to pull down the booth after performing all day, and be off that night to another fair—15 or 16 miles off it may be—and have to build up again by the next afternoon. The women always ride on the top of the parade carriages, and the men occasionally riding and shoving up behind the carriages up hill. The only comfort in travelling is a short pipe, and many a time I"ve drowned my woes and troubles in one.

The scene of sharing at the drum-head is usually this,—while the last performance is going on the missus counts up the money; and she is supposed to bring in all the money she has taken, but that we don"t know, and we are generally fiddled most tremendous. When the theatre"s empty, she, or him, generally says, "Now lads, please, now ladies! it"s getting late;" and when they have all mustered it"s generally the cry, "We"ve had a bad fair!" The people seldom speak. She then takes the number of the company,—we generally averages some sixteen performers,—and after doing so she commences sharing, taking up two or three shares, according to the groundrent; one then to herself for taking money; then for the husband being there, (for they don"t often perform); then they takes shares for the children, for they makes them go on for the fairies, and on our parade. Snuffy Johnson used to take two shares for the wardrobes and fittings, and that is the most reasonable of any of "em, for they mostly take double that; indeed, we always took six. Then there are two shares for ground-rent, and two for travelling expenses. The latter two shares depend entirely upon the fair; for the expenses are just the same whether we takes money or not, so that if it"s a bad fair, more has to be deducted, and that"s the worse for us, on both sides. That makes twelve or thirteen shares to be deducted before the men touch a penny for themselves. Any strolling professional who reads that will say, "Well, "tis very considerate; for it"s under the mark, and not over."

When we have finished at one fair, if we want to go to another the next day, as soon as the people have gone in for the last performance we commence taking down the paybox, and all the show-fittings on the outside, and all that isn"t wanted for the performance. As soon as the mummers have done their first slang, if they are not wanted in the pantomime they change themselves and go to work pulling down. When the pantomime"s over, every one helps till all"s packed up; then sharing takes place, and we tramp on by night to the next fair. We then camp as well as we can till daylight, if it isn"t morning already, and to work we go building for the fair; and in general, by the time we"ve done building, it"s time to open.

I"ve travelled with "Star"s Theatre Royal," and "Smith and Webster"s," (alias Richardson"s), and "Frederick"s Theatre," and "Baker"s Pavilion," and "Douglass"s travelling Shakspearian Saloon;" (he"s got scenes from Shakspear"s plays all round the front, and it"s the most splendid concern on the road), and I"ve done the comic business at all of them. They are all conducted on the same principle, and do the same kind of business, as that I"ve described to you.

When we"re travelling it depends upon the business as to what we eat. They talk of strolling actors living so jollily and well, but I never knew it fall to my share. What we call a mummer"s feed is potatoes and herrings, and they always look out for going into a town where there"s plenty of fresh herrings. A fellow we called Nancy Dawson was the best hand at herrings. I"ve known him go into a tavern and ask for the bill of fare, and shout out, "Well, Landlord, what have you got for dinner? Perhaps he"d say, "There"s beef and veal, sir, very nice—just ready;" and then he"d say, "No, I"m sick of meat; just get me a nice bloater!" and if it came to much more than a penny there was a row. If we are doing bad business, and we pass a field of swedes, there"s a general rush for the pull. The best judges of turnips is strolling professionals. I recollect, in Hampshire, once getting into a swede field, and they was all blighted: we pulled up a hundred, I should think, but when we cut them open they was all flaxy inside, and we, after all, had to eat the rind. We couldn"t get a feed. Sausages and fagots (that"s made of all the stale sausages and savaloys, and unsightly bits of meat what won"t sell) is what we gets hold of principally. The women have to make shifts as we do. We always get plenty of beer, even when we can"t get money; for we can sing a song or so, and then the yokels stand something: besides, there"s hardly a town we go into without some of the yokels being stage-struck, and they feel quite delighted to be among the professionals, and will give us plenty of beer if we"ll talk to them about acting.

It"s impossible to say how many clowns there are working at canvas theatres. There"s so many meddling at it,—not good uns, but trying to be. I can mention fifty, I am sure, by name. I shouldn"t think you would exaggerate, if you was to say there was from one hundred and fifty to two hundred who call themselves clowns. Many of the first-rate clowns now in London have begun at strolling. There"s Herring, and Lewis, and Nelson, and plenty more, doing well now.

It"s a hard life, and many"s the time we squeedge a laugh out, when it"s like killing us to do it. I"ve never known a man break down at a fair, done up, for, you see, the beer keeps us up; but I"ve known one chap to faint on the parade from exhaustion, and then get up, as queer as could be, and draw twopence and go and have a fish and bread. A woman at an oyster-stall alongside of the theatre give him a drop of beer. He was hearty and hungry, and had only joined lately,—regular hard up; so he went two days without food. When we shared at night he went and bought a ham-bone, and actually eat himself asleep, for he dropped off with the bone in his hand.