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I left the employ of my friend the Frenchman, and joined “Mother” Beach’s “grand theatrical combination.” The business was formerly owned by Mr. Beach, and at his death the widow undertook the management of the concern, with assistance from her son William, whose stage cognomen was “Little Billy Beach.” Mr. Beach, junior, was a better class comedian. The company consisted of, in addition to the last-named, Tom Smith, Jonas Wright, Edward Tate, Jack Buckley, John Spencer, Arthur Bland and myself, and a quartette of ladies, viz.—“Bella,” afterwards Mrs. William Beach; Ann Tracey, afterwards Mrs. John Spencer; and Mrs. Wright and “Mother” Beach, who were sisters. Certainly not a very powerful company as regards numbers! We visited such towns as Batley, Adwalton, Gomersal, &c. Well do I remember being with the company at the Roberttown Races. Races were not actually run there at the time of our visit, but they had been, and the name was kept up. It was really the Feast or Tide, for which Roberttown was somewhat notorious, and the old race course was used for the fair ground. There was a conglomeration of scores of twopenny circuses, penny “gaffs”, round-abouts, swings, cocoa-nut shies, shooting ranges, &c. People flocked from far and near to the Fair. Our company made a great “hit.” It was the custom for a few of us, myself included, to promenade in front of the assembled crowd, in “full dress,” and then, after we had executed a picturesque Indian dance, the manager would strongly recommend the people to “Come forward, ladies and gentlemen, the show’s just a-going to begin.” The performance consisted of a short play, a comic song by “Billy,” and a portion of the pantomime, “Jack and the Beanstalk,” the whole lasting under half-an-hour. We gave about a score performances a day: it was very hard work, and, what was more, hot weather. I don’t want to figure in these pages as a champion boozer—for I know that the Herald is a warm advocate of temperance principles;—but it is nevertheless a fact that one hot day I drank no less than three shillings’ worth of “shandy-gaff,” at a penny per pint. It was dry work I can tell you, and made a dry stomach. Just before the close of the fair, strangely enough, there was a split in our ranks owing to the “matron” having engaged new blood, in the shape of three fellows—Harry McMillan, Tom Harding, and Paddy Crotty—who were to play the leading parts. It has always been said that much jealousy exists among the theatrical profession, and jealousy existed and caused an “eruption” among us. We had a “regular rumpus,” and Spencer, Buckley, and myself seceded and “set up” on our own account. In the evening of the very day of the upheaval, we made a pitch on the greensward opposite to the theatre we had seceded from. Spencer, I ought to mention here, was “the great man of strength;” Buckley, the “marvellous jumper;” while I myself filled a double role—being both the “clown” and “cashier” of the establishment. The latter is generally a safe post to hold. Spencer would willingly allow a stone to be broken on his chest with a sledge hammer, bend bars of iron across his arm, and the like; and Buckley would volunteer to jump over as many as five boat horses. But now it comes to myself. I have to confess I was always rather backward at coming forward. Suffice it to say that I didn’t make a bad clown; which, perhaps, is not so much to be wondered at seeing that I was said to have been “born so.” Our entertainment took immensely. We removed to Skelmanthorpe, near Denby Dale, where we put the inhabitants into a state of great excitement. On a large board we writ in chalk that on such a night we would “give a wonderful entertainment” in the backyard of the tavern at which we were staying; John Spencer, the great man of strength, would pull against five horses, and as a grand finale, Jack Buckley would jump over five horses, and a cab thrown in. I, albeit the poor clown, saw that this was a gigantic fraud, and, fearing unpleasant consequences, I cast about for some scheme to make our position safe. I arranged with a policeman, by putting half-a-crown into his hand (from behind, of course) for him to show himself in the backyard just as that part of the performance was commencing, and solemnly pretend to stop the performance in the course of duty. Well, the entertainment was begun before a crowded “house,” and when the particular part in question was coming off, Mr. Policeman, true to his promise, stepped forward, and said he would not see anybody killed. Spencer had got ready to draw against one horse when he was interfered with by the gentleman in blue—good soul! There’s many a warm heart beats beneath blue cloth and plated buttons. The audience took as gospel the interference on the part of the law, and duly dispersed after witnessing other “harmless” portions of the entertainment.