University of Virginia Library

"VIC. GALLERY."

On a good attractive night, the rush of costers
to the threepenny gallery of the Coburg (better
known as "the Vic") is peculiar and almost
awful.

The long zig-zag staircase that leads to the
pay box is crowded to suffocation at least an
hour before the theatre is opened; but, on the
occasion of a piece with a good murder in it,
the crowd will frequently collect as early as
three o'clock in the afternoon. Lads stand
upon the broad wooden bannisters about 50 feet
from the ground, and jump on each others'
backs, or adopt any expedient they can think of
to obtain a good place.

The walls of the well-staircase having a
remarkably fine echo, and the wooden floor of
the steps serving as a sounding board, the
shouting, whistling, and quarrelling of the
impatient young costers is increased tenfold.
If, as sometimes happens, a song with a chorus
is started, the ears positively ache with the din,
and when the chant has finished it seems as
though a sudden silence had fallen on the
people. To the centre of the road, and all round
the door, the mob is in a ferment of excite-
ment, and no sooner is the money-taker at his
post than the most frightful rush takes place,
every one heaving with his shoulder at the back
of the person immediately in front of him.
The girls shriek, men shout, and a nervous fear
is felt lest the massive staircase should fall in
with the weight of the throng, as it lately did
with the most terrible results. If a hat
tumbles from the top of the staircase, a hundred
hands snatch at it as it descends. When it is
caught a voice roars above the tumult, "All
right, Bill, I've got it" — for they all seem to
know one another — "Keep us a pitch and I'll
bring it."

To any one unaccustomed to be pressed flat
it would be impossible to enter with the mob.
To see the sight in the gallery it is better to
wait until the first piece is over. The ham-
sandwich men and pig-trotter women will give
you notice when the time is come, for with the
first clatter of the descending footsteps they
commence their cries.

There are few grown-up men that go to the
"Vic" gallery. The generality of the visitors
are lads from about twelve to three-and-twenty,
and though a few black-faced sweeps or whitey-
brown dustmen may be among the throng, the
gallery audience consists mainly of costermon-
gers. Young girls, too, are very plentiful, only
one-third of whom now take their babies, owing
to the new regulation of charging half-price for
infants. At the foot of the staircase stands a
group of boys begging for the return checks,
which they sell again for 1½d. or 1d., according
to the lateness of the hour.

At each step up the well-staircase the warmth
and stench increase, until by the time one
reaches the gallery doorway, a furnace-heat
rushes out through the entrance that seems to
force you backwards, whilst the odour positively
prevents respiration. The mob on the landing,
standing on tiptoe and closely wedged together,
resists any civil attempt at gaining a glimpse of
the stage, and yet a coster lad will rush up,
elbow his way into the crowd, then jump up on
to the shoulders of those before him, and sud-
denly disappear into the body of the gallery.

The gallery at "the Vic" is one of the
largest in London. It will hold from 1500 to
2000 people, and runs back to so great a
distance, that the end of it is lost in shadow,
excepting where the little gas-jets, against the
wall, light up the two or three faces around
them. When the gallery is well packed, it is
usual to see piles of boys on each others
shoulders at the back, while on the partition

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boards, dividing off the slips, lads will pitch
themselves, despite the spikes.

As you look up the vast slanting mass of
heads from the upper boxes, each one appears
on the move. The huge black heap, dotted
with faces, and spotted with white shirt sleeves,
almost pains the eye to look at, and should a
clapping of hands commence, the twinkling
nearly blinds you. It is the fashion with the
mob to take off their coats; and the cross-braces
on the backs of some, and the bare shoulders
peeping out of the ragged shirts of others, are
the only variety to be found. The bonnets of
the "ladies" are hung over the iron railing in
front, their numbers nearly hiding the panels,
and one of the amusements of the lads in the
back seats consists in pitching orange peel or
nutshells into them, a good aim being rewarded
with a shout of laughter.

When the orchestra begins playing, before
"the gods" have settled into their seats, it is
impossible to hear a note of music. The
puffed-out cheeks of the trumpeters, and the
raised drumsticks tell you that the overture has
commenced, but no tune is to be heard. An
occasional burst of the full band being caught
by gushes, as if a high wind were raging.
Recognitions take place every moment, and
"Bill Smith" is called to in a loud voice from
one side, and a shout in answer from the other
asks "What's up?" Or family secrets are
revealed, and "Bob Triller" is asked where
"Sal" is, and replies amid a roar of laughter,
that she is "a-larning the pynanney."

By-and-by a youngster, who has come in late,
jumps up over the shoulders at the door, and
doubling himself into a ball, rolls down over
the heads in front, leaving a trail of commotion
for each one as he passes aims a blow at the
fellow. Presently a fight is sure to begin, and
then every one rises from his seat whistling and
shouting; three or four pairs of arms fall to,
the audience waving their hands till the moving
mass seems like microscopic eels in paste. But
the commotion ceases suddenly on the rising of
the curtain, and then the cries of "Silence!"
"Ord-a-a-r!" "Ord-a-a-r!" make more noise
than ever.

The "Vic" gallery is not to be moved by
touching sentiment. They prefer vigorous exer-
cise to any emotional speech. "The Child of the
Storm's" declaration that she would share her
father's "death or imprisonment as her duty,"
had no effect at all, compared with the split in
the hornpipe. The shrill whistling and brayvos
that followed the tar's performance showed how
highly it was relished, and one "god" went so
far as to ask "how it was done." The comic
actor kicking a dozen Polish peasants was
encored, but the grand banquet of the Czar
of all the Russias only produced merriment,
and a request that he would "give them a
bit" was made directly the Emperor took the
willow-patterned plate in his hand. All affect-
ing situations were sure to be interrupted by
cries of "orda-a-r;" and the lady begging
for her father's life was told to "speak up
old gal;" though when the heroine of the
"dummestic dreamer" (as they call it) told
the general of all the Cossack forces "not to
be a fool," the uproar of approbation grew
greater than ever, — and when the lady turned
up her swan's-down cuffs, and seizing four
Russian soldiers shook them successively by
the collar, then the enthusiasm knew no bounds,
and the cries of "Bray-vo Vincent! Go it my
tulip!" resounded from every throat.

Altogether the gallery audience do not seem
to be of a gentle nature. One poor little lad
shouted out in a crying tone, "that he couldn't
see," and instantly a dozen voices demanded
"that he should be thrown over."

Whilst the pieces are going on, brown, flat
bottles are frequently raised to the mouth, and
between the acts a man with a tin can, glitter-
ing in the gas-light, goes round crying,
"Port-a-a-a-r! who's for port-a-a-a-r." As
the heat increased the faces grew bright red,
every bonnet was taken off, and ladies could
be seen wiping the perspiration from their
cheeks with the play-bills.

No delay between the pieces will be allowed,
and should the interval appear too long, some
one will shout out — referring to the curtain —
"Pull up that there winder blind!" or they
will call to the orchestra, saying, "Now then
you catgut-scrapers! Let's have a ha'purth
of liveliness." Neither will they suffer a play
to proceed until they have a good view of the
stage, and "Higher the blue," is constantly
shouted, when the sky is too low, or "Light
up the moon," when the transparency is rather
dim.

The dances and comic songs, between the
pieces, are liked better than anything else. A
highland fling is certain to be repeated, and a
stamping of feet will accompany the tune, and
a shrill whistling, keep time through the entire
performance.

But the grand hit of the evening is always
when a song is sung to which the entire gallery
can join in chorus. Then a deep silence pre-
vails all through the stanzas. Should any
burst in before his time, a shout of "orda-a-r"
is raised, and the intruder put down by a
thousand indignant cries. At the proper time,
however, the throats of the mob burst forth in
all their strength. The most deafening noise
breaks out suddenly, while the cat-calls keep
up the tune, and an imitation of a dozen Mr.
Punches squeak out the words. Some actors
at the minor theatres make a great point of
this, and in the bill upon the night of my visit,
under the title of "There's a good time
coming, boys," there was printed, "assisted
by the most numerous and effective chorus in
the metropolis — " meaning the whole of the
gallery. The singer himself started the mob,
saying, "Now then, the Exeter Hall touch if
you please gentlemen," and beat time with
his hand, parodying M. Jullien with his baton.
An "angcore" on such occasions is always

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demanded, and, despite a few murmurs of
"change it to `Duck-legged Dick,' " invariably
insisted on.