From sawdust to Windsor Castle

By Whimsical Walker

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Title: From sawdust to Windsor Castle

Author: Whimsical Walker

Release date: August 27, 2025 [eBook #76741]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Stanley Paul & Co, 1922

Credits: deaurider and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM SAWDUST TO WINDSOR CASTLE ***

Transcriber’s Note.

A jump in the narrative between pages 25 and 26 suggests some text
was lost in the printing process. A note has been inserted at the
appropriate location.

Italic text is indicated with _underscores_, bold text with =equals=.
Small/mixed capitals have been replaced with ALL CAPITALS.

Evident typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected
silently. Inconsistent hyphenation has been normalised.

"One got lost, one got hung" in the verse on page 39 is as published,
but may be a misquote.

A reference to "reece monkey" on page 17 has been corrected to
"rhesus monkey".

A Table of Contents has been added by the transcriber.

Illustration captions have been placed between chapters to improve text
flow.

Green Room
Gossip

By ARCHIBALD HADDON

Crown 8vo. Cloth. =6s. 0d.= net.

A notable book on the contemporary theatre by the well-known dramatic
critic of “The Daily Express.” All the principal happenings of the
London Stage during the last few years are discussed with astonishing
freedom of expression. One of its most attractive features is a
considerable number of vivacious pen-sketches of leading actors and
actresses in their dressing-rooms. Another section “When the Censor
Nods” deals with certain notorious productions which startled London
playgoers. The book being indexed is a useful work of reference.

LONDON: STANLEY PAUL & CO.

31, ESSEX STREET, W.C.2.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker in private life at 71 years of age]

FROM SAWDUST TO WINDSOR CASTLE

“WHIMSICAL WALKER”

(_The famous Drury Lane Clown_)

With eight full page half-tone illustrations

LONDON:
STANLEY PAUL & CO.
31, ESSEX STREET, STRAND, W.C.2

_First published in 1922_

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

My father and mother. My mother dies and my father marries again. A
bad time with stepmother. When nine years old I run away. My first
“engagement.” Odd experiences. I try to be a photographer and come
to grief. Another engagement--“A living head without a body.” With
Bedell’s show at Whitby. My first “panto” part. How I got to London.
I make the acquaintance of Morris Abrahams, who sends me home. Am
engaged by Pablo Fangue, the circus proprietor. My training. Thanks
to my face I am made a clown. Pablo Fangue an admirable master.

CHAPTER II

I tramp from Bristol to London with my properties. A one-day show
with the “Retort” Circus at the Crystal Palace. The seats collapse.
I join Croueste and Nella’s Circus. A “double somersault over five
horses by the Little Clown.” An unexpected catastrophe. How I
“performed” on the slack rope. With Powell and Clarke at Southampton.
The preacher and the monkey. I appear at the Theatre Royal,
Manchester, for a benefit at Sanger’s Circus. A lion in my dressing
room! Practical joking among circus lads. Am tired of circus life and
go in for “mumming.” I take an “engagement” at Royston’s Circus at
Carlisle. Playing “Little Willie” in “East Lynne” and the “ghost” in
“Hamlet” under difficulties. Am disappointed with “mumming” and go
back to the circus. My first shave. Terrible death of Macmart, the
lion tamer.

CHAPTER III

Am engaged at Astley’s. The curious history of the theatre. Sanger’s
odd expedient against fire. I am a soldier for one night in “Fair
Rosamond.” Recreation at the “Bower Saloon.” I play the part of
a monk. The monks’ revenge on an obnoxious actor. A fight with
“Richard III.” Am pitched into the orchestra. I join Adams’ Circus in
Yorkshire. I make Marwood, the hangman, laugh. Am an unsatisfactory
witness in a police court case.

CHAPTER IV

A turning point in my career. I accept an offer to go to America and
travel with John H. Murray’s Railroad Circus. The discomforts of
crossing the Atlantic. The adventures of a jar of whisky. Our opening
show at Harlum a success. Blowing up “Hell Gate.” New York scared.
Odd experiences down south. An indignant darkie thirsts for my blood.
The clown not understood in America. A Yankee who didn’t like my
“general appearance.” A Pittsburg “burglar.” I return to England.

CHAPTER V

My second visit to America. A caravan journey across the prairies and
the Rockies from New York to San Francisco. My experiences with Red
Indians. A novel treatment of fever. Performances at San Francisco,
Java and Australia. Return to New York. A “spiritualistic” swindle.
Am engaged by Barnum, Bailey and Hutchinson. The baby elephant born
in the show becomes my playmate. An elephant’s wonderful memory. My
mysterious mission to Paris under “sealed orders.” What the sealed
letter contained--instructions to buy “Jumbo.” Agitation in London
over the proposed sale of the big elephant. The Zoological Society
accept Barnum’s offer. Proceedings in Chancery. The matter settled.
“Jumbo’s” opposition. The true story of the delay. A mishap to his
car.

CHAPTER VI

“Jumbo” shipped. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts gives him his last bun.
Arrives safely at New York. A duty of £450 demanded. My awkward
encounter with the Customs officer. Fatal accident to “Jumbo.”
Something about the Aztecs. Their curious history. I go in for
theatrical management. I start with pantomime at the Metropolitan
Alcazar, Broadway. Deverna’s extraordinary rubber “properties.” The
topical hits greatly relished. The foolish penal code. Marriages
in Barnum’s captive balloon. My benefit and the misfortune that
happened. The gallery gives way and many people injured. In five
minutes I lose all my fortune.

CHAPTER VII

I join Hengler’s Circus at Liverpool. Mr. Charles Hengler’s
peculiarities. A black or red nose? An unlucky ride in the early
morning after a late night. I break my ankle. Incapacitated for two
years. I go with Hengler’s to Dublin. My popularity. A favourite
song. I experiment with performing cats. They have stage fright.
A Dublin reporter taken aback. “Billy Gladstone.” The reporter’s
revenge. My awkward experience on the boat to Holyhead. A “Dick
Turpin” impromptu ride to York.

CHAPTER VIII

The doings of my donkeys “Tom” and “Jerry.” How I educated them. The
training of animals. A Hull doctor hoaxed. My misadventure on the
opening night at Hull. How “Tom” was taught to sing. “Jerry” suddenly
drops dead at Glasgow. “Tom’s” great cleverness. How he scared
the ballet girls at the Leicester Square Empire. “Tom” undergoes
a singular surgical operation at Bordeaux. How I said “something
nice” to Mr. Gladstone at Covent Garden Theatre. I am “commanded” to
perform before Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle. “Tom’s” misbehaviour
on this occasion. Her Majesty’s appreciation of the performance.

CHAPTER IX

I experiment with geese. A goose race in tubs. A fiasco. Sarony, the
showman artist-photographer of Scarborough. I begin the training of
geese. Their erratic behaviour. They devour the stuffing of the ring
fence. Mr. Hengler’s indignation. The Sisters Vades and their safety
net. The geese make a meal off the net and spoil the turn of the
sisters. Their doom pronounced by Mr. Hengler. How they terminated
their career. I fail to train a vicious monkey. The late King Edward
(then Prince of Wales) at Scarborough--I am permitted to join his
shooting party. I arrange a children’s cricket match at which the
Prince and Dr. W. G. Grace captain the respective sides. I get up a
comic cricket match at Hengler’s at the Prince’s request. I make up
as “W. G.” and execute a marvellous and unsuspected hit. My horse
“Spot” and his dancing on the Scarborough sands. The Scarborough
widows.

CHAPTER X

I am engaged to appear at Madrid. Something about my wonderful
game-cock. Cock-fighting in London in the ’eighties! The secret of an
Endell Street cellar. How I obtained the bird. A match between myself
and the game-cock. An Argyle Street show which took the town. A
trying journey to Madrid. The trials of Spanish etiquette. Am invited
by Royalty to a bull-fight. The singing donkey creates a furore. Also
the game-cock “turn.” My _gallio_ challenged by a Spanish champion.
The fight comes off. The Spaniard defeated. The Spanish game-cock
fanciers anxious to secure my bird. I adopt precautions for his
safety. Difficulties in the way of returning home. I succeed by a
ruse in escaping.

CHAPTER XI

Odds and ends of circus life. The “peep show” cooking stoves. How I
“had” Lord Randolph Churchill in Dublin. I distinguish myself at a
sham fight. An unscrupulous practical joker. Faked up “Zulu” warriors
and how the fraud was discovered. The story of a Birmingham Christmas
pudding. My trick canary that failed. A day’s fishing on a yacht.

CHAPTER XII

More odds and ends. How I was rescued from “drowning” at Douglas. The
mock medals. A night sensation at sea. I act as a race-course steward
at the Manx “Derby.” A good old “gag.” I personate another actor at
Warrington. Dan Leno’s champion clog dancing. Eccentric lodging house
keepers. Selling the “deadheads.” Advertisements introduced into
performing. A mean firm. Curried fowl and the disappointed supers.
Advertising an electric bell. The audience “sold.” I play at the
Cirque Nouveau, Paris. My excess of zeal.

CHAPTER XIII

American notes. A bogus boxing match. Dispersed by hose-pipe. Jem Mace
and Joe Goss. I second Mace and get the worst of it. Queer American
law. Washed away on Coney Island. An insulted Irishman. How I started
“Sequah” in business. Daring robbery of my presentation watch and
chain. Curious coincidences. Terrible death of a Barnum acrobat. I
go to America with Charlie Chaplin. An unlucky tour. The company
collapse in Seattle. The discomforts of a Seattle hospital. I return
to England. An unexpected shower bath. Chased by a hippopotamus.

CHAPTER XIV

My second visit to Australia. I train a performing horse on board. Am
engaged by Harry Rickards for a twenty-seven weeks’ tour. I play for
five nights only. Summoned to London by Mr. Arthur Collins owing to
the death of Herbert Campbell. Mr. Rickards’ luxurious home. I bathe
with sharks. I escort two wallabies to England. A strange meeting at
Colombo. I arrive in London. Death of Dan Leno. Dan’s merry pranks.
His unlucky garden party.

CHAPTER XV

Managers and actors I have known. P. T. Barnum. A wonderful
organiser. How a big circus travels. Barnum’s consideration for his
company. His little speeches. General Tom Thumb. Signor Foli and
Frank Celli. Sir Augustus Harris a born showman. The elder Harris
and his glossy hat. The value of an advertisement. My “benefit” at
Drury Lane and why it was a frost. I miss my chance in the Drury Lane
Pantomime, 1890-91, “Beauty and the Beast.” An unrehearsed incident.
I play “Mercury” in “Venus.” I am “Hamlet” at Richardson’s show in
the Olympic Carnival. A Scottish “Ghost.” A new view of “Hamlet.”

CHAPTER XVI

My first engagement at Covent Garden. My performing pig. Its
ultimate end. Some dog yarns. Animal trainers not cruel. “Verdun,”
the wonderful performing horse. How E. T. Smith swallowed a £1,000
note. A shadow in my life. My first panto at Drury Lane Theatre. A
“great cab act.” Comic film scenes indebted to the harlequinade.
The decline of the harlequinade. The clown’s difficulties with the
orchestra. Royalty at the pantomime. I present Princess Mary with a
Christmas cracker. The cracker and the cats--a practical joke. The
relief of Ladysmith--an excited audience. Arthur Roberts, the prince
of “spoofers.” Escapades at a Sheffield hotel. Pressmen “spoofed” by
a water chute. The “spooferies.”

CHAPTER XVII

Pantomimes at old “Drury.” A pantomime mishap. “Spoofing” a Hebe of
the old Gaiety buffet. E. J. Odell’s rebuke. Sitting on a corpse!
Drury Lane memories. Lady Dunlo and the ham and beef shop. I play in
Drury Lane panto from 1912 to 1920. Actors and actresses who have
played in pantomimes. Jimmy Welch and the New Clown. Mr. Arthur
Bourchier as clown in W. S. Gilbert’s “Fairy’s Dilemma.” A Crystal
Palace Pantomime. The Lupinos as children. Covent Garden fancy dress
balls. “Codding” the first prize. Dan Leno as a policeman. Baddeley
Twelfth Cake Festivities.

CHAPTER XVIII

American comic films an imitation of the English harlequinade.
Charlie Chaplin’s “method.” The modern pantomime not produced for
children. The clown’s “business” spoilt by the orchestra. A defence
of the harlequinade. Grimaldi and summer pantomimes. What a pantomime
should be. A suggestion. The best clowns with circus experience.
The art of pantomime running in families. The Leopolds, the Vokes
family, the Lupinos. The difference between a circus and a pantomime
clown. Watty Hillyard, Wallet and Tom Matthews. Mr. W. S. Gilbert as
harlequin. W. J. Payne, the “King of Pantomime.” How Dan Leno and
Herbert Campbell worked together. The clown of the harlequinade works
by himself. Sausages and the red-hot poker. The origin of the clown.
Eighteenth century pantomimes. Grimaldi. Other famous clowns. How old
circus jokes were made. A plea for the revival of the harlequinade.

CHAPTER XIX

The films. A new experience. The humours of rehearsals. Chasing a
hat. An embarrassing encounter with bees. How “little Nell” was
buried. Blowing up “old Peggotty.” The “Starting Point.” A glance
back at a life’s work.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

_Whimsical Walker in private life at 71 years of
age_ _frontispiece_

_The best friend I ever had in the Theatrical Profession_ 32

_The Royal Windsor Castle Programme_ 64

_Whimsical Walker as old “Daniel Peggotty,” in
Hepworth’s film, “David Copperfield”_ 96

_Whimsical Walker, in his studio, writing his life_ 96

_All ready to appear before the British Public, Drury
Lane Theatre Pantomime_ 128

_Whimsical Walker as “The Single Gentleman” in
Hepworth’s film, “The Old Curiosity Shop”_ 160

_Whimsical Walker and the Drury Lane Harlequinade
entertaining the Lord and Lady Mayoress and
children at the Mansion House, London, in aid
of the Blind Children of London_ 160

_Whimsical Walker as he appeared before H.M.
Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, by command,
Windsor Castle, 25th February, 1886_ 192

_Whimsical Walker rehearsing a love scene with Miss
Nancy Buckland, Drury Lane Theatre Stage_ 192

_Whimsical Walker enjoying the sea air, Gorleston-on-Sea_ 228

_Mr. and Mrs. W. Walker at their home at Peggotty’s
Hut, Gorleston-on-Sea, with their mascot cat
“Whimmy”_ 228

FROM SAWDUST TO WINDSOR CASTLE

CHAPTER I

My father and mother. My mother dies and my father marries again. A
bad time with stepmother. When nine years old I run away. My first
“engagement.” Odd experiences. I try to be a photographer and come
to grief. Another engagement--“A living head without a body.” With
Bedell’s show at Whitby. My first “panto” part. How I got to London.
I make the acquaintance of Morris Abrahams, who sends me home. Am
engaged by Pablo Fangue, the circus proprietor. My training. Thanks to
my face I am made a clown. Pablo Fangue an admirable master.

I was born in Hull in the year--well, it doesn’t much matter what year
it was. My mother kept a public house in Paragon Street with the odd
name of the “March of Intellect,” and it happened that Cooke’s Circus,
of which Robert Stanley Walker was manager, came to the theatre. Robert
Walker fell in love with the hostess of the “March of Intellect,”
married her, and so I was brought into the world.

I was three years old and my sister Rachel one year and three months
younger, when my mother was taken ill. She was ordered to Torquay,
where she died. Five years later my father married again, and giving up
circus life became proprietor of Castle Farm, Mile End, Hazel Grove,
Stockport.

At Castle Farm were cows, pigs, a horse, fowls, etc., and the
familiarity with animals which afterwards served me in such good stead
in later life began here. Something else must also have begun--my
“whimsicality,” only it wasn’t called by that name. I must have been
a wrong-headed urchin, always going my own way in preference to other
people’s. Anyway, according to my stepmother, I could do nothing right;
thrashings followed, and young as I was--only nine years--I made up my
mind to run away.

One day I was sent with my stepmother’s mother to Stockport market to
sell butter and eggs, and was left by her in charge of the stall. Here
was the very chance and I took it. I sold the stock on my own account
and went off with the money to Manchester.

The showman’s spirit must have been in my blood, for instinctively I
turned towards Knott Mill Fair which was being held just off Deansgate.
I chummed on with a boy I met; I treated him to hot peas, gingerbread
and nuts until I was stony broke. My new friend was a lad of resource
and introduced me to the proprietor of a tumbling booth who must have
seen something funny in my face (I doubt if it was a lovely one) which
took his fancy. “Put on some togs,” said he, “knock about on the front
of the booth and let me see how you get on.”

It was my first engagement! My salary was plenty to eat, lodging and a
penny or twopence a week. It wasn’t much, but I felt independent, and I
tried to forget I had a father of whom I was horribly afraid.

Rigged up in comic clothes, my performance was to tumble about in any
way I fancied. I suppose I must have been unconsciously “whimsical,”
for the crowd laughed, and what was more to the purpose, so also did
the show people.

I made a start at acrobatic training with the assistance of a
broomstick, trying to bend back until my head touched my heels,
but this did not suit my youthful fancy, and my ideas of a salary
enlarging, I threw up my “engagement” at the tumbling booth and took up
with a travelling photographer who gave me two shillings a week and my
board, but as I had to pay for my bed I didn’t get much out of it.

Looking back, it puzzles me how a photographer could find a boy of
nine or ten useful. For my duties were to talk to the gaping multitude
and induce them to have their portraits taken! I suppose I was a “hit”
or he wouldn’t have kept me on. I can only put it down to my innate
“whimsicality.”

I had odd experiences with the photographer. Once a hurricane blew the
whole show over. The proprietor flew into a passion, said it was my
fault and was for “firing” me right away, but altering his mind he gave
me some lessons in photography, and leaving me in charge, went off to
find a “pitch” in another town.

I suppose I imagined I was a full-blown artist, and a woman with her
baby coming along, I induced her to give me a sitting and sent her
away with an awful production for which I charged her eighteenpence.
The next day her husband descended upon me in the shape of a burly
drunken collier who threatened to kill me unless I returned the money.
Unluckily I’d spent it, but I pacified him by offering to take the lady
and baby again. He vanished into a public house, and deciding that art
was not my vocation, I fled and left the booth to its own devices. What
became of it I never knew.

Ashton Fair was on and here I presented myself and was recognised
by a showman named Randal Williams. Williams wanted a boy to play a
part called “A living head without a body,” a sort of trick which
anticipated a portion of Maskelyne and Cooke’s well-known entertainment
years after. All I had to do was to put on a wig and old whiskers and
go underneath the stage about a dozen times a day, and at a given
signal put my head through a small trap door, my body of course being
concealed. The exhibitor would then say, “Open your eyes--can you see?”
“Yes,” was my reply. “Turn your eyes to the right--now to the left.
Smoke a cigarette,” etc.

One day some mischievous urchin stuck a pin into my body. I dived down
to punch the young rascal. It was the critical moment of the show and
when the trap opened there was no head! The audience thought they had
been swindled and went for the proprietor who went for me. That was the
end of my “living head” engagement.

I then joined a hanky-panky show of conjurors. With my face blackened
I was called “Jumbo”--the recognised name in those days for a comic
nigger. I imagine I then “found” myself. I certainly was a huge success
and suddenly became the greatest boy on the parade. By the time we
reached Whitby in the winter of that year I had mastered the mysteries
of conjuring.

At Whitby Mrs. Bedell, the proprietress, rented a ramshackle structure
dubbed the “Theatre Royal,” which let in the rain to such an extent
that sometimes there were two or three feet of water under the stage.
We opened three nights a week with the “legitimate,” “Maria Martin,”
“East Lynne,” etc., and we also produced a pantomime, “The Babes in
the Wood.” I was one of the “Babes” and Polly Bedell, Mrs. Bedell’s
daughter, the other; and the scene painter was the clown, Billy Baker,
who also made the properties.

One wet night a dreadful fiasco came about. In the last scene the
two little dears ascended to Heaven after being covered with leaves
(which we collected every morning from the country) by the dear little
robins, one of which, by the way, was a huge “property” bird that
became a codfish in the harlequinade. On this particular night the box
containing the babes was ascending to Heaven when one of the ropes
broke and exit the babes under the stage into a watery grave! That was
the end of the panto.

Young as I was I noticed that a company of strolling players always had
its “character.” Bedell’s “character” was the cornet player, Stokes, who
comprised the entire orchestra. He had a wooden tooth and he could only
play when this tooth was in his mouth, and as he sometimes mislaid it
there was an element of uncertainty in his performance, which lent it
considerable charm.

The time came when I got tired of Bedell’s, and a friendly fisherman
who had a son about my own age suggested that we should go to sea
together. It was winter time and I didn’t much relish the idea.
However, I sailed with him in his smack to London, and when I was in
the crowded streets the old yearning for show life came back, and I
said good-bye to my friend the fisherman.

What I did in London for some little time I don’t exactly remember,
but one day who should I come across but an acrobatic troupe, the
Carlos Brothers, whom I had met at Manchester Fair and who--thanks I
believe to my “whimsical” face--remembered me. They were showing at the
Effingham Saloon (now called “Wonderland”), Mile End Road, built by
Morris Abrahams, who was also running the Pavilion Theatre, Whitechapel
Road.

It was a very miscellaneous entertainment that Morris Abrahams provided
for his patrons of the Effingham. Sometimes it was lurid melodrama of
the old “Vic” type and sometimes it was a variety show. Something of
the latter kind was being run when the Carlos Brothers were engaged.
My recollections of the Whitechapel and Mile End Roads of the early
sixties are quite distinct. The very wide thoroughfare, probably the
finest approach to the metropolis which London possesses, was still
countrified in some parts. There was ample room in front of many of
the inns not only for waggons to draw up, but benches and tables,
arranged in rows, for _al fresco_ refreshments, and, clean and bright
with the greenest of green paint, invited the weary traveller to sit
and rest. Here on a fine evening could be seen working men and their
wives enjoying themselves in modest fashion and taking their drink
leisurely and in comfort, a thing impossible in these days of dirty
four-ale bars. One never saw young girls take their beer or whisky as
is too often the case now.

Tea gardens and dancing platforms flourished then. There was one
favourite place of this kind on the opposite side of the Mile End Road
to that where the Effingham was situated. It was called the Eagle, I
think, and on its site the Paragon music-hall was subsequently built.
Mile End toll gate was then in existence and that queer quaint old
public house stuck almost in the centre of the road not far from the
gate was a prominent and not unsightly object. It was in the winter
when I was at the Effingham, so I did not see the glories of the
Fairlop carnival and the fireworks let off in the road without any fear
of police restrictions, which welcomed the return of the boats mounted
on wheels from the fair at the Fairlop oak, Epping Forest.

To my boyish fancy a perpetual fair went on in the great stretch of no
man’s land--afterwards I believe called Mile End “Waste”--extending
nearly a mile along the side of the Mile End Road. Penny shows, stalls
where everything which no one could possibly want was sold, hosts of
penny merchants living on their wits--and most ingenious they were
in tickling the fancy of the public--excited groups hotly discussing
any topic which might be in the air at the time--it did not seem to
matter much what--and above all, the Cheap Jack and his Dutch auction!
The Cheap Jack with his glib tongue, ready wit, and unlimited stock of
impudence, was a joy, and one could stand for an hour enjoying the fun
and not spend a penny.

Unluckily I wasn’t allowed these delights for long. Morris Abrahams
had been a “pro” nearly all his life--I believe he came out as a
dancer--and it happened that he knew my father, so that when I told
him that I’d run away he wrote home. The sequel was the arrival the
next day of a gentleman in a tall silk hat who announced that he was a
detective and that he had come to take me back to my father.

So back I went, very down, and of course was received with black looks
all round. Three days went over and my old “whimsicality” showing
itself in the shape of letting the pigs loose into the flower garden,
my father had the sense to see that the ruling passion was too strong,
and Pablo Fangue’s Circus chancing at the time to be at Stockport Fair,
I was then and there sent to Fangue, engaged by him, and in this way my
real professional life began.

Pablo Fangue, a coloured gentleman, was a thorough master of
his profession, and I have to thank him for what I subsequently
became--without vanity may I say it?--the greatest celebrity in my
particular line in the circus business. He taught me to ride, to
tumble, to perform on the trapeze, to vault over horses, and indeed all
the intricacies belonging to circus life. I must admit that I was not
over good at riding--you see, my face was not too beautiful--so I was
made a clown. I confess that I like clowning, as the audience often
threw oranges and money into the ring when I made them laugh, as I
often did.

Training for the circus meant much harder work than people may imagine.
There were three boy apprentices besides myself, and a girl (Fanny
Bluring). We boys had to get up at 6 o’clock every morning to look
after the horses, breakfast was at 8, practice at 8.30, and school at
9, excepting when we were performing at fairs.

Pablo Fangue did his duty towards us very conscientiously and sent us
to church on Sunday mornings. Of course, we preferred playing marbles,
and to satisfy our master, who always asked us what the text was, we
used to learn one by heart beforehand. Maybe the good words came too
trippingly off our tongues and so excited his suspicions, and he caught
us out by going unseen by us to the same church. That day at dinner
he was unusually nice and said quite amicably, “Well, my boys, have
you all been to church?” “Yes, sir,” we chanted. “And was it a nice
sermon?” “Oh, yes, sir.” “And what were the words?” “Jesus wept.” “Ah,
and all of you will too”--and we did.

He certainly knew something about boys’ ways, did Pablo Fangue. We used
to have sundry threepenny and fourpenny pieces given to us during the
week, and clever little Fanny Bluring was our banker. All she had to
do was to drop the little coins down the bag-like receptacle for the
flat piece of wood in front of her old-fashioned stays, and there they
remained in safety till we wanted them on Sunday, when we would gorge
ourselves with ice creams, nuts, gingerbread, and anything we fancied.
In Glasgow we spent no end of shillings with an ice cream merchant in
the Saltmarket, and our master suspecting the reason why we couldn’t
eat any dinner conspired with the iceman. The next time we had ice
creams--but I draw a veil over the sequel. For months after I could
never face an ice cream.

I was with Pablo until he died. I was then fourteen and I fancy I knew
more about animals than most boys of my age. I was entrusted to buy the
hay for the horses; I acted as veterinary surgeon, I could tell when a
horse was lame, when he was ill I knew what was the matter with him;
and all this useful knowledge I must say I owe to Pablo Fangue. He was
certainly one of the best of masters.

CHAPTER II

I tramp from Bristol to London with my properties. A one-day show with
the “Retort” Circus at the Crystal Palace. The seats collapse. I join
Croueste and Nella’s Circus. A “double somersault over five horses by
the Little Clown.” An unexpected catastrophe. How I “performed” on
the slack rope. With Powell and Clarke at Southampton. The preacher
and the monkey. I appear at the Theatre Royal, Manchester, for a
benefit at Sanger’s Circus. A lion in my dressing room! Practical
joking among circus lads. Am tired of circus life and go in for
“mumming.” I take an “engagement” at Royston’s Circus at Carlisle.
Playing “Little Willie” in “East Lynne” and the “ghost” in “Hamlet”
under difficulties. Am disappointed with “mumming” and go back to the
circus. My first shave. Terrible death of Macmart, the lion tamer.

On the death of Pablo Fangue his circus was sold and my life became one
of strange ups and downs. Looking back, if all were related, that life
would seem to be one of great hardship, but in reality I had seen much
of the unexpected and had always tumbled on my feet, so nothing took
me aback. Besides, I had the habit of discovering the funny side of
things, and this was my salvation.

After Pablo Fangue’s Circus changed hands, I joined John Powell’s show
at Bristol, but finding there was no money accepted an engagement with
a circus called the “Retort” (spell the word backwards and you will
find it is “Trotter”) which was going to give a performance on Easter
Monday at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham. I tramped it from Bristol to
London, loaded with my properties--a dancing spade, a long pair of
stilts, a short pair ditto and a little portmanteau.

The mistress of the circus was a Mrs. Bonfantie, and I looked her up
on Easter Sunday at the Half Moon Hotel, Hammersmith, where she was
staying. I was nearly bootless and with ten shillings she lent me I
went off to the New Cut and bought a pair of patent leather shoes for
2/11½. Early on Easter Monday I set out to walk to the Crystal
Palace. It rained all the way and by the time I reached the Palace my
patent leathers had turned out to be brown paper and the soles had to
be tied together with string. No matter, I went into the ring just the
same.

The circus was in the grounds, and the tent was crowded, the people
being glad of the shelter out of the pouring rain. The seats being
soddened with wet, the audience stood upon them, the supports slipped
in the soft, muddy ground, and then the seats collapsed. The scared
crowd rushed into the arena and I in my clown’s dress got considerably
mixed up. That was the last of Trotters’ Circus so far as I was
concerned--only one day.

In those happy-go-lucky times nothing seemed to matter. Some money
was due to me from Trotters’, and their lawyer called at the coffee
house, Westminster Bridge Road, where I had put up, and paid me a
bright golden sovereign. I owed for my board and lodging and also for
a washing bill. Which should I pay? “Toss up,” said Johnny Purvis, my
pal. We stood under a lamp post (it was night). I tossed, muffed it and
it disappeared into the gutter! It was an agonising moment. Anyhow, we
found the coin, but whether we paid the coffee house or the washing I
can’t remember.

The next few years was a jumble of odd experiences. Once I was with
Croueste and Nella’s Circus at Blackburn. Business was very bad, so the
proprietor of the circus asked me if I would do a double somersault
over the horses as he thought that would bring a good house, and I
agreed to do so after I’d had some practice. Bills were printed with
the announcement in large type: “Greatest wonder in the World! The
Little Clown will turn a double somersault in mid-air over five horses
before alighting on his feet.” We only had three horses, but that
didn’t matter. The night came off for this wonderful feat. The house
was packed. I had practised the double somersault about half a dozen
times and had got on all right. However, I suppose on the night I was
over excited. I hit the vaulting board a terrific thump, and I went up
in the air. How many somersaults I turned I don’t know, but my head
came down on the ring fence and broke it (the fence, I mean). I got
up, smiled, and they led me out of the ring. I was bad for about three
weeks, and I never tried that game again.

I remember another unexpected accident at the same circus. A performer
on the slack rope had been engaged and we boys at practice in the
morning thought we would try this trick. I was wearing little top
boots and I put on a pair of what we call “slings”--fastenings which,
attached to the ropes, enabled the performer to attempt certain feats
without the risk of falling--round my top boots. The boys gave the
rope a good swing and I started doing somersaults, thinking I couldn’t
fall as I had the slings on. “Try the ‘throw out,’” shouted my pals
below--that is, whirl myself head downwards. I did try, and to my
horror I came out of my top boots and went crash down. Luckily, I fell
on the seats, and I got up without even a scratch on me. Meanwhile,
my top boots were dangling in the air, and just as I was going to get
them my master came in and said, “What’s this?” I told him what I had
done. Result--a lovely hiding for trying to do another man out of his
performance. That taught me a lesson!

While I was with Croueste and Nella two things happened on the same day
which fixed themselves on my memory. One was not of much importance,
the other was a terrible business. The circus was at Bolton, and by
this time I was getting on in my teens and had begun to fancy myself
considerably. I saw myself a full-blown “pro” and had visions of an
overcoat with an astrachan collar, wide bell-bottomed trousers, my hat
stuck on one side, and with all the airs which the budding actor then
affected. I was well satisfied with my general appearance save in one
respect. I could not grow a moustache and this made me look younger
than I really was.

The great drawback of my youthful aspect in my eyes was that the girls
took no notice of me. All my circus pals of my own age could get
sweethearts without any difficulty, but never a one had I. I persuaded
myself or my friends persuaded me that the cause was the absence of
hair on my face. They worked zealously on my behalf, but whether this
zeal was genuine I have now reason to doubt, though I thought it was
all right at the time.

To begin with they got some stuff from a druggist which I had to rub on
my face. I rubbed and rubbed, but nothing came of it. Then Joe Smith,
one of the circus men, said to me, “Why don’t you go and get shaved?”

“What’s the good?” said I, “there’s so little to shave.”

“That’s nothing to do with it. The more your face is scraped the
quicker your moustache will grow.”

Acting on the advice of this authority I paid a visit to a Bolton
barber. His charge was not high, it was only a halfpenny. Plucking
up my courage I went into the dirty little barber’s shop, looking
round before entering to see if anyone was seeing me going in. I saw
a miserable old man about 80, and directly he caught sight of me he
called out roughly, “What do you want?” and I told him. He got a filthy
dirty towel and put it round my neck, and I began to feel horribly
nervous. I’d been reading about Sweeney Todd, the barber of Fleet
Street, and I wished I was out of the shop. He got the brush (I will
never forget the brush--if you call it a brush) and he put some stuff
on the brush supposed to be soap (I don’t know what it was). He was
very shortsighted and he lathered my face, not forgetting my eyes, my
nostrils and my mouth.

After scrubbing my face for a minute or two he turned round and began
stropping a razor, accompanied by a loud muttering, which I thought
sounded like “N--ow ----ow!” Maybe it was his cough--anyhow to me he
was Sweeney Todd! In a flash I was out of the chair--through the door
and running down the streets with the soap stuff on my face, scraping
it out of my eyes, out of my nostrils, spitting it out of my mouth,
and I ran till I became exhausted. At the show (it was a penny circus,
by the way) Joe Smith enquired anxiously whether I’d had a shave yet.
“No,” said I stoutly, “and I don’t want one.” Nor did I. So much for
the unimportant event of that night.

Bolton Fair was on and later, when the various shows were closing we
heard a frightful screaming. It was then nearly eleven o’clock. We
rushed out of the circus on to the fair ground and saw a crowd pouring
from Mander’s menagerie shrieking with terror. Feeling that some
dreadful disaster had happened we ran up the steps to the entrance and
into the menagerie.

Our fears were too truly realised. A terrible tragedy met our eyes. The
lion tamer, Mr. Macmart, was being worried and mauled by his lions.
He had been giving a sort of extra show after the ordinary public
performance was over, to amuse a party of students, and no red-hot
irons were handy. What had happened was this: One of Mr. Macmart’s
tricks was for the lioness to lie at his feet while he put his foot on
one of the lions. By a great mischance he stumbled over the lioness and
fell, and directly he was on the ground the lions leaped at him.

I shall never forget to my dying day the terrible scene. One beast was
at the poor man’s head and the other at his feet, roaring and snarling
like two dogs over a bone--it was frightful. We fired revolvers with
blank cartridges, hoping to make them desist, but it was in vain.
However, at last we got him out by dividing the cage into three parts
by the shutters provided for the purpose, but it was too late, the poor
fellow died within twenty minutes. He was an Irishman with one arm and
for some reason the lion probably had taken a dislike to him, as a few
years before the same creature attacked him and so injured his arm that
it had to be amputated.

Among other engagements in my teens was one with Powell and Clarke’s
Circus, during which time the Southampton Circus was let to a preacher,
for Sunday service. It so happened that young Powell had just bought a
rhesus monkey off a sailor, and on a certain Sunday morning, when the
circus was crowded to hear a noted preacher, the monkey got loose and
crept very gently to where the reverend gentleman was. There was no
viciousness in the monkey, but he just pulled the reverend gentleman’s
trouser leg. The clergyman naturally turned to see the cause, dropped
the hymn book as though it were red-hot, and with one jump was across
that ring and through the stable door quicker than I can tell you, his
flock scooting after him. That finished the preaching in the circus.

Some time after this, when I was at the Theatre Royal, Manchester, Mr.
Levy, the manager of Sanger’s Circus in Deansgate, asked me if I would
appear for his benefit, and I got permission from my manager to do so.
The night came. I did my clown’s business and after I had finished I
returned to my dressing room. I was just undressing, when I heard the
door locked, and the next moment I saw something move in the distance
in the corner of my dark dressing room. It was one of the lions. I was
so frightened that I lost speech. I made myself as little as I could
and did a bit of horizontal bar on the rafters, and after being there
about ten minutes, the door was unlocked. It was just a practical joke
and I think the lion was more alarmed than even I was. It took about
three or four men to shove him out: he was so old, poor old dear! This
poor lion was as docile as a kitten, but I was not supposed to know
that!

Some sort of joking was always going on among the boys. I remember once
at Astley’s we let four of the lions loose one evening for a lark. It
was more of a lark than we had bargained for. Lions wanted catching in
a large place like that--and at the last we had to beg Cooper, the lion
tamer, to get them back in their cage.

Another practical joke and I come to the end of my boyish
“whimsicalities.”

There was a clown once with Adams’ Circus called Nat Emmatt, and he had
a performing goat. Nat was always very nasty to us boys, was always
getting us in trouble, and we determined to get our own back. On one
occasion Emmatt was in the ring and his goat was waiting at the wing
doors to go in the arena. Now this goat had a funny little tail, and
we tied a halfpenny squib to the excrescence, set the squib alight and
sent him in the arena. The antics that goat performed with “bang, bang”
going at his latter end, and the fury of Nat Emmatt, sent the audience
into convulsions. Of course, they thought it was part of the show. A
reward was offered to find out who frightened the goat, but the culprit
was never discovered.

Summing up my young days, I can honestly say that in spite of its
hardships the circus life of yore had its attractions. The travelling
from town to town, the buzz, the din, the excitement of fairs, the
admiration and wonder of the gaping rustics, the jovial meetings of old
chums, the comparison of experiences, were delights which don’t exist
in these days. What a pride it was to herald the coming of a circus
by a procession through some sleepy country town, the company in full
dress, the wild animals staring with all their eyes, the band blaring
and banging its loudest, boxed up in a sort of triumphal car of gold
and scarlet, and strongly reminding one of the gigantic trophies of
gingerbread on the fair stalls!

Then there were the catastrophes, which were bound to occur even in
the best regulated shows, and the expedients to be thought out at a
moment’s notice to overcome them--the chances whether expenses were
going to be paid or not--the vagaries of the weather--the bad or good
temper as the case might be of the proprietor! All was delightfully
uncertain; sometimes disappointing, sometimes exhilarating, but one
thing was never absent--the sense of freedom--and so long as we pleased
our audiences our mission of life was fulfilled.

For a long time it seemed as though I was glued to travelling circus
life. Yet I had dreams that some day I should do something better.
I had wild ideas of becoming an actor, but at the moment when I was
clowning in the ring and earning my name of “Whimsical” Walker there
didn’t seem the ghost of a chance of these ideas ever being realised.

Those days were not these days when actors and actresses without
any training suddenly jump into notoriety (for a time) so long as
they have some link with “Society.” Their reputation is established
when the illustrated papers deem them of sufficient importance to
photograph them playing with their pet dogs in their back gardens,
or when they get themselves talked about through some eccentricity
of conduct--outside the theatre. Hard work, talent, study of the
histrionic art, appear nowadays to be the last things necessary to
success. It is too often a question of self-advertisement.

It was not so during the period of which I am writing, and of course,
earlier. The would-be actor and actress without any qualification
beyond vanity and ambition and maybe influence and money, had not
a look-in. The old managers would have turned up their noses at
such presumption. You had to begin at the beginning and know your
profession from A to Z before you were regarded seriously.

What did that queer showman Richardson say of Macready, who, though
the son of a theatrical manager, had not gone through the drudgery of
mumming at a fair? When the great actor was well-known Richardson was
asked if he had ever seen him. “No, master,” was the blunt answer.
“I knows nothing about him; in fact, he’s some wagabone as nobody
knows--one o’ them chaps as ain’t had any eddication for the thing. He
never was with me as Edmund Kean an’ them Riglars was.” Many of “them
Riglars,” afterwards famous in their day, from Henry Irving downwards,
if they didn’t start with the immortal Richardson, commenced their
career in some acting booth of very much the same character.

So, I repeat, there was just the possibility of fame for me if I stuck
at what I was doing. But this is just what I didn’t do--at least for
a time. I was nearly out of my teens when after all kinds of circus
ups and downs, picking up bits of knowledge that came in useful
subsequently, I decided to become an actor! The life looked easier.
Being on a walking tour--not from choice, but for the simple reason
that I wasn’t able to comply with the slight formality which had to be
gone through with the booking clerk at the railway station before they
would permit me to ride--I eventually arrived at Carlisle and found
myself with Royston’s Temple of the Drama, otherwise Royston’s Mumming
Booth.

I was in time to lend a hand with the tilt, and with aid of a hammer
and a few tacks we had it erected in readiness for the evening
performance. I smiled at the manager, expecting some slight recompense
for my exertions, but all he said was:

“Laddie, you have helped us out of a great hole; I will repay you; you
shall to-night play ‘Little Willie’ in ‘East Lynne,’ and in the second
part you shall play the ghost in ‘Hamlet’--and do your spade dance in
the graveyard scene.”

I pointed out to him that I knew neither of the parts.

He said, “You can read.”

I admitted the fact.

“Good--we have a doll in the bed for the dying scene in ‘East
Lynne’--you will be underneath and read the part. As the ‘Ghost’ you
will read from the part which you will carry as a baton. Don’t you
worry, I’ll make a first-class actor of you yet.”

I thanked him and asked him about money. He gazed at me as if I had
suddenly told him the Home Secretary would hold him out no hope of a
reprieve.

“Money, money,” he gasped. “You won’t need money--you’ll live
on the fat of the land; the audience will present you with
eggs--cabbages--carrots!”

He was right!! They did!! It was a repetition of the old time days in
Ireland when the audiences paid for their admission in kind.

When on the Saturday night a settlement had to be arrived at, I
joined with the other performers round the drum. My share came to the
magnificent sum of 9½d. I was about to gather up my hard-earned
money when a man appeared saying he wanted the ground rent, and my
ninepence went towards making up the amount!

After this experience I returned to the circus life once more, and from
Royston’s I went to Footit’s Circus, and we opened at Nottingham.

Of all the towns in England I think I liked Nottingham as well as any.
The free-hearted factory lasses and chaps went mad over the circus,
and I was always sure of raising a laugh whenever I wanted one. The
audiences were out for pleasure and fun, and were not ashamed to show
their feelings. I think of the Nottingham crowds who now fill the
picture palaces, often as mum as mice, and wonder if they can laugh as
heartily as they did in the days of Footit’s Circus!

CHAPTER III

Sometime during 1873 I came to London and obtained an engagement at
Astley’s. Astley’s was not the old circus of Ducrow and other “Ring”
celebrities, but the transformed building, at least so far as the
outside walls were concerned, of Mr. Dion Boucicault, who in 1863
rebuilt it with very highflown notions. He proposed to call the new
theatre the “Westminster” and to devote it to the “legitimate” drama.
The project came to grief hopelessly. The public refused to recognise
the “Westminster,” which wasn’t in Westminster but in Lambeth. Astley’s
it always had been and Astley’s it was to remain to the end of its
days. The “legitimate” fled--to use the words of old Ducrow on one
occasion--the “cackle” was “cut,” and horses came into their own once
more. But they did not reign supreme, for that eccentric showman
E. T. Smith, who was always out for something “original,” tried the
experiment in 1865 of combining a circus with opera! It was of course
an utter failure.

Then Sanger’s had their home there for a time, and during 1872 Lord
George Sanger (who by the way laid the foundation of his fortune in
a penny show with “Maria Martin”) took the place on a lease from Mr.
Batty and transmogrified the interior, opening with a pantomime at
Christmas 1872. Mr. Boucicault’s experiment had completely spoilt the
theatre for circus purposes and Lord George Sanger restored the ring,
re-arranged and re-decorated the auditorium, and “Astley’s” was almost
itself again, but with a difference. There was now a stage as well as a
ring.

Sanger’s did not forget to set forth the glories of the new home with
the old name. “No; Astley’s not gone to dust and ashes”--ran one
advertisement affectionately. “We have come to the rescue--we have
spent a fortune to restore the dear old place”--and this was no more
than the sober truth. A singular contrivance to satisfy the public
that Astley’s would not be burnt down was the novel idea of turning
the gas pipes into water pipes should there be any necessity for the
transformation! “In case of emergency,” ran the announcement, “any
person by turning a lever will be able to convert the whole of the
gas jets into water outlets.” Lord George, however, did not reckon
with his elephants. One of the huge beasts broke loose the day before
the opening of the theatre, smashed a water main which supplied the
gas-water pipes, and ruined the act

* * * * *

Missing text in the printed source.

* * * * *

drop! The fashion of the day in circus titles--“William the Conqueror
and the pretty white horse with the golden hoof”--was fairly well
indicated by the title of the piece which formed the principal
attraction.

But before a year was out Lord George Sanger discovered that his own
name was quite as good for the public as was Astley’s, and certainly
more gratifying to himself. In the late autumn of 1873 he announced
with a great flourish of trumpets the production of Mr. Akhurst’s
spectacular play, “Fair Rosamond, or the Days of the Plantagenets.”
Stories of the feudal times had apparently caught on with the public.
Lord George Sanger was not one to hide his light under a bushel and he
gave evidence of this in the following advertisement: “Sanger’s Grand
National Amphitheatre. Late Astley’s. The proprietors do publicly
challenge the entire profession to equal the exciting and effective
scene of the Battle of Bridgenorth. Fifty trained horses in the great
fight.”

As for the spectacle itself, to go over the list fairly takes one’s
breath away. Here it is:

“The Landing of King Henry at Portsmouth, the Grand Procession at
Winchester, Coronation in Westminster Abbey, the Great Battle of
Bridgenorth, the Great Scene Morning after the Battle, the Bower
at Woodstock, the Cloisters of Canterbury Cathedral, Interior of
Canterbury Cathedral, Assassination of A’Beckett--with four other grand
tableaux.”

The names read beautifully and it seems almost a shame to spoil the
effect by relating, as I shall shortly have to do, an inglorious
episode in which I took part.

The play was produced on November 1st, 1873, and preceded the Christmas
pantomime. It was at Astley’s in this very “Fair Rosamond” that, not
discouraged by my failure at Royston’s mumming booth, I made my second
attempt to become a great actor. The play came on after the circus
business, in which I had a share, was over. For arena purposes half
the stage, which was adaptable, was removed, and restored when the
drama came on. I had to play the part of a soldier, together with three
others. We all wore beautiful armour. The words we had to say did not
want much study. They comprised two only, “To Canterbury,” in reply
to our Captain’s question, “Where goest thou?” uttered with all the
haughtiness demanded by melodrama.

I was only a little chap at this time and my suit of armour had been
made for a man quite six feet high. I’m not sure that I looked a very
noble warrior; at all events the audience didn’t think so, and the
gallery and the pit yelled at me. Again, I was a failure at serious
acting and my second essay lasted one night only. Somehow I had the
knack of always doing something wrong, and I fancy I often involved
my three companions into scrapes, and unfortunately one of the actors
named Lee made matters worse by telling tales of our misdoings to
the stage manager. Lee was really a fine actor and I daresay our
blunderings were a real source of annoyance to him.

Practically, so far as acting was concerned, we were given the sack,
but this didn’t quell the dramatic ardour which possessed us, and we
found solace, after our circus business was over, in visits to the
“Bower” in Stangate, not far from Astley’s.

The “Bower”--its full name was the “Bower Saloon,” but no one ever
thought of calling it so--was then falling into decay, but it was still
struggling to maintain its reputation as the only rival to the “Vic” as
a home of gory melodramas. Whatever the “Bower” may have looked like
in its best days, it had now become grimy and shabby, and the audience
was of the rowdiest. It probably would not hold many more than some 500
people. “Sweeney Todd” and “bluggy” plays of a like lurid character
formed the staple bill of fare, and we were able to revel in gore
comfortably seated in the royal box, for which we paid twopence a piece.

If I’d known as much about the “Bower” at that time as I’ve learned
since I should probably have looked upon it with more interest and
respect. It was in Stangate--a somewhat slummy street, swept away, I
think, for the approaches of St. Thomas Hospital, and in Stangate close
to the “Bower” once lived the father of the great Grimaldi. Mr. H. G.
Hibbert in his “A Playgoer’s Memories” reminds us that that erratic
genius, Robson, commenced his career at the “Bower,” and further points
out a curious if remote connection between the “Bower” and the “Belle
of New York.” Musgrove, who produced this American musical play in
London and made a fortune out of it, married a relative of the once
popular Irish comedian George Hodson, one of whose daughters was
Miss Henrietta Hodson, who became the wife of Mr. Labouchere. George
Hodson was at one time the manager of the “Bower” and thus supplied the
chain which linked this sordid place of amusement with the bright and
brilliant “Belle.”

Our studies of the drama as it was presented at the “Bower” were
eventually discovered, and the Astley manager expressed his
displeasure--why, I couldn’t understand, unless he thought the
spectacle of murders (it was the murders which we really went to see)
were corrupting our taste. Anyway he stalked into the “Bower” one
night, and spotting us, enquired sternly what we were doing there.
Our excuse that as we were not wanted on the Astley stage we had come
to pick up what we could of acting at the “Bower” was not considered
satisfactory, and we were bundled back to Astley’s and given another
chance as monks.

Now Mr. Lee played “Fair Rosamond’s” father, and he had a fine tragic
scene of which he made the most, especially in his death scene, where
he was supposed to be shot through the heart by an arrow on the
battlefield. Having a number of trained horses on the establishment it
was not to be supposed a chance of producing a realistic effect would
be lost sight of, so a whole batch of “gees” were brought on the stage
and represented the dead and dying.

Our duty as monks was to pick up the body of Rosamond’s father, place
it on a bier and carry the latter round the battlefield among the
defunct quadrupeds. We were longing to get our own back on Lee, and
one night as we were doing the usual mournful promenade to slow music
one of the horses started kicking. Mr. Lee suspected the monks were at
the bottom of the “certain liveliness,” and I’m afraid he wasn’t far
wrong.

But this was only the preliminary to our plot. Before the next
performance one of the handles attached to the bier was half sawn
through, and it only wanted a little jerk to bring about a catastrophe.
Sure enough that catastrophe arrived. Down fell the body; the audience
yelled with delight and shouted for him to die again, much to Mr. Lee’s
disgust, because he knew full well that it was not his fine acting
they wanted to see, but merely the collapse of the corpse. Another row
with the stage manager followed, with the result that the monks were
unfrocked and not allowed again to figure in “Fair Rosamond.”

I was then tried as a Lancashire soldier in Richard III. I had to
fight the King, who of course was mounted on “White Surrey.” The horse
that played the part was a very vicious brute, and when I saw him put
his ears back and show his teeth I made sure he was going for me. I
retreated, and backing a little too much, fell over the footlights
on to a fiddler. That did it. I was fished out of the orchestra a
very discomfited warrior, and this was the end of my acting career at
Astley’s.

My connection with Astley’s abruptly terminating (I never appeared
there again) I joined Adams’ Circus, well-known in those days in the
various towns of Yorkshire. Off and on I was a member of Adams’
Company for a considerable time, and strictly speaking, the episodes I
am about to relate did not take place until some years after my first
engagement, but as I shall not have occasion to refer to Adams again, I
insert them here.

We were at Leeds, the circus being stationed in Cudbright Street.
Charles Peace had just been condemned, and Armley gaol, to which he had
been consigned after his trial, being just outside Leeds, nothing else
but the murderer and his extraordinary career was being talked about.

On this particular night Mr. Adams and I, after the performance, looked
in at one of the hotels, and while we were there a gentleman sitting
close by recognised Mr. Adams, and said he:

“I saw your show to-night and I knew you again. You were riding that
beautiful Arab.”

Mr. Adams said that was so, and the stranger went on:

“Who was that funny cuss who had some fits and performed on the high
stilts?”

Mr. Adams, pointing to me, said that I was the individual.

“I’m very pleased,” was the rejoinder; “You made me laugh.”

He handed me his card, which I didn’t bother about, as cards were
often forced upon me, but thrust it into my pocket. That night I stuck
it with others on the mantelpiece in my room and went to bed. In the
morning I looked at the card, and something like a shudder went over me
when my eyes fell on the inscription “Marwood, Executioner.” That very
morning he executed Peace. It may sound absurd, but I could not eat
any breakfast, nor could I get the man out of my mind for weeks, for I
had shaken hands with him!

By way of contrast to this gruesome memory I recall an odd incident
which happened when Adams’ Circus was at Bradford. The circus stood on
the ground where is now the Midland Station, and I lived up the hill
and every night had to pass the “Ring of Bells,” where open house was
kept, and where I was a welcome visitor. One night I looked in while a
fearful row was going on between the landlord and a customer, a tailor.
The row was terminated in summary fashion by the landlord kicking the
tailor out of the house. The tailor retaliated by obtaining a summons
for assault, and I found myself subpœnaed as a witness.

While we were waiting for the case to come off, and the time hanging
heavy on our hands, plaintiff, defendant and witness went to the
nearest hostelry. I became an object of special interest to both sides,
and they stood treat very liberally. The result was that when we got
back to the court and the case was called I was feeling unusually fit.

What happened was something like this. After the parties told their
stories, which of course represented the affair in totally different
lights, I was told to stand in front of the magistrate, which I did.

“What have you got to say about this case?” asked his worship.

“Nothing,” said I.

“Well, what are you doing here then?”

“I don’t know,” was all I could think of saying.

Case dismissed!

But the witness hadn’t finished distinguishing himself. As I was
leaving the court I was passing a form on which two or three
policemen were sitting. I needn’t say that I fell over this form and
that the policemen fell with me. But nothing came of it--they knew who
I was.

By the way, it may be of interest at the present time to note that
those were days of amazing prosperity among the coal miners. Champagne
was such a common drink that at Barnsley it was known as “colliers’
pop.” It was at Barnsley that I was invited to go down a coal mine.
With my usual want of thought it never occurred to me that about the
last costume one would select for such a visit was a light summer suit
and hat to match. I needn’t say that when I reappeared after my ramble
down among the coals I looked fit to go to a funeral.

[Illustration: The best friend I ever had in the Theatrical Profession]

CHAPTER IV

A turning point in my career. I accept an offer to go to America and
travel with John H. Murray’s Railroad Circus. The discomforts of
crossing the Atlantic. The adventures of a jar of whisky. Our opening
show at Harlum a success. Blowing up “Hell Gate.” New York scared. Odd
experiences down south. An indignant darkie thirsts for my blood. The
clown not understood in America. A Yankee who didn’t like my “general
appearance.” A Pittsburg “burglar.” I return to England.

While at Sheffield there came a turning point to my career. I was still
with Adams’ Circus (perhaps I might mention that some little time
before this I had got married) which had its “pitch” in Station Road,
and a manager who happened to see me clowning came up to me after the
performance and startled me by asking without any preface:

“How would you like to go to America?”

The question rather took my breath away and I stared blankly at him for
a few moments. However, I had presence of mind enough to say:

“All right, if you make it worth my while. But you’ll have to let me
finish my engagement here.”

He agreed to this, so I went that night to his hotel and we fixed the
thing up, I signing a contract to travel with John H. Murray’s Railroad
Circus for 27 weeks in America.

A little later I was at Liverpool after a grand send-off at Sheffield.
Adams’ Company all wished me good luck, and I departed in the best of
spirits. Having my wife with me and a little baby about two months old,
we had a few preparations to make, but at last all was ready, and we
settled down on board the steamship _Italy_.

We had a comfortable state room given us. My wife’s berth was at the
bottom and mine at the top. On the opposite side was a settee. I was
specially privileged, being the only one allowed to burn a little light
through the night--because of the baby.

At that time there were no gigantic racing Cunard and White Star
liners, and our vessel, though of good size, gave us more than we liked
of the notorious Atlantic “roll.” On the third night out at sea a storm
came on; we were not allowed to go on deck, and our imprisonment ended
in our being battened down.

I was a fair sailor but my wife wasn’t, and as for the baby it did not
seem to care much which it was. A tremendous wave hit the ship and she
staggered under it. The passengers in the saloon were seized with a
panic and started singing psalms, which somehow didn’t add much to our
confidence. My wife made sure we were all going down, and in the middle
of the hubbub the baby took a header out of the bunk and rolled under
the settee, where it fixed itself until the ship gave a lurch in the
opposite direction, and back came baby a bit scared but not much hurt.
Of course, the Providence which is said to have a special care for
babies and drunken men was at hand somewhere.

What with my wife crying and what with the psalm singers and the baby
yelling its loudest, my customary self-possession nearly deserted me,
but in that unpleasant moment my “whimsicality” came to my rescue as it
has often done when I’ve been in a tight corner.

I had a happy thought and I’ll tell you what it was.

It so happened that on my coming on board some friend--I forget the
name of the good Samaritan--presented me with a gallon of Scotch whisky
of the right sort. Why not sample it in the hour of distress? was my
question, which I at once answered in the affirmative by opening the
wooden box which held the jar and extracting the bung, refreshed myself
with a good “go.” Much comforted, I climbed into my bunk and dropped
off to sleep. Towards morning I awoke and was conscious of an awful
smell of whisky. At first I thought it was a dream, but this idea soon
vanished. The whisky aroma was too real. The very atmosphere seemed
saturated with it. I looked over the side of my bunk and saw that the
jar had rolled out of the box and had smashed itself against an iron
trough which ran under the settee, and so round the steamer by the
bulwarks.

I jumped out of my bunk and in my half-sleepy condition seeing the
trough full of liquid I imagined the latter was simply whisky and
water, and that all I had to do was to bale it out to prevent the
passengers in the next state room being annoyed by the smell. I seized
a big head sponge and the jug of my wash basin and began sopping up
the contents of the trough. I don’t know how many times I filled and
emptied the jug and still the trough was as full of whisky and water
(as I thought) as ever. Then it dawned upon me that I was, like Mrs.
Partington, trying to mop up the Atlantic! For the trough running as
it did round the ship and at the stern allowing the steering chains
to pass through, was always full of water. It was a sad business
losing every drop of the precious whisky, but in these days of “Dora”
and “Pussyfoot” it would have been a dire disaster. I daresay this
reads like a trivial incident, but somehow trivialities have a way of
sticking in the memory.

Apart from the whisky catastrophe, the voyage was a terrible one--it
lasted 17 days--and when the ship arrived at New York she was minus two
boats and the deck smoking saloon. However, the warmth of our reception
made us forget all our troubles.

We drove direct to a boarding house, No. 75, Third Avenue, corner
of Fourteenth Street, kept by Mrs. Scholes, and I made ready for my
opening matinee at Harlum, New York.

I was at once at home with my audience, and it is no exaggeration to
say that I was a tremendous success and so also was my wife, who was a
member of the company and a fine rider and tight rope dancer. I have
never been able to define precisely what amuses an audience. I believe
it is a question of inspiration and maybe some sympathetic feeling
which brings the performer and his public together, goodness knows why
or wherefore. Anyhow, all I can say of my first experiment with a New
York audience was that it really consisted of putting in h’s where they
ought not to be, and the cockneyism went down immensely.

Fate ordained that in this, my first visit to New York, the great
business of blowing up Hell Gate, a huge rock in the middle of the
river, should take place. We were living at Houston Street at the time,
not far from the scene of action, and everybody was in a state of the
utmost alarm. The air was full of rumours, the least of which was that
half New York would be destroyed by the concussion. Not a few of the
residents in Houston Street removed their furniture and took refuge in
Hoboken. All the people in the house where I was were prepared for the
roof to fall in, and the floors to close telescope fashion. The time
for the explosion arrived. The little daughter of the chief of the
police touched a little electric button--the rock flew into fragments
and--that was all. Nothing else happened, not even a pane of glass was
broken. But we all felt very much better.

I have fears that my recollections of my first American tour are rather
mixed. We went to so many places. Everything was so new and fresh,
so different from what we had been accustomed to in old England.
There were no gaping rustics; no sleepy picturesque villages. No old
churches. No inviting quaint hostelries. No rippling streams and
moss-grown bridges.

When we went down south, for instance, we found audiences divided. The
whites would not sit with the blacks. But of the two I preferred the
blacks. My word, they _could_ laugh! One couldn’t help being funny when
one saw their black eyes rolling till you saw almost nothing but the
whites, and their gleaming teeth stretching nearly from ear to ear!

But it was as well to be on your guard. Once I had to sing a song with
the words like these:

There was an old woman who had three sons,
Benjamin, James, and John,
One got lost, one got hung
The other was lost and never was found,
That was an end of the three sons.

I thought it would be a good joke to sit down by the side of a fat old
negress whom I had spotted in the audience and say to the Ringmaster,
“Here’s a discovery.”

“Where?”

“Why, here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, here’s the old lady who had three sons, Benjamin, James and John.”

At this point I left the old lady, rushed into the arena, and whilst
the audience were laughing, a man next to this old woman, also a
nigger, stuck his hand behind his back.

“Look out,” suddenly whispered Mr. Murray, the proprietor, to me, “he’s
going to pop you off.”

That meant to shoot me.

I said, “Is he?”

Well, you know there is a pole that keeps the circus tent up in the
centre, so I made myself as thin as possible against this pole, and
directly the horse came round covering me from the nigger, I ran out
of the ring into my dressing room and disguised myself.

After the performance was over this outraged black gentleman wanted to
find the clown who had insulted his mother. Said he, sticking out his
chest with pride, “She never had any sons but me.”

I never tried that wheeze any more and I was glad to get out of the
town, for I was told that had this good son, who was so ready to defend
the honour of his mother, had an opportunity, he would most certainly
have put a bullet into me.

Perhaps a greater contrast between England and America could hardly
be found than in their respective ideas about pantomime. Pantomime
is (perhaps I ought to say _was_, for I’m afraid the juveniles of
to-day have very little opportunity of seeing the real old-fashioned
harlequinade) one of the cherished traditions of the English boy. Fifty
years ago grown-ups had not come to look upon the pantomime as silly
and vulgar. To children the clown with his mixed notions of _meum_ and
_tuum_ was an old friend; the pantaloon, his companion and scapegoat in
crime, hardly less so. If the child’s notions as to the precise object
of the mysterious flittings on and off the stage of the harlequin and
columbine were a little hazy it did not much matter; they completed the
picture. But in America--well, a disagreeable experience of mine showed
what was thought of the clown on the other side of the Atlantic.

On one occasion I was standing at the back of the curtain waiting for
the signal to enter the arena, when a formidable looking gentleman
who had somehow found his way in behind the circus, came up to me and
stared me in the face. I could see he wasn’t quite sober, but this
didn’t make him any the less dangerous. I was in my clown’s dress and
painted up; and looking at me with every sign of disapprobation he
coolly pulled out a revolver.

“Say, damn you,” he drawled, “I’m going to pop you off.”

I knew the fellow meant shooting, but I showed no signs of alarm and
remarked quietly,

“Why should you? I’ve never done you any harm. You don’t even know me.
I only arrived in this town with the circus this morning.”

“No, you’ve done me no harm, but I don’t like your general appearance.”

And without a doubt he would have expressed his dislike in a more
decided fashion, but at that moment one of the circus employees came
along, hit him on the back of his neck with the palm of his hand,
wrested the revolver from him and threw him down. My rescuer was only
just in time, for the fellow meant mischief. It turned out that he was
very drunk and on the verge of D.T. But would an Englishman in the same
condition have a horror of the harmless clown? I fancy not.

In those days the revolver in America was far too handy to please
me. When we were in Pittsburg murderous outrages were of constant
occurrence, and one night my wife and I had quite a scare at the
hotel where we were staying. She had gone to her room as usual and I
remained downstairs playing billiards. After a couple of games I went
up to the bedroom, opened the door, and there saw my wife sitting up in
bed trembling with fright.

She dared not speak, but calling pantomime business to her aid,
she easily made me understand that a burglar was under the bed!
I pantomimed back that I would go out of the room and fetch my
six-shooter. I did so, made some kind of noise, opened the door and
stalked in, calling out in a rough voice:

“Come from under that bed or I’ll fire.”

He crawled out--not a burglar, but a poor little collie dog wagging
his tail in the most friendly manner. The collie belonged to the hotel
proprietor, of whom I bought him for a 10-cent cigar. In my customary
fashion with all the animals I ever had, I soon taught him no end of
tricks, and he travelled with me during the rest of my tour in America.
He was the best of pals and always looked after me in the most amusing
fashion at the various restaurants where I dined and supped. I was very
sad when the poor animal I had come to love so much was run over by a
tramcar in Omaha and killed.

CHAPTER V

I shall never forget my second visit to America in 1879. It was the
most delightful and novel experience a man could possibly have. Imagine
travelling entirely by caravan and on foot right across prairie and
mountain from New York to San Francisco, meeting little else but
buffaloes and Red Indians! We had sixty horses with us, an Indian guide
to lead the way, and it was a perfect holiday the whole time, a portion
of the route taking us from Portland (Oregon), above the Conjoin
Valley, as far as Seattle and through the Rockies amid the wildest and
most romantic scenery. This was before the Klondyke rush and Seattle
was then a tiny village.

Our interviews with the various tribes of Indians we encountered were
most interesting. I expected to find them in their war paint, but it
was not so. They were beginning to forget their native customs under
the influence of American domination. They had not long since had
definite territory assigned them; they were no longer free to wander
where they pleased, and they were very sore about it. When they found
we were English they were most friendly. Had we been Americans I’m
afraid we should have had a reception of quite a different character.

The tribe of Indians which escorted our caravans was the Pendeton, and
they were very useful when we wanted water for our horses and did not
know where to get it. We were easily understood, for most of them spoke
very good English. At first we had the old-fashioned idea that they
were treacherous, but they were nothing of the kind. I found them a
grand people. They took an immense fancy to our coloured costumes and
once one of their chiefs--a fine old fellow of eighty--said to me in
his solemn way: “I like those coloured things you’ve on.”

The coloured things were the variegated tights I was wearing in the
little entertainment we were giving them, and I made him put them on,
which he did--over his ordinary dress. Oh, what a sight! His friends
screamed with delight, and nothing would satisfy them but my putting on
the rest of the costume and doing a war-dance in which they joined. It
was rare fun.

One day we were short of food and the friendly old chief discovering
this, said something in his own tongue to one of the young men who
vanished and in about half an hour returned loaded with a couple of
prairie chickens procured, how and where I can’t say. To cook the
chickens they made a wood fire and planted the birds, feathers and all,
on the top. In about three-quarters of an hour the grill was ready and
the cook, giving the chickens a few taps with his hatchet, feathers and
skin all came off. They were served up on a tin plate with some kind
of black bread, and I can only say that I never tasted anything more
delicious in my life.

The sun was so scorching in the day time that we found it impossible
to work the horses, so we travelled by night. The friendly Indians
continued with us and one day one of the tribe was taken very ill.
When this was told the chief, he said, “We must halt. We must find the
river”--and a couple of scouts were sent on a voyage of discovery and
came back with the news that there was a river about a mile away.

I was very curious to see the Indian method of treatment, in a case of
fever which this was, and the chief asked me to come with him. I said I
would, and leaving about a dozen of the tribe to look after the caravan
and horses we travelled till we got to the riverside. Here some of the
men scooped up mud from the river bed and built a small hut with it.
Then lighting a fire inside they baked it until it was like the hot
room of a Turkish bath. The patient was inserted and after allowing him
to remain some little time his doctors pulled him out and threw him
into the river!

According to our European ideas this heroic treatment ought to have
finished him, but it didn’t. It finished the fever instead and in a few
days the young fellow was quite well.

When we were through the Rocky Mountains our Indian pals left us, and
two days’ journey brought us opposite San Francisco, to reach which we
had to cross a river in barges. We remained in San Francisco a week,
and from here we commenced a most extensive tour, travelling first by
boat to Java, where we performed, more to give the animals exercise
than anything else, and thence to Australia. Just before reaching
Australia we had rather a serious bit of trouble. While crossing the
bight between Adelaide and Fremantle the sea was so rough that the ship
was in jeopardy, and to save it we had by the captain’s orders to throw
some of the animals overboard. With what was left of the circus we gave
some performances in Sydney and did remarkably well, and finally we
returned to New York by a different route, after having been away some
two years.

All that winter in New York I was “resting.” The time passed pleasantly
as I had made a good many friends, and among them Sammy Booth, the
printer, in Centre Street. Mr. Booth--dear old gentleman--was always
ready with a good cigar, and we had many a chat, for he loved to hear
yarns about the old country. I had, of course, often heard stories of
Yankee smartness, and during my acquaintance with Mr. Booth I had
personal experience of what I think I may call a super-instance of this
characteristic supposed to be peculiar to America.

One day while in Mr. Booth’s office a well-dressed man of affable
manners called and gave the firm a very big order to flood New
York with posters announcing a gigantic series of spiritualistic
manifestations, for which he had hired the Academy of Music in
Fourteenth Street, at that time the finest theatre in New York.

Mr. Booth accepted the order and invited some of his friends, of whom
I was one, to go with him on the night in question. We arrived at
the Academy to find the place packed to the roof. The drop went up,
discovering a gentleman at a piano and a row of about twelve chairs.
Then the lecturer in immaculate evening dress made his appearance and
after an elaborate bow asked the assistance of twelve gentlemen of the
audience, requesting them to step on to the stage “to prove that there
is no deception in my spiritualism.”

Upon this Mr. Booth, myself and the others mounted the stage and seated
ourselves on the twelve chairs. The lecturer politely thanked us and
went on to say that while he was away robing himself the gentleman at
the piano would favour the audience with a selection from the national
airs of America. Then he made his exit.

We soon discovered that the repertoire of the gentleman at the piano
was extremely limited. It consisted of only one air--“Yankee Doodle.”
We had “Yankee Doodle,” “Yankee Doodle” over and over again _ad
nauseam_. The tune might have been a squirrel in a revolving cage or a
steam roundabout organ at a country fair.

We waited patiently for half an hour. No lecturer turned up.
No--nothing, in fact, save the eternal “Yankee Doodle.” The audience
grew fidgety; then somebody shouted, somebody else followed, and at
last dimly realising that they had been “had,” an indignant crowd
rushed upon the stage, bent upon taking the lives of the twelve
gentlemen in the twelve chairs under the impression that they were
parties in the swindle. Nothing but the fact of Mr. Booth being
extremely well-known saved us. Yells were heard for the money to be
returned, but no money was forthcoming, the “lecturer” having hopped
away with it some time before. I fancy the poor piano suffered. Some of
us had a little bit of it as a relic. It had played its last “Yankee
Doodle.”

My next engagement was with Barnum, Bailey and Hutchinson’s show, and
we opened in Madison Square Gardens in New York. This was in 1880,
when for some reason or another, or perhaps no reason at all, there
came about a boom in elephants. Perhaps it was due to the attraction
of “Jumbo” at the Regent’s Park Zoo, an immense favourite--in more
senses than one--with the children and believed to be the biggest tame
elephant in the world. Anyhow, everybody was going mad over elephants,
and we at Barnum and Bailey’s believed we had scored over any other
show in Christendom when it was discovered that one of our lady
elephants was about to become a mother. All the necessary preparations
were made, expectation ran high, and at last the youngster came into
the world. It at once became a celebrity and a star, for it was the
only elephant known to be born in bondage. Barnum and Bailey, you may
be sure, made the most of the treasure. The birth was advertised in
one way or another all over the world, and we had doctors from every
part of the States and a few from Europe to see the marvellous little
creature. The mother of the baby elephant was called Mother Hebe--and a
dear kind mother she was. It was a pretty sight if somewhat grotesque
to see her suckle the infant, which she did in quite a human fashion
and totally different from the method adopted by any other animal.

Every afternoon at 4.30 I used to play with the baby elephant. I was
as punctual as clockwork--a very important thing in the training of an
animal’s affections--and I never missed a day. When the baby was six
months old I was nowhere in the game. He was thoroughly master of me
and used to enjoy butting me all over the place. I do believe the old
mother liked to see her son romping with me.

After the animals went into quarters for the winter I did not see my
playmate for fifteen years, when the Barnum Show coming to Olympia
in London, I called and asked Mr. Bailey what had become of the baby
elephant. “You’ll find him the first elephant round the corner,” said
Mr. Bailey. I went and spoke to him and he nearly went off his head
with joy, so much so that he became really dangerous from excitement,
and I had to leave. Elephants rarely forget kindnesses, but a fifteen
years’ memory was a tall order and familiar as I was with the ways of
animals I was quite taken by surprise.

In the course of its wanderings Barnum and Bailey’s show found itself
some time in 1881 at Chester, Pennsylvania. One evening about five
o’clock when I was having tea at my hotel, Mr. Bailey came in. Said he:

“Whimmy, I want you to go to Paris.” Thinking he meant Paris in New
York State I said: “All right. When?”

“Well,” he returned, “you can catch the mail train to New York to-night
and catch the steamer _Alaska_ for Liverpool.”

“Oh, then you mean the Paris in France.”

“Yes.”

Upon this I went to my wife and told her. She agreed and suggested that
while I was in England I might go and see the children, who were in
Hull. As for herself, she would be quite safe in America as Mr. Bailey
would see that she was looked after.

Then came a little mystery which made me fancy I was an important
diplomatic agent engaged on a mission which might plunge the world into
war.

“Whimmy,” said Mr. Bailey, when I was ready to start, “I wish you to
give me your word of honour that you will not open this sealed envelope
until you pass the Goddess of Liberty.”

The Goddess of Liberty, of course, is the enormous figure which is so
prominent an object to all steamers coming to or going from New York.

I gave my promise, said good-bye to my wife, and with my kit, a couple
of shirts, socks, collars and so on, I caught the train to New York and
boarded the _Alaska_.

I needn’t say that I was all agog with curiosity to know what my
“sealed orders” contained, for Mr. Bailey hadn’t given me the slightest
idea of what my mission to Paris meant, and the minute the _Alaska_
passed the Goddess of Liberty I broke open the envelope. These were the
instructions I found inside:

“Go to the Grand Hotel, Paris. There our representative, Davis, is
lying dangerously ill. Do the best for him. Should he have gone before
you get there, get all his papers and see him put away regardless of
expense. After doing your business there go to the Zoological Gardens
and buy “Jumbo.” Don’t give more than 5,000 dollars, and return after
you have finished your business; also bring the Liliputian Aztecs with
you.”

For some months previous the most important topic discussed in London
was the fate of “Jumbo.” The big elephant was now twenty years of age
and though perfectly docile in his daily duty of giving children rides
in the gardens, and quite friendly with and obedient to Scott, his
keeper, had when in confinement periods of irritability. There were
reasons for this, and among others was the constant gorging of buns
and various dainties of the same character and the want of sufficient
exercise. It was known that the Fellows of the Royal Zoological Society
were seriously perturbed what to do with the public’s pet, and at last
it was announced that the dearly beloved “Jumbo” must either be sold or
shot!

Instantly a tremendous furore burst out. Ladies and children swarmed
to the Zoo and “Jumbo” had the time of his life in the way of being
pampered. One lady never missed a day in taking a packet to the huge
beast and dropping a few tears of sympathy. But the fiat had gone
forth. “Jumbo” must be sold, for here was I, having taken on the
responsibilities of Mr. Davis, representing Barnum and Bailey, ready to
plank down the purchase money.

When this fact was announced a squabble arose among the Fellows. A
certain section swore by all the gods that “Jumbo” should not leave
the country, and applied to the Court of Chancery for an injunction
to restrain the Council from selling him, on the ground that they had
no power under their charter. During the hearing of the application
on March 7th, 1882, before Mr. Justice Chitty, it was stated by the
Secretary of the Society that Barnum’s offer had been received on
October 12th, 1881, and that it was resolved to accept this offer. He
considered they had delivered “Jumbo” to Mr. Barnum when the £2,000
was paid. He then told Barnum’s agent that he was the owner of the
elephant, but that if he liked he would keep him for a short time on
deposit.

Mr. Bartlett, the Superintendent of the Gardens, gave some interesting
evidence. Numerous elephants he had known had become dangerous and had
killed persons and had to be shot. “Jumbo” had at times in the last
two years shown signs of “must.” Last autumn he had smashed oak bars
eight inches square, lined with iron, by striking them with his head.
If the Society kept him, they would have to build a special house for
him as the present one was not strong enough. The only thing that could
be done when he went “must” would be to chain him down and put him on
half rations.

The upshot of the matter was that Mr. Justice Chitty decided that when
the secretary reported on the 22nd February that the money had been
paid the elephant was sold and that the Council had power to sell. In
spite of this decision, lamentations went up, and one of “Jumbo’s”
indignant friends tried to start a subscription to keep him in the
country.

Of course, the excitement and sentimentalism over the exodus of the
big beast was all to the good from the showman’s point of view. Mr.
Bailey knew what he was about and he cabled to me to give a dinner to
the Press at the Zoological Gardens before taking away the pet of the
British public.

This dinner took place on a Friday evening and “Jumbo” was to leave
on the following day. While we were enjoying ourselves at the dinner,
Scott, “Jumbo’s” keeper at the Zoo, called me out and told me that
it was impossible to ship “Jumbo” that night as the elephant had
positively refused to enter the travelling car which had been specially
prepared for his conveyance to the docks.

I may say that this car was of peculiar construction. It was more
like a tunnel than a car, being open at both ends, which were to be
closed when “Jumbo” was inside. So many years have elapsed and so many
of those in the “know” have passed away that there is no harm now
in telling the story of “Jumbo” as seen from the inside. The tunnel
arrangement was adopted with a view to taking “Jumbo” in. It was
thought that when he saw the trees, grass, flowers and so on through
the end he would readily enter the tunnel under the impression that he
was walking into the open air. It is my belief that “Jumbo” was far too
shrewd to be “codded”--to use showman’s slang--in this manner.

Besides--and this is where the secret comes in--Mr. Barnum, like
Pharaoh of old, had--so to speak--hardened his heart and would not
let “Jumbo” go. Why should he be in a hurry. The English and American
papers were paragraphing the obstinacy of “Jumbo” day after day, the
difficulties of removal were made as much of as possible. Barnum was
delighted with the fantastic notion that forty millions in Great
Britain were tearing their hair in their anguish at having to part with
their beloved beast, while fifty millions in America were going through
the same operation lest at the eleventh hour something might happen to
prevent them gloating over the possession of the precious pachyderm. It
was a showman’s policy to keep up the excitement for the sake of the
advertisement, and so while it was made out that superhuman efforts
were being made to induce “Jumbo” to set foot in the car, as a matter
of fact this was the last thing desired until there were signs of the
strain on the public mind giving way.

I needn’t say that I put on an expression of intense anxiety when
I announced to the feasting pressmen that I must deal with the
difficulty at once, and as my absence did not mean any cessation of
the festivities, I don’t think they minded my going very much. The
result was that I hurried off, took a hansom to the American Exchange,
and cabled to Mr. Bailey: “Cannot get ‘Jumbo’ away this week. Waiting
instructions from you.” Mr. Bailey cabled in return, “Keep ‘Jumbo’ back
until further orders.” I did. I kept him for six weeks. The _Persian
Monarch_, which had been chartered, sailed without him, and all this
time “Jumbo” obligingly refused to enter his tunnel-car.

When it was considered a suitable moment “Jumbo” was induced to take
up his quarters in the travelling box, which with its living freight
did not weigh much less than 12 tons. An inclined plane had been cut in
the ground to make the floor of the box level with that of the cage,
and all went well until in turning a corner in a somewhat narrow path a
soft bit of gravel was reached, some stupid person called out “Whoa!”
and the team of six powerful dray horses stopped in this awkward
place. Before they could go on again, the wheels had sunk down to the
axles. Here the box remained until night. The horses had to be taken
out while powerful jacks were used to raise the conveyance, which was
accomplished a little before midnight, “Jumbo” in the meantime having
alternate fits of irritation and calmness. A little after 1 a.m. a fair
start was made, and at length the road outside the Gardens was reached,
and without further mishap the car was brought alongside the _Assyrian
Monarch_ at Millwall Docks.

CHAPTER VI

“Jumbo” shipped. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts gives him his last bun.
Arrives safely at New York. A duty of £450 demanded. My awkward
encounter with the Customs officer. Fatal accident to “Jumbo.”
Something about the Aztecs. Their curious history. I go in for
theatrical management. I start with pantomime at the Metropolitan
Alcazar, Broadway. Deverna’s extraordinary rubber “properties.” The
topical hits greatly relished. The foolish penal code. Marriages in
Barnum’s captive balloon. My benefit and the misfortune that happened.
The gallery gives way and many people injured. In five minutes I lose
all my fortune.

At last the day arrived for the departure of the biggest passenger that
ever left the British shores. Practically, as a passenger, he had the
entire ship to himself (barring a few emigrants), for the _Assyrian
Monarch_ was a cargo ship and had been chartered for the purpose.
No monarch could have had greater honours paid him. The steamer was
dressed with flags and the boy crews of the training ships in the
Thames manned the yards as he went by. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts
and a party of friends bade him farewell on board the steamer and the
Baroness gave him his last bun. It was said that messages recording
the state of the illustrious animal’s health would be placed in india
rubber bags in lieu of bottles and dropped into the sea at intervals,
but whether this delicate attention was paid him I am unable to say,
as I did not travel in the _Assyrian Monarch_, for having to reach New
York some days before he did I went from Liverpool.

“Jumbo” arrived at Jersey city on April 9th and by night was lodged
in Madison Square Gardens little the worse for the voyage, save that
he had lost half a ton in weight owing to sea sickness. On the other
hand he had contracted a taste for whisky, presumably administered for
medicinal reasons. How much constituted a dose I am unable to say. The
Customs authorities claimed £450 for duty, which the owners refused to
pay on the ground that “Jumbo” had been imported for breeding purposes.
The question was referred to the Treasury and ultimately the claim was
abandoned. Again was “Jumbo” specially privileged. On the whole Barnum
and Bailey made a splendid bargain. What with buying him, booming him
in various ways and his transportation to America, he cost £3,000.
On the other hand we cleared this sum in New York alone and during
eighteen months we took 1,500 dollars per day--equivalent to £300.

That voyage of mine to America was marked by a comical incident which
forced me to pretend to be something Nature had not fitted me for. The
night before I left London for Liverpool I had a cable from Mr. Bailey
instructing me to bring over a prize dog as a pet for Mrs. Bailey,
she having no children. I brought the pug--“Punch” was its name--I
also purchased 24 pairs of tights, 24 pairs of theatrical boots and
a silver cornet for which I paid £16 at Chappell’s of Bond Street, the
cornet being for Mr. Robinson, who was the conductor of our band.

With all this paraphernalia I arrived at New York, and in due course
presented myself and my belongings at the Customs. The officer passed
everything excepting the silver cornet, at which he looked very
doubtfully.

“What have you got there?” was his question.

“Oh, that’s an implement of my trade,” said I, readily enough.

“Yes? And who are you?”

This was a poser, but I thought I was equal to it, so I explained that
I was a musical clown at Madison Square Gardens.

The officer smiled cordially.

“I’m real pleased to hear that,” said he. “Come into the office and
give us a few of your latest English tunes.”

He wasn’t contented with this (to me) monstrous proposal, but actually
invited some of his brother officials to form part of the audience!
What my consternation was like I cannot describe. I had never blown a
cornet in my life! However, I wasn’t going to be done, and plucking
up my courage I followed him into the office, brought out the cornet,
put the mouthpiece on it, and with all the assurance of a professional
musician asked the gentleman what he would like to hear.

“Play one of your own compositions,” said he.

I did. I composed it on the spot and made the most terrible noise that
ever issued from a cornet.

The official evidently was not impressed.

“Where’s the invoice for this?” he remarked drily.

I showed it to him--there was no help for it.

“Ah. That’ll cost you so many dollars extra. You’d better get out and
do a bit of practice.”

I never had such a take down and I felt I’d made a fool of myself.

When I took the cornet to Mr. Robinson he said, “What a beauty,” but on
my telling him of my adventure and what the instrument cost, he nearly
fell into a fit.

“My dear Whimmy,” said he laughing heartily, “I could have got the
thing cheaper in New York.”

“Jumbo’s” lost half-ton was soon made up. He began speedily to put on
flesh again and despite the fact that he had more exercise with the
show and less buns than at the Zoological Gardens, he became fat and
unwieldy and certainly lazy. All this led to his undoing. Some eighteen
months after he became an American citizen he was being removed from
one town to another, and during the journey was taken along the railway
track to avoid the crowds which were anxious to see him free, gratis
and for nothing. He was proceeding along a bend in the line when a big
locomotive engine was heard coming behind. The driver did not see the
big beast, and “Jumbo,” in total ignorance of his danger, could not be
induced to quicken his pace. The attendants did all they could to urge
him on, but his indolence had become too strong a habit. The locomotive
struck him violently on the side as he was leaving the metals, and
he fell down the incline, where he lay till his death, which occurred
some few hours after. Nothing could be done as he had received severe
internal injuries.

Passing from the very big to the very little I might say a word or two
about the Aztecs which Barnum was so anxious to have to add to the
attractions of his show. They were an ugly diminutive couple with dark
olive skins, gleaming eyes and big hook noses. I dare say some of my
older readers may remember them being quite a rage in London and the
provinces in the early ’sixties. They were brought from Mexico by one
Reaney, who represented them as being the last of their race, and as
also having royal blood in their veins. This may have been so, but I
have a suspicion that the story was a showman’s fake.

Royal or not, they proved a mine of wealth to their exhibitors, though
they hadn’t the slightest spark of interest in themselves personally.
They were hardly four feet high and exceedingly slightly built. With
their ringletted hair they looked more like dolls or wax figures from
a costumier’s window than human beings, and they passed their time in
smoking cigarettes and quarrelling in some kind of guttural jargon
which no one but themselves understood. They were a most unpleasant
looking couple, yet the British public clustered round them--the ladies
especially--anxious to shake them by the hand, though their palms were
generally moist and dirty and very disagreeable to the touch.

When I was commissioned to take them to America they had lost their
celebrity and had fallen very low indeed. After being exhibited in a
penny side booth during the last days of the Surrey Gardens, where they
were much more interested in their own snarlings than in the gaping
visitors, they became the property of a Mrs. Morris, who hired a shop
in the New Cut and turned it into a show, and there I found them.

I may be wrong, but to my mind, speaking as one who has passed a good
part of his life among shows and showmen, that the taste for freaks and
monstrosities once so marked a characteristic of the British sightseer
has disappeared. If so, it is hardly to be regretted.

After I finished my season with the Barnum and Bailey “Jumbo” season
in America I had saved a few thousand dollars, so I thought I would
go in for management in the theatrical business. I decided to produce
an English pantomime and made arrangements with Deverna, the finest
theatrical property artificer in America. Deverna was marvellous in
making, among other achievements, properties of rubber, and he made two
tramway horses--all of rubber, so that they could be stretched right
across the stage and if you let them go they would return to their
proper places. These two cost me a lot of money, but they were worth
it. You could knock them off their feet and they would right themselves
in the most startling fashion. I rented the Metropolitan Alcazar
Theatre, Broadway, New York, from a Mr. Wilson for three months. I
engaged a first-class company and gave them three weeks’ rehearsal and
set to work to produce the pantomime, the title of which was “The
Three Wishes.”

We opened on December 19th, to a big house. The English harlequinade
was a novelty to an American audience and I was curious to see how
it would go down. Everybody, I suppose, has his own idea of fun, and
where one person sees humour another sees nothing to laugh at, so I
had to take my chance. The result, however, was a success. _The New
York Herald_ was good enough to say of my efforts that they “provoked
considerable laughter.” It further observed that “Deverna’s splendid
pantomime and ballet, ‘Les Amours de Venus’ by M. Baptistan, were well
received. Many of the local scenes were recognised, and the hits at
the penal code and the peculiarities of horse car travel drew forth
sympathetic applause and hearty laughter.”

I may say in explanation of the “hits” at the penal code that the
latter was an extraordinary enactment, which could only have been
passed when the legislative authorities were in a temporary condition
of imbecility. It laid down all kinds of rules and regulations as to
what was proper and improper to do on Sunday, and a more fussy and
grandmotherly scheme for interfering with individual liberty was never
devised. As the notoriously prudish Comstock was the person appointed
to carry out the obnoxious law, it is pretty certain he took a keen
delight in pouncing upon offenders and exacting the fine laid down for
a breach of the code.

The Americans are certainly an extraordinary people, with their
constant craving for excitement, for bigness in everything, for
the almighty dollar, and for their extreme sentimentalism. They are
perpetually involving themselves in contradictions. At the very moment
when some were howling about Sabbatarian morality, others were crazy
over cock-fighting! Matches were being got up and fought in hosts
of places, not secretly but openly, and reports of the combats were
published in the papers without any apology. The incongruity did not
occur to me at the time, but it did afterwards, when I myself was
interested in the doings of game-cocks, as will be told in the proper
place.

So long as you can tickle the curiosity and vanity of the Americans and
make them fancy you’re going to show or give them something the rest of
the world has never seen or possessed, you’re on the right lines as a
showman. Barnum, the prince of the profession, discovered this as early
as 1842 when he exhibited General Tom Thumb, and he was always bringing
out something fresh and “unique” to the very end of his long career.

He was extraordinarily fertile in finding out new ways of pleasing the
American public and incidentally making money. One of his most original
notions he worked out while I was with him. He had a captive balloon
for flights, in which, of course, he made a charge. How he came to
extend this privilege into an extra special one I am unable to say, but
New York was one day startled by an announcement that marriages were
being “solemnised”--I suppose this is the proper word--daily in the
captive balloon!

And this turned out to be the case. Engaged couples were crazy to be
married up in a balloon and Barnum was quite ready to oblige them. The
balloon carried a clergyman at every trip and united the candidates in
the free and easy fashion which the American marriage law approves. Of
course, he had his fee and so did Barnum, who charged for the flight a
sum which, though high, was eagerly paid by the bridegroom.

What there was so attractive in this absurdity I am unable to say,
unless it enabled the couples so wedded to crow over those who had to
be contented with a commonplace church or chapel.

To return to the Alcazar pantomime. I of course was clown, and I had
splendid support from Charles Christie, pantaloon; J. F. Raymond,
harlequin; Thomas Watson, sprite; and Eva French, columbine. I needn’t
say there was any number of pretty girls in the ballet.

The run continued through the Christmas holidays to January 3rd,
which night I set apart for my benefit. By the irony of fate that
night proved to be most disastrous in my career--I lost a fortune
in less than five minutes. A tremendous crowd had assembled outside
the theatre, and I told my manager to open the doors. The house was
crowded to suffocation and just when we were going to begin there was a
stampede from the top gallery. It had dropped two feet with the weight
of the people. Women and children were shouting and crying--some with
arms and legs broken--but, thank God, there were no lives lost.

There was no performance that night, and subsequently the authorities
condemned the theatre. The accident had a sequel which was of grave
consequence to me. The people who had been injured brought actions
against me and they got absolutely everything I had, to the last dollar
I had saved for five years, and I was left penniless. There was only
one thing to do--return to England--so I borrowed 500 dollars from Mr.
Bailey and took boat for Liverpool.

[Illustration: The Royal Windsor Castle Programme]

CHAPTER VII

I join Hengler’s Circus at Liverpool. Mr. Charles Hengler’s
peculiarities. A black or red nose? An unlucky ride in the early
morning after a late night. I break my ankle. Incapacitated for two
years. I go with Hengler’s to Dublin. My popularity. A favourite song.
I experiment with performing cats. They have stage fright. A Dublin
reporter taken aback. “Billy Gladstone.” The reporter’s revenge. My
awkward experience on the boat to Holyhead. A “Dick Turpin” impromptu
ride to York.

When I arrived at Liverpool, Hengler’s Circus chanced to be there,
and as Mr. Hengler and myself were old friends I called upon him
and was engaged. Some years before at Hull I had made Mr. Hengler’s
acquaintance and had got to know his peculiarities. I found him a good
straight man, somewhat severe--would have his business done to his
liking--and that was his success through life. Everything had to be the
essence of cleanliness. I have seen him go round the stables with his
white handkerchief in his hand smoothing down the horses’ backs to see
if they were clean. He was a terror with the grooms--the least dirty
spot on a horse--the groom had to go!

Well, on my opening night, I had on a beautiful satin dress. My
nose was black and my face was white. I went into the arena and
knocked lumps off myself--because I thought the first impression was
everything--but when I came out I was exhausted--fell down--fighting
for breath. Anyhow, I had made a huge success, and when Mr. Charles
Hengler came round I thought he was going to compliment me. Oh dear no.
Instead of compliments he said sternly:

“You know, sir, your nose looks dirty--and it frightens the children.
Don’t put it on again, sir!”

That was all I got from him for nearly killing myself. Well--I was
broken hearted. “Shall I leave now,” I wondered, “or stop the week”?

The next night came: he was sitting in his box, and I went in the
arena--black nose and all--to let him know I didn’t care. I came out
after doing my business and he came to me and said only these words:
“You’ve got it on again, sir.”

I didn’t reply to him, but I went to his manager, Mr. Wm. Powell, and
told him that I was leaving on Saturday!

“Don’t you be a fool,” was Mr. Powell’s rejoinder. “What Mr. Hengler
has told you is for your benefit. Instead of putting black on your nose
try a bit of red.”

So I did, and I must confess it was a tremendous improvement when
I next went on. When I came off Mr. Hengler called me out and
complimented me on the improvement; and I stopped fourteen years on
and off with him! I was so good that it cost him £1,000 in London to
advertise me. I became very great friends with all in the circus from
Mr. Hengler downwards, and especially with Mr. Wm. Powell, his manager
and son-in-law.

Meeting with Mr. Hengler in Liverpool when I was so hard-up I considered
was a bit of luck, but I had not reckoned for the unexpected. It so
happened that Marie Roze was singing in the city, and she invited Mr.
Albert Hengler and myself to a grand supper at the Adelphi Hotel. We
had an exceedingly jolly time and the small hours came upon us before
we had finished. Not feeling too brisk and having the prospect of a
matinee before us, we thought it would not be a bad idea to have a
gallop in the country to buck us up for the show. Accordingly we went
to the circus stables and got the groom to saddle a couple of horses.
Now circus horses are shod like race horses, their shoes are quite
flat, and this was the cause of the stroke of ill luck which suddenly
descended upon me.

All went well until we had gone two miles or so on the Derby Road, when
it came on a drizzle of fine rain. Shortly after, we saw a herd of
cows coming out of a field and at the same time a tramcar approached
us up the hill. To avoid both cows and car I was obliged to take the
wrong side of the road. The fates conspired against me with malignant
unanimity. The drizzle chose to turn itself into a heavy shower--one
of the outside passengers was moved to open his umbrella. If he’d only
done so two minutes sooner or two minutes later all would have been
well, but no--he must needs put up the thing with a jerk at the very
instant I was riding past the car. My horse shied at it, his flat
shoes had no hold on the wet, greasy tram lines, and down he went and
his rider with him. Result--a broken ankle for me.

A cab was fetched, I was taken home and the doctor came and set my leg.
I was in bed for five months and it was two years before I appeared in
the ring again. But Mr. Charles Hengler was ever so good to me, so I
never wanted for anything. I remember the doctor coming one morning and
saying I could have a small glass of Guinness’ stout, half of a potato
and the middle part of a chop. But instead of a small glass of stout
I had two bottles and two potatoes--and I thought the doctor would
not know what I had taken. Next morning he came and felt my pulse and
looked at me, and wanted to know what I had been doing. My wife told
him that I had had two bottles of stout and more than two potatoes.
He said to me, “Well, young man, you have only put yourself back one
month,” and this turned out to be true.

When I was in active work again I went about with Hengler’s to various
places and eventually found myself in Dublin. I connect Dublin with
very important stage business which had much to do with my subsequent
career. It was in Dublin that I took up seriously the training of
animals and especially of my celebrated donkeys, of which I shall have
much to say a little later on. But at first I was engaged in ordinary
clowning. I have no hesitation in saying that the Dublin audiences are
the best and most appreciative I’ve ever played to, and as for the
hospitality of the Dublin people, there’s no end to it.

I made a very tremendous success with this song:

In Dublin’s sweet city,
Where the girls are so pretty,
That’s where I met my sweet Mollie Malone.
She wheeled a wheelbarrow
Through streets wide and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels,
Alive, alive O--Alive, alive O,
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive--O.

Now she died with the fever
And nothing could save her,
And that was the end of sweet Mollie Malone.
And her ghost wheels her barrow,
Through streets wide and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive--O,
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive--O!

They used to call me their Dublin pet. Our performances were given in
Mr. Hengler’s place in the Rotunda, a very fine theatre. Mr. Hengler
came to me one day and I could see by his expression that some project
was simmering in his mind.

“Whimmy,” said he, “I saw something in Paris that would suit you.”

“What was that?” I asked.

He replied that he saw a man with some performing cats and that he made
them do some very clever things.

“Now why shouldn’t you do something of that kind?” he went on.

“Well, if it’ll please you, Mr. Hengler,” was my answer, “I’ll get some
cats and train them.”

Accordingly I secured four cats--never mind how I got them--real
Irish cats they were, and I gave a man eighteen shillings per week
for thirteen weeks only to look after them. I had four wooden boxes
made, painted red outside and whitewashed inside. I used to get up at
six o’clock in the morning to go down to the circus before anybody was
about, to train my pupils. I used to take boiled milk and boiled liver,
and had a couple of hours every day, with the exception of Sunday, and
in this fashion their education went on for thirteen weeks.

Of course it needed any amount of patience on my part, for I had to
make them do the same things over and over again until it became simply
a habit. This is the secret of training animals--habit. Well, I got
these cats to perfection--they used to jump through wire hoops, walk
the tight rope with a little bird in their mouths to prove that you
could train a cat to bring a bird to one without harming it, and other
feats.

My benefit came, and of course I had huge posters all over the city of
Dublin: “The greatest novelty in the world: four wonderful performing
cats will appear at my benefit. Whimsical Walker--Clown!”

The house was packed to suffocation and I did about a dozen acts before
introducing the star turn. Sedately the cats followed me in rotation
into the ring and one of the grooms put four little stools down for
them to sit on. I turned round to pick up a hoop and at that moment
some fool in the gallery made a noise with his mouth. The cats bolted
at the sound and I have never seen them from that day to this!

I expected a great row as it seemed to me the audience would look upon
me as a fraud and consider themselves sold, but they took the thing as
a joke, and I can only think that they understood the reason and held
me innocent of any attempt to deceive them. All the same, every time I
went to Dublin I was chaffed unmercifully about the cats. I must admit
that my first experience with performing animals was not encouraging,
but the time came when my patience was rewarded, though there was
always the risk of something happening which was not in the programme.

I had a good many queer adventures in Dublin and not the least funny
was an episode in which a reporter of the _Freeman’s Journal_ figured.
Some of us used to go to the Hummums Hotel Turkish Baths about four
times a week--just to have a rest and get ready for business at night.
In the cooling room of these baths was a huge cold water bath--say
about five feet deep--with four couches round it. Mr. William
Powell--Hengler’s manager--was on one couch sleeping, I was next to
him on another one, and dear Father O’Brien--a very stout priest--on a
third.

We were all resting quietly when Kelly, the reporter in question, had
the assurance to waken Mr. Powell and ask him for two passes for the
circus. Of course Mr. Powell was annoyed at being awakened, and under
his breath said, “Whimmy, fake him in the plunge.”

Tumbling to the idea, I said, “Kelly, have you seen my new trick that I
am going to do for my benefit? Just stand there on that rubber mat.”

This was on the edge of the plunge. I did a somersault--slipped--my
head came in contact with his stomach--and, of course, he fell into
the plunge. Well, we got him out and when he stood on the mat Father
O’Brien laughed so much that we had to rush out and get him a drop of
brandy or I am sure he would have choked. He said it was the funniest
thing he had ever seen in his life.

Of course Mr. Kelly’s clothes were saturated, so we took them off and
gave them to the attendant to put into the hot room until they were
dry. When they came back the trousers were about three inches too short
and Kelly’s face was three inches or so too long. We made out, of
course, that it was an accident, but he never asked for any more passes!

Another incident I fear was the result of too much hospitality on the
part of my Irish friends. A short time after the Turkish bath escapade,
one of the company was taken ill with brain fever and removed to the
hospital, where he died. He was a Russian by birth named Becker. He
was a Catholic and I promised him that I would look after him at his
funeral. He was to have been buried on a Saturday morning, and it so
happened that I had accepted an invitation to a birthday party the
night before. I had a jollification and I’m afraid I put away a lot of
Chartreuse.

About 5 o’clock in the morning I told my friends that I must really
go, but they would not hear of it. I insisted, however, and going out
called a jarvey to take me home to Meryon Square, not very far from
where I engaged the car. In the meantime my friends had taken off my
boots for a lark, thinking that I would then stop, but this made no
difference and I went away in my socks.

I asked the jarvey when he had got about 100 yards what I owed him,
and he said, “Eight bob, sir.” I replied, “What! I’ll give you five
shillings.” He pulled up and called a policeman, saying that I would
not pay his fare--eight shillings. I alighted, thinking I would have a
bit of fun (this was about 5.30 on a summer’s morning in August) and
I started having a run for my money round the car, the policeman and
jarvey after me. Of course I was without boots.

I was round the car--underneath the horse--about three times--till
the bobby thought he would stop me, so he waited at the other side
of the horse. I bobbed under the horse and as I bent down my head
came in contact with his stomach, and he caught his heels against the
kerb and down he went. He was soon on his feet, collared me with the
assistance of the jarvey, and ran me into a little tiny one-room police
station. No one was about, being early in the morning, so there were no
witnesses.

I was taken before a row of policemen, and the question was asked,
“What the charge was.” “Not paying the jarvey’s fare and insulting the
Dublin constabulary.” The officer asked me my name, and I answered
“Billy Gladstone.” Mr. Gladstone was working very hard for Home Rule at
this time. I needn’t say I did not look much like the great statesman,
especially as I had no boots on. The officer got up from his table, and
with the aid of the other officer took me by the back of the collar and
a certain part of the top of my trousers and threw me into a little
room.

“I’ll give you ‘Billy Gladstone,’” he remarked, and I’m bound to admit
he did.

I must have been in the cell two hours and then another constabulary
man entered.

“Would you like a cup of tea,” he asked in a friendly way, and I had no
hesitation in saying yes.

He brought me one, so I said: “Will you let me out,” thinking that I
had kept the joke up long enough.

The policeman looked at me.

“Ain’t you Whimsical Walker--the clown?” he asked.

I said, “Yes.”

“Then why did you put your name on the sheet as ‘Billy Gladstone’?”

“That was only fun. I’m very sorry!”

I then told the policeman what I had to do that very morning, and how I
had promised I would see poor Becker buried. After a lot of persuasion,
the policeman said he would let me out if I promised to be at the Four
Courts at 12 o’clock, and of course I promised.

The morning was now getting on, and I asked the policeman to lend me
a pair of his boots--which he did--and a pretty picture I looked with
the policeman’s boots on, about a dozen sizes too big for me, and in
evening dress!

However, I went to the hospital and took the corpse to Glasnevin
Cemetery, and buried my poor comrade. It was a solemn affair, yet there
was hardly anyone except myself there to see the last of the poor
Russian. So having kept my word I went down to the Four Courts and
stopped there until my case came off.

Presently, a voice holloaed out, “William Gladstone!”

Of course I knew that was me. The court was crowded to suffocation.
When I made my appearance in the dock--as “William Gladstone”--there
was a scream and a titter, and the magistrate threatened to clear the
court.

“Do clear the court, and I’ll go with them,” I put in.

That did it, and somebody shouted: “Why that’s Whimmy Walker--hooray!
Another hoax!”

The end of the business was that I had to pay eight shillings to the
jarvey, £1 for insulting the constabulary, and two shillings and
sixpence fine.

I left the court and I met the very Mr. Kelly with whom I had the bath
encounter, and this is where he got his own back.

Said he:

“You’ve done a nice thing; it will be in every London paper that
you’ve been locked up for being drunk and disorderly and fighting the
constabulary.”

“The deuce it will!” I exclaimed. “Can’t you stop it?”

“Come to my office,” he replied, “and I’ll get the wires at work.”

I followed him on to a car to his office and I gave him a cheque for
£20 for suppressing the news, and I guess he bought himself a new suit
of clothes with the money.

I’m inclined to believe that there’s something in the air of Ireland
and in the spirit (I’m not referring to whisky) of the Irish people
which stimulates one to fun and frolic. An Irishman, no matter how old
he grows, is said to be always a “b-hoy.” However this may be, I found
myself the subject of a joke and in an awkward predicament during the
journey from Dublin to Holyhead _en route_ for Hull.

On board the boat was a poor old Irish woman with a dear little baby
about three months old in her arms. Just as we got outside the harbour
everyone was very sick as the sea was very rough. As for myself, being
a good sailor, it did not affect me. But this poor old woman was so
awfully bad that she thrust the baby into my arms with a pitiful,
“Glory be to God, hold it for a while.”

Without exaggeration I can say I had that baby squalling in my arms
for four hours. Nobody would take it from me--even the sailors would
not. It was considered great fun to make Whimmy keep the baby until our
arrival at Holyhead. During the voyage I couldn’t find the mother of
the baby anywhere, and if I tried to put the baby on to anybody else
they said it was a father’s duty to look after his own child. The joke
was kept up till we got into Holyhead Harbour, when as we got in, the
mother came up, blessed me, and took the child, and everybody sang “For
he’s a jolly good father.” What I said to the old Irish woman--well, it
was plain English, if not plain Irish.

We had to stop at Holyhead till about 2 o’clock in the morning for Mr.
Hengler’s special train. In the meantime we went round and had sundry
drinks till it occurred to us that we’d better get back to the station.

On our way, we met a man leading a beautiful black horse--it had
just came off the boat--and being full of devilment nothing would do
but we must play “Dick Turpin’s Ride to York” on this black horse.
The man with the horse thought he had met a lot of lunatics, but he
was helpless and we did as we liked. One of our party jumped on the
beautiful black horse, galloped down the street, when the horse stopped
suddenly and Dick Turpin went over his head and fell into--well, it was
not a strawberry bed! The police collared the lot of us--including the
horse, but they let us off with a caution when they found out who we
were.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker, in his studio, writing his life]

CHAPTER VIII

The doings of my donkeys “Tom” and “Jerry.” How I educated them. The
training of animals. A Hull doctor hoaxed. My misadventure on the
opening night at Hull. How “Tom” was taught to sing. “Jerry” suddenly
drops dead at Glasgow. “Tom’s” great cleverness. How he scared the
ballet girls at the Leicester Square Empire. “Tom” undergoes a
singular surgical operation at Bordeaux. How I said “something nice”
to Mr. Gladstone at Covent Garden Theatre. I am “commanded” to perform
before Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle. “Tom’s” misbehaviour on this
occasion. Her Majesty’s appreciation of the performance.

I propose to devote this chapter mainly to the doings of my donkeys. I
can’t observe chronological order, but I imagine that so far as myself
and my performing pets are concerned chronology doesn’t matter to
anybody. So I put down my recollections just as they come into my head.

As I have already said, it was during my first visit to Ireland that
the idea of performing donkeys came into my mind. I can’t say what
originated it unless it was that I had noticed the Irish donkeys were
more intelligent than those of other countries. I decided, however,
that they were more reliable than Irish cats and certainly funnier, and
after all this was the main point. I didn’t know any donkeys, so I
advertised for two, my advertisement running, “Wanted: two donkeys. No
4, Lower Dominick Street.”

I was taken aback when the servant entered my room looking rather
alarmed.

“If you please, sir, a lot of donkeys have come.”

And they _had_ come--in crowds. I was overwhelmed with donkeys. As the
day wore on more donkeys arrived. I do believe all the donkeys in and
out of Dublin were poured upon me. Anyhow, I selected two--oddly enough
they were the first two I saw--and bought them for 15/-. Whether it was
judgment or good luck which made me choose them I can’t say, but they
turned out to be the cleverest animals I had ever had anything to do
with. I named them “Tom” and “Jerry,” and under these names they became
celebrated all over Great Britain and Ireland and even on the continent.

I devoted fourteen months to the training of “Tom” and “Jerry.” As in
the case of cats, I got them into the habit of performing the tricks I
wanted and treated them with uniform kindness, and they would follow me
about like dogs. It is quite a mistake to suppose that animals can be
taught anything by brutality. The great thing is to get them entirely
used to you, and as a lesson meant something in the way of a reward
they became quite eager for the visits of their master. I used to feed
my donkeys myself, clean them myself, and every day at the same time I,
so to speak, put them through their paces.

That the training of animals is chiefly the getting them to do things
in a certain way until the habit is fixed upon them is in my opinion
the secret. I remember a curious instance of this in the case of a
bullfinch belonging to a friend of mine. The bird for some reason
best known to itself would never use the bath placed in its cage for
the purpose, but persisted in sprinkling itself with water from its
drinking trough. This went on for some time, to the annoyance of its
owner, and at last the expedient was tried of emptying the drinking
trough. It was confidently expected that deprived of this substitute
for a bath it would bathe itself in the proper receptacle. Not at all.
The bullfinch put its head through the wires and went through its
ablutions in pantomime, though not a drop of water entered its beak!
What was the thought--if any--in the bird’s mind it would be impossible
to say, but it was evidently satisfied with going through the necessary
movements in accordance with the habit it had got into.

Whether my theory of training is right or wrong, I succeeded with “Tom”
and “Jerry,” and by the time the circus had to leave Ireland for its
engagements elsewhere they were pretty well proficient, but became more
so subsequently.

When we reached Hull at the end of our journey from Ireland thousands
assembled to give us a reception, and a hearty one it was. Somehow the
fame of Hengler’s and possibly that of “Tom” and “Jerry” had preceded
us, and I was invited to lunch by Mr. Cuthbert, manager of the Theatre
Royal. The hotel was next the theatre and the party was a very jolly
one.

Just as we were coming away who should pass the door but a groom with
one of my donkeys. The sight at once suggested larks, especially as
we were all in the proper mind for a spree. In a trice the donkey was
dragged into the hotel and bunked upstairs into one of the bedrooms.
Then we borrowed an old woman’s nightcap from one of the chambermaids,
stuffed it on the donkey and put him to bed.

The next step was to ring up a doctor and ’phone a message “Come at
once--visitor in bedroom No. 7 taken dangerously ill.” The doctor came
and of course he was at first intensely disgusted at being sold, but
he soon got over his anger. As for the visitors and the servants, they
were screaming with laughter, and I never heard such shouts and yells.
Old Mr. Daunton, the proprietor, was, however, not among those who were
pleased, and I don’t think he ever quite forgave me. Of course the
whole thing was very silly, but I don’t think we’d quite shaken off
the effects of “ould Ireland”--besides, the luncheon was very good.
Whatever may be said of it, the hoax served one excellent purpose--it
acted as a splendid advertisement--and the Yorkshire papers were full
of it.

On that night--the opening night--I made my appearance. Being a native
of Hull and an immense favourite, the audience--as was said of a
reception given to a very great actor--simply “rose at me.” The warmth
of their applause coupled with memories of the lunch earlier in the
day, assisted possibly by later reminders of the same sort, rather
distorted my equanimity--correctly speaking I should say equilibrium.
As I made my entrance into the arena I caught my foot in the carpet
and down I went sprawling on my face. The people thought it was all
in my “business” and shouted with delight. As a matter of fact, when
I picked myself up I saw not one horse going round and round, but
thousands. It was the climax of that day’s festivities.

“Where’s the ring door?” I gasped feebly to one of the grooms and
groped my way out.

On the next day I was carpeted before Mr. Hengler, the severe. He eyed
me more, however, in sorrow than in anger.

“What was the matter with you last night?” he enquired in slow accents.

I explained I was suffering from a bad bilious attack!

“H’m. Don’t let it occur again.”

No more I did--at all events not in Hull. I knew well enough that Mr.
Hengler had his eye on me.

But let us return to our donkeys.

It was at Norwich where I first got them to sing. Hengler’s Circus was
then performing at the Agricultural Hall, and I always had an hour a
day to practise them and let them have a bit of exercise in the arena.
They used to run about playing with each other like children, and
one day I bought them a couple of toy bag-pipes. I was blowing these
bag-pipes, making a fearful noise, when “Tom” pricked up his ears and
began to bray with all his might.

Mr. Hengler hearing the music (?) said to me, “If you can only make him
do that before the audience your fortune will be made.”

“Very well,” I said, “then dashed if I don’t try it to-night.”

I did try and he brayed until one might think he wanted to burst
himself. Of course I thought my fortune _was_ made, so I tried it two
nights longer. He still went on. His vocal powers were the talk of the
city; everybody was coming to see this singing donkey “by command.”

On the fourth night I tried him again--he would not take the least bit
of notice of me.

“You’re tired of the bag-pipes,” I thought, “I’ll try you with a
trombone.”

The trombone satisfied him for four nights, then his soul pined for
something else and I couldn’t get any braying out of him. A violin
stimulated him for about a week, and then he dropped singing altogether.

I was in despair till Mr. Amzieu, Mr. Hengler’s horse trainer, said one
day, “Why don’t you give him a bit of sugar or a bit of carrot every
time he brays?”

I took the hint, had a bed made in his stall, and I slept over his
bed in the stable for six weeks, and every time he brayed I gave him
a bit of sugar. In fact, I stopped so long with him that I believe I
was nearly turned into a donkey. For years after that he never missed
braying when I wanted to show him off.

At Glasgow, where we opened in the new building at the bottom of
Wellington Street, the donkeys were a great success, but catastrophe
was impending. I used to let loose my donkeys in the arena for exercise
and on one occasion I ordered my groom to take out “Tom,” who was
the singing donkey, and in addition to his vocal abilities was also
possessed at times of fits of viciousness, but was the cleverer of the
two; and I had charge of “Jerry.”

What happened was this: I had no sooner taken hold of “Jerry’s” bit
than he dropped down--dead! My first impression was that he had been
poisoned, so sudden was the whole thing. I sent for the veterinary
surgeon, but of course he was of no use. Then came the post-mortem and
it was decided that he had died not from poison, but from over-feeding.
He had had an apoplectic fit.

There was a wonderful difference in my two donkeys. “Jerry” was never
tired of stuffing himself and was certainly the fattest donkey I ever
saw. “Tom,” on the other hand, no matter what he ate, and he had plenty
of corn and hay, persisted in remaining lean. He was of an intensely
restless disposition and was what is called a “weaver,” that is, he
would never keep still in his stable. The contrast between the fat and
the lean donkey was very effective in the ring, and it never occurred
to me to diet “Jerry.” His fatness made up for his lack of cleverness
and perhaps was the cause of it. Poor “Tom” years after eventually came
to a sad end. He got kicked to death by one of Mr. Adney Payne’s horses
at the “Paragon” in the Mile End Road. It was a terrible loss to me. I
would not have taken £1,000 for him.

During his memorable career “Tom” did good suit and service for me, and
besides being the hero of many an episode, rehearsed and unrehearsed,
he put a good deal of money in my pocket. I was getting a very big
salary for him when Sir Augustus Harris was chairman of the “Empire”
in Leicester Square; and on one occasion when “Tom” at the request
of Sir Augustus was performing at a rehearsal, Madame Katey Lanner,
the well-known ballet mistress, was sitting on the prompt side of the
stage watching his antics. Without any warning one of his vicious brain
storms set in, and he chose to take a violent dislike to Madame Lanner,
for which I’m quite sure there wasn’t the slightest cause, and he
virtually ran amok.

He put his ears back--made for poor inoffensive Madame Lanner, who
promptly fell from her chair--then turned his attentions to the ballet
girls and charged them furiously. It was a pandemonium for about ten
minutes, the frightened girls tumbling over chairs, screaming and
rushing for shelter into their dressing rooms.

I don’t think he would have hurt a single hair of their heads, but
it was of no use assuring them that it was “only ‘Tom’s’ idea of
fun”--they would have disbelieved me quite as much had I told them he
was jealous of their superior attractions--the ballet was upset and
there was no more dancing on the stage after that when “Tom” was going
through his performance.

I had some queer doings with “Tom” when I had a special engagement at
Madrid, but just now I will only mention one as I shall have to return
to my Spanish adventures when I deal with performing birds. We returned
from Spain via Bordeaux, and while there the donkey was taken ill.
I first noticed that he was not quite himself while performing--he
had become groggy about the legs. I decided to send for a veterinary
surgeon and I got one, thanks to Pedro Sterling, the interpreter
who accompanied the show. The surgeon came, examined the donkey and
pronounced him to be too fat. An operation was necessary at once, he
declared. No sooner said than done. Plunging a lance into Tom’s neck he
took therefrom nearly three quarts of blood. Then pulling a hair from
Tom’s tail he threaded a needle with it and proceeded to sew up the
wound! That same night the donkey went through his performance as well
as ever. The operation struck me as one of the most singular I had ever
seen performed on an animal.

I jump now from Bordeaux to Covent Garden Theatre, under Hengler’s
management. The box office keeper in those days was a Mr. Hall, a
staunch and enthusiastic Liberal. One day he came to me full of
importance and quite excited.

“Whimmy,” he said, “my dear old friend, Mr. Gladstone, and Mrs.
Gladstone and their daughter are coming to the show this afternoon. Do
try to say something nice to them.”

I wasn’t quite sure what Hall meant by “something nice,” but I presumed
he meant something funny, so I set my wits to work.

What on earth was I to say to Mr. Gladstone that he would consider
“nice”? I could think out nothing, so I resolved to leave it to the
inspiration of the moment, as I had had to do scores of times before.

The donkey of course was the great attraction, and he behaved
beautifully. Just before “Tom” sang his solo I had a happy thought for
the “something nice.”

I stepped to the footlights and with a glance at the royal box where
sat Mr. Gladstone, I said in my gravest manner,

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will find the beautiful melody ‘Tom’ is
about to oblige you with on the back of the programme.”

The people turned over their programmes and quite a flutter of paper
went through the house, and Mr. Gladstone stared at his with a face as
blank as the back of the programme.

This was where the “cod” came in. There was nothing to be seen!

Then the audience tumbled to the “sell,” and laughed and clapped, and
so did Mr. Gladstone. His fine face broke into a smile and I really
think the “something nice” pleased him.

But “Tom’s” great triumph--and mine also, I hope I may say--came on
a certain day at Hengler’s Circus when it was in Argyle Street. Mr.
Hengler came to me with a sort of mystery in his manner and said, “Sir
Henry Ponsonby would like to speak to you.”

I hardly knew who Sir Henry Ponsonby was, and after I was introduced to
him he almost took my breath away by informing me that I was commanded
by Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria to appear before her at
Windsor Castle with my wonderful donkey! I don’t remember what I
stammered out, but I know that his reply was that he would give me one
month to prepare for the occasion. Of course I thanked him and for
some time after that interview you couldn’t touch me or come near me
within a hundred feet. I was the greatest man on earth, I thought!

I got new harness, rugs, new blue serge suit for myself--everything
new for the donkey--and on the 25th February, 1886, my Royal day, I
appeared before Her Majesty. I arrived at Windsor from Paddington early
in the morning, and at once went to look at the riding school where the
performance was to take place, to make sure that everything was right
for my donkey. I found that the floor was covered with tan, and over
that a layer of sawdust. I had no objection to this, never thinking
that the tan would nearly lead to my undoing. But had I known I could
have done nothing.

Three o’clock was my time to appear before Her Majesty, and punctually
at the hour she entered the royal box. It was a cold day and a nice
fire was burning in the box. Besides the Queen there were three hundred
of the household forming the audience.

I made my appearance. “Tom” worked splendidly and in due time his
“turn” came, where I placed him in a chair in which he sat with a
music stand and a sheet of music before him. The trick was for him to
turn the music over with his nose and sing, “Do not forget me.” He was
very well behaved previous to this, but directly he sat down he became
conscious of the peculiar odour of the tan and somehow or other he
liked it. He got out of the chair and began smelling the tan floor, and
then giving vent to loud sniffs of satisfaction and looking up at me.

Maybe you have seen donkeys make faces, and the faces “Tom” made at
me were something grotesque in the extreme. I did my best to pacify
him and explain his conduct by such soothing remarks as, “Dear, dear
soul--you must have lost something in the tan. Come, dear, I’ll find it
for you if you’ll come and sing.”

At last I got him back into the chair and went on:

“Now, darling brother, sing ‘Do not forget me’,” and he had just begun
to make a little tiny noise when he thought he would have another
smell. That did it!

It was very cold--but the perspiration was pouring off me with
excitement. He knew very well he was taking advantage of me, because
I dared not touch him with a whip. However, I had a little, tiny hand
whip and showing him this I said in severe tones, “Come on, now.” But
he was as silent as an owl excepting for his sniffs, and I had to gag
for all I was worth to account for his conduct. The things that came
into my mind! I said he had lost a fourpenny piece, that one of his
relatives were buried, and much more nonsense. At last, after a lot of
persuasion, he brayed, and the situation to my delight was saved.

As it happened, this bit of unexpected business evidently entertained
the Royal party, and at the end of the show her Majesty expressed a
wish to see the donkey outside. There are three steps from the Riding
School to the entrance and she ascended these steps with the assistance
of a little walking stick, looking as I thought remarkably tiny, but
for all this quite queenly. She wanted to know what age was the donkey,
and where he had come from and so on. My groom was a German and she
spoke to him in his own tongue.

Then she touched the donkey’s back with her stick and he began to kick
and bray, singing “The Conquering Hero Comes”--so this particular noise
was called.

The row proved too much for Her Majesty’s endurance and nerves. “Take
him away--I have had enough of him,” she exclaimed imperiously, and my
groom promptly obeyed her, and this ended the show.

“Tom” was despatched to the station and I was about to follow him when
Sir Henry Ponsonby came to me saying, “I am going back to Paddington,
would you travel in my carriage?”

I thanked him very much and accepted his invitation.

All the way from Windsor to Paddington my thoughts were that everybody
would go on their knees to me! I considered myself at that minute as
the greatest man living! We reached Paddington and Sir Henry wished
me good-bye, thanking me from her Majesty, and entering his brougham,
drove off. When I stepped from the carriage, instead of everybody being
on their knees, one of the porters stamped on my beautiful patent
leather boots and of course on my favourite corn. Oh, the language that
followed! Otherwise not a soul took the least bit of notice of me! And
that broke my pride!

I have sometimes fancied that had not “Tom” burst into “See the
Conquering Hero Comes,” her Majesty might have honoured me with a few
words as well as my German groom. However, she was gracious enough to
send me a diamond pin, which I possess to this day.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker as old “Daniel Peggotty,” in Hepworth’s
film, “David Copperfield”]

CHAPTER IX

I experiment with geese. A goose race in tubs. A fiasco. Sarony, the
showman artist-photographer of Scarborough. I begin the training of
geese. Their erratic behaviour. They devour the stuffing of the ring
fence. Mr. Hengler’s indignation. The Sisters Vades and their safety
net. The geese make a meal off the net and spoil the turn of the
sisters. Their doom pronounced by Mr. Hengler. How they terminated
their career. I fail to train a vicious monkey. The late King Edward
(then Prince of Wales) at Scarborough--I am permitted to join his
shooting party. I arrange a children’s cricket match at which the
Prince and Dr. W. G. Grace captain the respective sides. I get up a
comic cricket match at Hengler’s at the Prince’s request. I make up as
“W. G.” and execute a marvellous and unsuspected hit. My horse “Spot”
and his dancing on the Scarborough sands. The Scarborough widows.

It is a short step from donkeys to geese. Both are popularly supposed
to be stupid, but as a matter of fact they are remarkably intelligent.
Another point in common between them is that when they make up their
minds to do a thing (or not to do it--generally the latter) they
persist in following their own way, and no amount of persuasion can
turn them from it.

My first experience of geese was in Ireland. While Hengler’s Circus was
at Dublin a certain nobleman called on Mr. Powell, Hengler’s manager,
and asked to see me. I was sent for, introduced to his lordship,
who disclosed the nature of the business which had induced him to
seek me out. It was nothing more or less than to act as master of the
ceremonies of the Royal Irish Yacht Club at their regatta to be held at
Kingston.

It sounded like rather a tall order and a bit out of my line, but when
the matter was fully explained it appeared to come within the range of
clowning. What I was wanted to do was to superintend a race in tubs
drawn by geese. His lordship had seen something of the sort at Yarmouth
Regatta, and had been much taken with the sport. It was, of course,
no novelty, and if my memory serves me it was first introduced by a
celebrated clown, who tried the experiment on the Thames early in the
nineteenth century. I could not quite make up my mind, seeing that I
knew nothing about geese or tubs, but when it was suggested that I
should visit the club the following day and have a champagne lunch and
talk the matter over, there really seemed to be something in the idea.

Accordingly I went to the club and learned that it was proposed to
have four tubs, each to contain a soldier, and each tub to be drawn by
a team of four geese. The scheme did not include me as a performer. I
was simply to see that everything was in order, act as starter, etc. So
_I_ was all right and ran no risk of a ducking. The geese were to do
without any training; we were to trust to their intelligence and their
appreciation of their duties as entertainers. At the same time, knowing
something of the vagaries of the brute creation, I suggested that it
would be well to have at least one rehearsal, and this was agreed to.

My first business was to get the tubs and the geese. The tubs were
procured easily enough, the purchase of sixteen geese a little more
difficult, as I wanted them of the same size as nearly as possible.
Luckily geese are plentiful enough in Ireland, as the English well know
at Christmas time, and after visiting two or three farms I picked up
my team and had them driven to headquarters. It was a sort of rambling
procession to the stables, hundreds of delighted children following me
and my geese and wondering what all the hubbub and cackling was about.

During the next four days I was busy in having suitable harness made
for the geese and in preparing the tubs. The regatta day was on a
Friday (nobody reflected how unlucky this choice was) and his lordship
fixed the rehearsal for the day before. The sea on Thursday proved to
be rather rough and I did not care to take the risk of a failure, so
suggested that the rehearsal should be deferred until eight o’clock the
following morning, when it would be high tide, and so it was settled.

At the hour appointed we had everything in readiness--the four
soldiers, the four tubs and the sixteen geese. They were all eagerly
waiting for me and prepared to enter heartily into the fun like true
Irish lads. Each soldier had a long cane, with little pieces of ribbon
tied to it by way of decoration, to guide the geese with, as of course
bits had to be dispensed with, Nature not having provided the necessary
teeth.

“Now boys,” said I, “directly you see me drop my handkerchief jump into
the tubs.”

They took up their positions each opposite a tub, their eyes at
“attention,” fixed on me.

“Are you all ready?” I shouted.

“Yes, sir!”

I dropped the handkerchief. The soldier boys made for the tubs, each
one anxious to be first. It was a rare scramble. Thump, thump, I heard,
the tubs rocked, the water poured in and swamped them, and then to my
consternation I saw the tubs slowly sink, dragging the geese with them.
Out jumped the soldiers, who luckily could all swim, and there they
were making for the steps on which I was standing helplessly.

It was easy after all was over to account for the mishap. The craft had
not been properly ballasted by adequate weights to keep them steady,
and the mad rush of the soldiers had destroyed whatever balance the
tubs possessed, which wasn’t much.

The most mortifying thing was the mirth of the crowd, who were
inclined to go for me, looking upon me, I suppose, as a fraud. Anyway,
I thought it was best to bolt, and so I did. I made a dash for the
railway station, jumped into a train going somewhere--I did not stop to
enquire--and that was the end of my engagement as a M.C. of a regatta.
The next day I had an interview with his lordship, who good-humouredly
accepted my explanation that the roughness of the sea was the cause of
the mishap.

I need not point out that in no sense were these geese performing
geese, but in justice it must be said that they never had a chance of
showing what they could do. My doings with properly trained geese
came afterwards, when I was with Hengler’s at Scarborough. I had some
time previously had a trial with game-cocks--their story will find a
place later on--but I found they were not to be depended upon, and this
led me to turn my attention to geese.

The great man at Scarborough in those days was Sarony. In his way he
was quite a genius. He had begun life as a showman--in America, I
think--and he was enormously successful not only in the profession in
which he started but subsequently as an artist-photographer. He had
a sumptuous studio at Scarborough and was patronised by the highest
people in society. His photographs certainly were the loveliest things
of their kind then to be seen, and his work was well-known all over the
world.

But in his heart he was the showman, and he looked it--a short,
thick-set man with enormously broad shoulders, big muscular throat
of which he showed an ample quantity, with his turn-down collar and
flowing necktie, his smooth black hair allowed to grow somewhat
lengthy, his hawklike nose, flexible lips and penetrating dark eyes. He
always wore the broad brimmed soft felt hat which in those days marked
the photographer. His personality was distinctly attractive and he had
a way of making himself very engaging, especially to his lady sitters.

He did not forget the showman, even as an artist and photographer. It
was a matter of indifference to him how few the number of copies of a
photo a customer ordered. He had a formula in reserve which brought
him in hundreds of pounds. The plan was this. Directly a photograph
was taken with which he was satisfied--and he was a better judge than
the sitter--a lantern transparency was made from the negative. In the
meantime, while the transparency was being prepared, he would engage
the sitter in his beautifully appointed reception room in fascinating
talk, and while bowing him or her out would remark quite casually,

“By the way, here is something which might interest you.”

Drawing aside a curtain he would usher his customer into a darkened
chamber, at the end of which was a screen on which a life size
enlargement of the photograph which had just been taken was thrown. The
sitter was naturally overwhelmed with surprise--surprise by the way is
the essence of the showman’s art. Sarony in his insinuating way would
dilate upon the beauty of an enlarged reproduction finished in oils,
and it may safely be said that in five cases out of six he landed his
fish, and the customer who came in with the intention of spending a
five pound note ended in spending twenty times that amount.

But the finished reproduction in oils was well worth the money. Sarony
had a painter’s studio attached to his establishment and a staff of
fine artists to whom he paid very large salaries. He would touch
nothing, no matter what he dabbled in, but the best. I may say in
passing that no one had a larger clientele of actors and actresses than
Sarony of Scarborough, and his portraits, many of which were to be seen
in the box office lobbies of theatres, were always greatly admired.

Now Sarony had built a magnificent circus in St. Thomas’ Street,
Scarborough, and it was there that Hengler’s had its pitch, not for
one season, but for many. Of a necessity novelties had to be thought
out to give the public variety. After a talk on this point with Mr.
Hengler, it occurred to me, as animals were always a strong feature in
my “business,” that something might be done with performing geese.

Accordingly I made a start with a little flock. I adopted the same
course of training with them as with my other pupils. Every morning
about the same time I went to the circus and gave the geese a lesson
which usually lasted about one hour. They were always somewhat erratic
and wayward. Sometimes I was very pleased and sometimes just the
reverse. They were like the girl who when she was good was very good
indeed, and when she was bad she was horrid.

However, I persevered, thinking they would ultimately pay me well. I
was mistaken. They brought me little else but trouble. For instance,
after the performance at night, knowing that they liked their liberty,
I would let them loose and allow them to roam all night in the circus
ring until I came in the morning to practise them. One morning when I
went into the arena I could have torn my hair with vexation. The game
those geese had been up to during that night was, I admit, an undoubted
sign of their intelligence, but it also marked their unscrupulousness.

The circus ring fence happened to be padded with hay, covered over with
valuable red plush, which had cost a considerable sum per yard. The
geese soon discovered there was something underneath the plush which
suited their palate and industriously going to work they literally
riddled the plush with holes to get at the hay. I was too dismayed to
say anything and I let Mr. Hengler make the discovery.

He came in. He looked round. He saw the scene of devastation. An awful
frown wrinkled his brows.

“What does it all mean?” he thundered. “I take a pride in making my
circus look as beautiful as a drawing room and I find it like _this_.
Who will give me an explanation?”

A dead silence followed, broken presently by one of the frightened
grooms, who muttered tremblingly,

“Please, sir, I think Mr. Walker’s geese have done it.”

I was called before Mr. Hengler. He was very angry indeed and I had to
go through it. Of course, he had a right to call me over the coals as
it meant the spending of money to put things as they were. However, all
he visited me with was an injunction that while I was allowed to do
what I liked with the geese during the day, I must not allow them to
roam at large in the ring or elsewhere at night. So on the whole I got
off very lightly. For the rest of the time the geese at night were put
to bed in a large crate.

Somehow the spirit of mischief possessed the creatures, and no sooner
was their exploit with the plush over than they started at thinking out
some fresh devilry. Mr. Hengler about this time engaged two handsome
and clever lady trapeze artists, the Sisters Vades. They performed
with the usual protection in the shape of a net stretched beneath the
trapeze. They started their turn and all went well until the following
Saturday, when the net was pulled down and was placed on the top of
the crate where the geese were kept, and here it remained all Saturday
night, Sunday and Monday. No one gave a thought to it, save the geese,
who all the while were thinking deeply.

The time came for the commencement of the preparations for the
performance of the Sisters Vades. The net was taken from the top of the
crate and--horror!--half of it had been eaten away. The geese had found
their opportunity and had made use of it. But their digestions--they
could hardly have been less powerful than those of ostriches!

The sisters could not perform without the net and when Mr. Hengler was
told that they were unable to appear he sternly demanded the reason.

Again the reply, “Walker’s geese.” It was becoming monotonous.

A row followed, and the upshot was that the geese were condemned, to my
intense chagrin and disappointment, for I was really looking forward to
making something of them and out of them.

Their end was in a way a sort of Nemesis. I was invited by the Sisters
Vades to dine with them and their manager. The principal dish was roast
goose--one of _my_ geese! So in this way the ladies had their revenge.
It was a fitting one.

I had another failure with animals while at Scarborough. This time it
was a monkey. Mr. Clark, who was performing with a troupe of animals,
made me a present of a monkey which he could do nothing with. I
suppose that was why he gave it to me. I tried my hardest with the
little beast, but he was either stupid or untameable. I looked about
for someone to pass it on to, and I thought of Mr. Morgan, who was then
Mayor of Scarborough, and who was at the time running the Aquarium, one
of the attractions of the place being a cage of monkeys. Mr. Morgan
thought companionship would be beneficial to my monkey and he accepted
it.

Mr. Morgan sent a couple of sailors with a sack to fetch the monkey
and a rare job they had. They chased him all over the loft and had to
be extremely spry and wary, as the creature was very vicious. However,
at last he was captured, thrust somehow into the sack, carried to the
Aquarium and put with the other monkeys. He had not been with them two
hours or so before the harmony of the home was entirely upset. I had an
agonised message somewhat to this effect:

“For Heaven’s sake come and take away _your_ monkey. He’s killing all
_our_ monkeys!”

I could only see one answer to this and I made it. My reply was:

“Quite impossible. The monkey was a gift to you. I’m too much of a
gentleman to take back a gift.”

I don’t know whether the people at the Aquarium took this view of the
matter. Anyhow, they found a speedy way out of the difficulty. They
shot the monkey.

Happily all this ill luck at Scarborough was more than compensated by
the fortunate chance which sent the late King Edward, then Prince of
Wales, to the Yorkshire watering place during the shooting season. I
was at Hengler’s for a six weeks’ engagement and I rather think I was
sent down to do my best to entertain Royalty. Among the Prince’s party
were the Earl of Londesborough, Sir Charles Legard and Dr. W. G. Grace.
I had a right royal time as I was often “commanded” to be one of the
shooting party. Nobody could be a more delightful host than our late
King. He aimed at being happy himself and in making other people happy.

I shall never forget when passing through Seamer, a little village a
few miles out of Scarborough, the Prince turning to me as a crowd of
children were swarming out of school and saying:

“Walker, can’t you get up a cricket match with the children?”

A word was as good as a wink to me, and I got all the kiddies together
and took them into a cricket field at the back of a little road-side inn
(kept, by the way, by a namesake of mine but no relation) which was
rather a noted place for cricket matches.

No one knew the Prince was of the party and he picked his side without
anything occurring to embarrass him. He was opposed by Dr. Grace, and
for half an hour the game was kept up, his Royal Highness evidently
enjoying himself to the utmost.

When the sport was over the party went back to Londesborough Lodge, and
in the course of the evening the Prince said to me,

“Walker, we’re coming to see you at the circus to-night at about 9
o’clock.”

“All right, your Highness,” said I. “What would you like me to do?”

“Can’t you get up something to please the doctor?” (_i.e._, Dr. Grace).

“I’ll do my best,” was my answer, and I left the Royal party at that.

The idea in my mind was a burlesque cricket match, but there wasn’t
too much time to prepare the “business”--about an hour, as a matter
of fact. I made myself a huge bat against which no ball could have
a possible chance unless I chose to give one, and--I made up as the
celebrated and popular “W. G.”

The Royal party arrived--the Prince and Princess of Wales, Lord and
Lady Londesborough, Miss Sykes, Sir Charles Legard, Dr. Grace and many
others--and took their seats. I needn’t go over the comic business
that the mock cricketers, all made up as clowns, indulged in. I need
only say that our fooling seemed to please the distinguished visitors
immensely. The hit--in more senses than one--came when I, as Dr. Grace,
armed with my huge bat, took my place at the wicket. The bowler sent
me down a “yorker” and I went for the ball (it was made of worsted)
for all I was worth. I intended to swoop it among the gallery people,
but somehow it glided off my bat and went straight for Dr. Grace, who
had to field it whether he would or no. I guess his hands went up by
instinct. Such peals of laughter, yells of applause, clapping of hands
and stamping of feet as were sent up I never heard in any theatre.

Maybe some of the audience thought the thing was intentional, but it
wasn’t. It was purely accidental. After the performance was over I was
called to the Prince, who, with a merry twinkle in his eye, wanted
to know how long the doctor and I had been arranging the hit and the
catch. The only explanation I could give, I said, was that the thing
was a miracle. He looked at me with a humorous expression as though he
would have said, “Ananias.” I don’t think he really believed me, but
for all that the incident was exactly as I have related it.

One more reminiscence and I have done with Scarborough. I used to go
there year after year, as I had become a favourite with the visitors
and they always expected some novelty from me. One year I went day
after day opposite the Spa, and when the tide was out and Herr Meyer
Lutz’s fine band was playing, I would give the people a treat with my
performing horse, “Spot.” He was a black and white, and a very clever
dancer to music. I always wore a frock coat, plaid trousers, and a tall
silk hat, and I styled myself the “Duke of Scorby Mills.”

As the tide came rolling up, “Spot,” at a little sign from me, would
roll down in the sea with me in my Rotten Row attire, to the huge
delight of the spectators. In the afternoon it was pleasant pastime
to mash some of the widows. I don’t think I was much to blame as
Scarborough abounded in widows, and if you didn’t mash them they
would mash you. One fascinating widow, whose acquaintance I made, ran
me up a nice little hotel bill. Her money was always coming from
South America, but somehow it never made its appearance, and then she
vanished. Maybe she went back to South America, and got drowned on the
voyage, as I never heard from her. But I preserved the hotel receipts
as a memento. The moral is that every man who spends his holiday in
Scarborough should keep the elder Mr. Weller’s advice in mind, “Bevare
of vidders.”

CHAPTER X

I am engaged to appear at Madrid. Something about my wonderful
game-cock. Cock-fighting in London in the ’eighties! The secret of an
Endell Street cellar. How I obtained the bird. A match between myself
and the game-cock. An Argyle Street show which took the town. A trying
journey to Madrid. The trials of Spanish etiquette. Am invited by
Royalty to a bull-fight. The singing donkey creates a furore. Also the
game-cock “turn.” My _gallio_ challenged by a Spanish champion. The
fight comes off. The Spaniard defeated. The Spanish game-cock fanciers
anxious to secure my bird. I adopt precautions for his safety.
Difficulties in the way of returning home. I succeed by a ruse in
escaping.

When Hengler’s Circus was at Argyle Street I had an offer to go to
Madrid. I imagined that my reputation, or that of my donkey, had
reached the Spanish capital, but after I had had personal experience
of the taste of the Spaniards I came to the conclusion that a part
of the attraction was due to a remarkable game-cock of which I had
become possessed and which I had trained to be an important member of
my little troupe. The Spaniards, I afterwards discovered, loved to see
cock-fighting.

I suppose one-half, or more, of the people in London do not know how
the other half live. Certainly so far as amusement, and especially
sport, is concerned this is the case. I guess that if you care to pay
for it you can get in London any pleasure you like, whether outside
the law or not. When I say that during the ’eighties cock-fighting
went on in London, it is possible that I shall be accused of telling a
tarradiddle, but it was the absolute fact.

One of my friends in those days was Charlie Best, who then was
proprietor of the “Horseshoe,” in the Tottenham Court Road. Mr. Best
was a great lover of sport, and among other fancies had a liking for
cock-fighting. This once aristocratic amusement was supposed to be a
thing of the past, but it wasn’t, and some of the young bloods of the
“Upper Ten,” who knew mine host of the “Horseshoe,” were eager to be
patrons when it was whispered to them that they could take part in a
revival of the cock-pit of the eighteenth or early nineteenth century.

Of course every precaution was taken to secure secrecy, and no one who
passed along prosaic Endell Street ever suspected that in a cellar
underneath a certain ironmonger’s shop (I think the name was Faltless)
noble lords and their friends used thrice a month to assemble in
this subterranean retreat and excite themselves over matches between
game-cocks. Such, however, was the fact, and many a time I was among
the spectators as a friend of Charlie Best. That betting went on goes
without saying. A cock-fight without anything “on” is unthinkable.

Most people know what the cock-pits of a hundred years and more
ago were like. The old coloured prints of such places are numerous
enough--an arena with a ring fence of a yard or so in height, behind
which the owners of the birds and their friends sat, and a gallery
above for the public. This cock-pit was not at all that kind of thing.
It had a sort of arena, it was true, but this was all.

The game-cock owned by Mr. Best was a marvel and I broke the tenth
commandment over him constantly. Mr. Best, you must know, ran the
refreshment buffet at Hengler’s, so that I was very intimate with
him, and I think I advertised him and his Bass pretty well among the
hosts of people who came to call upon me. I wanted that bird very much
indeed. I had an idea that I could make good use of him in the circus,
especially as a comic show for the children, and at last Mr. Best gave
him to me, after he had won seven battles, as a return for my pushing
his business.

Directly I had the bird in my possession I went to a very clever
theatrical property maker named Hessan and arranged with him to make me
a huge cock dress of the colours exactly similar to those of the bird.
He set to work and succeeded in producing a really wonderful property
dress. Then I started training the game-cock.

Perhaps it mayn’t be generally known that the cock-birds of this
species have a language of their own. Well, they have, and I studied
it. Listen to his cry. As nearly as it can be put on paper it sounds
like “Krrrrrrr.” That means he is calling his wives together, and he
soon shows them that he is master of his harem.

Wearing my cock dress I took the bird to the arena and burst into a
song as nearly like “Krrrrrrr” as I could make it. He at once suspected
the presence of a hated rival. He pricked up his head as if he were
saying, “Hallo, what’s this massive brute?” He went for me as fiercely
as though I’d been one of his own size. I pretended to be afraid. I
ran away. He came after me, pecking at me savagely, and we dodged each
other all over the ring.

Then I began to take off my garments one by one to let him know who I
was, and in a month or so I allowed him to think he was my master. I
used to keep him in a little square box and feed him on raw meat, port
wine, and oats. Nobody but myself was allowed to touch him and he knew
his business as if I had trained a child. I had him for many years and
he has caused me many a pain. Poor boy, he died with the croup, but was
very, very vicious. I never saw such a bird as he. No fun about him
when he was fighting me--he meant it--and he used to hang on like a
bull-dog. I buried the poor bird in Dublin. I have tried to train a lot
more, but directly they get in the footlights they are no good.

But before he died he greatly distinguished himself, and nowhere
more than in Madrid, and of my visit to which city I will try to say
something. Besides my game-cockerel I had with me my two invaluable
donkeys. Knowing not a word of Spanish I had to take with me an
interpreter, one Pedro Sterling, who was half a Spaniard. I need not
say that with my oddly assorted companions my journey was full of
difficulties. However, we got safely to Paris, and from the Gare du
Nord we had to cross Paris to reach another station to get down south.
However, after some little trouble this was accomplished, the donkeys
and the cockerel travelling in a van together with a tin pail for the
donkeys to drink from.

The journey to the Spanish frontier was not marked by any particular
incident, but when we arrived at Antondy, a little town on the
frontier, the railway people for some reason which didn’t seem very
clear refused to take us any further, and we had to stop in the town
until the next morning.

Pedro Sterling found an hotel, the proprietor of which agreed to
accommodate our little party--donkeys, cockerel and two beds for myself
and Pedro. The hotel was by no means inviting, but we had to make the
best of things. It was built of wooden piles and the donkeys had to
share a shed with some cows. We managed to swallow some supper, but it
was by no means appetising--simply bread and lard, no butter!

As we passed through the saloon--so-called-a dirty ill-lighted place,
three villainous-looking Spaniards, black as ink, scowled at us and
fixed their eyes--so it seemed to me--on my gold chain, a rather
massive affair on which I set great store. We reached our bedroom, a
squalid chamber enough, with one small window about eighteen inches
square. We got into bed and the interpreter was soon fast asleep. I,
on the contrary, could not get a wink for thinking of the Spaniards of
the cut-throat aspect. However, I suppose I misjudged them, for nothing
happened.

I turned out about 5.30, feeling done up, for I had had practically
no rest since I left London on Sunday night, and it was now Wednesday
morning. We reached the station in good time and waited an hour for the
train, which when it came along proved to be chiefly for luggage with
three coaches only for passengers.

We settled the donkeys in a miserable horse truck along with the
cockerel, the tin pail and a quantity of hay and corn, and my boxes.
I was so tired I laid down on the hay and straw by the side of the
donkeys rather than travel in an uncomfortable carriage crowded with
people. So I was locked in the horse box, dark and stuffy as it was.
No window was provided, only a little hole about a foot square for
ventilation.

The horn sounded and the train started. It crawled at about two miles
an hour and for what it lacked in speed it made up in rattling and
bumping. It was impossible to sleep. The horse box had no springs and
the pail at once began to dance about, so did the donkeys, the cockerel
and the boxes. I found myself doing a sort of jig _a la_ a parched pea
in a frying pan. I shall never forget it.

The train stopped at every station and I tried to get out, but it was
impossible. I yelled for Pedro Sterling, but he never heard me. I had
to suffer being shaken up like dice until we reached San Sebastian,
when I had a happy release, but only on making a signal of distress by
pushing the tin pail through the ventilating hole and shaking it.

I found Pedro comfortable enough with a Spanish gentleman whose
acquaintance he had made, seated opposite to him.

After giving the donkeys water and seeing that they were all right, I
joined Pedro, and the train went on to Madrid. I gave Pedro a graphic
account of my sufferings and he told our fellow passenger, in Spanish
of course. The Spaniard expressed his sympathy and through Pedro
enquired whether I would like a little wine. There was nothing I felt
at that moment I would like better and Pedro conveyed my assent, upon
which the Spanish gentleman brought out a beautiful skin with a gold
mouthpiece attached.

I hadn’t the least idea how to drink out of this native bottle and
Pedro Sterling explained. You are not supposed to put the mouthpiece
to your lips, but to hold it an inch or two away. Pedro then showed me
the operation. Clearly my interpreter was an expert and as he did it
the trick seemed easy enough. I held up the mouthpiece, wished the don
“good health,” in English, and started to drink. Unluckily the stream
missed the target--instead of going into my mouth it hit my eyes and my
nose, and finished by running down my shirt front.

This was bad enough, but what was much worse, I had outraged Spanish
etiquette, which I afterwards found was extremely rigid. The gentleman
did not laugh, though I must have presented a ludicrous sight, but
regarded my awkwardness as an insult to himself! Pedro had all his
work cut out to convince the Spaniard that the mishap was purely an
accident, but at last he succeeded.

We arrived at Madrid about seven o’clock the next morning. We were
expected; a carriage and pair were awaiting us and we were driven to
the hotel, the donkeys and cockerel being taken to the circus. I had
not been at the hotel many hours before I was made acquainted with the
courtesy which Spaniards of noble birth and high rank display towards
visitors. Queen Isabella actually sent a dignified gentleman belonging
to the suite to enquire if I would like to see a bull-fight!

I was overwhelmed with the royal politeness and I said that I certainly
should. Then the question was put as to which day I should prefer for
my performance at the circus. I asked which was the best day and was
told “Sunday.” “Very good,” said I, “Sunday for me.”

I went to the bull-fight and I must say that I was greatly impressed
by the imposing spectacle. Thousands of people, most of them ladies,
many of them exquisitely dressed, from the highest to the lowest,
were seated tier upon tier round an enormous arena. A clear blue sky
was overhead and the brilliant sunshine heightened the colours of the
decorations and the gay costumes of the picadors and matadors.

Bull-fights have been described many times, so I will say no more than
that I was sorry for the horses. Many of them were poor old crocks
who hadn’t the slightest chance of avoiding the bull’s horns. I saw
twenty-seven of them killed. As for the riders, they were protected by
what might be termed thigh boots of steel. These protections had one
drawback--they were so heavy that when the wearer fell he couldn’t get
up again, but had to be dragged away by one party of attendants while
another deviated the attention of the bull.

I was told that if there was any deficiency of horses the organisers
had the power to commandeer any which might be in the streets, no
matter how valuable. The bull-fights being State affairs, remonstrance
was useless in such a case.

The killing of the bull struck me as rather repulsive. Fortunately
it was very rapidly done--just a thrust of the sword at the back of
the neck and the animal fell dead, its spinal cord severed. What
struck me as curious was the mad enthusiasm of the spectators, who
at the termination of the performance cast their garments, coats,
hats, waistcoats, etc., into the arena. This did not mean that they
were given away. Not at all. Every article had to be returned to the
rightful owner. Anxious to show that the English were not wanting
in politeness, I interested myself in the work of restoration, but
chancing to give a coat to the wrong person, who received it with a
cold and scornful glance, I decided to get away as soon as possible
lest I should unintentionally violate some unwritten law of Spanish
etiquette and suffer in consequence.

Spanish etiquette I found was a wonderful and fearful thing. Luckily
I had Pedro at hand to help me over the pitfalls. I was told, for
instance, that if you admired a thing very much--a jewel, a picture, a
horse or what not--the owner would gravely say, “It is yours, Senor.”
But woe betide you if you take him at his word! This wasn’t in the
contract at all. The apparent gift was politeness--nothing more.

Before I gave my first performance I had to consider what Spanish
words I should put into my donkey’s mouth which my audience would
appreciate. I decided after consultation upon _De bouro canto
patterneris_.

When I announced this and my donkey “Tom” sang it or was supposed to
sing it, I never heard such an uproar of applause as broke out in all
parts of the house. The audience wouldn’t have the next turn on the
performance. It was the donkey and nothing but the donkey that they
wanted. “Take him in again,” urged the manager, “take him in again.”
So I took him not once but several times, and made him bow his thanks,
but this did not satisfy his admirers. “Canto! Canto!” they kept on
shouting. However, I knew “Tom” wouldn’t sing again until after half
an hour’s interval, so I pacified them by introducing my fighting
game-cockerel.

As it happened I couldn’t have done better. Three things the Spanish
people love above all else--bull-fighting, cock-fighting, and music.
That was why, I fancy, my donkey with his lovely baritone voice pleased
them so much. Could he only have played a guitar he would have been
there maybe to this day!

The day following my first performance, whether due to my neglect of
Spanish precaution--they never go out of doors in the hottest part of
the day, and they are right, for the sun pours down perpendicularly
upon you and there isn’t an atom of shadow anywhere--or to the too
liberal hospitality which I was obliged to accept, I was taken unwell.
The one complaint which leaps up in every Spaniard’s mind when you have
the stomach-ache is the cholera. They dread it as much as the devil is
said to dread holy water! So when I did not feel quite up to the mark
I was afraid I was in for the cholera.

A physician was sent for, and believe me, I never encountered a more
competent doctor or one who adopted better remedies. Said he:

“There is nothing the matter with the gentleman. Give him some wine!”

I swallowed a dose of this pleasant physic and was well almost
directly. All the same I ran great risks, for I was invited out to
supper every night and Spanish dishes are not only savoury but ample.

Apart from risks of indigestion there was a drawback to those suppers.
They kept me out until the small hours in the morning, and then owing
to the customs of the country you were likely to find yourself in a
fix. In Madrid you can get out of your domicile at any time of the
night, but you can’t get in without calling out to the watchman to
open the gates for you. These watchmen patrol the streets with a long
pole and a lantern quite in the style of the old English “Charlies,”
but they are not nearly so decrepit, although they appear to be more
so if you don’t tip them. In such a case they’ll take half an hour or
more to crawl three yards. I needn’t say that my hand went to my pocket
without the slightest hesitation and the fellow would come along like a
lightning flash.

The Spanish Court was exceedingly good to me. Queen Isabella came to
the show more than once and I fancy she enjoyed it more than she did
the behaviour of the audience. Some political act on the part of Her
Majesty had displeased the public and the house showed its feelings by
an unmistakable hiss when she entered the royal box. But she heard the
objectionable sound unmoved. The Queen’s presence was not the only sign
of royal favour that I received. On one occasion I was permitted to
hold King Alphonso, then a baby, in my arms. I attribute these marks of
appreciation not so much on account of my own performance as of that of
my donkeys. Donkeys are an institution in Spain.

After a time I found my fighting cockerel--_gallio_ was the Spanish
term--went down even better than the donkeys, if such a thing were
possible. My first performance when I introduced my fighting scene was
a screaming success, and was followed by a totally unexpected sequel.
The next morning while I was receiving my letters my interpreter
came up with rather a formidable looking Spaniard, who had something
concealed under his coat which gave out a noise which sounded as though
he had a knife and was sharpening a slate pencil. It turned out that he
had brought with him a fighting game-cock.

Said Pedro Sterling: “This Spaniard wants to challenge your _gallio_ to
fight his _gallio_.”

I looked rather serious at this strange proposition and pointed out
that I had not brought my bird to Madrid in order to fight. He was part
of my living and I had trained him to fight me and not other birds.

But this explanation did not satisfy the Spaniard. He was immensely
proud of the prowess of his bird and he was burning to see the
insolent invader bite the dust at the feet of the native product.

I wasn’t having any and I still demurred, but the man continued to
insist, and at last Sterling said: “Why not let him have a go.” But my
answer was “No.” Then Pedro made the puzzling suggestion: “Let his bird
put on the boxing gloves.”

“Boxing gloves,” I exclaimed. “What the deuce do you mean?”

He explained that in Spain fighting-cocks were provided with glove
stalls stuffed with wool and fitted on to the spurs, so that they could
not hurt each other. This put a different complexion on the matter and
I agreed.

The contrast between the two gladiators when they were placed opposite
each other was the oddest thing possible. My beautiful bird was at
the time in lovely plumage--he was what is called an Indian black red
game-cock. But his opponent--I never saw such a funny-looking thing.
He was of the Spanish red variety plucked the same as a fowl ready
for dinner, except for a frill of feathers which had been left as an
ornament for his neck.

They went at it tooth and nail. The fight lasted hardly a minute;
feathers began to fly and it was all over except shouting. The Spaniard
was about to pick up his bird, thinking no doubt that the native
champion had had enough, when my bird hit him with his spurs and wings
and laid him out. I don’t believe such a scowl was ever seen on man’s
face as that which wrinkled the Spaniard’s countenance, and he burst
out into some Spanish Seven Dials’ language which I didn’t understand
a bit but the meaning of which I could very well guess. I haven’t the
least doubt Pedro interpreted the jargon correctly when he said: “He’ll
have his revenge or steal your fighting bird.”

The fame of the fight spread and the circus was crowded every night to
see my _gallio_. He became the source of great anxiety to me. I was
perpetually haunted by the fear of losing him or of his suffering some
injury. I had to take him to my hotel every night and bring him back
for the next performance. For an extra precaution I paid a man ten
pesetas a week to watch and guard him. As a matter of fact all the cock
fanciers in Madrid were after him. But he passed through these perils
unscathed and in the end I got him away safely.

My engagement terminated and I was anxious to return home. A passport,
of course, was necessary, and I called on the British Consul. To my
surprise he said:

“Why do you wish to leave? The Spaniards love you and they want you to
stay in Madrid.”

Whether he said this on his own account or that pressure had been
put on him by someone I can’t say, but a month went over before that
passport arrived. Meanwhile, I had exceeded my engagement and even then
the circus people were very reluctant to let me go. In order to get out
of the country I wired to my wife who was in Ireland with Hengler’s
Circus to send me a message running something like this: “Wife ill;
return immediately to England.” The message came and on the strength
of it I was allowed to leave. It was on the way home that my donkey had
the curious operation performed on him at Bordeaux which I have already
described.

CHAPTER XI

Circus life is full of odds and ends, most of them quite unexpected. I
can’t recall all of the adventures and misadventures which happened to
me in the many years I was connected with the various travelling and
touring shows, but a few occur to me which I will try to set down.

When I was on one of Hengler’s visits to Dublin there was a horse show
in Kildare Street which lasted three days, and Mr. William Powell,
Hengler’s manager, Mr. Fred Gallagher and myself were invited on the
opening day. Under a verandah to which one ascended by a dozen stairs
or so was a collection of all the latest novelties which could be
got together, and one was an American paraffin cooking stove. Such
things are now, of course, in every-day use, but at that time no one
in Ireland knew anything about them, though I dare say they were
well-known in England and elsewhere. They were about a foot and a half
square, made of zinc, with a little paraffin lamp underneath and a
small hole to let the steam out.

I was always on for a joke whenever I saw a chance, and on my eyes
lighting on this contrivance something prompted me to bend down, look
through this hole and pretend I was seeing a sort of peep show. It
really was much more like a showman’s box at a fair than a stove.

With my face as solemn as a judge’s I murmured loud enough for the
people round about to hear! “What a battle scene! Just like real life.
Look at the horses galloping! By George, they’re going right across the
mountains!”

This was enough to stimulate the curiosity of a crowd eager to see
everything that was to be seen. Before very long I was thrust aside by
an impatient group who thought I had monopolised the show sufficiently
and declared that it was their turn to look. The expressions of disgust
which came over their faces when they found they had been “had” was
enough to make a cat laugh. But many did not like to show that they had
been fooled and without saying anything they moved away and waited for
other victims. I dare say hundreds were taken in and I enjoyed the game
so much that I kept it up on the two following days.

In a space below, near the foot of the staircase, some of the horses
were stationed, and visitors after inspecting these would generally
mount the staircase. On the third day the word was passed round that
Mr. Dawson, then Lord Mayor of Dublin, and Lord Randolph Churchill were
coming, and the man from America who had charge of the stoves, said to
me:

“If you can only get the Lord Mayor and Lord Randolph Churchill to look
through the hole my cooking stoves are made.”

I thought that if this were brought off it would be rather a triumph
for me too and I said I’d see what I could do. Presently quite a crowd
were waiting to see the distinguished visitors ascend the staircase
and I was waiting too. They arrived, and as was hoped, they stopped in
front of the stove through the hole of which I was intently gazing.

“Well,” said his lordship, the Mayor, “and what have you got there?”

I did not answer the question, but merely asked him to peep through
the hole, which he did. With a blank look on his face he turned to me
saying:

“I can’t see anything.”

“Exactly,” was my reply, “who said you could?”

No one is quicker to take a joke than an Irishman. The Lord Mayor
tumbled to the fake instantly and he whispered:

“A capital joke. Get my friend Lord Randolph to look through.”

I did, and directly the noble lord had his eye at the peephole and was
trying with all his might to see something, the people who had been
“had” set up a mighty “Hurrah!” and clapped their hands vigorously at
the addition of another victim.

Unfortunately the sudden noise frightened the horses below. Mr. Powell,
who was with them, yelled out “Hop it!” I took his advice and the
police, for some reason thinking there was going to be a disturbance,
went for me. As I darted down the stairs I caught my foot in a bucket
of water which had been placed for the horses and down I went. I
suppose I was in the mood that day for mad pranks, for the next thing I
did was to pretend to have a fit.

The sympathising crowd gathered round. No one knew exactly what to do,
but they suggested everything they could think of. Among the would-be
helpers was an Irish attendant, who exclaimed:

“Sure an’ it’s a shame it is to see a fellow creature in disthress.
It’s more air that he wants,” and forthwith proceeded to drag open my
shirt.

I had on a beautiful tie and pin, but these made no difference to the
warm-hearted Irishman. He stuck his fingers in my collar and without
wasting time in unbuttoning it--gosh!--tore it apart in his anxiety
to give me air. I saw my pin and tie going. I grabbed both, sprang to
my feet and was through the door in a flash, leaving the police, the
crowd and the warm-hearted Irishman to make what they could of my wild
proceedings.

The little string of fooleries didn’t end there. Jumping into a
jaunting car I drove to Corlis’s restaurant and took refuge there, for
the crowd were tearing after my car. As I did not make my appearance
the mob got tired and dispersed; I then came out and went on to the
Abbey Hotel. As I took my seat in the dining room a waiter passed me
with a beautiful chop, bread and potatoes. He was taking it to some
other diner and the sight was too much for me. Looking him sternly in
the face I exclaimed,

“You’ve been a long time cooking that chop.”

“I’m very sorry, sir--I----”

“Sorry be hanged. I’ve been waiting a deuce of a while and I’m very
hungry.”

He placed the chop before me and I ate it then and there. How long the
other man had to wait I can’t say. Of course it was rather rough on him
and I would have apologised had I dared.

I ought to add that the hoax that had been played on the Lord Mayor and
Lord Randolph Churchill soon got wind, and that night when I performed
at the circus the audience gave me a great reception and nothing was
heard for some few minutes but cries of “Cooking stoves--cooking
stoves,” and no less would satisfy them than my sending for a stove to
show how Churchill had been “had,” in which I had an advertisement as
well as the stoves.

While at Dublin I was invited to Phœnix Park to see a sham fight. I was
accompanied by all Mr. Hengler’s company on horseback. Of course, I
being a well-known character, they gave me one of the worst horses to
ride. The brute was called “Merryman” and he was in every sense well
named. Directly the guns went off he bolted--I was round his back--over
his head--hatless--and I thought my time had come. Out of sheer
merriment, I suppose, he took me among the soldiers, and there was a
rare hubbub till the colonel of the regiment ordered me up to his side.
I thought he was going to send me to the castle to be shot, but instead
of that he kept me by him in the midst of the fighting, to the great
joy of the spectators. To see me flying about with frock coat over my
head--sometimes with my arms clutching the horse’s mane and sometimes
apparently making for his tail--I was a huge success.

Practical joking seems to be part and parcel of circus life. The most
inveterate practical joker I ever knew was a man named Dan Leeson. He
was my travelling companion and we used to go shares in the apartments
in the various towns where the circus stopped, board, etc. But
occasionally his jokes went beyond the limit.

I have seen him go out in the morning, buy a mackerel, cut it open
and fill it full of gunpowder. He would then with a needle and thread
sew it up again, take it home to the landlady, and tell her to put it
on the gridiron for breakfast. You can imagine the result. Half the
chimney blown away, soot coming down, landlady in hysterics, police,
fire engines, etc., etc. Sometimes he would go into a public house and
get a glass of beer and a bit of cheese and biscuit. The cheese having
been cut in squares, he would buy some soap and cut it also in squares,
mix it with the cheese, and sit down and await the result. The grimaces
and contortions of the victims who tasted the soap seemed to give him a
morbid satisfaction.

Leeson reached the limit in an outrageous prank he played in a
Liverpool theatre. Stuffing a piece of haddock in one of the sound
holes of the double bass he awaited the outcome. It wasn’t long before
the haddock showed signs of its presence. Its offence was rank and
smelt to heaven. The orchestra became conscious of its vile odour,
and complaints reached the manager, but of course the cause was not
suspected. A manager doesn’t as a rule consider the feelings of the
orchestra, and pooh-poohed their grumblings. It was a different
matter when the haddock became more lively; the stallites sniffed,
and whispers began to be current that something was wrong with the
drains of the ---- theatre. The sanitary inspector was called in, and
an investigation was made. The flooring was torn up, pipes opened, but
nothing resulted beyond a long bill which the proprietor received with
a long face. Gradually the decomposition of the haddock was completed
and the nuisance ceased. Many months afterwards the secret oozed out.
But by that time the author of the unpleasant hoax was far away. My
impression is that there was a kink in Leeson’s brain, and I’m glad
that my association with him did not last long. I believe he finished
his career where he had few opportunities of exercising his fiendish
power of invention. It was said he died in prison.

The influence of clowning is very difficult to shake off. It gets
into the blood and pursues one outside the theatre. The essence of
harlequinade humour is practical joking, and no matter where the
clown may be he finds it hard to resist a chance of taking someone in
after the fashion of footlights fun. At least I found it to be so;
anyhow, here is a case in point.

Some theatrical friends and myself were enjoying ourselves one
afternoon in a certain Yorkshire hotel, and the proprietor, Mr. B----,
formed one of our party. We were ensconced in his private parlour, but
with my usual restlessness, I kept wandering in and out of the room
searching for something which might afford material for a practical
joke. The rollicking spirit of mischief possessed me. In the corridor I
espied several pairs of boots which I knew belonged to the proprietor.
Putting a pair of these in the pockets of my overcoat I went back to
the parlour.

“Here, Mr. B----,” I remarked, “we know, old man, that you’re not a bad
sort. When I was outside the hotel just now a rather well-dressed chap
accosted me, said he was hard-up, and offered to sell me these boots,
which he says are relics of his better days. They won’t fit me, but
they seem just about your size. Try ’em on, and see if you can do the
poor fellow a good turn.”

The proprietor, who was rather shortsighted, immediately took off his
slippers, tried on the boots and declared they fitted perfectly--which
no doubt they did, seeing he had worn them many times.

“Delighted!” exclaimed Mr. B----, “I’ll have them. Give the poor fellow
this half sovereign, and tell him I’ll keep the boots.”

Out came half a sovereign, and I departed in search of the supposed
starving man, whose heartfelt thanks I brought back with me to the
beaming proprietor, who was highly gratified to be able to do a kind
action. Of course, we kept up the joke for some time, and when it was
played out and the half sovereign was returned, the host insisted on
spending it in refreshments for the company.

It may be that the “fakes” and dodges that showmen are so clever in
concocting stimulate an unnatural sort of ingenuity which may well
foster practical joking. Showmen are certainly past masters in the art
of “codding.” I recollect at the time of the Zulu war how one showman
conceived the idea of exhibiting a number of Zulu warriors. There was
only one drawback--not a single Zulu was at that moment in the country.
But drawbacks do not exist for the born showman and a party of ordinary
niggers were easily made up into Cetewayo’s savage soldiery.

The arrangement of the “war-dance” one of them executed really had a
touch of genius about it. The place of exhibition was a penny show.
There were no seats and the visitors walked about where they liked.
When the “war-dance” was about to begin, the exhibitor, in that
impressive manner which only a showman can put on, warned everybody
that the “Zulu” about to flourish his assegai was very dangerous and
that every precaution would be taken, but that to be on the safe side
the spectators had better keep at a respectful distance.

This was enough to send a pleasant thrill through the gaping crowd and
the “precaution” which followed heightened expectations. The warrior
in his native undress with a piece of skin--supposed to be from a
lion--stalked in, assegai in hand, and gave a fiendish grin. Then a
strong leather belt was put about his waist and having attached to
it four stout ropes placed, so to speak, at the four points of the
compass. Four men held the ropes so that the savage couldn’t stir
from the spot on which he was put. Then he started waving his spear,
contorting his body, stamping with his bare feet and uttering unearthly
howls expressive of his bloodthirsty desires. Although the ropes held
him stationary there was nothing to prevent him hurling his assegai,
but this risk only added to the excitement, and when the performance
was over the audience departed quite satisfied that they had witnessed
the real thing.

On one occasion this troupe of “Zulus” were let down badly. The show
was at a seaport town and among the sightseers was a number of sailors
who had just come from South Africa, who had been up country and knew
something of the Zulu lingo. They began to talk to the performers in
what was supposed to be their native tongue, and the niggers, who had
come from any part of Africa save Zululand, were nonplussed. If there
is one thing Jack hates it is being taken in, and they went for the
Zulus, the proprietor and the show. There wasn’t much of the latter
left whole when they had finished.

I never could resist having a lark when the impulse and the opportunity
came together. They did so on one occasion at Birmingham. After the
death of Sir Augustus Harris, Mr. Henry Dundas, his partner, produced
the Drury Lane pantomime at the Birmingham Theatre, and we had a
rehearsal on Christmas Day. After the first part of the rehearsal Frank
Davies, the stage manager, and I, went to a neighbouring hotel for
some refreshment, which we had in the dining room. As we were leaving
we passed the dinner lift, which descended to the kitchen, at the very
moment when an appetising Christmas pudding made its appearance on the
little platform.

The sight was irresistible, and before the pudding had time to vanish
it was safely inside my Inverness. I expect the clown instinct was to
blame. Anyhow, we went off to the theatre wishing the hotel proprietor
a “jolly Christmas” as we went out of the hotel. We ate the pudding on
the stage and when the rehearsal was over we went back to the hotel
for tea. The proprietor was rather ratty, and, full of sympathy, we
enquired the reason. He told us that he and his staff had been done out
of their Christmas pudding through the misbehaviour of the cook.

“When it didn’t come,” he explained, “I called the cook, who swore she
had sent it up. I told her she’d been drinking and sacked her at a
minute’s notice.”

We hadn’t bargained for this. I’m afraid it didn’t occur to us that
the cook would get into a row, and we told him what had become of the
pudding, thinking he would see the joke. But he was as blind as a bat,
angrier than ever, and talked about prosecuting us for theft! The story
became known: it got into the papers under the heading, “Who stole the
Christmas pudding?” and maybe the advertisement the hotel got soothed
the proprietor, for we made it all right with him, and the cook was
taken back.

Apropos of Birmingham, one season when I was with Hengler’s Circus
at Curzon Hall, I met a fellow who made out that he was a poor
professional comrade. He told me he had got something for me in the
shape of a wonderful singing canary, and I said, “Let’s have a look at
it.” We went into the “Boat” inn and he took me into the back room and
brought out of his pocket a stick about two feet long with a little
perch attached. From his other pocket he produced a small cage with a
canary. Then he balanced the stick on his nose, let the bird loose, and
it flew on the top of the stick and began to sing.

This struck me as a novelty, and I said, “Let me try it.” I did, and
the dear little thing went through the business all right.

I bought the bird right away for two pounds.

It so happened that we had a matinee in the afternoon and I told Mr.
Powell, the manager, that I had a great novelty for the children, but I
wouldn’t let him know what it was, intending to keep it a great secret
till I appeared in the arena.

I started by telling the children that I had something wonderful for
them. I balanced the stick on my nose, opened the cage, the little bird
flew out, but instead of alighting on the stick, it rose straight away
to the top of the building. Of course everybody said they didn’t think
much of the novelty and the only thing that came of it was that I made
myself a great laughing stock.

I hunted for the man who sold the bird and sold me in addition day
after day, but all I found out was that he was a swindler. He had
put me off with a common hen canary, which he had substituted for the
trained bird.

It was only fair, I suppose, that having played off my “whimsicalities”
on other people, I should have a share in return. The canary trick was
one of these acts of retaliation, and a practical joke I suffered at
the hands of a professional ventriloquist who was called “Valentine
Vox” was another. Val was a great friend of mine and we were both very
fond of fishing. When we were performing at the Liverpool Empire he
came to my dressing room one day, saying:

“Whimmy, I’m going fishing to-morrow just over the bar. I’ve a
beautiful yacht; will you come?”

I said I would and enquired where we were to meet.

“At Prince’s landing stage,” said he, adding, “We shall have plenty of
refreshments on board.”

We met the next morning with our sea fishing tackle. I looked about for
the beautiful yacht, but could see nothing of the kind.

“Oh,” said he, “that’s all right. She’s anchored outside. Jump aboard
this boat and these chaps will take us to it.”

The boat was a clumsy mud barge attached to a tug which dragged us some
little distance down the Mersey. I saw a twinkle in his eye. We crawled
along and I began to have my suspicions, which were soon verified, for
the beautiful yacht of which he had spoken was nothing but a mud barge!
The only excuse Val gave me was that he thought it much safer than the
yacht, and so it may have been, but the worst of it was that once on we
couldn’t get off, and we were on that barge in the broiling sun all day
till five o’clock at night. We never had a bite--much less a fish, and
there was nothing for it but to go to sleep, and sleep I did!

[Illustration: All ready to appear before the British Public, Drury
Lane Theatre Pantomime]

CHAPTER XII

I recall an unrehearsed incident at Douglas, in the Isle of Man.
Hengler’s Circus was situated on the quay and while it was there the
maiden voyage of the steamship _The Peveril_ from Liverpool to Douglas
took place. Thousands and thousands of people waited on the pier to see
this new boat arrive and all were agog to give it a hearty reception.
It would be about noon when Connor, the manager of the circus, said to
me chaffingly,

“I’ll bet you a bottle of champagne you don’t fall in the water.”

“Done,” I said.

I went into my dressing room in the circus and prepared for the plunge.

Connor hired a boat for himself, his wife and children, and I was to
have gone with them. I followed them down the steps and they all got
in the boat. I was the last and I was just going to put my foot on the
boat when I slipped and fell into the water. Amid loud yells of “A man
overboard!” two fishermen put off and dragged me into their boat, I
making myself as heavy as possible, as though I’d been half drowned. I
was put into a carriage and driven to the circus, which was only about
100 yards away, and underwent the process of first aid, the best part
of which was the liberal dose of brandy administered.

The “accident” caused intense excitement and no end of talk, and
hundreds of people came to the circus to see if poor dear old Whimmy
was all right. Everybody breathed much more easily when they saw a
board with a bill on it announcing that I should appear “Every evening
at half past seven.” It was a huge advertisement for both me and the
circus, and what was more, I won my bet!

The thing was too good to let drop without making the most of it and as
it was about the time for my benefit to come off, we were looking about
for something startling to draw the public.

“Why not make use of your ‘narrow escape from drowning,’” said Mr.
Connor. “What about giving a medal to each of the fishermen who pulled
you out of the water and saved your life?”

“Splendid!” I replied.

Bills setting forth the heroism of the fishermen and a good deal of
flummery besides were printed, and I needn’t say the house was crowded.
The medals (made in Birmingham) cost me about 1s. 3d. each, and the
moment came for me to present them to the brave fishermen. The medals
were beautifully wrapped up in tissue paper and the audience applauded,
doubtless thinking they were solid gold. The fishermen looked at these
two medals--awfully common things they were--contemptuously and threw
them in the sawdust.

Then turning to me one of them growled indignantly:

“What the thingummy do you mean by insulting us with things like this?
I wish to what’s-his-name you’d drowned.”

And they walked out disgusted, muttering all the uncomplimentary things
about me they could think of.

Everyone knows that the Isle of Man is the place for sprees. I was
an actor in one of them at the Douglas races. The Douglas “Derby,” I
may remark, is a lovely burlesque of the Epsom festival. The course
consists of a run over about nine fields for a quarter of a mile, and
the grand stand is made out of orange boxes. I was made one of the
stewards and wore the biggest of rosettes, of which I was not half
proud, or pretended to be.

For the first race five horses were entered. I only saw one come in--I
think the other four must have fallen over the cliff, as we never found
them from that day to this. No race!

Just before the second race started one of the horses bolted, knocked
a poor old gentleman down, smashed his teeth, and he had to be taken to
the hospital.

There were eight or nine horses in this race and when the first horse
passed the post my impression was that it had won, and I gave my
decision accordingly. It was pointed out that I was quite wrong, a
fearful row sprang up, and the stewards were threatened with instant
death if they didn’t give the race to the third horse that came in. I
said, of course, that it was wrong, but a horrible fate was held out to
me and I threw up the sponge.

The third race was the big event--the Manx “Derby.” A man whom I didn’t
know came up to me and whispered:

“The man who has been taking the money at the gate has disappeared with
the cash. The best advice I can give you is to take that rosette off,
and get away to Douglas as soon as possible, or they’ll have your life.”

It turned out that the story of the theft was true and the thief made
good his escape to Liverpool. I lost no time in getting back to Douglas
and suffered no harm. It was otherwise with a man named Williams, who
had something to do with the committee. An angry crowd broke every
window in his shop.

After this experience, no more steward business for me!

The great spectacle at the circus just then was a series representing
incidents in the Zulu War, and there came a time when the show wanted
livening up a bit. Now a little way outside Douglas beach is what they
call a “tower of refuge,” and when the tide is out you can walk to it.

Mr. Albert Hengler and I put our heads together for some new “business”
and we decided that we would have some fun on the “tower of refuge.”
To make our scheme successful we had to wait till it was a bit misty,
and on a suitable night when the tide was up about five minutes past
eleven, as the hotels were letting out the people, there was a fierce
glare in the sky over the “tower of refuge” and everybody rushed out
into the streets and on the sea shore in great alarm. Our plan for
amusing the Manx visitors had started.

We had collected some forty supers and planted them on the “tower of
refuge.” We had ready a large fishing smack on the opposite side and
this we boarded and were taken out to sea. The supers, supposed to be
Zulus, had been provided with guns, which at a given signal they fired,
at the same time making a fearful noise with their war cries. Rockets,
squibs and red fire added to the picture.

Never was there such a hullabaloo in the Isle of Man, what with the
panic and the preliminary drinks. The trippers thought the end of the
world had come. The police were at their wits’ end to know what to make
of it. They suspected foul play, and running for boats they set out
for the tower to capture the offenders. We had reckoned for something
like this and hence our selection of a misty night. Of course we were
invisible, for by the time the constables were at the tower we were in
the sailing boat and were right out to sea. They could not find out the
offenders, and it was some hours before the truth oozed out--all to the
good of the show.

The stage methods of getting in a wheeze to make the audience laugh
are infinite. I remember one in connection with an engagement I was
fulfilling in a big English provincial city. I was clowning in the
centre of the ring, and after the lady rider had completed one of her
paper hoop breaking circuits, I, by previous arrangement, entered into
a fierce altercation with a groom for not holding his hoop properly.
When the altercation was in full blast, he gave me--or pretended to
give me--a heavy blow, and I fell on the sawdust in an apparent fit of
hysterics.

“Brandy!” cried the ringmaster, as he rushed to my assistance. “Brandy!
The poor fellow is in a fit.”

A groom hurried from the ring entrance with a bottle--which, by the way
didn’t contain the real stuff--and I seized the bottle and began to
drink feverishly. Then I yelled for “More brandy! More brandy!”

“Very sorry, Walker,” said the ringmaster, soothingly, “but there’s no
more brandy left.”

“No more brandy?” I cried. “No more brandy? Then if there’s no more
brandy there are no more fits!”

Of course, the gag is an old one, and has been done many times; but
that ringmaster, with quiet sarcasm always afterwards addressed me as
“Mr. Fitz-Walker!”

I was once on a visit to my son, who was appearing at Ohmy’s Circus,
then performing at the Court Theatre at Warrington, and I was strolling
up the town when I met Harry Leopold, who was my fellow clown in
the Drury Lane pantomime, “Beauty and the Beast,” in 1890. Said he:
“Whimmy, you’re the very man I’m looking for.” “Oh, what’s up now?” He
told me that his brother John had gone to Leeds on some very important
legal business, that John could not appear at the “Court” that night,
and that the manager of the theatre (a Mr. Potter) had intimated that
if he did not appear the engagement would be cancelled. Would I take
his place and save the situation? As I was very much like John--in
fact, we were often taken for twins--the thing might be done, but there
was one objection. I knew nothing about the play. “What’s that to do
with it? All we have to do with it is to have a rehearsal,” said Harry.
This got over the difficulty. I consented. I went through the business
just to see what it was all about, and at 5 o’clock, Mr. Potter was
informed that John had arrived. The theatre opened, the show commenced,
and I got on all right in the first act, what with falling about, going
up and down water spouts (the pipes, not the water), etc., to the
delight of the audience. The second act was a schoolroom scene and in
one part I had to hit the schoolmaster on the head with a tray. I did
it so effectually that I laid him out; the schoolmaster acted no more
that night, but the audience were greatly pleased; they thought it was
all in the show.

I played the part all through the week, and then came Saturday
night--settling up night. John had arrived by this time, and went
into Mr. Potter’s room to draw his salary. When the money had been
handed over, Mr. Potter said solemnly, “John, if you had not appeared
on Monday night I should certainly have had to close the theatre, as
I never like to disappoint my audience. Now here are two returning
dates for you.” John thanked him and suggested a glass of wine. They
adjourned to the hotel next to the theatre, with myself and nearly all
the company. When there, John introduced me to Mr. Potter and told him
how he had been had. Oh, the language that followed! Mr. Potter raged
and stormed in such a fashion that the proprietor sent for a policeman,
who gently but firmly led him out. Mr. Potter never forgave either of
us.

The mention of Ohmy’s Circus brings to my mind that it was when this
circus was at Accrington my dear old friend Dan Leno had the start in
life which first brought him into fame, though no one at the time could
have foreseen what a wonderful dramatic career he was destined to have.
Everyone knows that he began as an astonishingly clever clog dancer. He
defeated competitor after competitor, but in a contest for a champion
belt, the referee gave it against him--a notoriously unfair decision.
Dan said nothing, but some little time later he issued a challenge of
£400 to the alleged champion, which challenge had never been accepted.
The champion made no reply, but contented himself with buying the belt
from the donor for £10 and conveniently losing it. Dan took no more
notice of the champion and at a contest which was arranged between
him and another expert he so conclusively proved his superiority that
no one after that ventured to question his right to be the best clog
dancer in England.

The ways and manners of many of the ladies who cater for theatrical
and other professional lodgers are sometimes not such as to awaken
much affection for them. I am led to the belief that they are a race
apart, and that they look upon the professional, whether he be from
the theatre, the music-hall or the circus, as a kind of lemon to be
squeezed dry.

During a visit to the north, two of us were in lodgings, on the
customary understanding that we provided our own food. We suspected
that the landlady had taken a particular fancy to our potatoes, which
when served were usually very deficient in number, as cooked, as
compared with the number when raw. Consequently, one morning before we
went out, we decided to count the potatoes, and afterwards compare the
numbers with those served, when we returned and they were placed on the
dinner table. Accordingly we took a record of the number of “murphys,”
went to rehearsal, and then returned to dinner. The potatoes were duly
served up--but they had been mashed! The landlady knew something!

Here is an illustration of the strange notions which some Scottish
landladies have of English tastes and customs. When fulfilling an
engagement in a well-known Scottish city I went out for a stroll one
afternoon and purchased some watercress, which I thought would form
a fitting accompaniment to the cold ham which I was to have for
tea. I sent the watercress by messenger to my lodgings, which were
not far distant, and when I returned I was amused and astonished to
find the landlady had decorated every small vase in the room and the
china ornaments on the mantelpiece with the watercress. She evidently
imagined it was a kind of fern!

I believe Charles Dickens once said or wrote that the ruling passion
in the human breast was the passion of asking for orders for the play.
Anyhow, when people whom I have only met in the most casual manner
unblushingly ask me to give them passes for any show I may be connected
with, I often wonder how they imagine the manager pays his way. I
should like to know what they would think of a performer who went into
a butcher’s shop and asked the butcher for a joint of beef, or a motor
car dealer for a Rolls-Royce? It is a curious thing, but I have noticed
that the deadheads or “non-payers” are always the hardest to please,
and the very first to run the show down. This leads me to something
which occurred in a town up north, where I had a two hours’ wait. I was
going into an hotel and in the passage accidentally knocked down a bill
that evidently had just been stuck up by the billing man from the local
theatre. I took it with me into the smoke room and read it by a better
light, and found it was a bill of a Shakespearean company visiting the
town on the following week, and I hung it up on the wall.

While I was so doing the landlord came in and said he supposed I was
the advance agent for the company. I felt so flattered that I let him
think so, and extolled the players and the dresses in my most exuberant
and convincing style. His wife came in and I went all over it again,
warming to the task. Never had anything like it visited the town; the
artistes were the pick of the London theatres, playing under assumed
names, so as to account for them not having been heard of before. The
scenery had been designed by Royal Academicians and painted by the
leading scenic artists, Telbin, Hawes Craven, Bruce Smith, etc., while
the ladies’ dresses came straight from the Rue de la Paix. I was in my
glory; I commenced to believe it myself. Thousands had been spent on
the production, and so on and so on. The other customers commenced to
sit up and take notice, and the climax I’d been working up to arrived.
Could I give the landlord and his wife and daughter a pass for early
closing night? That did it. I wrote them a pass “Admit three, Box B,
Thursday night,” and signed myself “Hookey Walker.” Then the customers
jumped at the chance; they all had a go at me; I gave them passes
signed with different names. I felt I’d done my best, so I caught my
train to Leeds, where I was playing the following week. I have often
wondered what happened to those people when they turned up at the
theatre on early closing night, the best night of the week, with the
bogus passes!

Not infrequently approaches are made to the simple-minded “pro” through
the ready method of “standing treat,” and really I’ve had foolish
people spend more money in this way than the seat would cost. Once,
however, the boot was on the other leg. I was having a glass at my own
expense when an insinuating person entered into conversation which
I made sure was going to lead up to the usual request, especially
as from one or two words he let fall--he evidently took me for an
agent in advance. He was so excessively complimentary and flattering
that I could hardly do less than ask him to join me in a drink, and
he accepted my invitation at once. After he’d drained his glass he
enquired “Are you having another?” I was; whereupon he remarked calmly:
“All right then, I’ll wait outside for you.” His impudence so took me
aback that I didn’t know whether to be angry or amused.

Some of the oddest things happen in connection with the advertisements
which enterprising firms arrange to have introduced into the pantomime.
It generally falls to the lot of the unhappy clown to have to engineer
the introduction. Sometimes they get directly or indirectly a small
remuneration. Sometimes they don’t. Once when I was with Hengler’s in
the provinces, Mr. Powell, the circus manager, told me that a Liverpool
firm wanted their “beautiful two-shilling tea” brought in somehow,
and that they would make it worth my while if I could do it. I did do
it--for all it was worth and perhaps more. But the firm were silent
over my recompense, and chancing to be near Liverpool, I called at the
shop, which was a kind of universal store, and saw the manager on the
matter.

In those days I prided myself on my swagger tailoring, and especially
on my tall silk hat, which was always of the best and glossiest, and
the manager, after listening to my representations, offered me and
the member of the company who was with me two of the cheapest and
commonest bowler hats they had in stock. We walked out of the shop,
leaving the hats behind us. That night and for several other nights I
had my revenge. I introduced my packet of the “beautiful two-shilling
tea,” and after a suitable wheeze opened the packet and poured out the
contents--sawdust! I don’t think the firm was pleased.

Another experience was of a different kind. The article to be
advertised was somebody’s tinned curried chicken and rabbit, and to
stimulate my imagination, I suppose, they sent me samples, which I
needn’t say I tasted, and found very good. Accompanying my samples was
a quantity of other tins exactly similar and having the letter “D”
marked on the outside. The Israelites got tired of quails, and I began
to tire of curried chicken and rabbit, so I turned the lot over to the
property master, who picked out one and was perfectly satisfied. But,
like me, he did not care for curry every day, so he distributed the
rest among the stage hands, who were only too pleased at the prospect
of a dainty supper for once. But delight turned to rage when they
opened their tins. They were all dummies and this was what the letter
“D” stood for! They went for the property master, who they thought had
sold them. But the poor man was blameless. He had by the merest chance
picked out a genuine tin.

A droll business was that of the much advertised Harness electric
belt. It was believed to be a fraud, and time showed that this belief
was justified. As people were talking about the exposure it seemed to
be a good subject for burlesque, and I worked out something. I solemnly
told the audience that my donkey’s surcingle (the girth that went round
his body) was electrified, and attaching a rope to it with a bell at
the surcingle end I pattered a lot about electricity being life, and
invited anyone who wanted a shock to step upon the stage.

First one and then another obliged me, and soon there was quite a queue
all holding the rope. I asked them to pull. The bell rang, but nothing
else happened. They looked very blank and I pretended to be much
surprised. “What--no shock?” said I. They shook their heads. “Strange!”
I murmured. “Try again.” They did try, but no shock followed. I
scratched my chin as if much puzzled. “Try once more. There ought to be
a shock, you know.” Evidently the queue thought so too, and they made
another effort. “Oh well,” I exclaimed despairingly, “if that’s the
case it’s no use going on any longer. I’m much obliged to you gentlemen
for your kind assistance, but you see how it is.” They dropped the
rope, looking much disappointed, and were about to file down to their
seats when a confederate among the little crowd indignantly demanded to
know what I had been up to? “Oh,” said I carelessly, “I only wanted to
know how many fools I could draw to the donkey’s Harness belt.” The fun
was seized upon instantly and the audience shook with laughter. I don’t
know whether those who had been taken in liked the joke or not. But
this was of no consequence.

When I was engaged at the Cirque Nouveau in the Rue Honoré, Paris,
I was the victim of excess of zeal. In Spain I found I was able to
overcome the difficulties of the language by making myself master of
four or five words. I could say “good-day,” “good-night,” “sing” (this
was to my donkey), “wine” (I needn’t mention how useful this word was);
this was all, but it sufficed. The Spaniards said I spoke Spanish like
a native--but this might have been out of politeness. Recollecting my
linguistical success in Madrid, I thought I would try to do the same
thing in Paris. I employed a French schoolmaster to teach me. I hadn’t
too much time in which to acquire proficiency and I set to work to
cram myself, especially with the French equivalents of the various
wheezes which went down well in England. It was all a job and meant
two or three sleepless nights. However, at the end I was under the
impression I spoke French like a Parisian, and I proudly displayed my
accomplishments in the ring.

Somehow the audience did not seem to laugh so heartily as I expected,
and at the end of my show the manager sent for me. “What the deuce (or
a word to that effect) did you mean by talking French?” he demanded
angrily. I explained my reasons and represented how hard I had studied.
“Hang it,” was his reply, “didn’t I engage you as an _English_ clown?
The people who came to see you were nearly all English and American,
and you do nothing but talk French. They don’t understand a word you’re
saying.” I admitted that this might be so and for the future I went
back to my Cockney tongue, doubtless to everybody’s relief. But I was
rather upset at having wasted my energies.

CHAPTER XIII

Not a few odd things happened to me in America. I have already
mentioned some. One of the tours in the States opened at Madison Square
Gardens for six weeks and we gave up one night for a boxing match
between John L. Sullivan and Tug Wilson. Of course we had a holiday
that night and we all went to see this fight. It was a bit of a farce.
Tug Wilson only had to go through four rounds, and every time that
Sullivan was going to hit him with the glove he fell down.

After the four rounds there was a fearful hubbub, the audience seeing
that it was a planned thing. Fights and scrambles were going on all
over the place and I was helpless against the crowd and had to go with
it. I was lifted off my legs and somehow I was forced into the boxers’
dressing room with Tug Wilson’s manager. He had with him a little black
bag with the dollars in it and we at once barricaded the door the best
way we could. Outside the mob were shouting “Open the door! We want our
money back!”

The manager could not see his way to do this and we remained prisoners
until somebody outside suggested the hose-pipe! A dozen willing hands
went to work. They made a big hole in the wall in less than no time,
put the hose-pipe on us, and the next minute we were swamped. The
water was nearly up to our waists till the police came and gave us our
liberty. I believe Tug Wilson took 5,000 dollars back to Birmingham.

Another episode connected with boxing matches happened to me also in
New York. Howes and Cushing’s Circus had a piece of ground in 14th
Street, right opposite Tony Pastor’s, and here they engaged Jem Mace
and Joe Goss to give sparring exhibitions afternoon and evening. I,
being the English clown, had to second Jem Mace--my pal the other
clown, an American, Teddy Almonte, seconded Joe Goss. The champions set
to and Jem Mace showed his usual cleverness with his head in avoiding
his antagonist’s blows. Once he made a rapid duck and I caught the
glove in my face. It was a lovely little tap--it didn’t hurt me, but
the blood began to run down my nose and I fell on my back about three
or four feet away. Of course it was a big success with the audience,
but not with me, so I hopped it out of the ring and went into my
dressing room. Presently the pugilistic gentlemen came in. I had my
handkerchief to my nose and said to Jem Mace:

“Take this iron steak and hit him on the head with it.”

He said, “What for?”

I said, “See what he’s done: surely you’ll take my part.”

And all that I got from Jem Mace was:

“Keep your eyes open in future.”

That finished my career as a second.

The law as it is in America struck me as peculiar. I remember that on
one occasion a nail in one of the seats of the circus got attached to a
portion of one of our patron’s clothing. He claimed a new pair. I was
sent with the man to a lawyer to estimate the damage--it struck me at
the time a tailor would have been a better man for the job. However,
we reached the office and the lawyer induced the man to take three
dollars and leave the old pair of trousers. First he signed a document
to that effect and after it was duly signed the man held his hand out
for payment. But the lawyer said he must first hand over the torn pair.
By the time the man had gone home to change his garments the circus had
moved to the next town, together with the man’s three dollars.

I was once at Coney Island--the Brighton of America--with the Mexican
Circus there, run by the Brothers Carlo. We pitched on the sands and
had a good deal of difficulty in erecting the booths as the sand there
is so soft. We slept at the wooden shanty, dignified by the name of
hotel, and one morning we awoke to find the circus and paraphernalia
gone! In the middle of the night the tide had risen higher than usual
and took the lot away. That was the end of the circus at Coney Island.

I have already mentioned the Leopolds. They were of Irish extraction
and their real name was Kelly. John, who was my fellow clown at Drury
Lane, and who was so like me that I was once able to play for him
and get him out of a scrape, was touring with his brother Willie at
Warrington, in the United States; and when staying in New York paid a
visit to the poorer quarters of the city, where the people were mostly
negroes. They were very much amused at the antics of some little black
children who were playing about in the street, and Willie Leopold
suggested to John that it would be a great novelty to take one of the
little niggers back to England and put it into a comic act, as no one
had hitherto thought of doing this, although it was successfully done
by several people afterwards. John agreed, and they were just wondering
how they should approach the parents and what it would cost to take
them over, when a black woman opened a window and putting her head
out cried, “Come inside, you naughty piccaninnies, playin’ out there
in the gutter. Folks’ll fink yo’s Irish!” I can still see the look of
indignation which went over John’s great fat good-tempered face when he
told me of the insult to his country.

My acquaintance with Jem Mace and Joe Goss led to many interesting
talks over the cheerful glass about the bygone glories of the prize
ring both in England and in America. The New York exponents of the
“noble art” who sometimes joined us had much to say about prize
fighting in the States, especially in the western towns. Apparently
there was no rule to guide the combatants. Fights were go-as-you-please
affairs. A match generally started with the question from one or
the other fighter something like this: “Will you fight fair or take
it rough and tumble?” and if the gentleman was of the bragging
swashbuckler order (which as a rule he was) he might add: “I can whip
you each way, by thunder!”

What was meant by fighting “fair” my informant could not say exactly,
but about the “rough and tumble” method there was no mystery. Any kind
of injury either champion could inflict, no matter how, was considered
legitimate. They bit and kicked; they hit below the belt or other parts
of the body excluded by the Queensberry rules, and the time limit
between the rounds was extremely elastic.

Years after, when Sayers, Mace, Goss and other British “pugs” were in
their prime, John Morissey came to the front in America. John Morissey
once had a fight with an Englishman, Thompson by name. Thompson knocked
his man down eleven times and was himself very little hurt. In spite of
this Morissey was declared the winner because of a foul blow struck by
Thompson. Considering American methods, this scrupulousness strikes one
as somewhat extraordinary, but there was an adequate explanation. Had
Thompson beaten Morissey he would have been shot by Morissey’s friends!

I recollect Joe Goss in another connection. Mr. Bailey, who ran the
Barnum show after Mr. Barnum’s death, presented me with a gold watch
and chain which had once belonged to the famous fighter. The chain was
a very massive one and said to be the handsomest ever manufactured.
Years after, when I was playing in a pantomime at Drury Lane, I was
robbed of both in a very ingenious and systematic way. The rehearsal
one day had been particularly long and fatiguing and when I came out of
the theatre I was dead beat. I went to my nephew’s lodgings, not far
from Drury Lane, for a rest and a sleep, as I had another rehearsal at
eight o’clock that night. I told my nephew to wake me at seven o’clock,
but to be doubly sure I set the alarm clock at that hour. Then taking
off my watch and chain and rings, I placed them near the pillow and
threw myself on the bed.

I slept so soundly that I never heard the alarm and my nephew did not
come. It was half past seven when I awoke, and quite dark. I turned
up the light and looked for my watch and chain. Both were gone and
my rings and everything. Thieves had found their way to the room.
It turned out that my nephew had gone out to give his little dog a
run and had been waylaid by the gang, enticed to drink, and detained
while their confederates robbed me. I had been watched for days most
probably, and my habits noted. When I got to the theatre and told my
boss, I wasn’t believed. It was all “cod” and so on. Of course I went
to the police. Three detectives were put on the job, but their efforts
came to nothing. I never saw my presentation watch and chain any more.

It may be mentioned as a singular coincidence that Edward Giovanelli, a
noted clown in the ’fifties, lost a watch and a medallion in much the
same fashion--that is to say he was watched previous to the robbery.
His watch was also a presentation one and was given to him by his
nephews the Leopolds. A dog also figured in the robbery, which took
place in the street.

Just one more watch coincidence, which came about through a tour in
America. While at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia I ran
across a young man named Arthur Pitt, whose father, an innkeeper at
Barnsley, I knew very well. Arthur was a professional runner and when
I met him he was terribly hard-up, and I bought his watch, the gift
of his father, for fifty dollars. Some years later, when I was with
Hengler’s Circus at Scarborough, and chanced to go into the “Silver
Grid” Hotel, who should be there but Sam Pitt, Arthur’s father, and
while having a drink I chanced to take out my watch, and he no sooner
caught sight of it than he exclaimed “Why, that’s my son’s watch.” I
told him how I became possessed of it and he bought it on the spot and
insisted upon giving me £20.

Those attached to travelling circuses are bound to have ups and
downs, and I have had a few, but nothing so terrible as on a certain
night when Barnum’s menagerie train stopped at a western station and
was shunted into a siding for the night. This was not an uncommon
experience, and as we were provided with sleeping accommodation we were
comfortable enough as a rule. On this occasion the siding was very
close to the main track--in fact only just wide enough to allow a train
to pass without touching our cars. One of our party, a young acrobat,
had gone to get some beer, and when coming back was caught in this
narrow space by a goods train, which he either did not see or was not
quick enough to avoid. In an instant he was spun round like a top and
was literally cut to pieces. It was an awful sight.

It was on my ninth visit to America that I went out with Charlie
Chaplin, about whom I shall have something to say later on. It came
about in this way. I was on my beam ends--nothing to do--just lost my
savings in a bad speculation, and absolutely broke to the world. I was
in London looking for work and I met a friend who invited me to have
some refreshment with him, so we went into an hotel, where we found
Charlie Chaplin, Arthur Reeves, Charlie Baldwin (who wrote my sketch,
“Captain Hamilton, V.C.”) and two or three others. One of the party
hailed me. “Whimmy,” said he, “we were just talking about you. How
would you like to go to America? We sail to-morrow morning.” “What’s
the business?” I asked. “Fred Karno’s sending the ‘Wow Wows’ (one of
Karno’s burlesque companies) with Charlie Chaplin. Will you come with
us and play a part?” “What about the salary?” was my natural query. We
discussed this important matter and eventually settled terms, but it
was absolutely the lowest salary I ever had for forty years. Still, I
was glad to take it, and went into the billiard room and signed the
contract. We left Waterloo station early next morning and were off
to America. We arrived at New York to find that New York had greatly
altered. In fact it was a new America. I had been there eight previous
times, but it was a new world to me, everybody and everything had
altered so much.

We found we were up against great opposition. The caterers for
amusement had increased and multiplied since my previous visit. The
taste had changed and novelties had been introduced to suit the jaded
palates of the excitement-seeking Americans. We were on the Sullivan
circuit and at each town we had opposition at the other theatres--Sarah
Bernhardt at one theatre and Mrs. Langtry at the other--until we got
right up to San Francisco. We then went on to Bute, 2,000 feet above
the sea, and when we arrived there we found out that the theatre at
which we had arranged to appear had been burnt down. Ill luck seemed
bent upon pursuing us. However, our manager engaged a large hall and we
opened. Most of the population were miners, diggers, etc., and a very
rough lot too. It was the roughest place I have ever been into. The
climate, the hard travelling and the living didn’t suit any of us, and
the company began to feel very bad. The ladies lost their voices--the
gentlemen could hardly work, and some of them, including myself, began
bleeding at the nose. This rather frightened some of us, and to make
matters worse we could not get any quinine at the drug stores. Possibly
we had influenza very badly.

We were glad enough to be free from the town and we travelled on to
Seattle, the starting point for the Klondyke region. It was a very long
journey and raining hard all the while. I became so bad that I thought
my time had come. I went to my hotel, but could not sleep or rest a
bit. I got up early the next morning and saw Mr. Alf Reeves, he
being the manager of the show, told him my condition, and he sent me
to Dr. Bourne, a very clever theatrical doctor. I saw the doctor the
next morning and the first words he said were, “You have got erysipelas
in the face. I must send you to the fever hospital immediately. It is
contagious.” He ’phoned, the ambulance was at the door in less than ten
minutes, and I was on my way to the hospital, some three miles out of
Seattle and an awful wooden shanty.

It was Christmas time and my Christmas dinner consisted of a glass
of milk. I was put to bed and the first thing the doctor said to me
was, “I must cut your hair.” Well, he started on the job, lost his
nerve, didn’t cut it, but pulled it out. I said, “That will do,” and I
wouldn’t let him do any more. The next step was to tar my face and put
wool on it. I guess I looked an awful sight.

I stopped in the hospital for about a week and when the doctor came in
from Seattle I told him that if I remained another day I should die.
Perhaps he saw that, for the ambulance was brought and I was taken to
the city hospital in Seattle, and I was there for nearly three months.
They absolutely starved me, a new and unpleasant experience for an old
hard-up English actor used to good living. The upshot of the business
was that my manager said the best thing I could do was to get home.

So I went on to San Francisco, from there to Santiago, and thence to
Salt Lake City, one of the prettiest and cleanest cities in America,
the streets built so that the water flows all day and night down the
gutters. From there to New York, caught the _Oceanic_, arrived safe
and sound at Liverpool, and came on to London to my wife. She was
greatly surprised to see me as she had never heard from me for months;
they had never sent a word from the hospital! She was beginning to
think I was dead.

I don’t know why my starting for America and my return to my native
shore should so often be celebrated by larky rejoicings. I can
understand my friends being glad to see me safe and sound after my
travels, but I do not quite fathom their delight at my going away.
However, there it is. I was once coming from New York and arrived in
Liverpool the night before the Grand National, intending to put up at
the “Bee” Hotel, the proprietor of which was a great friend of mine
for many years--Tom Bush. We reached the hotel and the man at the door
said, “Very sorry, sir, we are full up.” Mr. Bush was fetched and he
was awfully pleased to see me, but he could not put me up--in fact
he had to go out of his own hotel to sleep, the place was so full of
bookmakers and jockeys. But he saw that I was determined to stop, so he
placed a board on the top of the bath and with a mattress and a blanket
I decided I should be all right. After supper I was introduced to the
racing fraternity. I found I was a sort of god with them and I did my
best to entertain them with funny tales. About 4 a.m. I left them and
reached my bath bedroom. I woke up about 7 o’clock dying for a soda and
milk. I saw something dangling and thinking it was the bell I pulled
it, but instead of the bell it was the shower. The quickest thing I
ever did in my life was to get out of that bed. And everyone swore
that I did it purposely!

In the March following I returned to America. I went down to Prince’s
Pier and boarded the boat with everyone wishing me _bon voyage_. It
then occurred to me I’d do something funny to mark the occasion, so I
went down to my stateroom, opened the porthole, and squeezed my head
through it, making grimaces at my friends as the steamer was just going
out of the Mersey. To my horror I could not get my head back! I don’t
know exactly what I thought, but among other things was that I might
have to die with my head through the porthole! Perhaps the boat would
have to be cut in half to get my head out. I shouted, the bedroom
steward arrived, and with a spoon he got my ears down, and somehow I
squeezed myself back to the world.

I had not been twenty-four hours in New York before my nerves were
again shaken. We opened at Madison Square Gardens and I had brought
over some beautiful clown’s dresses made of satin, for the three ring
show. It was just dusk and I was taking all my lovely dresses in a big
white bundle across the first ring and decided that by climbing over
the ring fence I should save something like a quarter of a mile. I was
just over the ring fence and had made about three strides when I heard
something grunt at the back of me. I turned round. I could see a huge
animal after me--it was the hippopotamus! I took to my heels and ran
as hard as I could, thinking my next moment would be my last, caught
my foot against the other side of the ring fence and went sprawling
with all my beautiful dresses scattered in every direction. I shouted
out and George Hawkinstall, the master of the animals, came to my
assistance, screaming with laughter. He told me that he had never seen
anything so comical, me sprawling on the ground and the huge beast with
his cavern of a mouth wide open in wonderment. “He wouldn’t hurt you,”
was George’s consoling remark. “He only thought that white bundle of
yours was bread. He’s awfully fond of bread.”

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker as “The Single Gentleman” in Hepworth’s
Film, “The Old Curiosity Shop”]

CHAPTER XIV

I have already alluded to my first visit to Australia. This was in
the early ’eighties. Some twenty years had passed when I went for the
second time to the Antipodes. I was engaged by the late Harry Rickards,
proprietor of several theatres and music-halls in Australia, to
undertake a tour which was to last twenty-seven weeks.

I looked forward to seeing once more the towns with which I had already
become acquainted, and I set out from Tilbury Docks in one of the
steamers of the Blue Anchor Line called _Wilcania_.

The voyage was somewhat tedious. The boat could hardly get up speed
enough to race a tug, and on reaching Sydney she came to an untimely
end running ashore on the rocks in the harbour. At least that was the
last I saw of her. I am glad to say that before this happened I was
safely landed.

Slow as the travelling was, I found something to employ my time and
that something was fortunately quite in my line. On board was a
beautiful horse called “Pistol.” He was being sent to Adelaide for stud
purposes, his ultimate destination being Perth. A more symmetrical and
intelligent animal I have never set eyes on. We were immense friends at
once and I set to work to train him to perform a number of tricks.

As the weather was fairly fine and the passage tolerably smooth, I was
able to give him two or three lessons every day. Under my tuition he
soon became proficient and his performances gave great delight to the
passengers.

Among other things I taught him to take my hat from my head, to say
“yes” and “no”--in signs of course--etc. By the time we reached Cape
Town, “Pistol” was able to ring a bell for his breakfast, to laugh by
showing his teeth, and to lie down and sit up at the word of command.
We gradually became much attached to each other, and when we arrived
at Adelaide and we had to part company, I believe he was as sorry as I
was. I went with him to the stables on shore, where we bade each other
farewell, and he looked quite sorrowfully at me.

The steamer had two other horses on board--big clumsily-built
Clydesdales. I did not attempt to do anything with them. They were not
of the kind of which trick horses are made and they were very vicious
into the bargain. They were kept in separate boxes and did not, I
fancy, take very kindly to sea life.

I returned to the ship and went on to Melbourne. We stopped there one
day and I took the opportunity of going to the post office to see if
any letters had arrived for me overland via Marseilles. To my great
surprise I found a cablegram awaiting me from Drury Lane Theatre.
“Return. Arthur Collins,” it said. It took me quite aback and I did
not know in the least what to think of it. Here was I in Australia,
thousands of miles from home, bound by a contract to stay a certain
time and make a little money, and Arthur Collins’ message fairly
bewildered me. All the same it had to be replied to in some shape or
form. I returned to the ship and went on to Sydney, but I could get no
sleep as I was worrying about the cablegram. Nightmares pursued me that
perhaps I had committed some awful crime--or the police were after me!

I reached Sydney one evening in September and the lovely panorama of
the harbour and its surroundings presented a sight I haven’t forgotten
to this day. The ship anchored a mile and a half from the city and
when I landed who should be waiting for me but Harry Rickards with a
brougham and a pair of beautiful horses. He drove me to my hotel and as
I went along I saw poster after poster with “Whimsical Walker” in the
biggest type procurable. My word, he _had_ advertised me! In fact too
much, I began to think, with the cablegram from Drury Lane at the back
of my mind.

I must say Harry treated me like a prince. At night he took me to the
National Sporting Club to a Press supper, which I should have enjoyed
more if that confounded cablegram had not been worrying me all the
time. Just before we left the club I plucked up courage and showed Mr.
Rickards the message. He read it and said, “Well, what are you going to
do?”

I told him that to cable to me from England meant something very
important and that I couldn’t afford to neglect it, and that I had made
up my mind to sail away with the next boat. Of course he was very much
annoyed and he threatened to bring an action against me if I did so.
I said, “Bring the action against the Drury Lane Company.” “I haven’t
engaged the Drury Lane Company, I’ve engaged you,” he retorted. He was,
of course, perfectly right, and after we’d finished up at the club he
said, “Come to my office in the morning at eleven o’clock and we’ll
talk it over.”

Next morning I kept the appointment. Mr. Rickards was smiling, and said
he: “Well, Whimmy, have you made up your mind?”

“Yes,” said I, “I’m returning home on Saturday week.”

His reply was that it was very unbusinesslike and meant a loss, seeing
what it had cost him to advertise me. Presently he went on to say:
“Anyway you’re here, and you don’t sail till Saturday week, will you
show to my patrons for five nights and two matinees? If you’ll do that
you can catch the boat on the Saturday week.”

I thought it very good of him, so I consented, and we shook hands on
the bargain and walked back to the National Sporting Club. There a
newspaper was put into my hand and I saw in it to my great sorrow of
the death of poor Herbert Campbell, my associate in many a Drury Lane
pantomime. Then I knew the meaning of Mr. Arthur Collins’ cablegram.

Well, I had a jolly time of it--Mr. Rickards would have me stay at his
beautifully fitted house as long as I was in Melbourne. Among other
luxuries he had a bathroom built inside the harbour with sea water
flowing through the bath all the time. In front of this bath was a
steel lattice and occasionally one could enjoy the spectacle of hungry
sharks watching and waiting for the meal they were destined never to
enjoy. The sight gave me an uncommon zest for my swim, knowing they
could not get at me.

For five nights and two matinees I played, together with Louise
Carbasse, a talented child actress, in a comedy sketch, “Captain
Hamilton, V.C.,” written by Charles Baldwin. The sketch had a touch of
pathos in it and went down well with my Melbourne audience. I wound up
with “The Mad Fisherman,” a pantomime absurdity in which I appeared
alone.

Spending only five days in Melbourne I hadn’t much time to notice what
changes had taken place since I had first visited the city. Of more
importance to me was to ascertain if my “turn” had gone well with
the audience and what the Press had to say about it. So far as the
Melbourne public are concerned I had made a hit and I enquired of Mr.
Rickards if the papers had commented at all. We were at the National
Sporting Club at the time and Mr. Rickards, taking up a periodical
called _Truth_ and pointing out a certain passage said: “Have you
seen _that_?” This was what I read: “We hear that Whimsical Walker is
sailing for England on Saturday. It is a good job. If he had stopped
in this country we’d have shot him!” I put down the paper somewhat
staggered. “What on earth for? What have I done?” I asked. “Don’t be
alarmed, my dear chap,” said Rickards. “That’s nothing to what the
fellow says about _me_.” Then he pointed to the lady at the buffet,
remarking: “She horsewhipped him for his scurrilous writings about her.
She’s English and ever since his castigation he never loses a chance of
saying something nasty about England and the English. No one takes any
notice of him.” That being the case I didn’t think it worth while to
take any notice either.

Rickards was one of the best of fellows. He had been a comic vocalist
in England in the ’seventies. Many old music-hall patrons of those
days may perhaps remember the song which made him popular. It ran, “His
lordship winked at the counsel and the counsel winked at the judge.”
He made more money out of his singing than he did by a music-hall
venture at Plymouth. This broke him; he became bankrupt and he left
for Australia heavily in debt. However, after he had made a fortune
in Melbourne and Sydney he paid every one in full. Like many in the
theatrical profession he was a bit superstitious. His theatre in Sydney
was burnt down and it so happened that on that particular night one of
the musical selections given was Tosti’s song “Good-bye.” After that
he forbade this song being given at any of his theatres. He need not
have been so weak-minded. Such a thing wasn’t likely to occur again.

Just before I started, Mr. Bland Holt, proprietor of the Theatre
Royal, Sydney, and a great friend of Mr. Arthur Collins, hearing I
was going to Drury Lane, came to me and asked if I would do him a
favour by taking a present to Mr. Collins in the shape of two little
rock wallabies--a small species of kangaroo. I agreed and he brought
them on board in a cage. They were amiable, playful little creatures
and became the pets of all the passengers. I was very fortunate in
eventually handing them over in good condition to Mr. Collins, as they
are very delicate animals and rarely survive the voyage. Mr. Collins
was delighted with them and I believe they were ultimately presented to
the Zoo.

I took passage in the R.M.S. _Orior_ and we left Sydney harbour on the
11th October, after quite a new experience, namely, travelling 8,000
miles or so to play for five nights only!

On the journey I had one or two experiences. Coming through the bight
off Fremantle, where on my previous visit to Australia, we had, owing
to the rough sea, to throw some of the animals overboard to save the
ship, we found no improvement in the behaviour of the waves and as a
consequence the steamer had to go direct to Colombo instead of putting
in at Fremantle.

At Colombo--a lovely place--beautiful atmosphere and such pretty dear
little children--a funny thing occurred. I was walking along the jetty
saying to myself, “Thank goodness, no one will recognise me here”--at
Melbourne I was stopped every few yards wherever I went--when, as I was
passing the Bristol Hotel, I heard someone shout, “Hello, Whimmy, what
the deuce are you doing here?” Then came another personal enquiry as
to whether I’d brought my red-hot poker with me, and a third warned me
that there were no pantomimes in Colombo.

I had run across some members of Bannerman’s Opera Company. They had
been playing for three nights in Colombo and were going on to India.
Such surprise meetings are of course common enough in England at
railway junctions--Derby especially--on Sundays, the travelling day
for touring companies, and very pleasant they are. Friends in the
profession who’ve not met for years come across each other, renew their
friendships over the cheerful glass--if the restrictions permit--and
part not to meet again for years more--perhaps never. I was used to
this sort of thing in the old country, but to have such a meeting in
Colombo nearly took away my breath. All I can say is that we had a high
old time.

Passing through the Suez canal it was the turn of the sailors. Jack
ashore is always out for a lark. Our men started with the donkeys,
which they rode in their own style and ended by having a row with some
Arabs. The result of the shindy was the pitching of several of the
natives into the water. After that leave was stopped and they had to
console themselves with concerts on board, games, boxing matches, etc.
It was all great fun.

At last I arrived in London and the first news I heard was that my
dear old pal Dan Leno was dead. He not long survived his close comrade
Herbert Campbell. It was a sad blow to think that these two splendid
humorists, who had played into each other’s hands at old Drury to the
delight of thousands, would never be seen again. To me the loss could
not be made good. I had acted with them in the Drury Lane pantomimes
for so long that when I appeared on the boards I felt a blank which I
can hardly describe.

Apart from stage associations I had many a merry moment with Dan. He
was always bubbling over with humour. Once I remember, coming with him
from rehearsal, strolling down the Strand to the “Marble Halls”--the
favourite name of the restaurant adjoining the Adelphi Theatre. The
Hotel Cecil was then being built and as we passed it Dan suggested we
should stand treat to the bricklayers. Away we went across the road,
and when Dan asked the fellows if they would like a drink their smiles
reached from ear to ear.

“All right, boys,” said he, “come along,” and followed by a little
crowd in their plaster and mud, he took them to the “Marble Halls.” The
porter in his gorgeous livery looked horrified. Dan protested. People
stopped to see what was the matter.

“They won’t allow the hard-working British man to have a drink,” he
exclaimed indignantly. A policeman interfered--and we all had to “pass
along.” I suspected Dan had some little game in his head, but did
not know what it was. However, we went on to the “Queen’s Head,” the
landlord of which was a friend of us both. This hostelry was provided
with numerous partitions, all of which were soon crowded.

“Give all these dear good hard-working men two pennyworth of port wine
each,” called out Dan. The men looked down their noses and growled out
that they wanted beer. Dan pretended to show great surprise, but in the
end paid for as much as they could drink. He had had his joke and was
satisfied.

There never was a man fonder of children than Dan was. It is on record
that the day before he took to his bed in his last illness he visited
the Belgravia Hospital for Children at Kennington, went over the
institution and left a liberal donation. One beautiful day in August I
chanced to meet him. “You’re just the boy I want, Whimmy. I’m giving a
children’s party to-morrow--about 300--and their fathers and mothers
are coming to tea. Be at my place in the morning.”

Dan lived at Clapham Park and I went down and helped him to put up
coloured lamps for the illumination at night. There were also to be
fireworks, over which he had spent some £40. These were stored in a
little outhouse. But long before night came there was an impromptu
display. While we were hanging the lamps we heard an explosion and saw
all the fireworks going up in the air. One of his children had somehow
managed to set fire to the lot. But no one was hurt. Dan wasn’t a bit
upset.

This was not the end of Dan’s misfortunes. The children poured in and
so did the parents; the band played on the lawn, some played cricket,
danced and so on, and then the time came to light the lamps. Alas!
The sun and the hot air--it was a blazing day--had melted the little
candles inside. No fireworks--no illumination. There still remained
the magic lantern show which had been prepared. This surely should go
without any mishap. Oh dear, no. A quarrel sprang up between some boys
behind the screen as to who should manage the show. A fight followed
and down came the sheet. There was no exhibition and it was difficult
to say who was the more disappointed--Dan or the children.

This ought to have been sufficient for the day, but it wasn’t. A final
disaster affecting me personally was yet to come. It was 5 a.m. when I
left, and as no conveyance was possible I started to walk to town, Dan
going with me. It so happened that I was wearing a new pair of patent
leather boots, and these having been in the sun all day soon became
intolerable, so I took them off and we both sat down on a road-side
seat. Presently a milk cart came along and this we stopped and arranged
with the driver to give us a lift. I put the boots near the cans and
was fairly comfortable. We reached Brixton police station and I looked
for my boots. They had vanished--jogged off the cart without my seeing
them go. I waited at a coffee stall until the trams began to run and
finished the rest of the journey in my stockinged feet. And this was
the end of Dan Leno’s garden party!

Like the rest of us, Dan could never resist a chance of a practical
joke. I had been promised an Irish terrier puppy by a breeder at
Levenshulme, near Manchester. I had been out all day and when I
reached home I found Dan there and that the dog had arrived in a box.
Dan was frightfully indignant and put the blame on me of treating it
cruelly--not having even given it a drop of water. It was in vain for
me to protest; he told me the R.S.P.C.A. ought to be informed. I was
surprised he had not let the dog out, so I drew the nails from the box
and put my hand inside to take out the puppy. To my consternation it
was stone cold. “I’m afraid it’s dead, Dan,” I whispered. Then I pulled
out the dead animal and found it was a pantomime dog which he had got
from the theatre property room! My own dog he had dispatched to his own
house. Poor Dan was full of pranks.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker and the Drury Lane Harlequinade
entertaining the Lord and Lady Mayoress and children at the Mansion
House, London, in aid of the Blind Children of London]

CHAPTER XV

Managers and actors I have known. P. T. Barnum. A wonderful organiser.
How a big circus travels. Barnum’s consideration for his company. His
little speeches. General Tom Thumb. Signor Foli and Frank Celli. Sir
Augustus Harris a born showman. The elder Harris and his glossy hat.
The value of an advertisement. My “benefit” at Drury Lane and why it
was a frost. I miss my chance in the Drury Lane Pantomime, 1890-91,
“Beauty and the Beast.” An unrehearsed incident. I play “Mercury” in
“Venus.” I am “Hamlet” at Richardson’s show in the Olympic Carnival. A
Scottish “Ghost.” A new view of “Hamlet.”

Looking back and reviving old memories is to most of us a task of
mingled pleasure and pain. It is especially so to me, when I think
of the many bright souls, now passed away, who in their career as
“servants of the public” did so much to gladden the hearts of others.
I have in other chapters, as opportunity served, alluded to members of
the theatrical and circus profession more or less notable with whom
I have been associated; and I now propose to add a few more personal
recollections of some of these, together with what I recall of episodes
connected with others. Unfortunately, I am compelled to rely solely
upon my memory, as valuable material committed to paper was together
with my dresses and other property burnt in the fire at Drury Lane
some few years ago.

As a good deal of my life was passed in the circus and among showmen,
the name of P. T. Barnum comes naturally into my mind. He was certainly
the prince of showmen--shrewd and businesslike in everything he
touched, prompt to act, amazingly ingenious in devising novelties
to attract the public, and a wonderful organiser. Before he died he
had brought the working of his show, the biggest in the world in
its variety of exploits, to a methodical perfection, and rarely did
anything go wrong.

It can easily be imagined that when dates had been fixed for months
ahead and contracts entered into as to the hiring of halls and grounds,
strict punctuality had to be observed if money wasn’t to be lost. The
removal of such a gigantic show as Barnum’s from place to place, often
many miles distant from each other, was no easy matter. It meant much
thought, the drilling of many men in their particular duties, and the
working of everything smoothly and almost mechanically. How admirably
all this was done never failed to surprise me, accustomed though I was
to the process.

When the animals had finished their turn and while the rest of the
performance was going on, they would be quietly removed in their cages
to the train that was awaiting them. Scarcely was the show over when
the tent master’s whistle was heard and down fell the canvas walls
of the big enclosure, gathered up, and before the people were out of
the place, the ring, seats and so on were removed. It was a big job,
for the horses alone numbered 300, but the whole thing was done in
about an hour, and hardly a word spoken by any one. All knew their
work thoroughly. The show filled three trains. The first contained the
sleeping cars and the last the menagerie. Some little excitement was
often provided by the stowaways, who, to get a free ride, would hang
on to various parts of the trains, hoping to escape notice, but they
never did. A party always went round just before the signal was given
to start, and routed the loafers with sticks, which were not taken for
no purpose!

Barnum was of course an old man when I was engaged by him--he died,
I think, in 1891--but age hadn’t lessened his care over every detail
and his personal watchfulness. One of my performances consisted of
antics on the high stilts, and the impersonation of a tipsy man while
in that elevated position was always a great success. My swaying
about, pretending I was about to fall, and recovering myself, made the
audience laugh, and at the same time gave them a thrill.

On one occasion I saw Barnum sitting in a front row watching me
intently. After my turn he sent for me, and complimented me on the
performance, “but,” said he, “don’t do it again. It’s too dangerous.”

Undoubtedly it was very risky, though I never had a tumble, and the
consideration of Barnum for the safety of his company struck me as a
good trait in his character. Most managers think only of the laugh and
the applause of the audience, and the performer has to take a back seat
so far as his bodily safety is concerned.

Barnum was a showman to the last. He never forgot that success in his
line was a good deal dependent upon personal popularity, so he always
kept in the limelight. One important item in his personal programme was
the little speeches he was fond of making. I daresay in his best days
they were effective enough, but in his declining years his voice became
so weak that it was little better than a wheeze, and his words could
not reach beyond a couple of rows or so of the stalls. This drawback
made no difference to Barnum. It didn’t matter much what he said, the
great point was his appearance on the stage--he was as much a part
of the show as any of the performers. He knew as well as, or better
than anybody, that effect was all-important. The audience had to be
impressed, no matter how it was done; so to bring this about, he always
had a score or so of the miscellaneous helpers, tent men and so on,
stationed among the audience, who punctuated his little speeches with
stentorian shouts of “Bravo, Barnum!” and the like, and naturally the
audience followed suit without knowing why or wherefore.

While with Barnum’s show I made the acquaintance of General Tom Thumb.
The little general had most charming manners, and was in every respect
a perfect gentleman. I used to play billiards with him often; he had a
fair amount of skill, notwithstanding his physical drawbacks. To get to
the proper height for the board he had to stand upon a stool.

As a contrast to this diminutive player, I remember watching a game
between Signor Foli and Frank Celli, a member of the clever Standing
family. Foli was born “Foley.” He came from the sister isle and he
Italianised his name, in deference I suppose to the feelings of the
native operatic Italian artistes. He was quite six feet three (perhaps
a little more) and Celli topped six feet. To see these two huge men
sprawling half over the billiard table and bringing off long shots,
disdainful of the “rest,” had something of the grotesque about it.
Perhaps they felt it was so themselves, for throughout the game they
never ceased chaffing each other.

Sir Augustus Harris had a personality not easily forgotten. His mental
activity was ceaseless. He knew what he wanted and he saw that he got
it. He, too, was a born showman, inheriting the instinct no doubt from
his father, who for many years was stage manager at the Italian opera,
and whose artistic presentations of many famous operas would even in
these days be regarded as scenic triumphs.

The elder Harris had a genius for “effect,” whether on or off the
stage. He was noted for wearing the silkiest and glossiest hats,
and probably set the fashion which so many theatrical managers have
followed down to the present time.

Harris regarded his glossy hat as a kind of fetish, and it was
whispered that secretly he worshipped it. On one occasion at a
rehearsal of the ballet everything went wrong. The girls were perverse,
or frivolous, or in tantrums of some kind. Harris alternately coaxed
and swore, but to no purpose. At last in despair he cast his cherished
hat on the floor and stamped on it, exclaiming “There!” The effect was
appalling; it was equivalent to a sounding of the last trump, and some
of the girls fainted. Nothing more could be done that day, but on the
morrow all went like clockwork.

I’ve no doubt that Sir Augustus was quite capable of creating a
characteristic situation like this, if circumstances demanded it.
At any rate it is certain that wherever he was he had to be in the
centre of the picture. I recollect the artist of a coloured poster to
advertise the nautical melodramas once very popular at Drury Lane,
submitting the design to Sir Augustus, then Mr. Harris. The licensee
and manager was at that time playing in the pieces he produced, not
that he was in any way a brilliant actor--I don’t think he was under
any illusions as to that--but in order to qualify himself in a claim
for the Drury Lane Fund. The artist had produced a well-balanced
picture and to carry out his design had found it advisable to put the
hero in a somewhat subordinate position. Now Harris _was_ the hero and
he looked very doubtfully at the counterfeit representation of himself.
Then he pointed to the foreground, remarking:

“H’m, very good--but I must be _there_!”

The poor artist was greatly distressed. The alteration would entirely
upset the harmony of his design. But this was of no importance, the
advertisement was the only thing that mattered, and from his point of
view Sir Augustus was right.

Sir Augustus Harris no doubt had his weaknesses, but want of generosity
was not one of them. I was first engaged by him when he was running
Covent Garden Theatre. I had as clown become a great favourite with
the children, so much so that it seemed to me that I ought to have a
benefit, and I suggested as much to Mr. Harris. “Certainly, my boy,”
said he, in his genial manner, and he at once told Mr. Latham to draw
out a contract. The terms of the contract were that I was to have half
of the takings after £500, but that I was to spend £100 on posters,
etc., and I was to be given a month for advertising my benefit. We
shook hands on the bargain, and with a twinkle in his eye which I could
not make out at the time, but understood afterwards, he said I ought to
make £10,000 on the night.

The benefit arrived in due course. It was to include an afternoon and
evening performance. The show in the afternoon was very bad, and I
was rather cast down. Everybody was, however, very encouraging and
prophesied that at night the house wouldn’t hold the crowds. The
night came along and was worse than the afternoon. I was never so
disheartened.

On the following day Augustus Harris came to the theatre to settle
up with me. The first words he said were, “How did you get on last
night?” “Rotten,” I told him. He began to laugh. Said he, “I’ll tell
you a secret. You’re all right in the arena or on the stage, but you’re
no good as a manager. Did you really think that with my eyes open I
should let you have this theatre half to half after £500 with matinee
and night show and give you a month to advertise it? I did it because
I knew very well that all your friends--that is, the children--would
have all gone back to school, but you wanted a benefit, so I humoured
you. But you shall have a benefit, and there it is,” and he put into
my hands a contract for three years right off at a very big salary; so
that was what the twinkle in the eye meant.

On another occasion Augustus Harris put a good thing in my way, of
which I did not take advantage, and I much regretted my refusal
afterwards. From Covent Garden I went to Drury Lane, where the
pantomime that year was to be “Beauty and the Beast.” Lady Dunlo was to
play “Beauty,” and no one was better fitted, thanks to Nature’s gifts,
but the part of the “Beast” had not been settled. Mr. Harris sadly
wanted me to take it, but at that time I was bent upon clowning, and so
John D’Auban was engaged. But I had my chance afterwards when Harris
opened at the Prince of Wales Theatre, Liverpool, with “Venus.” The
cast included Lady Dunlo (she played under the name she was best known
by, Belle Bilton), Harry Nicholls and myself. In some respects this was
a great advance, as henceforth my business was not entirely confined to
clowning.

A comical incident happened during one of the rehearsals at Drury Lane
for “Venus.” I was cast for “Mercury,” and it occurred to me that it
would be an effective bit of fooling if I made my entry standing on a
globe, and trundling it with my feet. I came in in this fashion, but I
hadn’t bargained for a chunk of wood a carpenter had left on the stage.
I had just commenced to say: “I am ‘Mercury,’ newsman of the gods,”
when the globe and I parted company, I came flop on the stage and
rolled over the footlights into the orchestra, and on to a fiddler.
Sir Augustus, who was present, laughed heartily--he always liked a
joke--and enquired whether I was going to put the fall in at night?
For fear of accidents it was decided to cut out this particular bit of
business, and perhaps it was as well, for on this occasion it cost me
7s. 6d. to provide the fiddler with a new bow.

“Venus,” I might mention, was an extravaganza. It was in three acts and
had three authors--William Yardley, Edward Rose and Augustus Harris.
The music was by John Crook.

The revels at Olympia which Sir Augustus organized I shall never
forget. For real rollicking fun they have never had their equal. My
connection with them came about in this way. I had finished a most
successful pantomime season at the Court Theatre, Liverpool, and when
the run was over Sir Augustus invited me to dinner at the Adelphi
Hotel, where he was staying. After dinner he told me to report myself
at his house, “The Elms,” St. John’s Wood, on the following Tuesday
morning at 11 o’clock. I obeyed his instructions; we had lunch and he
went to the ’phone and ’phoned to Arthur Sturgess, telling him I had
arrived and that he was to bring the manuscript. Sturgess turned up in
the afternoon with the script, which Sir Augustus handed to me, saying,
“Here you are, my boy; go home and study it and come here a week
to-day.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Hamlet in a Hurry,” was his reply. “I want you to study it carefully.
None of your red-nosed comedian about it; you must play it straight.”

I started aghast. I was getting fat and scant of breath. I could not
imagine myself playing “Hamlet,” the Prince of Denmark. I really
thought he was going mad. However, I took the script home and studied
it. I soon saw that Harris had been pulling my leg. The play was to
be “Hamlet” sure enough, but the version of it to be performed at
Richardson’s show at Olympia--for this was the notion--would have
turned what little hair the Bard possessed as white as snow.

I saw Sir Augustus the next morning at Drury Lane.

“Whimmy,” said he, “I want you to get some of the oldest actors and
actresses you can find for the cast.”

I hunted London and pitched upon Joe Cave, Marie St. Gerard, Ainsley
Burton, Gertie St. Clair, and one or two more. The whole business was
a jolly farce. We had rehearsals in Harris’s bathroom--a very spacious
affair--at “The Elms,” and things promised to go splendidly.

Meanwhile a Richardson’s show was being built at Olympia. The interior
was painted to represent a barn. The act drop was ornamented with
Shakespeare’s head on a pedestal and purposely drawn very groggy and
lop-sided, and looking as if it were about to fall off. There were mock
boxes supposed to be full of the notabilities of the day. Gladstone and
his family were smiling at Lord Beaconsfield and his friends, who were
smiling in return. The outside of the show was quite the real thing
with its big pictures of fat women, living skeletons and the like.

This makeshift look was only confined to the show itself. The dresses
of the players were magnificent, both in material and colour. It was
a characteristic of Sir Augustus that he would always have the best
of everything. The black feather in my cap cost two or three pounds
and the “Ghost” was resplendent in silver-plated armour. As for the
robes of the King and Queen, they were simply dazzling. Outside, our
band consisted of a cornet, trombone, flute and a big drum. A fine
orchestral band was stationed opposite our show and did its best to
play us down. But we contrived to score with our big drum. Sometimes
“Hamlet” banged it and occasionally the “Ghost” would take a turn. Now
and again the rival orchestra pelted us with oranges and I rather fancy
that Sir Augustus, who had a number of friends with him and who was in
the highest spirits, had a hand in this.

We used to give eight or nine performances a day, each one lasting half
an hour or so, and the money rolled in without ceasing and the lowest
price was sixpence. Fred Storey painted the scenery, opening with a
representation of the battlements very much out of the perpendicular.
As for the dialogue, it was after this style: The sentry was ordered to
“form squares” which he did by squaring his feet. Enter “Hamlet,” upon
which the sentry remarked, “Here comes the Prince.”

“How goes the night?” “Hamlet” enquired.

“Very well, thank you,” was the reply. “How are you?”

This may not seem particular brilliant, but I suppose we made it sound
funny, for the audience laughed uproariously.

The “Ghost” was a screaming success. The man who took this part was
about 75 years of age and a raw-boned Scotchman, and when he opened his
mouth and said, “Ye ken, I am yer father’s ghost,” in broad Scotch, the
people yelled! We did three acts; we cut out all the long speeches, and
when any of the players started upon one I would bring out my watch
with:

“There’s no time for that speech,” to the player’s intense disgust.

The Scotchman insisted upon having a pint of beer at every performance
or he wouldn’t play, so I gave him threepence per performance.
Unfortunately the staff bar was a long way from the show, but he didn’t
care--he walked to it and got his beer all the same. It so happened
that with all his armour on he had to pass a lot of shrubbery and small
trees, and by the time of the fourth show of the day he would come back
minus some of his armour. Finding it rather inconvenient, he had taken
it off and laid it against the trees, and what with the beer going to
his head he forgot where he put his corslet and helmet, or whatever it
might be. After that I had to get a boy to watch him and bring back
his armour. Once he came back very inebriated, but he got through his
performance till the last speech, when he overbalanced himself, fell
through the small stage door on to the gravel outside the show, and
shouted to the amusement of the audience, “There’s something rotten in
the steps of this damned show.”

Joe Cave, owing to his infirmity of temper, was a continual source of
trouble. He was one of the most cantankerous men I ever came across
and it is not too much to say he was very unpopular. In this travesty
of “Hamlet” he was the grave-digger, and he was perpetually having
rows with the “Ghost” and the manager. Why there should have been so
many squabbles I can’t understand, unless it was owing to the beer at
the staff bar, which was certainly cheap and might have been the other
thing as well. More than once I’ve seen “Ophelia” with a black eye. On
one occasion Joe Cave reached the limit of fury. He and I were dining
together and a mutual friend came behind Cave unseen by him and slapped
him on the back--a habit particularly stupid and most annoying. It sent
Joe into a paroxysm of rage, for he had false teeth, and the concussion
shot the entire set into his soup! The language that followed was
sultry of the sultriest.

Cave had been in the profession nearly all his life and no doubt he
had the mysteries of management at his fingers’ end, but owing to his
abominable temper he was not a success. It may have been due to this
cause that the transformed “Old Vic,” which was rebuilt some five
and thirty years ago, and of which he was the first manager, was a
failure. Certainly it would be hard to match the fiasco on Christmas
Eve of the dress rehearsal of the pantomime to which the public was
admitted. Mishaps followed one after the other. The transformation
scene haltingly commenced a little before midnight and the curtain
descended amid the shrieking of ballet girls. Something had gone
wrong. Joe Cave rushed on to apologise. All that could be heard was his
explanation that the building of the theatre and the pantomime had cost
thousands and thousands of pounds. The sight of the excited little man,
grey trousers below and some kind of pantomime costume above, was the
funniest thing the audience had seen that night, and they roared.

Joe’s claim to celebrity--and it is a claim unknown to most people--is
that he made the popularity of the song, “I’m ninety-five--I’m
ninety-five.” The melody was taken from one of Bishop’s operas, but
who wrote the words I’m unable to say. The tune afterwards became the
regimental marching air of the old City of London Volunteer Rifle
Brigade. Cave ended his days in the Charterhouse, where he kept up his
reputation of “old Grumpy,” so much so that the brethren petitioned
that he might have his dinner served in his own room, and the request
was granted.

Cave’s cantankerousness and the grumbles notwithstanding, Richardson’s
show was a tremendous hit, and Sir Henry Irving, John L. Toole, Phil
May and others were constant visitors in front. Without a doubt Sir
Augustus Harris was right when he forbade any clowning. If I had
painted my nose I should have spoilt the effect. It was the taking of
the play seriously that made it so funny.

I must say that after playing the part over and over again I got
“Hamlet” into my blood and began to believe that if I tried hard enough
I should end by being a tragedian. I couldn’t help talking about him
and I can’t help airing my views now. “Hamlet,” like the weather,
is a subject for eternal discussion. I feel it is only right that I
should chip in with a word or two. “Hamlet’s” trouble was undoubtedly
indigestion; he took a bilious view of life. He was worried about his
increasing weight and his sorrows turned to fat very quickly. I think
we ought to pity rather than blame him for his unfortunate habit of
talking to himself. His partiality for ghosts and graveyards must have
made him rather a dreary companion on an Easter Bank Holiday, but I
could have put up with that. What I cannot stand about “Hamlet” is his
frightful rudeness to his mother! Jump on poor old dad if you must,
kick uncle George out of the window if you like, but say one unkind
word about mother, and the British Constitution totters on its base.
After all, why shouldn’t his mother marry again if she wanted to? She
was accustomed to the little ways of kings and it was only natural that
she should select another for her second venture! Besides, “Hamlet”
must have found his step-father come in very handy when funds; were
low and he hadn’t got the wherewithal for a fresh bilious attack.
“Hamlet’s” view of life was the view of “the morning after the night
before.”

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker as he appeared before H.M. Gracious
Majesty Queen Victoria, by command, Windsor Castle, 25th February, 1886]

CHAPTER XVI

My first engagement at Covent Garden Theatre was as a circus clown. Sir
Augustus Harris and Mr. Freeman Thomas, afterwards identified with the
promenade concerts, subsequently given, took the theatre for a season,
and ran it as a circus, Hengler’s providing the entertainment. I have
always been very successful with performing animals, and this time I
was lucky in having a very clever pig. I’m not prepared to say which is
the more intelligent, the pig or the donkey; whether or not, both are
proof that four-footed animals have more brains that they know how to
use than people suspect. This particular pig became greatly attached
to me; it used to follow me about like a dog, and it was immensely
popular with the company. Its fate was somewhat singular and due to a
peculiar accident.

There was, of course, in the theatre a refreshment bar, which I
imagine was the attraction which drew Mr. Freeman Thomas into the
speculation, he being in the wine and spirit trade, and at the time
was the proprietor of the “Griffin” in Villiers Street, Strand. One
day a friend of mine dropped in before the performance commenced and
suggested a drink at the bar. I accompanied him there, and so did the
pig. My friend ordered a bottle of champagne and threw a sovereign
on the counter. It bounced in the air and rolled on the ground, and
“Tommy” the pig being always on the look out for unconsidered trifles,
found the coin and swallowed it. I don’t suppose the sovereign would
have done him the least bit of harm, but unfortunately the circus
grooms saw the coin disappear into his mouth and laid their plans
accordingly. What their plan to get hold of the sovereign was I don’t
know, but they gave him medicine of some sort. I noticed him getting
thinner and thinner every day, but did not at once suspect what was the
matter. One morning poor “Tommy” was found lying in the cellar dead
and it was pretty certain that poison was the cause. No post-mortem
followed, which was a pity, as there was a possibility that the
miscreants had not been successful and the sovereign would have been
found; not that this would have been of the slightest importance, as I
would have given many sovereigns rather than be deprived of my faithful
companion. A reward was offered to find out the man who poisoned the
pig, but he was never discovered.

Intelligent as donkeys and pigs may be, they are distanced a long way
by dogs. I once had a poodle which was the cleverest animal I ever
had to do with. There was something almost uncanny in his imitative
faculty. I had but to do a trick once and he grasped it at once. I may
give an instance of this, which had it not been witnessed by myself
would be considered incredible. I was breakfasting one morning when
I saw the poodle gnawing my slippers, and it made me so angry that I
seized him, knocked his head against the wall and threw him out of
the window, which chanced to be open. He wasn’t hurt, as he had but a
very little distance to fall. The next morning he came in as usual,
saw the slippers, and I imagine this reminded him of what had occurred
the previous day, for he rushed to the wall, knocked his head against
it, and then leaped out of the window. He thought he had learned a new
trick.

Among the dogs which I have at various times possessed, was an Airedale
terrier. It was not a performing animal, its chief peculiarity being
that it had an abnormally long tail. And thereby hangs a tale. I parted
with the dog to an army officer, who shortly afterwards went to India
with his regiment. Some few years afterwards I met the officer on his
return to the old country, and he said:

“Walker, that dog I got from you was a good investment; it saved my
life upon one occasion.”

I said I was glad to hear this, and asked for particulars.

“Well,” said the officer, “one day in India, accompanied by the dog,
I wandered quite a long distance from the cantonment and got lost
in the jungle. For seven or eight hours I searched in vain for an
outlet; I was not only dismayed, but as I had had no food for some time
previously I was also starving. At length I came to a clearing where
I gathered together some brushwood and lighted a fire. Famished as I
was I was ravenous for food, so I called the faithful dog to my knee,
cut off his tail, and ate the tail for supper. When I had finished
I noticed the poor animal looking at me very piteously--it was also
famished, so I gave the dog the bone to pick!” I don’t vouch for the
truth of this. It may be a _ben trovato_.

Of late there has been considerable controversy as to the training of
performing animals. Humanitarians have got it into their heads--not for
the first time--that much cruelty is involved in teaching them their
tricks. While I was recently performing in the principal Midland towns
the representative of a leading Lancashire paper put this question to
me: “In your opinion is it possible to train animals to trick work by
any method except kindness?”

“Utterly _impossible_,” was my reply. “I have trained more performing
animals than any other clown alive and I have found them ready to
respond to kindness--always. The person who attempts to train an animal
by cruelty _will never succeed_, and I say with knowledge ranging back
over fifty years that there is not a single animal travelling to-day
that could have been trained in any other way. Kindness first, last
and always is the foundation of success in training all animals. Come
with me and I’ll let you see for yourself the sort of animals we have
in this show. I’ll introduce you to a man who brought a horse from the
brink of the grave to be the best trained and best mannered animal of
the kind in existence.”

The journalist accompanied me to the stables and I presented him to the
well-known owner of the pantomime horse “Verdun.” The trainer and owner
of this clever animal is Mr. Agube Gudzow, whose deeds in the ring
are world famous. “Verdun” was in his stall feeding and my friend was
doubtful whether it was safe to disturb the horse while at his meal.
The trainer smiled and in a moment “Verdun” had turned towards the
visitor and placed his nose in the journalist’s hand.

This horse, between which and Mr. Gudzow exists a strong bond of
affection, has a very interesting history. “Verdun” is so named because
he fought all through the later stages of the war that raged round the
heroic French city. Gassed and suffering from shell shock, three times
wounded, the noble animal was put up for auction in London. A foreign
horse dealer bid £1 for the broken-down hero and it was going to feed
the Dutch when Mr. Gudzow bid £5 and the horse was knocked down to
him. To-day it is known all over the country, and in Hyde Park, when
exercising in Rotten Row, people bring it enough sugar to satisfy a
schoolboy.

I then took my friend to Mr. Fred Astley, the trainer of another
celebrated performing horse, “Black Prince.” The idea of cruelty to
this animal is out of the question, for the young stallion is not
the sort of chap to stand any nonsense. Yet his act brings storms of
applause, and when his performance is over master and horse lunch
together!

Mr. Carlos Mier, another trainer, served this country throughout the
war as a breaker-in of horses. He is known far and wide as an expert at
his business and smiles sarcastically at the suggestion that cruelty
is ever practised towards the animals. Mr. Mier brought from the army
training ground at Market Harborough a dog that had been the pet of the
soldiers. This clever animal is called “Spot,” and the way he jumps to
receive his master is evidence of his strong affection. I could give
many other instances of the love which animals have for their trainers
and I wish the people who have a wrong idea of this animal training
business could spend five minutes in my company and go with me over a
well-ordered show. I think after seeing for themselves the real state
of things, they would discover that trainers and showmen associated
with animals are almost universally keen lovers of our dumb friends,
are the first to resent any ill-treatment, and have taken instant
action in cases of cruelty of any sort which have come under their
notice.

My pet pig’s inadvertent swallowing of money reminds me of a curious
episode at the old “Criterion” in the days when the long buffet was a
favourite resort of men about town, and an equally favourite place for
lunches and dinners. Mr. E. T. Smith and Mr. Jonas Levy, who combined
the deputy chairmanship of the London and Brighton Railway Company
with dramatic criticism--he wrote the theatrical notices in _Lloyds
News_ for many years--were dining there with one or two friends when
Mr. Howard Paul joined them. Howard Paul had just returned from America
and was unusually exuberant.

His visit to America had proved very profitable, but the others did not
know this. As a rule his pocket was somewhat low, and when he began to
talk loudly about the money he’d made and flourished a £1,000 bank note
as evidence, the party thought he was “codding” them. Howard Paul to
be in possession of a £1,000 Bank of England note was too absurd for
anything.

“Let me look at it,” said E. T. Smith, and Howard Paul proudly handed
it over to the lessee of Drury Lane Theatre.

Smith was having soup at the time, and no sooner had he hold of the
note than he crumpled it into a ball, dropped it into the spoonful of
soup he was raising to his mouth and swallowed it. Howard Paul’s face
went green and his eyes were distended with horror. E. T. Smith thought
the note was bogus, whereas it was perfectly genuine.

What was to be done? Nothing. Bank note paper was quite easy of
digestion. The upshot was that everyone present had to make an
affidavit to satisfy the bank that the note had really disappeared in
the fashion described, but even then it was some three months before
Howard Paul was comforted by another note. It is odd that the swallowed
note should be a thousand pound one, for thousand pound notes had a
peculiar fascination for E. T. Smith. It is a fact that when any
theatre or building that he favoured for show purposes was put up for
sale by auction, “E. T.” would bid for it, and when it was knocked down
to him would flash a £1,000 note in the auctioneer’s face as an earnest
of his possession of means, and trust to chance to being able to raise
the purchase money. If he failed, then the £1,000 note came in handy
for a second attempt.

Sorrow is closely allied to gaiety, as I had too good reason to
discover while Hengler’s had Covent Garden. Just before my engagement
at the theatre my wife was taken seriously ill, and I had her removed
to Hull, my native place, where she would be among friends. I had
reason to fear there were no hopes of her recovery, and after the
season began at Covent Garden I would two or three times a week take
the night mail train to Hull to see her and return to London the next
morning in time for the morning performance. This constant travelling
and anxiety told upon me terribly, and I arranged with the doctor to
send a wire should she be taken worse. A telegram came to me in due
course, but owing to its being addressed to Hengler’s headquarters
in Argyle Street, there was considerable delay before I got it. The
message was as I feared--my wife was much worse. I set off for Hull
at once and at Doncaster found a wire awaiting me, telling me that my
poor wife was dead. She had, it appeared, died in her sleep. I went on
to Hull and while I was standing at her bedside a telegram was brought
me. It was from Covent Garden and ran, “Prince and Princess of Wales
coming to-night. Return if possible.” I could do no good by staying
at Hull. I rushed back to London and performed before their Royal
Highnesses--how much my heart was aching, though possibly my face did
not show it, I need not say--and hurried back for the funeral. The
reaction after this terrible strain was too much to sustain. I had a
nervous breakdown and was in bed for six weeks. Little did people think
when I again was able to appear in the circus and was making them laugh
how I felt inwardly, but the matter was kept a secret and no one knew.

Some time later, while at Drury Lane, I was going on to the stage in my
clown’s dress when a telegram was put into my hands, and I read, “Frank
Walker died this morning at Carlisle of pneumonia.” Frank Walker was
my son. How I went through the pantomime of that night after the shock
of this news I’ve no idea. I may have been funny, I can’t say. Anyhow,
I had to go through my “business” and I did it. The poor boy promised
to do well in his profession, which was mine; he was a tremendous
favourite with the Carlisle people, and some 5,000 followed him to his
grave. So you see I had my ups and downs, with my face painted trying
to make others laugh, and with deep sorrow in my heart.

I began at Drury Lane in 1891 with “Beauty and the Beast”; Lady Dunlo
was “Beauty,” John D’Auban the “Beast,” and Vesta Tilley was also in
the cast. In the harlequinade quite a number of the Leopold family took
part. There were two clowns, myself and Harry Leopold. Fred Leopold was
harlequin, and Joseph Leopold pantaloon. The _Era_ was good enough
to say: “In the second scene, a model farmyard, Whimsical Walker in
schoolboy attire introduced his wonderful whimsical singing donkey and
added enormously to the amusement of the spectators in what we may call
a great cab act.”

This was some comic business which I fancy must have been suggested to
me by the unpremeditated pranks I played in Dublin (already related),
when I was chased by a policeman and evaded him by running round and
underneath a horse and the constable falling down in the pursuit, the
whole thing ending in my temporary sojourn in the police station.
For pantomime purposes I amplified the episode by the addition of a
four-wheeled cab--a real one, not a property affair. There was much the
same chase by a stage policeman, only more so, as I was able to dart
through the cab in at one door and out at the other with the policeman
after me.

I am bound to say that royalty never turn their backs upon pantomime.
The late King Edward, it is true, was not an enthusiastic patron, if
indeed he can be called a patron at all, for I’m not aware that he ever
was present at the “Drury Lane” pantomime, and I’m told that he did not
care for this kind of show, but when a boy he frequently accompanied
Queen Victoria. Queen Alexandra, on the other hand, very often came,
accompanied by her grandchildren. I well remember on one occasion when
introducing some “business” with Tom Smith’s crackers, which included
throwing a number among the audience, it occurred to me to present
a cracker to the little Princess Mary, who was in one of the boxes
with other members of the royal family. Getting a ladder, I planted it
against the box and mounted it, crackers in hand. My clown’s white and
red face in a queer headdress suddenly popping up over the edge of the
box rather alarmed the small lady, I’m afraid. The clown is all very
well at the distance, but near to must seem an awful figure, especially
to a child’s imaginative mind. I presented the cracker. I could see
she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. However, she mustered up
courage to take a cracker from me and all went well, especially as she
was rewarded for her graciousness by a huge burst of applause. As for
the young prince, he looked upon the thing as a rare bit of fun, and
at once entered into the spirit of it. This was the first visit of the
Prince of Wales, his brother and Princess Mary to a pantomime.

This cracker “turn” was made a vehicle for a practical joke of which I
was the victim. The “business” was first the lugging in of a gigantic
cracker, which pantaloon and I, after some of the usual fooling, pulled
and broke. It was stuffed with little crackers and then followed the
distribution. One night the cracker was torn asunder, and out fell to
my intense astonishment a bevy of cats. Quite a thrill went through the
audience, it being naturally thought that the thing had been purposely
arranged, and the thrill became excitement when the cats, scared beyond
measure, scampered about the stage, some jumping into the orchestra,
and others bounding into the private boxes, to the intense terror of
the occupants. I needn’t say that I spotted the perpetrator in that
incurable practical joker Dan Leno!

One had to keep an eye open for an opportunity to introduce a topical
allusion. The greatest applause and enthusiasm I ever heard and
witnessed in Drury Lane Theatre was at a matinee during the Boer
War. Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell had just come off the stage when
a telegram was put into Dan’s hands. “Confound it,” he groaned, “I
wish I’d had this given me ten minutes ago. What a chance missed!”
Then he brightened up. “Whimmy,” said he, “read this and give it
out.” The telegram was “Relief of Ladysmith.” Accordingly I went on
and announced the news. Directly I had uttered the words I saw it was
no good going on with my performance. The audience rose to its feet,
shouted, threw up their hats, and some started singing the National
Anthem. The curtain had to be rung down and the show brought to an
end. Going out of the theatre the newspaper boys were rushing past
with “Reported relief of Ladysmith” on the contents bills. The place
was not relieved for a fortnight after and Dan then had his chance to
make the announcement. But again he was defrauded by a premature bit
of gag on the part of a precocious boy (afterwards well-known as Jimmy
Harrington) as related by Jimmy Glover.

The greatest bit of “spoof” that ever was done, I should think, was at
Sheffield--with myself and Arthur Roberts. I was performing in “Venus,”
which Sir Augustus Harris had produced at the Alexandra Theatre, and
Arthur Roberts was at the Theatre Royal. I had a note from Arthur
Roberts asking me to come up after the show, so I went and found a
brougham waiting outside the Theatre Royal. It had been sent for him
from the Maunch Hotel, where in fact we were all staying. I needn’t say
that Arthur Roberts was a born “spoofer” and never missed a chance of
pulling somebody’s leg. He sometimes got himself up so that even his
own flymen did not recognise him. On this occasion he had a fur coat
on and he looked more like a Russian than anything else. A stage hand
was standing next to us with a clay pipe in his mouth, so Arthur began
talking “cod” Russian to me and I was the interpreter. In the middle
of this “cod” talk I turned round to this man saying: “The Prince from
Moscow (meaning Arthur) wants to know if you’d like to go to his hotel
and have supper with him. He’s taken a liking to the British working
men, he says they look so strong and healthy.” So, with a little bit of
persuasion, we got the man into the brougham and we were taken to the
Maunch Hotel. As interpreter to the Prince I got our guest to go into
a room by himself and told him to wash his face and make himself as
presentable as he could.

In due time he came into our room, where there were Harry Nicholls,
Fred Latham, myself and Arthur Roberts. Arthur kept up his jabbering
and of course I interpreted it, telling the man that the “Prince” was
surprised to see what a small foot the man had for such a big fellow
and wanted to know how he would look without his boots. The upshot was
we got his boots off, then his coat and waistcoat, as his Highness
would like to see how many inches he was round the chest. Finally, we
had everything off him except a little bit of red flannel that he had
on his chest. When he was reduced to this extremity the man protested,
saying: “I’ll take nought else off,” and we considerately left him with
this bit of flannel! Finally we each gave him a couple of bob and sent
him home. Then the manager of the hotel came upon the scene and there
was something like a row, but we made it all right by treating the
manager.

This was not the end of our “spoofing” enterprise. Our room was on the
top floor of the hotel, and when Harry Nicholls and Latham left us it
was early in the morning and we heard the servants moving about. A bit
of devilry came into our minds to do some statuary business with the
table cloths, and when the domestics came into the room to tidy up they
found Arthur on one table and me upon another, with white table cloths
round us and a little bit of soot on our noses. Directly the girls saw
these two ghostly figures on the table they screamed and fell down in a
faint. I rushed to a hiding place, thinking it was a cupboard, got into
it and found it was the lift, and I went with a horrible grinding noise
right to the bottom. Where Arthur got to I don’t know, but with the
row everybody was out of bed, and of course we were asked to leave the
hotel. But somehow we talked over the manager and he forgave us.

A third escapade and I’ve done with the Maunch Hotel. One night, or
rather morning, Arthur and I came from the Arts Club on a conveyance
which was not quite orthodox, or even respectable, being in fact
simply a street sweeper with a huge brush! Imagine the picture, two
men sitting on a street sweeping machine at four in the morning, with
silk hats on! We got to the hotel and they let us in through the iron
latticed doors, which formed the entrance. No sooner were we inside
than another idea occurred to us. Down we went on our hands and
knees, crawling round and round and pretending to be wild beasts and
occasionally growling through the bars at the artisans and colliers
going to work. A frantic expostulation from the manager followed,
but we made it up with him, so much so that when we were leaving he
presented each of us with a knife!

The following, I think, may be called a natural “spoof”--it was
certainly a “spoof” on the part of Dame Nature. I once visited a friend
of mine who had taken a billiard saloon for the season in a well-known
South Coast watering place. Luck was dead against him, for during the
first few weeks there was scarcely one fine day, and though a few
visitors were driven by the weather into his saloon matters were not
much better there, because the skylight was a dreadfully leaky one.
On my first visit to the saloon I found a couple of players engaged
in a game, and my friend standing near each player in turn holding up
an umbrella to keep the rain from splashing on the table and spoiling
the strokes! There were only a few spectators, and these were in
a high state of glee, and were constantly encouraging the players
with cries of “In off the spot! In off the spot!” the said spot, in
every instance, being a newly-made rainspot that had dropped from the
skylight on to the green cloth. As these rainspots were continually
appearing, the players had a great variety of choice for their strokes!

I remember a good example of an unintentional “spoof” which occurred
when I was engaged at the Agricultural Hall in “China in London.” This
was the first time the water chute was introduced. It was then a great
novelty, but was afterwards made familiar enough to the public at Earls
Court.

The management invited the London Press to lunch, after which they
were able to sample the chute. This performance was faithfully
carried out--indeed too faithfully, and this is where the “spoof”
came in. Special arrangements were made for the new amusement (?) by
the construction of a water channel about three feet deep and six
feet wide, which ran right round the hall. There was also a sort of
miniature lake some ten feet square and ten feet deep near the stage.
This was for the reception of Willie Beckwith, the famous swimmer, when
he dived from the roof, a performance which always gave the audience
the thrill of their lives. This lake had nothing to do with the chute,
but fate ordained otherwise. The gentlemen of the Press could no more
see into the future than could ordinary people, and they took their
seats in the boat gaily enough after being well fortified by the lunch.
“Are you ready?” called out the man in charge. The Press answered
as with one voice, “Yes,” and down they went into the three feet
channel. At least, this is what they should have done according to the
programme, but someone or something had “blundered” and the boat dipped
into the ten feet lake and shot out all the occupants! It was something
like a scrum! I did not read what was said in the papers about the
incident. Maybe it was one of those slips concerning which the less
said the better.

The art of “spoofing” was brought to a high state of perfection at the
“Spooferies,” that queer little club founded by Arthur Roberts and
others in a court near the Adelphi Theatre, between the Strand and
Maiden Lane. The premises consisted of one large room, originally,
I fancy, intended for a cellar, and the “properties” were mainly a
billiard table and a grill! The fun did not begin until about midnight
and ended with the milk in the morning. Here I believe a number of
victims were offered up for sacrifice after the fashion of the stage
hand at Sheffield. Whether that episode suggested the subsequent
game--for a mock game was invented--I am unable to say.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker rehearsing a love scene with Miss Nancy
Buckland, Drury Lane Theatre Stage]

CHAPTER XVII

In 1895, after the death of Sir Augustus Harris, Mr. Slater Dundas, his
partner, took the pantomime which had been so splendid a success at
Drury Lane the year before, to the Theatre Royal, Birmingham, and here
I played the “Grand Vizier” and was also the clown in the harlequinade.
The Birmingham people were delighted with it and one newspaper declared
that “no more successful and brilliant pantomime has been seen in this
city for many a day.”

The year 1898 saw me back at Drury Lane, and here I remained for
several successive seasons. The pantomime of that year was “The Forty
Thieves,” by Arthur Sturgess and Arthur Collins. Dan Leno and Herbert
Campbell were now established favourites and I think I found my
clowning in the harlequinade was appreciated. The pantaloon was Car
Waller, the harlequin Tom Cusden, and the columbine Ruth Jezard. The
pantomime of the following year was “Jack and the Beanstalk,” also
with Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell to provide the fun previous to the
harlequinade. The cast in the latter was the same as in the preceding
season.

In the “Sleeping Beauty and the Beast,” by Jay Hickory Wood and
Arthur Collins (1900-1901), the comic element was strengthened by the
addition of the late Fred Emney, and he with Dan and Herbert made
an unapproachable trio of humorists. They also took the principal
characters in the “Bluebeard” of 1901-02, one of the most successful
pantomimes Mr. Collins ever produced. As a rule the harlequinade
is dismissed by the Press with a very brief reference, but on this
occasion one newspaper thought it worthy of almost an extended notice.
In describing a scene which is supposed to represent a seaside pier,
the critic wrote: “The pantaloon and the clown take possession of a
coffee stall and are greatly troubled by the dishonesty and vagaries
of their customers. Finally a tall, thin and starved-looking vocalist
takes up a position on the pier and begins to warble ‘Queen of my
Heart.’ Nothing will remove this obstinately persevering singer. The
clown and the pantaloon belabour him vigorously with boards, but all in
vain. He is there and there he remains till the fall of the curtain,
still chanting Alfred Cellier’s serenade. Whimsical Walker is a very
funny clown and works hard to keep things moving.” Well, I won’t
contradict this statement.

During the performance of one pantomime--I forget which one--I had a
curious mishap. During my last visit to America I was very ill--it was
the time when I experienced the discomforts of a Seattle hospital--and
on my return to England I was told that the root of the evil lay with
my teeth and that I must have them out. A dentist extracted them
accordingly, but when it came to a question of a new set something
went wrong. The expert paid me numerous visits, swallowed numerous
nips of my whisky, besides money on account, but no false teeth were
forthcoming. Finally he disappeared and I was left minus dentist,
minus teeth. I had to endure much chaffing from my comrades owing to
my transformed facial appearance. I got tired of being called “Old
Gummy” and I was fitted with a set of teeth by another dentist. But
like the majority of false teeth they were always more or less a source
of trouble, and one night in a pantomime “rally” the comic policeman
banged me on the back, my teeth went flying and rolled over the
footlights into the orchestra and hit a fiddler in the eye!

In the old pantomime days of Covent Garden and Drury Lane Theatres life
went merrily enough, both on and off the boards. Drury Lane then really
existed. To-day it would be difficult to fix the exact spot where it
made its way into the Strand. It has been “improved” into an ugly gaunt
street. I suppose the “improvements” were necessary, but personally I
prefer the old, nondescript, out-at-elbows thoroughfare. I’ve had many
unexpected situations thrust upon me in the “Lane.”

Once after a long and tedious rehearsal I went to a hairdresser’s
close to the theatre to get freshened up. I was so dead beat that I
fell asleep in the chair, and when the barber woke me (for payment
of course) I discovered he had treated me to a perfect prison crop!
I was very much annoyed and I owe him for that hair-cut yet. While I
was strolling down the “Lane” into the Strand, feeling as if I’d just
been released from Wormwood Scrubbs, I met, I think, Herbert Campbell,
and we wandered into the “Gaiety” bar, once the happy hunting ground
of the high-collared crutch and toothpick brigade, and also known as
“Prossers’” Avenue. Suddenly he noticed my shorn head and he exclaimed
very audibly: “Hullo, Whimmy, when did they let you out?” “Only this
morning,” said I, quite seriously. He followed this up by enquiring
sympathetically whether I had been treated well. “No,” I rejoined, “the
Governor was a brute; kept me on the treadmill until the last moment.”
The Hebe of the buffet was of the proud and ’aughty variety for which
the “Gaiety” bar was famed. She was all eyes and ears, so we carried
on in the way we had begun until she believed we were two of the most
desperate crooks in London, and when we ordered our drinks she refused
to serve us. We protested, but the mischief was done, and a big man in
livery came up and suggested that the “Gaiety” was not the place for
such as us, but that we’d better try Bow Street police station! We did
not contest the point, but went on to the “Wellington,” opposite the
stage door of the old Gaiety Theatre, and started a fresh topic of
conversation.

One wanted a good deal of command of one’s temper to tackle any of
these wonderful young females should she be listening to the vapid
cackle of some smirking youth, all collar and cuffs, when you asked
her to serve you. You might have been addressing one of the statues
in a suburban tea garden for any notice she took of you. She _might_
condescend to attend to your wants if she thought fit, or she might
not, but instead would make a sign to some other damsel. Anyhow you
had to accept the snub. She was thoroughly mistress of the position.
E. J. Odell it was, I believe, who once launched a sarcastic dart
when treated thusly. He turned to his companion, and in his deep,
distinctive, sustained tones remarked with a sigh of regret: “And I’m
told there were once pretty girls here!” Whether he got his drink the
quicker for this rebuke history doesn’t relate.

Another recollection of the “Lane” was of quite a different character.

I was on speaking terms with an undertaker there and he once invited
me into his shop and brought out a bottle of whisky. I sat myself
down on something covered with black cloth and we hobnobbed together
in friendly fashion. The undertaker was an enthusiastic theatre-goer.
He knew a host of “stars” by sight and had acquaintance with a few of
the lesser lights. We talked theatrical “shop” and I happened to ask
the undertaker if he knew what had become of a certain actor whom I
mentioned by name. “Yes,” said the man composedly, “you’re a-sitting
on him now!” I jumped from the black covered something and hurried
away, leaving my whisky behind me. It was some few minutes before I
recovered from the shock.

The mention of Drury Lane and its surroundings bring back a host of
memories--some of them sad ones. So many old associates, so many old
landmarks have passed away. The “Albion,” with its pleasant suppers and
merry talk, the “Wellington” and its “Gaiety mixture”--a concoction of
whisky cold with a slice of lemon--the invention of Bob Soutar, who
with Meyer Lutz, the clever musical conductor of the “Gaiety,” and
many, many others used to foregather in the narrow saloon bar.

There was more Bohemianism and less glitter and “swank” then than now.
One can hardly imagine to-day a lady of title, the “star” of a Drury
Lane pantomime, sharing sandwiches--and enjoying them too--with the
clown amid a crowd in a ham and beef shop! Yet I’ve had this pleasure
with Lady Dunlo more than once in the celebrated ham and beef shop at
the corner of Bow Street and Russell Street, opposite the “Albion.” But
what sandwiches they were! The best in London. Such white and well-made
bread, such juicy ham and such liberal measure of the latter were to be
found nowhere else. The glory of those sandwiches and that ham and beef
shop has passed away. It is now a potato dealer’s!

Years of pantomime work at Drury Lane followed, without a break in
the harlequinade so far as I was concerned. “Mother Goose,” “Humpty
Dumpty,” “The White Cat,” “Cinderella,” all were highly successful.
Then came a long break and I went back in 1912, when the attraction
was the “Sleeping Beauty,” by the late G. R. Sims and Arthur Collins.
The public highly favoured this old fairy tale, and Mr. Sims and Mr.
Collins collaborated the next two years in variations of the story
under the titles of “The Sleeping Beauty Reawakened,” and “The Sleeping
Beauty Beautified.” Then came “Puss in Boats,” and as the sequels to
the “Sleeping Beauty” had proved to be popular the experiment was tried
with “Puss in Boats,” which in 1916-17 became “Puss in New Boots.” In
“Aladdin” in 1918 two new pantomime writers, Mr. Frederick Anstey and
Mr. Frank Dix, joined Mr. Arthur Collins, and Mr. Dix and Mr. Collins
were responsible for the pantomimes of the “Babes in the Wood” and
“Cinderella” in 1919 and 1920 respectively.

In the pantomimes above mentioned I had a share of the old harlequinade
business, which was preserved, or as much of it as I was allowed to
produce.

From time to time appeared various actors and actresses whose names
are generally associated with branches of the profession other than
pantomime. The names of Lionel Rignold, Sophie Larkin in “Cinderella”
in 1895 (Sophie Larkin was never what one would call a beautiful woman,
and I suppose it was one of life’s little ironies which caused her to
be cast as one of the “Ugly Sisters”); Clara Jecks in “Aladdin,” Walter
Passmore and Emily Spiller in “Cinderella” (1905), George Graves,
George Barrett, Austin Melford, Florence Smithson, Charles Rock, Madge
Titherage, Robert Hale, and last but not least, James Welch, who played
“Prince Patter” in “The White Cat” (1914). It was his only appearance
in pantomime and he could hardly have felt at home. All the same he
gathered a few hints which came in handy in his memorable performance
in “The New Clown.” I might say that I had the privilege of “making him
up” in this part, which he created and made his own.

Jimmy Welch was not the only actor to play clown whom I assisted in
this way. Mr. Arthur Bourchier essayed the character in W. S. Gilbert’s
“Fairy’s Dilemma” and his “make up” was due to me. Mr. Gilbert has
occasionally been represented as being somewhat overbearing and given
to interference. I can only say I did not find him so. Indeed, he was
rather the reverse, and I have in my possession a pin which he gave me
as an appreciation of my humble services. I fancy that in his heart the
author of the Bab ballads had a great liking for pantomimes. Did he not
play harlequin at the Gaiety in the amateur pantomime produced there in
1878?

Others who in the ’nineties were then children, have since become
popular actors, notably Barry and Stanley Lupino. In 1897 I ran a
pantomime at the Crystal Palace in partnership with Mr. George Lupino
and Mrs. Lupino, the parents of Barry and Stanley. We opened on Easter
Monday with “Robinson Crusoe,” and we gave several shows during the
day. The cast was as follows: Mrs. George Lupino, “Robinson”; George
Lupino, “Friday”; Barry Lupino, “the Cat”; and myself, “Mrs. Robinson
Crusoe.” There were also three other artistes. The outlay over the
production was not costly and we did exceedingly well with our five
performances on Easter Monday. But as the week drew nearer its end the
treasury became smaller and smaller. The weather was against us. It was
terribly bitter and we were all laid up with colds. I remember Stanley
and Mark--two quaint little chaps--crying at the wings with cold and
their mother throwing in a few remarks, sometimes of remonstrance and
sometimes consolation. Stanley has no need to cry nowadays. He is a
clever and successful actor. His business is to make people laugh, and
right well he does it.

My recollections of Drury Lane and Covent Garden would not be complete
without some mention of the fancy dress balls which were once so great
a feature of the “Covent Garden” winter seasons. Sir Augustus Harris
enjoyed these revelries thoroughly, but he had an eye to business all
the same. It was only human to seize the opportunity to exploit his
Drury Lane Pantomime Company. Prizes of a princely value were offered,
such as a carriage and pair, for the best and most original dresses,
and Dan Leno, Herbert Campbell and myself were competitors. One or the
other always carried off the first prize, but never landed one! It was,
to use Arthur Roberts’ beautiful word, “spoof.” I remember that Dan
Leno on one occasion personated a policeman, and got into a squabble
with a genuine “copper” outside the theatre and was collared for
obstruction! It was a merry time.

Then there were the Baddeley Cake celebrations on Twelfth Night, got up
by Sir Augustus Harris on a scale little dreamt of by the old actor
who conceived the idea and left money to carry it out. The demeanour
of Sir Augustus Harris on these and other functions of which he was
the prime mover struck me as very characteristic. He was practically
the host, but he never introduced himself into the proceedings in this
capacity, yet was always in evidence. It was as though he was saying,
“Here you are, my friends, I’ve done my best for you. Do what you like
and enjoy yourselves, but don’t take any notice of me”; an attitude
which made the visitors crowd round him all the more.

It is not too much to say that when Sir Augustus Harris died I lost
one of the dearest friends and the best manager I ever had. I cannot
imagine a greater contrast than between his treatment of me and that of
a certain circus proprietor into whose pocket I put many hundreds of
pounds. All circus proprietors, however, are not like this. A former
head--now passed away--of the particular firm I have in my mind was
not. He was a gentleman.

[Illustration: Mr. and Mrs. W. Walker at their home at Peggotty’s Hut,
Gorleston-on-Sea, with their mascot cat “Whimmy”]

CHAPTER XVIII

American comic films an imitation of the English harlequinade. Charlie
Chaplin’s “method.” The modern pantomime not produced for children.
The clown’s “business” spoilt by the orchestra. A defence of the
harlequinade. Grimaldi and summer pantomimes. What a pantomime should
be. A suggestion. The best clowns with circus experience. The art of
pantomime running in families. The Leopolds, the Vokes family, the
Lupinos. The difference between a circus and a pantomime clown. Watty
Hillyard, Wallet and Tom Matthews. Mr. W. S. Gilbert as harlequin. W.
J. Payne, the “King of Pantomime.” How Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell
worked together. The clown of the harlequinade works by himself.
Sausages and the red-hot poker. The origin of the clown. Eighteenth
century pantomimes. Grimaldi. Other famous clowns. How old circus
jokes were made. A plea for the revival of the harlequinade.

It seems to me that much of the comic stuff which comes from America
on the films is simply an exaggerated form of the old knock-about
harlequinade “business” of the English pantomime. The disappearances
and transformations which followed a tap of the harlequinade’s magic
wand have been taken bodily and worked out in an outrageously burlesque
form. But in the film the effect of magic is absent; the ingenuity of
the property master in the pantomime had really a suggestion of the
black art about it. The lather or whitewash with which the clown plays
such pranks reappears on the film with a monotonous repetition which
has become terribly wearisome. Even the agile leaps of the harlequin
have been appropriated. I make bold to say that nearly every artifice
in the so-called “comedy” films is based on the “business” of the old
harlequinade.

Even Charlie Chaplin’s shows are akin to the clown’s knock-abouts and
tumbles. They are of course not in the same street with the stereotyped
idiotic “comedy” films which have neither rhyme nor reason. Charlie
Chaplin is a great artist. His facial fertility is inimitable and so
are his body contortions. Method and the art of surprise are always at
his command, and his sense of the ludicrous is wonderfully keen. But at
the bottom of his productions is the clown’s business, and this is a
sure laughter getter.

Charlie Chaplin, as all the world knows, made a hit in Fred Karno’s
“The Mumming Birds,” and he was as successful with this on his first
visit to America as in England. But his second visit with the “Wow
Wows,” of which company I was a member, as already mentioned, did not
altogether please the American public, which has an unpleasant habit of
making up its mind beforehand what it is going to like. My experience
is that our American cousins, in spite of their “go ahead” reputation,
are slow to accept novelties, especially if they’re not of native
production, and the audiences having identified Charlie Chaplin with a
certain eccentric and mirth provoking personage were disappointed at
not finding the same gentleman. Anyhow, Charlie Chaplin has now found
fame and fortune in the States. This cannot be said of other music-hall
“stars” who have crossed the Atlantic. Mr. H. G. Hibbert, in his “Fifty
Years of a Londoner’s Life,” reminds us that Jenny Hill, the popular
“Vital Spark,” was a comparative failure. Albert Chevalier was hardly
a success, certainly not a great one. Dan Leno did not go down at all;
Chirgwin took the first boat home. The gentleman who did not like my
appearance in my clown’s dress and wanted to express his feelings by
putting a bullet through me is, I am afraid, typical of many Americans.
Was not a Western audience once beseeched not to shoot the pianist, as
he was doing his best?

Whether I am right or wrong as to the indebtedness of comedy films to
the harlequinade perhaps doesn’t matter very much; the point is that
the cinema crowds laugh at the grotesque situations pictured, and this
I needn’t say is the object of the clown’s antics and the practical
jokes he plays. The essence of the whole thing is an illustration of
the principle laid down by a philosophical student of human nature,
that there was something in the misfortunes of our dearest friends
not altogether unpleasing to us. I contend that the way people are
tickled by film fun makes it all the more puzzling why harlequinades
are for the moment things of the past, since the knock-about material
in the harlequinade is the same in both. I take it that of late years
pantomimes have been produced to attract the grown-ups rather than
the children. When a harlequinade is introduced it forms but a small
portion of the entertainments and comes in when the audience is
getting tired, and when many, after the queer English fashion, are
hurrying away. Why certain playgoers are so afraid of the fall of the
curtain has always been a mystery to me.

What, however, is especially annoying to the clown and to the other
members of the harlequinade is the indifference, not to say contempt,
of the orchestra for the whole thing. It’s pretty clear that the
fiddlers, the flautists, the cornet and trombone players and the rest,
look upon the harlequinade as something which keeps them out of their
beds. Often I’ve been disconcerted by the whispered entreaties from
the gentlemen below “to get on with it,” “hurry up,” “we want to get
away,” and the like. What chance has anyone to introduce an impromptu
bit of business--and an impromptu sometimes makes a great hit--when
he’s having his pitch queered in this fashion? I declare that not a few
times I’ve had a good wheeze quite spoiled by a vicious bang on the big
drum at the wrong moment.

People’s sense of humour is much the same now as it ever was--not so
coarse, perhaps--but this is the only difference. Flexmore, a famous
clown of the ’forties and ’fifties, indulged in a broadness which
wouldn’t now be tolerated, otherwise he carried on the tradition of
Grimaldi, and this tradition has in a way been preserved to the present
day.

We are told by some superior folk that the harlequinade of the old
school was based on brutality. So also was Punch and Judy. It is also
said to be vulgar. Can it be more vulgar than some of the revues with
which the public have been favoured during recent years? I contend
that the clown’s “business” is honest humour with a distinct note of
human nature in it which appeals to one’s instincts for mirth. The pit
and gallery have always recognised this openly, but I am afraid that
managers nowadays think more of the boxes, the stalls and the dress
circle; and the pit and gallery have literally to take a back seat. At
one time the reverse was the case.

It is a very remarkable fact that in the palmy days of the pantomime
Christmas was not the only time when clown and pantaloon played their
pranks. Pantomime really seemed to go on all the year round. Grimaldi
many a time sang his famous songs, “Tippity-witchet” and “Hot codlins”
in the blazing days of July! In this particular month in 1823 at the
Coburg Theatre (now the “Old Vic”) no less than three pantomimes were
produced. “Salmagundi,” or the “Clown’s dish of sorts,” a mixture of
the harlequinade of previous years, was played on July 1st and ran
for six nights; on the 8th came “Harlequin and the Three Wishes,” or
“Puck and the Black Pudding,” and on the 15th “Disputes in China,” or
“Harlequin and the Kong Merchants,” and in each Grimaldi was the clown.
True, Grimaldi was a genius, and it was to see him that the theatre
was packed nightly, but it was pantomime all the same and more--it was
almost entirely what we have come to call the harlequinade.

I needn’t try to trace the causes of the decline of the harlequinade
and why the “story” with its gorgeous scenery and the introduction
of music-hall “stars” have gradually pushed it into a sort of
afterthought. The taste of the public may have changed (though I do not
think it has) or the desire for novelty on the part of managers may
have had something to do with it. Whatever may be the reason, it is
pretty clear that at present the harlequinade is little better than a
thing of shreds and patches.

It may be argued that I, as a professional clown, am prejudiced in this
respect, but I still maintain that the harlequinade does not receive
that attention from the managers to which, by reason of its historical
associations and power of attraction, it is entitled, and I am quite
certain that thousands of parents throughout the United Kingdom will
support me in that opinion.

There are many people who seldom, or never, go to a theatre except at
pantomime time. To them it is a paternal duty to give the children an
opportunity of enjoying the rollicking pranks of clown, pantaloon,
and policeman, and to gaze in rapture at the graceful evolutions
of harlequin and columbine. To such parents the curtailment of the
harlequinade is a distinct disappointment and a source of regret, if
not of offence. I will undertake to say if a poll of the realm were
taken on the question of retaining or abolishing the harlequinade, the
result would be an overwhelming majority in favour of the clown and
his acolytes. Not only do the children enjoy the fun, but the parents
are made to feel young again, and the spectacle of their youngsters
screaming with laughter and clapping their hands, does them good in
body and spirit, and takes them out of themselves.

Many a time I have had to go on the stage when in indifferent health,
and the burst of hearty greeting from the kiddies has driven away all
symptoms of indisposition, and has been far more beneficial than a dose
of the most expert doctor’s medicine.

Pantomimes were originally intended almost solely for the entertaining
of the younger generation, and the first part was always described as
the “opening.” It was, and still is, the harlequinade that follows
which the youngsters looked forward to with delighted longing; their
merry laughter and shrill cries of excited joy, as the fun proceeded,
in surprise after surprise, were a pleasure to the older members of the
audience, who felt that they were duly rewarded for having brought the
children to revel in the frolics of “Joey,” their bosom favourite and
cherished idol.

An old friend of mine in the theatrical profession once seriously
suggested that the harlequinade, instead of being the “tag” of a
pantomime, should be put on the first scene or early in the “opening.”
Further, my friend urged that his proposed plan could be easily carried
out without much offence to the traditional proprieties by a reversal
of the old system of converting, in the transformation scene, the
wicked Baron into clown, the fairy Prince into harlequin, and so on
with the other characters. The clown could be converted by the fairy
Queen into the wicked Baron, the harlequin into “principal boy,” the
columbine into “principal girl,” and similar transformations effected
with the other characters.

Having many years’ experience of pantomimes, I have learned what
fantastic tricks authorised stage managers can play with original
schemes, and I see no insurmountable difficulty in the adoption of
my friend’s suggestion. After all, a so-called pantomime with no
harlequinade, or with the mere apology for one, is no pantomime at all,
but simply a glorified revue.

But with a revival of the harlequinade comes a difficult question.
Where are the clowns to come from? Clowns, like poets, are born, not
made; the taste must be in one, and it is not against you if you
haven’t been blest with beauty. Grimaldi would have been nothing
without his mirth provoking face. The same may be said of comedians,
but there is a difference. The comedian personates many characters,
the poor clown has but one. The comedian has all the advantage of an
eccentric dress, of an eccentric make-up; the clown can only have one
costume, and red and white paint obliterates all his facial play.
Moreover, whatever natural talent he may possess for fooling, it is of
not much good unless he has had the training and has started young.

Nearly all successful pantomimists have commenced learning their art
almost as soon as they were out of the cradle. It is singular that the
particular gift of mumming often runs in families. Grimaldi’s father
and grandfather were dancers, and Joe was not two years old when he
made his first appearance on the stage. The Leopolds with their uncle
Edward Giovanelli, of Highbury Barn fame, the Vokes family and the
Lupinos, are examples. Pantomime training is very difficult nowadays.
When the old time travelling circus and mumming both were in their
glory it was easy enough, and if I had my time to go over again I would
begin in a travelling circus; as, apart from the varied experience, you
have the open-air life, and the happy-go-lucky way of looking at things.

There is a great difference between the circus and the pantomime clown,
and I think I can say I am master of what both have to do, as I have
spent thirty years of my life in each capacity. A circus clown has to
knock about, tumble, crack wheezes, and do without properties. The work
is a hundred times harder than in a pantomime. You must, in addition,
be apprenticed to the circus fun, whereas to be a pantomime clown an
apprenticeship isn’t necessary. One of the first pantomime clowns I
ever saw was Watty Hillyard, who commenced as a circus clown with John
and George Sanger. A capital circus clown also was Wallet, who revived
the old title, in abeyance since the time of James I, of the “Queen’s
Jester.” He was a fine acrobat and moreover wrote a book giving an
account of his early life as a circus clown. Dan Leno, after his
performance before royalty, aspired to be called the “King’s Jester,”
and in his last sad days, in his moments of “exaltation” he fancied he
had the power of conferring titles upon all and sundry. Paul Herring,
who began his career in the circus, was, I think, the best pantaloon of
his day.

Among the celebrated clowns of old Victorian times was Tom Matthews,
who founded his style on Grimaldi’s. He was nothing of an acrobat, but
according to H. J. Byron he “relied on a jolly round face, a mouth
like Piccadilly Circus, a rich semi-hoarse roaring voice and undoubted
powers of pantomime ... though Tom Barry exceeded everybody as a circus
clown.” Writing in 1879 Mr. Byron said: “Pantaloons and harlequins are
probably pretty much the same as they have been for years, though the
former are too apt to talk and the latter think more of dancing than
of the supposed attributes of the owner of the magic bat. When Mr.
W. S. Gilbert played harlequin I saw for the first time for years a
consistent impersonation of the character. Albeit further practice and
increased confidence might have improved certain small details, the
representation as a piece of sustained pantomime action with a meaning
in it was, I admit, to me refreshing.”

I am afraid that if the clown is not appreciated as he used to be,
still less is the harlequin. A month or so before the words quoted
above were written, W. J. Payne (the founder of another pantomimic
family--Harry Payne, the well-known clown, was his son), who was
termed the “King of Pantomime,” died. W. J. Payne was trained under
Grimaldi and Bologna, the harlequin of Grimaldi’s day; and appeared
first as clown and afterwards as harlequin. In his prime the essence
of pantomime was dumb show, and of this art he was a perfect master.
“In each of his gestures,” wrote Mr. Clement Scott in the _Theatre
Magazine_, “there was an intelligible meaning. His imperturbably
serious air in the most comic situations was one of his strongest
points. The mask he wore did not entirely cover his face, and the play
of his features could be distinctly seen.... Both old and young
could understand and enjoy such humour as his.”

It may be said that children are not so imaginative as they used to
be; that the modern cramming system of education by competition has
killed the natural instinct for boisterous, unrestrained fun. Left
to themselves I don’t think this would be the effect. I’ve no doubt
that there are some priggish youngsters who may look down with pitying
contempt on clown and pantaloon as too kiddish for them, but I’m quite
sure the natural healthy child loves both.

The harlequinade is one of the traditional institutions of the stage
which has a firm hold on the affections of the people--an affection
which has been transferred from generation to generation, and it always
will have a great attraction for the young. Kept clean and wholesome it
will live as long as there is a theatre in the country. From royalty
downwards through all ranks of society, everyone has a warm corner in
his or her heart for clown, pantaloon, harlequin and columbine.

Of course a good deal of the clown’s fooling is traditional, and this
to an extent makes him independent of the stage manager, but there
is nothing to prevent him inventing fresh business, as indeed I have
often done. He has only the pantaloon to consider, and this simplifies
matters. Now in the opening the “stars” have to fit themselves into the
story and adapt their humour and characteristics by which they gained
their name on the music-hall stage to the various situations, and also
have an eye to the other actors. Dan Leno in an interview with an
_Era_ representative is made to say--

“In my first London pantomime at the Surrey the low comedians used
to spend half the day working out “business” together. We thoroughly
enjoyed the fun. But at Drury Lane it is all so different. We hardly
knew where to find each other. I declare on the first night we were
like so many pieces on a chess board just moved here and there by the
stage manager. In time this feeling diminishes, but Herbert Campbell
and I never get a real chance of working up fun together.” Whether this
puzzled feeling referred to the Augustus Harris régime or to that of
Mr. Arthur Collins I am unable to say. Anyhow, a passage in Mr. Jimmy
Glover’s reminiscences (“Jimmy Glover, his book”) is pertinent to the
matter. “Nearly everything,” writes Mr. Glover, “in which he (Dan)
succeeded at the ‘Lane’ he was ‘written for....’ Leno’s successes with
Harris were as nothing compared with his triumphs with Collins. Harris
let him come on and simply be ‘Dan Leno.’ Collins thought out the Leno
style and gave him the Leno material for the Leno triumph. Every funny
situation or scene was built for him, first by the producer and then
written round by the librettist. He had the least initiative sense of
humour of anyone I ever met; once provided with the material he had the
best contributory and constructive power.”

It is the reverse of this where the harlequinade is concerned. The
clown and pantaloon have nothing to do with the comedians in the
opening--in fact they never meet. I write and produce all my scenes
and comic business myself, and I am my own stage manager. I, of course,
make Mr. Collins acquainted with all I have to do, and he does not
interfere, so that if my efforts are a success or a failure the entire
responsibility rests with me. But there are two important properties
which I _must_ have. One is the sausages and the other the red-hot
poker. The children insist upon having these and would not consider the
clown worth much if he left them out.

I have often wondered why a clown had such a fancy for sausages. Of
course, when purloined they were easy to slip into his capacious
pocket, but this isn’t altogether a satisfying explanation. They may
or may not have been first thought of by Grimaldi, but pantomime
history is silent on this important matter. Discussing the matter with
a literary friend accustomed to research he was equally blank, but he
undertook to try to solve the puzzle. At the same time he remarked that
there was not the same difficulty with the red-hot poker, as it had
been made use of as a practical joke from time immemorial, certainly as
far back as Chaucer, the broad jape in “The Miller’s Tale” to wit.

However, he set to work and found that the industrious Mr. W. J.
Thoms had dug up all that can be said about clowns. The harlequin,
as most people know, had its origin in Italy, and was practically
introduced here by Rich (who called himself Lun) at the Lincoln’s Inn
Fields Theatre. But the Italian harlequin was not quite the same as
the English one. Indeed, he seems to have undertaken the knock-about
business which now belongs to the clown. Addison says: “Harlequin’s
part is made up of blunders and absurdities; he is to mistake one name
for another, to forget his errands, to stumble over queens, and to run
his head against every post that comes in his way. This is all attended
with something so comical in the voice and gestures that a man who is
sensible of the folly of the part can hardly forbear to be pleased with
it.”

When pantomime was first played in England is difficult to establish,
but a dancing master at Shrewsbury, one Follet, has the credit. His
entertainment, “The Tavern Bilkers,” produced at Drury Lane in 1702,
was entirely done in pantomime. It was only played for five nights.
Follet’s next invention, the “Loves of Mars and Venus,” in 1716,
also at Drury Lane, was far more successful. The new show caught the
taste of the town, and in 1717 some dancers from France and a German
named Swartz, with two dogs who could dance a minuet, became the rage,
and the legitimate drama, in spite of the acting of Booth, Wilks and
Cibber, was neglected.

With Grimaldi the clown came into his own, Leigh Hunt describes him as
“round-faced, goggle-eyed, knock-kneed, but agile to a degree of the
dislocated, with a great smear for his mouth, and a cap on his head
half fool’s, half cook’s.” Grimaldi invented the clown and his tricks
as we know both to-day, and it is pretty certain that the introduction
of sausages is his. Mr. Thoms says “the clown of the present day is
indubitably descended from one common stock--Punch,” and he points out
that so recently as 1800 the character of Punch was substituted for
that of the clown in the pantomime of Harlequin, “Amulet, or the Magic
of Mons.”

We learn further that the clown of the present day seems gradually to
have appropriated the peculiarities of harlequin, clown and pierrot.
The pierrot is not often seen in modern pantomime, but we have
occasionally had skilled acrobats figuring as “sprites.” The first
clown who combined the three characters was Follet, whose antics were
greatly relished by George the Third. “Farmer George” indeed is said to
have repeatedly attended Follet’s performances for the express purpose
of seeing him in one of his celebrated tricks, swallowing a carrot!

Delpini, Laurent, Bradbury, Paulo, and Southby were famous clowns,
but all were topped by Grimaldi. As for the circus clown, Mr. Thoms
remarks that he had “a certain series of standard jokes which remained
unchanged for twenty years.” Very singular is the statement that these
old jokes were for the most part coined by the Westminster scholars,
and brought out at Astley’s, where the clown having been coached up and
properly instructed how to introduce them, used to fire them off, the
rival makers listening with the greatest anxiety to ascertain which
told best. Those which were most successful became of course stock
jokes.

And this is all that my friend could find out about clowns. I suspect
that the character was gradually worked up by easy stages, and that
save in the case of Grimaldi there was no sudden advance. But Grimaldi
was a genius and an artist. What greater tribute to him can be imagined
than that paid by the great tragedian John Kemble, who watching him
from the wings one night exclaimed: “My sister (Mrs. Siddons) never did
anything finer in her life than that man is doing now in his way.” Let
another Grimaldi show himself and if he be allowed to have his chance
the harlequinade will be born again.

I am under the impression that nursery stories and fairy tales, as
themes for pantomime treatment, were not used until after Grimaldi had
passed away. One thing is certain; they were made immensely popular
by that versatile genius E. L. Blanchard, who for many years was
identified with “Drury Lane” on Boxing nights. How many pantomimes he
wrote it would be hard to say.

In conclusion I would say, that in my judgment the English taste in
regard to amusements is too firmly fixed in the English character to be
destroyed by passing fashions. It has a way of harking back to original
instincts. The amazing success of the revival of “The Beggar’s Opera,”
which most theatrical managers ten years ago would have sworn was as
dead as a doornail, is a case in point. Some thirty years ago Clement
Scott wrote: “Pantomime, though an exotic, has evidently taken deep
root in the United Kingdom, and the peculiar humours of the clown--a
figure of essentially British origin--will probably serve to extend
its lease of life for an indefinite period.” Mr. Scott says that out
of every fifty theatres in the country at that time, forty-nine were
playing pantomime. Many novelties in the theatrical world have come
and gone since then, but few have become permanent features of stage
representation. The so-called “legitimate” drama hasn’t been ousted.
Shakespeare doesn’t spell bankruptcy, as F. B. Chatterton thought it
did because it failed with him; and the pantomime will not become a
thing of the past, in spite of superior people. It can wait its time.
That in some shape or form it will revive and fulfil its destiny as a
thoroughly English humorous entertainment, I believe is certain.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker enjoying the sea air Gorleston-on-Sea]

CHAPTER XIX

The films. A new experience. The humours of rehearsals. Chasing a hat.
An embarrassing encounter with bees. How “little Nell” was buried.
Blowing up “old Peggotty.” The “Starting Point.” A glance back at a
life’s work.

On my return from America in 1913 I had an opportunity of exploiting
myself on the “movies.” Nothing could have presented a greater
contrast to what I had been accustomed to than posing in front of the
cinematograph camera. It was as far as the poles are asunder from
circus and pantomime clowning. One had to get used to performing
without the stimulus of an audience. A rehearsal for a film picture
is totally different from a rehearsal on the stage. If anything is
imperfect, or goes wrong with the latter, it is of no very great
consequence. To go back and try once more is easy enough. But with the
camera--dear me, no. The repetition of a series of photographs involves
a good deal of trouble and stage direction.

But that which I found essentially unfamiliar was the necessity of
adapting oneself to the situation and surroundings and the calling
up of the suitable facial expression to the satisfaction of the
producer. In my harlequinade scenes, as I have already mentioned, I
was left entirely to myself, and I worked everything out on my own
responsibility, but for the cinematograph all had to be in accordance
with the ideas of the producer. But as my “business” was to be comic,
and as all my life I had been pantomiming in some shape or form, the
thing came to me easily enough, especially in humorous scenes.

I am bound to say, however, that occasionally incidents unexpectedly
happened during rehearsals which to me were funnier than those which
subsequently appeared on the screen. I remember during my engagement
with Hepworth’s an unrehearsed episode occurred, which caused no end
of amusement not only to me but to others, save the old gentleman
who was the cause of the laugh. The thing occurred at the studios at
Walton-on-Thames. My instructions were to walk down the main street
and at a given moment to permit my straw hat to be blown off by a
convenient wind, supplied by means of a carpet thread attached to the
brim and pulled by an unseen person.

I believe Sir Herbert Tree once set down a piece of advice, among
other gems of wisdom in his commonplace book, which ran: “If your hat
blows off don’t trouble to run after it; somebody is certain to do it
for you.” I found the last half of this “tip” to be perfectly true,
but unfortunately the “business” of the part I was playing made it
essential that _I_ should run and make a great pother over doing it.
The hat went off properly and skidded along the street with me in full
cry after it. My predicament and apparent distress at once excited the
pity of a gentleman who, out of the kindness of his heart, dropped the
portmanteau he was carrying and started to assist me, not seeing the
camera on the watch, and probably not understanding if he did see it.

Of course the scene was within an ace of being spoilt and I yelled
to him to get away. Thinking no doubt that I was a fool to reject
his help, he kept on running, though he must have wondered where the
miraculous wind came from, for there was not a breath of air stirring.
At last I overtook the kind gentleman and we had a few words, which
were not of the most kindly nature, and indeed we might have come to
blows had not the producer appeared on the scene and explained what was
being done. Then I shook hands with my would-be friend, he departed to
look after his portmanteau, and the photographs were taken over again.

This really was my first attempt for the “pictures” and the mishap
did not seem to me to be very encouraging. However, the film was a
big success and meant for me a six months’ engagement. During that
six months I played many varied parts, one of the oddest being the
impersonation of one of the “Tiller Girls.” There were three of us,
Alma Taylor, Chrissy White and myself. I was told that I made a lovely
girl. On this point I have no opinion, but I’m quite certain that we
had great fun.

Another droll rehearsal incident was that in which a hive full of
bees figured. This hive was necessary to the plot of a little play in
which I was supposed to be the uncle of a schoolboy who was spending
his holidays at my country house. In the course of his rambles the
boy strolls into a wood and chances to overhear a couple of fellows
concocting a plan to break into my house, kidnap my nephew the
schoolboy and keep him until he is ransomed. The boy, one of the
precocious, ingenious urchins only to be met with on films, is ready
with a counter plot. What could be simpler and more effective than to
place a beehive each side of the window which the kidnappers were sure
to select, and connect the hives with a rope which would not be seen.
The fellows had only to catch their feet in the rope, which of course
they would be obliging enough to do, the hives would be upset, and the
bees would attack the intruders and sting them to death or thereabouts.

The drawback to the preparation was that the film management had no
bees. However, a beekeeper was found in the neighbourhood, and he not
only agreed to let his hives but he would also instruct us how to
handle the bees, which after all was the main point. A river separated
the beekeeper’s place from the spot where we were rehearsing, and a
boat was hired to bring the hives across. Five of us were commissioned
for the job and we were conducted by the owner to where he kept his
bees. Noticing one or two of the party hanging back the beekeeper
remarked:

“There’s nothing to be frightened about. You’ve only got to be quiet
and not disturb them. They won’t hurt you.”

But somehow the man’s preparations did not reassure us. He had crape
over his face and long gloves which came a considerable distance up
his arms. He was proceeding with his instructions how to handle bees
when the walking stick on which one of the party was leaning slipped;
he overbalanced himself upon a hive and out came a swarm of infuriated
insects. We stood not upon the order of going, but took to our heels
helter skelter. I scooted across the fields, the bees after me, but
reached the boat in safety, jumped in and crossed the river without a
sting. The others were not so fortunate, and as among them were the two
rascally kidnappers, everybody said it served them right.

I think the funniest bit of unrehearsed comedy was that which came
about in the production of Dickens’ “Old Curiosity Shop,” in which I
played the part of the single gentleman who took apartments in Sampson
Brass’s house in Bevis Marks, and was the cause of so much solicitude
on the part of the rascally attorney and his masculine sister, Sally.

The funeral of little Nell was to be a scene of intense pathos and
realism. Four supers were engaged to carry the coffin to its burial
place in the woods, and a clump of high trees about fifty yards from
where the cortege was to start was selected as an ideal spot. The
procession started with due solemnity, the bearers’ heads and shoulders
being concealed beneath the pall in the orthodox fashion. It was
noticed that the coffin was not carried perfectly level, but had a
tendency to droop at one corner. However, no one troubled, and as the
funeral cortege proceeded along the road everything was done with such
decorum and realistic effect that the passersby doffed their hats, as
also did the drivers of various vehicles.

Suddenly came a horrifying catastrophe. The cause of the depression
of the coffin was due to one of the bearers being shorter than his
companions, and either in his efforts to keep the coffin level or that
the pall got in his way and prevented him seeing where he was going, he
caught his foot in the root of a tree, and down he went and the coffin
followed! Consternation and horror were written in the faces of the
bystanders and they rushed to the scene of the catastrophe, expecting
to see the coffin smashed and the corpse ejected. They certainly saw
the first, but not the second, for of course the body was bogus. So
what began in solemnity ended in merriment. For all that I’m quite sure
that those who had paid such respect to the supposed dead were a little
annoyed to think how they had been “spoofed.”

Another instance of what was intended to be serious working out in
the opposite direction occurred when I was playing old Peggotty in
“David Copperfield.” The boatman’s hut on the beach was, as readers of
the novel will remember, at Yarmouth, but the producers of the film
found it more convenient to transfer the scene to Whitstable, and to
Whitstable accordingly I went with the other actors in the adaptation.
Meanwhile the producer had made arrangements with some shipping agents
to provide him with the hull of a fishing smack which was turned upside
down on the beach to do duty for Peggotty’s dwelling place. A door and
a window were put in and the interior was furnished with an American
stove with a chimney pipe, from which it was intended a cloud of smoke
should issue to suggest the proper homely effect.

We artistes arrived on the spot and hundreds of people gathered round,
gaping with eagerness to see the show and wondering what it was all
about. As a matter of fact we hadn’t much to do, the chief actors
being an old sailor and a boy, who were to engineer the smoke with the
assistance of sawdust and wood and a bucket of petroleum. My part in
the scene was to drag some fishing nets from the back of the boat to
the door and enter the hut, where I was supposed to be awaiting the
arrival of my adopted son Ham. In the meantime the producer had given
instructions to the old sailor that directly he heard a whistle he was
to light the stove.

I entered the hut, closed the door, the whistle sounded and the old
chap started to light the fire. For some reason the fire refused to
burn in the way it was wanted and after the lapse of a few minutes
we heard the producer outside calling for more smoke--black smoke.
The blackness was very important for the camera to obtain the proper
effect. “All right, guv’nor,” grunted the sailorman, “leave it to me.”
The producer did leave it, went away and in due time blew his whistle.
I was sitting on a chair not far from the American stove, which was
nearly red-hot. “There goes the whistle, my lad,” said I, and the
next minute--well, the whistle was not the only thing that was blown.
Somebody as usual had blundered, and amid a loud explosion and clouds
of smoke black enough to satisfy the most exacting producer we were
scattered goodness knows where!

The fact was that fool of a man had poured the petroleum into the
red-hot stove and the result was chaos. I can’t say I remember exactly
what happened. I fancy I was too thankful I was still alive to think
of anything else. But there’s a funny side to everything and I shan’t
soon forget the picture of the scared sailorman fingering his hair
and beard, or rather what remained of them. Both were frizzled to a
frazzle. I should like to have heard the remarks of his wife when she
set eyes upon him. At the same time it was a mercy he got off with
nothing worse than the spoiling of his locks. The next day the thing
had to be gone over again, barring the explosion, and this time all
went well.

Another episode which happened in the filming of “David Copperfield”
was quite as unexpected and even more embarrassing. The producer wanted
a wreck for the final scene where Micawber, Peggotty and others leave
England for Australia. He negotiated with the harbour of a south coast
port to furnish him with a wreck, and accordingly in a few weeks’ time
the wreck in the shape of a schooner was forthcoming. She was lying
some two miles distant from the pier, and the producer bargained with
the captain of a tug to take us out. The skipper agreed to do so for
£5. We were taken to the wreck, which we boarded, and we were all so
engrossed in our work that we did not notice that the tug had sheered
off and left us to our fate.

The tide was coming in, the swell had its effect on the wreck and on
the ladies of the company. The situation began to be unpleasant. We
could see the tug in the distance and had we known how to send out a
S.O.S. most certainly the skipper of the tug would have had one. Just
when we were about to realise the shipwreck feeling in sober earnest,
the tug condescended to come alongside, and then we made the discovery
that her captain wanted another £5 to take us ashore. There was no
alternative to submitting to the extortion, and no doubt the producer
registered a vow that the next time he hired a tug he would make sure
that the money paid meant “there and back.”

A droll experience was that when I and several other film artistes were
engaged in a film production in which we had to appear as old time
mountebanks and barnstormers. A farmer was found who agreed to let us
have a cow shed which we proposed to turn into a mumming booth. He
shifted his cows and young bulls from their quarters in the shed and
our carpenter got to work and transformed the place to make it suit our
requirements. I had to play the part of a tragedian of the old school,
silk hat, fur collar and cuffs, and my duty was to perform on the drum
outside the supposed show. The moment came when all was in readiness
for the film to be taken. I started on the drum and had not banged
it as hard as I could half a dozen times when the cattle came on at a
run with the evident intention of going for us. The farmer’s son, who
was looking on at the show, yelled out that we’d better take cover,
and take cover we did by hopping over the hedge into the next field.
I rather fancy I headed the procession, but the drum was left behind.
It turned out that among the cattle was a young bull who was a most
aggressive beast where music (?) was concerned. Whether he recognised
in my performance on the drum the tune a certain cow in remote times
is said to have died of and wished to avenge his deceased ancestress I
can’t say, but it was a very narrow squeak.

The “Starting Point,” produced by the British Lion Co., had a breezy
nautical touch about it. The part assigned me was that of a retired
old sailor who invests his savings in the purchase of a fishing smack.
The smack goes down together with the old chap’s partner and life-long
friend. The old sailor is ruined and has to commence life again in
a very humble way. The story has a happy ending, but I need not go
into that. The drama was a very striking one and the film had a great
success. Films in which I have played have been, among others, those of
the Gaumont Co. (“The Fordington Twins”) and of the France Atlantic Co.
Altogether my film work was an interesting and novel experience.

I have now arrived at the end of my tale, in the telling of which I
have tried to “nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice.” I
am conscious that my narrative in parts is somewhat fragmentary and
disjointed, but unfortunately this is unavoidable. As I have already
had occasion to point out, I have had to depend entirely on my memory.
Notes and memoranda, playbills, contracts, letters and many other
documents which would have been extremely helpful to me in compiling
these reminiscences were destroyed in the fire which took place in
Drury Lane Theatre some years ago.

All I can say is that while the task of digging into the past has been
somewhat toilsome and not without pain, reviving as it has memories
of so many dear friends associated with me professionally who have
passed away, it has had its compensations. I recall the many thousands
of happy faces, the merry laughter of tens of thousands of children,
which during a lengthy experience all over the world it has been my
good fortune to see and hear. I may perhaps be pardoned if I add that I
feel no small gratification in thinking that _I_ was the cause of the
happy faces, that it was _I_ at whom the boys and girls were laughing.
Maybe--and I certainly hope it has been so--I have for a few minutes,
time and again, brought brightness into the lives of others. I think
it is Thackeray who says somewhere, “A good laugh is sunshine in the
house.” It is so certainly in the theatre, not only to those in front
of the footlights but also to those behind.

The calling of the clown is to some superior people not very dignified.
Superior people need not bother. The clown is well able to take care of
himself. It is his mission to make people merry, and merriment, I take
it, is better than dullness, better than dignity--often another name
for bumptiousness. “Your merry heart goes all the day, your sad heart
tires ’a mile ’a.” Shakespeare is right!

THE END

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