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”]