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]