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!