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]