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”]