I am engaged to appear at Madrid. Something about my wonderful
game-cock. Cock-fighting in London in the ’eighties! The secret of an
Endell Street cellar. How I obtained the bird. A match between myself
and the game-cock. An Argyle Street show which took the town. A trying
journey to Madrid. The trials of Spanish etiquette. Am invited by
Royalty to a bull-fight. The singing donkey creates a furore. Also the
game-cock “turn.” My _gallio_ challenged by a Spanish champion. The
fight comes off. The Spaniard defeated. The Spanish game-cock fanciers
anxious to secure my bird. I adopt precautions for his safety.
Difficulties in the way of returning home. I succeed by a ruse in
escaping.
When Hengler’s Circus was at Argyle Street I had an offer to go to
Madrid. I imagined that my reputation, or that of my donkey, had
reached the Spanish capital, but after I had had personal experience
of the taste of the Spaniards I came to the conclusion that a part
of the attraction was due to a remarkable game-cock of which I had
become possessed and which I had trained to be an important member of
my little troupe. The Spaniards, I afterwards discovered, loved to see
cock-fighting.
I suppose one-half, or more, of the people in London do not know how
the other half live. Certainly so far as amusement, and especially
sport, is concerned this is the case. I guess that if you care to pay
for it you can get in London any pleasure you like, whether outside
the law or not. When I say that during the ’eighties cock-fighting
went on in London, it is possible that I shall be accused of telling a
tarradiddle, but it was the absolute fact.
One of my friends in those days was Charlie Best, who then was
proprietor of the “Horseshoe,” in the Tottenham Court Road. Mr. Best
was a great lover of sport, and among other fancies had a liking for
cock-fighting. This once aristocratic amusement was supposed to be a
thing of the past, but it wasn’t, and some of the young bloods of the
“Upper Ten,” who knew mine host of the “Horseshoe,” were eager to be
patrons when it was whispered to them that they could take part in a
revival of the cock-pit of the eighteenth or early nineteenth century.
Of course every precaution was taken to secure secrecy, and no one who
passed along prosaic Endell Street ever suspected that in a cellar
underneath a certain ironmonger’s shop (I think the name was Faltless)
noble lords and their friends used thrice a month to assemble in
this subterranean retreat and excite themselves over matches between
game-cocks. Such, however, was the fact, and many a time I was among
the spectators as a friend of Charlie Best. That betting went on goes
without saying. A cock-fight without anything “on” is unthinkable.
Most people know what the cock-pits of a hundred years and more
ago were like. The old coloured prints of such places are numerous
enough--an arena with a ring fence of a yard or so in height, behind
which the owners of the birds and their friends sat, and a gallery
above for the public. This cock-pit was not at all that kind of thing.
It had a sort of arena, it was true, but this was all.
The game-cock owned by Mr. Best was a marvel and I broke the tenth
commandment over him constantly. Mr. Best, you must know, ran the
refreshment buffet at Hengler’s, so that I was very intimate with
him, and I think I advertised him and his Bass pretty well among the
hosts of people who came to call upon me. I wanted that bird very much
indeed. I had an idea that I could make good use of him in the circus,
especially as a comic show for the children, and at last Mr. Best gave
him to me, after he had won seven battles, as a return for my pushing
his business.
Directly I had the bird in my possession I went to a very clever
theatrical property maker named Hessan and arranged with him to make me
a huge cock dress of the colours exactly similar to those of the bird.
He set to work and succeeded in producing a really wonderful property
dress. Then I started training the game-cock.
Perhaps it mayn’t be generally known that the cock-birds of this
species have a language of their own. Well, they have, and I studied
it. Listen to his cry. As nearly as it can be put on paper it sounds
like “Krrrrrrr.” That means he is calling his wives together, and he
soon shows them that he is master of his harem.
Wearing my cock dress I took the bird to the arena and burst into a
song as nearly like “Krrrrrrr” as I could make it. He at once suspected
the presence of a hated rival. He pricked up his head as if he were
saying, “Hallo, what’s this massive brute?” He went for me as fiercely
as though I’d been one of his own size. I pretended to be afraid. I
ran away. He came after me, pecking at me savagely, and we dodged each
other all over the ring.
Then I began to take off my garments one by one to let him know who I
was, and in a month or so I allowed him to think he was my master. I
used to keep him in a little square box and feed him on raw meat, port
wine, and oats. Nobody but myself was allowed to touch him and he knew
his business as if I had trained a child. I had him for many years and
he has caused me many a pain. Poor boy, he died with the croup, but was
very, very vicious. I never saw such a bird as he. No fun about him
when he was fighting me--he meant it--and he used to hang on like a
bull-dog. I buried the poor bird in Dublin. I have tried to train a lot
more, but directly they get in the footlights they are no good.
But before he died he greatly distinguished himself, and nowhere
more than in Madrid, and of my visit to which city I will try to say
something. Besides my game-cockerel I had with me my two invaluable
donkeys. Knowing not a word of Spanish I had to take with me an
interpreter, one Pedro Sterling, who was half a Spaniard. I need not
say that with my oddly assorted companions my journey was full of
difficulties. However, we got safely to Paris, and from the Gare du
Nord we had to cross Paris to reach another station to get down south.
However, after some little trouble this was accomplished, the donkeys
and the cockerel travelling in a van together with a tin pail for the
donkeys to drink from.
The journey to the Spanish frontier was not marked by any particular
incident, but when we arrived at Antondy, a little town on the
frontier, the railway people for some reason which didn’t seem very
clear refused to take us any further, and we had to stop in the town
until the next morning.
Pedro Sterling found an hotel, the proprietor of which agreed to
accommodate our little party--donkeys, cockerel and two beds for myself
and Pedro. The hotel was by no means inviting, but we had to make the
best of things. It was built of wooden piles and the donkeys had to
share a shed with some cows. We managed to swallow some supper, but it
was by no means appetising--simply bread and lard, no butter!
As we passed through the saloon--so-called-a dirty ill-lighted place,
three villainous-looking Spaniards, black as ink, scowled at us and
fixed their eyes--so it seemed to me--on my gold chain, a rather
massive affair on which I set great store. We reached our bedroom, a
squalid chamber enough, with one small window about eighteen inches
square. We got into bed and the interpreter was soon fast asleep. I,
on the contrary, could not get a wink for thinking of the Spaniards of
the cut-throat aspect. However, I suppose I misjudged them, for nothing
happened.
I turned out about 5.30, feeling done up, for I had had practically
no rest since I left London on Sunday night, and it was now Wednesday
morning. We reached the station in good time and waited an hour for the
train, which when it came along proved to be chiefly for luggage with
three coaches only for passengers.
We settled the donkeys in a miserable horse truck along with the
cockerel, the tin pail and a quantity of hay and corn, and my boxes.
I was so tired I laid down on the hay and straw by the side of the
donkeys rather than travel in an uncomfortable carriage crowded with
people. So I was locked in the horse box, dark and stuffy as it was.
No window was provided, only a little hole about a foot square for
ventilation.
The horn sounded and the train started. It crawled at about two miles
an hour and for what it lacked in speed it made up in rattling and
bumping. It was impossible to sleep. The horse box had no springs and
the pail at once began to dance about, so did the donkeys, the cockerel
and the boxes. I found myself doing a sort of jig _a la_ a parched pea
in a frying pan. I shall never forget it.
The train stopped at every station and I tried to get out, but it was
impossible. I yelled for Pedro Sterling, but he never heard me. I had
to suffer being shaken up like dice until we reached San Sebastian,
when I had a happy release, but only on making a signal of distress by
pushing the tin pail through the ventilating hole and shaking it.
I found Pedro comfortable enough with a Spanish gentleman whose
acquaintance he had made, seated opposite to him.
After giving the donkeys water and seeing that they were all right, I
joined Pedro, and the train went on to Madrid. I gave Pedro a graphic
account of my sufferings and he told our fellow passenger, in Spanish
of course. The Spaniard expressed his sympathy and through Pedro
enquired whether I would like a little wine. There was nothing I felt
at that moment I would like better and Pedro conveyed my assent, upon
which the Spanish gentleman brought out a beautiful skin with a gold
mouthpiece attached.
I hadn’t the least idea how to drink out of this native bottle and
Pedro Sterling explained. You are not supposed to put the mouthpiece
to your lips, but to hold it an inch or two away. Pedro then showed me
the operation. Clearly my interpreter was an expert and as he did it
the trick seemed easy enough. I held up the mouthpiece, wished the don
“good health,” in English, and started to drink. Unluckily the stream
missed the target--instead of going into my mouth it hit my eyes and my
nose, and finished by running down my shirt front.
This was bad enough, but what was much worse, I had outraged Spanish
etiquette, which I afterwards found was extremely rigid. The gentleman
did not laugh, though I must have presented a ludicrous sight, but
regarded my awkwardness as an insult to himself! Pedro had all his
work cut out to convince the Spaniard that the mishap was purely an
accident, but at last he succeeded.
We arrived at Madrid about seven o’clock the next morning. We were
expected; a carriage and pair were awaiting us and we were driven to
the hotel, the donkeys and cockerel being taken to the circus. I had
not been at the hotel many hours before I was made acquainted with the
courtesy which Spaniards of noble birth and high rank display towards
visitors. Queen Isabella actually sent a dignified gentleman belonging
to the suite to enquire if I would like to see a bull-fight!
I was overwhelmed with the royal politeness and I said that I certainly
should. Then the question was put as to which day I should prefer for
my performance at the circus. I asked which was the best day and was
told “Sunday.” “Very good,” said I, “Sunday for me.”
I went to the bull-fight and I must say that I was greatly impressed
by the imposing spectacle. Thousands of people, most of them ladies,
many of them exquisitely dressed, from the highest to the lowest,
were seated tier upon tier round an enormous arena. A clear blue sky
was overhead and the brilliant sunshine heightened the colours of the
decorations and the gay costumes of the picadors and matadors.
Bull-fights have been described many times, so I will say no more than
that I was sorry for the horses. Many of them were poor old crocks
who hadn’t the slightest chance of avoiding the bull’s horns. I saw
twenty-seven of them killed. As for the riders, they were protected by
what might be termed thigh boots of steel. These protections had one
drawback--they were so heavy that when the wearer fell he couldn’t get
up again, but had to be dragged away by one party of attendants while
another deviated the attention of the bull.
I was told that if there was any deficiency of horses the organisers
had the power to commandeer any which might be in the streets, no
matter how valuable. The bull-fights being State affairs, remonstrance
was useless in such a case.
The killing of the bull struck me as rather repulsive. Fortunately
it was very rapidly done--just a thrust of the sword at the back of
the neck and the animal fell dead, its spinal cord severed. What
struck me as curious was the mad enthusiasm of the spectators, who
at the termination of the performance cast their garments, coats,
hats, waistcoats, etc., into the arena. This did not mean that they
were given away. Not at all. Every article had to be returned to the
rightful owner. Anxious to show that the English were not wanting
in politeness, I interested myself in the work of restoration, but
chancing to give a coat to the wrong person, who received it with a
cold and scornful glance, I decided to get away as soon as possible
lest I should unintentionally violate some unwritten law of Spanish
etiquette and suffer in consequence.
Spanish etiquette I found was a wonderful and fearful thing. Luckily
I had Pedro at hand to help me over the pitfalls. I was told, for
instance, that if you admired a thing very much--a jewel, a picture, a
horse or what not--the owner would gravely say, “It is yours, Senor.”
But woe betide you if you take him at his word! This wasn’t in the
contract at all. The apparent gift was politeness--nothing more.
Before I gave my first performance I had to consider what Spanish
words I should put into my donkey’s mouth which my audience would
appreciate. I decided after consultation upon _De bouro canto
patterneris_.
When I announced this and my donkey “Tom” sang it or was supposed to
sing it, I never heard such an uproar of applause as broke out in all
parts of the house. The audience wouldn’t have the next turn on the
performance. It was the donkey and nothing but the donkey that they
wanted. “Take him in again,” urged the manager, “take him in again.”
So I took him not once but several times, and made him bow his thanks,
but this did not satisfy his admirers. “Canto! Canto!” they kept on
shouting. However, I knew “Tom” wouldn’t sing again until after half
an hour’s interval, so I pacified them by introducing my fighting
game-cockerel.
As it happened I couldn’t have done better. Three things the Spanish
people love above all else--bull-fighting, cock-fighting, and music.
That was why, I fancy, my donkey with his lovely baritone voice pleased
them so much. Could he only have played a guitar he would have been
there maybe to this day!
The day following my first performance, whether due to my neglect of
Spanish precaution--they never go out of doors in the hottest part of
the day, and they are right, for the sun pours down perpendicularly
upon you and there isn’t an atom of shadow anywhere--or to the too
liberal hospitality which I was obliged to accept, I was taken unwell.
The one complaint which leaps up in every Spaniard’s mind when you have
the stomach-ache is the cholera. They dread it as much as the devil is
said to dread holy water! So when I did not feel quite up to the mark
I was afraid I was in for the cholera.
A physician was sent for, and believe me, I never encountered a more
competent doctor or one who adopted better remedies. Said he:
“There is nothing the matter with the gentleman. Give him some wine!”
I swallowed a dose of this pleasant physic and was well almost
directly. All the same I ran great risks, for I was invited out to
supper every night and Spanish dishes are not only savoury but ample.
Apart from risks of indigestion there was a drawback to those suppers.
They kept me out until the small hours in the morning, and then owing
to the customs of the country you were likely to find yourself in a
fix. In Madrid you can get out of your domicile at any time of the
night, but you can’t get in without calling out to the watchman to
open the gates for you. These watchmen patrol the streets with a long
pole and a lantern quite in the style of the old English “Charlies,”
but they are not nearly so decrepit, although they appear to be more
so if you don’t tip them. In such a case they’ll take half an hour or
more to crawl three yards. I needn’t say that my hand went to my pocket
without the slightest hesitation and the fellow would come along like a
lightning flash.
The Spanish Court was exceedingly good to me. Queen Isabella came to
the show more than once and I fancy she enjoyed it more than she did
the behaviour of the audience. Some political act on the part of Her
Majesty had displeased the public and the house showed its feelings by
an unmistakable hiss when she entered the royal box. But she heard the
objectionable sound unmoved. The Queen’s presence was not the only sign
of royal favour that I received. On one occasion I was permitted to
hold King Alphonso, then a baby, in my arms. I attribute these marks of
appreciation not so much on account of my own performance as of that of
my donkeys. Donkeys are an institution in Spain.
After a time I found my fighting cockerel--_gallio_ was the Spanish
term--went down even better than the donkeys, if such a thing were
possible. My first performance when I introduced my fighting scene was
a screaming success, and was followed by a totally unexpected sequel.
The next morning while I was receiving my letters my interpreter
came up with rather a formidable looking Spaniard, who had something
concealed under his coat which gave out a noise which sounded as though
he had a knife and was sharpening a slate pencil. It turned out that he
had brought with him a fighting game-cock.
Said Pedro Sterling: “This Spaniard wants to challenge your _gallio_ to
fight his _gallio_.”
I looked rather serious at this strange proposition and pointed out
that I had not brought my bird to Madrid in order to fight. He was part
of my living and I had trained him to fight me and not other birds.
But this explanation did not satisfy the Spaniard. He was immensely
proud of the prowess of his bird and he was burning to see the
insolent invader bite the dust at the feet of the native product.
I wasn’t having any and I still demurred, but the man continued to
insist, and at last Sterling said: “Why not let him have a go.” But my
answer was “No.” Then Pedro made the puzzling suggestion: “Let his bird
put on the boxing gloves.”
“Boxing gloves,” I exclaimed. “What the deuce do you mean?”
He explained that in Spain fighting-cocks were provided with glove
stalls stuffed with wool and fitted on to the spurs, so that they could
not hurt each other. This put a different complexion on the matter and
I agreed.
The contrast between the two gladiators when they were placed opposite
each other was the oddest thing possible. My beautiful bird was at
the time in lovely plumage--he was what is called an Indian black red
game-cock. But his opponent--I never saw such a funny-looking thing.
He was of the Spanish red variety plucked the same as a fowl ready
for dinner, except for a frill of feathers which had been left as an
ornament for his neck.
They went at it tooth and nail. The fight lasted hardly a minute;
feathers began to fly and it was all over except shouting. The Spaniard
was about to pick up his bird, thinking no doubt that the native
champion had had enough, when my bird hit him with his spurs and wings
and laid him out. I don’t believe such a scowl was ever seen on man’s
face as that which wrinkled the Spaniard’s countenance, and he burst
out into some Spanish Seven Dials’ language which I didn’t understand
a bit but the meaning of which I could very well guess. I haven’t the
least doubt Pedro interpreted the jargon correctly when he said: “He’ll
have his revenge or steal your fighting bird.”
The fame of the fight spread and the circus was crowded every night to
see my _gallio_. He became the source of great anxiety to me. I was
perpetually haunted by the fear of losing him or of his suffering some
injury. I had to take him to my hotel every night and bring him back
for the next performance. For an extra precaution I paid a man ten
pesetas a week to watch and guard him. As a matter of fact all the cock
fanciers in Madrid were after him. But he passed through these perils
unscathed and in the end I got him away safely.
My engagement terminated and I was anxious to return home. A passport,
of course, was necessary, and I called on the British Consul. To my
surprise he said:
“Why do you wish to leave? The Spaniards love you and they want you to
stay in Madrid.”
Whether he said this on his own account or that pressure had been
put on him by someone I can’t say, but a month went over before that
passport arrived. Meanwhile, I had exceeded my engagement and even then
the circus people were very reluctant to let me go. In order to get out
of the country I wired to my wife who was in Ireland with Hengler’s
Circus to send me a message running something like this: “Wife ill;
return immediately to England.” The message came and on the strength
of it I was allowed to leave. It was on the way home that my donkey had
the curious operation performed on him at Bordeaux which I have already
described.