Odds and ends of circus life. The “peep show” cooking stoves. How I
“had” Lord Randolph Churchill in Dublin. I distinguish myself at a
sham fight. An unscrupulous practical joker. Faked up “Zulu” warriors
and how the fraud was discovered. The story of a Birmingham Christmas
pudding. My trick canary that failed. A day’s fishing on a yacht.
Circus life is full of odds and ends, most of them quite unexpected. I
can’t recall all of the adventures and misadventures which happened to
me in the many years I was connected with the various travelling and
touring shows, but a few occur to me which I will try to set down.
When I was on one of Hengler’s visits to Dublin there was a horse show
in Kildare Street which lasted three days, and Mr. William Powell,
Hengler’s manager, Mr. Fred Gallagher and myself were invited on the
opening day. Under a verandah to which one ascended by a dozen stairs
or so was a collection of all the latest novelties which could be
got together, and one was an American paraffin cooking stove. Such
things are now, of course, in every-day use, but at that time no one
in Ireland knew anything about them, though I dare say they were
well-known in England and elsewhere. They were about a foot and a half
square, made of zinc, with a little paraffin lamp underneath and a
small hole to let the steam out.
I was always on for a joke whenever I saw a chance, and on my eyes
lighting on this contrivance something prompted me to bend down, look
through this hole and pretend I was seeing a sort of peep show. It
really was much more like a showman’s box at a fair than a stove.
With my face as solemn as a judge’s I murmured loud enough for the
people round about to hear! “What a battle scene! Just like real life.
Look at the horses galloping! By George, they’re going right across the
mountains!”
This was enough to stimulate the curiosity of a crowd eager to see
everything that was to be seen. Before very long I was thrust aside by
an impatient group who thought I had monopolised the show sufficiently
and declared that it was their turn to look. The expressions of disgust
which came over their faces when they found they had been “had” was
enough to make a cat laugh. But many did not like to show that they had
been fooled and without saying anything they moved away and waited for
other victims. I dare say hundreds were taken in and I enjoyed the game
so much that I kept it up on the two following days.
In a space below, near the foot of the staircase, some of the horses
were stationed, and visitors after inspecting these would generally
mount the staircase. On the third day the word was passed round that
Mr. Dawson, then Lord Mayor of Dublin, and Lord Randolph Churchill were
coming, and the man from America who had charge of the stoves, said to
me:
“If you can only get the Lord Mayor and Lord Randolph Churchill to look
through the hole my cooking stoves are made.”
I thought that if this were brought off it would be rather a triumph
for me too and I said I’d see what I could do. Presently quite a crowd
were waiting to see the distinguished visitors ascend the staircase
and I was waiting too. They arrived, and as was hoped, they stopped in
front of the stove through the hole of which I was intently gazing.
“Well,” said his lordship, the Mayor, “and what have you got there?”
I did not answer the question, but merely asked him to peep through
the hole, which he did. With a blank look on his face he turned to me
saying:
“I can’t see anything.”
“Exactly,” was my reply, “who said you could?”
No one is quicker to take a joke than an Irishman. The Lord Mayor
tumbled to the fake instantly and he whispered:
“A capital joke. Get my friend Lord Randolph to look through.”
I did, and directly the noble lord had his eye at the peephole and was
trying with all his might to see something, the people who had been
“had” set up a mighty “Hurrah!” and clapped their hands vigorously at
the addition of another victim.
Unfortunately the sudden noise frightened the horses below. Mr. Powell,
who was with them, yelled out “Hop it!” I took his advice and the
police, for some reason thinking there was going to be a disturbance,
went for me. As I darted down the stairs I caught my foot in a bucket
of water which had been placed for the horses and down I went. I
suppose I was in the mood that day for mad pranks, for the next thing I
did was to pretend to have a fit.
The sympathising crowd gathered round. No one knew exactly what to do,
but they suggested everything they could think of. Among the would-be
helpers was an Irish attendant, who exclaimed:
“Sure an’ it’s a shame it is to see a fellow creature in disthress.
It’s more air that he wants,” and forthwith proceeded to drag open my
shirt.
I had on a beautiful tie and pin, but these made no difference to the
warm-hearted Irishman. He stuck his fingers in my collar and without
wasting time in unbuttoning it--gosh!--tore it apart in his anxiety
to give me air. I saw my pin and tie going. I grabbed both, sprang to
my feet and was through the door in a flash, leaving the police, the
crowd and the warm-hearted Irishman to make what they could of my wild
proceedings.
The little string of fooleries didn’t end there. Jumping into a
jaunting car I drove to Corlis’s restaurant and took refuge there, for
the crowd were tearing after my car. As I did not make my appearance
the mob got tired and dispersed; I then came out and went on to the
Abbey Hotel. As I took my seat in the dining room a waiter passed me
with a beautiful chop, bread and potatoes. He was taking it to some
other diner and the sight was too much for me. Looking him sternly in
the face I exclaimed,
“You’ve been a long time cooking that chop.”
“I’m very sorry, sir--I----”
“Sorry be hanged. I’ve been waiting a deuce of a while and I’m very
hungry.”
He placed the chop before me and I ate it then and there. How long the
other man had to wait I can’t say. Of course it was rather rough on him
and I would have apologised had I dared.
I ought to add that the hoax that had been played on the Lord Mayor and
Lord Randolph Churchill soon got wind, and that night when I performed
at the circus the audience gave me a great reception and nothing was
heard for some few minutes but cries of “Cooking stoves--cooking
stoves,” and no less would satisfy them than my sending for a stove to
show how Churchill had been “had,” in which I had an advertisement as
well as the stoves.
While at Dublin I was invited to Phœnix Park to see a sham fight. I was
accompanied by all Mr. Hengler’s company on horseback. Of course, I
being a well-known character, they gave me one of the worst horses to
ride. The brute was called “Merryman” and he was in every sense well
named. Directly the guns went off he bolted--I was round his back--over
his head--hatless--and I thought my time had come. Out of sheer
merriment, I suppose, he took me among the soldiers, and there was a
rare hubbub till the colonel of the regiment ordered me up to his side.
I thought he was going to send me to the castle to be shot, but instead
of that he kept me by him in the midst of the fighting, to the great
joy of the spectators. To see me flying about with frock coat over my
head--sometimes with my arms clutching the horse’s mane and sometimes
apparently making for his tail--I was a huge success.
Practical joking seems to be part and parcel of circus life. The most
inveterate practical joker I ever knew was a man named Dan Leeson. He
was my travelling companion and we used to go shares in the apartments
in the various towns where the circus stopped, board, etc. But
occasionally his jokes went beyond the limit.
I have seen him go out in the morning, buy a mackerel, cut it open
and fill it full of gunpowder. He would then with a needle and thread
sew it up again, take it home to the landlady, and tell her to put it
on the gridiron for breakfast. You can imagine the result. Half the
chimney blown away, soot coming down, landlady in hysterics, police,
fire engines, etc., etc. Sometimes he would go into a public house and
get a glass of beer and a bit of cheese and biscuit. The cheese having
been cut in squares, he would buy some soap and cut it also in squares,
mix it with the cheese, and sit down and await the result. The grimaces
and contortions of the victims who tasted the soap seemed to give him a
morbid satisfaction.
Leeson reached the limit in an outrageous prank he played in a
Liverpool theatre. Stuffing a piece of haddock in one of the sound
holes of the double bass he awaited the outcome. It wasn’t long before
the haddock showed signs of its presence. Its offence was rank and
smelt to heaven. The orchestra became conscious of its vile odour,
and complaints reached the manager, but of course the cause was not
suspected. A manager doesn’t as a rule consider the feelings of the
orchestra, and pooh-poohed their grumblings. It was a different
matter when the haddock became more lively; the stallites sniffed,
and whispers began to be current that something was wrong with the
drains of the ---- theatre. The sanitary inspector was called in, and
an investigation was made. The flooring was torn up, pipes opened, but
nothing resulted beyond a long bill which the proprietor received with
a long face. Gradually the decomposition of the haddock was completed
and the nuisance ceased. Many months afterwards the secret oozed out.
But by that time the author of the unpleasant hoax was far away. My
impression is that there was a kink in Leeson’s brain, and I’m glad
that my association with him did not last long. I believe he finished
his career where he had few opportunities of exercising his fiendish
power of invention. It was said he died in prison.
The influence of clowning is very difficult to shake off. It gets
into the blood and pursues one outside the theatre. The essence of
harlequinade humour is practical joking, and no matter where the
clown may be he finds it hard to resist a chance of taking someone in
after the fashion of footlights fun. At least I found it to be so;
anyhow, here is a case in point.
Some theatrical friends and myself were enjoying ourselves one
afternoon in a certain Yorkshire hotel, and the proprietor, Mr. B----,
formed one of our party. We were ensconced in his private parlour, but
with my usual restlessness, I kept wandering in and out of the room
searching for something which might afford material for a practical
joke. The rollicking spirit of mischief possessed me. In the corridor I
espied several pairs of boots which I knew belonged to the proprietor.
Putting a pair of these in the pockets of my overcoat I went back to
the parlour.
“Here, Mr. B----,” I remarked, “we know, old man, that you’re not a bad
sort. When I was outside the hotel just now a rather well-dressed chap
accosted me, said he was hard-up, and offered to sell me these boots,
which he says are relics of his better days. They won’t fit me, but
they seem just about your size. Try ’em on, and see if you can do the
poor fellow a good turn.”
The proprietor, who was rather shortsighted, immediately took off his
slippers, tried on the boots and declared they fitted perfectly--which
no doubt they did, seeing he had worn them many times.
“Delighted!” exclaimed Mr. B----, “I’ll have them. Give the poor fellow
this half sovereign, and tell him I’ll keep the boots.”
Out came half a sovereign, and I departed in search of the supposed
starving man, whose heartfelt thanks I brought back with me to the
beaming proprietor, who was highly gratified to be able to do a kind
action. Of course, we kept up the joke for some time, and when it was
played out and the half sovereign was returned, the host insisted on
spending it in refreshments for the company.
It may be that the “fakes” and dodges that showmen are so clever in
concocting stimulate an unnatural sort of ingenuity which may well
foster practical joking. Showmen are certainly past masters in the art
of “codding.” I recollect at the time of the Zulu war how one showman
conceived the idea of exhibiting a number of Zulu warriors. There was
only one drawback--not a single Zulu was at that moment in the country.
But drawbacks do not exist for the born showman and a party of ordinary
niggers were easily made up into Cetewayo’s savage soldiery.
The arrangement of the “war-dance” one of them executed really had a
touch of genius about it. The place of exhibition was a penny show.
There were no seats and the visitors walked about where they liked.
When the “war-dance” was about to begin, the exhibitor, in that
impressive manner which only a showman can put on, warned everybody
that the “Zulu” about to flourish his assegai was very dangerous and
that every precaution would be taken, but that to be on the safe side
the spectators had better keep at a respectful distance.
This was enough to send a pleasant thrill through the gaping crowd and
the “precaution” which followed heightened expectations. The warrior
in his native undress with a piece of skin--supposed to be from a
lion--stalked in, assegai in hand, and gave a fiendish grin. Then a
strong leather belt was put about his waist and having attached to
it four stout ropes placed, so to speak, at the four points of the
compass. Four men held the ropes so that the savage couldn’t stir
from the spot on which he was put. Then he started waving his spear,
contorting his body, stamping with his bare feet and uttering unearthly
howls expressive of his bloodthirsty desires. Although the ropes held
him stationary there was nothing to prevent him hurling his assegai,
but this risk only added to the excitement, and when the performance
was over the audience departed quite satisfied that they had witnessed
the real thing.
On one occasion this troupe of “Zulus” were let down badly. The show
was at a seaport town and among the sightseers was a number of sailors
who had just come from South Africa, who had been up country and knew
something of the Zulu lingo. They began to talk to the performers in
what was supposed to be their native tongue, and the niggers, who had
come from any part of Africa save Zululand, were nonplussed. If there
is one thing Jack hates it is being taken in, and they went for the
Zulus, the proprietor and the show. There wasn’t much of the latter
left whole when they had finished.
I never could resist having a lark when the impulse and the opportunity
came together. They did so on one occasion at Birmingham. After the
death of Sir Augustus Harris, Mr. Henry Dundas, his partner, produced
the Drury Lane pantomime at the Birmingham Theatre, and we had a
rehearsal on Christmas Day. After the first part of the rehearsal Frank
Davies, the stage manager, and I, went to a neighbouring hotel for
some refreshment, which we had in the dining room. As we were leaving
we passed the dinner lift, which descended to the kitchen, at the very
moment when an appetising Christmas pudding made its appearance on the
little platform.
The sight was irresistible, and before the pudding had time to vanish
it was safely inside my Inverness. I expect the clown instinct was to
blame. Anyhow, we went off to the theatre wishing the hotel proprietor
a “jolly Christmas” as we went out of the hotel. We ate the pudding on
the stage and when the rehearsal was over we went back to the hotel
for tea. The proprietor was rather ratty, and, full of sympathy, we
enquired the reason. He told us that he and his staff had been done out
of their Christmas pudding through the misbehaviour of the cook.
“When it didn’t come,” he explained, “I called the cook, who swore she
had sent it up. I told her she’d been drinking and sacked her at a
minute’s notice.”
We hadn’t bargained for this. I’m afraid it didn’t occur to us that
the cook would get into a row, and we told him what had become of the
pudding, thinking he would see the joke. But he was as blind as a bat,
angrier than ever, and talked about prosecuting us for theft! The story
became known: it got into the papers under the heading, “Who stole the
Christmas pudding?” and maybe the advertisement the hotel got soothed
the proprietor, for we made it all right with him, and the cook was
taken back.
Apropos of Birmingham, one season when I was with Hengler’s Circus
at Curzon Hall, I met a fellow who made out that he was a poor
professional comrade. He told me he had got something for me in the
shape of a wonderful singing canary, and I said, “Let’s have a look at
it.” We went into the “Boat” inn and he took me into the back room and
brought out of his pocket a stick about two feet long with a little
perch attached. From his other pocket he produced a small cage with a
canary. Then he balanced the stick on his nose, let the bird loose, and
it flew on the top of the stick and began to sing.
This struck me as a novelty, and I said, “Let me try it.” I did, and
the dear little thing went through the business all right.
I bought the bird right away for two pounds.
It so happened that we had a matinee in the afternoon and I told Mr.
Powell, the manager, that I had a great novelty for the children, but I
wouldn’t let him know what it was, intending to keep it a great secret
till I appeared in the arena.
I started by telling the children that I had something wonderful for
them. I balanced the stick on my nose, opened the cage, the little bird
flew out, but instead of alighting on the stick, it rose straight away
to the top of the building. Of course everybody said they didn’t think
much of the novelty and the only thing that came of it was that I made
myself a great laughing stock.
I hunted for the man who sold the bird and sold me in addition day
after day, but all I found out was that he was a swindler. He had
put me off with a common hen canary, which he had substituted for the
trained bird.
It was only fair, I suppose, that having played off my “whimsicalities”
on other people, I should have a share in return. The canary trick was
one of these acts of retaliation, and a practical joke I suffered at
the hands of a professional ventriloquist who was called “Valentine
Vox” was another. Val was a great friend of mine and we were both very
fond of fishing. When we were performing at the Liverpool Empire he
came to my dressing room one day, saying:
“Whimmy, I’m going fishing to-morrow just over the bar. I’ve a
beautiful yacht; will you come?”
I said I would and enquired where we were to meet.
“At Prince’s landing stage,” said he, adding, “We shall have plenty of
refreshments on board.”
We met the next morning with our sea fishing tackle. I looked about for
the beautiful yacht, but could see nothing of the kind.
“Oh,” said he, “that’s all right. She’s anchored outside. Jump aboard
this boat and these chaps will take us to it.”
The boat was a clumsy mud barge attached to a tug which dragged us some
little distance down the Mersey. I saw a twinkle in his eye. We crawled
along and I began to have my suspicions, which were soon verified, for
the beautiful yacht of which he had spoken was nothing but a mud barge!
The only excuse Val gave me was that he thought it much safer than the
yacht, and so it may have been, but the worst of it was that once on we
couldn’t get off, and we were on that barge in the broiling sun all day
till five o’clock at night. We never had a bite--much less a fish, and
there was nothing for it but to go to sleep, and sleep I did!
[Illustration: All ready to appear before the British Public, Drury
Lane Theatre Pantomime]