My second visit to Australia. I train a performing horse on board. Am
engaged by Harry Rickards for a twenty-seven weeks’ tour. I play for
five nights only. Summoned to London by Mr. Arthur Collins owing to
the death of Herbert Campbell. Mr. Rickards’ luxurious home. I bathe
with sharks. I escort two wallabies to England. A strange meeting at
Colombo. I arrive in London. Death of Dan Leno. Dan’s merry pranks.
His unlucky garden party.
I have already alluded to my first visit to Australia. This was in
the early ’eighties. Some twenty years had passed when I went for the
second time to the Antipodes. I was engaged by the late Harry Rickards,
proprietor of several theatres and music-halls in Australia, to
undertake a tour which was to last twenty-seven weeks.
I looked forward to seeing once more the towns with which I had already
become acquainted, and I set out from Tilbury Docks in one of the
steamers of the Blue Anchor Line called _Wilcania_.
The voyage was somewhat tedious. The boat could hardly get up speed
enough to race a tug, and on reaching Sydney she came to an untimely
end running ashore on the rocks in the harbour. At least that was the
last I saw of her. I am glad to say that before this happened I was
safely landed.
Slow as the travelling was, I found something to employ my time and
that something was fortunately quite in my line. On board was a
beautiful horse called “Pistol.” He was being sent to Adelaide for stud
purposes, his ultimate destination being Perth. A more symmetrical and
intelligent animal I have never set eyes on. We were immense friends at
once and I set to work to train him to perform a number of tricks.
As the weather was fairly fine and the passage tolerably smooth, I was
able to give him two or three lessons every day. Under my tuition he
soon became proficient and his performances gave great delight to the
passengers.
Among other things I taught him to take my hat from my head, to say
“yes” and “no”--in signs of course--etc. By the time we reached Cape
Town, “Pistol” was able to ring a bell for his breakfast, to laugh by
showing his teeth, and to lie down and sit up at the word of command.
We gradually became much attached to each other, and when we arrived
at Adelaide and we had to part company, I believe he was as sorry as I
was. I went with him to the stables on shore, where we bade each other
farewell, and he looked quite sorrowfully at me.
The steamer had two other horses on board--big clumsily-built
Clydesdales. I did not attempt to do anything with them. They were not
of the kind of which trick horses are made and they were very vicious
into the bargain. They were kept in separate boxes and did not, I
fancy, take very kindly to sea life.
I returned to the ship and went on to Melbourne. We stopped there one
day and I took the opportunity of going to the post office to see if
any letters had arrived for me overland via Marseilles. To my great
surprise I found a cablegram awaiting me from Drury Lane Theatre.
“Return. Arthur Collins,” it said. It took me quite aback and I did
not know in the least what to think of it. Here was I in Australia,
thousands of miles from home, bound by a contract to stay a certain
time and make a little money, and Arthur Collins’ message fairly
bewildered me. All the same it had to be replied to in some shape or
form. I returned to the ship and went on to Sydney, but I could get no
sleep as I was worrying about the cablegram. Nightmares pursued me that
perhaps I had committed some awful crime--or the police were after me!
I reached Sydney one evening in September and the lovely panorama of
the harbour and its surroundings presented a sight I haven’t forgotten
to this day. The ship anchored a mile and a half from the city and
when I landed who should be waiting for me but Harry Rickards with a
brougham and a pair of beautiful horses. He drove me to my hotel and as
I went along I saw poster after poster with “Whimsical Walker” in the
biggest type procurable. My word, he _had_ advertised me! In fact too
much, I began to think, with the cablegram from Drury Lane at the back
of my mind.
I must say Harry treated me like a prince. At night he took me to the
National Sporting Club to a Press supper, which I should have enjoyed
more if that confounded cablegram had not been worrying me all the
time. Just before we left the club I plucked up courage and showed Mr.
Rickards the message. He read it and said, “Well, what are you going to
do?”
I told him that to cable to me from England meant something very
important and that I couldn’t afford to neglect it, and that I had made
up my mind to sail away with the next boat. Of course he was very much
annoyed and he threatened to bring an action against me if I did so.
I said, “Bring the action against the Drury Lane Company.” “I haven’t
engaged the Drury Lane Company, I’ve engaged you,” he retorted. He was,
of course, perfectly right, and after we’d finished up at the club he
said, “Come to my office in the morning at eleven o’clock and we’ll
talk it over.”
Next morning I kept the appointment. Mr. Rickards was smiling, and said
he: “Well, Whimmy, have you made up your mind?”
“Yes,” said I, “I’m returning home on Saturday week.”
His reply was that it was very unbusinesslike and meant a loss, seeing
what it had cost him to advertise me. Presently he went on to say:
“Anyway you’re here, and you don’t sail till Saturday week, will you
show to my patrons for five nights and two matinees? If you’ll do that
you can catch the boat on the Saturday week.”
I thought it very good of him, so I consented, and we shook hands on
the bargain and walked back to the National Sporting Club. There a
newspaper was put into my hand and I saw in it to my great sorrow of
the death of poor Herbert Campbell, my associate in many a Drury Lane
pantomime. Then I knew the meaning of Mr. Arthur Collins’ cablegram.
Well, I had a jolly time of it--Mr. Rickards would have me stay at his
beautifully fitted house as long as I was in Melbourne. Among other
luxuries he had a bathroom built inside the harbour with sea water
flowing through the bath all the time. In front of this bath was a
steel lattice and occasionally one could enjoy the spectacle of hungry
sharks watching and waiting for the meal they were destined never to
enjoy. The sight gave me an uncommon zest for my swim, knowing they
could not get at me.
For five nights and two matinees I played, together with Louise
Carbasse, a talented child actress, in a comedy sketch, “Captain
Hamilton, V.C.,” written by Charles Baldwin. The sketch had a touch of
pathos in it and went down well with my Melbourne audience. I wound up
with “The Mad Fisherman,” a pantomime absurdity in which I appeared
alone.
Spending only five days in Melbourne I hadn’t much time to notice what
changes had taken place since I had first visited the city. Of more
importance to me was to ascertain if my “turn” had gone well with
the audience and what the Press had to say about it. So far as the
Melbourne public are concerned I had made a hit and I enquired of Mr.
Rickards if the papers had commented at all. We were at the National
Sporting Club at the time and Mr. Rickards, taking up a periodical
called _Truth_ and pointing out a certain passage said: “Have you
seen _that_?” This was what I read: “We hear that Whimsical Walker is
sailing for England on Saturday. It is a good job. If he had stopped
in this country we’d have shot him!” I put down the paper somewhat
staggered. “What on earth for? What have I done?” I asked. “Don’t be
alarmed, my dear chap,” said Rickards. “That’s nothing to what the
fellow says about _me_.” Then he pointed to the lady at the buffet,
remarking: “She horsewhipped him for his scurrilous writings about her.
She’s English and ever since his castigation he never loses a chance of
saying something nasty about England and the English. No one takes any
notice of him.” That being the case I didn’t think it worth while to
take any notice either.
Rickards was one of the best of fellows. He had been a comic vocalist
in England in the ’seventies. Many old music-hall patrons of those
days may perhaps remember the song which made him popular. It ran, “His
lordship winked at the counsel and the counsel winked at the judge.”
He made more money out of his singing than he did by a music-hall
venture at Plymouth. This broke him; he became bankrupt and he left
for Australia heavily in debt. However, after he had made a fortune
in Melbourne and Sydney he paid every one in full. Like many in the
theatrical profession he was a bit superstitious. His theatre in Sydney
was burnt down and it so happened that on that particular night one of
the musical selections given was Tosti’s song “Good-bye.” After that
he forbade this song being given at any of his theatres. He need not
have been so weak-minded. Such a thing wasn’t likely to occur again.
Just before I started, Mr. Bland Holt, proprietor of the Theatre
Royal, Sydney, and a great friend of Mr. Arthur Collins, hearing I
was going to Drury Lane, came to me and asked if I would do him a
favour by taking a present to Mr. Collins in the shape of two little
rock wallabies--a small species of kangaroo. I agreed and he brought
them on board in a cage. They were amiable, playful little creatures
and became the pets of all the passengers. I was very fortunate in
eventually handing them over in good condition to Mr. Collins, as they
are very delicate animals and rarely survive the voyage. Mr. Collins
was delighted with them and I believe they were ultimately presented to
the Zoo.
I took passage in the R.M.S. _Orior_ and we left Sydney harbour on the
11th October, after quite a new experience, namely, travelling 8,000
miles or so to play for five nights only!
On the journey I had one or two experiences. Coming through the bight
off Fremantle, where on my previous visit to Australia, we had, owing
to the rough sea, to throw some of the animals overboard to save the
ship, we found no improvement in the behaviour of the waves and as a
consequence the steamer had to go direct to Colombo instead of putting
in at Fremantle.
At Colombo--a lovely place--beautiful atmosphere and such pretty dear
little children--a funny thing occurred. I was walking along the jetty
saying to myself, “Thank goodness, no one will recognise me here”--at
Melbourne I was stopped every few yards wherever I went--when, as I was
passing the Bristol Hotel, I heard someone shout, “Hello, Whimmy, what
the deuce are you doing here?” Then came another personal enquiry as
to whether I’d brought my red-hot poker with me, and a third warned me
that there were no pantomimes in Colombo.
I had run across some members of Bannerman’s Opera Company. They had
been playing for three nights in Colombo and were going on to India.
Such surprise meetings are of course common enough in England at
railway junctions--Derby especially--on Sundays, the travelling day
for touring companies, and very pleasant they are. Friends in the
profession who’ve not met for years come across each other, renew their
friendships over the cheerful glass--if the restrictions permit--and
part not to meet again for years more--perhaps never. I was used to
this sort of thing in the old country, but to have such a meeting in
Colombo nearly took away my breath. All I can say is that we had a high
old time.
Passing through the Suez canal it was the turn of the sailors. Jack
ashore is always out for a lark. Our men started with the donkeys,
which they rode in their own style and ended by having a row with some
Arabs. The result of the shindy was the pitching of several of the
natives into the water. After that leave was stopped and they had to
console themselves with concerts on board, games, boxing matches, etc.
It was all great fun.
At last I arrived in London and the first news I heard was that my
dear old pal Dan Leno was dead. He not long survived his close comrade
Herbert Campbell. It was a sad blow to think that these two splendid
humorists, who had played into each other’s hands at old Drury to the
delight of thousands, would never be seen again. To me the loss could
not be made good. I had acted with them in the Drury Lane pantomimes
for so long that when I appeared on the boards I felt a blank which I
can hardly describe.
Apart from stage associations I had many a merry moment with Dan. He
was always bubbling over with humour. Once I remember, coming with him
from rehearsal, strolling down the Strand to the “Marble Halls”--the
favourite name of the restaurant adjoining the Adelphi Theatre. The
Hotel Cecil was then being built and as we passed it Dan suggested we
should stand treat to the bricklayers. Away we went across the road,
and when Dan asked the fellows if they would like a drink their smiles
reached from ear to ear.
“All right, boys,” said he, “come along,” and followed by a little
crowd in their plaster and mud, he took them to the “Marble Halls.” The
porter in his gorgeous livery looked horrified. Dan protested. People
stopped to see what was the matter.
“They won’t allow the hard-working British man to have a drink,” he
exclaimed indignantly. A policeman interfered--and we all had to “pass
along.” I suspected Dan had some little game in his head, but did
not know what it was. However, we went on to the “Queen’s Head,” the
landlord of which was a friend of us both. This hostelry was provided
with numerous partitions, all of which were soon crowded.
“Give all these dear good hard-working men two pennyworth of port wine
each,” called out Dan. The men looked down their noses and growled out
that they wanted beer. Dan pretended to show great surprise, but in the
end paid for as much as they could drink. He had had his joke and was
satisfied.
There never was a man fonder of children than Dan was. It is on record
that the day before he took to his bed in his last illness he visited
the Belgravia Hospital for Children at Kennington, went over the
institution and left a liberal donation. One beautiful day in August I
chanced to meet him. “You’re just the boy I want, Whimmy. I’m giving a
children’s party to-morrow--about 300--and their fathers and mothers
are coming to tea. Be at my place in the morning.”
Dan lived at Clapham Park and I went down and helped him to put up
coloured lamps for the illumination at night. There were also to be
fireworks, over which he had spent some £40. These were stored in a
little outhouse. But long before night came there was an impromptu
display. While we were hanging the lamps we heard an explosion and saw
all the fireworks going up in the air. One of his children had somehow
managed to set fire to the lot. But no one was hurt. Dan wasn’t a bit
upset.
This was not the end of Dan’s misfortunes. The children poured in and
so did the parents; the band played on the lawn, some played cricket,
danced and so on, and then the time came to light the lamps. Alas!
The sun and the hot air--it was a blazing day--had melted the little
candles inside. No fireworks--no illumination. There still remained
the magic lantern show which had been prepared. This surely should go
without any mishap. Oh dear, no. A quarrel sprang up between some boys
behind the screen as to who should manage the show. A fight followed
and down came the sheet. There was no exhibition and it was difficult
to say who was the more disappointed--Dan or the children.
This ought to have been sufficient for the day, but it wasn’t. A final
disaster affecting me personally was yet to come. It was 5 a.m. when I
left, and as no conveyance was possible I started to walk to town, Dan
going with me. It so happened that I was wearing a new pair of patent
leather boots, and these having been in the sun all day soon became
intolerable, so I took them off and we both sat down on a road-side
seat. Presently a milk cart came along and this we stopped and arranged
with the driver to give us a lift. I put the boots near the cans and
was fairly comfortable. We reached Brixton police station and I looked
for my boots. They had vanished--jogged off the cart without my seeing
them go. I waited at a coffee stall until the trams began to run and
finished the rest of the journey in my stockinged feet. And this was
the end of Dan Leno’s garden party!
Like the rest of us, Dan could never resist a chance of a practical
joke. I had been promised an Irish terrier puppy by a breeder at
Levenshulme, near Manchester. I had been out all day and when I
reached home I found Dan there and that the dog had arrived in a box.
Dan was frightfully indignant and put the blame on me of treating it
cruelly--not having even given it a drop of water. It was in vain for
me to protest; he told me the R.S.P.C.A. ought to be informed. I was
surprised he had not let the dog out, so I drew the nails from the box
and put my hand inside to take out the puppy. To my consternation it
was stone cold. “I’m afraid it’s dead, Dan,” I whispered. Then I pulled
out the dead animal and found it was a pantomime dog which he had got
from the theatre property room! My own dog he had dispatched to his own
house. Poor Dan was full of pranks.
[Illustration: Whimsical Walker and the Drury Lane Harlequinade
entertaining the Lord and Lady Mayoress and children at the Mansion
House, London, in aid of the Blind Children of London]