My first engagement at Covent Garden. My performing pig. Its
ultimate end. Some dog yarns. Animal trainers not cruel. “Verdun,”
the wonderful performing horse. How E. T. Smith swallowed a £1,000
note. A shadow in my life. My first panto at Drury Lane Theatre. A
“great cab act.” Comic film scenes indebted to the harlequinade.
The decline of the harlequinade. The clown’s difficulties with the
orchestra. Royalty at the pantomime. I present Princess Mary with a
Christmas cracker. The cracker and the cats--a practical joke. The
relief of Ladysmith--an excited audience. Arthur Roberts, the prince
of “spoofers.” Escapades at a Sheffield hotel. Pressmen “spoofed” by a
water chute. The “spooferies.”
My first engagement at Covent Garden Theatre was as a circus clown. Sir
Augustus Harris and Mr. Freeman Thomas, afterwards identified with the
promenade concerts, subsequently given, took the theatre for a season,
and ran it as a circus, Hengler’s providing the entertainment. I have
always been very successful with performing animals, and this time I
was lucky in having a very clever pig. I’m not prepared to say which is
the more intelligent, the pig or the donkey; whether or not, both are
proof that four-footed animals have more brains that they know how to
use than people suspect. This particular pig became greatly attached
to me; it used to follow me about like a dog, and it was immensely
popular with the company. Its fate was somewhat singular and due to a
peculiar accident.
There was, of course, in the theatre a refreshment bar, which I
imagine was the attraction which drew Mr. Freeman Thomas into the
speculation, he being in the wine and spirit trade, and at the time
was the proprietor of the “Griffin” in Villiers Street, Strand. One
day a friend of mine dropped in before the performance commenced and
suggested a drink at the bar. I accompanied him there, and so did the
pig. My friend ordered a bottle of champagne and threw a sovereign
on the counter. It bounced in the air and rolled on the ground, and
“Tommy” the pig being always on the look out for unconsidered trifles,
found the coin and swallowed it. I don’t suppose the sovereign would
have done him the least bit of harm, but unfortunately the circus
grooms saw the coin disappear into his mouth and laid their plans
accordingly. What their plan to get hold of the sovereign was I don’t
know, but they gave him medicine of some sort. I noticed him getting
thinner and thinner every day, but did not at once suspect what was the
matter. One morning poor “Tommy” was found lying in the cellar dead
and it was pretty certain that poison was the cause. No post-mortem
followed, which was a pity, as there was a possibility that the
miscreants had not been successful and the sovereign would have been
found; not that this would have been of the slightest importance, as I
would have given many sovereigns rather than be deprived of my faithful
companion. A reward was offered to find out the man who poisoned the
pig, but he was never discovered.
Intelligent as donkeys and pigs may be, they are distanced a long way
by dogs. I once had a poodle which was the cleverest animal I ever
had to do with. There was something almost uncanny in his imitative
faculty. I had but to do a trick once and he grasped it at once. I may
give an instance of this, which had it not been witnessed by myself
would be considered incredible. I was breakfasting one morning when
I saw the poodle gnawing my slippers, and it made me so angry that I
seized him, knocked his head against the wall and threw him out of
the window, which chanced to be open. He wasn’t hurt, as he had but a
very little distance to fall. The next morning he came in as usual,
saw the slippers, and I imagine this reminded him of what had occurred
the previous day, for he rushed to the wall, knocked his head against
it, and then leaped out of the window. He thought he had learned a new
trick.
Among the dogs which I have at various times possessed, was an Airedale
terrier. It was not a performing animal, its chief peculiarity being
that it had an abnormally long tail. And thereby hangs a tale. I parted
with the dog to an army officer, who shortly afterwards went to India
with his regiment. Some few years afterwards I met the officer on his
return to the old country, and he said:
“Walker, that dog I got from you was a good investment; it saved my
life upon one occasion.”
I said I was glad to hear this, and asked for particulars.
“Well,” said the officer, “one day in India, accompanied by the dog,
I wandered quite a long distance from the cantonment and got lost
in the jungle. For seven or eight hours I searched in vain for an
outlet; I was not only dismayed, but as I had had no food for some time
previously I was also starving. At length I came to a clearing where
I gathered together some brushwood and lighted a fire. Famished as I
was I was ravenous for food, so I called the faithful dog to my knee,
cut off his tail, and ate the tail for supper. When I had finished
I noticed the poor animal looking at me very piteously--it was also
famished, so I gave the dog the bone to pick!” I don’t vouch for the
truth of this. It may be a _ben trovato_.
Of late there has been considerable controversy as to the training of
performing animals. Humanitarians have got it into their heads--not for
the first time--that much cruelty is involved in teaching them their
tricks. While I was recently performing in the principal Midland towns
the representative of a leading Lancashire paper put this question to
me: “In your opinion is it possible to train animals to trick work by
any method except kindness?”
“Utterly _impossible_,” was my reply. “I have trained more performing
animals than any other clown alive and I have found them ready to
respond to kindness--always. The person who attempts to train an animal
by cruelty _will never succeed_, and I say with knowledge ranging back
over fifty years that there is not a single animal travelling to-day
that could have been trained in any other way. Kindness first, last
and always is the foundation of success in training all animals. Come
with me and I’ll let you see for yourself the sort of animals we have
in this show. I’ll introduce you to a man who brought a horse from the
brink of the grave to be the best trained and best mannered animal of
the kind in existence.”
The journalist accompanied me to the stables and I presented him to the
well-known owner of the pantomime horse “Verdun.” The trainer and owner
of this clever animal is Mr. Agube Gudzow, whose deeds in the ring
are world famous. “Verdun” was in his stall feeding and my friend was
doubtful whether it was safe to disturb the horse while at his meal.
The trainer smiled and in a moment “Verdun” had turned towards the
visitor and placed his nose in the journalist’s hand.
This horse, between which and Mr. Gudzow exists a strong bond of
affection, has a very interesting history. “Verdun” is so named because
he fought all through the later stages of the war that raged round the
heroic French city. Gassed and suffering from shell shock, three times
wounded, the noble animal was put up for auction in London. A foreign
horse dealer bid £1 for the broken-down hero and it was going to feed
the Dutch when Mr. Gudzow bid £5 and the horse was knocked down to
him. To-day it is known all over the country, and in Hyde Park, when
exercising in Rotten Row, people bring it enough sugar to satisfy a
schoolboy.
I then took my friend to Mr. Fred Astley, the trainer of another
celebrated performing horse, “Black Prince.” The idea of cruelty to
this animal is out of the question, for the young stallion is not
the sort of chap to stand any nonsense. Yet his act brings storms of
applause, and when his performance is over master and horse lunch
together!
Mr. Carlos Mier, another trainer, served this country throughout the
war as a breaker-in of horses. He is known far and wide as an expert at
his business and smiles sarcastically at the suggestion that cruelty
is ever practised towards the animals. Mr. Mier brought from the army
training ground at Market Harborough a dog that had been the pet of the
soldiers. This clever animal is called “Spot,” and the way he jumps to
receive his master is evidence of his strong affection. I could give
many other instances of the love which animals have for their trainers
and I wish the people who have a wrong idea of this animal training
business could spend five minutes in my company and go with me over a
well-ordered show. I think after seeing for themselves the real state
of things, they would discover that trainers and showmen associated
with animals are almost universally keen lovers of our dumb friends,
are the first to resent any ill-treatment, and have taken instant
action in cases of cruelty of any sort which have come under their
notice.
My pet pig’s inadvertent swallowing of money reminds me of a curious
episode at the old “Criterion” in the days when the long buffet was a
favourite resort of men about town, and an equally favourite place for
lunches and dinners. Mr. E. T. Smith and Mr. Jonas Levy, who combined
the deputy chairmanship of the London and Brighton Railway Company
with dramatic criticism--he wrote the theatrical notices in _Lloyds
News_ for many years--were dining there with one or two friends when
Mr. Howard Paul joined them. Howard Paul had just returned from America
and was unusually exuberant.
His visit to America had proved very profitable, but the others did not
know this. As a rule his pocket was somewhat low, and when he began to
talk loudly about the money he’d made and flourished a £1,000 bank note
as evidence, the party thought he was “codding” them. Howard Paul to
be in possession of a £1,000 Bank of England note was too absurd for
anything.
“Let me look at it,” said E. T. Smith, and Howard Paul proudly handed
it over to the lessee of Drury Lane Theatre.
Smith was having soup at the time, and no sooner had he hold of the
note than he crumpled it into a ball, dropped it into the spoonful of
soup he was raising to his mouth and swallowed it. Howard Paul’s face
went green and his eyes were distended with horror. E. T. Smith thought
the note was bogus, whereas it was perfectly genuine.
What was to be done? Nothing. Bank note paper was quite easy of
digestion. The upshot was that everyone present had to make an
affidavit to satisfy the bank that the note had really disappeared in
the fashion described, but even then it was some three months before
Howard Paul was comforted by another note. It is odd that the swallowed
note should be a thousand pound one, for thousand pound notes had a
peculiar fascination for E. T. Smith. It is a fact that when any
theatre or building that he favoured for show purposes was put up for
sale by auction, “E. T.” would bid for it, and when it was knocked down
to him would flash a £1,000 note in the auctioneer’s face as an earnest
of his possession of means, and trust to chance to being able to raise
the purchase money. If he failed, then the £1,000 note came in handy
for a second attempt.
Sorrow is closely allied to gaiety, as I had too good reason to
discover while Hengler’s had Covent Garden. Just before my engagement
at the theatre my wife was taken seriously ill, and I had her removed
to Hull, my native place, where she would be among friends. I had
reason to fear there were no hopes of her recovery, and after the
season began at Covent Garden I would two or three times a week take
the night mail train to Hull to see her and return to London the next
morning in time for the morning performance. This constant travelling
and anxiety told upon me terribly, and I arranged with the doctor to
send a wire should she be taken worse. A telegram came to me in due
course, but owing to its being addressed to Hengler’s headquarters
in Argyle Street, there was considerable delay before I got it. The
message was as I feared--my wife was much worse. I set off for Hull
at once and at Doncaster found a wire awaiting me, telling me that my
poor wife was dead. She had, it appeared, died in her sleep. I went on
to Hull and while I was standing at her bedside a telegram was brought
me. It was from Covent Garden and ran, “Prince and Princess of Wales
coming to-night. Return if possible.” I could do no good by staying
at Hull. I rushed back to London and performed before their Royal
Highnesses--how much my heart was aching, though possibly my face did
not show it, I need not say--and hurried back for the funeral. The
reaction after this terrible strain was too much to sustain. I had a
nervous breakdown and was in bed for six weeks. Little did people think
when I again was able to appear in the circus and was making them laugh
how I felt inwardly, but the matter was kept a secret and no one knew.
Some time later, while at Drury Lane, I was going on to the stage in my
clown’s dress when a telegram was put into my hands, and I read, “Frank
Walker died this morning at Carlisle of pneumonia.” Frank Walker was
my son. How I went through the pantomime of that night after the shock
of this news I’ve no idea. I may have been funny, I can’t say. Anyhow,
I had to go through my “business” and I did it. The poor boy promised
to do well in his profession, which was mine; he was a tremendous
favourite with the Carlisle people, and some 5,000 followed him to his
grave. So you see I had my ups and downs, with my face painted trying
to make others laugh, and with deep sorrow in my heart.
I began at Drury Lane in 1891 with “Beauty and the Beast”; Lady Dunlo
was “Beauty,” John D’Auban the “Beast,” and Vesta Tilley was also in
the cast. In the harlequinade quite a number of the Leopold family took
part. There were two clowns, myself and Harry Leopold. Fred Leopold was
harlequin, and Joseph Leopold pantaloon. The _Era_ was good enough
to say: “In the second scene, a model farmyard, Whimsical Walker in
schoolboy attire introduced his wonderful whimsical singing donkey and
added enormously to the amusement of the spectators in what we may call
a great cab act.”
This was some comic business which I fancy must have been suggested to
me by the unpremeditated pranks I played in Dublin (already related),
when I was chased by a policeman and evaded him by running round and
underneath a horse and the constable falling down in the pursuit, the
whole thing ending in my temporary sojourn in the police station.
For pantomime purposes I amplified the episode by the addition of a
four-wheeled cab--a real one, not a property affair. There was much the
same chase by a stage policeman, only more so, as I was able to dart
through the cab in at one door and out at the other with the policeman
after me.
I am bound to say that royalty never turn their backs upon pantomime.
The late King Edward, it is true, was not an enthusiastic patron, if
indeed he can be called a patron at all, for I’m not aware that he ever
was present at the “Drury Lane” pantomime, and I’m told that he did not
care for this kind of show, but when a boy he frequently accompanied
Queen Victoria. Queen Alexandra, on the other hand, very often came,
accompanied by her grandchildren. I well remember on one occasion when
introducing some “business” with Tom Smith’s crackers, which included
throwing a number among the audience, it occurred to me to present
a cracker to the little Princess Mary, who was in one of the boxes
with other members of the royal family. Getting a ladder, I planted it
against the box and mounted it, crackers in hand. My clown’s white and
red face in a queer headdress suddenly popping up over the edge of the
box rather alarmed the small lady, I’m afraid. The clown is all very
well at the distance, but near to must seem an awful figure, especially
to a child’s imaginative mind. I presented the cracker. I could see
she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. However, she mustered up
courage to take a cracker from me and all went well, especially as she
was rewarded for her graciousness by a huge burst of applause. As for
the young prince, he looked upon the thing as a rare bit of fun, and
at once entered into the spirit of it. This was the first visit of the
Prince of Wales, his brother and Princess Mary to a pantomime.
This cracker “turn” was made a vehicle for a practical joke of which I
was the victim. The “business” was first the lugging in of a gigantic
cracker, which pantaloon and I, after some of the usual fooling, pulled
and broke. It was stuffed with little crackers and then followed the
distribution. One night the cracker was torn asunder, and out fell to
my intense astonishment a bevy of cats. Quite a thrill went through the
audience, it being naturally thought that the thing had been purposely
arranged, and the thrill became excitement when the cats, scared beyond
measure, scampered about the stage, some jumping into the orchestra,
and others bounding into the private boxes, to the intense terror of
the occupants. I needn’t say that I spotted the perpetrator in that
incurable practical joker Dan Leno!
One had to keep an eye open for an opportunity to introduce a topical
allusion. The greatest applause and enthusiasm I ever heard and
witnessed in Drury Lane Theatre was at a matinee during the Boer
War. Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell had just come off the stage when
a telegram was put into Dan’s hands. “Confound it,” he groaned, “I
wish I’d had this given me ten minutes ago. What a chance missed!”
Then he brightened up. “Whimmy,” said he, “read this and give it
out.” The telegram was “Relief of Ladysmith.” Accordingly I went on
and announced the news. Directly I had uttered the words I saw it was
no good going on with my performance. The audience rose to its feet,
shouted, threw up their hats, and some started singing the National
Anthem. The curtain had to be rung down and the show brought to an
end. Going out of the theatre the newspaper boys were rushing past
with “Reported relief of Ladysmith” on the contents bills. The place
was not relieved for a fortnight after and Dan then had his chance to
make the announcement. But again he was defrauded by a premature bit
of gag on the part of a precocious boy (afterwards well-known as Jimmy
Harrington) as related by Jimmy Glover.
The greatest bit of “spoof” that ever was done, I should think, was at
Sheffield--with myself and Arthur Roberts. I was performing in “Venus,”
which Sir Augustus Harris had produced at the Alexandra Theatre, and
Arthur Roberts was at the Theatre Royal. I had a note from Arthur
Roberts asking me to come up after the show, so I went and found a
brougham waiting outside the Theatre Royal. It had been sent for him
from the Maunch Hotel, where in fact we were all staying. I needn’t say
that Arthur Roberts was a born “spoofer” and never missed a chance of
pulling somebody’s leg. He sometimes got himself up so that even his
own flymen did not recognise him. On this occasion he had a fur coat
on and he looked more like a Russian than anything else. A stage hand
was standing next to us with a clay pipe in his mouth, so Arthur began
talking “cod” Russian to me and I was the interpreter. In the middle
of this “cod” talk I turned round to this man saying: “The Prince from
Moscow (meaning Arthur) wants to know if you’d like to go to his hotel
and have supper with him. He’s taken a liking to the British working
men, he says they look so strong and healthy.” So, with a little bit of
persuasion, we got the man into the brougham and we were taken to the
Maunch Hotel. As interpreter to the Prince I got our guest to go into
a room by himself and told him to wash his face and make himself as
presentable as he could.
In due time he came into our room, where there were Harry Nicholls,
Fred Latham, myself and Arthur Roberts. Arthur kept up his jabbering
and of course I interpreted it, telling the man that the “Prince” was
surprised to see what a small foot the man had for such a big fellow
and wanted to know how he would look without his boots. The upshot was
we got his boots off, then his coat and waistcoat, as his Highness
would like to see how many inches he was round the chest. Finally, we
had everything off him except a little bit of red flannel that he had
on his chest. When he was reduced to this extremity the man protested,
saying: “I’ll take nought else off,” and we considerately left him with
this bit of flannel! Finally we each gave him a couple of bob and sent
him home. Then the manager of the hotel came upon the scene and there
was something like a row, but we made it all right by treating the
manager.
This was not the end of our “spoofing” enterprise. Our room was on the
top floor of the hotel, and when Harry Nicholls and Latham left us it
was early in the morning and we heard the servants moving about. A bit
of devilry came into our minds to do some statuary business with the
table cloths, and when the domestics came into the room to tidy up they
found Arthur on one table and me upon another, with white table cloths
round us and a little bit of soot on our noses. Directly the girls saw
these two ghostly figures on the table they screamed and fell down in a
faint. I rushed to a hiding place, thinking it was a cupboard, got into
it and found it was the lift, and I went with a horrible grinding noise
right to the bottom. Where Arthur got to I don’t know, but with the
row everybody was out of bed, and of course we were asked to leave the
hotel. But somehow we talked over the manager and he forgave us.
A third escapade and I’ve done with the Maunch Hotel. One night, or
rather morning, Arthur and I came from the Arts Club on a conveyance
which was not quite orthodox, or even respectable, being in fact
simply a street sweeper with a huge brush! Imagine the picture, two
men sitting on a street sweeping machine at four in the morning, with
silk hats on! We got to the hotel and they let us in through the iron
latticed doors, which formed the entrance. No sooner were we inside
than another idea occurred to us. Down we went on our hands and
knees, crawling round and round and pretending to be wild beasts and
occasionally growling through the bars at the artisans and colliers
going to work. A frantic expostulation from the manager followed,
but we made it up with him, so much so that when we were leaving he
presented each of us with a knife!
The following, I think, may be called a natural “spoof”--it was
certainly a “spoof” on the part of Dame Nature. I once visited a friend
of mine who had taken a billiard saloon for the season in a well-known
South Coast watering place. Luck was dead against him, for during the
first few weeks there was scarcely one fine day, and though a few
visitors were driven by the weather into his saloon matters were not
much better there, because the skylight was a dreadfully leaky one.
On my first visit to the saloon I found a couple of players engaged
in a game, and my friend standing near each player in turn holding up
an umbrella to keep the rain from splashing on the table and spoiling
the strokes! There were only a few spectators, and these were in
a high state of glee, and were constantly encouraging the players
with cries of “In off the spot! In off the spot!” the said spot, in
every instance, being a newly-made rainspot that had dropped from the
skylight on to the green cloth. As these rainspots were continually
appearing, the players had a great variety of choice for their strokes!
I remember a good example of an unintentional “spoof” which occurred
when I was engaged at the Agricultural Hall in “China in London.” This
was the first time the water chute was introduced. It was then a great
novelty, but was afterwards made familiar enough to the public at Earls
Court.
The management invited the London Press to lunch, after which they
were able to sample the chute. This performance was faithfully
carried out--indeed too faithfully, and this is where the “spoof”
came in. Special arrangements were made for the new amusement (?) by
the construction of a water channel about three feet deep and six
feet wide, which ran right round the hall. There was also a sort of
miniature lake some ten feet square and ten feet deep near the stage.
This was for the reception of Willie Beckwith, the famous swimmer, when
he dived from the roof, a performance which always gave the audience
the thrill of their lives. This lake had nothing to do with the chute,
but fate ordained otherwise. The gentlemen of the Press could no more
see into the future than could ordinary people, and they took their
seats in the boat gaily enough after being well fortified by the lunch.
“Are you ready?” called out the man in charge. The Press answered
as with one voice, “Yes,” and down they went into the three feet
channel. At least, this is what they should have done according to the
programme, but someone or something had “blundered” and the boat dipped
into the ten feet lake and shot out all the occupants! It was something
like a scrum! I did not read what was said in the papers about the
incident. Maybe it was one of those slips concerning which the less
said the better.
The art of “spoofing” was brought to a high state of perfection at the
“Spooferies,” that queer little club founded by Arthur Roberts and
others in a court near the Adelphi Theatre, between the Strand and
Maiden Lane. The premises consisted of one large room, originally,
I fancy, intended for a cellar, and the “properties” were mainly a
billiard table and a grill! The fun did not begin until about midnight
and ended with the milk in the morning. Here I believe a number of
victims were offered up for sacrifice after the fashion of the stage
hand at Sheffield. Whether that episode suggested the subsequent
game--for a mock game was invented--I am unable to say.
[Illustration: Whimsical Walker rehearsing a love scene with Miss Nancy
Buckland, Drury Lane Theatre Stage]