ONCE again it seemed my fate to turn my attention to the "Halls," which are undoubtedly an "ever-pleasant refuge" to the unengaged actor. I determined to give another trial to the sketch I produced with some success at the Shepherd's Bush Empire, called Man the Lifeboat, and, it having occurred to me that, instead of the old Coxswain of the boat describing the launch and return of it with the rescued man, it would increase the interest to have it actually seen by means of cinematograph films, I cast about for the means of fulfilling this end.

After a careful examination of all existing films I could only discover one which I thought might be of use to me – a rescue of a man in the water done by the Hastings crew – but the preliminaries were unsuitable, the launch and return being of the mildest description, and carried out surrounded by a self-evident crowd of trippers and onlookers in immaculate flannels and straw hats, betokening a perfect summer day.

I called on the Secretary of the Lifeboat Institution, told him my trouble and received a most courteous permission to make my own arrangements with the officer and crew of the Deal Lifeboat, provided these arrangements synchronised with a "practice."

Armed with an introduction to Mr Prior, the local official, the rest was comparatively easy, and having agreed with Coxswain Adams to take advantage of the first really breezy morning with a bit of a sea on, I established myself and a cinematograph operator in the near neighbourhood of the boat-house, and patiently awaited developments, both of a weather and photographic description, hardening my muscles for my proposed arduous duties as Coxswain by the frequent use of my golf clubs.

I had already borrowed a cottage, from which I was to rush forth on receiving the summons for the boat, and sent there my "uniform" and cork-jacket, so was fully prepared for business when Coxswain Adams called one night at my hotel to inform me that "the wind was freshening, and the boat would be wanted at seven-thirty the next morning." Sure enough, when I was "roused out" about six-thirty, I found a nice grey day and, for Deal at this time of year, a fairly rough sea running, so I hastily got into my kit, not without certain misgivings as to the possibility of the amateur Coxswain being seasick.

Coxswain Adams is a typical Deal boatman, a true representative of the thick-set, hardy men who maintain the best traditions of their kind, men who make nothing of the worst weather imaginable when there is a prospect of saving life, and who take everything as it comes with a stolid acquiescence which is truly remarkable. Adams spent an hour or so with me one night in the cosy bar of the Royal, and though his potations were limited to one "three-finger" grog, it served to open the port-hole which imprisoned some capital and interesting yarns.

I had of course rehearsed the real Coxswain and the crew in the little drama which they were to represent, and they played their parts splendidly, with the one slight drawback that, instead of assuming the desired tragic expression demanded by the situation of saving a drowning man, they persisted in regarding the affair as a huge joke, and roaring with laughter when the aged and ailing Coxswain (myself), in rushing to his post, in spite of failing strength, measured his length on the rough beach from sheer physical distress, and was assisted to rise by the genuine Coxswain and one of the crew. Fortunately these cheerful smiles, although of an expansive nature, were not discernible on the film later on, partly owing to my shouts of "Don't grin," and more perhaps to the sea-going method of concealing merriment with the hand over the mouth.

My sensations when, having run up the ladder into the boat, amid the cheers of the waiting crew, I grasped the tiller and gave the word "Let her go!" I shall never forget. The beach at Deal is steep, and as the enormous boat gathered way, and rushed down to meet a succession of fairly huge waves, I felt a sense of great exhilaration, modified with that of a responsibility for the lives of the gallant fellows who had placed themselves so trustingly in my care.

However, all passed off satisfactorily, and after sailing out for a couple of miles or so, during which there was sea and wind enough to give us a thorough soaking in spite of mackintoshes, we made the return trip in great style – the Hastings boat having saved the drowning man we went out for some months before we received the "call" – and I returned to the hotel for a ten-o'clock breakfast, with which I was very pleased to meet, thoroughly satisfied and delighted with my first and last appearance (on the water) as Coxswain of the Lifeboat.

The two films combined made an excellent illustration of a launch and rescue, and were received with great applause when I produced the sketch at the Metropolitan Music Hall, but, to my great disappointment and, I may also say, surprise, the sketch failed to "book on," and beyond a visit to Jersey and Guernsey I did nothing more with it. Among other reasons for this result – a rather heart-breaking one after all the expense I had been put to in preparing for it – was one given by a friend of mine, who probably struck at the root of the matter in saying: "It's not your part, Barry: they want you to be funny – and they hate you to die." I gave up dying at the end of the sketch after that, and sang a verse of a song in praise of "a mug of beer," but, although it certainly seemed to inprove it, it was perhaps too late to save it; be that as it may, I have still faith in the sketch, and shall some day hire the boat out to some tragedian, by the hour, or two shows nightly.

A friend and fellow-actor (not always synonymous) who came to see it played at Shepherd's Bush, on his own initiative, confessed to me afterwards that he came in a critical mood and that I had surprised and touched him with my display of "rugged force and pathos," so perhaps when the above-mentioned tragedian takes over the command the little play may earn the success I feel it deserves.

Our journey to the Channel Islands was marked by one very pleasant little incident. I had reserved a compartment for myself and company in the train from Paddington to Weymouth, the train was abnormally crowded, and I found my "preserves" had been invaded by two young girls who had made themselves comfortable in two of the best corners and who resolutely refused to move to another carriage. Although I remonstrated with them personally they stuck to their guns – and corners – and I rather admired them for it. The train started, and in the course of conversation it transpired that they were also appearing in the same programme as we were, both in Jersey and Guernsey; that my agent had told them, in engaging them, that I was going and they had better look out for me on the train – which they had done to some purpose. This put a somewhat different complexion on their invasion, and we all became most friendly, and remained so for the week, both of them proving charming additions to our party.

We were most hospitably entertained one night in Jersey by a friend we made on the links at Gorey, and who kindly got up a poker-party for Hanworth, Browning and myself, at which he and his friends relieved us of all the profits we had not made during the week. There was a rule to the effect that anyone holding "fours of a kind" was to receive an extra sovereign from each player, and this occurred three times in no time, whereupon Browning suggested the abolition of the rule; this was of course acceded to, and the next hand that was dealt found me with four aces, for which I received about four shillings.

Guernsey was "one night only" on the way back to the mainland, but appears to be a better town for entertainments than Jersey; at all events we had quite a good house and appeared to be very popular, so much so that we were invited to stay on and give another evening; but it could not be arranged and we left for Weymouth with a pleasant sense of comfort at our reception which was rudely dispelled by a very stormy crossing.

On my return to town I signed a contract for four weeks at the London Pavilion with yet another sketch – a musical one this time, with one of my favourite topical songs in it, and a dance in addition. The title of it was Orange Blossoms, and I had the good fortune to secure Miss Pollie Emery for one of the parts and Miss Dorothy Craske for the other. The audiences appeared to enjoy it immensely, and it ran merrily for the four weeks, when it shared the same fate as the Lifeboat.

My part in it was that of a retired admiral, and one afternoon when I was being shaved at Shipwright's I was much interested on hearing from the "artist in attendance" that he had been to see me the night before. I naturally invited his criticism of the performance, knowing that these men are all great frequenters of theatres and halls, and more than fairly intelligent judges. I waited his dictum with some trepidation, which was justified when he said: "I only remarked one thing, sir – that your hair was rather long."

There was a tremendous storm in a tea-cup on the second night of this engagement; the dressing-room accommodation is somewhat limited here – as it is indeed at several of the older halls in London – and Miss Emery and Miss Craske had perforce to share a room with a well-known variety star, who, instead of welcoming two such charming ladies, chose the alternative of being very unpleasant to them; rather to their amusement. She informed the stage manager that, unless it were altered, she would there and then leave the place. He very wisely replied: "Do so, by all means, if you wish." She did, but – returned in less than ten minutes, in time for her "turn," and by way of insisting on her fancied rights placed a screen in the dressing-room, depriving the two other ladies of her own charming society and that of all the lights in the room.

What quaint ideas are occasionally induced by the artistic temperament in the direction of self-importance! – though not so much in evidence in the sterner sex, as proved by the fact that Neil Kenyon, Whit Cunliffe, Tom Clare and myself had the use of one room only and yet were not fractious over it, even though its dimensions were not great, and subject to a steady stream of song-writers anxious to interview Cunliffe. During this engagement I had my first experience of appearing at two different halls a night. I had signed a three weeks' contract with the Tivoli management to appear with Yorke Stephens in a duologue written by R. C. Carton, the well-known author, called Dinner for Two, and one week of the engagement overlapped with that at the Pavilion.

The times are of course arranged to allow margin enough for travelling from one place to another, but I had a narrow escape of being late one night at the Pavilion owing to one or two artists dropping out of the bill unexpectedly. My number went up as I entered the door, but fortunately I had no change of costume to make, so the situation was saved.

Both Yorke Stephens and myself came to the conclusion that Dinner for Two did not end satisfactorily, and we put our views before the author, but they were not his for some days, though when he eventually yielded to our gentle compulsion the result was a proof that we had been right in our diagnosis.

My experience is that the end of the sketch is the great difficulty in music-hall works. The whole thing has to be a kind of crescendo of laughter, and must finish with the best laugh of all, to be successful, and an additional trial is that one cannot allow any time for an explanation of the plot, which must, as the French put it, sauter aux yeux in the first few lines.

There is another factor of importance in the success of these sketches – the feminine element. There are certain sketches of a rough-and-tumble order which will win approbation and cause amusement, that do not require the presence of woman at all, but should a playlet be presented, comic or pathetic, absolutely demanding the inclusion of one or more of the softer sex, their representatives must be the last word of beauty and fashion if the sketch is to be a success, which will account for the anachronism of a maid-servant or waitress possessing valuable jewellery and dressing in the most expensive silks and satins, the only sign of economy being their attenuated length and breadth.

These simple (?) facts make sketch-writing for the halls a very difficult task, though most people fancy it is easy enough, and write accordingly.

The hard work of the double engagement had perhaps tired me somewhat, as one afternoon, when I had been seeing off some friends at Victoria Station, I had been forced to recognise the desirability of a whisky and soda; on chatting with the attendant Hebe during the process of acquisition she remarked: "You do put me in mind of Rutland Barrington – are you ever taken for him?" I told her that I was considered to bear a faint resemblance to the well-known actor; whereupon she added: "I thought so – but of course he is much more sprightly than you." I answered with a very chilly "Indeed?" Whereupon she hastened to soften the blow by saying: "But you are better-looking." I then paid for my refreshment.

Shortly after this the rumours which assigned the next tenancy of the Savoy Theatre to C. H. Workman received confirmation, and the reopening was duly announced, and within a few weeks an accomplished fact. The play chosen was called The Mountaineers, but it failed to attain any great altitude of success. It was followed by the new opera by Gilbert which had been frequently alluded to, but which I had, for some inexplicable reason, fully made up my mind would never see the light. It did, however, and finally proved to be a musical version of one of his old Haymarket successes called The Wicked World.

I have very clear recollections of the charming performances given by Madge Robertson, W. H. Kendal (who later on became her husband), and, above all, by that ripe old comedian Buckstone, as serving-man to the two knights. Whether it was that I could find nothing in this later version to overshadow these three artists, or whether the fact that turning so much of the dialogue into lyrics militated against the interest I had felt in the original play, I cannot determine, but I am inclined to attribute much of the failure of the opera to catch on to the fact that, owing to the entire absence of men's voices to balance the mass of soprani and alti, one's ears suffered from an unavoidable weariness, and a longing for the robust report of the male choristers; the humour of the play also seemed to me to have evaporated, to a great extent, with its conversion, and in spite of Workman's heroic efforts in Buckstone's old part, or possibly because of them, he did not provide the comic relief one looked for so anxiously; although he sang the two songs allotted to his part excellently well, I was conscious all the evening of a desire to hear one of the other two men, with their manly voices, indulge in a solo.

After the withdrawal of Fallen Fairies there was another production, which I believe met with a certain success, enough at least to warrant its migration to another theatre, but as far as the Savoy went its doors were closed for the time being.

The habit of "transplanting" plays seems to be largely on the increase, and in some cases with excellent results, but it has always been a mystery to me why a play which is proving a doubtful success should be expected to survive a removal, and, on the other hand, why a really successful one should be exiled in favour of something untried.

Of course previous contracts loom largely as factors in the bouleversement, and may occasionally be the true reason, but the danger of transplanting a tender flower is obvious, and yet numbers of theatrical gardeners are constantly courting it, and generally with the inevitable result.

Peter's Mother was a play which I believe travelled about from theatre to theatre, meeting with the same success in all, thereby establishing a dangerous precedent, but Peter's Mother was an exceptional person, and even she might have been alive now had she not been exposed to so many varied draughts.

There is undoubtedly something in the argument of the suitability of a theatre for one class of entertainment and one only; it would be incongruous to find a rollicking farce at His Majesty's, for instance, or tragedy at the Criterion; so it would surely be wiser to wait with your play for the right theatre. This, it seems to me, is amply demonstrated by the case of the Savoy; one is tempted to wonder if some occult influence is at work to deny prosperity to any and every production at this theatre other than Gilbert and Sullivan opera! That there have undoubtedly been other successes made there, notably by Greet, Vedrenne and Barker, and quite lately by Marie Brema, no one is likely to dispute, but a lengthy period of prosperity seems impossible of attainment except with the operas for which the theatre was built; it is a charming little house, easily accessible, which in the old days it decidedly was not, and yet this sad fate seems to attach to it; the solution of the enigma might be invaluable to the next tenant.

If it were possible, on the part of some interested syndicate, to tempt me to become the next adventurer I should certainly commence the campaign with one of the old Savoy successes, not necessarily Gilbert and Sullivan, but possibly one of the two or three operas sandwiched between the series, notably The Vicar of Bray or Haddon Hall; this method might, followed by a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, lay the ghost of the unlucky influence, and, while dormant, I would seize the opportunity of producing something entirely new and original, which, if successful on its merits, might be the awakening of a new era to the Savoy. I present this idea to the consideration of anyone interested in occultism, though the conjunction of occultists and syndicates appears somewhat anachronistic.

Page modified 2 January 2008