FROM Cheltenham to Southend was a change which offered much food for reflection in various directions, even the trains in which we made the rather toilsome journey evidencing a sense of the transmutation from moderate luxury to the advisability of getting there somehow, in something with a none too prepossessing exterior and a pronounced lack of interior comfort.

A walk along the parade in a fairly fresh breeze appealed to me as the best vacuum-cleaner available, but I was scarcely prepared for the extraordinary coram publico manner in which the younger visitors and residents of the town devoted themselves to the commissariat department. I had never before seen, in so limited an area, such an astonishing number of babies as were here assembled, most of them of a very immature age, and all, without exception, bent on satisfying a very natural thirst in a beautiful natural manner.

The Southend mothers indubitably recognise the truth of the poet’s dictum that there is no more beautiful thing to be seen than a mother suckling her child; but when the picture is presented ad infinitum the eye of a mere man becomes sated with its beauty, turns introspective and awakens disturbing thoughts of future possibilities.

I discussed the subject with a friendly, if somewhat familiar, waiter at my hotel, and he informed me that I should have promenaded “the other cliff,” where nothing of the kind obtains; his advice was sound, as I afterwards discovered, and during my stay I did not again trespass into the day-nursery.

The audiences here are, I was told, very appreciative, if rather critical, and our acting-manager strongly advised “no serious matter” in my sketch, but having carefully rehearsed a semi-serious song, interleaved, so to speak, with a few lines of spoken verse, I was not to be put off giving it, which I did in some trepidation, with the unexpected result of the serious portion of the number receiving the greater applause. One never knows!

Three nights and a matinée, it appears, exhaust the theatre-goers of Southend, so that this week brought me a strong reminder of my old “Entertainment” days in the shape of a weary journey on the Thursday from Southend to Tonbridge Wells, slightly solaced by an hour’s wait at Liverpool Street, giving time for a visit to one of Sweetings’ delightful houses for shellfish and appetising sandwiches of varied delicacies dear to the palates of the working bees in the city-hive.

In view of the storming of Tonbridge at some totally indefinite hour – it was only eleven o’clock then – Plummer and I provisioned our compartment with a consignment of shrimps and lobsters (“Actors and fish,” once again), which, on arrival, completed a menu such as an ostrich might have selected, consisting of the aforesaid shellfish, flanked with hot bacon and welsh-rarebits, and aided by a strong solution of Lager; certainly no ostrich could have felt better after a meal than did we after this one.

Tonbridge Wells will always dwell in my memory as being the place where, for the first time in my life, I won the prize in a raffle. As a matter of fact it was not “the” prize, but a consolation offered to the lowest throw of the dice, otherwise I think I should have retained my record; I should not have won this had it been anything I really wanted, and, as I could not very well take on tour a canary in a cage, I re-raffled it and handed the money to the stage-hands for drinks; I was horribly afraid I might win it again, but it was won by its former owner, the property-man, who was a bit of a humorist, and remarked on my winning it: “Well, guv’nor, I expect that’s the first time you ever got the bird.”

For the benefit of the uninitiated I will explain that “getting the bird” is theatricalese for being hissed. The expression is somewhat difficult of comprehension, but is, I presume, attributable to the unpopularity of the human with the goosebird; this has a subtle significance which may possibly account for the more modern manner of expressing disapproval, which is by “booing.”

Every artist has, I imagine, experienced and suffered from that extraordining laugh which so closely resembles a hiss; I myself have frequently been disturbed by it, but not of late years, and, in most cases at least, the artist has the consolation that expressions of disapproval are not levelled at him but at the author.

From “The Wells” we journeyed to Folkestone, where I had a great welcome at the hands of my old friend, George Grossmith, who has chosen it as a cheery and healthy place of retirement after long years of hard work. That he is by no means past work he demonstrated by accepting the task of composing the music for a song of mine written for George Giddens to sing in The Merry Peasant; it was never used by Giddens, and I never heard the reason why, but I have the song as a pleasant souvenir of association with my old comrade of the Savoy.

We had an addition to the company here, in the shape of a brother of Plummer, home on leave from “Cow-punching,” who “walked on” in the ballroom scene, which afforded him so much amusement as to rank as “the time of his life,” such is the glamour of the stage to the simple-minded backwoodsman.

Eastbourne is another town which fits into the same week with one of its neighbours, in this case Folkestone, and I was pleased to renew my acquaintance with the golf links which were the scene of my debut; they have been considerably changed since then, but some of the old holes still give me the feeling of being like a fly on a wall, so steep are the hills.

For some few weeks past we had had heavy additional work on our shoulders owing to the arrangement we had entered into to produce, in Brighton, an “entirely new and original” three-act comedy, which had been submitted to me as containing a part which might appeal to me – as it did, very strongly indeed.

One of the greatest difficulties in connection with the production was the imperative necessity for casting it among the members of our touring company, as otherwise it would have been next to impossible to adequately rehearse it.

The inevitable result of this condition was the presence of one or two square pegs in round holes, one part in particular requiring a stronger and older character actor than was included in the company. However, in spite of these little drawbacks, the task was attacked with the genuine enthusiasm invariably displayed by all players in exploiting new material by a new author, and the result was a performance which did not leave more to be desired than was inevitable, and in one or two directions proved better than was expected.

Not being unduly superstitious – I say “unduly” because experience tells me that superstition, genuine or assumed, is rampant among the members of my profession – we selected the Friday in the week for the productions of our bantling, which was called A Member of Tattersalls.

The prevalence of superstition amongst artists by no means implies a monopoly of the foolishness, if such it be; we have all heard people state: “I am not superstitious, but I would no more do such-and such a thing on a Friday than fly.” The bridge player is not superstitious, but if he wins the deal invariably takes the winning seat; these examples might be continued ad infinitum, but two are sufficient to demonstrate that, while the ordinary person denies the accusation of being superstitious, the artist honestly admits it, and will beg of you, with the gravest face, not to whistle in a theatre, for fear of whistling yourself or someone else out of it. The superstition with regard to passing someone on the staircase is, as far as I can gather, only indulged in by members of the gentler sex, who will turn round and go back to the next landing sooner than run the risk; all inquiries as to the penalty involved by a breach of this superstition have hitherto proved fruitless, and, knowing the feminine capacity for retaining a secret, one is forced to the conclusion that the penalty must be non-existent, or at least innocuous to man.

Superstition of all kinds has always had a strong fascination for me. I am one of those who “do not believe” though I may practise, but being fully awake to the danger of letting my pencil run away with me (I use pens only for letters) I will end this digression with the statement that I have no particular dislike to Fridays, and was not unduly disturbed at that night being chosen for our production. It is of course possible that the local management selected this night as not supposed to be quite the best from a business point of view, but fully meeting the requirements of an experiment; if any such idea existed it was most pleasantly dispelled by the fact of the receipts being larger than on any other night of the week, and the audience most gratifyingly enthusiastic.

The practice of a provincial production for a new play has at least one undoubted advantage – that of precluding any possibility of securing the presence in front of the kindly army of friends and wellwishers, invariably procurable in London, anxious to give a good send-off to author and players, and, as a natural consequence, providing a more genuine test of the prospects of the play, alike from the commercial and artistic points of view.

It was therefore very pleasant to find that, although we had a most friendly audience, it was not an audience of friends at the start, though wellwishers they probably were, and most decidedly became friends as the play progressed, and the character of the honest, straightforward old Book-maker, with his blundering but good-hearted efforts to secure the happiness of his only daughter, appealed to their sympathies, and found its way to their hearts.

One member of the audience, with whom I was slightly acquainted, paid me a visit at the end of the play, and said he “liked it immensely, and remembered seeing it in London!” He could hardly have read the programme, which he carried in this hand, for, as the result of careful and round-about questioning, I elicited the fact that he imagined he had assisted at a performance of The Walls of Jericho.

Although perhaps not very valuable as a proof of discrimination on the part of the maker, this criticism was certainly a two-edged compliment to the new play; for while it was undoubtedly pleasing to have it mistaken for the best-known, and most deservedly popular, work of a tried author, it also indicated the existence of plagiarism, for which there was not a single iota of foundation.

The business for the week at Brighton suffered considerably in my estimation from that detestable modern invention (from the touring manager’s point of view) the flying matinee.

The custom, which has arisen of late years, of transporting a noted London success, bodily, for one afternoon, to certain towns near enough to allow of a return in time for the usual evening performance, does not, I venture to think, offer sufficient advantages to either the London or provincial management to warrant the continuance of the practice. The profit made by the former can hardly be held to compensate for the trouble taken, not to mention the inevitable fatigue to the artists engaged, which must have its effect in a less spontaneous performance in the more important locale where the play is running.

The local manager can, of course, reckon on at least one good house during the week, for which, however, he has to surrender a far larger percentage; but, in order to secure this house, he discounts the value of attraction of the touring company which he is sheltering for the week, and deliberately asks his clients to save their money for the one performance, for which he usually doubles his prices. Another just grievance, which I think the touring manager has, lies in the fact that he finds the town ablaze with printing concerning the flying matinée, while his own modest appeals for patronage have, in some cases, to be sought for; also – it is the custom for the announcements of the following week’s attraction to be put in evidence on the Thursday or Friday of the week before, while the flying matinée may be largely advertised and billed for some length of time previously, surely a manifestly unfair method of procedure. Of course, one may be told that the weekly attraction is in truth a weakly one, and hence the flying matinée to balance things, but who is to tell us whether it would not have been possible to secure a stronger attraction had the flying matinée not been seen hovering in the middle distance?

I am not holding a brief for or against any touring manager or provincial theatre, but only in the cause of “live and let live.”

We are constantly being told of the difficulty actors have in securing a living wage, but the manager must perforce cut his coat according to his cloth, and I cannot but think the flying matinée a great factor in the reduction of the material, and one which, if persevered with, will, ipso facto, depreciate the efficiency of touring companies, through the inability of managers to pay such terms as are the legitimate demand of the competent artists.

This particular “flying matinée” was not, however, entirely without its pleasant feature to me; I understood that my dressing-room would be required for use by one of the artists, and having carefully collected all my belongings, and stored them carefully on one table, I had them covered with a large dusting sheet, to which I pinned a note, requesting the occupier to “kindly refrain from disturbing them.”

It was with no little pleasure and amusement that I found an answering note on my looking-glass that evening which read:

“DEAR MR BARRINGTON, Many thanks for your room. In spite of great curiosity I have not even peeped! Yours sincerely, ELLIS JEFFRIES.”

From sunny Brighton to breezy Blackpool was another contrast, our arrival being greeted with a strong gale of wind and heavy rains, both of which continued at intervals during the week. As the Aviation Festival was to take place the following week, faces began to get longer and longer in anticipation of failure, but luckily it was not realised.

Going home one night after work, I turned on to the front, and found myself facing the strongest wind I think I have ever experienced. Had it been gusty, walking would have been impossible, and it was only the steady force of it which allowed of any progression against it, and when I turned I was blown along at a pace which would have done credit to my old sprinting days.

The circumstance that fixed this particular gale in my memory was the marvellous effect it produced in playing on and through The Tower; there was a deep, varying diapason note, like the groaning of some monster in distress, and above that a mighty rustling that one’s fancy could easily imagine to be caused by the wings of a countless horde of demons let loose on a voyage of destruction; the combined effects of a cheery fire and hot supper being needed to convince that “the end was not yet.”

An agreeable interlude to the austerities of this week was provided by the presence of my old friend Vere Clay Ker Seymer, who was the organiser for the Aviation Week. We had supper together on several occasions at the Tower Restaurant, where the cooking left nothing to be desired, and where he was to be found on most evenings surrounded by a crowd of genial and admiring aldermen and town councillors, drinking in the words of wisdom he let fall, to a liquid accompaniment of their own choosing. Vere, as is well known, is an excellent raconteur, and one of his efforts, I remember, amused the aldermanic entourage immensely; his uncle, Cecil Clay, was playing bridge at a “mixed” party, and at a late hour, when breaking up was discussed, a very charming lady announced that, having only won two pounds ten, she was not going to bed, whereupon Clay remarked: “A most praiseworthy resolution. I shall be happy to make it a fiver!”

I went as usual during the week for a round or two of golf at St Anne’s, and on one occasion proved to my companion’s satisfaction that all railway servants are not as smart as they might wish us to believe; we had third-class tickets, and on the return journey, owing to the crowded state of the train, we travelled second. The collector demanded excess, which my friend paid, but as, for some reason, I had not parted with the “outward” half of my ticket, I pointed out to him that in getting a whole ticket it must cover any excess due – it puzzled him for a moment, but he eventually saw the justice of it, and retired minus the excess.

My companion, having paid, felt that he had been defrauded, but the next day he had his revenge, as, having taken both our tickets, he informed me on the return journey that he had lost mine. I therefore had to pay, and it never occurred to me till later to ask how he knew that it was my ticket and not his own that was lost.

I paid my first visit to an Aerodrome here, and was much impressed with the space required and the enormous sheds built for the machines, but lost interest to a great extent on finding that none of the latter had arrived – in fact one propeller, unattached, was all that was in evidence to gratify the curiosity of some hundreds of confiding trippers – myself among the number – who had paid their hardly earned shillings of entrance money.

Why is it that, whatever may be your point of departure, a journey to Leeds invariably creates a feeling of depression? It is a thoroughly hospitable town, and a good entertainment never fails in attracting large and appreciative audiences, and yet one views a visit with a certain amount of apprehension. Having received a hint of an existing predilection for strong fare I substituted one of my old Coliseum scenas for the musical entertainment, and my old friend The Tramp emerged from his retirement with some success.

Another old friend also appeared during the week, in the person of Cyril Maude, who was at the rival house with The Flag Lieutenant, and I took advantage of a matinée to see the play for the first time. I enjoyed it thoroughly, especially the scene of the great fight, and was much impressed with the power of the Admiral to countermand a court martial at his discretion.

Blackburn was a town which I had never previously visited and which afforded me agreeable surprises in several ways. One of these was my first experience in rinking – that is, up-to-date rinking, as I was one of its early martyrs in the boom of – well – some years ago. My skates on this occasion ran away with me better than I did with them, and the sight of a sweet little girl of some five years of age cutting figures of eights, threes and sixteens, with all the airs and graces of a St Moritz champion, so impressed me with the lack of distinction about my own figures of fifty (odd) that I speedily arrived at the conclusion that rinking was not my forte, and I have sternly discouraged any further efforts.

I was confirmed in this resolve by witnessing a rink hockey match, in which the outdoor costume seemed ridiculously out of place and the attitudes of the players on a par with the dress.

There can be no doubt that the overwhelming popularity of this amusement largely affected for some time the prosperity of the provincial theatres, but, partly owing to the plethora of rinks, and possibly greatly to the monotony of the exercise, there are not wanting signs of the waning of the affections of its devotees; it may possibly revive with the invention of a skate or floor which will mitigate the fiendish noise, which the efforts of an even excellent orchestra, conspicuous by its rarity, only seems to accentuate.

Another agreeable surprise was the manner in which my little sketch and songs were received by audiences which I had been given to understand were only influenced by the “dramatic touch,” and here again the pleasure found its concomitant pain in a remark made by a casual acquaintance who informed me that he had taken his “missus” to the play and that while she had thoroughly enjoyed it she had quite failed to see “what the prologue had to do with it!” I began to wonder if people ever read their programmes, and on putting that question to the local manager in one of the towns we visited he told me that a large percentage of his patrons never took programmes, but gathered all the information they thought necessary from the advertisement hoardings. And yet we are told that we are not a thrifty nation!

Page modified 2 February 2008