ONE of the penalties of touring with a piece that has been played almost everywhere presents itself in the necessity for avoiding certain towns where it has either been seen too often or too lately to render another visit advisable, even though it may be the only stepping stone to the next Eldorado, and it is this penalty which brings in its train the infliction of some of those wild flights from north to south, and vice versa, of which the column "On the Road" in The Referee every Sunday affords such frequent proof.

Our Blackburn to Dalston jaunt was a case in point, mitigated to a great extent by the prospect of living at home for a whole week, a joy which had some of the edge taken off it by the circuitous and lengthy route involved in the practice of this domestic virtue.

It was my first experience of this suburb, and I was much struck with the courtesy of an absolute stranger who greeted me by name on the station platform, surmised that it was my first visit and insisted on showing me the way to the theatre, which I found was just outside the station; I smelt an autograph hunter, but was wrong: it was only the desire of an old Savoy admirer to have speech with one of the admired.

There was an old gentleman in the front row of the stalls at the matinée – a position I was told that he occupies at every matinée of every play – with a magnificent laugh which infected the rest of the house so delightfully that it would be worth the while of any management to secure his attendance in perpetuo at a decent salary, but on the other hand this might mean putting an extinguisher on his enjoyment, it being a notorious fact that "deadheads" very rarely consider that they are getting value for the money they have not expended.

There was a peculiar system of "Benefit Tickets" in use here, which was explained to me at some length by our manager, but which I entirely failed to comprehend, except in so far as grasping the facts that it meant a considerable difference, against us, in the accounts, and that the buyers of these tickets would not have been there if they had not bought them – which may be probable if not obvious.

From Dalston we journeyed to another suburb, of a somewhat more open aspect, called Swindon, where our efforts to amuse met with a responsive enthusiasm entirely out of proportion with the size of the audiences.

It is perfectly true that an appreciative audience, however small, is a great incentive, but an irritating frequency of this great incentive is apt to become also a trifle monotonous, and had it not been for some delightful experiences outside the town it is just possible that we might have regarded Swindon with a certain amount of disfavour.

These experiences were chiefly derived from days with the Badminton Hunt and the V.W.H., Swindon being an excellent centre for both packs.

On the Tuesday, Plummer and I put in a very strenuous day, the meet of the V.W.H. was at Haylane Wharf, which we were told was "about three miles out." It turned out to be a good four, and we just missed the meet, however we "nicked in" later on; had lots of fun over hills and through some very thorny hedges and eventually saw three kills, one of them taking place in a pond, which I believe is rather exceptional; all three foxes were bolted out of a drain, and the third, a big dog fox, might have given a good run with a little more law allowed him. Four miles out and four back, not to mention the hunting, formed a capital hors d'œuvre for a short nap, a long steak, and the play as a savoury.

The next day, by way of a rest, we strolled out to historic Wrougton, to lunch with my old friend Arthur Gordon, the well-known gentleman rider and trainer, where after lunch we proceeded to pass criticism of a totally uninspired nature on the horses under his charge. One of our party took the prize in this connection by remarking, "that's a likely-looking colt your man is exercising," to which our host replied: "Ah, that's rather a novelty you are looking at – he's a six-year-old being broken!"

Thursday found us at Wootton Bassett for a meet of the Duke of Beaufort's hounds, and even the uninitiated eye could not fail to be struck with their quality and also that of the mounts of the hunt servants, the horse Dale was riding looking as if he might be trained to win a Grand National.

We had the great good luck to see a lovely piece of hound work from our vantage point of the top of the hill at Vasterne, where they found, and went away across the canal, when he turned right-handed, doubled back, crossed the canal again, through a large woodyard, and then held right away behind us. There were three checks, and it was beautiful to see the hounds working and picking up the line again, we having the fox in view all the time; after the third they streamed over the railway, and, as a matter of course, there was a train passing, but the driver saw them in time, and stopped till every hound was safe over (I could almost hear the language used by an indignant passenger who disapproved of hunting, though the train was half-a-mile away) and the last we saw of them was when, after leaving the wood -pile, they were going at a tremendous bat up the meadows at the back of us, with the fox in view, towards Cliffe Pyford, where, we heard later on, they lost him, but after wandering about for two or three hours, attracted in different directions by the distant music of the pack, and eventually giving it up, we were passing Vasterne on our way to the station when we saw a very tired fox, which I fully believe was the one they had been hunting, stealing up a hedgerow towards the covert, having gallantly saved his brush for a future occasion.

By the courtesy of the Duke of Beaufort I am enabled to publish the photograph which accompanies this chapter, the original of which will remain a pleasant souvenir of a most enjoyable outing, and one which will go far to reconcile me to another professional visit to Swindon should opportunity offer.

Two of the ladies of the company were out with us this day, and Miss Trevor Lloyd, who knew the country, having ridden to hounds herself at one time, was almost more than my match as a foot-follower, but then, as I pointed out, she was hardly such a weight-carrier as myself.

Friday saw us out again with the V.W.H. at Minety Old Inn, a most delightfully picturesque little spot, but it was a poor day's sport, consisting chiefly of bucketing about the roads, the monotony of which was, however, in my case, greatly relieved by the presence of the charming wife of an old friend who gave me a seat in a "tub" which had just room for our two selves and lunch, but I fancy that my presence was resented by the well-fed pony who drew us, though she ought to have been friendly, being known as Santoi; possibly she felt hurt at an injudicious comparison I made between her figure and that of Florence Collingbourne, the original Santoi; but that something had ruffled her usually quiet nature was undoubtedly the case, for when I was standing at her head, holding the bridle, while hounds were drawing a covert, she made a determined effort to lunch off my arm, and in being denied the eagerly sought delicacy became so unruly that I was unable to hold her, much to the amusement of my hostess's little daughter, who presented a very pretty picture riding astride of her hunter, and who inquired if the original Santoi had expressed her dislike in the same manner.

She (the pony) took her revenge by delaying so long when the hounds at last found that we were "thrown out," and I left to walk to the station, when she started to carry her mistress home with a dash which said plainly: "Good-bye to you, Mr Incubus!"

By way of getting comfortably from Swindon to Exeter, our next town, I went to London by a rather early train on the Sunday morning. While waiting on the platform I attracted a certain amount of interest on the part of local inhabitants who had seen me at the theatre during the week, but on the arrival of the train I was completely overshadowed by the presence of Winston Churchill, fresh from his encounter with the suffragette's whip at Bristol, who appeared at the window of his carriage in search of Sunday papers. It was rather gratifying to have the proof offered that the stage is not the only profession the members of which possess the human desire to read their "notices."

A wonderful non-stop run from London to Exeter impresses one greatly with the improved conditions of travelling, but there is always the crumpled rose-leaf, I imagine, and in this case it presented itself in the poor quality of the lunch provided on board. It seems a great pity that the catering is not restricted to a well-selected and well-cooked joint, or cutlets, or chickens, which I firmly believe would be more appreciated by the consumers than the present rather pretentious effort at a four-course meal, some portion of which is bound to suffer, if only on account of the limited space of the cuisine, but, after all, perhaps this is hypercritical when one remembers what the journey meant in – say, only fifteen years ago.

There is another weird device in use at the theatre here, to make sure of a good audience on the Monday night, always, I admit, a desirable object, which takes the form of "Shareholders' Night," the privilege to these fortunates being that of going into any part of the house at half-price. They were very much in evidence on that night, but I failed to observe any pronounced efforts on their part to swell their dividends by further appearances, which suggested a doubt as to the efficiency of the scheme: we naturally could not ascribe it to our want of power to amuse. It is a charming little theatre, excellently managed, and a delightful old town to visit, but it always seems a pity to work at a loss, as we did, in spite of the fact that the business was the best done for some time, and possibly it may be true, as I was told, that the townspeople have not yet forgotten the terrible disaster which overtook the old house; it is to be hoped that this feeling will wear off, and the theatre resume its former popularity.

The Guildhall is quite one of the sights of the place, and is well worth visiting, its age being lost in the vista of years, the earliest known thing about it is its being restored in 1536! The custodian of the place gave us the usual guide-book information, and was in grave doubt as to whether I should not visit the dungeons after I had insisted on occupying the Judge's bench, and singing the Judge's song from Trial by Jury, with Plummer as "the crowd in court."

Mr Richards, the genial chairman of the board at the theatre, gave us a delightful day at Budleigh Salterton, a capital golf-course with ideal surroundings, and we wound up the week with a meet of the Devon and Somerset foxhounds at the beautiful little village of St Mary's Clyst – where for the first time within my recollection I was photographed by accident, knowing nothing of it until the operator came to the theatre with a proof, he himself having found out by chance that I was standing close to the hounds when he took them. It was a pleasant souvenir of an interesting day, but disconcerting to find that my attitude and expression were calculated to give the impression that I was stage-managing the whole hunt.

On arriving at Torquay the following Sunday, without having made previous arrangements for due lodgment, I yielded to the kindly persuasions of Plummer and his cow-punching brother to accompany them to the rooms they had booked, and ascertain if an extra bedroom was available. We had spent a very cheery week under the same roof at Exeter, and it was only an unwonted display of tact on my part, caused by the reflection that, in view of his approaching departure, the brothers might like to be alone together, which had suggested a temporary dissolution of partnership. I therefore yielded, as gracefully as my figure would permit, to their invitation, but on the opening of the massive front door of their joint residence we were greeted with such a positively overwhelming reek of onions as to cause us all to fall back some feet in a panic of dismay, and force me to recognise the advisability of reconnoitring elsewhere. It was then only ten-thirty, we having come by an early train for this purpose, and the brothers kindly came to help in my search, during which hour conversation naturally turned on the heinous offence of saturating other people's apartments with a powerful odour of a possibly unwelcome nature. Plummer was particularly emphatic in his condemnation of the proceeding, until he suddenly remembered that he, as caterer-in-chief, had ordered the onions himself. This, of course, put an entirely new aspect on the affair, "the obnoxious reek" transmuted itself automatically into "an appetising smell," and finally, having disposed of myself and my belongings in a harbour of refuge elsewhere, I returned to their abode to render what assistance I could in the demolishing of the excellent fare which accompanied the delicious vegetable.

Having made a solemn vow to practise the virtue of economy, I determined that a light tea would be sufficient sustenance for the rest of the day, but the solitariness of my rooms, after the cheery companionship of the preceding week, combined with the early hour at which we had gathered the onions, drove me forth to seek the solace of a late dinner at a hotel.

With my vow still reproaching me, as it were, with my weakness, I ordered a modest pint of burgundy with the diner à prix fixe of five shillings (the only available meal) and proceeded as usual to enjoy the book I was then reading without paying any attention to the waiter until I required a drink, when I found my glass filled with hock. I called him and drew his attention to the mistake and he asserted that the number I had ordered was the wine he had brought; having no particular objection to hock I said no more, but I felt a certain annoyance, which was increased on finding it charged on the bill at five shillings and sixpence. I have a suspicion that it was the last pint of a wine which was seldom called for and of which they were anxious to be rid. Thus was my vow broken for me by a waiter, and in sheer distress at the fact I committed the further lapse of an eighteen penny cigar, coffee and liqueur, and returned to my rooms with the mixed sensations of millionairism and gross extravagance.

The contiguity of Paignton naturally brought to my memory the recollection that it was the scene of the first and copyright performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's opera, The Pirates of Penzance, in which the part of Sergeant of Police was played by my old friend Fred Billington, who is, as a matter of fact, still playing it with Mrs Carte's repertoire company in the provinces. The part fell to me when the piece was done in London, and I felt a keen interest in visiting the locale of its birth at the Bijou Theatre, Paignton, but to my dismay I could find no trace of any such theatre. Having secured the attention of "the oldest inhabitant" I elicited the fact that "he thought he'd heard on plays being given at the old hotel yonder," and sure enough, on inquiring of the courteous and hospitable landlord, Mr Webb, I was shown what remained of the Bijou Theatre, in former times the only place of entertainment in the little town.

The stage has been converted into a billiard-room, and folding-doors shut it off from what was the tiny auditorium, but to my surprise there was no commemorative tablet to be seen recording the honour the little room had received, an omission, however, which Mr Webb declared he should speedily rectify.

Several members of our company being with me, including Miss Trevor Lloyd, who has sung several of the soprano parts in these operas, we gave an excerpt from the Pirates in the shape of the chorus of Police, she representing Mabel and the entire police force, and other friends filling in the bits they knew, and, according to my intimate knowledge of the music, the bits they did not.

It was a joyous quarter of an hour, and greatly amused the landlord and his entire staff, among whom was the inevitable old waiter, who might have been present at the copyright performance, and who evidently thought us a parcel of lunatics.

One of the ladies of the company gave a little supper that night to mark the occasion, the menu of which, though original, required a certain amount of bravery to tackle at midnight, consisting as it did of hare soup, hot-pot liberally sprinkled with mushrooms, a very alcoholic trifle, and a special cuveé of lager, demi-chaud. There were some "heads" the next morning, and fortunately no rehearsal necessitated early rising, but I am convinced that the climate of Torquay, while perhaps inducing it, is by no means suited to high living.

Page modified 2 February 2008