ONE of the charms of living in apartments when on tour is undoubtedly to be found in the necessary marketing, or perhaps it might be more accurately described as "shopping," there being very few men, I fancy, who possess more than the vaguest idea as to what they ought to pay for provend. Plummer was a greater adept in the art than I, and would frequently head me off from some delicacy which had caught my eye, generally in a fishmonger's, and which at the same moment had appealed to his nose. The only article in the purchase of which I would brook no interference was bacon, and to obtain this concession I had to bribe him by allowing him to buy a bottle of some very pungent and much advertised sauce, which I simply detested, and of which he partook so sparingly that three parts of the bottle travelled with us for several weeks, and was finally used by a mistaken landlady as a hair-wash.

I do not wish to draw any comparison on the intellectual qualities of the different species of shop assistants, but it was forcibly brought to my notice that grocers must be an eminently observant type, for in at least four towns which I had never before visited I was greeted, at the conclusion of my purchases, with the remark, "What address, Mr Barrington?" This never failed to tickle the infinitesimal strain of conceit which we are told is a universal attribute of the theatrical profession, and did much to restore the balance of self-respect which the frequent indifference of the landlady to the most genuine pretensions had severely shaken.

One of the strongest characteristics of theatrical landladies is their garrulity, which, combined with the almost invariable familiarity they display, is occasionally rather irritating.

A habit to which I am much addicted when absorbing a lonely meal is that of reading a book, and I was once driven nearly to distraction while revelling in one of Cosmo Hamilton's delightful stories, at breakfast, by a talkative landlady (they don't do it so much at dinner – possibly because I usually dined out), who would insist on telling me about all the Gilbert and Sullivan operas in which she had seen me play; as a matter of fact she had never seen me at all: I had never before been to the town in question, and she was mistaking me for my old friend of the D'Oyly Carte Company, Fred Billington.

From Torquay to Newport, Monmouth, was another striking illustration of the value of contrast in promoting that equable temperament so invaluable to the touring actor. Here is no lovely bay surrounded with purple madder cliffs bathed in the opalescent glories of the setting sun, the faint blue haze of smoke curling upwards from farm and cottage, in the still air, as emblems of peace and rest. In their places we have the far-reaching and impressive docks, the forest of red funnels in place of the cliffs, the black reek of smoke which tells of approaching departure as the mighty engines strain at the leash of their massive chain cables, amid the almost deafening intermittent roar of the coal as it is poured into the insatiable maw of these sea-going monsters.

If at Torquay you sleep, at Newport you must wake, and be up and doing if you would hold your own, not to mention a bit of theirs.

As a slight proof of the alertness of the residents I will instance the case of a lady and her daughter, strangers to me, who, desirous of securing my autograph, had called at several hotels and the theatre, all to no purpose, and finally ran me to earth in the main street, laden with market produce which I was carrying home.

The album and a pen and ink were straightway produced, and I was compelled to stand and deliver, which I did while the pretty daughter held the groceries and the sweet biscuits. Fortunately the bloaters were to be delivered by cart.

Newport is nothing if not energetic, and even football seems a more strenuous game here than elsewhere, so much so that after years of allegiance to the soccer game, as being the better to look on at, my preference was considerably undermined on witnessing a great match between Newport and Swansea, old and keen antagonists.

Through the courtesy of Mr Dauncey, a prominent official of the club, I was enabled to see Newport maintain their unbeaten record, and the match was such a revelation to me of the possibilities of the game, to which I had been a stranger for many years, that I have since taken every opportunity of witnessing first-class matches.

The majority of the team occupied stalls at the theatre the same evening, at our invitation, but their presence was not an unmixed blessing, we on the stage being curious to observe the heroes of the fray, the heroes themselves being chiefly occupied in reading what the evening papers said of the match and their individual efforts, and the rest of the audience devoting the major part of their attention to the heroes.

During our week in Blackburn the manager of the theatre in Burnley came over and was so much pleased with our programme as to invite us to go to him for the week including New Year's Day, which we agreed to do. This left a hiatus of three weeks after finishing at Newport, which was very kindly filled in for me at the Tivoli by my ever-courteous friends Mr Sutton and Mr Tozer. I chose for this appearance an old one-act comedy by B. C. Stephenson called Faithful James, which I was able to cast and rehearse among the company on tour, so that we left Newport on the Sunday and opened at the Tivoli without a break, on the following Monday.

This little comedy went so extremely well that I fondly imagined I had at last found my "golden egg" for the halls, but I was once again doomed to disappointment, the managerial verdict being that there was not enough of me in the piece to make it a "star turn"; I believe that what they really want is a twenty-five-minute version of The Mikado, but I have some diffidence in approaching Sir William Gilbert with such a suggestion.

This engagement gave us breathing space to rehearse one or two new-comers who were to play in Jericho for the Burnley week, and our doing so on the stage of the Tivoli, very kindly lent by the management, excited a little wonder on the part of stray spectators as to what kind of sketch for the halls it was that had four acts.

One of the spectators was a stage hand whom I had known for years, and who invariably displayed a most friendly interest in my work. I noticed him wearing a somewhat anxious expression, and on asking the cause of it was met with the inquiry, made in a most sympathetic tone: "Well, guv'nor, I like wot I've 'eard of it very much – but – wot about the time limit?"

One of the new ladies, engaged in James and being considered for The Walls, a very charming and sympathetic little actress, had some rather quaint notions as to the obligations of a contract, having on one occasion granted herself a three weeks' leave of absence because "her garden needed attention," and on another because "spring was coming and she must go home and look after her daffodils!" These derelictions from duty she herself confessed, but as there did not seem much scope for gardening operations in Burnley during the limited period of one week she was engaged for the part which required filling, and of which she gave an excellent performance. I must also do her the justice to say that, when I returned from Burnley to a three weeks' engagement at the Pavilion, once more with Faithful James, she was never once absent, nor did she express the faintest hint of an interest in horticultural pursuits. I had some trouble in casting the part of an irascible Admiral for this engagement, finally securing an excellent actor, who was, however, more at home in "costume" plays, and found some difficulty in adapting his cultivated dignity of diction and gesture to the prestissimo agitato method required on the halls. That he succeeded in doing so proved him an actor of resource, but I think he never fully overcame the reluctance with which he wore, through the exigencies of the play, a very battered and dilapidated tall hat, with which he could not, with all his resource, accomplish the recognised high-comedy salutation.

I had a charming illustration, during this engagement, of the ready manner in which artists on the music-hall stage will come forward to help a brother or sister player out of an impasse. A member of my company had made a mistake of a whole hour in the time fixed for our sketch at a matinée and, having naturally sent no word, we were all left wondering what had happened and what to do. In the meantime our "turn" arrived, and was readily filled by other artists, among whom were Miss Vesta Victoria, who most kindly sang an extra song, on being in informed that the missing man had arrived, and would be ready in two minutes, just as I was suggesting to the stage manager that I had better do a single turn with a piano.

I was extremely grateful to Miss Victoria, and said so, for, apart from the pleasure of hearing her additional song, I will admit that the prospect of giving a sketch at the piano disguised as an elderly and artful-looking waiter did not appeal to me very forcibly.

Songs and sketches at a piano form a class of entertainment over which I have never been able to "enthuse" to any great extent, even when given by the very best exponents – a feeling which naturally militates against a personal production of the airy and dashing manner which seems so necessary to bring these items to a successful issue.

The archness and vivacity of the feminine exponents of this form of art are, of course, extremely acceptable, as being attributes of the sex for which one looks, but when exploited by a "mere man" scarcely possess the same attraction.

The frequency with which our anticipations of a pleasure to come fail to materialise has an echo in the fewer occasions on which a pleasurable realisation is not expected, a notable example of which, to me, was our visit to Burnley.

For one thing the town was very much excited over the forthcoming election, when a close fight was regarded as a certainty, and a possible victory for the Conservative candidate anticipated in what had formerly been a hot-bed of radicalism. I notice that I have written "conservative" with a capital "C" and "radicalism" with a small "r" – an unconscious indication of my political tendencies. By way of doing what I could for the cause, I made a practice of holding talks with "the man in the street" whenever I could find one with the leisure to stand and gaze at the electoral picture posters which plastered the walls. The term "picture" posters is somewhat of a misnomer, for the glaring crudities of these works of art, both in colour and drawing, in many cases invited ridicule instead of sympathy, but nevertheless I presume they were not without effect, in view of the final triumph of Mr Arbuthnot, who was also singularly fortunate in having the assistance of such energetic canvassers as his wife and Sir John and Lady Thursby.

It was a great disappointment when our candidate failed to retain his seat at the celebrated Budget election of December 1910, and, while I do not for one moment suggest that the loss of my assistance as a canvasser affected the result in the slightest degree, I take pleasure in the fact that he was elected within a few days of my visit, during which I was as conspicuous in my absence from any meetings as I was from the town itself on the later occasion.

We had a very pleasant and amusing luncheon one day during the week, at Ormerod Hall, during which all election topics were taboo, the punishment for breach of the rule being something that fitted the crime, as Gilbert put it, and it was very odd how anyone on the brink of an indiscretion immediately became troubled with a cough. The moment lunch was over the canvassing recommenced over the telephone, while Sir John and I left for a drive over the moors in a car, a Scotch plaid and a Scotch mist. Within a mile or two of Burnley's smoky chimneys we were out on the moors, and the car put up the first brace of grouse I had ever seen, except at the poulterer's or on the table, and at the moment I honestly thought I preferred them on the moor.

The mist had developed into a strong resemblance to a sea fog, and when we turned for home at the keeper's cottage – being stopped by a wall of it, the fog, I mean – I wondered how he knew where he was, and ever found his way into the town.

The natives of Burnley I found most friendlily disposed, and one of them on one occasion embarrassingly so. It was a very wet night and, having ordered a cab to take me home after work, I offered a lift to three of the ladies who lived near me. They accepted, and whether the sense of responsibility proved too much for the horse, or for what other reason will never be known, at the bottom of a hill, which he should have ascended, he preferred to break a shaft and assume a recumbent attitude on the road – I am not sure that the awful granite setts with which the town is paved are entitled to the definition "road," but let that pass (I trust for some time) – at all events there we were, and had to remain while the cabman mended both the shaft and the horse with pieces of string. During the proceedings I naturally lowered the window to look out for a moment, when I observed a lady, in the national costume of clogs and shawl (and other garments, I believe), taking a great interest in the operations. As soon as she saw me she approached the window, whereupon I modestly withdrew my head, when, actuated by an evident desire to help in some way, she put her head right inside the carriage and murmured: "Are ye a lone man?" in a most sympathetic voice. The expression of her face on seeing the three ladies in the cab was delightfully quaint, being a mixture of surprise and reproof, but their silence must have alienated her sympathy, for she left hurriedly, whereupon the three ladies plied me with the most puzzling and pertinent questions as to the meaning of the incident, utterly declining to accept my explanation that her action was prompted by pure friendship.

In many cases it is the surest way to earn the discredence of the fair sex by asserting the absolute truth, but in this instance they were perhaps right, one of them even mischievously suggesting that I had used a superfluous adjective.

New Year's Eve we all felt should be celebrated in some manner, and a committee – consisting of Hanworth, Browning, Edwards, Plummer and myself – was appointed to "see what could be done." The first obvious step was to interview the proprietor of a good hotel with a view to supper, with merriment and late hours to follow; he was soon found, and agreed to do all we required if we could content ourselves with what his head waiter described as "a cold calculation." I have heard it called "cold collection," before now, but never "calculation," but to prove that he meant it he repeated it several times.

The next consideration was the presents, and here I called in the assistance of one of the ladies, with excellent results; the only gift costing more than twopence was a little tin engine (fourpence) for the manager, chosen in view of the fact that in arranging our journeys he had proved himself a walking Bradshaw. The hero of the play, having returned from Australia, had of course a box of woolly sheep, and the whole company were suitably "gifted," much to their amusement.

The reason for a cold calculation being imperative was that the staff of the hotel was being indulged with its annual ball, in which we all joined after supper, and feeling that I owed the staff a debt for their complaisance I conscripted our men for their ladies and personally conducted a quadrille with a delightful cook as my partner.

There was one very weird dance, called, I fancy, the Military Two Step, which I danced with a pretty little woman who acted as our wardrobe-mistress, and which I fancied I was rather good at until she asked me to stop and told me that I knew nothing about it; feeling a little hurt I handed her over to one of the company who I knew could not dance, by way of revenge, but she afterwards told me "he was first rate," which made me wonder what I could have been.

I overheard a remark of one of the stage hands one night to the effect that he "couldn't quite make out this company – they're all ladies and gentlemen," which rather pleased me, but unfortunately, immediately after making it, he very clumsily trod on the gown of one of the ladies, with disastrous results to a beautiful lace overskirt, and a very excusable "damn" was launched at him; whether our pretensions to gentility had annoyed, as well as puzzled, him, I do not know, but the "reproof" was received with a smile of pleasure which plainly said "now I know where I am!"

Page modified 3 February 2008