WHERE could we find a finer sight than the view from either side of a train as it crosses the Forth Bridge to the accompaniments of a storm of rain and hail, varied by the lurid bursts of a brilliant sunset? Perched up at this great height the train itself seems no more than a toy and the whole of the surroundings combine to enforce the reflection that the human being is the veriest atom of Nature's scheme. Even the thought that human brains and hands have united to span this mighty firth for their own convenience, and have thus in a measure dominated the elements, does not altogether reinstate the sense of self-importance which is our normal attitude in face of these wonders, for it brings to the mind the awful fact that what has once happened may happen again, and it is with a distinct feeling of relief that one finds oneself safe on the southern shore and gliding peacefully into Edinburgh.

What a contrast does Edinburgh present to London on a Sunday evening; both are orderly enough, but there is a kind of subdued gaiety about the Scottish capital which is wholly lacking in town, which I fancy is chiefly to be accounted for by the fact that all who are abroad foregather in Princes Street, the entire length of which is packed with people, who seem to patrol it from one end to the other for at least two hours, and most of whom appear to have a nodding acquaintance with every soul who passes.

The march of civilisation has also, mirabile dictu, brought with it the Sunday golf habit, though at present no great facilities are offered by the railway companies for such an unholy revel, but this will doubtless come in time.

With an hour's wait before proceeding to Newcastle-on-Tyne, our destination for the following week, the obvious course is to call on some old friends for afternoon tea; but here a certain disappointment awaited me, owing to this being a surprise visit, in the fact that, tea being over and her callers departed, my hostess had sought the seclusion of the bathroom, whither a certain sense of delicacy precluded me from following her, in spite of the dusty accumulation of a long journey, which seemed to suggest the advisability of so doing.

She had, however, left a charming sister and brother as understudies, who ministered most kindly to our wants, and we went on our way stimulated and refreshed by the ever-welcome tea, hospitality having obliterated all feeling of envy towards the occupant of the bathroom.

Newcastle on Bank Holiday was a vivid contrast to the quiet of Perth, and it was a great treat to be greeted on the Monday night by a house packed from floor to ceiling with an audience determined to be amused with whatever fare was provided for it. They took the hero of the play, Jack Frobisher, to their hearts at once, and the more he "rated" his wife, the Lady Alethea, for her "goings on" the more they applauded his strong though highly virtuous remonstrances, with, however, one exception, as I heard afterwards, that of a man who was asked how he liked the play and replied: "Very much indeed, but I can't stand that Frobisher fellow – he's too damn good to live!" – a somewhat opposite view of the situation to that taken by a feminine sympathiser of Frobisher's, who thought him so much too good for his wife that on their reconciliation, and consequent arrangement, at the end of the play, to leave for Queensland together, she remarked: "Well, it's to be hoped she'll die on the way out!"

In several of the towns we had visited it had been suggested that "it was a great pity that Barrington did not appear in the last act" – the self-seeking old Lord Steventon not making a reappearance after being severely routed by Frobisher in one of his virtuous outbursts – the suggestion not being intended as in any way imputing a fault on the part of the author, but on the ground of the advisability, from a business point of view, of the "star" appearing in each act. Being anxious to put the matter to the test, Mr Sutro was approached, and most kindly wrote in a part for the Marquis, which certainly had the effect of considerably brightening the last act, but although there was a perceptible increase in the laughter I failed to notice a corresponding one in the receipts, and in no town which we subsequently visited did I hear of an additional row of stalls being required. These facts, however, in no way detract from the charm of the compliment paid me by Mr Sutro in rearranging the last act of his masterpiece on my personal request.

It may have been owing to my vanity over this concession that I met with an unpleasant and undignified little accident in this town; I was going out golfing one morning, and in a, perhaps, lordly manner signalled a tram to stop, which it declined to do until some forty yards past me. I stepped off the kerb hurriedly to go after it. The wood of the street was wet, my nailed boots flew from under me and I landed with a bang on my back, half on the kerb and half in the gutter. I rose with both body and dignity very much hurt, the former arising chiefly from having fallen on my pipe, which was broken and almost embedded in a soft part of the figure, and the shaking I got lasted for some considerable time, and fostered a distrust of nails, the golfer's safeguard.

I was waited on at my rooms by a very deaf middle-aged person, who imagined that she heard quite well, and insisted on long conversations, of a most disconnected nature, with a persistence which rather annoyed me. By way of getting some amusement out of the situation I invited some of the ladies of the company to tea one afternoon and, without telling them of her affliction, proceeded to address her, with a smiling face, by all the opprobrious epithets of which I could think and of which the presence of ladies admitted. Their blank looks of astonishment at the first two or three efforts were a great joy to me, the Hebe's smile being as expansive as mine, and her answers for once singularly appropriate, and it was not until I asked the "darling old blithering idiot" to bring the relay of muffins, to which she replied that "there's no more eggs in the house," that they began to have a glimmering of the truth, confirmed by my final request for some particulars of her "lurid past," her answer to which was that she had "ordered one from the fishmonger but it hadn't come!"

There was one feature connected with the introduction of the Marquis into the last act of the play which will always give me great pleasure to remember; it is inevitable that when one character is to be specially considered some other part must suffer, and in this case it was that of Hannaford, which was played by Lambert Plummer. The part had some excellent comedy lines, the majority of which were bodily transplanted to that of Lord Steventon, and I confess to a feeling of uneasiness at the first rehearsal, arising from the mental suggestion of "put yourself in his place," as to how this ruthless treatment of his part might affect my friend; it was therefore a source of great pleasure to find that neither then nor at any subsequent moment did Plummer betray the faintest sign of annoyance or chagrin over the affair, a forbearance which I venture to think as rare as it was delightful. I have known instances where artists of good standing and equal attainments have waged furious at the deletion of a line or two, not to mention a whole speech, from their part, entirely oblivious of the necessity for alteration as the scene shapes itself at rehearsal; and I have seen an emotional extra-lady burst into tears at being told she could not speak a certain remark, which must be given to Miss Blank the fact that Miss Blank was the only person who could be "on" in the scene in question proving no kind of consolation whatever. My visit to Sheffield this time was chiefly notable for a very striking illustration of the elasticity of theatrical rooms; the house was a detached one, and by no means large, yet it served to shelter Mr and Mrs Browning, two other ladies of the company, myself and a married couple of music-hall artists of German-American extraction, who played various wind instruments by day and by night, in addition to which there was the family, which I believe numbered four in all. We were all waited on by one little Abigail of fourteen, the daughter of the house, and although the meals were punctual and tolerably well cooked it was unavoidable that much was left to be desired in other directions, and the policy of over-crowding must be at least a doubtful one to pursue. The prevailing idea on the part of landladies in houses of this type seems to be that a certain amount of attention being paid to the cleanliness and comfort of the sitting-room warrants the almost complete neglect of the bedroom department. This may proceed from a desire to inculcate the principle of early rising, which, I am told, is somewhat lacking in "the profession," and it certainly achieved its object in my case, for I spent as little time as possible in the comfortless sleeping-retreat placed at my disposal, but the virtue of early rising was largely discounted by the vice of late retirements, and I was not sorry when the week was over and I again became normal.

I had a day's golf here with Browning and found that I was still suffering from the effects of my fall in Newcastle, my right arm being very stiff, and to this cause I naturally ascribed the severe beating I received. How is it that so few golfers are ever beaten on their merits, I wonder; there is always some excuse to offer, and from my own personal experience the excuses are as varied as they are numerous, ranging from the man who missed a put to win the match at Felixstowe because of the noise made by the larks – to him who has had his game ruined by the barring of a certain club which he probably very seldom used.

There is an old adage to the effect that an Englishman never knows when he is beaten, but that was written before golf was introduced, for there can be no mistake about five up and four to play. I do however recollect a match I lost at Cassiobury for the result of which I submit I had a valid excuse. My host and opponent said to me before starting: "You won't mind the dogs going round with us, Pooh Bah?" – to which I unsuspectingly replied: "Certainly not!" and off we started with the pack of four. I was not long in discovering that they had all been trained to take a polite interest in putting, and on every green they seemed to take it in turn to come between the eye and the hole at the most critical moment. I spoke very strongly to one middle-aged fox-terrier, who was the worst offender, and to my great relief he made a dignified exit homewards, but his three friends stuck bravely to the task, and it was almost worth the defeat I sustained to witness their evident delight when I handed the stakes to their victorious owner, Lord Essex.

I suggested to him that the pack was worth a few strokes to him on the round, but he only remarked: "I was afraid you'd find them a nuisance, that's why I asked you first!"

I made another match for a future occasion, "dogs barred," but there seems to be great difficulty in fixing a date.

On the last three nights of the week in Newcastle I gave a trial to a new sketch with which I was to open at the Tivoli on the conclusion of the tour. It was written by my old friend and Savoy colleague, Arthur Law, and was a condensation of a three-act farce of his which had had some vogue. He called the sketch The Judge and the Lady and it proved very successful, although suffering from that tame finish which seems so difficult to avoid in these trifles.

The method requisite for this sketch work is so strikingly different to that called for by the ordinary stage play that the way it went spoke very highly to the powers of adaptability possessed by the artists who appeared in it and who really seemed to revel in the chance afforded for a little relaxation from High Art. Hot baths, blankets, nightcaps and pyjamas entered largely into the scheme, which also included a baby, which of course was only a dummy, no real one being of stout enough material to stand the treatment required by the plot. Apropos pyjamas, Pauline Chase and Marie Lohr seem to have set the fashion of pyjama plays, but even they might have been jealous of the latest recruit; Plummer, in the sketch in question, presenting a quite gorgeous spectacle; my pyjamas were hidden under a dressing gown, and I trust the day may be far distant on which circumstances may compel my appearance in this negligé, though really, with the present craze for presenting most of the feminine intimities of costume in public, and the almost total absence of the same articles in the case of certain lovely dancers, it becomes difficult to determine where realism should cease and art recommence, and a representation of the Garden of Eden, if put on the stage, would probably be severely criticised unless "altogether" true to nature.

A protest against a pyjama-monopoly on the part of the ladies is offered by Charlie Hawtrey in that delightful adaptation of a witty French comedy called Inconstant George – in my humble opinion one of the cleverest specimens of writing, contrast of character, and invention that has been seen for a long time. The delicate shade of Hawtrey's night-wear is an excellent contrast to the "voyant" gown-tones of the lady who so artistically, and with no hint of suggestion, has attitudinised sinuously on the gorgeous coverlet before he makes his appearance, and the stage management of this act in particular is a remarkable instance of the skill requisite in a skater on ice of French manufacture.

Where have we an author capable of inventing the humour of that situation where a man is taxed by his friend with writing love-letters to that friend's wife, and this while in the undignified position of being in bed? And if we have such an author, have we the censor to pass it?

Hawtrey's mixture of dismay, irritation and anger at the absurd figure he feels he must cut are all admirably shadowed, and no less delightful, in quite another atmosphere, is the delicate restraint shown at the final curtain of the play, when, without laying a single finger on the sleeping girl he loves, he sits, at some little distance, to watch over her till the arrival of her legal guardian.

The play is preceded by a very charming little one-act wordless play (so-called), entitled The Portrait. I was rather surprised at finding on the programme the name of Gordon Cleather as taking part in this, and knowing him as a delightful singer I felt regret that under the circumstances I should not be allowed to hear him, but to my great astonishment the curtain rose on my friend Cleather, representing an artist in his studio, and singing a very charming song! I looked at my programme, fancying I must have read it wrongly – but no, it said "wordless" play – and sure enough, when he had finished singing he was unable to speak! – and, with an occasional burst of song, this state of things obtained until the end of the play. It struck me as so quaint that a man should be able to sing and not talk that, as far I was concerned, the little play lost much of its effect.

My experience with the Leeds audiences led me to think that the same predilection for stronger fare than my entertainment provided might exist in Bradford, an idea which received strong confirmation on the Monday night, when several occupants of the gallery made a leisurely but very noisy exit, during one of my best stories, and, as I afterwards heard, inquired of the manager: "What sort of ––– tommy-rot are ye givin' us now?"

Even this did not convince the management of the desirability of a change of "opening," but the Tuesday and Wednesday proving equally depressing, I insisted on "trying" The Judge and the Lady, with the pleasing result of being asked why I had not mentioned the style of it before!

It is difficult to account for the prejudice which exists in the minds of theatrical managers against the "unknown," extending to plays and players alike; it is of course one of the greatest difficulties which an untried author or artist has to face, and is almost insurmountable without the aid of either some fortunate chance or the golden key.

In this particular instance it was merely a repetition of the old formula "well, it can't be worse," which furnished yet another proof of how much better it was, and I can only hope that the non-contents of the first night were beguiled into giving me a chance of reinstatement.

Edward Compton was here, with a very luxurious blue motor car, and incidentally with his Comedy Company, at the other theatre, and John Hart, he and I had a pleasant day's golf at Hawksworth, Hart's hospitality to all golfers visiting Bradford being an inducement to go there as frequently as possible, and greatly adding to the attraction of a first-rate links.

From Bradford to Halifax would seem to be about a twenty minutes' journey, according to both trains and trams, but to occupy a whole Sunday with such a trip would be a task beyond even the cleverest arranger of a tour, so we lengthened it to an appreciable extent by putting in a week at Nottingham on the way, a detour which pleased me very much as I always look forward to visiting Nottingham, where I have friends who have given me many pleasant times and recollections; also it was an agreeable preparative for a stay in a town which I have so frequently heard alluded to in a very disparaging manner, a manner which, from my own experience, I find to be totally unwarranted.

The Quorn Hunt Meeting was held at Loughborough during the week we were in Nottingham, and, as neither Plummer nor I had ever seen the course, we determined to honour the proceedings with our presence and, if possible, capture some wealth from the bookmakers. We accomplished the former intention, but the latter proved (as usual) a task beyond our intelligence, not having more of this commodity than we could gather from Sporting Snippets, the tipsters of which journal – or should one say "vaticinators"? – being of such varied opinions as to select at least four horses for each race, which made a selection difficult in the face of only three runners. We backed the favourite in the first race and to our horror saw him fall at the last fence but one, when leading fully ten lengths from the only horse that seemed to threaten danger; by the time the rider had got him up and remounted, the other horse was well past him and was rapidly – or so it seemed, but was not – nearing the last fence, and our excitement was intense; however, our hero caught him, they jumped the fence together and the favourite sailed home an easy winner. The horse was Captain Power's Revelstoke and was ridden by the gallant gentleman-rider, Teddie Brooks, and it was a great and popular performance.

The fatigue of drawing our winnings, coupled with the strain of a fairly long walk from the station, suggested the advisability of a retirement to the luncheon tent, but to our dismay no such harbour of refuge was to be found and we were forced to be content with large chunks of bread and cheese, after all not a lunch to be despised, but with the usual irony of Fate, for having satisfied our cravings, and started for a stroll along the coaches and cars on the aristocratic side of the course, we received at least three invitations to most recherché luncheons, which we could not accept.

I secured some excellent snapshots of the different occurrences at the meeting, which will serve as a souvenir of a very enjoyable day, and I cannot help a slight feeling of regret at the edict pronounced against this practice by the Jockey Club officials, for it seems a little hard that the pleasure of the many should be barred on account of the intrusive few who most undoubtedly take these pictures with the frankly avowed object of selling them to journals.

On the other hand it might be a source of great annoyance to the victim should he be "snapped" cheering home a winner when he should have been cheering his leader in the House. I was myself once "shot" at Kempton when I should have been appearing at a charity matinée in town, and oddly enough with the very lady with whom I was to have acted, and to meet with whom, at the races, was a great surprise, she having sent me a telegram early that morning to the effect that "she did not feel well enough to play!" which was the sole reason why I absented myself from the performance. The number of artists who "promise to appear," and fail on the day, has, it seems to me, greatly increased of late, and is much to be deplored; the inability to say "no" when asked is frequently the cause of this failure to keep faith, and should be sternly discouraged, as it falls hardly on those who do fulfil their promise and are frequently compelled, by their good nature, to supply the deficiency with an "extra turn."

Page modified 3 February 2008