far-away Singapore or Mauritius; a song that
inspires men in battle and helps soldiers to die; a song that, like
"Tipperary," has been the slogan of an Empire; that a man should create
such a thing and live and die without one in ten thousand of his singers
knowing even his name. Who composed "Tipperary"? You don't know? I
thought not. Who composed "Let's all go down the Strand," a song that
surely should have been adopted as The Anthem of London? Who composed
"Hot Time in the Old Town to-night"--the song that led the Americans to
victory in Cuba and the Philippines? We know the names of hundreds of
finicky little poets and novelists and pianists; but their work never
shook a nation one inch, or cheered men in sickness and despair. Of the
men who really captured and interpreted the national soul we know
nothing and care less; and how much they get for their copyrights is a
matter that even themselves do not seem to take with sufficient
seriousness. Yet personally I have an infinite tenderness for these
unknowns, for they have done me more good than any other triflers with
art-forms. I should like to shake the composer of "La Maxixe" by the
hand, and I owe many a debt of gratitude to the creator of "Red Pepper"
and "Robert E. Lee." So many of these fugitive airs have been part of my
life, as they are part of every Cockney's life. They are, indeed, a
calendar. Events date themselves by the song that was popular at that
time. When, for instance, I hear "The Jonah Man" or "Valse Bleu," my
mind goes back to the days when a tired, pale office-boy worked in the
City and wrote stories for the cheap papers in his evenings. When I hear
"La Maxixe" I shiver with frightful joy. It recalls the hot summer of
1906, when I had money and wine and possession and love. When I hear
"Beautiful Doll," I become old and sad; I want to run away and hide
myself. When I hear "Hiawatha" or "Bill Bailey," I get back the mood of
that year--a mood murderously bitter. Verily, the street organ and its
composers are things to be remembered in our prayers and toasts.

* * * * *

Every London hall has its own character and its own audience. The
Pavilion programme is temperamentally distinct from the Oxford bill; the
Alhambra is equally marked from the Empire; and the Poplar Hippodrome,
in patrons and performers, is widely severed from the Euston. The same
turns are, of course, seen eventually at every hall, but never the sam