this eulogy of food in all these songs. The
explanation is simple. In the old days, the music-hall was just a
drinking den, and all the jolly songs were in praise of drink. Now that
all modern halls are unlicensed, and are, more or less, family affairs
to which Mr. Jenkinson may bring the wife and the children, and where
you can get nothing stronger than non-alcoholic beers, or dry ginger,
the Bacchanalian song is out of place. Next to drinking, of course, the
Londoner loves eating. Mr. Harry Champion, with the insight of genius,
has divined this, and therefore he sings about food, winning much
applause, personal popularity, and, I hope, much money.

Watch his audience as he sings. Mark the almost hypnotic hold he has
over them; not only over pit and gallery but over stalls as well, and
the well-groomed loungers who have just dropped in. I defy any sane
person to listen to "Watcher, me Old Brown Son!" without chortles of
merriment, profound merriment, for you don't laugh idly at Harry
Champion. His gaiety is not the superficial gaiety of the funny man who
makes you laugh but does nothing else to you. He does you good. I
honestly believe that his performance would beat down the frigid steel
ramparts that begird the English "lady." His songs thrill and tickle you
as does the gayest music of Mozart. They have not the mere lightness of
merriment, but, like that music, they have the deep-plumbing gaiety of
the love of life, for joy and sorrow.

But let us leave the front of the house and wander in back of a typical
hall. Here is an overcharged atmosphere, feverish of railway-station.
There is an entire lack of any system; everything apparently confused
rush. Artists dashing out for a second house many miles away. Artists
dashing in from their last hall, some fully dressed and made-up, others
swearing at their dressers and dragging baskets upstairs, knowing that
they have three minutes in which to dress and make-up before their call.
As one rushes in with a cheery "Evening, George!" to the stage-door
keeper, he is met by the "boy"--the "boy" being usually a middle-aged
ex-Army man of 45 or 50.

"Mr. Merson's on, sir."

"Righto!"

He dashes into his dressing-room, which he shares with three others, and
then it is _Vesti la giubba_.... The dressing-room is a long, narrow
room, with a slab running the length of the wall, and four chairs. The
slab is backed by a long, low mirror, and is littered with make-up tins
and pots.