yncopated melody. America
may not have added great store to the world's music, but at least she
has added to the gaiety of nations. She has given us ragtime, the voice
of the negroid Bacchus, which has flogged our flagging flesh to new
sensations; she has given us songs fragrant of Fifth Avenue, and with
the wail of the American South; and she has given us nigger comedians.
Harry doesn't much care whether he "goes" or not. They are a
philosophical crowd, these Vaudevillians. If one of them gets the bird,
he has the sympathy of the rest of the bill. Rotten luck. If he goes
well, he has their smiles. Of course, there are certain jealousies here
as in every game; but very few. You see, they never know.... The stars
never know when their reign will end, and they, who were once
bill-toppers, will be shoved in small type in obscure corners of the
bill at far-distant provincial halls. That is why the halls, like
journalism, is such a great game. You never know.... The unhappiest of
the whole bill of a hall are "first call" and "last call"; nobody is
there to listen to "first call"; everybody has bolted by the time "last
call" is on. Only the orchestra and the electricians remain. They, like
the poor, are always with them.

After the show, the orchestra usually breaks up into parties for a final
drink, or sometimes fraternizes with the last call and makes a bunch for
supper at Sam Isaacs'. After supper, home by the last cart to Camberwell
or Camden Town, seeking--and, if not too full of supper, finding--a
chaste couch at about two a.m. The star, of course, does nothing so
vulgar. He motors home to Streatham or St. John's Wood or Clapham
Common, and plays billiards or cards until the small hours. A curious
wave of temperance lately has been sweeping over the heads of the
profession, and a star seldom has a drink until after the show. The days
are gone when the lion comique would say: "No, laddie, I don't drink.
Nothing to speak of, that is. I just have ten or twelve--just enough to
make me think I'm drunk. Then I keep on until I think I'm sober. Then I
_know_ I'm drunk!" They are beginning, unfortunately for their
audiences, to take themselves seriously. This is a pity, for the more
spontaneous and inane they are, the more they are in their place on the
vaudeville stage. There is more make-believe and hard work on the halls
to-day, and I think they are none the better for it. As soon as art
becomes self-conscious, its end is nea