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VAUDEVILLE VS. THE LEGITIMATE
A few years ago a handsome, immaculate young man came over to me as I was sitting in the office of the Adams House in Boston and said,
"Mr. Cressy, my name is so-and-so; I am an actor; a good actor too, and I have always been very proud of my profession. My mother is one of the most popular actresses in America to-day. But last summer I had an experience that set me to thinking a little. As you were mixed up in it I am going to tell it to you.
"Last season I was out with a company that made one of those 'artistic successes,' but which did not seem to interest the public very much. As a result, when the merry springtime came around, I had a trunk full of good clothes, good press notices and I.O.U.'s from the manager, but not a dollar in money.
"But I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation from a luckier actor friend to spend a month at his summer home on the shores of Lake Sunapee, N. H. Did I went? I did went! Quick.
"He had a beautiful home. And I was certainly some class; I had linens, flannels, yachting clothes, tennis clothes, evening clothes; in fact I had everything but money.
"One night we were sitting down on his little wharf enjoying our – no, his – cigars, and a very pretty little launch passed by.
"'Whose launch is that?' I asked.
"'Oh, it belongs to some Vaudeville player by the name of Matthews, I believe. They live over on the other side of the lake. I don't know them.'
"Pretty soon another little launch came into the bay, cruised around the shore, and went.
"'Whose boat is that?' I inquired.
"'That belongs to a Vaudeville fellow by the name of Merritt. I don't know him.'
"A little while after a big cabin launch came into the bay and cruised slowly around. Out on the deck was a party of young folks: two of the girls were playing mandolins and they were all singing.
"'By Jove!' I exclaimed. 'That's a beauty! Whose is it?'
"'Oh, that is Will Cressy's boat,' replied my friend impatiently. 'He is another of those Vaudeville people. There are a number of them over across the lake there, but we don't know them at all.'
"I sat for a while – thinking. Here I was, a recognized Broadway player of legitimate rôles, a man who could play any juvenile Shakespearian rôle without a rehearsal, a member of The Lambs and The Players Clubs. And here I was sitting out on the end of a wharf because I didn't have money enough to hire even a bum rowboat. And the three first launches that had passed by were all owned by Vaudeville players– whom my legitimate friend 'did not know at all.' I thought it all out and then I turned to my friend and said,
"'All right, Tom, but you want to make all you can out of this visit of mine. For the next time I come up here you won't be speaking to me.'
"'Why won't I?' he asked in surprise.
"'Because the next time I come up here I am going to be "one of those Vaudeville players." I am going to have some money in my pocket; and I am going to have a boat; and I am going to sail by here every evening and make faces at you "Legits."'"
Copy of a letter received from the proprietor of a hotel in Youngstown, Ohio:
"To the Manager of the – Company.
"I can highly recommend you to my hotel we get all the best troups our rates are as follows.
One man or one woman in one bed, $1.25.
Two men, or two women, or one man and one woman in one bed, $1.00.
And the hens lay every day.
" – , Proprietor."
Hanging in each room of the Freeman House at Paterson, N. J., there used to hang a neat little frame of "House Rules." Among these rules were the following:
"Towel Service will be restricted to one clean towel for each guest daily. The face towel of the previous day may (and should) be retained for hand use the following day."
"Gentlemen will not be allowed to visit ladies in their sleeping rooms, nor ladies to visit gentlemen in their rooms except under extenuating circumstances."
A little boy playing around the stage door of the Orpheum Theater in Kansas City spoke to me as I came out one afternoon.
"Hello, Mister."
"Hello, young feller."
"Do you work in there?"
"Yes."
"Are you an actor?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
And I couldn't tell him of a single reason.
A SOCIAL SESSION
Being "An Outsider's" Views of an Elks' Social Respectfully dedicated to Archie Boyd, a Real Elk.
Have you ever, when benighted
In a strange town, been invited
To a social of the B. P. O. of E.?
'Twas too early to be sleeping
And the "blues" were o'er you creeping
And you wished that at home you could be.
But when once you got inside,
Got to drifting with the tide
Of Goodfellowship that seemed to fill the room;
Was there not a better feeling
That came softly o'er you stealing
That seemed to send the sunlight through the gloom?
There is magic in those letters;
Binding men in Friendship's fetters,
Wondrous letters; B. P. O. of E.
There's "Benevolence," "Protection,"
Mark you well the close connection
As they beam down from above on you and me.
And you listen to the stories
That they tell about the glories
Of this Brotherhood you meet on every hand.
Of a hand outstretched in pity
To some Elk in foreign city,
A Stranger, and in a stranger land.
And now the murmur is abating;
And you notice men are awaiting
For the hour of Eleven's drawing near.
'Tis the sweetest hour of any;
Each remembered by the many,
As they drink to "Absent Brothers," held so dear.
And now I want to ask a question,
Or rather make a slight suggestion
To you "Strangers" that these invitations reach.
When you're asked to entertain them
Do not bashfully detain them
With that chestnut that you cannot make a speech.
You may not be a dancer;
Or your voice may have a cancer,
And as a singer you may be an awful frost.
But if you can't do recitations
Or other fancy recreations,
Don't consider that you are completely lost.
For somewhere in your travels
You've heard a story that unravels
All the kinks you had tied up in your heart.
And can't you, from out the many,
Tell one, as well as any?
It will show them that you want to do your part.
So do get up and make a try;
You can't any more than die;
And if it's rotten, your intentions will atone.
And you'll show appreciation
For the greatest aggregation
Of "Good Fellows" that the world has ever known.
Several years ago the Quigley Brothers, Bob and George, were living at a boarding house on Fourteenth Street, New York. One afternoon George was standing in front of the looking glass, shaving, and at the same time practicing a new dance step. Bob was seated on the floor, writing letters, on his trunk, to different managers for "time." He stopped, looked up and said,
"How do you spell eighty, George?"
"Who are you writing to?" asked George.
"Huber."
"F-o-r-t-y."
All Artists, while playing "the Provinces" in England, stop at "lodgings," that is, private houses. The landlady always keeps a book, in which she has the visiting Artists write their autographs, and a line telling how much they have enjoyed her "lodgings."
E. J. Connelly got into one house where he did not feel like writing just what he thought about it; but the landlady was so insistent that finally he took the book and wrote —
"Quoth the Raven; E. J. Connelly."
One night at the Vaudeville Comedy Club the conversation drifted around to Stage Tramps. It happened that there were several of this style of the genus homo present and they began a good-natured dispute as to which had been playing tramp parts the longest.
Nat Wills went back as far as 1885. Charlie Evans said that "Old Hoss" Hoey could beat that, as he was at it in 1881. John World said they were mere novices; as he was playing a tramp part in 1874.
Just then Walter Jones wandered in, and the matter was referred to him.
"Boys," he said, stifling a yawn, "you are all Pikers; Mere Johnnie Newcomers. Why, I played a tramp part in '1492.'"
BIGALOW AND THE BIG SIX
Charles Bigalow, the Hairless Comedian, has passed away; and when you stop to consider that he put in a whole season in a company with Pete Daily, Willie Collier, Lew Field, Joe Webber, John T. Kelley and Edgar Smith, you can't wonder that he passed away. I never could see how anybody lived through that season. I wouldn't put in a season with that sextette for all the money Lee Harrison has got. What one of them wouldn't think of another would; and generally they all thought of it at once.
One of the scenes that season took place on the deck of a yacht. Daily and Collier had a scene where they leaned over the rail of the boat, this rail running across the stage right down next to the footlights, and while pretending to be looking down into the sea, made fun of the leader, the members of the orchestra and the audience.
Daily would point down to a couple of chaps and say to Collier,
"Oh, look! there are a couple of sharks."
"How do you know they are sharks?" Collier would ask.
"I was playing poker with them last night," Daily would reply.
Then Collier would get his eye on a party of girls.
"And look at the school of minnies!" he would say.
"Those are not minnies," Daily would say.
"What are they?"
"Rebeccas."
Now as this was a scene that didn't start anywhere nor go anywhere, there had to be some sort of an interruption occur to get them off the stage. So it was arranged that Bigalow should come rushing on calling for help; Collier and Daily ask what is the matter. Bigalow says his wife has fallen overboard and the three rush off to save her.
This version was played for several weeks; then Daily and Collier began to fear that Bigalow was beginning to become mechanical in his work so they decided to make a change in the scene; but they did not tell him so.
That night the scene went on as usual, up to the time of Bigalow's entrance. He came rushing, wild eyed and excited shouting —
"Help! Help!"
But instead of turning and asking what the matter was, Collier and Daily kept right on with their kidding the audience. Again, and louder, Bigalow yelled —
"Help! Help!"
Collier discovered a red-headed girl down in front and called Daily's attention to the "Red Snapper" over on the right.
"Help!Help! Help-Help!!"
Daily called Collier's attention to the marcel waves beating on a fellow's shoulder over in the left-hand box.
Bigalow was getting madder every minute. "Oh, say, for the love of Lee Shubert, come and help a feller, will you?"
Collier pointed to a man in the front row and said, "Look at the gold fish down there! See his gold teeth?"
By this time Bigalow was so mad he couldn't speak at all; so he just stood and glared at the other two. Having accomplished their desires, Daily now took Collier by the arm and they started off stage. Just as they were about to exit, Collier stopped, held up his hand, listened a moment, then said,
"I thought I heard something!"
They both put their hands to their ears and listened. Then Collier turned and saw Bigalow, looked at him a moment and said,
"Er – I beg pardon! Did you speak?"
Bigalow just looked at him angrily.
"Something about 'help,' was it not?" continued Collier.
Still no reply.
"Help? Help?" said Daily, briskly; "what help do you want?"
"Oh, my wife fell overboard – an hour ago," said Bigalow in tones of disgust.
"Is it possible?" said Daily; and, taking Collier's arm they walked off unconcernedly, leaving Bigalow there alone.
For a full minute he stood there, looking off after them, too angry and disgusted to speak. And then, at the top of his voice he yelled after them —
"Well, say, you know I don't give a damn either."
And walked off.
Upon another occasion several of the Webber & Fields Stars were engaged to appear at a function given by some millionaire up on Fifth Avenue. They were to meet at the theater, dress there, and go up to the house in taxicabs. As usual, Bigalow was late. But as this always happened nobody bothered about it. They simply got dressed and went on their way, leaving him to come as best he could.
But, in order that he should not feel neglected, they fixed things up for him. In rummaging through his trunk Daily had come across a can of burnt cork, that he had used in a minstrel show at St. James, L. I., the previous summer. So while Collier wrote a note for Bigalow, telling him that at the last minute it had been decided that everybody should "black up," Daily daubed some of the burnt cork around the wash bowl and on to his and Collier's towels. This done they all went up to the house where they were to appear.
Can you see the next picture? Daily, Collier, Kelly, and the others all in immaculate evening dress, sitting in the host's drawing room, chatting with the host and a few friends, when the door burst open and Bigalow dashed in – as black as burnt cork would make him!
Poor Charlie. May he rest in peace. And that is more than he would ever have done in that company.
There was an English musical act playing over here last summer. The wife carried the money. She had to; if she hadn't there wouldn't have been any to carry. She had a time lock on the pocketbook and the time did not expire until they got back to England. She had been brought up under a free trade government and she did not like our protective tariff prices.
Hubby had one hat; a straw one. As Hubby had red hair and the hat was a dirty white, he looked like a fried egg in it. For weeks he had been trying to get a requisition on the treasury for a new one. But wife had vetoed the appropriation every time.
Finally Hubby had a scheme. He went to Joe Apdale, the animal trainer, for assistance.
"Now, Joe," he said, "Hi'll tell you wot we'll do; Hi will go down hand set on the hedge of the dock there, hover the ocean. Hand you come along hand say, ''Ullo, old chap!' and slap me on the back. Hi'll jump, and the bloomin' 'at will fall hin the water."
"All right," said Joe; "set your stage."
Hubby went down to the edge of the wharf, leaning over and looking at the water below.
Joe sauntered down that way, saw him, started, went over to him, said, "Hullo, old chap!" and slapped him on the back.
Hubby started – and lost his glasses into the ocean, while the hat remained firmly on his head.
The Four Blank Sisters were playing the Columbia at Cincinnati; Mama Blank traveled with the act; Mama was about five feet long and four wide; and she was built too far front; she was at least fifteen inches out over the building line.
On this particular night the German Consul was to be in front to see the girls. Coram, the English Ventriloquist, was doing his act in "One." The girls came next. Mama spied a peek hole in the curtain; this peek hole was about the center of the stage. Mama said, "So; I should see if the Consul iss dere already yet."
So she went to the peek hole; it was just about two inches too high; so, in order to make it, Mama had to stand on tiptoe; this change in her "point of support" threw her center of gravity still further front, so that by the time she got her eyes up to within a foot of the peek hole, her front piazza was right up against the curtain; but she didn't know it; she kept stepping forward to get nearer to the peek hole, and her stomach kept shoving it further and further away.
Meanwhile she was crowding poor Coram, out in front, further and further into the footlights. Finally, in desperation, he brought his elbow back against the curtain with a whack. It struck poor Mama where she was the most prominent, and knocked every bit of breath out of her. With a groan she collapsed, and it took the four daughters all the rest of the evening to get her pumped up again.
Hanging on the walls of the old S. & C. House in Seattle were the following rules:
If you don't like the Laundry, tell the Property Man, and he will put a washtub and clothes line in your room.
If you don't like the way the stage is run, join the Union and run it yourself.
If you don't like the Manager, tell him, and he will resign.
If your act don't go well here it is because you are over their heads.
In case of fire all Artists will please gather in the center of the stage and wait orders from the Stage Manager.
NEVER AGAIN
Harry Fox, with his two little pardners, the Millership Sisters, Flora and Lillian ("Lillian is the one in yellow"), were playing at the New Orleans Orpheum. As it was Mardi Gras week and everything was crowded, Harry "doubled up" for the week with a Contortionist by the name of Marseilles, and they took a large room with two beds in it.
It was Harry's first visit to New Orleans, and his first meeting with the Contortionist. But the Contortionist was well acquainted, and after the show Monday night he took Harry out to meet some of his friends. Harry says he never met a man who knew so many bartenders in his life. The result was that when Harry woke up in the morning he did not remember going to bed.
Now all the beds in New Orleans have mosquito nets over them; this was also a new wrinkle on Harry. And when he woke up it happened that his face was right close up to this mosquito netting as it hung down at the side of the bed. He opened his eyes, but he could not see; he winked several times and shook his head; but it was no use; everything was blurred to him; the fearful thought came to him,
"I am going blind; everything looks misty and blurred to me."
Cold chills began to run up and down his back at the horror of it; he seemed paralyzed; he could not move. And then, from somewhere out in that blur of misty light a voice said,
"Good morning."
Harry peered closer out through the mist before him, and after a moment's search he gave a yell and started upright in the bed with a scream of fright. For there, standing in the center of the room was the Contortionist, "limbering up." He was standing with his toes pointing toward Harry, but he had bent himself over backwards until his head was way down between his legs, with his face sticking out through in front, looking at Harry with a cheerful grin.
This was at eleven forty-five; at twelve ten Harry was over at the office of a justice of the peace, taking the pledge.
