Rag-time Dance.
This unique and original world has its conventions, too, quite as hard and fast as elsewhere. The vaudeville dude always bears an enormous cane with a spike in the end of it even though the style in canes may be a bamboo switch. The comedian will black his face, though he never makes the lightest pretence to negro characterization, under the delusion that the black face and kinky hair and short trousers are necessary badges of the funny man. The vaudeville "artist" and his partner will "slang" each other and indulge in brutal personalities under the theory that they are guilty of repartee; and with a few brilliant exceptions, they all steal from each other jokes and gags and songs and "business," absolutely without conscience. So that if a comedian has originated a funny story that makes a hit in New York, by the time he reaches Philadelphia he finds that another comedian has filched it and told it in Philadelphia, and the originator finds himself a dealer in second-hand goods.
It is manifest, I think, that vaudeville is very American. It touches us and our lives at many places. It appeals to the business man, tired and worn, who drops in for half an hour on his way home; to the person who has an hour or two before a train goes, or before a business appointment; to the woman who is wearied of shopping; to the children who love animals and acrobats; to the man with his sweetheart or sister; to the individual who wants to be diverted but doesn't want to think or feel; to the American of all grades and kinds who wants a great deal for his money. The vaudeville theatre belongs to the era of the department store and the short story. It may be a kind of lunch-counter art, but then art is so vague and lunch is so real.
And I think I may add that if anyone has anything exceptional in the way of art, the vaudeville door is not shut to that.
THE ROYAL INTENT
By William Maynadier Browne
ONE day, early in June—I cannot recall the exact date—Mrs. Timothy Fennessey, née O'Connor, presented her husband with a fine ten-pound boy. Now, the Fennesseys are of royal descent, as well as are the O'Connors. The last of the House of Fennessey (Tim was collaterally descended) was slain in battle, if I be not mistaken; still, I cannot vouch for this. He may have been assassinated, struck by lightning, or drowned in a bag, as many of Ireland's kings were. I am quite sure, however, he did not die in his bed. Very, very few of those whose names appear in the chronological table of Ireland's rulers reached so prosaic an end as natural death.
Thus, by the wedding of Mollie O'Connor with Tim Fennessey, two royal houses were united, and, as you may imagine, the Heir Apparent was a personage of no small importance.
One week after the baby's birth, his grandfather, dear old O'Connor himself, came to the office to call upon Mr. Cutting and to inform him of the new arrival. Incidentally, I had heard the news some days before, and had been from that time expecting a visit from O'Connor. So, when I saw the office-door slowly and noiselessly move inward, I was quite prepared to see the royal grandparent. But I was not prepared to see so modest an entrance—to use the parlance of the stage.
The door moved inward, gingerly, for perhaps a foot; next I caught sight of a homely, well-used hand clasped about its outer edge. Then followed a much-brushed, tall silk hat of ancient design and of great respectability. This hat was held by the fitting fellow of the hand I had first seen and that still grasped the door-rim. Now, from between the two, came in the white-halo-ed, wrinkled face of Michael J., lineal descendant of Roderic, last King of Ireland.