The evening world. Newspaper, June 7, 1913, Page 9

eben His Mother Was Irish and HerParlorin Philadelphia Was a Source of Inspira- tion to Him When Rela- tives in Their Sunday Clothes Gathered There— “Gee, Whiz!” BY CHARLES DARNTON. I’ DENMAN THOMPSON were alive to-day he and George W. Monroe would make a great pair sitting on the weather-beaten porch of a country hotel. After all, we have to go back a long way to get actors with character bred in the bone, You know that, don't you? And of course you know George Monroe vurry, vurry well. But don’t be too sure about that. For one thing he isn’t a bit noisy, nor even gabby. In fact, he’s as quiet a man as you'd meet this side of a fight. Try to picture a middle-aged, cor pulent occupant of an arm chair who gets his humor from Philadelphia, his cigars from Brooklyn and his press notices from New York, and then pull your chair up to a back window that commands a fine view of fire escapes, neighbors that pass in the night and a forsaken clothesline. Through the smoke of his Brooklyn's Pride, however, Mr. Monroe was biind to everything but the newspapers in his lap. “1 nope they Wed me in ‘All Aboard e muttered, clearing away the news ra and reaching for a box of cigars. "he offered. ‘These cigars in Brooklyn and I've been gmoking ‘em for six or eight years.” ‘This sounded encouraging, for he seemed in robust health. .While I still had my strength I asked him how long te Gad been playing an Irishwoman. ulated, squinting fnto the past. ‘It's thirty years or more, The fact !s, I've been playing a Biddy @o long that I feel I'm a kind of Rip Van Winkle. 1 used to read of Joe Jefferson's playing Rip for thirty years end wonder how an actor could live to EX&Mzabeth, who deserves to be a Broad- way fixture, was the matter of a mo- ment, and the story I was after again ran along on the wheels of memory. “T forgot to tell you,” came from the easy chair, “that I used to work in & type foundry, Those were my child- hood days in Philadetph! The type I've washed in my time! But It's nothing for me to be proud of, I'm ashamed to say. I was in such @ hurry to get through’ with my work, In order to go to ‘supe’ at @ matinee, that I final- ly lost my job. Type meant nothing to me exeept when it was used in a newspaper to aay something about the theatre, Then I was fired.” “And then what’ “A boy's dream come true,” he an- swered with a smile as true as a Mark Twain atory. ‘For months [I'd been hanging aréund the theatres keeping on the actors and my ear on what they said, Finally one of them was taken sick—God bless him!—and after a hard struggle with the stage manager I jumped into the part. It w emall part in ‘Jack Harkaway,’ jt seemed as big as a mountain to “in which the exuberant Monroe, like a red-haired sister of Nell Burgess in ‘Widow Bedott,"’ first convulsed those of us who thanked our lucky star for the twenty- five cents that enabled us to climb into the gallery. “Right you are!" agreed the only and original Aunt Bridget. ‘I'll tell you how it was, Did I mention Johnnie Quinn? No, I thought not, Well, Johnnie was a fine boy with his feet, and, what's more, he had a turn for imitations, We lived in Stewart street, as it happened, and it also happened that this was an Irish neighborhood. As good luck would have it, we were to drink. Here's w say: Both of u Father Matthew's Total Abstinence So- ciety, and when the society gave an entertainment Johnnie and I gave an imitation of Brady and his wife, called ‘A Quiet Bvening at Home.’ By making an awful racket we brought down the house, I owe @ great deal to Mra. Brady.” “She was your inspiration?” I eug- gested, with sympathetic regard for the feeting he displayed, “Yea and no," replied Mr. Monroe. “George 8. Knight really put me in the part I've been playing so many years. 1 was with him in ‘Over tho Garden Wall,’ when his wife made up her mind that the role dhe was playing was too rough for hen @o Knight made it rougher etill and gave it to me, while hin wife took a pretty part. That set- tled me. From that day to this I've Played nothing but an Irishwoman. [ formed @ partnership with John G, Rice, and for nine years we appeared in ‘My Aunt Bridget,’ written by Scott Marble, who |s now in the Actors’ Fund Home. And I know I'm doomed to play my old role, with variations, to the end of my days.” He was so tragic about tt that I feared he longed to play Hamlet. The secret Was out @ moment later. ‘What I'd itke to do," he confessed, to play @ part like that of the political boss in,‘The Man of the Hour.’ 1 think I could do the sort of thing that Georzo Fawcett does so well, But what's the uee thinking about it? I couldn't get @ cent for anything but the kind of part I've been playing ali my life, Sometimes I get so slok of it that I feel like throwing the red wig and the rest of the stuff out of the window. It's a relief to hit off the Charlie Murphy kind of political boss that wood Juck has brought me in ‘Ail ary > mt “THE EVENING WORLD, SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 1913 “The Dance, i: You Can Call It a Dance, Is Disgusting, and I Feel Sorry for the Girls Who Join in It and Then Drink With Their Partners—I Hope the-Crazt- ness Will Soon Pass Away.” Says Lopoukowa, Great Russian Dancer By Lydia Lopoukowa, ‘The Famous Russian Dancer. LALOST everybody is interested in A Ganoing, because dancing ténde to make us happy. Dances ere ré@igious, naticnal, dramatic, classic ‘tnd eoctal. But what kiné of-ecclal dance te the ; tuateey trot? | The social Gances I know best are the where I picked up ‘Gee whis! and other sayings, It was in my mother’s parlor it I got the idea of playing an Ameri- canized Irishwomen without a brogue. ‘The less brogue the better is the rule I've followed. I've been orlticised for being boisterous, but to play the part quietly would be to kill it. At the same time I've tried to make it @ character more or less true to ie You mi have noticed that I always repeat cer- tain phrases. This trick I caught ¢rom an aunt who would remark, for ex- ample, ‘I mi that ofe myself—I say I made that ple myeelf.’ Good old Aunt Ann—I've never forgotten her! But of course I had to de careful at the time, Irish people don't Mke any one to make fun of them, though they're always tmi- tating other people I can say this, be- cause I'm Irish myself, And Irish ex- pressions are full of character. For in- stance, if I ever did anything that my mother disiiked she woukl ey, ‘Tou had very little to do.’ This was eo charac- teristic cf her that when she heard a judge had sentenced Quaker Murphy, aa he was called—and a bad boy h was!—to twelve years for shooting a policeman, she promptly gassed een-| tence on the judge by saying, ‘He had very little to do, Sure, Quaker Munphy meant no harm, & g00d tad—al'y known him for years.’ That's the way ft went in my mother's parlor, But it was not there that I got the phrase ‘Be that as it may.’ I found that read- ing Dickens, who sma It seriously in ‘Old Curlosity Shop,’ I think it was. Would you delleve it?” Whe wouldn't believe an Irishman? | oS It’s Washington Mews. ‘T'S _AVashington Mew: rked @ man atop of @ Fifth row alleyway running to the east, just Te- | ‘enue bus, pointing to a nar-| watts and the polka, Both have rhythm. the waits, I should say, It 1s phystoal rather than graceful. Perhaps that is why everybody is doing it, as you say in thie country. Ta it to be wondered at, though, that many are now condemning the turkey trot as vulgar? Certainly it fe not beautiful, Indeed, to me it te Glegueting. I have been tmvited many times turteay trot parties, but I have gone omy once, I tried the dance, bat di not Mke it. A¢ a party I do not like people to think I sit quietly in a ohair because I do not know how to dance, ao |now I always say, ‘Thank you very much, I cannot come to your par- ty." For me the turkey trot is not worth while, Once I went to @ restaurant where This Cockatoo Bat the turkey trot has no rhythm. It/ || 9 @ dance for people who cannot dance wes ‘watched the others, Gle-aged gentleman how to turkey trot J eaid: “T woukin' not worth it” eure that in doubted my ability te éo the trot and the tango. Grink a little with their partners, and I felt they must surely lose their Beade before the evening was over. But If 4d not stay long enough to see thet, I was very glad to go away. I aincerely hope this crasivess for the turkey trot will soon peas away, for the dance is really vulgar aud can anly be demoralizing to young people, Ruesia would rush away from that dance. Th wae never anything like it in Russia, It is movement without rhythm—and rhythm ie:the beauty of the true dance. The turkey trot ie not a dance at all—it is @ kind of walk, But I should hate to walk that way, Laughs, Sings, Talks and Waltzes! Hart @ pint o' Marlin bitters.” @aid Lacille, “your dirty feet. has ruined my dress.” Cooky immediately got busy with his Dill and swept the waist of his mistress |G of the imaginary dirt. mado a horizontal bar of her handker- chief and Cocky did the giant's ewing and @ few ower circus stunts. Then he hopped up and down the tadle shouting “Pook-a-boo!"’ while his mistrese pre- tended to hide, the while crying a-boo" back to hi time of his life. t a bad cold," and Immediately the bird began to sneeze And the bind only twelve years old. Not a chicken yet. ‘When he got through with the rag he waltzed a bit, Then he whistled, “Pop muate on the cornet,” sald Lucille, and the well trained bird turned loose with the band. The office Nothing since the the bugle beagle had been ‘Then the lady| “Now, a little force went crasy, Cocky blew the revellle and aounded aald the lady. cried the bird, “Now, Cocky, you're dead,” @ald the sputtered Cocky, and heeled ‘and lay quite dead, Cocky wants @ drink." “I wonder if he does want a drink?’ 1 o ! : ioe ae before Warhington Square was reached, . " a i : Lucille, and Cocky ta ie tin, “Fre morn a rod wie ctor eon, youd ca. ta maa aboard That ink Waascraee mene | | "LUCILLETAND COCKY i ee pie a ew etn long I can hardly remember when In; Beate, Caeas a8 8) ae, gee years - “Suppose {t's because {t's in! niente ee in a tin cup was; croaks and washes ot hee * in first put one on. It Just happened, | far as 1 oo a. wae to keep ifo | It seems to strike people ax new and It] with cats,” roplied the other eert ie ateacthat ica tra: Me ainncnee royped out of | MOuRnt to the sagucious bind, while he|the theatre, Then he Kase Bie sie that's ail. When I way a boy In Phila-|from leading a dull and dreary exist-| suite the character, I ploked ft up Afe| lq 'rant tmagine any other neneon, cockatoo from Hoth | hia cage on to a table. “Whore did thia| tittere dio toned ate ie, O, Martin | frees, One to shut the box. i *) deiphla, Jim Murray—tho brother of that] ence. ‘Mary,’ we would hear him say, | teen years ago, St ka ean orane, can talk, sing, | bunch come from? Har, har, har! Cooks | Otert., 20, 1ooked into the cup, and eens tale ln OMe Feoating plcee clever girl Wiixabeth, you know—lived| ‘bring me @ match: If you don't I'll} ‘Phe best of it all wan to hear Mr.| A mows laa street or court upon which | whiat'e, walt, rag, lavkh, cry, shout, | wante uw dring? ' fils comm west atraluht up into the air. | Jape .o0k oneal Sa sen nnen eae in the same neighborhood, and we were) raise hell’ | “There are no matches, | Monroe teil how he had “picked up''| gtables are located, Originally It meant |turn handsprings, blow the bugle, wad | Madame Luctite detivered « hurangue| turned jose thet orjian wetted Bel ite has a wire cage which Ste Into & fo atage struck that we couldn't soe|Jawn,' his wife would answer, “Then | Aunt Bridget and placed that long-lived| the cages tn which the roval hawks | piay dead on women's suffrage. svt said to tne] Med Jovw that piping whistlo again. | guitease. ‘There's & hole on elther side our way home vt night vntll all the! I'll reine hell, any way,’ he would shout! character on the stage were kept by Britiah kings of the middie| “Cocky” ts the name of the bitd, and | bird: “Should the women ineve votes?" | whispered Lactil 9 5 4 turkey trot,’ | of the cave which gives him alr and tete theatres were closed, And then, even,| back, And he always did, Brady| “My mother was Irish, and she haa|eges Later the alte of th i} ne and his mistress, Mme, lucille, wre| “Yes,” suid the wise bird whispered Luctile, and struck up w ra, him hear what le going on in outer ! Off started the cabaret, and nothing | world, When he hoars the newsies ery> Do you think they ought to smash} better had ever been witnesed in Bue- | ing out thelr papers he imitates windows Nii tanoby'’s The lady hummed the rag, “Sure, Har, har, bar! Cocky wants @land the bird tore it to pieces, te stop on the corner and do a few)could be depended upon, and Johnnie |a jot of relatives,” he explained. “They tepa to keep our feet awake. A/Quinn and I were always on hand tojall wanted to be American, and when| the word lingered, and came to mean| Avenue Theatre. The lady and the bird & variety | see the programme carried out. Many's|they came to the house on Sunday in|the place where the stables were located, | were guests on Thursday afternoon at theatre, but Jim broke bas knee-cap and ies Hootent STORIE: § od in Pale Sane alee they would try to be| Washington Mews, Mamhatean, has! The Evening World office, and Cocky | drink.” shouted the air in gl No Broadway hed % BtVerup the dusiness. Breat | ‘so nic Ing around the parlor that| “stables” all about it~most of them turned the local room upside down| “What does Cocky want to drink?’ | sprite had thing in the w: j To be sorry for Jim and prové ef helpte me though Johnnie in time took | the bumer of i olsuak mie That's! privase garegen, when he went (hroush bis paces, Cocky whined the wall-knowa Low! on tha} Wag bind, e way of @ rag | came the site of the royal headliners next week at Prootor’s Fifth fancy little later we