A great deal besides water has passed under the bridge since I last appeared in Liberty, enlightening the world.

Critics said I put too much about myself in my autobiography — that I had too much Cohan in my cosmos. Perhaps they're right; but I am not critic enough to write an autobiography and leave myself out of it.

Some critics say that if I left off writing altogether and stopped producing plays, the golden age of American drama would begin. But not for me. They don't think of that. They say the world would be just as well off if I had never written a play or composed a song; but what a difference it would make to me and my bank account!

I don't say that money is the only sign of success; but it's a favorable symptom. In spite of all the free and critical advice I've received, I wouldn't go back and change my entrances and exits much if I could.

Have you ever heard of a successful candidate demanding a recount?

More than twenty years ago I wrote a little piece on How to Be a Good Salesman, which wound up with a sentiment, some of which is still sound, as follows:

A man is never born with enemies; he makes them.

A man is born with friends, and loses them.

It's what he does, how he acts, that gets him what he's got or loses him what he had. If you go through life making friends, you are your own best friend. If you go along making enemies, you're your own worst enemy.

The real idea is to laugh your way through life.

Tell them you don't mind the world; you enjoy it. Lie a little; what the hell do you care?

Tell the spendthrift he has the right idea in having a good time. Tell the miser he is a wise man to save his money. Admire the showy woman's jewelry. Praise the modest girl for her simplicity. In other words, open up a salve store.

So far as I am personally concerned, I propose three cheers for everybody.

I am not very much sold on the past. The sidewalks of New York are all right in sentiment; but it's the people on now, not the footprints of forgotten men, that count.

Whether you're producing drama or running a depar store the main thing is to be up-to-date. Of course, the elements that never change. But America is not going hill. Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln could be elected.

I have always kept the people in mind in writing an ducing plays. It's the boy that pays to come in, the customer, that counts. It's my belief in him as a brother, side kick in the show, that has made some of my play songs popular with you fellows, my real financiers.

Some years ago, for all in my companies and other might be concerned, I issued an ultimatum on this subject. Here it is, still true in the main:

All this noise about there being so many great men theatrical profession is table talk and tommyrot. A man is a big man in the show game whenever he happens to do something big, and a big man realizes that he's liable to become a very small potato should his foot happen to slip; and, believe me, is slushy going, and the sidewalk along Fame Avenue is a cold, slippery, and uncertain proposition.

A great deal more is expected of a man who tears off a few successes than of a man who has been less fortunate. If a producing manager puts over a big hit, he is immediately acquainted with the fact that his next presentation should be very so much greater. Should he fail to hand 'em something much greater — good night!

An actor is a big man when he happens to get a big part in a big hit; and now that he has proved conclusively that he is a big actor, he must continue to do big things in order to remain a big man. In other words, he must play only big parts in big plays that are all big hits. Can you imagine what a fine chance the young man has to get away with that?

An author of plays is a big man every now and then. A hit — big man; a flivver — big dub. In any other profession most fellows are failures before becoming successful. In the show game you've got to be successful before you fail.

It's a perfectly ridiculous thing for a man to feel that he is a big man in any branch of the business. No managers, no authors, no actors — no man or men have ever been able to tell how a play is going to be received until that old curtain has gone up and down several times. The Public will tell you how good you are. He is the little guy that really decides.

He is a talkative chap, this Mister Public, but when he speaks he says something, and this is what he says: "It's a good show." And then again he'll say: "It's a punk show." And the funny part of it is that these wise guys of the show business have to take his word for it.

The fact that for years I have kept to that course, following the public, should acquit me of having exaggerated notions about the size of my hat.

Some of my successes were due to accident — my peculiar style of eccentric dancing, for example. And I have a property man who is a stickler for detail, as a property man should be. Among his many duties in one of my plays was to fire, at a critical moment, a pistol in the wings. One night, as the crisis in the play approached, he discovered, to his great consternation, that the pistol had been misplaced. He made frantic search for it, of course. It was not to be found.

At last his cue came, spoken from the stage. In desperation he rushed into the second entrance, and in a voice that sounded like the explosion of an arsenal he shouted, "BANG!"

It was a scream in more senses than one. It went over fine with the audience. There and then that property man was signed up not only for the season but for life. I had to recognize resourcefulness like that.

The best thing about my autobiography, some critics said, was that it was brief. Others complained that I had too much to say about Broadway. That probably is a good criticism. I have been identified a lot with New York and Chicago and other fair-sized cities, but I'm for the small town, too. I have always said that the greatest hick town in the world is little old New York.

Year after year I was billed with The Four Cohans in the small places, and later in my own productions — and all many years before my name ventured to look out on the great waves of people that beat about Times Square.

Now I have never pretended to be the Boy that Made Broadway Bright. But I will say that millions of Americans, arrived in New York, recognize my name; that the years of early appearances in their home towns, plus the advertising I have spread over America, now make me almost certain of their patronage.

They know, too, that, whatever their creed, their Yankee Doodle Song-and-Dance Man is not going to tread on anybody's corns. They know that my performances will be clean; that while I like filthy lucre I don't get it at the price of filthy plays; and that they will escape religious or other problems in my productions.

For more than twenty-five years I have said and practiced this: first, get the goods; second, advertise them to beat the band; and, third, deliver them.

Printer's ink is the best business tonic in the world.

Liberal and repeated doses of printer's ink will banish even those red-ink regrets and bank-balance blues. When department-store owners advertise, we do not call these people egoists. They praise their goods, and we go to see, and if we like the things we buy we go again and become steady customers. That's the way I have advertised. George M. Cohan is the only commodity I've had to sell, and I have not hesitated to spend money to sell it from one end of America to the other and in countries across the water.

I may have made mistakes, but persistency in advertising is not one of them.

Readers of Liberty of sufficient maturity will recall the persistent advertising of Wilson Whiskey before the war. Many years ago that brand received an unintentional but staggering blow at an evening's performance. It was in Baltimore. Terry McGovern was appearing in a piece called The Bowery After Dark. An agent for Wilson Whiskey called and asked to have the property man place a few Wilson signs in the barroom scene.

To this there was no objection. After the first act the agent came behind the scenes, greatly elated, saying his boss was out in front, and if the management would permit one of the comedians to mention Wilson Whiskey at a favorable opportunity the advertising would be complete. Incidentally, he said, it would mean a raise for him. The comedian was so instructed.

The third act showed a dive in Chinatown which McGovern entered in search of the kidnaped heroine. While searching, he came across a sideboard that was a small bar. The comedian here suggested a drink of Wilson Whiskey; and McGovern, true to the lines of the play, replied: "Not for mine; that's the stuff that's killed many a good one."

Advertising is more of a science now.

In the early days, when I was playing vaudeville with The Four Cohans, I supplemented what little income we had by writing jokes, songs, sketches, etc., for other performers. One of my employers in this line was Lew Dockstader. From him I received fifteen dollars per week, and as I needed the money the minstrel arranged to have it sent to me regularly.

It came usually in the form of an express or post-office order. In one Western town it arrived on Saturday afternoon, and I had barely time to rush to the express office to get it cashed. They demanded identification. I had nothing with me to show who I was, and I wasn't much, at that. But I was a member of The Four Cohans, and the express official had seen our performance.

So, while the line looked on and the cashiers came to the window, I did my stuff. The identification was satisfactory and I got my order cashed.

Another time, while Going a vaudeville turn in Boston, I wrenched my arm playing my favorite game, baseball. Twirling a baton was a feature of my act. I could not go on with that particular part, but tried to make up for it by giving them a double portion of dancing. But the manager deducted ten dollars from my week's salary.

Now, this seemed to me unjust, for the act had gone well. I refused to stand for the deduction, and had the manager brought into court. There he admitted that I had done more steps than my contract called for, but added that my contract called for baton twirling too, and that I was a great baton man but a bum dancer.

Naturally, this defense stirred me up, and I got my attorney to ask the judge and attorney for the defense to let me give a demonstration before the court. This was agreed to, space was cleared, and the plaintiff in the case pulled off a performance to the hearty satisfaction of both judge and jury. I won, got my ten dollars, and the manager had to pay the costs of court.

In Marietta, Ohio, the opera house used to adjoin the town jail. In fact, the stage was actually connected by a doorway with the hold-over. When we arrived there to play Running for Office, we found a lack of dressing rooms. Our manager, Charles Vion, applied to the sheriff for use of whatever room the doorway led to. This proved to be a cell occupied for the moment by a thoroughly sober penitent who had been run in for being drunk.

Through Manager Vion the proposition was made to the sheriff that we would pay the fine for the right to use the room. This was agreed to and the conversion of the cell into a first-class dressing room immediately followed. That night from a box the cell's late occupant viewed the show as the guest of a grateful management.

I have often been asked why I don't write a highbrow play. Well, if I wrote one, assuming that I could, how would I ever live it down?

I stick to the field I find under my feet. I don't drag in outside stuff or foreign phrases. I've often said that the way to write a play is just to jot down everything you hear and then put it into some sort of a plot. I can't get my situations and successes out of books. My style of drama may drive a man to drive a man to drink, but never to the dic***ionary. I have cited several factors ***n success, viz., luck, work, and printer's ink. Another is sunniness — optinism.

A genuine optimist is one who believes in himself despite the facts.

There are various degrees of optimism, and many definitions. You know what T. R. said at the close of his career as President — that he'd had a bully time. I guess almost anyone could have a good time in the White House. But what T. R. said about being President I can say about my whole career. I've always enjoyed my work. From the start, I'd rather dance than eat — and sometimes I didn't have much choice in the matter. Often, even after I began to produce plays for myself, I'd find myself off in a corner, dancing for sheer joy.

Yet, as I have often said, dancing, in a sense, handicaps a really ambitious actor. One of the worst things an actor can do is to let the public know that he can dance. No matter what he may do, ever after they want the dance along with it. His ambition may be some day to appear in Shakespearean roles, but if ever he does he will have to dance between the acts.

What is known as a fat part is seldom assigned to a man who can dance. The small part is handed to the dancer. He must dance it into a good part. The fat part will take care of itself.

Years ago I started to get away from dancing. I substituted some dialogue for a buck dance in one of our sketches. The manager kicked. However, I spoke the lines and did the dance at the same time. About this time I began writing songs, and I remember now how proudly I announced the fact that I would rather render one of my compositions. The manager sent back word that the song was all right but I should put a dance at the end of it. The Four Cohans were to play an engagement at Tony Pastor's Theater in New York City. When that Monday came I had a severe cold and could not speak above a whisper. We sent word to Mr. Pastor's representative that, owing to George Cohan's condition, it would be quite impossible for us to play the engagement. In less than twenty-four hours it was rumored about theatrical circles that George Cohan had broken a leg and would probably never be able to dance again!

Repeatedly I tried in many ways to induce the kind public to accept me for more than a dance. I danced my way from Maine to California and back again, and the public refused to allow me to make the trip in any other way. I tried my hand at song writing, composing, stage management; had gone so far as to enter into the business end of theatricals. I had written at least half a hundred one-act plays and produced successful musical comedies. I had appeared in the principal comedy parts, branched out as an individual star. Press and public were generously kind. The only fault the critics found was that George Cohan didn't do enough dancing.

Some years ago I was doing a turn in a show where there was the best dancer of his time. He did some wonderful work and made but an ordinary success. I followed him two or three numbers later, did hardly any dancing at all, and brought down the house. He used to marvel at it; so did I. He was the real dancer.

At the time they called me the best dancer in America. I had practically done away with real dancing and was doing only unusual, eccentric things. Before that, when I really was a crackajack dancer, I was but one in a thousand.

In a Hitchcock show were two teams of dancers of two boys each. Previously they had been in vaudeville, doing some wonderfully difficult steps. But nobody had heard of them. A few of the regular habitués of those shows knew them perhaps, but that was all. In the show we put them at doing bits of eccentric dancing which any child of the street could have learned in a week's rehearsal. Just as soon as their act came on the audience went wild. These boys made the hit of the piece and of their lives in something that was, to these splendid dancers, nothing but foolish child's play.

Curiously, the audience is not interested in watching the dancer's feet, if he has any magnetism at all. It is his face, his shoulders, his figure they look at. The most difficult steps are absolutely wasted, and the dancers, failing of appreciation, are discouraged. In disgust they do the odd, eccentric thing which has no art but which captures the public and brings the performers big reputation and money. It is said that the dancer's brains are in his feet, and as these men cannot invent new steps they prefer to dance for moving-picture concerns, or, better still, in rathskellers where actors and others who appreciate dancing gather and where their art will be recognized. Moreover, these men dance for the love of dancing rather than for the pay.

A dancer will think of a step for days before he tries it at all. He figures it out. Curiously, he can tell without trying whether a step can be done, so well does he know the laws of dancing. Or he can suggest it to another dancer as an invention, and the other will say, after pondering over it a bit, but without trying it: "It can be done" or "It cannot be done." And he's usually right. This is the practice in planning out what is called a routine of steps.

Not only must the step be feasible in itself, but it must harmonize with the steps that go before and that follow. A routine must be as logically constructed as a bit of music. Probably the most wonderfully thoughtout series of steps are those of the buck dance.

The toe dance requires most practice of all and exacts most torture of the performer. A woman rushes on to the stage on her toes. She swishes and swirls and pirouettes so wonderfully that it looks as if her legs were twisted like a corkscrew. She will spring into the air and alight on the very tips of her toes as lightly as a cotton ball. To be able to do that very simple feat she had to begin when she was a little girl. She went through the process known as being "turned out." She was taught to walk on her toes pointing absolutely to right and left until she was able to do this quite as easily as walking naturally. She stood on her toes. This developed the muscles that ran down her legs to the very ends of her feet, making them enormously strong. And presently she could walk on her toes and keep her balance with as little difficulty as if walking naturally.

Skirt dancing is not in the same class with toe dancing or other difficult forms of the art. Swaying, moving with a rush from one side of the stage to the other, and waving draperies, or swirling great skirts with sticks under strong and varicolored lights until the audience is hypnotized into seeing something resembling a flower, is not dancing, in my opinion.

When I first played New York at Keith's Union Square Theater, my dancing was a revelation. They'd seen nothing like it. But the dancers took it up. Inside of a season they were all doing it, and a good many men who had scarcely been making their salt were put in the way of making good money. Surely the innovation was a godsend to a lot of dancers. I really think I had much to do with bringing in the eccentric dance, because I was the first who tried to get away from the standing-still dance.

When, in an emergency in 1927, I decided to appear in The Merry Malones, I had not been under the discipline of regular stage dancing for thirteen years. For three or four weeks it was anything but pleasant. For a time I was in actual pain with a torn muscle. Finally, I capered through the performance buoyantly. Dancing had taken twenty-five years off my age.

The prevalent notion that dancing success is the reward of constant practice plus its unremitting stage application is one of those romantic myths on which I have never been nurtured. I hesitate to think how different a dancer I might have been had I used the last thirteen years in limbering.

Dancing has been a normal part of my life. When I stopped dancing, it was exactly like substituting prunes for grapefruit. I had changed my routine, as we say in the theater. And, as with the quinine in grapefruit, it took me a long time to find I needed certain ingredients to constitute a well balanced whole. Take the quinine from grapefruit and you have an orange. Take dancing away from me and you have a semicentenarian.

But, in attributing a youthful outlook to the arduous job of racing round a rostrum, we cannot neglect another powerful factor — namely, vitality. It takes a person vital above the ordinary to keep pace with Father Time and to be on hand to pick up as they fall the opportunities he throws in your path. Vitality presupposes a strong stomach, which is an indispensable item; it makes you feel young, which is another.

Of course I never gave much thought to the years They go quickly in an active career. But now that actually feel as I did in 1902, it may be interesting start at the beginning of my toboggan into tiny-tot territory. Some folk may want to know how it is done. Vitality is the only hidden requisite.

The dancers on Broadway thought I kept in trim by going to a gym, but I did it by walking Living in Atlantic City about nine months of the year promotes walking — that's all you do down there.

The only chance a fellow has in New York to walk is to go up and do the reservoir in Central Park-and now that's gone. That's when the real walkers went, and it was surprising how many you saw up there. But you saw a lot who started at it strenuously, and you knew the were the ones who weren't going to be there next week. It was a mile and three-quarters around the reservoir. I used to do from seven to eight miles a day, and when I went to the ball game I walked up to the Polo Grounds or to the Stadium.

I am sure that the combination of walking and dancing has kept me young. I have always walked, but doing a routine of steps eight or nine times a week during several months in 1928 lopped off a silver anniversary. They say a fellow has no right to do any violent dancing after forty. I feel fine.

I have asked the doctor what he thought about my dancing, and he told me to "go easy." Which mean I am my own doc when it comes to methods of promoting youth. And none of this limbering up before performance, like the youngsters in the company. All around you se the girls and boys back-bending splitting, and going through a myriad contortions. I do none of this. I walk to the theater and walk home. This constitutes all the limbering I do.

In The Merry Malones I did two hard dances and four bits. I tossed out the liniment and took a shower after the performance. A simple remedy for discarding years. So simple, in fact, nobody ever though of it before.

When the show opened I used to clutch at scenery and look for some one to lean on as I came off the stage My breathing faculties were excellent, but my legs crumpled beneath me. More than once I thought of adopting the limbering process of the other dancers. "Maybe." I said," despite all my views to the contrary, they have the right idea."

I never thought I'd make the grade. It was a month of torture. Just when I had determined to try the before-the-play limbering gymnastics, my legs regained some of their old friendliness. They stopped aching just when I was ready to form into the limbering line at the back-stage wall.

My dancing included an eccentric dance I used to do years ago — a wall spin in which a turn is made in the air. This is a step up the proscenium and a complete twist before returning to the stage. It always was popular with audiences, yet I confess it was unpopular with me for several weeks. However, I kept at it until the trick didn't bother me any more.

Publication Date: October 24, 1931