HAT first put it into your head to give entertainments?” is a question I have been asked hundreds of times, and my reply has always been, “I’m sure I do not know.” Nor do I know to this day. I used to play the piano very well at the age of twelve. What was considered “very well” for a boy twenty-eight years ago, no doubt would be considered execrable in these days of Hoffmanns and Hegners. I remember, when I played, ladies used to say, “How odd it seems to see a boy playing.” It was thought effeminate to play the piano.

Besides playing from music, I also played a good deal by ear, which was considered demoralising, and still is by those who know nothing about it. Playing correctly by ear is a gift that should be encouraged. I was delighted one afternoon recently, when calling upon Mrs. Kendal, the well-known actress, to see her little boy, of about ten or eleven, sit down at the grand piano and play off by ear, perfectly correctly, “Le révenant de la revue” and one of my own songs. It is a gift delightful to the one fortunately endowed with it; and it does not follow that one should not also play correctly from music.

For my own pleasure (I do not know whether it was for other people’s), I used to sing the comic songs, “Johnny Sands,” “The Cork Leg,” and “The Lost Child,” to my own pianoforte accompaniment. I was never taught the tunes or words of these songs, but picked them up as children do, and reproduced them at the piano in a fashion of my own.

One delightful consequence of this was that the number of my invitations to juvenile parties was considerably increased. I added to my stock of songs of course, and so found I was kept up to a late hour – at grown-up parties, too. Though not too young to learn and sing these songs, I was not old enough to always understand their purport.

There was a song, about this time, which was all the rage in London. The tune was heard on every organ and band, in every ballroom and theatre. I bought a penny song-book with the words, which I learned off by heart, and, as usual picked out my accompaniment on the piano. One evening I launched it before the grown-up people who always turn up at the latter end of a juvenile party, and some of whom generally requested that I should be kept and made to sing to them. My friend Frank Burnand, in his incomparable Happy Thoughts, tells how he was singing a comic song before an unsympathetic audience, and suddenly remembering a verse was not quite proper, backed out of it. In my own case, I had no notion that the verse was risqué. I did not even understand it; so out it came with the full force of my penny-whistle voice. I never heard so much laughter in a room before. There was a general request for the song to be encored; but this was just a little too much for the feelings of my fond and hitherto proud mother, who made a dash at me, and shut me and the piano up at the same moment.

There is a period when the voice breaks, but I do not think I ever had a voice to break; at all events, I never remember the time when I ceased singing comic songs.

When half-way through my teens, I began to write snatches of songs and illustrations, and received much help and encouragement from my father. He used to take me to the old Gallery of Illustration, to hear the inimitable John Parry; and this infused not only a new life, but a totally different style, into my work. Still in my teens, I used to be asked to the grown-up parties of Mr. Toole, Mr. Charles Millward, Mr. Henry Neville, and Mr. John Hollingshead, the last-named of whom, only the other day, reminded me that I never could be persuaded to sing before supper, excusing myself on the ground that the songs always went so much better after supper. So they did, and so they still do.

At Mr. Hollingshead’s I first met Mr. Henry S. Leigh, then a contributor to Fun, and the author of “Carols of Cockayne,” “Gillott and Goosequill,” &c. He was himself a great admirer of John Parry; and when I became intimate with him, in after years, used to show me how Parry sang “Wanted, a Governess,” “The Old Bachelor,” “The Déjeuner à la Fourchette,” &c., all of which I have myself sung at times, after a fashion. At Hollingshead’s (in Colebrook Row), Leigh sang “The Twins,” which became an enormously successful song, and he gave me a copy of it. Subsequently, I sang most of Leigh’s songs en amateur; and after my appearance as a professional entertainer, he specially wrote “The Seven Ages of Song” and “The Parrot and the Cat” for me.

As a boy, I used, at certain evening parties, to accompany Toole in “A Norrible Tale” and “Bob Simmons,” and considered it a high honour. I used to sing some of the songs of Henry J. Byron, a constant visitor to my father’s house, and received much encouragement from him; also from John Oxenford, the dramatic critic of The Times; Andrew Halliday; T. W. Robertson, the dramatic author, and scores of others. It will be seen, therefore, that though I commenced on my own account, I was destined to be brought up in an atmosphere of literature and art. But neither my father nor myself was the first representative of the family on the public platform.

Judge Talfourd, the author of Ion, had heard my father recite over and over again, and strongly advised him to take up lecturing and reading as a profession. He followed the popular judge’s advice and gave his first lecture, entitled “Wit and Humour,” on the day of my birth, at Reading, his native town. In a speech on the occasion of my coming of age he made use of these felicitous words: “I went down to Reading to make my first appearance in public at my native place, and, on my return, found my eldest son had made his first appearance in private at his native place.”

That was forty years ago; but I propose presenting my readers with a copy of a programme, having reference to an uncle, dated twenty-five years before that. The programme is quaintly illustrated with tiny blocks of very primitive engravings, illustrating the characters personated:

---

On Tuesday, the 26th, and Saturday, the 30th July, 1825.

THE CELEBRATED

INFANT

ROSCIUS,

MASTER GROSSMITH,

From Reading, Berks
(Only seven years and a quarter old),

Intends giving Two Evenings’ Amusements, when he feels confident he will meet with that support he has never failed to experience in all the towns he has visited. The Infant Roscius will commence his performance with his

When he will imitate the following characters, namely: a Frenchman – a Fat Lady – an Affected Lady – a Tipsy Politician – a Stage Manager – Two Candidates for the Stage – and his own Success.

---

---

(1) Miss Deborah Grundy
	(An Old Maid in Love)			MASTER GROSSMITH!
(2) Spindleshanks
	(A Dandy Fortune-
		Hunter)		MASTER GROSSMITH!!
(3) Monsieur Frizeur
	(In a Peck of Troubles
		about cutting old Grundy’s face – with a song)		MASTER GROSSMITH!!!
(4) Old Grundy
	(In search of the
		Frenchman, to give him a receipt in full for his carelessness)		MASTER GROSSMITH!!!!
(5) Betty, the Housemaid
	(In love with Corporal
		Rattle – with a song, “Yes, aye, for a Soldier’s Wife I’ll go”)		MASTER GROSSMITH!!!!!
(6) Corporal Rattle
	(As hot as gunpowder;
		in love with Betty)		MASTER GROSSMITH!!!!!!
(7) Timothy Clodhopper
	(A servant-of-all-work
		to old Grundy, bewailing his unfor- tunate love for Betty, who has run off with Corporal Rattle – with the laughable song of “The Washing Tub,” which finishes the piece.)		MASTER GROSSMITH!!!!!!!

THE MUSICAL GLASSES.

---

(Then appear four more blocks of the boy in private dress,
and three Shakespearian characters.)

The above juvenile was Mr. William Grossmith, who, I am pleased to say, is still alive and well. He was the eldest of the male portion of the Grossmith family, and the only one remaining. He does not remember the entertainment with much pride or pleasure, and I do not wonder at it; for the work must have been a terrible strain upon the mind of a mere child.

I am in possession of several programmes similar to the above: and only the other day some kind stranger sent me a newspaper, dated Wednesday, June 17th, 1829, and called The Bury and Norwich Post, or Suffolk and Norfolk Telegraph, Essex, Cambridge, and Ely Intelligencer. One may well exclaim, “What’s in a name?” On glancing through its columns, I find the following :

LINES

ADDRESSED TO MASTER GROSSMITH.

Sure ne’er did Nature so profusely give,
Or such a Roscius till this time e’er live!
Deem it not flatt’ry, those who have not seen
This little wonder! For full well, I ween,
Had you but view’d, like me, enchanted quite
You’d own his genius, and in praise unite.
Ye who have seen the hero, ye can tell,
Tho’ in his praise my numbers fain would swell,
Alas! how feebly does my muse essay
His talents or his merits to portray.

Scarce ten years old; superior strength of mind
Speaks in his “SPEAKING EYES” his sense refin’d:
His manners graceful, unassuming too;
Such sweet simplicity we never knew:
So noble, free, and dignified his mien,
A real Hamlet seems to grace the scene.
When he with mimic art his skill applies,
And Shakespeare’s heroes to assume he tries,
So well the child can personate the man,
That twenty years appear in one short span;
Aye, not three minutes does the change require,
To make the maiden young or old, or ’squire.
But Shakespeare most his talents bring to sight:
There may experienc’d actors, with affright,
Think they ne’er more again must tread the stage,
While Grossmith is the Roscius of the age.
He weighs each word, and “suits the action well;”
His rising its meaning oft will tell
Ere yet ’tis utter’d: his expressive face
Conveys the sense with ever-varying grace.
In short, no authors difficult appear
To his superior sense and gifted ear;
His growing talents so conspicuous shine,
He gives a charm to Shakespeare’s ev’ry line.

Farewell, sweet child! May virtue guide thy way,
May bliss without alloy be thine each day,
And may’st thou e’er enjoy that peace of mind
Which dwells with virtue and with sense refin’d.

Downham Market, June 1st, 1829.

M. M. C.

And now revenons à nos moutons.

At the close of 1864 I blossomed into a Penny Reader, and I can safely aver that no Penny Reader ever had such an exalted opinion of his own talents as I had of mine. Penny Readings were fast becoming the rage, and were springing up everywhere; and my first public appearance at them was in a schoolroom, in close proximity to Holy Trinity Church, Hawley Road, turning out of the Chalk Farm Road. This was the church I had been in the habit of attending, and in the choir of which I had sometimes sung. There was at Penny Readings no programme in those days. The chairman (always the vicar or the curate) used to call upon those in the audience whom he considered capable.

He flattered me with this distinction; so I took my seat at the piano, and sang a song with a refrain, in which the noisy portion of the audience commenced to join. This was not quite approved of; so for a time I contented myself with recitals from Dickens, Hood, &c., which I cribbed from my father’s repertoire.

I soon returned to the comic songs again, but selected those of a milder form, like “He, She, and the Postman,” a story without a chorus, and some out of Howard Paul’s entertainment.

It was once suggested that we should give the short burlesque on Hamlet to which I have already referred. We arrived with several bags of costumes, which alarmed the vicar, and the performance did not take place. The audience, to our intense satisfaction, expressed its disappointment in an unmistakable manner; so much so, that the chairman announced that it should be played on a future occasion. Meanwhile, he stipulated with me that there should be no costumes. I could not consent to this, and, after a long discussion, we met each other half-way. I was to be permitted to wear a cloak for Hamlet – or, rather, an old black shawl thrown over my shoulders. Horatio and the King were tabooed costumes. The Ghost (T. Bolton) was permitted to adorn himself with a clean tablecloth. My brother, who was only ten years of age, was to double the parts of Ophelia and Gravedigger. In the former, being so young, it was considered no harm for him to wear a muslin body and skirt; while, as the Gravedigger, he was allowed to take off his coat, and appear, for this occasion only, in his shirt-sleeves.

Somehow or other, Leclercq, the original representative of the Queen, could not appear, and I arranged with one of my schoolfellows from the North London Collegiate School to play the part. He had never acted before, and in all probability has never acted since. As he was about seventeen years of age, and looked a veritable young man, with a perceptible moustache, the vicar would not on any account allow him to assume ladies’ attire. We eventually decided he should be allowed to throw a plaid shawl round his shoulders.

The eventful evening approached, and, as the intended performance had been whispered about, the rooms were crammed. All went well until the entrance of the Queen, late on in the piece which only played twenty minutes altogether. To the horror of the vicar, and to my own surprise, he had, behind the screen, slipped on a servant’s cotton frock, and put on what is vulgarly known as a carotty wig. The vicar, who was, as usual, seated on the platform – a very small one, by-the-by, – rose and said in an undertone to me:

“I forbade this.”

I replied that it was against my knowledge.

The performance went on, however; for the young man who played the Queen was such a stick that he was quite inoffensive, and uttered his words one after the other in the legitimate schoolboy fashion. But quiet people are always the most dangerous, and so it transpired with my young friend. We approached the finale, which, by the way, appears to me to be worth quoting. The characters are all lying on the stage, supposed to be dead.

Hamlet (sitting up) –
	What! Everybody dead? Why, that won’t do; For who’s to speak the tag? I must –
Horatio (rising) –			Not you.
	You’ve had your share of talking; so now stow it. I’ll speak the tag –
King (jumping up) –			Not if I know it.
	They’ve kept me back until the very last. * Now, I’ll speak the tag. Frirnds –
Queen (getting up) –			Not so fast.
	Your notion, King defunct, is most absurd; The lady always utters the last word!
Ghost (entering) –
	Except when there’s a goblin in the way.
Ophelia (entering) –
	Then I, A female goblin, hold the sway.
Hamlet –
	Let’s have a chorus, then – tune up – here goes: Sing to a tune that everybody knows.

Then followed a verse, to the catching air of “The Great Sensation.” This we stood still and sung; but here it was that the representative of the Queen suddenly became overpowered with excitement, and could not restrain his feelings. What had hitherto been “reserved force” now became force without the slightest reserve. Irrespective of his costume, he danced violently and kicked wildly in the air. The audience indiscriminatingly laughed and applauded with delight! The vicar got up and held up his hands to the audience, to obtain silence, but without effect. He motioned to us to go off, and we all left the platform, with the exception of the Queen, who, positively mad with excitement, seized the reverend gentleman by the arms and swung him round two or three times. That was my last appearance at those particular Penny Readings.

I do not in the least despise Penny Readings. They are a very good school for beginners at all events.

At a party given at Manor Lodge, about 1869, John Oxenford, Andrew Halliday, and several others were all chatting to me about my songs, and advised me to get my father to write a short sketch, à la John Parry, to enable me to better introduce these sketches. The next year he did so. The sketch was entitled “Human Oddities,” and lasted about forty minutes. I supplied the music: and the “Gay Photographer,” since published, was one of the songs introduced; the words by G. G. père, and the music by G. G. fils. Dr. Croft, who then had great interest in the Polytechnic, and was, I fancy, one of the directors, introduced me to Professor Pepper, and I started on a trial trip on Nov. 11th, 1870; and observe, O ye superstitious ones, that I began on a Friday.

The following month I gave “The Yellow Dwarf,” which I wrote myself, and which, I must admit, was exceedingly puerile. It was accompanied by dissolving views, and this Christmas entertainment was produced to oblige Prof. Pepper; but I did not relish being stuck at a piano in the corner and in complete darkness. If I am not seen, I am no good at all. I do not infer I am much good when I am seen. The only thing that went really well in “The Yellow Dwarf” was my setting of some words which appeared in Punch. The refrain, I remember, was:

Faithful to Poll,
Tol de rol lol;
Wherever he went he was faithful to Poll.

It transpired that the words were written by F. C. Burnand, who has since become one of my most esteemed and valued friends, and who subsequently re-wrote them, and they were immortalised by Mrs. John Wood, under the title of “His Heart was True to Poll.”

“The Yellow Dwarf” I continued for about a month, when, to my intense delight, “Human Oddities” was again put on, and ran about six months. In the autumn I produced “The Silver Wedding,” and introduced the song – words by my father – “I am so Volatile.”

Since then I have always written and composed my own sketches, which vary in length from about twenty to forty minutes, and, with very few exceptions, the words of the incidental songs. I do not sit down deliberately to write these. Ideas come to me in all sorts of places, and at most inconvenient times.

I wrote “He was a Careful Man” while travelling to Deal, and composed the music on the backs of envelopes on my return home. “The Muddle Puddle Porter” suggested itself to me while waiting for nearly an hour at Bishopstoke, and hearing an aged porter calling out the same string of stations. I wondered – supposing he obtained another “calling,” such as a waiter who had to shout down a tube a string of dishes – whether he would not sometimes become confused by the recollection of his former situation, and mix up the names of the stations with the names of the joints. I am indebted very much to my old friend, Lionel Brough, for contributing so materially to the success of the song by his excellent singing of it.

I always write the words of the song first of course, and then the music. I composed over half a dozen tunes for “The Duke of Seven Dials” before I hit upon one to suit my fancy. I was a fortnight composing “The Lost Key,” and only a couple of hours writing and composing “The Happy Fatherland.” With regard to the “patter” portion of the sketch, that is the last part I write, and I alter it from time to time during its delivery – cutting out portions that do not “go,” and extemporising observations and retaining them if they do “go.”

ots of people come to me and say, “I hope you won’t take me off?" and I have replied that I should never dream of doing such a personal thing: but I do, all the same; and I have never known an instance where they have fitted the cap. If a very marked observation is made by a lady, I put it down to a gentleman, and vice versâ, though I often think the precaution quite unnecessary; in proof of which I relate the following incident. As I was taking my seat at the piano, a lady, who evidently passed the entire season in attending about half a dozen afternoon parties daily, approached me and said: “I hope you are not going to be very long, Mr. Grossmith.” This was said so innocently, and the remark so amused me, that I introduced it in the course of the sketch: the temptation was too great not to refer to it. The people roared with laughter, as they always do at anything personal to oneself. Personality always goes down better than pure wit. At the conclusion of the sketch I said to the lady:

“I hope I was not too long?”

She replied, “Oh dear, no; but did any lady really ask you that question?”

I said, “Yes; you did, if you remember.”

“Did I?” she replied.

“Most certainly.”

“Yes,” she continued, “but not with that comic expression.”

“Of course not.”

To return to the Polytechnic. I was regarded as the mild clown of the establishment, although I am bound to say that I thought some of the scientific and serious lectures far more humorous, unintentionally, than my work. On one occasion a lecturer was holding some explosive material in his hand, and said that its power was so great that, under certain conditions, it would blow up the whole of the Polytechnic Institution and the people in it. This announcement, delivered with much fervour, was rendered more alarming by the fact that the material was accidentally brought into contact with the spirit-lamp which stood on the table. The result was an insignificant “fizz,” like a damp match.

During a discourse on the Franco-German war, the lecturer, explaining one of the views on the screen in which the French were defeated, gave vent to his own feelings in somewhat the following strain:

“Behold the cowards hewing down the poor French! That is not war – that is murder – miserable and uncalled-for murder!”

This strong sentiment called forth a hiss or two from some portions of the audience who happened to sympathise with the Germans. The lecturer held up his hands and said:

“Silence, my friends. Please remember that this is only a simple, unbiased lecture, with pictorial illustrations of certain events which happened during this sad war. Do not let us show any personal feeling one way or the other.”

There is little doubt that many of the lectures at the old Polytechnic were simply vehicles for introducing advertisements, just in the same way that, in the Pantomime Harlequinade, all the clown has to do is to bring on a box, which, on a touch from the wand of the harlequin, is turned into a magnified piece of popular soap, or a bottle of scent, with the name and address of the patentees printed in good-sized letters.

The following specimen is only a slight exaggeration of what I mean:

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasant duty this evening to give you a lecture on the beautiful city of Bombay; and, with the assistance of the magnificent dissolving views which I have at my command, the little trip which I propose to take in your company will prove almost as good as the reality to those who have not been fortunate enough to visit Bombay, and will recall most pleasant recollections to those who have. We will start by the ten o’clock express to Leeds. I am aware that this is somewhat out of the way, but it is worth while deviating a few hundreds of miles in order to travel by the new first-class carriages now running on the North South East Western line. This is, doubtless, the best line in the kingdom. I have no interest in the line whatever, although I quite appreciate the honour which the directors have conferred upon me by presenting me with a free pass. To return to the subject of Bombay. As one cannot leave this tight little island without crossing the dreadful Channel, I recommend those of my audience who are not good sailors to procure a tin of ‘Bankem’s Anti-Seasick Biscuits;’ they are an infallible remedy, and can be procured at Brown’s in Cheapside, Jones’s at Charing Cross, and Robinson’s in Piccadilly. My sole reason in mentioning this is the comfort of the British public. Well, eventually we reach Bombay, and there is a deal to see. You should get one of ‘Jidson’s double binocular, concave, magnifying, four-jointed field glasses.’ The next four views are of ‘Messrs. Jidson’s Warehouses in the City.’ The pavements being hot in Bombay, I should recommend your taking a pair of ‘Shoeling’s leather-sandalled, woollen-lined bluchers.’ There is no boot manufacturer’s to equal these bluchers for walking abroad. If you enquire at the door, at the conclusion of the lecture, they will give you Messrs. Shoeling’s card and circular of full particulars. I have often wondered why, in an enterprising city like Bombay, they have never laid down ‘Johnson’s Tar Macadamised Wood Pavements.’ The next view is an instantaneous photograph of Messrs. Johnson’s employés laying down the pavement in Scent Street, Bermondsey. This pavement is more successful than any other ever tried in the vast metropolis. Their agent is James Wilkins, 19 a Stone Buildings. On arriving at Bombay, I should suggest your going to the ‘Golden Hawk,’ English hotel; proprietor, Mr. Mulgan Jackson, a most civil landlord. The prices are moderate; and you can have an early bath, if you wish, although I should advise your taking with you a ‘Scalden’s folding India rubber douche bath. ‘They take up little room, and only weigh a couple of hundredweight. Do not take candles with you, for they melt in Bombay immediately. Take a ‘Flamer’s duplex paraffin fusel lamp,’ a sample of which I produce for your inspection. As you may not be able to get the right oil in Bombay, you will be compelled to take a few gallons with you; and, while I think of it, if you want to write home, get from Mr. Williams, 290 Bridge Street, Marylebone Square, a ninepenny ‘Multum in Parvo,’ which contains a writing tablet, bottle of ‘undryupable ink,’ a quire of note-paper (four different tints), envelopes to match, four steel pens, two quill ditto and wiper, wafers, ink-eraser, stick of sealing-wax, and an almanack. Ladies and gentlemen, the next view, a photograph of ‘Wheeler’s double-tyred tricycle,’ will conclude the first of my series of six lectures on Bombay. I thank you for your kind attention. The diving-bell will now descend in the great hall, and, on your way there, please don’t forget to look at the stall containing specimens of ‘Messrs. Glasse’s folding perambulators,’ as they may be useful if you desire to take your children with you to Bombay.”

Alas! the lecturer in town and country seems to have had his day. When I was a boy, there were hundreds of lecturers on thousands of subjects. During the winter months there were lecturers everywhere. Elderly people went to be instructed; young men and women to “eye” each other; while boys went invariably to be “turned out.”

Dissolving views were the most patronised of the serious lectures, and I do not think I ever went to one at which some unfortunate person was not ejected. The darkness tempts unruly people to interrupt. It is with much pain and regret that I confess to having been myself politely requested to leave the Polytechnic (before I was engaged there) for unseemly conduct. On one occasion the lecturer was stating, amidst breathless silence, “This particular bark is infested with ten thousand millions of parasites.” I simply said, in a high falsetto, “Oh, indeed!” The lights were turned up, and I was turned out!

Professor Pepper always took most kindly to me, and it was his only disappointment, I believe, that I could not introduce the immortal ghost-effect in my humorous scénas.

In the spring of 1871 I produced “The Puddleton Penny Readings,” and in the autumn “Theatricals at Thespis Lodge.” That was my last engagement there; for Dr. Croft came into power, and wrote most of the humorous entertainments himself. These were designed entirely for the magic lantern, and had, therefore, to be given in the dark. I naturally could not see my way to undertake them, and reluctantly refused his kind offer to stay on.

One little story, and I bid farewell to the old Polytechnic.

Professor Pepper was a perfect adept at satisfying an audience; if by chance the experiments went wrong; and sometimes they did go wrong, and no mistake, in the good old days, at the Polytechnic. I shall never forget the first-night failure of an entertainment called “The Arabian Mystery,” and the manner in which Professor Pepper, by good temper and chaff, prevented a crowded audience from being very disagreeable. “The Arabian Mystery” may be explained as follows: One girl was blindfolded and placed on the platform, with her back to the audience. A large screen was then placed so as to conceal her from the public. Another girl walked down the centre aisle with a pack of cards, and then waited the Professor’s orders. Professor Pepper then produced a white board, about four feet long by two and a half wide, on which appeared in black some hieroglyphics that I have no hesitation whatever in denouncing as sham. After dwelling on the mysteries of this supposed Arabian fable, or whatever it was, Professor Pepper threw it on to the stage in front of the screen. (I may mention that the entertainment took place in the small theatre which some years afterwards was burned down.) The audience tittered considerably when the board of hieroglyphics was pitched upon the stage; and Pepper, with great solemnity, called to the poor girl, who was standing amongst the audience in a great state of nervousness, and instructed her to request some lady or gentleman to “select a card.” Someone chose a card, and handed it back to the girl, who walked at once to a particular spot in the aisle, and, by means of a series of pressures of the foot (which were perceptible to everyone in front of the house), tried to convey the name of the card by electricity to the girl behind the screen. There was a long pause, and no reply; during which Professor Pepper said to the girl in front:

“No wonder she does not tell you the name of the card, for you have not asked her to do so.”

There were a few ironical cheers then, which only succeeded in making the poor girl more nervous than ever.

Professor Pepper again addressed her, saying:

“You had better give her another card, and let us try again. The audience must remember that this is the first night of ‘The Arabian Mystery,’ and some little allowance should be made.”

This observation brought forth the usual applause; which shows that a British audience is always game for fair play.

Another card was offered, taken, and returned to the girl, who, as before, walked back to the same spot, and once more tried with her foot to convey the message to the platform, at the same time asking, in a tremulous voice, “What card do I hold up?”

The card happened to be the ace of diamonds. After a pause, the girl behind the screen, in a shrill voice, shouted, “Seven of clubs!”

The audience, being perfectly good-tempered, simply roared with laughter at the fiasco.

Professor Pepper placed his hands up, to suggest that they should be silent, but for a considerable period he was unsuccessful in procuring order. When he could be heard, he said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I dare say you are of opinion that the lady behind the screen has made a mistake.” (Loud laughter.) “As it happens, she is perfectly correct! This is an Arabian mystery, and I ought to have explained to you that in Arabia the ace of diamonds is the seven of clubs.”

This preposterous joke was greeted with applause and laughter.

Professor Pepper (continuing) said: “That is right. I am glad to see that such good feeling exists between us. Now, we’ll try again, please. Offer another card.”

Whether the next few attempts were successful I cannot remember. I was not so interested, I am sorry to say, in the successful attempts as in the failures. But I am quite certain with regard to the result of the last card offered. It was (we will say) the three of clubs. The girl behind the screen shouted, “Queen of hearts.” This was a little too much; and though half the audience still took this failure in good part, the other half showed unmistakable signs of impatience.

Professor Pepper, with perfect good humour, said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I must ask for your consideration again. You seem to forget that this is an Arabian mystery. Now, if the lady behind the screen told you correctly the name of the card, there would be no mystery about the matter, for the trick is a very simple one. Anybody can do it. But the ‘mystery’ is, how is it she is not telling the cards correctly? That’s the Arabian mystery, and no mistake.”

Owing to the cheery manner of the popular lecturer, and a promise that it should be “all right” the next night, the audience departed to the large theatre, to hear Mr. George Buckland, who was a great favourite at the Polytechnic Institution.