CONCLUDED my first long engagement at the Polytechnic in the summer of 1871, and Mr. and Mrs. Howard Paul engaged me to join them for several weeks on a seaside tour. This was to me a delightful way of combining business with pleasure, and I particularly remember a delightful week at Scarborough.

I returned to the Polytechnic in the autumn, and produced “The Silver Wedding,” a short easy version of which I have published. It was in this sketch I introduced “I am so Volatile,” which was the first comic song I published. Applications were continually made to me from provincial institutions; but I could only accept those at a short distance from town, as my daily work at Bow Street had to be done as well. It was hard work; but I am used to hard work, and enjoy it.

All prospects of entering for the Bar disappeared, and it was my father’s own suggestion that we should try an entertainment together. He was an enormous favourite in the country as a humorous reciter; and he thought my piano and songs would prove more attractive if given with him, as it might otherwise have been thought that I was starting a rival entertainment — a thought which neither of us desired to encourage.

We accordingly worked out a trial programme, and in May, 1873, we gave our joint recitals at the Masonic Hall, Birmingham. The papers of May 12th spoke most highly of the entertainment; and the result was, my father decided that in the autumn we should start together with a tour of the provincial institutions. As I previously stated, I had only visited institutions which I could conveniently reach after my daily work at Bow Street; but as I was married on May 14th, two days after the above trial trip, it became necessary for me to materially increase my income.

I was fortunate in having the permanent assistance at Bow Street of Mr. H. R. Hollingshead, son of Mr. John Hollingshead, the popular manager and author; so there was no longer a bar to a continued tour. First of all, there was my honeymoon to be spent. To take a trip abroad was quite beyond my means, and no noble Duke in those days came forward to place his country demesne at our disposal; so, amidst a shower of rice, my wife and I departed for Leamington. Why Leamington? Well, I will tell you. I had received a very good offer from my friend, Mr. Wm. Southern, of that town, who thought it would be a good thing for me to give a single-handed recital at the end of the fortnight I intended staying, and he would see that the interesting circumstance of my passing my honeymoon was carefully paragraphed in the papers. The result was a crowded room, and the cost of my pleasure trip materially reduced.

We visited other places, and wound up our happy month at the charming residence of one of my wife’s relatives at Aigburth, near Liverpool. Here was another stroke of business on my part; for I joined forces with Mrs. Howard Paul in a combined entertainment for a week, at the Concert Hall, Bold Street, Liverpool. In the autumn, however, the tour with my father commenced. We started in Devonshire and Cornwall, the result being that I was away from home a fortnight. We usually got home on Saturdays, that being no day for the institutions. I did not at all like leaving the girl I loved behind me, and I always disliked (and suppose I always shall) travelling.

I append a programme of one of the recitals given in conjunction with my father during the season 1872-3:

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F. Wood	}	Hon.Secs.
G Demant

These years of tearing about all over the United Kingdom were more or less amusing — “generally less,” as H. J. Byron observed. The visits with my father were the most varied. With Mrs. Howard Paul or Miss Marryat, costumes were introduced, and the entertainment appealed to a broader section of the public. When with my father, the entertainment was patronised by the more serious section of the public. He would be giving recitals from Pickwick and David Copperfield, with my comic songs and sketches alternating, on a small platform with four or five clergymen seated thereon, they being perhaps the Committee. I always got on very well with the clergy; in fact, I have always regarded myself as a species of religious comic singer. After the recitals the Committee would follow us into the ante-room; four would engage my attention, while the fifth — generally a young curate — would surreptitiously slip the fee into my father’s hand. I remember him once upsetting the solemnity of this “settling-up” proceeding by exclaiming loudly, “I am not ashamed of being paid. You need not hand me the fee as if it were an election bribe.”

My father had frequently suggested that the moment I arrived in a town I should look through the local papers, for the purpose of introducing some special topics that would come home to that particular place in the course of my sketches, which easily admitted of ad libitum observations. I always intended doing it, knowing how well local topics are received; but, somehow or other, I kept forgetting to carry out my intention.

One night, however, a splendid opportunity presented itself. It was some place in the Midland Counties, and an Alderman, whom we will call Juggins, had got into terrible hot water through proposing to have moved from the middle of the main thoroughfare an old stone pump. The local papers devoted columns to the controversy. Half the townspeople held that the pump was sacred to them — it was a monument, an ancient landmark, it was everything useful and ornamental. The other half disagreed. The only opinion in which the townspeople were unanimous was that, whether right or wrong, Alderman Juggins had nothing to do with it, and that he was simply advertising himself.

The evening arrived, and the hall was full. My father occupied the first half-hour, commencing at eight, with a selection from Adam Bede. I arrived at half-past eight, and in five minutes stepped on the platform, and commenced with my old sketch, “The Silver Wedding.” The sketch concludes with a description of the supper, and the toasts proposed in honour of Mr. and Mrs. Alphonzo de Brown’s silver wedding, &c., &c., with the responses. In the imitation of an old friend of the family, I spoke, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows: “We all congratulate our dear host and hostess on having arrived at this important epoch in their lives, and the occasion has created even more sensation than that created by Alderman Juggins’s pump.” I waited for the tremendous roar of laughter and applause that would surely follow this remark. To my intense surprise, there was not the ghost of a laugh. It could only be accounted for in one way — I had evidently dropped my voice, and the “gag” had consequently missed its mark. I would try again.

I proceeded with the supposed old gentleman’s speech, and concluded thus: “We will drink the toast upstanding all, with three times three; we will drink it in bumpers — we will drink it with wine, good wine, such as only our host can give — wine that has not been diluted by the product of Alderman Juggins’s pump.” This time I shouted the last sentence, so that there should be no mistake about their hearing it. To my horror, not a smile. Something was wrong! Perhaps the observation was out of place in the old gentleman’s speech.

I would not be beaten; so I determined to give it another chance in the comic man’s speech. I rattled off the following nonsense in the character of the humorous gentleman: “Well, in returning thanks for the ladies, I may say I am very fond of them” — (laughter) — “and I think I may also say that they are very fond of me.” (Roars of laughter.) “My only regret is, that I am not in a position to marry all the dear ladies who are round this festive board to-night.” (Continued hearty laughter, an elderly lady and a curate in the front row nearly going into hysterics. Some people, fortunately, are easily pleased.) “Bless the ladies! If I thought I had ever done a single act to incur their displeasure, I would immediately go out of the house and drown myself in Alderman Juggins’s pump!”

The effect was electrical. The enthusiastic audience immediately became depressed, and someone at the back of the hall shouted “Ha’ done with that pump, lad — we’ve had enough of it!”

My heart sank into my boots, and I could scarcely sing the song, “I am so Volatile,” which usually concluded the sketch. I retired to the ante-room, and instantly attacked my father. I said, “Well, I have taken your advice, and introduced a topic, with the result that it was a dead failure. I shall take good care never to repeat the experiment.”

My father said, “Topic? What topic?”

“Why,” I responded, “I made several allusions to the Juggins’s pump discussion, with the result that I made a complete ass of myself.”

My father burst out laughing, and said, “I don’t wonder at it. Didn’t you hear me do it? Why, I worked it up all through the first part.”

“But,” I argued, “how could you do that? You were reciting Adam Bede.”

“I know I was,” he answered. “I kept bringing Alderman Juggins’s pump in Mrs. Poyser’s remarks, and it went enormously.”

I do not know what the feelings of the audience were, but I leave the reader to imagine mine.

Country audiences are certainly most enthusiastic and delightful to entertain. Of course there are exceptions, and the following is an amusing one:

We were at some little hall in the country, and when my father concluded the first portion of the entertainment he said to the chairman, who followed him into the ante-room:

“The audience seem most enthusiastic.”

The Chairman replied: “Do you think so, Mr. Grossmith? Why, I thought they were exceptionally apathetic.”

My father replied: “Well, I thought they were, if anything, too enthusiastic; for they were knocking their umbrellas and sticks, without cessation, on the ground all the time.”

The Chairman replied, languidly: “Oh, that wasn’t applause. You see, our post-office is at other end of the room, and they are simply stamping the letters for the up mail.”

The usual fee at the institutions was five guineas. There were a few that could afford more; but against this there was a good fifty per cent. of institutions that begged of the lecturers to knock off a guinea or two. Some were not quite so exacting, and begged that only the “shillings” might be deducted.

My father used to relate an amusing adventure he had experienced concerning the reduction of fees. At some out-of-the-way spot in Scotland he was met on the railway platform by a deputation of old gentlemen, who conducted him to his hotel. At twenty minutes to eight o’clock this Scotch deputation came to the hotel and conducted him to the lecture-hall. After the lecture, the same elderly deputation conducted him back to the hotel. The next morning, having ascertained the hour at which he meditated departing, the deputation turned up again, and conducted him back to the station. On the platform the elder man of the deputation, addressing my father, said:

"You’ll be sorry to hear that we find, on making up the accounts, we are exactly £1 14s 6d. out of pocket by your lecture. We thought you would not like to leave the town with that upon your mind; and so we give you the opportunity of returning the deficit, and enabling you, with a clear conscience, to say we have not lost by your visit.”

My father, in telling this story, used to add:

“I told the deputation it was most kind of them to afford me the opportunity, and I certainly would carefully consider the matter. I kept my word; for, although that occurred ten years ago, I have been carefully considering it ever since.”

When my father and I appeared together, a double fee was demanded; but this was sometimes alleviated on the “reduction-on-taking-a-quantity” principle. Some institutions could not engage us; and assuming always that these could stand the entertainment, but not the fee, we used to part for a night or two and go our divers ways, and join forces again at the next town where both were engaged. The lecture season used to last about seven months. We had to pay our own railway fares and hotel bills, of course; but as we travelled third, and lived very moderately, the expenses were not great.

Then my father, being so popular socially, was nearly always entertained, and, for his sake, the hospitality was frequently extended to me; and I take this opportunity to express my gratitude to the many strangers in the country who have offered me a home, made me very comfortable, and saved me an hotel bill. After the lectures we often were taken home to supper, and some of the audience or friends of the host asked to meet us, and my father used to keep the whole table in a roar. It was, of course, on account of his popularity that on arriving in a town there was a little rush to secure us as guests. Sometimes there was a rush in the opposite direction; but hospitality generally held the sway. The Secretaries used to write:

“Dear Sir, — Mr. Blank, our Mayor, desires the honour of entertaining you. Personally I am sorry, for I had hoped to have entertained you myself.
	“Yours, &c., &c.”

Precedence was always given to the Mayor, and very jolly fellows the provincial Mayors are. In one town I was always “roofed” by the Mayor — the same Mayor. As far as I can say, he always had been elected Mayor, and always would be. It appears that there sometimes is a great difficulty in persuading anybody to be the Mayor. Certainly there is no eagerness displayed in some towns to secure that official position. The Librarian of a town, who was selling tickets for my entertainment, said:

“Our Mayor, Mr. Z——, who entertains you here, Mr. Grossmith, has made himself so popular by his liberality that we shall elect him again next year. The last Mayor never spent a single penny of the allowance made him.”

“How much does a Mayor get here?” I asked.

“Ten pounds,” said the Librarian, “and Mr. Z—— has spent nearly the whole of it on banquets, &c.”

I have frequently been asked, in reference to the long runs at the Savoy Theatre, if I have not derived some interest from the change of audiences. It appears to me that the audiences at the Savoy are always the same, except in numbers. The house may not be so full, and the enthusiasm may vary; but in all other respects they are the same. When I give my entertainments at the Savoy, the same points tell, and the laughter and applause come in exactly the same places. In the country I never quite knew what would take. I am speaking of the general patter.

Things that missed fire in London went enormously in the country; but I am bound to say that, taken altogether, I have been much flattered by the gracious way in which my sketches have been received in all places and by all kinds of people. I have experienced extraordinary changes in the style of audience. I gave the same selection in the drawing-room of the Duchess of St. Albans, before T.R.H. the Prince and Princess of Wales and about two dozen other distinguished ladies and gentlemen, in March, 1874, that I gave, a few days after, at Falkirk, to about 1,500 enthusiastic Scotch people, the greater part of whom had paid the admission charge of one penny. The selection included my sketches of Amateur Theatricals, a Christmas Pantomime, the Penny Readings, &c.

I have not often been interrupted in public rooms. In private, I have by people talking. But whenever I am interrupted, I make a point of remonstrating. I do not adopt this course for the mere sake of what is vulgarly called “side,” or “swagger,” but because my nerve absolutely fails me if I become distracted. The moment I become nervous, I am, so to speak, wrecked.

I feel a little diffident in telling the following story, inasmuch as it shows myself to advantage. I was giving an entertainment at Greenwich with Mrs. Howard Paul. I was singing a song called “Awfully Lively,” in character, accompanied by Miss Blanche Navarre, the singer, who remembers the incident well, when I was much put out by a “funny man” in the back seats, which were very high up, I being on a platform low down, as if in a well. He commenced with a comic laugh in the wrong place. The audience tittered audibly. A little later on he interrupted with a comic cough. The audience laughed outright, and so they did again with increased vigour when he subsequently indulged in a comic sneeze. I determined to take no notice of it, thinking he would get tired. Not a bit of it. He next treated me to a comic remark which completely put me off, and I broke down in the middle of my song. Quietly addressing the audience, I said: “Ladies and Gentlemen, — There are two comic gentlemen here to-night, and you cannot very well hear both at the same time. It would be extremely selfish on my part were I to entirely monopolise the platform to the exclusion of the other comic gentleman; therefore, with your kind permission, I will retire for a short time, and give him the opportunity of coming down here and giving his entertainment. When he has finished, I will resume.”

I then retired from the platform, but listened at the door to hear what was going on. I heard cries of “Go down!” “Sing a song!” amid laughter and applause. But being funny in an audience and being funny on a platform are two distinct things; and the difference was evidently appreciated by the other comic gentleman, who absolutely declined to accept the invitation to “go down” or to “sing a song.” I then heard my own name called repeatedly, so I returned to the platform and met with a good reception. When silence reigned, and as I perceived good humour prevailed, I said: “The other comic gentleman having exhausted his stock of humour, I will proceed with mine.” This was received with cheers, and subsequently all was peace.

I was obliged to resign a proposed prolonged engagement with Mrs. Howard Paul; for her tours would take her away from London months at a time, while the entertainment with my father always brought me home on Saturday night, and sometimes would allow of my being weeks in London at a time: so from 1873 till 1876 I visited the institutions with him when possible, and by myself when not.

Sometimes I used to make my single-handed engagements fit in capitally — sometimes I did not. To fill up five consecutive days in Yorkshire, including the institutions at Leeds and Bradford, who always paid the full fee, with a request that I should visit them again the following season, was most satisfactory.

But such a happy state of things could not always be arranged. The usual course was this: the first good offers that came in were “booked” immediately, no matter what part of the United Kingdom they came from. The next applications had to be fitted in. Sometimes I managed to fit in, say, Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday in Cornwall and Devonshire. Tuesday would be vacant, and rather than lose the day I would arrange, at a reduced fee, to give an entertainment at some very small institution. As a matter of advertisement that is a very bad thing to do. The larger institutions hear of it, and naturally expect you to do the same for them.

Occasionally, through mismanagement or ill-luck, the engagements were arranged in a dreadfully inconvenient manner. Twice in one season I had to entertain in Edinburgh one night and London the next.

One of these nights I shall not easily forget. I was singing at the private residence of a then popular Bailie, in Edinburgh. I hurried from the house to catch the night mail to London. The snow was terrible, and I got into a third-class carriage, tipping the guard to try and keep the compartment for myself, as I wanted to change my evening clothes for a warmer suit. The guard said, “All right, sir,” took the tip, locked the door, then immediately unlocked it again and ushered in a drunken ruffian of the lowest type. There were no cushions to the seats of the third class carriages in those days, so I took out my two air-cushions — one to sit upon and the other to put at the back of my head. I began to blow them out, and as they expanded, the ridiculous operation evidently tickled the fancy of my distinguished fellow-passenger, who began to grin and chuckle in an idiotic fashion. Thinking that after all he was a good-tempered fellow, I asked him if he had any objection to my changing my things.

He leered at me and asked, “What for?”

I said I had on a thin evening suit, that it was a bitterly cold night, and that I wanted to attire myself in something warmer.

“You shan’t do it if I can help it!” he said sulkily, and at the same time he shifted along the seat till he was exactly opposite to me. As there was no chance of the train stopping till we got to Carlisle, my feelings may be imagined. “Change your clothes, indeed,” he kept muttering; “not while I’m here.”

I felt much vexed, and yet saw he was a very ugly customer to cross in temper. He began to fill his pipe, and I seized the opportunity to observe:

“I don’t object to your smoking, although this is not a smoking carriage.”

He replied, “I’m not going to ask you whether you object or not.”

“Very well, have your own way,” I remarked.

“I mean to,” he grunted, and for the next quarter of an hour puffed away in silence. He was evidently thinking. So was I. I was thinking that if I had been the same size and weight as my delightful companion, we might have come to better terms. Presently he said,

“What do you want to change your clothes for?”

“I told you,” I replied, “I feel cold, and want to put on something warm.”

“Well, I’m not going to let you,” he said.

“I know! You said that before,” I remarked.

“And I’ll say it again. Do you hear?” he shouted. “I’ll say it again. I’m not going to let you. There! How do I know who you are? It’s only thieves and murderers who go about changing their clothes. I don’t say you are one: still, how am I to know you are not one — eh? Tell me that.”

I ventured no observation whatever, but let him go on. He evidently was working himself up into a species of fever, and feeling oppressed let down the window, and in came a hurricane of wind and snow. Now when a man of this description is drunk and inclined to be violent, there is only one method of procuring temporary peace. No matter how drunk he is, hand him a brandy-flask. I therefore took down my bag and opened it. Whether the man thought I was looking for a revolver or not I cannot say, but he watched my proceedings with suspicion and carefully drew from his pocket a large clasp-knife, which he opened and placed on the seat beside him. This opened my eyes considerably to the kind of customer I had to deal with. I found the flask, and poured into the metal cup about a large wine-glassful of neat brandy.

Addressing him, I said: “You’re a disagreeable fellow. You want to quarrel with me, but I tell you plainly I am not going to quarrel with you. So drink this.”

The beast (one could scarcely call him a man) took the cup and drained the brandy. In the meanwhile I pulled up the window, a proceeding to which my friend said he had not the “slightest objection” Suddenly there was a loud whirrrr, and I was jerked forward on my seat by the sudden application of the brake to the train. We slackened pace and eventually pulled up at some little dark station, the signal evidently being against us. Before I could get to the door on the left side, the man had crossed and let down the window.

I shouted to the fellow, “Here! get out quickly; I’ll stand you another drink.”

He got out on to the platform and staggered off the length of the carriage, presuming I was following. The guard rushed up and called to the man to get back, as “the train was not stopping at that station.” This was scarcely the truth, but I knew what he meant.

I stood on the step and stopped the guard, saying: “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, after taking a ‘tip’ from me, to put a drunken brute like that into the carriage.”

The man on the platform began shouting after me, “Come on, mate!”

The guard locked my door and proceeded to get the man into another carriage. The man would not go.

I heard the guard say, “If you don’t get in here, you’ll be left behind.”

The man pushed the guard away and made for my carriage again. The guard followed and a short tussle ensued, the man striving to open the locked door of my carriage, with a few choice expressions that eclipsed even the worst that I had been accustomed to hear in Bow Street Police Court. The end of it all was, that the guard lost his temper and the man lost the train.

Another unfortunate arrangement of dates was, London one night, Monmouth the next night, and somewhere in the North the third, involving my return to London first before proceeding there. The journey to Monmouth was the coldest I ever recollect. I did not arrive until close upon eight o’clock. The entertainment was given in conjunction with my father, who happened to be lecturing in that district. He instructed me, on arrival, to go to the hotel. When I got there I was instantly served with a chop, fresh from the grill, and a small bottle of Guinness. My father, ever thoughtful for my comfort, had arranged for my favourite meal, and left a little note, in shorthand, for me to this effect: “My dear old boy, take your time. I will go on till I see you are in the hall. — Your ever affectionate Guv.”

He had to open the proceedings, as usual when we gave the joint recitals, and he meant by the above note that he would go on reciting until he knew I was prepared to give one of my musical sketches. I finished my simple dinner and walked over to the hall. By-the-by it was not a hall, but the Sessions-house, the audience being seated in the body of the Court and the entertainers appearing on the bench. The Court was like an ice-safe, and my fingers were so cold I could not properly play the piano, and had to apologise for my extra defective execution. I have frequently made my appearance at the Sessions under the above circumstances.

At Cardiff I have always appeared in the Court-house, and a splendid audience I always had. If I remember rightly, the chief seats were in the prisoners’ dock, which, of course, commanded the best view of the entertainers’ bench. I knew there was always a rush for the dock — I mean on the nights when my father and I were there; not when the proper judge was there, of course. It seems strange that people should pay for the privilege of being accommodated with a seat in the dock. I ought to mention that the granting of the Court-house for the purpose of entertainments was unusual. It was a favour extended towards well-known lecturers only.

It would be quite impossible, in a small book like this, to describe all the extraordinary incidents which I have encountered while fulfilling my engagements (before I went on the stage, of course) at the various country institutions. By institutions I refer to the societies which were formed all over the United Kingdom chiefly for the benefit of the better-class working men and women, and the popularity of which is on the wane, owing to the prevalence of free libraries, penny readings, and amateur concerts.

Some of these institutions, which provide reading and writing rooms, debating classes, educational classes, and a room or rooms for concerts and lectures, etc., can boast a really magnificent building — for an institution. I have most pleasant recollections of the Leeds Mechanics’ Institution, the Bradford, the Edinburgh, Plymouth, &c.; for they possessed splendid halls for acoustics, a good platform, a capital grand piano (most welcome to me), always a crowded audience (most welcome to everybody), and they refrained from commencing the proceedings — at all events when I gave my humorous recitals — with prayer. Oh yes, gentle reader, my comic recitals have frequently been commenced with prayer — nearly always at the Young Men’s Christian Literary Institutions. Sometimes, in addition, there would be a short sermon.

I have a distinct recollection of an amiable curate, at the conclusion of one of my country engagements, rising to propose a vote of thanks to me. He was most flattering and kind in his observations, and being a little unorthodox (for a country village), impressed upon the audience that there was “no sin in a genuine hearty laugh.” He meant well, no doubt; but as the audience had not laughed in the least throughout my recital, I thought the curate’s remark rather superfluous.

Some fifteen or sixteen years ago I was engaged to give a short entertainment, for a still shorter fee, at some schoolrooms connected with a church in Camden Town. The rooms were in a small back street adjacent to the High Street. The festivities consisted of a spread of tea and what Mr. W. S. Gilbert calls “the rollicking bun and the gay Sally Lunn,” interspersed with conversation, songs by amateurs, homely advice by the vicar, and a few comic songs — I beg pardon, I should say “humorous ditties” — by myself.

The rooms were crowded with the poorer parishioners, who ought, each Sunday, to have attended the church, but did not as a matter of fact. Most of the husbands could not come to the entertainment, for reasons best known to themselves, but their wives and babies did. I never sang to so many women and babies before or since. I like an audience consisting of ladies: they do not make such a visible sign of enjoyment as do the sterner sex, but they have a much keener appreciation of satire, music, and humour. But ladies without babies and with babies are totally different people. The moment a baby makes its presence known to an audience it is all up with the entertainer; competition is useless, and he may as well retire from the platform.

On this occasion there were fifty babies and general chaos. The mothers became anxious and the audience demoralised. At last it was my turn to sing. I was about to step on to platform, when the vicar said to me, “Mr. Grossmith — one moment, please. I am most desirous that these poor folk should enjoy themselves, and I do not wish to inflict upon them anything approaching a sermon. At the same time I want most particularly to impress upon them the necessity of their attending church occasionally. Now I thought you might drop them a little reminder about the non-observance of the Sabbath, which is, unfortunately, characteristic of them.”

“Do you seriously want me to do that?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he replied. “It would appear less like a sermon, and they might take it better from you than from me.”

“You had better do it yourself,” I said; “for I have no doubt if I did it they would put it down as part of the comic entertainment, and it would be received with roars of laughter.”

“Ah! that would never do,” said the vicar. “Very well, Mr. Grossmith, I will act upon your suggestion and do it myself.”

The vicar proceeded with a rather lengthy serious speech, the peroration of which was much like the following:

“In conclusion, my friends, no excuse can be accepted for your not coming occasionally to church. I hear too often from you that you cannot leave your babies. Mrs. Brown says she cannot leave hers, and Mrs. Jones tells me she cannot leave hers, and so it goes on. But you can befriend each other. Mrs. Brown can mind her own babies as well as Mrs. Jones’s for one Sunday, and Mrs. Jones can do the same for Mrs. Brown the following Sunday. You would then be able to come once a fortnight at all events. It is a duty that devolves upon you, and a duty you must, at all hazards, perform. Remember this, my friends — you must try and come to church. Mr. Grossmith will now sing ‘I am so Volatile.’”

One night there was a break-down on the railway line, and my father and myself never arrived in the town until twenty past eight, although we should have commenced at eight punctually. We dressed in the cab, which flew along like a fire-engine. Suddenly we espied a building lighted up, and a large crowd coming out. My father pushed his head out of the window and shouted frantically to the crowd, “Go back! Go back ! It’s all right. Grossmith is here! We have arrived. Go back!” Unfortunately it was not our audience, but a congregation leaving a Methodist Chapel.

In 1876, Miss Florence Marryat, the novelist and daughter of the celebrated Capt. Marryat, talked over a joint entertainment. It was quite apparent that the literary institutions were “not what they were.” Their fees, like their engagements, were rapidly decreasing. Miss Marryat and I thought out a programme, and determined to appeal more generally to the public. I append one of the programmes:

PROGRAMME
OF
“ENTRE NOUS.”

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Mrs. Emily Nankeen Worcester (A China Maniac)	FLORENCE MARRYAT.
General Deelah (Another)	GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN .

The above is the last joint entertainment I ever gave, except with my father, and I only fulfilled one or two more with him.

“Cups and Saucers” was afterwards played before H.M.S. Pinafore, at the Opéra Comique, for about 500 nights. It is still played a great deal by amateurs all over the country, both with and without my permission. This entertainment with Miss Marryat was more of an artistic success than a financial one. Sometimes we did very well, and sometimes we did not. In Scotland we always had crowded rooms; but at the Antient Concert Rooms, Dublin, we played a whole month, the majority of the time to half-full rooms. I enjoyed the month in Dublin, for all that. The people were most hospitable; and so Florence Marryat, her companion (Miss Glover), Mr. George Dolby, and myself managed to enjoy ourselves. Henry Irving was in Dublin at the time, and, as I had the privilege of being an old friend of his, I naturally came in for all his parties; and Irving is a prince of hosts.

Florence Marryat, in her excellent book Tom Tiddler’s Ground, has regaled her readers with several stories about me; so I am going to have my revenge. She is a great believer in spiritualism, and on one occasion, in Dublin, she persuaded me to sit at a table with her. The table began to tilt, rap, creak, and move; and it is not in my province to attempt to explain the marvellous phenomena. My explanation would be too simple to be scientific. The conditions, however, are, that if the table tilts three times in answer to a question, it means “Yes,” and if only once “No.” Florence Marryat informed me — and I have no reason to doubt her word — that a gentleman, with a name something like “Sticks,” was endeavouring to communicate with her through the table. It appears that poor “Sticks” had left this world through an excess of stimulants. Two questions were asked by Miss Marryat, and replied to by “Sticks.” At last Mr. “Sticks” condescended, with three tilts, to imply that he would answer my questions. Miss Marryat begged that I would not be irreverent; and I argued that if I were, I presumed “Sticks” would treat me with contempt.

I said to the table: “Mr. Sticks, I wish to ask you a few questions?”

[By-the-by, I believe he was a “Colonel Sticks.” It is of little consequence now in this story; but it was at the time, for spirits, like human beings, are most particular about being addressed by their proper titles.]

In reply to my question, “Sticks” oscillated the table violently, which, I was informed, meant agitation on his part. Florence Marryat told me the poor chap was in purgatory.

I said: “Sticks, I believe you died of drink?”

Three decisive tilts of the table.

“Now, Mr. Sticks,” I asked, “is it possible to take too much drink in purgatory?”

The table was seized with convulsions, and wriggled and oscillated to a corner of the room.

When it was quiet, I said:

“Mr. Sticks, do not think I mean to be disrespectful; but are you drunk now?”

Then came three solemn but distinct tilts.

Florence Marryat considered I was most discourteous to poor “Sticks,” and has never since sat with me at a table, except for lunch or dinner.

A sudden illness of Miss Marryat was, on one occasion, the cause of an unrehearsed, but withal very successful, entertainment.

Miss Marryat and I were announced to appear at the Town Hall, Cardiff, in our entertainment, “Entre Nous.” I copy the following from a Cardiff paper of February 1st, 1877:

Mr. Geo. Grossmith, Jun., At The Town Hall, Cardiff. — Between you and me, gentle reader, or, as the advertisements have had it so prominently of late, entre nous, there was no ‘Entre Nous’ at the Assembly Rooms, Cardiff, last night. At the last moment it was announced that Miss Florence Marryat was incapacitated by a serious illness from taking her part in the promised performance. A capital audience had been drawn to the Town Hall, a large number of whom were, doubtless, attracted by the expectation of seeing this talented authoress and most gifted artiste. It is, however, only due to them to say that they bore their disappointment kindly, and, with only one exception, the whole of the audience — although the promoters of the entertainment offered to return their money at the doors — remained to witness the single-handed entertainment provided by Mr. George Grossmith, jun. And it was well for them they did so, for they enjoyed a treat which must have made even Miss Marryat’s absence almost appear in the light of a blessing. At the last moment, whilst the audience were grimly reading the announcement of that lady’s sudden illness, at the time when consternation was reigning in the bosom of those enterprising entrepreneurs, Messrs. Thompson and Shackell, and whilst Mr. George Grossmith, jun., was shivering in his shoes with timidity at the thought of the cool reception which, in his bereaved condition, he was likely to obtain, a sudden and a happy thought flashed across the mind of one of his friends. ‘Why not get Courtenay Clarke [Note:— Mr. Courtenay C. Clarke was a resident at Cardiff, who generally entertained my father and myself on our professional visits. He became a great friend of mine, and he was a most talented amateur reciter and raconteur. I last saw him about two years ago, when he and Colonel C. Page, of Cardiff (also an intimate friend of mine), supped with me at the Garrick.] to give you a lift, my boy?’ suggested one of the bystanders. ‘I scarcely dare ask him,’ replied the desponding entertainer. ‘Oh, but he was one of your father’s warmest friends,’ rejoined the speaker; ‘and his good nature is only equalled by his marvellous comic power. Anyhow, you can try it, for I see that he and Colonel Page have just entered the room.’ And so the attempt upon Mr. Clarke’s good nature was made; and, fortunately, it was successful. There was a mysterious whispering between Mr. Shackell and the intended victim. Then the pair retired to the ante-room, and their arguments were addressed to Mr. Clarke’s kindly feeling of friendship, which resulted in the appearance on the platform, very shortly afterwards, of the clever young entertainer, escorted by Mr. Clarke, who took the chair. In a speech of inimitable humour, he explained and apologised for the absence of Miss Marryat, and introduced, with words of encouragement, the younger Grossmith. Of this gentleman’s performance it is scarcely necessary to speak in detail. It is the very essence of refined musical comedy.”

Here follow twenty-eight lines of such a flattering description that my modesty (forgive me, gentle reader) will not permit of my reproducing them. The notice continues thus:

“Gratified, however, as everybody was with Mr. Grossmith’s performance, the real ‘fun of the fair’ commenced when Mr. Courtenay Clarke essayed his wonderful reminiscences of Mr. Grossmith the elder. With marvellous fidelity, Mr. Clarke has caught the very trick of voice and manner which constitute the chiefest charm of that mellow humorist. One could almost imagine one was in Mr. Grossmith’s company whilst listening to Mr. Clarke’s side-splitting imitations. The delicate little side-hits, and exposition of social and personal foibles, added life to the sketch; so that the audience were constrained to laugh at George Grossmith himself, as well as at the delightful comic ‘bits’ which constitute his well-known entertainment... Altogether, we can honestly say that a better or more acceptable entertainment than was given at the Town Hall last night has seldom been witnessed in Cardiff.”

Perhaps the most amusing incident that ever occurred to Florence Marryat and myself was at the time we were giving a Saturday night’s entertainment at a large hall to a popular audience in Glasgow. A brusque and brawny Scotchman was the caretaker, or hall-porter. I sought him out and informed him that there was neither towel nor soap in either of the dressing-rooms.

He firmly told me that I must find my own towel and soap, as it did not answer his purpose to do so.

I asked what he meant.

He said that the entertainers generally stole the soap and towels afterwards.

There was no attempt to wrap up the accusation. He called a spade a spade, without doubt. I was very indignant, and said: “Do you dare to insinuate that a lady like Florence Marryat, a well-known novelist, would steal your penn’orth of soap and fourpenny towel?”

He replied: “I don’t know anything about Miss Marryat, and I don’t care. All I know is, you entertainers always do walk off with my soap and towels, and I’ll ha’ no more of it.”