Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93., October 22, 1887

As has been observed earlier in this series, the Amateur Reciter is influenced by a natural ambition to harrow his audience to the best of his ability.
And, be it said, the average audience is not at all averse to being harrowed—provided this is done with any science and refinement. When persons are met together for social enjoyment, nothing apparently affords them keener pleasure than a performance which produces certain peculiar sensations, such as the feeling of partial want of control over the facial nerves, smarting behind the eyes, increasing obstruction in the throat, and a general conviction that, unless something occurs to make them laugh at once, they will be irresistibly compelled to sob like so many seals. It is, perhaps, a little odd—but the taste exists, and must be taken into account. The sole drawbacks are that, too often, the means adopted to secure the desired result depend more than should be upon sentiment which might almost be described as false; that the incidents occasionally have too little relation to real life; and that, what might have proved eminently touching, is marred by some involuntary association with the ludicrous and grotesque. In his anxiety to preserve his pupils from such pitfalls as these, Mr. Punch offers an example in which the blemishes he has hinted at have been sedulously avoided. It is at once homely, wholesome, and tear-compelling—like the common onion. You will find you produce a favourable impression at once by announcing it as,—
( You must come on with a general suggestion in your manner that you are supposed to be the proprietor of an itinerant Cat and Canary Troupe. Begin with a slow and somewhat depressed shake of the head, as if in answer to imaginary inquirer. )
No, we ain’t performin’ to-day, Sir, and the boys are all on the gape
At seem’ the mice in mournin’, and the cats in chokers o’ crape;
But I’m giving the Show a rest, d’ye see? for I didn’t feel up to the job,
( Pause—then subdued ) For my leadin’ comejian’s left me, Sir—