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."
Lots 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 versa, 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."