A Society Clown: Reminiscences

by George Grossmith

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.