PART I.

Produced by Arthur DiBianca

A SOCIETY CLOWN

REMINISCENCES

BY

GEORGE GROSSMITH

Dedicated

TO ONE

WHO BESIDES BEING MY WIFE

HAS ALSO BEEN MY TRUEST FRIEND AND

MY BEST ADVISER.

CONTENTS.

I. EXPLANATORY

II. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS

III. AT BOW STREET POLICE COURT

IV. FROM AMATEUR TO PROFESSIONAL

V. IN THE PROVINCES

VI. GILBERT AND SULLIVAN

VII. A SOCIETY CLOWN

VIII. A VERY SNOBBISH CHAPTER

A SOCIETY CLOWN.

CHAPTER I.

Explanatory.

"You've no idea what a poor opinion I have of myself, and how little

I deserve it."--_Ruddigore_.

It was one dark, dank, dreary, dismal night in February, 1888 (I

believe that is the way to commence a book, no matter what the

subject be), when the present writer might have been seen standing,

with other gentlemen, in a sombre dining-room brilliantly

illuminated with one ceiling-lamp buried in a deep red shade. We

were standing round the dining-room table, each with a dinner-napkin

in the left hand; while the right hand was occupied in moving back

chairs, to permit of the departure of the ladies for the

drawing-room. I could not help thinking that, as they filed off, the

ladies looked like queens; while we (especially with the aid of the

serviettes) looked like waiters. The gentlemen drew their chairs

round the host, and wine was languidly passed round. A tall

gentleman, with a heavy beard, to whom I had not been introduced,

approached me, and sat by my side. He passed me the spirit-lamp, for

which I thanked him while lighting my cigarette. He then commenced a

conversation in earnest.

"Did you see that Mr. ---- is writing his reminiscences?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think it rather a pity that he should do so?"

"Why a pity?" I asked in reply to his question.

"Well, I always think the moment a man begins to write his

reminiscences he is bound, more or less, to make an ass of himself."

"In what way?" I asked.

"In the first place, he is hampered by having to be so egotistical.

He must talk about himself, which is never a nice thing to do. He

cannot very well tell stories in his own favour; and if he tells

them against himself, he affects humility: if he talks about his

distinguished acquaintances, he becomes a snob; in short, I can only

repeat my former observation, that he is bound to make an ass of

himself."

For a moment or two I did not know what to say, for my conscience

smote me. At last I said:

"I am very pleased to hear your candid, and certainly unbiassed,

opinion; for I have just accepted an offer from Mr. Arrowsmith to do

a shilling book of my own reminiscences for the Bristol Library

Series."

My friend did not know what to say for a moment. His conscience

evidently smote him. At last he remarked:

"I fear I have said one of those things that are best left unsaid."

"I'm glad you said it," I replied. "You have rather opened my eyes.

It will be necessary for me to explain that I cannot very well back

out of my agreement with Mr. Arrowsmith, although, candidly

speaking, I have no desire to do so; and I shall certainly have to

apologise to the reading public for making an ass of myself."

I have thought over the above conversation many a time since, and

have concluded that I could not do better than commence this little

book with it.

I have taken my own professional career, and used it as a peg

whereon to hang my stories. I have chosen the title because I think

it will look well on the bookstalls. It is by no means intended as a

sneer at my calling. To clown properly is a very difficult art, and

I am never so happy as when I am making people laugh. I am

unfeignedly proud of my profession, on and off the stage. I have

clowned amongst all sorts of people, and in all sorts of places. On

the stage I play the fool of others' creation, and at the piano I

play the simple fool of my own.

The late John Parry, whom I took as my model, was marvellous at

amusing. His satire was worthy of Dickens or Thackeray. Though

possessed of a small voice, few people could sing better, and

certainly few could play the piano better than he. His was an

"excellent fooling" that many have envied, many imitated, and none

surpassed.

My first desire in producing the following sketches of my life is to

benefit others, by making an hour pass pleasantly in the library or

in a railway carriage. My second desire, which goes without saying,

is to benefit my publisher and myself.

Like all clowns, I have had my serious side of life--I have

experienced many small troubles and some sorrows; but I shall not

dwell on them, but merely reproduce some short notes--(having been a

reporter, I may say _shorthand notes_)--of incidents which have

amused me, and which I hope will equally entertain my readers. The

majority I have had permission to publish, and the others I do not

expect will be recognised. It would grieve me very much if I thought

I had offended anyone.

Society has been exceedingly kind to its clown, and the clown is

deeply grateful. My only ambition is, that someone in the dim future

may speak half as kindly of me as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, spoke

of the Society Clown of his period.

CHAPTER II.

Early Recollections.

"A many years ago, when I was young and charming."

_H.M.S. Pinafore_.

As I was born in December, 1847, I was not five years old when I was

taken to a house at the corner of Wellington Street, Strand, to see

the funeral procession of the Duke of Wellington. And I remember it

as distinctly as if it had been yesterday. The crowd, the soldiers,

and the magnificent funeral car, are still strongly engraven on my

memory. That was the most important of my earlier recollections.

The next recollection of great importance was my having fallen

desperately in love with a Miss Field, at a day-school near

Bloomsbury, to which I was taken at five years of age, and which was

kept by a Miss Adams. It was an academy for young (extremely young)

ladies and gentlemen. It was only natural that I should desire to

make my _fiancee_ a suitable gift as a token of our engagement; so I

presented her with a set of large gold shirt-studs, which I annexed

from my father's dressing-table. The mother of my adored one,

without having the courtesy to consult her daughter or myself, took

the gift from the former, and returned it to the father of the

latter. My parent explained to me the etiquette with regard to acts

of alienation in a sweet, simple, and comprehensive manner worthy of

Dr. Watts, and extracted from me a promise that in future I would

discard that humour which had prompted me to generously dispose of

other people's property. That promise I have faithfully kept.

As a reward for my future good intentions, he handed me a sovereign,

with injunctions not to spend it. I must confess I could not see his

object. A few days afterwards I began to be suspicious of his

sovereign. There was some writing on one side, which I was not yet

intelligent enough to decipher; but on the other, instead of the

pretty head of our Most Gracious Majesty, there was an impression of

a hat. I was much worried and concerned about that hat. I perfectly

remember going to my parents and saying, "I would rather have a

sovereign without a hat on." I also remember with what continued

roars of laughter my request was met. I have the sovereign to this

day. It is a brass disc, the exact size of a sovereign, advertising

the Gibus opera hat.

About 1855 I was sent to a preparatory school kept by the Misses

Hay, at Massingham House, Haverstock Hill. I was a boarder, and it

was there I first began to play the fool. I invented several shadow

pantomimes, and acted in them. As no dialogue was required, I can

say nothing of my literary ability. On one occasion, when my mother

visited me, she asked how I was getting on with my lessons. Miss

Eliza Hay (from whom I had a letter last May) said, "He gets on very

well with his music, but I am afraid he will one day be a clown."

I mention this because, about fifteen years afterwards, my father

met her, and informed her that I had made my appearance at the

Polytechnic Institution as a professional entertainer, and she

replied, "Ah! I always said he would be a clown." This is not

repeated with any unkind intention, for the remarks were made by

Miss Hay in a pure spirit of chaff. She was very kind to me, gave me

lessons in elocution, and taught me pieces of poetry to recite. She

used to write poetry herself.

Her sister, Miss Isabelle, taught me the piano; and, of course, I

learned the "Priere d'une Vierge" and "Les Cloches de Monastere,"

and the "Duet in D" by Diabelli, to say nothing of Czerny's 101

exercises, all of which I used to play tolerably well at the age of

nine and ten. Miss Isabelle also sang very nicely; and as I was very

fond of music, I became a favourite pupil, and was taken by her to

local concerts, where she sang for charities. Of course, I fell over

head and ears in love with her.

The school was kept by three sisters, and the elder was a handsome

lady with grey hair. She was an immense favourite with the boys. I

have never forgotten her kindness in occasionally permitting me to

fire off a brass cannon with real gunpowder in the kitchen. That was

the sort of extension of license that a boy appreciated.

In 1856 I witnessed, from the lower part of Primrose Hill, the

fireworks in celebration of peace with Russia. The final sight was

wonderful, and greatly impressed me. At a given period, thousands of

rockets were fired from the Hill and all the parks.

I was sometimes taken to the theatre, and have a faint recollection

of Wright at the Adelphi, and a more distinct one of T. P. Cooke in

_Black-eyed Susan_. I was afterwards introduced to him at Margate,

and surprised to find he looked so old--which he certainly did not

on the stage. It was in this year, I think, that I was taken to see

the ruins of Covent Garden Theatre. It was the day after the fire,

and smoke was still ascending in columns. I described this with

characteristic exaggeration, and became a temporary hero at the

school of the Misses Hay.

In 1857 my father took the little house now known as 36 Haverstock

Hill. It was then known as 9 Powis Place, and was called Manor

Lodge. My school was only a few doors off, and so I became a day

scholar. I remained at this preparatory school until I was nearly

twelve, and I can safely say I was very happy in those days. I do

not mean to infer that I am not happy now. Fortunately, I am of an

extremely happy disposition, and I so thoroughly enjoy the bright

side of life that its shadows sink into insignificance.

Amongst my school-fellows at the Misses Hay's was Dr. Arthur W.

Orwin, of the Throat and Ear Hospital, Gray's Inn Road.

In 1860 there was a Pugilistic Fever in England. Tom Sayers fought

J. C. Heenan, the Benicia Boy. The fever was very virulent. It

attacked Peers, Commons, Bishops, Actors, Soldiers, Sailors, Tinkers

and Tailors. It attacked The Times, and all the daily, evening,

weekly, monthly, quarterly, and yearly periodicals. Is it to be

wondered at, that it attacked also the school of the Misses Hay? Tom

Sayers, with his big dog, had been pointed out to me; so had Heenan

and Tom King.

I was surreptitiously, and most certainly without the knowledge of

my parents, taken by one of the servants at home to the house of Mr.

Ben Caunt, who shook hands with me and showed me the room where

boxing matches took place. I was then taken across the road, and

this boy of twelve years and a few months was presented to Nat

Langham. I was accordingly seized with the fever very badly. On the

inside of my leather belt I sketched little panels of my imagined

victories, and issued a challenge to fight anyone for the

championship of the school--the victor to hold the leather belt. As

I had shaken hands with Ben Caunt and Langham, the boys were rather

afraid of me. Orwin, however, accepted the challenge, threw his

castor into the ring, and we fought for twenty minutes or half an

hour: it seemed years to me. In the end I was undoubtedly defeated.

One generally hears that corruption is the aim and end of all

fights. I knew nothing of such practices then, and so cannot explain

what induced me to offer Orwin twopence to admit that I was the

conqueror, or what persuaded him to accept the sum and condition.

After leaving the preparatory school, I was sent to the North London

Collegiate School, then under the headmastership of Dr. Williams. I

wore a "mortar-board," and walked to and from the school with E. H.

Dickens, who was a nephew of Charles Dickens, and who, living close

to my home, became (and still is) a great friend of mine. The chief

delight of the little home on Haverstock Hill was the garden at the

back. It was much prettier than the modern suburban garden. There

used to be nine apple trees and two pear trees. As time wore on, a

couple of the trees wore out. My mother used to send the apples away

to friends in basketsful. My brother Weedon and I generally partook

of this fruit when it had grown to the size of a chestnut, and was

particularly hard and green. We much preferred it to the mature

apple. In this respect I think we resembled most boys.

When the bicycle came in vogue, a few years after, we three boys

procured one each. (I include my father as one of the boys. It was

his own desire, as well as his nature, to be one of us, and I often

think many fathers would find it to their advantage if they followed

his example). I possessed, what was considered then, a very high

bicycle, the front wheel being 36 inches high. I got one for my

brother, cheap, at an auction-room near Covent Garden. Being

considered the champion rider of the three, I was sent to bid for

the steed, and ride it home in style. I succeeded in the former, but

not in the latter. Before an admiring crowd of Covent Garden

loungers, loafers, porters, fruiterers, flower-girls and policemen,

I leapt on to the saddle, and immediately broke the back of the

spring, which had evidently been carefully made of cast-iron. My

intention was that the bicycle should carry me home, but we reversed

the order of things.

The steed used by my father stood about two and a half feet from the

ground, and had iron wheels. He himself was only a little over five

feet, and was much--very much--inclined to _embonpoint_. In the

winter, the garden-path at Manor Lodge was a fine field for

practice. I forget how many laps went to the mile; all I remember

is, that three miles about did for Weedon and myself, and half a

mile did for the Guv'nor--that is, if he had not done for himself

before then. I never recollect anything so funny as seeing him

trundling round the garden. It somewhat resembled a diminutive

edition of the modern road engine. We heard him in the house

distinctly--loud as he approached the house, the noise becoming less

as he reached the bottom of the garden. Sometimes the noise would

suddenly cease. Ha! We in the house knew instinctively what had

happened, and rushed to the windows to look out. Yes; there he was,

in the thick of the gooseberry bushes. Not on the bicycle--oh dear,

no! Under it, most decidedly under it. Sometimes on these occasions

we would push up the windows, and, in conjunction with our dear

mother, greet him with a loud guffaw. Sometimes we would preserve a

strict silence and listen. We heard him wheel the vehicle back,

place it against the lattice-work of the verandah, open the door,

and, as usual, call for me.

"George--George!"

"Here I am. What is it?"

"Oh, I say, George, have you got a piece of sticking-plaister?"

He always appealed to me for this article, knowing that I was in

possession of a few quires of court plaister; for it was at this

period I had commenced to shave.

In summer my mother would not permit the bicycles in the garden

because of the flowers, in which she took pride. In the earlier days

at Manor Lodge the garden was a mass of roses. As the demon builders

began to surround the locality, so the roses began to die, and

blight began to kill the apple-trees.

Still, the garden always looked pretty, especially in the summer and

autumn. Then we three boys went in for amateur photography. The fad

was started by me, and I was the principal operator. A "dark room"

was erected against the wall near the house, and the front was

manufactured out of the folding doors which had formerly separated

the dining-room from the drawing-room. An amateur photographer was a

scarcity in those days. The clean and easy dry-plate process was not

then in use. We first had to clean the plain glass plate, which, in

my case, was never successfully accomplished; then to coat it with

collodion, which, if it did not run off the plate up the sleeve,

generally "set" in diagonal streaks. Then it had to be placed in the

wet silver bath, an extremely sensitive concoction, which got out of

order without the slightest provocation. After its exposure in the

camera (by-the-by, I generally forgot to pull up the shutter, or, if

I remembered that, discovered when I went to uncover the lens that

its cap was already off), this plate was subjected to a development

which was original in its vagaries.

If the figures on the plate were indistinct, it was more than could

be said of the spots and patches which appeared vividly on the

fingers and clothes. Still, I was devoted to the occupation while in

my teens, and would photograph all day long, anybody or anything.

The family sat or stood to me a dozen times a day. The dogs used to

sneak into the house and hide in the coal cellar the moment they saw

me bring out the camera. The tradesmen and servants were all taken.

All my father's friends, and they were numerous and good-natured,

were seized and carried into the garden to be taken on glass; for I

generally took "positives," which were finished off then and there

and put into little brass frames, like the sixpenny and shilling

portraits (eighteenpence if a bit of jewellery is painted in with

gold) one sees displayed in the Euston Road and elsewhere.

I have taken Toole scores of times, H. J. Byron, J. Billington,

Andrew Halliday, and many more: in fact, the last-named wrote an

article in _All the Year Round_ called "Precocious Boys," in which

he described my brother and myself photographing him in a

back-garden. I hope the reader will not think I am boasting, but I

solemnly declare that I do not believe any photographer,

professional or amateur, ever succeeded in turning out so many

deplorable failures as I did.

I attach rather an interesting programme of a juvenile--followed by

a grown-up--party at Manor Lodge:

------

Haverstock Hill, April 1st, 1864.

_With Master George and Walter Grossmith's Compliments._

PROGRAMME

7 o'clock.--General Gathering of the Company (Limited).

The first arrival will please to make itself as comfortable as

possible.

7.30.--Music and Conversation. The latter may be varied by an

occasional allusion to the day of the month--a practical joke being

the "touch of nature" that makes everybody _touchy_.

8 o'clock.--Quadrille and Polka. After which, Mrs. Martha Brown

(from the Egyptian Hall) will describe her "Trip to Brighton and

back."

9 o'clock.--Quadrille and Waltz.

A few young gents in their teens, inspired by the Tercent-_e_-nary

(see Hepworth Dixon or any other dixon-ary), will recite a passage

from--and a very long way from--HAMLET.

9.30.--Quadrille. Polka. Spanish Dance.

10 o'clock.--THE JUVENILE SPREAD. Children under 20 not admitted.

10.30.--The author of "Underground London" will demon-strate his

well-known connection with the arch-enemy. (Beware of your pockets.)

11.--Dancing, Comic Singing, etc.

12 to 1.--Arrival of the Professionals from the Royal Adelphi,

Olympic, St. James's, and Princess's Theatres, retained at an

enormous cost for this night only--or rather morning.

BANQUET OF THE ELDERS IN THE CULINARY CAVERNS OF THE REGIONS BELOW.

Resumption of the fun. Paul's return a _great_ go. Curious analysis

of the Brothers Webb, to ascertain which is which. Mr. Toole will

oblige, etc.

Any attempt to define the order or duration of the proceedings from

this point being obviously absurd, it will suffice to state that the

Sun rises at 5.30.

------

The twenty minutes' burlesque on Hamlet was written expressly for us

by my father. It was received so well that we afterwards did it at

the residences of Mr. Toole and John Hollingshead to "grown-up"

parties, of which we were very proud. I played Hamlet, my brother

played Ophelia and the Gravedigger, and the remainder of the

characters were assumed by schoolfellows at the North London

Collegiate School, who were, singularly enough, distantly connected

with the stage. They were Pierre Leclercq, the brother of Carlotta

Leclercq; Claude Addison, brother of the Misses Fanny and Carlotta

Addison; B. Terry, brother of Ellen Terry, who, with her sister Kate

(Mrs. Arthur Lewis), visited Manor Lodge several times. The part of

the Queen was played by T. Bolton, who afterwards went on the stage

and became a prominent member of Mr. Wilson Barrett's provincial

companies. Many actors and literary men and women came in late at

this party.

I knew very little of Society (with a big S) in those days, but had

the honour, under the parental roof, of meeting and making friends,

while a young man, of such people as Henry Irving, Toole, J. Clarke

(Little Clarke, as he was called), H. J. Byron, John Oxenford, Kate

and Ellen Terry, Madame Celeste, Miss Woolgar, Andrew Halliday,

Artemus Ward, Chas. Wyndham, the brothers Brough, Luke Fildes, R.A.,

Joseph Hatton, Dillon Croker, J. Prowse, Fred Barnard, Mrs. Eiloart,

Eliza Winstanley, Emma Stanley (the entertainer), W. S. Woodin,

Arthur Sketchley, Tom Hood the younger, T. W. Robertson, Miss

Furtardo, Paul Bedford.

For eight or nine months in the year we did not see much of the

master of the house, for he was away lecturing; but we always

welcomed his return home, generally on Saturdays. In the summer he

had more leisure; he was brimful of humour, and there were few

people so good at repartee.

When he was "put out," there was no mistaking it. He would then

speak without thinking; but he never _wrote_ without thinking. What

a deal of trouble would be saved in this world if people would only

delay answering an annoying letter for twenty-four hours!

Some of my father's replies were very amusing, I remember. I

happened to come across a copy of one recently. I must first explain

that my mother was passionately fond of animals, and had a strong

tendency to overfeed them. In the next garden to ours a dog was

chained close to the adjoining wall, and I have no doubt whatever

that every remnant of food was dropped over for his special delight.

The next-door neighbour wrote a sharp remonstrance, and complained

that his dog was getting too fat in consequence of its being

overfed. My father wrote the following characteristic reply:

"9 Powis Place,

"December 18th, 1870.

"Dear Sir,--I am very sorry my people have annoyed you by giving

food to your dog.

"Mrs. Grossmith happens to be very fond of dogs. I think she prefers

them to human beings, and she has a notion that it is very cruel to

keep one chained up eternally; and possibly this want of exercise

may have more to do with its getting fat than the occasional extra

feeding to which you refer, and which comes of weak womanly sympathy

with misfortune--just as our booby philanthropists, after

contributing nearly half a million for the relief of the sick and

wounded, received nothing but kicks and growls from the ruffianly

savages in return.

"Seriously, however, you have a perfect right to complain, and I

have given orders which I hope will be obeyed. I am very seldom in

London myself, and cannot boast of having much control over my

household when I am; but I think I may rely on your wishes being

implicitly regarded.

"I almost wonder that it has not occurred to you to put the dog on

the other side of the garden, out of their reach; but I trust there

will be no occasion for this now.

"Yours faithfully,

"GEO. GROSSMITH.--Esq."

The next-door neighbour was amused with this letter, having taken it

in its proper spirit, and became a visitor to the house. "All's well

that ends well."

In accordance with its usual custom, time rolled on. I began to

exhibit a taste for painting, and my brother Weedon for acting.

These professions we subsequently reversed. Weedon (his full name is

Walter Weedon Grossmith) left the North London Collegiate School to

go to school nearer home; viz., Mr. Simpson's, in Belsize Park.

Eventually I left the N.L.C.S. to go to Bow Street, with the

ultimate intention of entering for the bar; and Weedon, after

leaving school, went to the West London School of Art in Portland

Street, also to the Slade School at the London University, and

eventually he passed the requisite examination that admitted him to

the Royal Academy Schools.

I have endeavoured to make this little sketch of my old home as

brief as possible, and will conclude this chapter with an incident

that ultimately happened to be of considerable importance to me:

At a certain juvenile party, while still in jackets and turned-down

collars, I met and became enamoured of a little maiden in a short

frock and sash.

She flattered me by approving of my comic songs; and I was immensely

struck with her power of conversation, which was unusual for one so

young. I ascertained that her name was Emmeline Rosa Noyce, and that

she was the only daughter of Doctor Noyce, whose practice was in the

neighbourhood. We danced every dance together; but the Fates decreed

that we should not meet again for another three or four years. We

_did_ meet--in a crowd, and again danced _nearly_ every dance

together; for, strange to say, she understood my step.

All this was simply a beginning to a very happy end: and I can say

with truth that the wisest step I ever took in the whole course of

my life was when, on the 14th May, 1873, I made my juvenile

sweetheart my wife--with her consent, of course,--and, thank God, I

have never had reason to regret it for a single second.

CHAPTER III.

At Bow Street Police Court.

"Take down our sentence as we speak it."--_Iolanthe_.

For a period of twenty years I had the distinguished honour of being

decidedly "well known to the police." When I between seventeen and

eighteen years of age, and still at the North London Collegiate

School, I received instructions from my father, who was just

starting for Liverpool, that as Mr. Courtenay was ill I must go and

"do" Bow Street. Mr. John Kelly Courtenay used to do all the

reporting at Bow Street Police Court during my father's absence on

his lecturing tours. I had learned shorthand (the Lewisian system, I

believe it was called) some two or three years previously.

Off I marched to Bow Street with the greatest _sang-froid_ to report

a case, at which in after years I should certainly have shied. It

was a most important bank fraud, and meant enormous complications in

figures. Mr. Burnaby, the chief clerk, was kind enough to let me

correct my figures from the depositions which had been taken by him;

Sir Thomas Henry repeated to me the gist of his remarks on remanding

the case, and the result was I turned out a report on manifold for

all the evening and morning papers, and the usual special report for

_The Times_--in this instance over a column long--with which my

father was delighted.

I received a most encouraging letter from him after a few days'

interval. The interval was merely to give time for the arrival of

any complaint from the papers. Editors are not in the habit of

sending letters of congratulation, only of complaint. No complaint

arrived, however, and my only disappointment was the complete

absence of important and interesting cases.

At last another opportunity arrived which enabled me to distinguish

myself. I wish it had not. A poor woman was charged with purloining

a shirt which was hanging outside a cheap hosier's in Clare Market

somewhere. It was a windy day, and the end of the shirt was

apparently flapping round the corner of the shop; so the prisoner,

unable to resist temptation, filched it after the manner of a clown

in a pantomime. Inspired by the punning humour of Tom Hood, I

parodied one of his poems for the heading of my police report. The

heading was "The Tale of a Shirt." This had a most undesired effect.

The serious papers wrote to complain of the flippancy of the title;

the refined papers of its vulgarity; while the vulgar papers

inserted the title, which they emphasised by printing the word

"tale" in italic.

This caused sarcastic paragraphs to appear in other papers directed

against my father, who, of course, was the responsible reporter, and

who, consequently, wrote me a second letter anent my talents for

reporting which differed widely from the first.

Fortunately for all parties, Mr. Courtenay got well and returned to

his post, and in 1866 it was decided I should thoroughly learn the

business from him, so as to have some remunerative occupation while

studying, and eventually following, the profession of the bar.

Circumstances, however, ultimately prevented me from doing either.

There are several, if not many, barrister-reporters in London; I

know my friend Mr. E. T. Besley was one, and so were Mr. Finlayson

and Mr. Corrie Grant, and I could mention three or four others.

My parent, with an eye to business, pointed out the absolute

advantage that would arise from my being able to support myself by

the press during the years I should, in all probability, be waiting

for the arrival of a brief. His suggestion was adopted, and for the

next three years I stuck entirely to the work, assisting Mr.

Courtenay, who, in his turn, often assisted me in revising little

occasional articles or verses which I wrote for humorous

periodicals, &c., some of which were inserted to my great delight.

He used to write prologues for amateur performances in which I took

part, and at which he was always present. He was very kind to me,

and I became very much attached to him, feeling great grief when he

died in October, 1869.

The whole of the work then fell upon my shoulders during the absence

of Grossmith, senior; and very hard work it was sometimes. When

there was no work to do,--that is, nothing of consequence to

report,--then the life of a reporter resembled that of a superior

loafer--at least, that was my feeling. A reporter is not considered

a sufficiently important person to be allotted a room for his own

use. Sir Thomas Henry promised that the gentlemen of the press

should have a room to themselves in the new Court, but he was unable

to carry his promise out, as he died soon afterwards.

Therefore, when nothing was going on, the reporter became a kind of

Micawber hanging about waiting for something to turn up. I used to

sit in Court and write the opening chapters of three-volume novels

which were never published, or extra verses to comic songs which

were never sung.

When tired of this I used to loiter about the passages, or sit in

the usher's room in company with solicitors, solicitors' clerks,

witnesses with and without babies, detectives, defendants, and

equally interesting people. Sometimes I meandered into the gaoler's

room and gazed at the police and the prisoners. Sometimes I would go

out to lunch and take three or four hours over it, and on returning

find a most important murder case had been disposed of in my

absence.

On one occasion I returned and found Mr. John Brown giving evidence

in a charge against a lad for an attempt upon the life of our Most

Gracious Majesty. However, I have managed to write a case just as

well when I have not been present as when I have. The Court was a

miserable one for sound, but the clerk was close to the witnesses

and could hear them; so that his notes, which with courtesy I was

permitted to copy, were, at all events, most reliable.

It must not be inferred from my absence that I was not interested in

the work. On the contrary, there was so much variety in the

important cases that one could not be otherwise than interested: but

one never knew when they were coming on. But people of all classes

would come day after day, and sit out (especially on a Monday

morning) dozens of simple charges of drunk and disorderly, or of

fighting and disturbing. This I could not quite understand. The days

on which Mr. Flowers sat were certainly the most amusing, and

consequently selected by the visitors. Mr. Irving, Mr. Toole, and

the late George Belmore have often in bygone days sat by my side

watching the more important cases.

Sometimes the monotony of the proceedings would be varied by my

seeing one of my own acquaintances in the dock. Then an awkward

question of etiquette arose. The dock joined the reporters' box. Now

ought I to have shaken hands with him? As a matter of fact I never

did, but I do not see why I should not have done so. However, I

thought it best to follow the footsteps of the magistrates--they did

not shake hands with their friends when charged.

I have heard of an instance of a metropolitan police magistrate who,

upon recognising an old friend in dock, ordered him immediately to

be accommodated with a seat on the bench and declined to hear the

charge of embezzlement that was to have been preferred against him.

Soon he was no more a magistrate, and subsequently was "no more" in

the term's other sense.

The most disagreeable case of recognising a friend in the dock that

I ever experienced was some years after, when I was combining the

professions of journalist and entertainer. I accepted an engagement

at Margate to give a couple of sketches nightly at the

Hall-by-the-Sea, which was then under the management of the late E.

P. Hingston, who had been formerly the manager of Artemus Ward's

lecture at the Egyptian Hall in 1866. [By-the-by, the only other

humorist who took part in the concert was J. Hatton, the composer

and author of "To Anthea," who used to take his seat at the piano

and sing his song, "Old Simon the Cellarer" and "The Merry Little

Fat Grey Man," his resemblance to the latter being somewhat

pronounced. He used to reside at Margate, and was an immense

favourite.]

One evening I was introduced to a young gentleman of good manners

and appearance, who begged I would sup with him. I did. We

afterwards became rather intimate and I lunched with him. Like most

small stars, I was surrounded by a lot of satellites. They were all

eventually introduced to my new acquaintance, who seemed to have

plenty of time and money to spare, and who was the essence of

hospitality. As my engagement was terminating he gave us all a

parting banquet at one of the principal hotels. Some old friend of

mine had advised me particularly not to go. What reason he gave I do

not remember, but I fancy it was that the young fellow had not paid

some bill. However, I did not go, but heard there was much to eat,

more to drink, and any amount of conviviality.

It was one of those parties where everybody talked, nobody listened,

nobody cared, and every man's health was proposed by somebody else:

the health of the host, I believe, was proposed about half a dozen

times.

I returned to Bow Street, and a few days after this poor fellow, who

turned out to be a clerk in a warehouse in Southampton Street,

Strand, at about 35s. a week, was placed in the dock on a charge of

robbing his employer. He was committed for trial and ultimately

convicted; but in consequence of his previous good character and the

kindness of his employer in not wishing to press the charge, the

sentence was one of months when it might have been years.

I spent part of the spare time, in my earlier days at Bow Street, in

editing a paper called _Ourselves at Home_. It was published by a

printer for me, and consisted of eight pages, a little larger than

the Bristol Library Series, with very little matter--much spacing

out and very big type. The cost was ten shillings a week, for which

we had fifty or a hundred copies.

Two of my friends contributed each two shillings and sixpence a week

towards the expense, with the privilege of inserting articles. The

contribution of their specie was more valuable than that of their

brains; but as their contributions were not so bad as mine, no

complaint was made. The periodical terminated after thirteen

numbers, because our friends could not be induced to read it, nor

buy it. It died a natural death on March 8th, 1867.

At this time the chief magistrate was Sir Thomas Henry, the other

two being the kind and genial Mr. Flowers, who died only a few years

ago, and Mr. James Vaughan, who still sits in the new Court. The old

Court was adjacent to the Floral Hall, Covent Garden.

Having sat in that Court so many years, it seemed odd to me to pay

it a visit under such different circumstances. Last summer (1887) I

was advised to go to Mr. Stinchcombe, the theatrical costumier, on

some little matter. I entered the front door of the old familiar

Police Court. Instead of the idle, motley crowd one was accustomed

to see blocking up the passages, there were rows of shelves with

carefully-packed costumes.

In the Court, the dock, attorneys' table, barristers' bench, my old

reporters' box, every partition in fact, had been swept away to make

room for shelves of costumes, armour, and tons of theatrical

paraphernalia. Out of curiosity I asked to see the cells and was

politely shown them. There they were as of yore--the iron doors,

with the little window or grating; but the doors were not locked,

barred, and bolted--they were wide open, and the prison cells were

occupied with sock and buskin.

Sir Thomas Henry was the main instrument in getting erected the

spacious new Court opposite, in which he was never destined to sit.

It was his ambition. Frequently had he said on the bench that the

old court was a disgrace. I could not help thinking what Sir

Thomas's opinion of the old Court would have been if he had seen it

as I had just now. I could not help thinking the faithful old Court

had followed my example, and gone in for the stage.

Now it is razed to the ground, and there is not a brick left of the

old place which, in my time, saw the preliminary examinations of the

Flowery Land Pirates; Muller for the murder of Mr. Briggs; Barrett

and others for blowing up Clerkenwell Prison; Burke and Casey; Dr.

Hessell, who was acquitted on the charge known as the Great Coram

Street murder, and on whose behalf Mr. Douglas Straight (now Mr.

Justice Straight, of Allahabad) made the best speech he ever made in

his life, I venture to think; the female impersonation case; and the

charge against the police detectives Druscovich, Palmer, Meiklejohn,

Clarke, and Mr. Froggatt, the solicitor, of assisting Kurr, Benson

and others in committing the De Goncourt turf frauds. With the

exception of the Pirates and Muller, _The Times_' reports were done

chiefly by me.

The record of which I am most proud was in a speech of Mr. Besley's

in one of the above cases. He spoke for about seven hours, with one

short interval, and as it proceeded I reported it in long hand, in

the third person of course. To have done so _verbatim_ would have

been an impossibility. To have reported this speech with a pencil

and paper would have been a tolerably easy matter, but I wrote it on

manifold, producing twelve copies--that is, there were twelve oiled

tissue sheets and six blank tissues between, altogether a thickness

of eighteen papers to press through with the stylus.

To those uninitiated in the method of manifold writing, I can only

explain that the system is the same as that adopted by cashiers in

the stores and shops, who place a piece of black paper in a book, a

little bill on the top, and by writing on the latter the impression

is conveyed through the black to the book. Two copies are therefore

procured. Imagine, therefore, the amount of pressure required for

twelve copies, and the state of your fingers and hands after doing

this with the utmost rapidity for seven hours with only about half

an hour's cessation!

I may as well give a slight sketch of the characters of the three

magistrates. Sir Thomas Henry was the very model of a police-court

beak. He was tall and slim, and had natural dignity--a very

different thing from the assumption of it. He was a good lawyer and

a perfect courtier--not a mere police courtier. He liked approval,

and whene'er he made a palpable hit in a passage of arms with an

important counsel (specially retained), he would glance round the

Court to see if it had been appreciated. After an effective summing

up, the auditors in the body of the Court would sometimes break out

with loud applause. Sir Thomas Henry would sternly observe that if

such unseemly manifestations were again displayed, he should order

the Court to be cleared. For all that, Sir Thomas liked that

applause and was much gratified by it.

Mr. Frederick Flowers was a totally different type of man

altogether. He was short, and had iron-grey hair and whiskers. He

was exceedingly kind--much too kind for a magistrate, and possessed

a dangerous talent for being humorous in Court. He hated to punish

people and had a tendency to let everybody off--and did, if he could

do so legally.

I remember once a woman, an old offender, being sentenced by one of

the other magistrates to a month's imprisonment. On being removed

from the dock by the gaoler she shouted, "Look here, the next time I

am charged here I'll take jolly good care it's before old Flowers."

A little boy of about eight years of age was charged with

snowballing an old gentleman. Mr. Flowers read the boy a kindly

lecture, and told him never to snowball people in the streets again.

As he had been detained in the gaoler's room for four hours and had

been crying his eyes out, Mr. Flowers added that the child was

evidently very sorry for what he had done, and would, therefore, be

discharged. The mother who was advised to keep a better watch over

her boy in future, came forward with profusions of thanks, and

carried off the little prisoner in triumph. The prosecutor, who had

watched the proceedings with amazement, here stepped into the box,

and, addressing Mr. Flowers, said:

"Why, your worship, you've let him off."

_Mr. Flowers:_ Of course I have.

_Prosecutor:_ What for?

_Mr. Flowers:_ You wouldn't have me punish a child like that, would

you?

_Prosecutor:_ Of course I would--what have I had him brought in here

for?

_Mr. Flowers:_ I think he has been sufficiently punished.

_Prosecutor:_ But look here--he has cut my cheek.

_Mr. Flowers:_ Well, he did not do that on purpose.

_Prosecutor:_ He snowballed me on purpose.

_Mr. Flowers:_ Yes, but he didn't mean to cut your face.

_Prosecutor:_ Well, he has done it, at all events.

_Mr. Flowers:_ And he is very sorry, and so am I sorry; but I dare

say when you were a boy you were in the habit of snowballing old

gentlemen. At all events, I know I used to snowball people, and I am

not going to fine any boy for doing what I used to do myself.

One morning a poor woman stepped into the box and expressed a wish

to prosecute some man who had passed a bad sixpence upon her. Mr.

Flowers took the counterfeit coin and after examining it said,

"Well, I dare say the man didn't know it was a bad one: it is a

remarkably good imitation of a genuine one. I'll tell you what I

will do--I will give you a good sixpence in exchange; that will put

an end to all legal proceedings." Mr. Flowers gave the woman a

sixpenny-piece, and requested that the bad one should be broken up.

When the Court was afterwards cleared, the good-natured magistrate,

addressing me, said, "I hope, Mr. Grossmith, you won't think it

necessary to report that case. If you do, I shall be having three or

four hundred people coming to me to-morrow with bad sixpences to

exchange."

A man was charged with violently assaulting his friend. A policeman

saw the assault committed, and gave his evidence to that effect. The

complainant, however, did not appear for the purpose of pressing the

charge. When the constable had given his evidence, the defendant

shouted out, "I didn't commit the assault. I never hit him."

_Mr. Flowers_ (thinking this was the usual imputation on the

evidence of the police): Then, if you didn't do it, who did I should

like to know?

_Defendant:_ I didn't do it. 'Twas the beer that did it.

_Mr. Flowers:_ Oh, then we had better send the beer to prison.

_Constable:_ Please, your worship, the complainant ain't here. He

didn't wish to press the case.

_Mr. Flowers:_ Oh, very well. _(To the Defendant)_ There being no

prosecutor, you and your friend the beer are discharged; but I

should advise you not to become too closely associated with each

other in the future.

In a series of articles which I contributed to _Punch_, at the

beginning of the year 1884, entitled "Very Trying," I gave a skit of

this magistrate. It was in the fourth article, and was headed "The

Good-humoured Magistrate." He was extremely popular, and nobody,

from his colleagues and counsel down to the prisoners themselves,

was ever heard to say a harsh word against him.

Mr. James Vaughan (who still sits at Bow Street) was a solemn and

severe type of magistrate. Absolutely just, and yet everyone seemed

afraid of him. The just are always to be most feared. Mr. Vaughan

makes a good magistrate, but he would have been a better judge. He

has a power of "summing up" which is almost thrown away in a police

court. He would give a decision (sometimes very elaborate) in every

case that came before him. He was quite the reverse of a well-known

magistrate of Great Marlborough Street, whose object was to get

everything over as quickly as possible. I was once present at the

last-named Court when there were a number of summonses against

cabmen for delaying and obstruction. It was the custom to take all

these summonses on one day. The mode of procedure adopted by this

magistrate was as follows:

_Magistrate:_ All those who plead guilty, step forward.

(Here about fifteen cabbies pushed to the front of the Court.)

_Magistrate:_ Fined two shillings--don't do it again.

(_Exeunt_ fifteen cabbies.)

Another magistrate, who used to sit at Worship Street, delivered his

decisions in a species of shorthand. Suppose Smith and Brown were

charged together with assaulting the police. At the conclusion of

all the evidence the magistrate would say:

"Smith, five or five; Brown, ten or fourteen;" which, being

interpreted, meant that Smith was to be fined five shillings, or in

default of payment to be imprisoned for five days, and Brown to be

fined ten shillings, or in default, fourteen days.

Now, Mr. Vaughan would certainly have read each man a serious

warning, which (as Mr. Vaughan is a highly educated man) the

prisoners may or may not have understood.

When I first went to the Court, I could not always understand his

remarks, especially when some intricate technicalities were involved

in them. In this predicament, I invariably went to his worship and

asked if he would give me the principal points of his observations,

a request on my part which was always met by Mr. Vaughan with much

courtesy.

Mr. Vaughan was also a subject of my raillery in the _Punch_

articles, from which I will give a short extract. A little boy of

seven years of age is charged with begging, his excuse being he did

not know he was doing any wrong. The magistrate delivers his

decision in the following manner:

"Prisoner, you have been brought before me on the sworn testimony of

a metropolitan constable, charged with begging within the precincts

of the monument erected _in memoriam_ to Nelson. It is, as you must

be aware, a charge under the Vagrant Act, and I am bound to admit it

appears to me there is a _prima facie_ case against you. You have

made no attempt to rebut the evidence of the officer, and I can

only, as an _ultimatum_, give credence to his evidence, which admits

of little doubt in my mind. The defence (if a defence it can be

designated at all) that you have elected to set up is, to my mind,

unworthy of the invention you have thought necessary to bestow upon

it. You may not have perused the sections of the Act of Parliament

bearing upon this particular charge, but every child must be aware,

from maternal or paternal information, that the act of begging in

any form is _contra leges_. Your defence is, therefore, totally

unworthy of consideration. Now I warn you, if _in future_ you will

persist in pursuing this nefarious method of existence, I shall have

to sentence you to a term of incarceration without the option of a

pecuniary penalty. Pray do not treat this caution with indifference.

Upon this occasion, however, your liberty will be afforded you.

"_The Prisoner_ (in tears): Oh! how long have I got? Oh! what have I

got?

"_Gaoler_ (interpreting the learned magistrate): What have you got?

Why, you've got let off, and don't do it again. (_Sotto voce_ to the

boy) Hook it!

"And the little boy left the Court, under the impression that the

magistrate had sentenced him to several years' penal servitude, but

that the gaoler had kindly overlooked the offence and liberated

him."

Of course, this sketch is caricatured in the same way that the

portraits in _Vanity Fair_, are by "Ape" (Mr. Carlo Pelligrini) and

"Spy" (Mr. Leslie Ward).

Sir James Taylor Ingham succeeded to the post of chief magistrate at

Bow Street on the death of Sir Thomas Henry, and was (and still is)

a kind and considerate gentleman. It was the custom of some

magistrates to wear their hats in Court, but I never saw this at Bow

Street. At other Courts I have seen magistrates wear their hats; and

one in particular I have seen walk about the bench with his hat on

and his hands in his pockets, and never even remove it when a

respectably-dressed woman was making an application to, or giving

evidence before, him. If it were compulsory to keep the head

covered, as when the judge assumes the black cap, one could

understand it. But it is not compulsory, and there is no excuse for

it, any more than there is for the young masher swaggering up a

public dining-room where ladies are seated around dining, without

having the common decency to remove his hat.

In 1877, when I appeared at the Opera Comique, I retired from the

work; but resumed it again in 1880, when my father died, having for

my right-hand man Mr. Cleverley, whom my father had engaged to

assist him. I retired eventually in favour of Mr. Cleverley, who is

now _The Times_ reporter; and if I possibly can help it, I will

never give him a chance of "showing me up."

CHAPTER IV.

From Amateur to Professional.

"I once was a dab at Penny Readings."--_Ruddygore_.

"What 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 revenant 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

_risque_. 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 Dejeuner a 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:

BY PERMISSION OF THE WORSHIPFUL THE BAILIFFS.

NEW THEATRE, BRIDGNORTH.

For Two Evenings only.

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

Mr. GROSSMITH, sen., takes this opportunity of laying before the

public the following high encomium passed on his son, kindly pointed

out to him by a clergyman of Dudley. The numerous and repeated

paragraphs which have appeared in all the London and provincial

papers cannot have escaped the eye of anyone; but this work will, no

doubt, escape the eye of some.

_Abstracted from the_ "New Monthly Magazine," No. 45, July 1st, 1825

(page 299).

"The little Irish boy, Master Burke, betokens a dramatic instinct

which can scarcely be mistaken. We saw in the country the other day

a child, seven years old, named GROSSMITH, who displayed even a

deeper vein of natural humour; actually revelling in the jests he

uttered and acted; singing droll songs with the truth of a musician

and the vivacity of a comedian; and speaking passages of tragedy

with an earnestness and grace as though the dagger and bowl had been

his playthings, and poetry his proper language."

Characters in the introduction which Master Grossmith imitates.

(Here come in nine small illustrations of figures.)

Characters in _Pecks of Troubles_ which Master Grossmith personates.

(Here appear seven larger illustrations.)

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

ADVENTURES IN THE READING COACH,

When he will imitate the following characters, namely: a

Frenchman--a Fat Lady--an Affected Lady--a Tipsy Politican--a Stage

Manager--Two Candidates for the Stage--and his own Success.

Master Grossmith will then go through the Humorous and Laughable

Comedy of

PECKS OF TROUBLES;

OR,

The Distress of a French Barber.

(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 unfortunate love

for Betty, who has run

off with Corporal

Rattle--with the

laughable song of

"The Washing Tub,"

which finishes the

piece ... ... ... MASTER GROSSMITH!!!!!!!

After which, "Betsy Baker," with other Comic Songs.

Part II. will consist of Scenes from the _Merchant of Venice_,

_Douglas_, _Pizarro_, _Macbeth_, _Richard III._, _Rolla_, and

_Hamlet_. The Infant Roscius will, on the first night, go through

the tent scene of _Richard III._ The scenes will be changed each

night, and he will conclude his performance with a piece (composed

in two parts expressly for him) on

THE MUSICAL GLASSES.

The whole of the scenery, wardrobe, and preparations, which are very

extensive, with the Grand Diorama, 360 feet in length, will pass

through the proscenium during the intervals of Master Grossmith's

performance; consisting of views of Italy, &c.

Boxes, 3s.; Pit, 2s.; Gallery, 1s.

Doors to be opened at half-past Seven, and the performance to

commence at Eight o'clock. Children under twelve and Schools, half

price to Boxes and Pit only. Tickets and Plans for Boxes to be had

of Mr. Gitton, Post Office; and at the Theatre, where Master G., and

preparations, may be seen from Ten to One o'clock on the days of

performance.

(Then appear four more blocks of the boy in private dress, and three

Shaksperian 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 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 Shakspeare'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 Shakspeare 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 Shakspeare'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.

_Dowham Market, June 1st_, 1829. M. M. C.

And now _revenons a 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. Ta 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 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. Friends--

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.

* The King does not enter until the play scene, at the end.

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, _a 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. _pere_, 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."

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."

"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,

unbiassed 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

_employes_ 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, 19A 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 indiarubber 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 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 _scenas_.

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 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 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.

CHAPTER V.

In the Provinces.

"A wandering minstrel I."--_The Mikado_.

I 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 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 though 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:

BIRKBECK LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTION,

SOUTHAMPTON BUILDINGS, CHANCERY LANE.

PROGRAMME

OF THE

LITERARY AND MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT

TO BE GIVEN BY

MESSRS. GEORGE GROSSMITH,

ON WEDNESDAY EVENING, JUNE 9TH,

Commencing at Half-past Eight o'clock.

PART I.

MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.

GEMS FROM CHARLES DICKENS

(IN MEMORIAM).

Little Tony Weller and his Grandfather.

Birth of the Junior Partner in the firm of "Dombey and Son"