I
indulged in on the platform? On the whole, I was delighted with my
Boston audience, and, to judge from the reception they gave me, I
believe I succeeded in pleasing them. I have three more engagements in
Boston, so I shall have the pleasure of meeting the Bostonians again.

* * * * *

I have never been able to lecture, whether in England, in Scotland, in
Ireland or in America, without discovering, somewhere in the hall, after
speaking for five minutes or so, an old gentleman who will not smile. He
was there last night, and it is evident that he is going to favor me
with his presence every night during this second American tour. He
generally sits near the platform, and not unfrequently on the first row.
There is a horrible fascination about that man. You cannot get your eyes
off him. You do your utmost to "fetch him"--you feel it to be your duty
not to send him home empty-headed; your conscience tells you that he has
not to please you, but that _you_ are paid to please him, and you
struggle on. You would like to slip into his pocket the price of his
seat and have him removed, or throw the water bottle at his face and
make him show signs of life. As it is, you try to look the other way,
but you know he is there, and that does not improve matters.

Now this man, who will not smile, very often is not so bad as he looks.
You imagine that you bore him to death, but you don't. You wonder how it
is he does not go, but the fact is he actually enjoys himself--inside.
Or, maybe, he is a professional man himself, and no conjuror has ever
been known to laugh at another conjuror's tricks. A great American
humorist relates that, after speaking for an hour and a half without
succeeding in getting a smile from a certain man in the audience, he
sent some one to inquire into the state of his mind.

"Excuse me, sir, did you not enjoy the lecture that has been delivered
to-night?"

"Very much indeed," said the man, "it was a most clever and entertaining
lecture."

"But you never smiled----"

"Oh, no--I'm a liar myself."

* * * * *

Sometimes there are other reasons to explain the unsmiling man's
attitude.

One evening I had lectured in Birmingham. On the first row there sat the
whole time an old gentleman, with his umbrella standing between his
legs, his hands crossed on the handle, and his chin resting on his
hands. Frowning, his mouth gaping, and his eyes perfect