building (The Institute, established 1840), and then all of a sudden
in a huge, dim hall--there sits the Philosophical Society. There are
a thousand of them, but they sit as quiet as a prayer meeting. They
are waiting to be fed--on information.

Now I don't mean to say that the Philosophical Society are not a good
audience. In their own way they're all right. Once the Philosophical
Society has decided that a lecture is humorous they do not stint
their laughter. I have had many times the satisfaction of seeing a
Philosophical Society swept away from its moorings and tossing in a
sea of laughter, as generous and as whole-hearted as anything we ever
see in America.

But they are not so willing to begin. With us the chairman has only
to say to the gaily dressed members of the Ladies' Fortnightly
Club, "Well, ladies, I'm sure we are all looking forward very much
to Mr. Walpole's lecture," and at once there is a ripple of applause,
and a responsive expression on a hundred charming faces.

Not so the Philosophical Society of the Midlands. The chairman rises.
He doesn't call for silence. It is there, thick. "We have with us
to-night," he says, "a man whose name is well known to the
Philosophical Society" (here he looks at his card), "Mr. Stephen
Leacock." (Complete silence.) "He is a professor of political economy
at--" Here he turns to me and says, "Which college did you say?" I
answer quite audibly in the silence, "At McGill." "He is at McGill,"
says the chairman. (More silence.) "I don't suppose, however, ladies
and gentlemen, that he's come here to talk about political economy."
This is meant as a jest, but the audience takes it as a threat.
"However, ladies and gentlemen, you haven't come here to listen to