me" (this evokes applause, the first of the evening), "so without
more ado" (the man always has the impression that there's been a lot
of "ado," but I never see any of it) "I'll now introduce Mr.
Leacock." (Complete silence.)

Nothing of which means the least harm. It only implies that the
Philosophical Society are true philosophers in accepting nothing
unproved. They are like the man from Missouri. They want to be shown.
And undoubtedly it takes a little time, therefore, to rouse them. I
remember listening with great interest to Sir Michael Sadler, who is
possessed of a very neat wit, introducing me at Leeds. He threw three
jokes, one after the other, into the heart of a huge, silent audience
without effect. He might as well have thrown soap bubbles. But the
fourth joke broke fair and square like a bomb in the middle of the
Philosophical Society and exploded them into convulsions. The process
is very like what artillery men tell of "bracketing" the object fired
at, and then landing fairly on it.

In what I have just written about audiences I have purposely been
using the word English and not British, for it does not in the
least apply to the Scotch. There is, for a humorous lecturer, no
better audience in the world than a Scotch audience. The old standing
joke about the Scotch sense of humour is mere nonsense. Yet one
finds it everywhere.

"So you're going to try to take humour up to Scotland," the most
eminent author in England said to me. "Well, the Lord help you.
You'd better take an axe with you to open their skulls; there is
no other way." How this legend started I don't know, but I think
it is because the English are jealous of the Scotch. They got into