, the Philosophical Society. From experience I should
define an English Philosophical Society as all the people in town
who don't know anything about philosophy. The academic and university
classes are never there. The audience is only of plainer folk. In the
United States and Canada at any evening lecture a large sprinkling of
the audience are in evening dress. At an English lecture (outside of
London) none of them are; philosophy is not to be wooed in such a garb.
Nor are there the same commodious premises, the same bright lights, and
the same atmosphere of gaiety as at a society lecture in America. On
the contrary, the setting is a gloomy one. In England, in winter, night
begins at four in the afternoon. In the manufacturing towns of the
Midlands and the north (which is where the philosophical societies
flourish) there is always a drizzling rain and wet slop underfoot,
a bedraggled poverty in the streets, and a dimness of lights that
contrasts with the glare of light in an American town. There is no
visible sign in the town that a lecture is to happen, no placards, no
advertisements, nothing. The lecturer is conducted by a chairman through
a side door in a dingy 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