PLATFORM CONFESSIONS.
Lectures and Lecturers--The Boy's Idea--How to Deliver It--The
Professor--The Actors--My First Platform--Smoke--Cards--On the
Table--Nurses--Some Unrehearsed Effects--Dress--A Struggle with a
Shirt--A Struggle with a Bluebottle--Sir William Harcourt Goes
out--My Lanternists Go Out--Chairmen--The Absent Chairman--The
Ideal Chairman--The Political Chairman--The Ignorant
Chairman--Chestnuts--Misunderstood--Advice to Those about to
Lecture--I am Overworked--"'Arry to Harry."
[Illustration: QUEEN'S HALL, LONDON. I WAS THE FIRST TO SPEAK FROM THE
PLATFORM.]
That hateful word "lecture"! Oh, how I detest it! In the juvenile brain
it conjures up mental punishment in the shape of a scolding, for to be
"lectured" is to be verbally flogged, and the wrathful words that smite
the youthful ear carry with them just as sharp a sting as the knots of
the lash that fall on the hapless back of the prison culprit.
To the boyish mind the lecturer is pictured as an old fossil to whom he
has to listen attentively for an hour without understanding a word of
his learned discourse. The funereal blackboard, the austere diagrams,
the severe pointer and the chilly glass of water, a professor something
like one of the prehistoric creatures he is talking about, with his long
hair and long words, his egotistical learning, his platitudes and pauses
and mumblings, combine to depress the youngster, who all the time is
longing for the fresh air and an hour of cricket or football. Then the
notes he is supposed to take! True, there is a certain momentary feeling
of pleasure and importance on acquiring the first clean, new notebook
and long, well-sharpened pencil, but it is of very, very brief duration.
The boy won't be happy till he gets it, but he's anything but happy when
he's got it! He sees (of course I refer here to public lectures) some
"prehistoric gurls," as an Irish boy once termed them to me, taking
copious notes, but the long words and learned phrases stagger the
budding scientist and befog his as yet undeveloped brain. I am speaking
from my experience when I attended the first of a series of lectures by
leading professors of the Dryasdust species.
Nor does the subsequent cross-examination by the parents enhance in the
youthful idea the pleasure of being lectured to.
In boyhood's days the student has to attend his lectures, and when they
are over he rejoices accordingly; but what about the lectures in after
life? Although I have given many of these latter myself, I cannot say
that my experience as one of the audience has been very extensive, as I
have only heard one or two. The first I heard was delivered by Professor
Herkomer some years ago. The subject interested me, as I thought I knew
more about it than the lecturer himself, and Herkomer's delivery was
particularly good, but it was a "lecture" in the strict sense of the
word. We were scolded, and went away like whipped boys. When I stood on
that identical platform a few years afterwards _I_ scolded everybody--it
is the duty of the lecturer to do so.
A lecturer must be a personage altogether superior--this is essential.
If he does not possess this attribute, he must assume it. Modesty is
ineffective; mock-modesty is distasteful; you must instruct your
audience. The commonest platitudes will serve if you call it a
"lecture," and address them to an audience as if they were a lot of
school children.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
When a lecture-entertainment has been written, the question then is how
to deliver it. Now, with the exception of returning thanks for "art" or
"literature" or for "the visitors" now and then at a City banquet, I was
quite unaccustomed to public speaking. A friend of mine suggested I
should take lessons in elocution from "one of those actor fellows." "It
is not what you say but how you say it," he said to me. "Indeed!" I
replied, rather nettled. "Matthew Arnold had a wretched delivery, and I
think there was something in what he said." "True, but you are not a
Matthew Arnold, nor I should say a George Dawson either. So take lessons
in elocution, my boy, and save yourself and your audience." Therefore,
modestly I went to consult a professor of elocution with my lecture in
my pocket, feeling very much as I did when I first walked to school, or
to my first editor with my youthful artistic attempts. I had, by the
way, attended an elocution class and a drawing class in my school days,
but no boy was expected to learn anything from either.
It is curious to notice how parents willingly subscribe to the school
extra, "Elocution class," in the belief that it gives boys confidence. I
was a nervous boy, so I joined. The drawing extra certainly gives a boy
confidence, because he sees the feeble productions of the drawing-master
and feels he has little to learn in order to become one himself. I shall
never forget my first attempt in the elocution class at school. The
Professor selected a piece for the day--it was to be learned
letter-perfect. Now I unfortunately parodied it and burlesqued the
Professor, who stood at the end of the library, giving us suitable
actions to the words. We all faced him like a company of soldiers formed
in a square. Being small, I, sheltered by the big boys in front,
indulged in my antics with impunity. Certainly I did not want confidence
at that moment. This over, we sat down round the library, and then the
custom was to call out a boy to recite the piece of the day alone for
the benefit of the others. He called upon me! Confidence had fled. I was
not struck with stage fright, but with Professor fright. I tried to
repeat the words and thought I did, but not until I was stigmatised by
the Professor as incorrigible, and ordered to sit down, was I aware that
I had really given my parody and not the piece.
When I went in search of another Professor this incident of my last came
to my memory, and I felt unhappy. Attitude is everything, thought I. I
shall look in at the picture galleries as I pass and compare the
oratorical attitudes of the people of the past. I was rehearsing before
one in the National Gallery when my antics attracted a lady. I looked
round to see the effect--she was laughing. It was Miss Mary Anderson,
the celebrated actress. I told her I was about to lecture and was on my
way to take lessons in elocution. "Do nothing of the sort," she cried.
"The public does not want to hear your attempts at elocution. Say what
you have to say in your own way. Speak slowly and distinctly, and let
everyone hear right at the end of the room." So it came to pass that
Miss Mary Anderson was my only teacher in elocution, and this was the
only lesson I received. Although what I say on the platform may not be
worth listening to, I take good care that no one has to ask me to speak
up, and put their hands to their ears to hear what I am saying; nor do I
think, as I avoid the "preachy" style of delivery, my audiences get
weary of hearing my voice.
[Illustration: MISS MARY ANDERSON.]
MY FIRST PLATFORM.
[Illustration]
"By desire," I rehearsed my first lecture, "Art and Artists," at the
Savage Club, previous to my giving it in public. In those days the
Savages smoked their pipe of peace in a long room in the Savoy,
overlooking the graveyard where so many of their tribe lay at rest. I
recollect the reading-room at the back looked on to a huge building with
mournful black lettering on it, announcing the fact that it was the
office of some Necropolis. Truly a doleful surrounding for the club
whose members are engaged in promoting the gaiety of nations! The long
room was divided into two, the longer portion being the dining-room, and
the smaller one the card-room, and on Saturday evenings, when they all
sat round smoking their calumets, and singing their songs, and dancing
their war-dances, the room was tried to its utmost capacity, and as on
the occasion to which I am referring the tribe paid me the compliment of
assembling in its numbers, the whole room was required. It was late in
the evening when I arrived, and I found the lanternist in a state of
agitation because the partition was not down, and he was, therefore,
unable to put up the screen, as the card-players vigorously protested
against any disturbance.
Now it has always struck me, perhaps more forcibly on this occasion than
on any other, that the most selfish men on the face of the earth are to
be found in the card-rooms of clubs. The time was close at hand for me
to make my maiden effort in public lecturing, and I was not going to be
baffled by a handful of card-players; so, backed by the authority of the
secretary, I ordered them in Cromwellian tones to "Take away that
partition!" The players were all but invisible, surrounded as they were
by volumes of smoke, out of which there issued incalculable quantities
of great big D's intermixed with the fumes of poisonous nicotine. Down
went the partition, up went the screen, on went the game. I firmly
believe they would not have looked up had Cavendish come to deliver a
discourse from the platform on whist. I was quite prepared to proceed
without disturbing their game, but a difficulty arose--there was no
platform, and I required their tables for the purpose. The grumbling
gamblers had to submit at last, and cards in hand they betook themselves
to another room, so I was able to mount my first platform--a collection
of tables. Now I don't know how it is, but it is a fact that there is
nothing more unnerving than to stand on a table. The infantile prodigy
who is put up on a table for the first time so as to be better admired
by fair visitors, and who has previously struggled manfully from one end
of the room to the other on the floor, totters and falls at the first
step when raised to this higher elevation. Anyone can with ease stand on
a chair and hang up a picture or anything of the sort, but standing on a
table has the effect of making you grow weak in the knees and light in
the head. This is not the effect of the extra height, but the knowledge
that the table was constructed so that you could put your feet under it,
and, therefore, they have no right on top of it.
Have you ever been in a court of justice in Ireland and seen a witness
perched upon a table? In that enlightened country a table takes the
place of the witness-box. The result is delightful. Standing in a
witness-box and leaning comfortably over the bar, you can be
comparatively at your ease, your legs can tremble unobserved, and you
seem to be in a measure protected from the searching gaze of the public.
Not so in the Emerald Isle. The chair is placed in the centre of the
table in the well of the court between the judges and the counsel, and
the unfortunate witness, finding himself in this elevated and awkward
position, becomes nervous in the extreme. His feet are a great source of
discomfort to him. He doesn't seem to know what to do with them. First
he tucks them under the chair, then he crosses them, then he turns his
toes out, then he turns them in, and just when he is beginning to get
accustomed to his embarrassing situation, the cross-examination begins,
and he is at the counsel's mercy:
"Now thin, don't be gaping at the jury, sir; why arrn't you respectful
and keep your eye on his lordship?"
"Now, sir, attind to me whin I'm speaking, look me straight in the face,
and answer me!"
"D'ye see this gintleman on me right? Now, now, don't hisitate, keep
cool!"
It is more than the poor witness can do to keep on the chair. The judge
is on his right, the counsel on the left, and the jury in front of him,
and after vainly trying to keep his eye on them all at the same time, in
obedience to his counsel's injunctions, he is requested by the opposing
counsel to observe some witness in the court behind him. In my opinion
the witness ought to be provided with a swivel chair, or else the clerks
who sit round ought to be adepts in the art of table-turning.
[Illustration: GIVING MY "HUMOURS OF PARLIAMENT" TO THE NURSES.]
Some years later I had another experience of speaking from an impromptu
platform; perhaps the most unique audience I ever addressed. It was at
Merchant Taylors' Hall, when a reception was given to hospital nurses
from all over the kingdom. My pencil perhaps can give a better idea of
the sundry and various varieties of the "nursus hospitalicus" from the
different nurseries of the country. There was no proper platform or
stage, so the attendants had the task of moving all the heavy tables in
the splendid hall together, so as to form a substitute. This I thought
very efficient, but when I mounted it I found that I could much better
have given an exhibition of fancy sliding or skating than illustrations
of the pedestrian peculiarities of Members of Parliament. I was inwardly
pleased to think that my audience was entirely composed of skilled
nurses, who were close at hand should anything happen, for I had serious
misgivings about the slippery surface of my improvised stage. Visions of
myself with a broken arm or leg floated before me, and, indeed, I don't
think I should have been so very sorry had an accident occurred, so
enraptured was I by the sight of so much feminine beauty.
Those in front were all seated on the floor, while the rest were
standing in the huge hall, there being no seats. I noticed that the
prettiest dress was that worn by the nurses from the lunatic asylums. I
felt that I would eventually come under the supervision of these ladies,
for a military band, regardless of my performance, was playing a
selection from the "Gondoliers" just outside in the corridor, and if I
had not had it stopped, I would certainly have gone out of my mind. I
particularly noticed on this evening that various points were passed
over in silence by my audience which are invariably taken by others. In
the second part of my entertainment I make a speech in the character of
the "Member for Boredom," anent the use of black sticking-plaster in
public hospitals. This is intended by me to be more of a satire than a
humorous incident, and I am supposed to bore my audience as the
honourable gentleman is supposed to bore the House; but on this occasion
the nurses, who understood very little about politics, simply roared
with laughter at the mention of a subject with which they were so
familiar. Truth to tell, I was rather doubtful whether I had succeeded
in entertaining the charming ladies, and was therefore particularly
gratified to receive the following note from Sir Henry Burdett:
"DEAR MR. FURNISS,--I hope you were satisfied with your audience
after all. They were quite delighted with your 'Humours of
Parliament,' and the fame of your handiwork will be carried all
over the United Kingdom and to the Colonies, for there were over
1,100 nurses present, and some from the Colonies. This is the
greatest gathering of nurses which has ever been held, and I was
much struck with the discipline they displayed in responding
cheerfully to the request that they would keep quiet and settle
down.
"If you were as pleased with the audience as they were with you,
the meeting ought indeed to be a happy one....
"With many thanks for your most excellent and successful
performance, which gave just _eclat_ to the gathering to-night,
"Believe me, faithfully yours,
"HENRY C. BURDETT."
The most difficult audience of all to address is a small audience. I
feel far more at home before an audience of three or four thousand than
I do before three or four hundred. But the most critical audience, I
think, is a boys' school. Not that they criticise you so much at the
moment, particularly if you appear as an antidote to Dryasdust. But
experience has shown me that something one may have said has opened a
fresh idea in the youthful mind, and the criticism, though frequently
belated, is more genuine than that of the matured members of the public
who simply wish to be amused for the passing hour.
[Illustration: SPEAKER BRAND, AFTERWARDS VISCOUNT HAMPDEN.]
Sometimes I have discovered in my audience public men I am "taking off"
in my entertainment. This more frequently happened in the "Humours of
Parliament," where the M.P. of the place in which I appeared came if I
was not too unkind to him. But it more often happened he sent a member
of the family in advance, to find out whether the great man was
lampooned or not.
A friend of mine on a visit to a country house informed me that his
hostess, seeing I was "billed" for two nights in the neighbourhood,
previous to arranging a house party to hear me, took the precaution to
send the Curate the first night to report. He came back and condemned me
and my show unmercifully; my manner, matter, and voice were all bad, and
I was certainly not worth hearing. So the party did not go. It so
happened that in the particular entertainment I was giving--"America in
a Hurry"--I imitate a lisping country parson struggling through a
wretched entertainment with a lantern!
The most trying, at the same time most interesting, experience I had was
in my first tour with my "Humours of Parliament," when I appeared at
Lewes. The ex-Speaker of the House of Commons, Viscount Hampden, was in
my audience, and it was interesting to watch him as I gave my imitations
of him, calling an unruly Member to order.
It was all but arranged for me to give my "Humours of Parliament"
before her late Majesty at Balmoral. I got as far as Aberdeen, but a
death in the Royal Family put a stop to all entertainments.
SOME UNREHEARSED EFFECTS.
The dress suit and the regulation white tie are essential to those who
appear in public upon the platform. Mr. Frederick Villiers, the popular
war correspondent, is an exception to this rule. He appears in his
campaigning attire, with his white helmet on and a water-bottle slung
round him; but of course it would be somewhat incongruous for a man in
evening dress, that emblem of civilisation and peace, more suggestive of
the drawing-room than the battle-field, to dilate upon the platform on
the horrors of campaigning, and to take you through the stirring scenes
of "War on a White Sheet." It would be equally absurd for a lecturer on,
say, "The Life and Habits of a Microbe," to be dressed in the garb of a
backwoodsman; but I was once obliged to deliver a lecture on "Art" in a
rough tweed suit.
It so happened that I was giving a series of lectures in the vicinity of
Birmingham, and I was stopping with a friend of mine, the Director of
the Art Gallery and Museum there. He suggested my leaving my Gladstone
bag, containing my change of clothes, in his office, while I spent my
day rummaging about old book shops for first editions and making calls
on various friends. My host having had to go to London that day, I was
left to my own devices, and it was about five o'clock in the evening
when I went to the Museum for my belongings. To my horror I saw a notice
up: "Museum closed at three o'clock on Wednesdays," and this was
Wednesday! I rang and knocked, and knocked and rang, but all in vain. I
crossed over to some other municipal buildings to see if there was
anyone there who could help me out of my dilemma, but my spirits went
down to zero when I was there informed that the custodian of the keys
lived miles out of the town. Back I went to the Museum, fiercely
plotting an ascent up the water-spout or a burglarious entrance through
a back window, when, to my delight, I saw an attendant gesticulating to
me from a window three or four stories from the ground. My time was
running very short, so I rapidly explained to him the predicament I was
in, and implored him to throw my bag out of the window. He told me that
he was a prisoner locked in to look after the building, that there were
three or four double-locked doors between him and the private office in
which my coveted bag was lying, and wound up with the cheering
announcement that my case was hopeless.
I had only a few minutes left in which to catch my train. A glance at my
cuffs showed me that one's linen has to be changed pretty frequently in
a Midland town, so I made a frantic dive into a shirt-maker's.
[Illustration: THE SURPRISE SHIRT.]
"White shirt, turn-down collar. Look sharp!"
"Yes, sir; size round neck, sir?"
"Oh, thirty, forty--anything you like, only look sharp." Time was nearly
up.
He measured my neck carefully. The size was a little under my estimate,
so I got the shirt, bolted for the station, and jumped into the train as
it was going off, my only luggage being my recent purchase. I got into
this, and soon I was on the platform in my tweed suit. I apologised to
the audience for making my appearance minus the orthodox costume, saying
it might have been worse, and that it was better to appear without my
dress clothes than without the lantern or the screen. I believe they
soon forgot there was anything unusual about me, but I think that as I
worked up to my subject, and became more and more energetic, they could
see that I wasn't altogether happy. That wretched shirt certainly fitted
me round the neck, but the sleeves were abnormally long for me, and the
cuffs being wide, they shot out over my hands with every gesture. If I
uplifted my hands imploringly, up they went, halfway up the screen; if
with outstretched arms I drove one of my best points home, those cuffs
would come out and droop pensively down over my hands; if I brought my
fist down emphatically, a vast expanse of white linen flew out with a
lightning-like rapidity that made the people in the first row start back
and tremble for their safety; and when, after my final grand peroration,
I let my hands drop by my side, those cuffs came down and dangled on the
platform.
If my reader happens to be much under the medium height, and rather
broad in proportion, I would warn him not to buy his shirts ready-made.
I cannot understand the idea of measurement that leads a shirtmaker to
cut out a shirt taking the circumference of the neck as a basis. I know
a man about six feet high who has a neck like a walking-stick. If he
bought a shirt on the shirtmakers' system, it would barely act as a
chest-preserver; and on the other hand, this shirt in question, as I
said before, certainly fitted me round the neck, but I nearly stepped on
the sleeves as I went off the platform at the close of my lecture, and
some of the audience must think to this day that I am a conjuror, and
that on this occasion I was going to show them some card trick with the
aid of my sleeves, which would have been invaluable to the Heathen
Chinee. Indeed, this is not the only time I have been suspected of being
a sort of necromancer.
I had a friend who was so anxious to improve his artistic knowledge that
he used to come night after night with me to hear my lecture on "Art."
It frequently happened that there was not a seat to spare in the hall,
and on these occasions he used to come up on the platform and sit behind
the screen, where he could see the pictures just the same. I think on
the particular night I refer to I was delivering a lecture on
"Portraiture," and at a certain passage I show a very flattering
portrait, supposed to be the work of an old master. The portrait having
appeared, I then dwelt upon the original, and pointed out "that no
doubt, if we could see the original of this portrait, if we could see
again the man who sat for it, I would not hesitate to say that we would
be alarmed at the inconsistency of pictorial art. I will show you,
ladies and gentlemen, what I imagine this gentleman must have been
like!"
As I was speaking, some old gentleman in the side gallery had either
fallen asleep or was very excited by my remarks, for he somehow jerked
the cord which fastened the top of the screen to the gallery, and snap
went the cord and down came the screen! Behind it there was an expanse
of empty platform, with a semi-circular seat, and on it sat my friend,
the enthusiast on art, fast asleep! The limelight, no longer checked by
the screen, fell full upon him, and the rounds of applause which
followed showed me that my unrehearsed effect, which might have ruined
the evening, had made it instead a great success.
[Illustration: DISCOVERED!]
There are sure to be occasional mishaps when the lecturer is assisted by
the lantern; but as in my case, when one is not taken too seriously, it
is easy to turn the misfortune off with a joke.
A fly was the offender on one occasion in my experience. I was showing
some portraits of Mr. Gladstone in my entertainment "The Humours of
Parliament," and was doing my level best to rouse an appreciative North
Country audience to a high pitch of enthusiasm for the man they
worshipped so. I was telling them that at one moment he looks like this,
and at another moment he looks like that, when I was amazed to hear them
go into fits of laughter! In describing Mr. Gladstone I dilate upon him
first in a rhetorical vein, and then proceed to caricature my own
delineations, and it has always been flattering to me to find that the
serious portraits have been received with a grave attention only
equalled by the laughter with which the caricatures have been greeted.
But not so on this occasion. I spoke of his flashing eye (titters!), his
noble brow (laughter!), his patriarchal head (roars!), and a mention of
his commanding aquiline nose nearly sent them into hysterics! Now in my
lecturing days mishaps may have occurred which were due to some fault of
the lantern or operator provided by the society I lectured to; but with
the splendid set of lanterns I had made for my entertainment, engineered
by the infallible Professor who exhibited for me, I never troubled to
look round to see if the picture was all right. But for a second it
struck me that by some mischance he might be showing the caricatures in
place of the serious portraits. Quickly I turned round, and the sight
that met my eyes made me at once join in the general roar. There was a
gigantic fly promenading on the nasal organ of the Grand Old Man,
unheeding the attempts which were being made on its life by the
Professor, armed with a long pointed weapon. It had walked into the
Professor's parlour--that is to say, into his lantern--and taken up its
temporary residence between the lenses, whence it was magnified a
hundredfold on to the screen!
[Illustration: THE FLY IN THE CAMERA.]
If anything of this kind happens to a Professor lecturing on some
scientific subject, it is no laughing matter, especially to a gentleman
lecturing at a meeting of the British Association. At one of these
gatherings a well-known Professor was giving a most interesting and
appreciated address, illustrated by the limelight, on the subject of
"Quartz Fibres." If I remember rightly, he was explaining to the
audience that the strands of a spider's web were purposely rough so that
the spider could climb them easily, but that a quartz fibre was smooth
and glassy, and a spider would never attempt to ascend one. He showed on
the sheet a single thread of a spider's web and a single quartz fibre,
and amid the breathless excitement of the audience a real live spider
was put into the lantern. The applause with which it was greeted must
have made the poor thing nervous, I suppose, or else it may have had an
attack of stage fright; anyhow, it curled itself up in a corner and
refused to budge. A sharpened pencil, which magnified on the screen
looked like a battering-ram, was brought into play, and the unfortunate
creature had to rouse itself. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, you will
notice that it is quite impossible for the spider to ascend the quartz
fibre--it may try, but it is bound to fail--but see how it will rush to
the strand from its familiar web!" The spider received an extra dig with
the pencil, and then with astonishing alacrity ran to the quartz fibre,
up which it climbed with the greatest ease amid the roars of the
delighted audience. The fact was that the Professor had omitted to
explain that his argument only applied to female spiders. These have a
pernicious habit of running after their spouses and belabouring them, so
the poor hubby is provided by Nature with a hirsute growth on his legs
which enables him to escape by climbing, and nothing would delight him
more than for his wife to give chase to him if there was a quartz fibre
anywhere near.
Sometimes there is no gallery in which to place the lantern, and then
the pictures have to be shown from the floor of the hall, when it seems
to be the delight of everyone coming in late to walk up the centre in
the full light of the powerful rays of the lantern, presumably for the
pleasure of beholding their image projected in silhouette on to the
screen. Those awful feminine hats ought to be abolished, and all late
comers ought to be made to find their seats on their hands and knees, as
they run the risk of upsetting the thread of the lecturer's discourse,
and the gravity of the audience as well, I remember once when I was
giving my lecture on "Portraiture: Past and Present," and illustrating
the portraits on medals, I came to some near the bottom of the screen.
"Here," said I, "we have the Lord Mayor and the Lady Mayoress of London,
1300 A.D." At that moment the Mayor and Mayoress of the town, who, for
effect I suppose, had come in a quarter of an hour late to the seats
reserved for them in the centre of the hall, walked past the rays of the
lantern, and were of course projected on to the screen, unconsciously
burlesquing my picture, and causing an effect they had not anticipated.
I referred just now to mishaps that will occur with the best-regulated
lanterns. The gas, for instance, may become prematurely exhausted, which
necessitates a stoppage while the cylinders are being changed, and when
Rudyard Kipling's work, "The Light that Failed," was published, I
immediately sent for a copy, thinking that probably the author had tried
entertaining with the aid of the limelight in India and had had some
experience of this kind. I could give that clever author plenty of
material for another volume on "The Light that Failed"--a collection of
anecdotes connected with the magic lantern. But, as I said, it doesn't
so much matter to the entertainer as the lecturer, who must be _au
serieux_, and when I was a lecturer I felt any mishap of the kind very
keenly; but an entertainer is a privileged being, and can turn the
matter off with a joke at the expense of his manager, his gas-man, his
audience, or his subject. No less a personage than Sir William Harcourt
happened to be on the screen when my gas went out one evening in
Scotland. I had to retire from the platform while new cylinders of gas
were being adjusted, and when I made my reappearance I assured my
audience that it was probably the first occasion on which Sir William
had been put out for want of gas!
[Illustration: LATE ARRIVALS.]
I recollect, though, once at Bradford, where I was lecturing, the
audience were put out for want of it, for the operators supplied by the
association I was lecturing to were utterly incompetent. The gas was
bad, to begin with--it became small by degrees and beautifully less, and
suddenly went out altogether! So did the operators. They simply bolted
out of the hall, and left the lantern to manage itself.
CHAIRMEN.
Du Maurier made a delightful drawing for _Punch_ of a sandwich
advertising contractor dismissing a man with a board on which was the
letter H. "Now, look 'ere, you H! The public don't want yer, nor _I_
don't, nor nobody don't--so 'ook it!" Or something to that effect.
[Illustration: RESERVED SEATS.]
I wish lecturers could dismiss chairmen in the same peremptory fashion,
for I am sure the public don't want him, nor _I_ don't, nor nobody.
Their boredom had better be dropped like the poor letter H--which, by
the way, some chairmen drop pretty frequently.
I'll classify the chairmen as follows:--The Absent Chairman, the Ideal
Chairman, the Political Chairman, and the Ignorant Chairman.
_The Absent Chairman._--I must divide the Absent Chairman into two
heads. Two heads are better than one, but if both are absent--the one in
body and the other in mind--it is evident no head is better than two.
The absent in body does not turn up at the lecture--forgets all about
it, or remembers too well what he suffered before. The lecturer and his
audience are kept waiting. The absent in mind does turn up,
though--turns up anything but trumps. He--"ah!--feels--ah!--the
honour--ah!--of presiding this evening." He "has the honour--ah!--of
introducing the lecturer, a lady--ah!--a gentleman, I should say, whose
name is a household word. Who does not know the name of--ah (feels in
all his pockets for syllabus)--of--ah--this gentleman who is about to
delight us all this evening on a--yes, yes,"--takes from his pocket a
piece of paper from which he reads: "The Rev. Carbon Chalker, M.A., on
Microbes found in the Middle Strata of Undiscovered Coal." "This rev.
gentleman no doubt----" he proceeds, when he is quickly interrupted by
the secretary, who jumps up and says, "Excuse me, Mr. Chairman, that is
last year's syllabus you have in your hand."
The Ideal Chairman is one who rises and says, "Ladies and gentlemen,--I
have the honour this evening to introduce to you Mr. Snooks, who has
something interesting to tell you, and one hour in which to tell it. I
will not stand in his way or take up your time by saying anything
further." Now how seldom this happens! As a rule the chairman makes an
excuse to deliver a speech on his own account. The most extraordinary
case of that kind I ever heard of occurred at Birmingham. The amiable
Member for one of the districts in Birmingham, whose name is always
associated with "three acres and a cow," had to take the chair at a
lecture given one evening to the people. As soon as the popular M.P.
rose to speak there were loud cries of "Three acres--three acres! How is
the coo? How is the coo?" It was just at the time when he had introduced
that question. He rose to the occasion and made a long and elaborate
speech upon the subject at heart. He went on speaking from about
thirty-five to forty minutes. When he sat down the gentleman who had
arrived from London to give his lecture on "Wit and Humour" simply rose
and said: "Ladies and gentlemen,--I have the honour this evening to
propose a vote of thanks to our member for his very interesting address
upon the subject of 'Three Acres and a Cow.'" Someone else got up and
seconded the motion, and it was carried unanimously amid great laughter
and cheering. Then the chairman rose and began thanking the audience for
the compliment they had paid him, and for the kind way in which they had
listened to him. And a twelve-month later it dawned upon him that he was
only the chairman of the meeting. This may be a pure invention, but it
is the story as I heard it.
[Illustration: CHAIRMAN NO. 1.]
A story is told of a distinguished irritable Scotch lecturer who on one
occasion had the misfortune to meet with a loquacious chairman, the
presiding genius actually speaking for a whole hour in "introducing" the
lecturer, winding up by saying: "It is unnecessary for me to say more,
so I call upon the talented gentleman who has come so far to give us his
address to-night." The lecturer came forward: "You want my address. I'll
give it to you: 322, Rob Roy Crescent, Edinburgh--and I am just off
there now. Good-night!"
I cannot vouch for the truth of either of these stories. However, I have
known chairmen myself who were very nearly as bad. I remember one--I
think he was a doctor--who rose to introduce me. Instead of two or three
minutes he took ten or twelve minutes. Of course he said I was very well
known, and went on with some very flattering remarks about my work, and
then he added: "Ah, how well I remember--yes, ladies and gentlemen, how
well I remember years ago those political sketches of the late Doyle
and others, and when I think that in years to come that Mr. Furniss's
attempts will be handed down to our children as I may say, recording the
great events of the time we are passing through. Yes, let us see what
the value will be to our children to know that Mr. Gladstone
once--("Order, order," and "Hear, hear")--that, I say, Mr.
Gladstone--(cries of "Sit down, we have not come to hear you")--that, I
say, Mr. Gladstone, the grand old man of our time--("Sit down, sit down,
sit down, we have not come to hear you--sit down")--Yes, and when I say
that Lord Beaconsfield, whom I have no doubt you will see upon the
sheet--("Wrap yourself up in yours, go home to bed, go home to bed")."
Cries of this sort went on; the gentleman struggled on for about a
quarter of an hour and then sat down. Well, I discovered afterwards that
he was a very ardent politician, not altogether in tone with the
audience, who were opposed to him in politics, and that he seized this
chance of repeating a political speech he had often given to others of a
different class. As a matter of fact my lecture that night had nothing
whatever to do with Parliament; it was purely art matter; and this
gentleman happened to be a great art collector and connoisseur, and in
returning thanks for me afterwards made a very graceful little speech
about art matters. If he had only asked me beforehand, of course it
would have been a very agreeable opening instead of rather an
unfortunate one. But it is quite as distressing to the lecturer to find
that a chairman knows too much about his subject as to find one who
knows nothing. If you happen to have delivered your lecture in another
hall, and someone present who has heard you is the chairman of an
evening when you are going to give it again, he will get up and inform
his audience, with the usual flattery of chairmen, that there is a great
treat in store for them, that he has had the pleasure of hearing you
before, and you are going to tell them this, and going to tell them
that, and in some cases he will even give a mangled version of some of
the stories--in fact, will take all the plums out of the pudding that
you have ready to tickle the appetites of your audience with.
Some chairmen impress their audience that they know far more about the
subject than the lecturer. But worst of all is the chairman who knows
absolutely nothing about the subject or about yourself. I remember one
evening some pompous chairman getting up and saying: "I have great
pleasure this evening in introducing to you Mr. Furniss. I know you have
all heard of Mr. Furniss, and anyone connected as I am with engineering
must look upon one of his great achievements with delight. All who have
been to the great Metropolis and travelled along the Thames
Embankment--a beautiful way that skirts the Thames--and have considered
that at one time what was a heap of mud is now one of the handsomest
thoroughfares in the world, must always consider that the work of the
gentleman in front of you in being the constructor of that immense work
deserves the gratitude of his countrymen, and I therefore take this
occasion, before he rises to address you and enlighten you upon the
engineering and the large contracting work in the great city in which he
has the pleasure to live, to assure him as a brother engineer of the
great work which he has performed for his fellow-countrymen."
On enquiry I discovered that a namesake of mine was the contractor for
the Thames Embankment, which was built when I was in knickerbockers.
Of recent years I have had few experiences of chairmen, but
proportionately their mistakes seem to be as of old. In the North of
England last year I was specially engaged to appear before a literary
society, and I supposed, by their paying me to go so far, they were,
with Northern shrewdness, acquainted with the article in which they were
investing. On these special occasions it is strange that a chairman is
considered a compliment to the performer, and most certainly it affords
the entertainer himself amusement. For instance, in this case I
recollect my chairman--a most accomplished and representative man in the
neighbourhood--was introduced to me as soon as I arrived at the hall. (I
may mention it was not my first visit.) He quickly introduced me to the
audience: "Ladies and gentlemen,--This evening I have the honour of
introducing to you a gentleman whom we have all heard about, but few of
us, if any, have seen before. We all know his work in Parliament in the
pages of _Punch_ for some years past; we all have enjoyed the writings
of 'Toby, M.P.' This is Mr. H.W. Lucy, of _Punch_, our old friend 'Toby,
M.P.'" I was giving my "Humours of Parliament," and during the evening
I, of course as "Toby, M.P.," informed the audience at times that this
was Harry Furniss's idea of Parliament, but I begged to differ with that
gentleman, and it was rather a variety for me to play a Parliamentary
Jekyl and Hyde for one night only.
[Illustration: CHAIRMAN NO. 2.]
If one must have a chairman, why should not the performer be allowed to
turn a chairman into account, as that popular and versatile barrister,
the late Sir Frank Lockwood, was in the habit of doing? When he lectured
at Hackney he "brought down the house" in his description of Sergeant
Buzfuz in "Pickwick" by giving a laughable imitation of his
chairman--the late Lord Chief Justice, when Sir Charles
Russell--cross-examining a witness. For all I know, others may follow
the example of poor Lockwood. We shall read of the Bishop of Ripon
giving imitations of the Archbishop of Canterbury; Sir Alexander
Mackenzie is ready to make the musical world roar by his burlesque of
Paderewski; and Lord Kitchener, when he returns from the war and gives
the inevitable lecture, will delight military circles by his imitations
of his chairman, the Commander-in-Chief.
[Illustration: THE PUMPKIN--A CHESTNUT.]
But I personally have no objection to a chairman if I am announced as a
_lecturer_ and it is the habit of the particular society to pay the
lecturer the compliment of formally introducing him. But my appearances
as a lecturer are few and far between, and when I, as I generally do,
appeal direct to the public, I am most anxious to avoid giving my
platform work any appearance of a lecture; yet the Press insist upon any
entertainment given by men of my class being a lecture. I am a bit of an
amateur conjurer, and I thoroughly believe were I to appear on the
platform on a bicycle or on an acrobat's globe, and keep three balls in
the air with one hand and spin a plate on a stick with the other, and at
the same time retail some stories, the notice in the Press on the
following morning would begin: "Mr. Harry Furniss gave an instructive
_lecture_ last night on subjects with which we are familiar. Some of his
stories were good, some poor, and some we had heard before." And that is
the rub! We had heard some stories before! I repeat I honestly have no
objection to a chairman--the Ideal Chairman, who will inform the
audience that you are an acrobat, and not a lecturer; but I do object to
my friends and brother journalists who will tell the public you are a
lecturer when you are not, keeping many of their readers away, and who
will also publish your jokes. Of course, all stories are "chestnuts" an
hour after they are told. When I first went on the platform I retailed
new stories, but they were invariably served up in the next morning's
papers, and were therefore known to many of the audience who came to
hear me on the following evening. In fact, I once overheard a man at
breakfast in an hotel saying, "No, I don't think much of Furniss; I have
read that story of his about the pumpkin in the papers." Now this story
of the pumpkin was an impromptu of mine the evening before, and I was
naturally puzzled by over-hearing this remark. When the speaker left the
room I took up the paper he had been reading. It contained an account of
my effort on the platform the night before, and my impromptu story was
in it!
Of course, as in everything else, one must not be too original on the
platform if he is to be served up in every course. If you treat general
subjects in anything but a general way, and you are humorous and
occasionally satirical, you will find that national failing, want of
humour, will tell against you, as well as certain prejudices political
and social. The selection of lecturers is generally in the hands of a
committee. You have probably said something that grated upon the Radical
opinions of one member, or upon the old Tory prejudices of another, or
told some joke that they failed to see. So long as you keep to microbes,
and heavenly bodies, and objects of the sea, you are proportionately
successful with your dulness. But to be professionally humorous and a
critic is to be eyed with suspicion. Your programme is criticised and
generally misunderstood. Perhaps I can show no better instance of this
than what occurred to me in connection with my old friend "Lewis
Carroll," the author of "Alice in Wonderland."
The Rev. C. L. Dodgson ("Lewis Carroll") in some respects was the
typical Oxford Don--once a schoolmaster always a schoolmaster. He
lectured his friends as he had lectured his youths, and treated grown-up
men of the world as if they were children. In due course I visited
Oxford to give my entertainments--"Humours of Parliament" first;
"America in a Hurry" followed a few years afterwards. In the latter I
gave a wordless imitation of that eccentric American, Talmage, at the
same time carefully pointing out to my audience that I imitated his
gestures and voice--not Talmage in the character of a preacher, but as a
showman; I was therefore surprised to receive the following letter:
"CHRISTCHURCH, OXFORD.
"DEAR MR. FURNISS,--Yesterday I went to Russell's shop and bought
four 5_s._ tickets for your American entertainment on the 23rd,
thinking I would treat three young friends to it, and feeling quite
confident that there could be no objectionable feature in any
entertainment produced by you. An hour afterwards I chanced to
notice in the programme the item 'A Sermon in Spasms,' and, in the
quotations from Press notices, a commendation of your 'clever
imitations of Dr. Talmage's sermons,' and immediately went and
returned the tickets.... It did not seem necessary to speak (to the
shopkeeper) of the more serious aspect of such an insult to
Christianity, and such profaning of holy things...."
I hastened to assure the rev. gentleman that Talmage was an
"entertainer," like myself, that I used no words in imitation of him;
merely his eccentric manner and showman's voice. I also hinted that I
always had a number of clergymen in my audiences, and those who had
heard me found nothing whatever objectionable, nor could they detect in
what I did anything touching upon sacred things. This brought a lengthy
rejoinder, from which I quote the following interesting passage:
"The fact that thousands of clergymen have _not_ been deterred by
that announcement from going to the entertainment does not surprise
me. In this age of ever-increasing irreverence, it is my lot to
hear many a profane anecdote told; and the _worst_ offenders in
this line are, I am sorry to say, _Clergymen_."
If this was so--and the Rev. C. L. Dodgson could not possibly exaggerate
any more than "Lewis Carroll" could avoid exaggeration--how much better
it would have been for him to listen to my wordless and harmless
imitation of a public entertainer than to sit in the Common Room and
listen to profane anecdotes from the lips of his fellow ministers of
religion!
To those about to appear on the platform I would give the same advice as
Mr. Punch gave to those about to marry--"Don't." "Lectures," "Readings,"
or whatever they are called, are very little in demand now compared with
twelve years ago. Many of the literary institutes and lecture societies
are either dying from inanition or are content with a course of lectures
of a poor description. This has been brought about by trying to do the
thing on the cheap, and thereby disgusting the subscribers, who are not
going to turn out of their cosy, warm houses on a winter's night to hear
a poor speaker with a dull subject. The subscription lists are therefore
depleted, and the societies cannot afford to engage experienced
lecturers and entertainers.
It is a great mistake to imagine one has only to "write something," and,
provided with a few "slides," a reading-desk, and a glass of water--and
a chairman, mount a platform and read. Of course, an agent can always
"boom" a novice--someone who has travelled, or written a book, or gone
to smash, or become notorious in any way--for a course of "lectures,"
provided there are sufficient chairmen to be found willing to act as an
extra draw.
[Illustration: IN "THE HUMOURS OF PARLIAMENT." BALLYHOOLEY PATHETIC.]
Anyone nowadays thirsting for notoriety jumps on to the platform as a
lecturer. He may have been "Perhaps a soldier full of 'cute ways, and
fearless like his Pa! Stake your dollar sudden and quick to boom.
Seeking a bauble reputation even at the Commons mouth." Or he may have
been an aristocratic stowaway in a troop-ship, for instance, and become
the hero in the pages of our new English-Americanised Press paying for
and publishing his startling disclosures.
The lecture is the natural sequence of the boom fever--a lecture, say,
on "Red Tape Rats." A reading-desk, a glass of water, a map, a few
amateurish snapshot slides exhibited by means of a lantern, _and_ a
great and popular chairman--then success is assured. But the crowd is
not present to be interested in rats, nor are the reporters there to
write about rats, nor is the chairman presiding so as to refer to the
stowaway's paper on rats. For the chairman has his own Red Tape Rats to
let loose with which to startle the audience and nobble the Press. The
next day the report of the lecture is not headed "The Hon. Babbling
Brook on Rats," but runs "An Admiral of the Fleet on Naval Reform," or
"A Field Marshal with a Grievance," and a list of the fashionable party
on the platform is considered of more importance than the lecturer's
remarks.
[Illustration: HARRY FURNISS AS A PICTORIAL ENTERTAINER.
_Drawn by Clement Flower. Reproduced by permission of the proprietors of
"The Graphic."_]
In more tranquil times a penny-reading style of entertainment will
suffice. A bishop or a duke may take the chair, and Charity take the
proceeds. But the chairman with a name is the thing with which to catch
the interest of the public.
What I have said about lecturing in England applies equally to America
and Australia, and I wish it to be distinctly understood that, as I am
writing these lines for the benefit of those who think of accepting the
tempting offers to go on the platform, I have no personal feeling in the
matter whatever. Both in America and in Australia I have had splendid
audiences; but in consequence of the long distances and expenses
lecturing does not pay, and the stories one reads about men returning
with thousands and thousands of pounds in their pockets are absolutely
false. Do not believe them. They are manufactured statements for booming
purposes. Dr. Conan Doyle honestly gave his opinion, and the correct
one, that taking one thing with another you can make just as much money
in England as you can in America or the Colonies. Of course there are
exceptions,--I might more truly say accidents. Even a poor speaker, if
he happens to be a clergyman (and some critics are unkind enough to say
that these generally go together), and an author who has written a
successful story, may in America have a great chance of making money,
for the publishers and booksellers will advertise and push him so as to
sell his books,--they will go so far as turning their shops into ticket
offices. Then, too, he will find the _meenisters_, particularly if he is
a Scotchman, will advertise him in advance from their pulpits, and
probably in return get the "lecturer" to preach a sermon. Consequently
he has two publics to work upon which no other lecturer or reader can
procure,--the religious and the literary. But that is not a genuine test
of the professional lecturer or reader. All literary men on the platform
will get a certain number of people who have read their books in a
celebrity-hunting country. They want to see the author, and once they
have seen him they are satisfied. Return visits I know of, such as
these, have been appalling failures. No, a man must give an
entertainment which is in itself amusing and of such stuff that people
will go even if any one else had given it--metal attractive to his
audience, instead of merely being looked upon as a curiosity in the same
way that one looks upon an orchid in a flower-show or a prize ox at
Islington. But for the ordinary man, no matter how good he may be, to
expect to have a triumphal tour, returning with a shipload of American
dollars, is, believe me, absurd on the face of it. The lecture business
died out years ago. When that country was younger all the people in the
provinces attended lectures as part of their daily education, but now
that class of entertainment is as out-of-date as a German Reed
entertainment.
I confess that I was overworked at one time. As an illustration of mere
physical endurance it is perhaps worth recording. In fact, much in these
pages might well have been published under the title of "Confessions of
Endurance" in Sandow's magazine or in the _Lancet_, for the edification
of those professional men who give advice to others not to overwork and
invariably overwork themselves at the same time. Travelling every day,
giving "The Humours of Parliament," with my imitations of ranting
M.P.'s--nearly a two hours' tearing recitation--to large audiences every
night, was perhaps sufficient for one man. The excitement of the success
I made, the "booming," interviewing, and unavoidable entertainment at
every town, the late hours, the early start, the business worries, fresh
to each place, day after day, week after week, can only be understood by
those who have gone through it. But this was only part of my work. Each
week as I travelled I had to keep up my contributions to _Punch_--a
whole page and several small drawings. I also wrote an article, fully
illustrated, on every town I went to week by week for _Black and White_
(subsequently reprinted in book form, "On Tour"), to say nothing of
drawing in the train.
Let me briefly give a fair average of one day's work at the time:
[Illustration: REDUCTION OF A PAGE DRAWING FOR _PUNCH_ MADE BY ME WHILST
TRAVELLING BY TRAIN.]
_Morning._--Start 9.30 train, eight hours' journey,--means up at seven,
breakfast at eight. In train dictate letters to secretary, who takes
down in shorthand. (I never yet found a secretary who could write in a
train. I can write quite easily; the secret is to _sit up_, holding pad
in hand, and let the body move with the oscillation of the train. To
write on your knee or on a table, or in any other way but this, is
impossible.) 3.30 arrive at destination; go to hotel and order dinner.
Then to my "travelling studio"--a large case fitted up with everything
necessary for drawing in black and white. Straight to private
sitting-room, order dinner to be ready in half-an-hour, at work at
once--before the others and the luggage arrive. After light dinner, to
hall or theatre to see if arrangements are complete. Then visit from
local manager or secretary--friends--strangers, a walk round the town to
get "copy," tea, a good hour's drawing (no matter how tired I can work
on tea), dress, off to evening's work on stage; autographs to be written
and people to meet; back to change, supper at some club, speeches; back
3 a.m., bed, sleep--no, only occasionally. Hotel servants turn on
electric light, begin sweeping the passage--sw--w--w--whish,
sw--w--w--whish! they chat and laugh just outside one's door; they
gradually sweep down the long, long passage. Doze--sleep. Bang, bang!
"Five o'clock, sir." Bang, bang! the Boots awakening commercial men for
early trains. Thump, thump! baggage packing-room over your head.
Commercial, or sportsman, or entertainer, or whatever he may be,
whistles or sings loudly as he dresses. Altercation with Boots
about trains in passage. Bells, bells! "Hot water, hot water.
Bath ready, sir." Train leaves at 8.15. I'm up. Something
attempted--sleep--something not done,--I have earned but not got a
night's repose. So in the cold, wet, misty morning off again with a
heart for any amount of work; still achieving, still pursuing, learning
to labour--and not to wait!
Mr. E.J. Milliken, of _Punch_, frequently wrote to me in 'Arry verse.
When I was confined to my bed with fever in the summer of 1893, I was
terribly busy. I had my _Punch_ work, my syndicated "London Letter" (a
column-and-a-half of a newspaper, with four or five illustrations), and
much other work to do every week, and I, much against my doctor's and
nurse's wish, worked all the time. _A propos_ of this I received the
following:
"'ARRY TO HARRY.
"DEAR 'ARRY,
"'Ow are yer, old 'ermit? I 'opes you're gittin' on prime For a sick
man you put in good work, mate, and make the best use o' your time.
You're like no one else, that's a moral. When _I'm_ ill I go flabby
as suet, But you keep the pot at full bile! 'Ow the doose do yer
manage to do it?
"I'm glad to believe you're a-mendin', though kep' on the strictest
Q.T. The confinement must fret you, I'm sure, 'ow I wish I could
drop in to see, And give you a regular rouser. But that is a
pleasure to come; When we _do_ meet again, we will split a fizz
magnum, and make the thing hum.
"I drop yer these lines just to show yer you ain't gone slap out o'
my 'ed, Because I'm cavortin' round pooty permiskus, while you're
nailed to bed! 'Taint a prison I'm nuts on, old pal, and I'll swear
as it doesn't suit _you,_ So 'ere's wishin' you out of it, 'Arry,
and well on Life's war-path, Hurroo!!!
"I sent over my pasteboard this mornin' to do the perlite _cummy
fo,_ But this 'ere is _entry noo_ barney, a bit of a lark like, yer
know. I picter you jest rampin' round like a big arktic bear in a
cage! Well, keep up yer pecker, my pippin, and keep down yer
natural rage. I'm yours to command, when you want me, to gossip or
work, fetch or carry;
"And that Harry may soon be O.K. and a 'arf, is the wish of
"Yours,
"'ARRY."
I should like to confess my real reason for going on to the platform.
The fact is that for many years I was mistaken in the country,
particularly in Liverpool, Leeds and Bradford, for an artist who signed
political caricatures "H. F.," and whose name, strange to say, is Harold
Furniss. I understand he is about twice my size. So that I thought if I
showed myself in public, particularly in the provinces, it would be seen
that I was not this Mr. Harold Furniss. Now, unfortunately, on the stage
or platform I look tall--in fact, bets have been made that I am over six
feet high. On three or four occasions after I have left the platform or
the stage I have had to grant an interview to gentlemen who have made
bets on this point. The explanation is, however, simple enough: as there
is no one on the stage or platform but myself, there is nothing to give
my height, so the particular object of my appearing in public was
frustrated.
[Illustration: DOWN WITH DRYASDUST.]