ST. JOHNSBURY--THE STATE OF MAINE--NEW ENGLAND SELF-CONTROL--COLD
CLIMATES AND FRIGID AUDIENCES--WHERE IS THE AUDIENCE?--ALL DRUNK!--A
REMINISCENCE OF A SCOTCH AUDIENCE ON A SATURDAY NIGHT.
_St. Johnsbury (Vt.), January 28._
ST. Johnsbury is a charming little town perched on the top of a
mountain, from which a lovely scene of hills and woods can be enjoyed.
The whole country is covered with snow, and as I looked at it in the
evening by the electric light, the effect was very beautiful. The town
has only six thousand inhabitants, eleven hundred of whom came to hear
my lecture to-night. Which is the European town of six thousand
inhabitants that would supply an audience of eleven hundred people to a
literary _causerie_?
St. Johnsbury has a dozen churches, a public library of 15,000 volumes,
with a reading-room beautifully fitted with desks and perfectly adapted
for study. A museum, a Young Men's Christian Association, with
gymnasium, school-rooms, reading-rooms, play-rooms, and a lecture hall
capable of accommodating over 1000 people. Who, after that, would
consider himself an exile if he had to live in St. Johnsbury? There is
more intellectual life in it than in any French town outside of Paris
and about a dozen more large cities.
* * * * *
_Portsea, January 30._
I have been in the State of Maine for two days; a strange State to be
in, let me tell you.
After addressing the Connecticut audience in Meriden a few days ago, I
thought I had had the experience of the most frigid audience that could
possibly be gathered together. Last Tuesday night, at Portsea, I was
undeceived.
Half-way between St. Johnsbury and Portsea, the day before yesterday, I
was told that the train would be very late, and would not arrive at
Portsea before half-past eight. My lecture in that city was to begin at
eight. The only thing to do was to send a telegram to the manager of the
lecture. At the next station I sent the following:
"Train late. If possible, keep audience waiting half an hour. Will dress
on board."
I dressed in the state-room of the parlor-car. At forty minutes past
eight the train arrived at Portsea. I immediately jumped into a cab and
drove to the City Hall, where the lecture was to take place. The
building was lighted, but, as I ascended the stairs, there was not a
person to be seen or a sound to be heard. "The place is deserted," I
thought; "and if anybody came to hear me, they have all gone."
I opened the door of the private room behind the platform and there
found the manager, who expressed his delight to see me. I excused
myself, and was going to enter into a detailed explanation when he
interrupted:
[Illustration: I TIP-TOED OUT.]
"Oh, that's all right."
"What do you mean?" said I. "Have you got an audience there, on the
other side of that door?"
"Why, we have got fifteen hundred people."
"There?" said I, pointing to the door.
"Yes, on the other side of that door."
"But I can't hear a sound."
"I guess you can't. But that's all right; they are there."
"I suppose," I said, "I had better apologize to them for keeping them
waiting three-quarters of an hour."
"Well, just as you please," said the manager. "I wouldn't."
"Wouldn't you?"
"No; I guess they would have waited another half-hour without showing
any sign of impatience."
I opened the door trembling. My desk was far, far away. My manager was
right; the audience was there. I stepped on the platform, shut the door
after me, making as little noise as I could, and, walking on tiptoe so
as to wake up as few people as possible, proceeded toward the table. Not
one person applauded. A few people looked up unconcernedly, as if to
say, "I guess that's the show." The rest seemed asleep, although their
eyes were open.
Arrived at the desk, I faced the audience, and ventured a little joke,
which fell dead flat.
I began to realize the treat that was in store for me that night.
I tried another little joke, and--missed fire.
"Never mind, old fellow," I said to myself; "it's two hundred and fifty
dollars; go ahead."
And I went on.
I saw a few people smile, but not one laughed, although I noticed that a
good many were holding their handkerchiefs over their mouths, probably
to stifle any attempt at such a frivolous thing as laughter. The eyes of
the audience, which I always watch, showed signs of interest, and nobody
left the hall until the conclusion of the lecture. When I had finished,
I made a small bow, when certainly fifty people applauded. I imagined
they were glad it was all over.
"Well," I said to the manager, when I had returned to the little back
room, "I suppose we must call this a failure."
"A failure!" said he; "it's nothing of the sort. Why, I have never seen
them so enthusiastic in my life!"
I went to the hotel, and tried to forget the audience I had just had by
recalling to my mind a joyous evening in Scotland. This happened about a
year ago, in a mining town in the neighborhood of Glasgow, where I had
been invited to lecture, on a Saturday night, to the members of a
popular--very popular--Institute.
[Illustration: I AM ESCORTED TO THE HALL.]
I arrived at the station from Glasgow at half-past seven, and there
found the secretary and the treasurer of the Institute, who had been
kind enough to come and meet me. We shook hands. They gave me a few
words of welcome. I thought my friends looked a little bit queer. They
proposed that we should walk to the lecture hall. The secretary took my
right arm, the treasurer took my left, and, abreast, the three of us
proceeded toward the hall. They did not take me to that place; _I_ took
them, holding them fast all the way--the treasurer especially.
We arrived in good time, although we stopped once for light refreshment.
At eight punctually, I entered the hall, preceded by the president, and
followed by the members of the committee. The president introduced me in
a most queer, incoherent speech. I rose, and was vociferously cheered.
When silence was restored, I said in a calm, almost solemn manner:
"Ladies and Gentlemen." This was the signal for more cheering and
whistling. In France whistling means hissing, and I began to feel
uneasy, but soon I bore in mind that whistling, in the North of Great
Britain, was used to express the highest pitch of enthusiasm.
So I went on.
The audience laughed at everything I said, and even before I said it. I
had never addressed such keen people. They seemed so anxious to laugh
and cheer in the right place that they laughed and cheered all the
time--so much so that in an hour and twenty minutes, I had only got
through half my lecture, which I had to bring to a speedy conclusion.
The president rose and proposed a vote of thanks in another most queer
speech, which was a new occasion for cheering.
When we had retired in the committee room, I said to the secretary:
"What's the matter with the president? Is he quite right?" I added,
touching my forehead.
"Oh!" said the secretary, striking his chest as proudly as possible, "he
is drunk--and so am I."
[Illustration: "HE'S DRUNK, AND SO AM I."]
The explanation of the whole strange evening dawned upon me. Of course
they were drunk, and so was the audience.
That night, I believe I was the only sober person on the premises.
* * * * *
Yesterday, I had an interesting chat with a native of the State of Maine
on the subject of my lecture at Portsea.
"You are perfectly wrong," he said to me, "in supposing that your
lecture was not appreciated. I was present, and I can assure you that
the attentive silence in which they listened to you from beginning to
end is the proof that they appreciated you. You would also be wrong in
supposing that they do not appreciate humor. On the contrary, they are
very keen of it, and I believe that the old New Englander was the father
of American humor, through the solemn manner in which he told comic
things, and the comic manner in which he told the most serious ones.
Yes, they are keen of humor, and their apparent want of appreciation is
only due to reserve, to self-control."
And, as an illustration of it, my friend told me the following anecdote
which, I have no doubt, a good many Americans have heard before:
Mark Twain had lectured to a Maine audience without raising a single
laugh in his listeners, when, at the close, he was thanked by a
gentleman who came to him in the green-room, to tell him how hugely
every one had enjoyed his amusing stories. When the lecturer expressed
his surprise at this announcement, as the audience had not laughed, the
gentleman added:
"Yes, we never were so amused in our lives, and if you had gone on five
minutes more, upon my word I don't think we could have held out any
longer."
Such is New England self-control.
[Illustration]