FOR THE FIRST TIME I SEE AN AMERICAN PAPER ABUSE ME--ALBANY TO NEW
YORK--A LECTURE AT DALY'S THEATER--AFTERNOON AUDIENCES.
_New York, February 23._
The American press has always been very good to me. Fairness one has a
right to expect, but kindness is an extra that is not always thrown in,
and therefore the uniform amiability of the American press toward me
could not fail to strike me most agreeably.
Up to yesterday I had not seen a single unkind notice or article, but in
the Albany _Express_ of yesterday morning I read:
This evening the people of Albany are asked to listen to a lecture by
Max O'Rell, who was in this country two years ago, and was treated
with distinguished courtesy. When he went home he published a book
filled with deliberate misstatements and willful exaggerations of the
traits of the American people.
This paper "has reason," as the French say. My book contained one
misstatement, at all events, and that was that "all Americans have a
great sense of humor." You may say that the French are a witty people,
but that does not mean that France contains no fools. It is rather
painful to have to explain such things, but I do so for the benefit of
that editor and with apologies to the general reader.
In spite of this diverting little "par," I had an immense audience last
night in Harmanus Bleecker Hall, a new and magnificent construction in
Albany, excellent, no doubt, for music, but hardly adapted for lecturing
in, on account of its long and narrow shape.
[Illustration: RIP VAN WINKLE.]
I should have liked to stay longer in Albany, which struck me as being a
remarkably beautiful place, but having to lecture in New York this
afternoon, I took the vestibule train early this morning for New York.
This journey is exceedingly picturesque along the Hudson River,
traveling as you do between two ranges of wooded hills, dotted over with
beautiful habitations, and now and then passing a little town bathing
its feet in the water. In the distance one gets good views of the
Catskill Mountains, immortalized by Washington Irving in "Rip Van
Winkle."
On boarding the train, the first thing I did was to read the news of
yesterday. Imagine my amusement, on opening the Albany _Express_ to read
the following extract from the report of my lecture:
He has an agreeable but not a strong voice. This was the only point
that could be criticised in his lecture, which consisted of many
clever sketches of the humorous side of the character of different
Anglo-Saxon nations. His humor is keen. He evidently is a great
admirer of America and Americans, only bringing into ridicule some of
their most conspicuously objectionable traits.... His lecture was
entertaining, clever, witty and thoroughly enjoyable.
The most amusing part of all this is that the American sketches which I
introduced into my lecture last night, and which seemed to have struck
the Albany _Express_ so agreeably, were all extracts from the book
"filled with deliberate misstatements and willful exaggerations of the
traits of the American people." Well, after all, there is humor,
unconscious humor, in the Albany _Express_.
* * * * *
Arrived at the Grand Central Station in New York at noon, I gave up my
check to a transfer man, but learned to my chagrin that the vestibule
train from Albany had carried no baggage, and that my things would only
arrive by the next train at about three o'clock. Pleasant news for a
man who was due to address an audience at three!
[Illustration: "A LITTLE BIT STIFF."]
There was only one way out of the difficulty. Off I went post-haste to a
ready-made tailor's, who sold me a complete fit-out from head to foot. I
did not examine the cut and fit of each garment very minutely, but went
off satisfied that I was presenting a neat and respectable appearance.
Before going on the stage, however, I discovered that the sleeves of the
new coat, though perfectly smooth and well-behaved so long as the arms
inside them were bent at the elbow, developed a remarkable cross-twist
as soon as I let my arms hang straight down.
By means of holding it firm with the middle finger, I managed to keep
the recalcitrant sleeve in position, and the affair passed off very
well. Only my friends remarked, after the lecture, that they thought I
looked a little bit stiff, especially when making my bow to the
audience.
* * * * *
My lecture at Daly's Theater this afternoon was given under the auspices
of the Bethlehem Day Nursery, and I am thankful to think that this most
interesting association is a little richer to-day than it was yesterday.
For an afternoon audience it was remarkably warm and responsive.
I have many times lectured to afternoon audiences, but have not, as a
rule, enjoyed it. Afternoon "shows" are a mistake. Do not ask me why;
but think of those you have ever been to, and see if you have a lively
recollection of them. There is a time for everything. Fancy playing the
guitar under your lady love's window by daylight, for instance!
Afternoon audiences are kid-gloved ones. There is but a sprinkling of
men, and so the applause, when it comes, is a feeble affair, more
chilling almost than silence. In some fashionable towns it is bad form
to applaud at all in the afternoon. I have a vivid recollection of the
effect produced one afternoon in Cheltenham by the vigorous applause of
a sympathizing friend of mine, sitting in the reserved seats. How all
the other reserved seats craned their necks in credulous astonishment to
get a view of this innovator, this outer barbarian! He was new to the
wondrous ways of the _Chillitonians_. In the same audience was a lady,
Irish and very charming, as I found out on later acquaintance, who
showed her appreciation from time to time by clapping the tips of her
fingers together noiselessly, while her glance said: "I should very much
like to applaud, but you know I can't do it; we are in Cheltenham, and
such a thing is bad form, especially in the afternoon."
[Illustration: THE GOUTY MAN.]
Afternoon audiences in the southern health resorts of England are
probably the least inspiriting and inspiring of all. There are the sick,
the lame, the halt. Some of them are very interesting people, but a
large proportion appear to be suffering more from the boredom of life
than any other complaint, and look as if it would do them good to
follow out the well-known advice, "Live on sixpence a day, and earn it."
It is hard work entertaining people who have done everything, seen
everything, tasted everything, been everywhere--people whose sole aim is
to kill time. A fair sprinkling are gouty. They spend most of their
waking hours in a bath-chair. As a listener, the gouty man is sometimes
decidedly funny. He gives signs of life from time to time by a vigorous
slap on his thigh and a vicious looking kick. Before I began to know
him, I used to wonder whether it was my discourse producing some effect
upon him.
I am not afraid of meeting these people in America. Few people are bored
here, all are happy to live, and all work and are busy. American men die
of brain fever, but seldom of the gout. If an American saw that he must
spend his life wheeled in a bath-chair, he would reflect that rivers are
numerous in America, and he would go and take a plunge into one of them.
[Illustration]