MY FIRST LECTURES
Perhaps this heading is not strictly accurate, and I should go back
another dozen years to the time when in response to an irresistible
call I first opened my mouth to speak in public. It was a memorable
occasion too. I lived in one basement room in Hazlewood Crescent,
Kensal New Town--I beg its pardon, Upper Westbourne Park--and sitting
one evening by my first baby’s cradle reading, my wife being absent
on an errand, a large piece of granite crashed through the window and
fell in the cradle. I was full of energy in those days, and although I
had no boots on I rushed out and up the area steps into the street in
time to see the young miscreant who had flung the stone scampering off.
Of course I caught him, I went like the wind, and equally of course I
landed one soul-satisfying clout on his head which sent him sprawling
across the road and into the kennel opposite.
It was enough, and I returned, panting but quite happy, to forget the
incident. The next evening at the corner of the Crescent I made my
debut as a member of an open-air band of preachers and was duly called
upon to testify. My knees knocked together, my mouth seemed filled with
dust, and when I did get a word or two out I did not know my own voice.
But I had a kindly tolerant audience, such as I am grateful to say I
have ever found, and I was beginning to gain confidence when a grimy
urchin, squeezing through the ring of listeners, gave one searching
glance at me and yelled to some unseen comrade:
“D’yer, Bill, that’s the bloke wot clouted my ear lars’ night.”
A great burst of laughter went up and I retired, feeling as if sudden
annihilation would be a great boon. I wonder now why I was not entirely
discouraged, but I only know that from that time forward my appetite
for open-air speaking grew until it was a passion with me, and, had I
known, became a splendid preparation for the lecture platform. Common
gratitude compels me to say here that this practice of speaking in
the open air speedily became to me a great and perfect compensation
for the sorrows and drawbacks of my daily life. The more so perhaps
because I stuck to it in spite of the most effective opposition of all,
an opposition which never weakened or failed and embittered the whole
of my home life. Yet I never--as far as I know--consciously preached
or uttered platitudes in an unctuous voice such as I have often heard
and sickened at. I gave my auditors the best I had, the results of
extensive and varied reading, common-sense outlook upon life, and a
totally unorthodox Christianity. I had a good though untrained singing
voice and an excellent memory, so I sang to my audiences, never using
a book; I recited chapters of Scripture without the Bible, and had
the untellable gratification of seeing masses of men and women, often
running into the thousands, swayed by my voice as the wind affects the
corn.
Is there any pleasure akin to this? I think not. At any rate, though
the above lines may seem somewhat vainglorious, I know that they tell
no more than the truth. Had I any doubts about that, the remembrance of
the hatred with which I was regarded by many old members of the various
open-air bands where I was invited to speak while they stood aside,
would reassure me. But I have no doubts. I knew that I was in my proper
element and my hearers knew it also.
This brings me naturally to my first lecture. I was associated with a
very humble little gathering of Christians at Peckham, a part of whose
activities was the providing of free teas periodically during the
winter. And it came about that winter befell and there was no money
wherewith to purchase any materials for these feeble banquets.
None of the members could help, for we were all living on the edge,
and we began to say to ourselves that this year the children must
go without. But a new convert was added unto us, filled with the
big desire of doing something, and he was mightily distressed at the
thought of such a backward stride as we were contemplating. So one
evening during a prolonged discussion of ways and means at our little
mission hall the thought suddenly occurred to me that if I could get
some slides made and we could hire a hall--our own little place not
being suitable, I might give a lecture on my experiences in the South
Sea Whale Fishery, which ought to bring in something for the Tea Fund.
Our new brother seized the notion at once and offered to advance £5
from his savings for the expenses. It was there and then decided to
take the Peckham Public Hall for the occasion and when the affair was
over, whatever the result, the slides were to be mine to use as I
thought fit afterwards.
Everybody worked with a will, and I remember that somebody wrote to Sir
John Blundell Maple, because they said as member for the division he
was good for a guinea, and he was. I must not forget either that the
proprietor of the hall let it to us at half-price and that a lantern
enthusiast, Mr. R. Sprules, operated free. Well, the great night came
and the hall was crowded. Unhappily here the only hitch occurred at the
outset. A highly respected local minister was asked to take the chair,
and he, spying a prominent member of his congregation in the audience,
said after a few preliminaries:
“Our brother Jones will now lead us in prayer!”
Remember it was a Public Lecture, composed of all sorts and conditions
of men and women, yet that old ass thumped his chair and roared out
what would have been blasphemous nonsense if he had known it, for
fifteen minutes. Oh dear good patient people, you stood it, or sat
it stolidly, but I tremble to think what you might legitimately have
done. At last I got started and I can freely confess that my relief
at the escape from disaster on that terrible opening was so great as
to overcome any stage fright that I might otherwise have felt. The
audience was splendid and I grew more and more at my ease with them
until I noticed that my slides were nearly finished. Then I had a small
panic. Had I given my listeners enough? Impossible, for I did not
seem to have been talking for forty-five minutes. So I leaned forward
and asked the time, in a stage whisper, of a friend whom I knew had a
watch. He said--his voice wouldn’t modulate and filled the hall, “Five
past ten, Tom!”
There was a sudden upheaval, lights were turned up by some wise watcher
and half the audience fled to catch trains, for they came from all
parts of London. And my superintendent, a genial little chimney-sweep,
coming to the front of the platform to “render thanks” cried sobbingly:
“I never knew we ’ad such a bruvver!”
A few of us adjourned to the local stewed-eel shop for refreshment and
mutual congratulations upon the wonderful success of the evening, most
wonderful of all in that the net proceeds, after all expenses were
paid, came to thirteen pounds, enough to provide, with tea at 1s. a
pound, milk at 4d. a tin, and cake at 3d. a pound, refreshment for a
noble army of children. Also the fragments were no mean consideration
to the parents, as we found later.
But before closing this description of my first lecture I must include
one out of the many startling coincidences of my life. Remember this
was in Rye Lane in 1896. After the lecture was over a man came up to me
and said:
“Mister, I was in one of them whalers you talk about, and I know
you have told the truth.” And he there and then gave me the most
irrefragable proofs of his statement, mentioning names and dates and
places which were utterly convincing. But chiefly I was delighted
because of the corroboration of my statements, not that I felt they
needed such buttressing, but you know what people are. It also
established a fact which has since become a commonplace with me, that
no matter how remote or unlikely the spot may be, a man who addresses
an audience from a public platform is always most liable to have among
his hearers some one who can testify to the truth (or falsehood) of
his statements from actual personal experience, which should make all
lecturers exceedingly careful not to give rein to their imaginative
faculties.
This experience, though it launched me as a lecturer, was only
profitable in so far as it provided me with slides and a certain
understanding of a lecture audience. For although there was
thenceforward a considerable demand for my services as a lecturer in
the neighbourhood, there was never any pay attached to the business. In
fact my good friends all seemed to think that they did me great honour
by inviting me and they often carried this idea so far as to resent the
mild suggestion, made by my friend the enthusiastic lanternist, that
they should pay for the gas which he provided. But he, like myself, was
of a cheerful as well as humble disposition and we went on with the
work until we found that no effort was ever made to get an audience for
us, and so we often addressed ourselves to a mere handful of people in
a large chapel. In this connection I may say that one night when I was
to lecture at a certain big chapel in Peckham, a stout roughish-looking
man strolled in and asked my friend who was getting the lantern ready
what was on.
“A lecture on Whales and Whale Fishing,” replied my friend.
“Ar,” said the enquirer, turning on his heel to go, “s’rimps is more in
my line.”
It is only true to confess that I was getting seriously discouraged,
for it seemed obvious that nobody wanted to hear me even for nothing,
while my evangelical oratory was always appreciated. But on the advice
of a friend I wrote to Mr. Christy asking if he would put me on his
list on the strength of the entertainment I had to offer. Very wisely
he demurred as not knowing anything about me, but he promised to see
if he could get me any engagements and the result of them would guide
his future conduct towards me. Meanwhile Mr. Reginald Smith of Smith,
Elder & Co. invited me to give my lecture in his spacious drawing-room,
and paid me a good fee. Probably all my hearers on that occasion had
read the _Cruise of the Cachalot_, just published by my host, at any
rate they were immensely appreciative and I immediately secured two
engagements at what I then considered good fees.
This led me directly to the discovery of an old truth that what costs
people nothing they do not value. For I found that as my fees rose so
did the appreciation I met with increase until I found myself becoming
quite a popular lecturer and compelled to raise my fees considerably in
order to keep the engagements from overwhelming me. But this did not
come for some time, two or three years, in fact. Yet I can honestly
say that my efforts, which were a pure delight to me, were received
with wonderful enthusiasm and appreciation, and I was always treated
as if I were conferring favours instead of receiving them. Perhaps
this was due in a great measure to the fact that I loved the business,
that as soon as I opened my mouth upon the platform I felt as if the
audience and I had known one another for years and I could just tell
them confidentially all I knew about the matter in hand without taxing
any of them unduly either to hear or to understand me. At any rate I
did enjoy myself and I know, without any boasting, that I gave joy to
others. And I am sure that the foundation of it all was those long
years of open-air speaking and singing, when listeners had to be held
by their interest in the speaker or not at all.