AUDIENCES
I have often been asked which I consider my best audiences. It is not
an easy question to answer, for people vary so in different parts of
the same county even. But I have no hesitation in saying that the
northern folk, right away to Scotland, are almost uniformly good and
quick. And as far as my experience goes, though it may be true (not
in my experience) that the Scots joke with difficulty, I have never
known any audience quicker or keener to note every point, or more
generous with their applause than I have found in Scotland. Of course,
in common with every lecturer, I suppose, no matter how long or varied
his experience, I have affectionate recollections of certain audiences.
The thought of them is very cheering to me in my retirement. I think of
the sea of upturned faces now hanging on every syllable, now sending up
peal after peal of laughter, and withal by their intense sympathy with
me, urging me on to give them better words than I had ever known before
that I possessed.
For I learned many years ago the prime secret of the successful--I was
going to say orator, but the term is a bit fly-blown to me: it means
stilted high-falutin rubbish, meaningless, and leaving any audience
cold--lecturer. It is to get yourself on conversational terms with
your hearers. This I do not think is possible with obviously prepared
speech, and I am sure is impossible to the man who reads his address.
The latter course is no doubt necessary at the Universities before
a crowd of students with notebooks, seeking learning, and entirely
unenthusiastic, but for a popular lecturer it is fatal. Shall I ever
forget the look of woe with which I was greeted by a secretary at
a big hall near London. To my earnest enquiry as to what was wrong
he returned the astounding answer that the committee looked upon me
as their only hope. If I gave them as good a lecture as I had given
them on a previous occasion the society might survive, but if not it
must perish. I wanted to know more, naturally, and the secretary then
told me that with the laudable idea of giving their society the best
talent obtainable they had engaged at a fee of twenty-five guineas an
exceedingly big pot and eminent authority upon a certain subject.
He duly arrived, and appeared before a full house with a sheaf of
manuscript, no pictures, a feeble, mumbling voice, and very bad
eyesight. He could not decipher his notes, he was in trouble with
his glasses, and he could not make himself intelligible. Before he
had been on the platform fifteen minutes the hall was empty, and the
chairman was compelled to suggest to him that he might as well retire.
Within the week half the subscribers had indignantly resigned, and
I was now expected to save the remnant, if not to win back some of
the seceders. I think I should have been more than human if I had not
asked that secretary whether he thought it quite fair to pay one man
twenty-five guineas to destroy the society, and another ten guineas
to rehabilitate it, but the question was not quite fair, since he was
but the mouthpiece of the committee. Still, that question does arise
occasionally, and will do so until societies learn that enormous fees
to big pots do not always mean general satisfaction and increase of
membership.
This recollection brings another in its train, as usual--this time a
very delightful one for me. In the early days I went to a celebrated
lecture society in London to lecture, and the secretary in conversation
in the anteroom before the lecture told me, rather pompously I thought:
“We consider ourselves the best lecture audience in London. And our
people will not stay and listen to what they do not care for. So if you
find your audience melting away, don’t be discouraged; it may only mean
that your subject does not interest them, not any reflection on your
ability as a lecturer.”
I thanked him for his caution, but added that I thought I could have
done without it. However, I would do my best, as usual. But I was
piqued, and I believe I did strive to capture that audience. Anyhow I
did get them, and the result remains with me always. For they took me
to their collective heart, and together we romped through two hours of
delight, at least so the clock said, but when I came off the platform
I could not realise that I had been talking more than half an hour.
Malapropos to the last, that secretary said to me:
“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life, Mr. Bullen,
though, for the life of me, I don’t know what I’ve been laughing about.”
As if it mattered! The great fact was that even he, in whom a sense
of humour was absent from his mental equipment, had laughed even unto
physical disablement. Yes, that was a very pleasant evening, of a good
savour even now.
I have told in another place of the great evening of my life in the
Town Hall of Birmingham, and I am thereby precluded from adding very
much on that head. I must add, however, that then, as never before,
did I _realise_ the utter blessedness of being in complete sympathy
with a great company of one’s fellow-mortals, of being able to talk
with them as one of themselves, fearlessly, without any reserves or
sense of weakness, conscious only of simple truth-telling, and your
fellow’s acceptance thereof. That supreme joy had been mine before, but
unconsciously--that night in Birmingham was my first realisation of the
great fact. Many and many a time when I used to preach in the open air,
I have been enabled to forget overdue rent, shabby children, hardly
sufficient food and bullying seniors in the office, in the pure joy of
swaying a multitude of my fellow men and women, and taking them with
me for a while into a rarer and purer atmosphere, where the sordid,
irritating things of earth were forgotten in the better world of truth
and justice.
It may seem invidious of me to single out certain occasions from the
great multitude of happy lecturing hours that have been mine, but it
is not so meant. I cannot help the fact that these occasions have
impressed themselves indelibly upon my mind. Briarfield, Burnley! I
do not often permit myself the luxury of mentioning the name of any
place or person, but here I break what has become a rule with me most
gratefully.
This was a strong centre of the noble St. John Ambulance Association,
and my first experience connected with it was the hearty yet diffident
welcome of the stationmaster at the little station--who behaved as if
he would be genial, but did not wish to intrude. We speedily became
intimate, and he conducted me across some fields to the house of a
gentleman, who entertained me royally. When, accompanied by my host, I
made my appearance at the hall, I was immensely gratified to find it
full of eager folks, a large proportion of them in Red Cross uniform
for both sexes. This was the first time I had ever been brought into
contact with a centre of the Association, and I was much impressed
by the keenness and earnestness exhibited by everybody. It was not,
however, until I mounted the platform, and began my address, that I
realised the exceeding warmth of my reception, and the great sympathy
felt by those present for myself. This led me to devote a few minutes
to my own experiences in ambulance work on board ship, where native wit
had to supply the place of training, and extensive reading also helped
with medical knowledge.
Greater interest and enthusiasm could not possibly have been manifested
than by this audience at my anecdotes, and I was repeatedly interrupted
by vociferous applause. Here I feel bound to interpolate a statement
concerning a characteristic which, though personal to myself, I feel
cannot be singular, it must be shared with many other public speakers,
but whoever has the faculty of which I speak, surely must feel as
grateful for it as I do. I allude to the power of being able to devote
one-half or one portion of the mind to any other subject which may
present itself, while apparently wholly engaged in the subject upon
which the audience is being addressed. Kipling hints at this faculty in
one of the poetic chapter headings in _Kim_:
“Something I owe to the soil that grew--
More to the life that fed--
But most to Allah who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.
“I would go without shirts or shoes,
Friends, tobacco or bread
Sooner than for an instant lose
Either side of my head.”
I have often envied others the power of concentration, but, oh, the
sheer joy in being able to carry on two mental operations at once.
To be able to devote yourself most strenuously to the desires of
the audience, while at the same time reaching out with another most
prehensile section of mind into quite different regions, and bringing
back treasures long forgotten or unsuspected to lavish upon those
beloved hearers who are giving you one of the great joyous times of
your life. What I am writing may seem extravagant, but it is honestly
true and honestly felt. Between every member of some audiences and
myself there seems to be a chord of sympathy, a mental connection,
compelling the delivery not only of _my_ best, but of matter, the very
existence of which has until then been unsuspected by me.
And of all the occasions upon which I have felt and exercised that
delightful faculty, that night at Briarfield stands easily first. And
it was curious, too. For I was totally unfit to stand before them
at all, physically. Among the many mysterious things connected with
this fleshly habitation of mine is one that involves much pain and
discomfort, and for which I can never account. On that day I had been
very leisurely indeed. My journey from London had been most easy and
pleasant. I had read a gentle book, I had enjoyed a good meal. And
on arrival at my host’s house there was no excitement, for host and
hostess were unavoidably absent, and I rested in a charming room, in
one of the easiest of chairs, until their return two hours later. Yet
when I went up to dress, my legs and arms were covered with irregular
painful swellings and purple spots, which made any movement and
standing very painful to me.
The experience is in no way unusual to me, I have had it for years,
and when it attacks me nothing is of any use but a recumbent position.
I have gone a long and wearying journey to Scotland, and lectured in
some distant suburb of Glasgow, and never felt it, and on an occasion
like that of Briarfield I have been in agony throughout the lecture.
Yet, and this does give me pleasure, none of my audience knew, nay, I
was only subconscious of pain myself, it ran like a hot wire through my
thoughts. And I have often wondered whether bodily pain like that has
any effect upon the thought centres, as a stimulant, let us say! It may
be so, but I know that I should have been grateful to do without such a
stimulus.
In this connection I recollect on one occasion having to lecture at
Winchmore Hill, when, as the phrase goes, I was suffering from a severe
attack of neuritis. At least I suppose that is what it was, a pain
like an incandescent wire running from my shoulder down the inside of
my right arm to my finger-tips, paralysing my hand, and refusing to be
eased, no matter how my arm lay. I had a sling for my arm, but it was
of little use, for I had to be continually withdrawing the limb from it
when the pain grew unbearable. However, I got assistance in dressing,
and arrived at the hall, to find the secretary full of sympathy, but
very doubtful from my contortions and grimaces whether the lecture
would come off.
I endeavoured to reassure him, told him of that mysterious uplift we
get when we face the audience,--my brother-lecturers will know what
I mean--and think I succeeded in allaying the most severe of his
apprehensions. At any rate the time came, and I did face the audience,
who showed by their laughter and applause how much they appreciated the
lecture. But when I came off the platform I was chalky white, and wet
through with sweat, while the pain----But, there, that doesn’t matter.
What did matter was that the audience was not disappointed. For that is
the great thing to avoid. There are no valid excuses in the lecturing
business. If you let an audience down once, you may wipe that place out
of your expectations for the future. At least that is my belief.
But how hard it is on a lecturer. I remember once being engaged not
for a lecture, but to deliver an address to the Seventh Day Schools
Association, Severn Street, Birmingham. I gave a lecture the previous
evening at Dudley Port, and was in fine trim, never better. But when
I awoke in the morning I could not utter a sound, my voice had gone!
I had no trace of cold, soreness of the throat, or any feeling save
that of good health, but I was as dumb as a fish. I went to the
gentleman who had engaged me, and with the aid of some paper explained
my difficulty, offering to write out an address and give it to him to
read, since he was to be my chairman. Naturally he was staggered, could
hardly believe me. Nay, I am sure that he did not quite believe me, for
in the evening after he had read the address I had written--and, oh,
didn’t he read it badly!--he asked me to get up and say “just half a
dozen words.”
In vain I pointed out to him on paper that I was utterly incapable of
making the slightest sound. He still pressed me, until at last I stood
up and faced that audience, feeling like the champion fool of all the
world, for I was dumb. I made a few signs, and then with burning face
sat down. I felt then, and I feel still, that, grievous as my friend’s
disappointment was, he need not thus have humiliated me. I am sure,
though, that he did not think he was so doing, it was only his desire
that his friends should see for themselves that I could not speak to
them, much as I must have wished to exercise that privilege.
One audience that I addressed in a large northern town did fairly
puzzle me. The hall was full, and I was in good form, but those people
never gave a sign that they even knew what I was saying. They sat
stolidly looking at the screen, but never making a sound, and though
none of them went away until the whole thing was over, they preserved
the same uncanny silence all through. No! let me be just. They did
once applaud, and for that I was, and shall always be, grateful to
them. My chairman was a most amiable schoolmaster, head of an important
school in the vicinity, and he exercised his function as chairman in
the most praiseworthy way.
So far, so good, but from the commencement of my address I had noted
with growing disfavour the behaviour of the young men who occupied the
front row of seats. They were evidently out for a lark, and showed it
plainly by conversing with one another, gradually becoming more and
more audible, until there was a serious interference with the sound of
my voice. I grew more and more disturbed, until at last I could endure
it no longer, and suddenly ceased speaking. Of course they did so too,
so after waiting about a minute in a profound silence, I said gravely:
“I have been waiting patiently for you young gentlemen to finish what
must be a very important conversation, since you must needs pursue it
in a place like this, where it disturbs me in the performance of my
duty, and prevents people who wish to listen to me from hearing. But
I think it is very strange that you should come here to talk when you
could find so many better opportunities outside. If, however, you feel
that you must talk here, I must appeal to the audience whether they
want to hear you more than me, and I will abide by their decision.”
A vigorous burst of applause followed, and I had no more trouble, but
went on to the end of my lecture in perfect silence. After I had
returned to the anteroom my chairman said, pompously:
“I think you were much too severe in your remarks about the behaviour
of those young gentlemen.”
“Do you?” I retorted. “Well, all I have to say is that some audiences I
have addressed would have had them ejected long before. Their behaviour
was that of a pack of uneducated cads.”
He said no more, and I afterwards learned that those young gentlemen
were his prime scholars. Hence his defence of their conduct. On my way
home with my hostess I expressed my astonishment at the strange apathy
of my audience.
“Oh,” she replied, “that is easily explained. I doubt if ten of them
understood what you said. They were nearly all German Jews.”
Which set me wondering in another direction, although it did
satisfactorily explain the principal mystery.
I feel I cannot do better than close this chapter with an account of
an audience I once addressed in the Scotland Road, Liverpool, whither
I was sent by the Corporation Lectures Committee, who had engaged me
to give a series of free lectures in the city. I was accompanied by
my friend and host, Mr. Charles Birchall, who thus generously gave up
his valuable evening to keep me company, for he had heard the lecture
before. We got a bit of a shock on arriving at the fine hall, when we
saw the class of people that were going in, and my good friend took
the first opportunity afforded him in the anteroom of putting his
watch, chain and money in a place of safety before taking his seat.
On the stroke of eight I mounted the platform, and faced an audience of
I should say 1200, but such a congregation as I have never addressed
before, and hope never to again. It was evident at once that most of
them had come in there for shelter out of the bleak and bitter night,
for they were nearly all in rags or at any rate very poorly clad. And
they smelt. Poor things, they looked wolfish from hunger, scarred
with brutality, and desperate with want. And I was to lecture to them
upon Romance and Reality at Sea! My mind was made up in an instant.
A lecture in any ordinary acceptation of the term would have been
not only a farce, but a dire insult to these hapless people, and so
I drew upon my great stock of reminiscences of Liverpool Docks when
I was young, of the realities of sea-life, of things, in short, that
they could understand and appreciate. I don’t know whether I made them
forget my evening dress, I forgot it myself, I know, but it is certain
that I held them from the start, and was rewarded at the close of the
lecture, which lasted nearly two hours, with vociferous applause.
When I rejoined my friend he was almost speechless with amazement.
Knowing Liverpool so much better than I did, he had wondered mightily
what I could find to say to an audience like that, obviously hungry,
wretchedly clad, and vicious-looking. And then he had seen them
interested, and applauding heartily, forgetting their own very present
troubles in my recital of what they felt to be truly my own sad
experiences as an unwanted waif of the street, lurking about the docks
of that great city. I have since heard that some of my successors did
not fare so well as I did, and I am not at all surprised at that, I
should be more inclined to wonder if it were not so, when I recall the
antecedents and careers of the most of them.
In all my experience I never met with a really unjust or unkind
audience but once, and that was in a large town of Scotland. Through
some carelessness on the part of those in charge of the proceedings
the galleries had been allowed to become the playground of a number of
noisy, thoughtless children, who amused themselves during my lecture by
running about and jumping over the benches, accompanying their antics
by shrill cries. I stopped and protested, suggesting either that the
youngsters should be kept quiet or removed. To my utter surprise my
remarks were received with hisses. I promptly thanked the audience
and retired, saying that since they preferred rather to listen to the
racket overhead than what I had to say, that I had much pleasure in
leaving them to that enjoyment.