CHAPTER XII
CHAIRMEN—continued
Only my fixed determination to avoid mentioning names prevents me from giving the title of a noble chairman who filled that office for me in a certain country town. Those of my late colleagues who do me the honour to read these lines will quite understand what I mean when I say that I had not the least idea, although I saw his name on the bills, that the chairman would appear. The trick is a very old one, and so often practised that it ceases to surprise. A good name brings the people, and an apology for his unavoidable absence and inability to keep his engagement from some well-known substitute always seems to go down. Therefore I was considerably astonished when the noble individual arrived punctually, accompanied by his lady. He made a most charming introductory speech, lasting barely ten minutes, during which he said many pleasant things, but more especially made it evident that he had carefully read my books, and so got up the subject on which I was to lecture. And after the lecture was over he made another little speech, to which I listened with extreme pleasure. In fact, I have rarely enjoyed anything more than I did this noble gentleman’s two addresses, so free were they from fulsome adulation on the one hand, and offensive patronage on the other.
By way of contrast I recall a most unpleasant experience I had in a Congregational church of all places. Now most of my lectures have been given in connection with Nonconformist places of worship, and except that they are rather given to lengthy proceedings at the end, when everybody wants to get away, the lecturer most of all, I must say I have always enjoyed them very much—especially Congregationalists. Some of the other denominations are a bit inclined to be narrow (though that is really personal), but I have always found among the Congregationalists a broadness of toleration and outlook that is very pleasant. It is no easy matter, then, to judge of my surprise when during my lecture at this particular church of which I am speaking, my chairman, who was the pastor, suddenly sprang to his feet and flatly contradicted something I had said. The funny part was that it was really a quotation I made, and the utterance of the chairman was: “Professor So-and-so never said anything of the kind!”
This sudden outburst placed one in a grave difficulty. I had never had a similar experience, and I, of course, did not carry books with me to prove the correctness of my memory. For a few seconds there was an utter silence and considerable nervous tension. Then I said very quietly and distinctly:
“Perhaps the best thing to do under the circumstances, Mr. Chairman, will be to allow the lecture to proceed, and at its close I will endeavour to justify any statements I have made, and answer any of your questions.”
The chairman just bobbed up and apologised, saying that he had forgotten himself, and I proceeded. But at the close of the lecture, though I professed my willingness to go freely into the matter, there was no challenging word spoken by the chairman or anyone else, and the matter then dropped, as they say in the House of Lords. But I have often wondered since how far the chairman of a lecture is justified in thus interrupting the lecturer, even when his knowledge of the subject is far greater than that of the speaker. In this case it certainly was not so, but the chairman was fanatic upon the subject of evolution, and he was afraid that I was trying to teach evolution to his congregation by a side-wind.
I had a great deal of fun out of one chairman, who was also my host, a rough jewel, if ever there was one. It was in one of the dingy, dreary Lancashire manufacturing towns, and my host was the Mayor as well as being the biggest mill-owner in the place. He had risen literally from the ranks, and his speech was hardly intelligible to me; also his house, which was small, was so crammed with incongruous rubbish as to be almost uninhabitable, while he and his good wife spoke their minds to me and each other with a frankness that took a little getting used to, as they say.
They were mightily amused at me, principally at my very small appetite. Their table was loaded at meal-times with the most solid food, and I specially remember the hot buttered toast, the hot, greasy cakes, the great dish of fried fish at tea-time, the very thought of that mountain of food gives me indigestion. That, however, is not the point. On the day of my lecture the weather was very bad, and as the time approached for us to go, the rain increased, until it was a regular tropical downpour. His Worship’s carriage was at the door, and we scurried into it, very nearly getting drenched in the passage. As soon as we had started I said to his Worship: “It’s almost a pity to leave home, isn’t it? There cannot be anybody there on a night like this.”
“They’ll be all there,” he replied sententiously. “The ’all’ll be full, you’ll see. We don’t mind th’ weather up ’ere.”
I cannot hope to reproduce his Lancashire dialect, so do not try. Indeed, it would be impossible, for most of the time he was quite unintelligible to me, and I had previously prided myself on my ability, not merely to pick up languages, but to assimilate any dialect of my own tongue. Nothing more was said between us, and we duly arrived at the hall, when his Worship at once asked the official who met us at the side door if the audience were in their places, and was answered by a laconic “Ay!” We entered the anteroom on the stroke of eight, and, to my amazement as well as amusement, an official came forward with the mayoral robes and insignia of office—very imposing and massive they were too. Truly his Worship looked a gallant figure as he stalked on to the platform, and I felt quite insignificant beside him in my evening dress.
A great shout of welcome went up from the audience at which I bowed, but his Worship stood stiffly erect, and then, taking my seat, I stared with utter astonishment at the sight before me. The great hall was packed from end to end, even to the standing room, and there was quite a haze hanging over them, from the heat acting on their wet clothes. Some one, I forget who, had told me that many of them had been in their places since seven o’clock, and as I looked at them I felt full of pity, for I thought how dull and drab their lives must be for them to crowd like this to a lecture. There can be little else here to amuse them.
But my chairman began to speak, and I listened with strained attention, for, indeed, I had a difficulty in gathering the purport of what he said. Presently it dawned upon me, though, that he was telling them how interested he was in the lecture that was to come, because it was on the subject of the catching of whales, and whale-oil was of so much importance in his business of spinning. So far all was well, but now he began to tell that audience, nearly all of whom were employed in his mills, what whale-oil was used for, and how it was used. In fact, he delivered a lecture on the subject, which did not conclude until 8.25; and even then he only reluctantly made way for me. No doubt he knew his subject thoroughly, and as time did not matter, I felt much entertained.
It was quite a pleasant experience, take it all round, but I had another surprise the next morning. Coming down at eight, and entering the morning-room, I saw there in conversation with my host a man whom I should certainly have taken for the lowest kind of tramp, had I met him on the road. Eccentricities in dress, I hope, make no difference to me, poor clothes have been my own wear for many years, for while at sea I often patched my raiment, until, as Jack said, “you couldn’t tell which was the standing part,” and still I say that this man’s bodily coverings were an offence to me. He hurt the eyes, he looked so dirty, so unkempt, so regardless of all the decencies, cleanliness among them. And he had on a pair of awful old boots, shapeless trotter cases, which were unlaced, and into which the ends of his ragged trousers were half-tucked, as if he had shuffled into them on tumbling out of his lair, and had never thought of them since.
Seeing me come in, my host gave me a cheery good morning, and waving a hand towards the nondescript, said:
“My brother Ben. He’s my manager down at th’ mills.”
Brother Ben muttered something I could not understand, finished his colloquy with his brother, and went away, not being asked to stay to breakfast. I have since heard that the two brothers possessed very little short of a quarter of a million of money, and I have often wondered what they did with it, or what good it was to them, or anybody else. I saw no young people about the house, so I assume that there were no children. But I don’t know. A lady who was my hostess in a village near Bradford showed me a house and mill, and told me that the owner had been a mill-hand, was now worth (as we say) nearly half a million, and had three sons and two daughters, all of whom he made work in the mill for wages. They wore the usual mill-hand’s dress, with clogs, and lived in the basement of the fine house, as they had always been accustomed to do, never spending or giving a penny towards the gracious, gentle things of life. My host was much better than that, but I don’t think he had any children.
Perhaps the most extraordinary experience I have ever had with a chairman was at Christmastide a few years ago. I am very anxious to give no clue to either the name of the gentleman nor the place, for I would be deeply grieved to give him a moment’s pain, recognising as I do how whole-souled and heartily he gave himself and his means for what he considered the highest interests of his fellow men and women. So I will only say that in that period of rest which lecturers usually enjoy between the middle of December and the middle of January, I received a letter, asking me what my fee would be to deliver a lecture at a place about 450 miles distant, on a night shortly after Christmas, beginning about 10 p.m. I had worked very hard that season, and did not want to go at all, but, of course, I could not send a blunt refusal. But I said that I was tired, it was my only period for rest, and that if I came I should want twenty guineas for my lecture, and first-class return fare. And I dismissed the matter from my mind with the posting of my reply, for I never dreamed that such terms would be considered for a moment.
My surprise, then, may be faintly imagined when I received a telegram the next day, “Please come on date, specified terms agreed.” There was now nothing to do but go, and go I did. On arrival at the place it was evident at once that I was only one item in a long programme, and my chairman was, at tremendous expense to his mental and physical tissue, keeping the whole thing going. It was 10.45 p.m. before my turn began, and it lasted exactly half an hour. For the mixed audience was almost worn out, and many of them were over-fed as well. I afterwards heard that the efforts to amuse them had been carried on continuously from 8 p.m., the only stipulation being that none of them should leave before midnight. I make no comment whatever on the wisdom or otherwise of this stupendous altruistic effort; I can only hint at it, as I am doing; but think of it for a moment, four hours of miscellaneous entertainment, varied by eating and drinking tea, coffee and mineral waters! I have seldom seen a man more weary than the host was—poor fellow, he had lavished himself for what he felt was a good cause, and as for the money—that was a mere detail, for he was a millionaire. It is only now that I remember that I have not once alluded to his efforts as a chairman. Well, he was as near my ideal as can be, but such was the condition of the audience that, in spite of his lucid little introduction, I am firmly convinced that the great majority of them had not the least idea what to expect of me, did not in the least know whether I was a conjurer or a vocalist or a politician. And, as somebody said, it didn’t matter, anyhow, his great end was achieved if he kept the people off the streets on that particular night, and if his lavish expenditure in order to instruct as well as amuse them seemed wasteful—well, it hardly mattered.
I will close these chairman reminiscences on a high note, one of the pleasantest recollections of my life, as well as one of the greatest privileges I ever enjoyed. In the summer of 1899 I was privileged to act as special correspondent for a London newspaper on board H.M.S. Mars during the summer manœuvres, and I spent then the jolliest time of my life. Towards the close of the manœuvres, however, things got a bit tedious, and during some golden days we lay (the hostile fleet, that is) somewhere off the Biscayan coast on a sleeping sea, awaiting some orders or some development that never came. In order that the men should not feel any lack of interest, much was done to amuse them, or to help them amuse themselves in the way of athletic sports, etc., and one morning Captain May asked me whether I would oblige him by giving the crew a lecture.
Now I had never lectured before without my slides, and I need not say how difficult such a task appeared to me, but I had not got them with me, and I could not refuse a request so kindly made; so I at once agreed, and was very graciously thanked. I may say that I was assured that if I had brought my slides with me, the absence of the lantern would have been no hindrance, for one would have been invented and fixed up somehow. And I am perfectly sure from what I know of the naval man that this feat would have been performed. However, I did not tax their ingenuity so far, and with the customary promptitude the lecture was fixed to come off that same evening.
Coming on deck after dinner, I was surprised to see in the middle of the broad quarter-deck a high platform rigged and draped with bunting, backed by the Union Jack. Right across the front of it chairs were placed for the officers, and behind them, stretching far away to the rear, rows and rows of mess benches neatly arrayed. A brief command, a short bugle call, and with the muffled thunder of hundreds of bare feet, my audience assembled, took their seats, and lit their tobacco. Amidst perfect silence Captain May mounted the platform, and introduced me in a brief speech which filled me with the deepest glow of pride and humble gratitude I have ever felt. Of course, I cannot reproduce it, but every syllable is indelibly printed on my heart, the more because that good friend and brave man passed away not very long after.
Then, amidst a deep thunder of applause, I mounted the platform. But for at least a minute I was unable to speak. The magnificence of the whole scene overwhelmed me. I looked down upon nearly 800 young men, the fine flower of our race, whose shrewd, strong faces looked keenly expectant, but all kindly towards me. I looked around at the mighty ship in all her beauty of strength and cleanliness, upon her seven gigantic sisters lying motionless in their exact stations near, at the soft splendours of the evening sky, and silken, many-coloured sea, and I felt truly that, although such a moment comes to a man but once in his lifetime, he cannot then appreciate all its wonders.
I did not attempt to lecture. I just fell back upon the well-known vernacular, and talked pure sailor, giving them all the yarns in my budget that were appropriate. And the time allotted me—an hour and a half—sped like a dream, punctuated by laughter and applause as generous and as full as only the handy man can give. And as soon as I had finished uprose the stately figure of the commander, giving in trumpet tones the formula to which I have so often listened in the public schools:
“Three cheers for Mr. Bullen!”
I cannot say any more, except that the thunder of those cheers will echo in my ears until my dying day. They had hardly died away when my audience disappeared, mess benches and all, and the disciplined routine of the great ship resumed its course. The sequel, however, remains to be told, for it gives a keen insight to the tone of the navy man for his joke. As was my practice, I went on the navigating bridge next morning to glance at the signal log and greet the watch-keeper. The chief yeoman of signals, always a very able man, saluted me, and asked casually:
“Do you happen to know the ship’s steward, sir?”
“No, Flags,” I replied, “I can’t say I do. I know him by sight, but that’s all.”
“Ah, well,” Flags rejoined, “he’s a funny man, but a great chum o’ mine. Last night, as we was a-goin’ down from the lecture, he says to me, ‘Flags, from ’enceforth I regard you as a perfectly truthful man.’ I may as well say, sir, that I’ve ’itherto ’ad the reputation of bein’ the biggest liar in the fleet.”
And it was not until some time afterwards that I fully appreciated the somewhat oblique compliment.