CHAPTER XVIII
DIVAGATIONS
Lecturing, as I believe I have said before in these pages, is a most fascinating pursuit, though few who listen would imagine how it exhausts its votaries. And by this I do not mean those astonishing people of whom we are told that they come off the platform dripping with sweat, necessitating their being stripped, bathed, and massaged before they become normal again. I am inclined to think that such lecturers must be very few indeed, and ought rather to be classed with acrobats or gymnasts, than with professors of the essentially quiet and peaceful art of speaking in public. And yet I do not know. I have sometimes listened to public speakers whose efforts to make themselves heard and to vocalise their ideas involved them in a struggle that it was painful to witness, what it must have been for them to perform must be left to the imagination. The saddest thing about these contortions of mind and body is that the result of them is always in inverse proportion to the amount of muscular and mental effort expended upon them—indeed, I have several times been witness to a public speaker producing an entirely unintelligible roar, who in ordinary conversation was pleasant to listen to and quite easy to understand.
Unfortunately there are a large number of people who feel a fierce longing to teach their fellows vocally, who, although they have ideas in plenty, cannot realise at all that to make yourself heard intelligibly it is not merely useless, it is fatal to shout, that the only result of such folly is injury to the vocal organs, and that the complaint known as “clergyman’s sore throat” is simply caused by not knowing how to use the voice. And here, although it is a digression (which I love) I will add that another very prevalent ailment known as “writer’s cramp” or “pen paralysis” is caused not by the amount of writing done by the sufferer but through ignorance of the proper method of holding a pen while writing. Indeed, to see the way that most people hold a pen when writing is enough to induce wonder that their hands are not cramped without any writing but simply by holding the fingers in such an outrageous position.
I believe that voice production can be taught and that some people can learn it, but I know that some people whose vocation is public speaking are always painful to listen to and always give a sympathetic hearer the impression, true or false, that they are suffering very much also. With such people, if their matter is good, and it often is, this is a real affliction, and I condole with them very much, although I am grateful to say that I have never, since I began lecturing, had any difficulty in making myself heard distinctly, nor have I ever had a lesson in voice production. But I did have a long apprenticeship to open-air speaking and singing, some fifteen years altogether, and besides the inestimable practice thus gained, there was also the lesson, always to be learned from terrible examples, what to avoid.
Repeatedly secretaries and others have warned me that their hall was very bad for speaking in and on some occasions I have been told that no one had ever succeeded in making himself heard in a certain hall, but I can gratefully record the fact that I have never yet failed to make myself heard distinctly in every corner of the worst halls I have ever used for the purpose of lecturing. Yet some places, notably places of worship, are very trying to the voice, and after an hour and a half speaking in them there is a sense of weariness which is entirely absent after a similar effort in a good hall perhaps three times larger. This peculiarity of acoustics is, I believe, one of the chief trials of architects, and one that the greatest skill and care often fail to compete with successfully.
But I started this chapter with the idea of the exhaustion consequent upon a lecture. It varies, of course, according to the physical and mental fitness of the lecturer, but it is one of the most insidious forms of fatigue known. To the enthusiastic lecturer who rejoices in his task, and to whom it appears not only easy but natural and delightful, there is a strain upon the nerves that, unnoticed at the time, is severely felt afterwards. Just as some people feel a long train journey. “Surely,” say the unthinking, “you cannot be tired after sitting for eight hours!” Can you not? I can answer for myself, who am a fairly good traveller, that it is almost as tiring as a day’s manual labour, while many robust people it will make absolutely ill. And it is so with lecturing. In spite of the appearance of ease and the obvious delight of the lecturer in his work, it is using up his nerve force at a great rate, and he will do well to remember this afterwards, when those who have been listening to him often expect him to entertain them until midnight or after.
But there is another class of lecturer to whom every lecture is a tremendous ordeal. Gifted persons, with an ability to express themselves far above the average, the time that they are on their feet facing the audience may almost be described as a period of torture. What the interval of waiting for the time of the lecturer’s beginning must mean to such unfortunate people I cannot tell, but I feel sure it must be agonising. I have heard one splendidly muscular friend of mine say that he would far rather do three days’ heavy labour than give a couple of hours’ reading from one of his books. And I have no choice but to believe him, the proof being that although the terms offered him were glittering enough he only endured for one season.
Unfortunately there are to be found folks who can neither make themselves heard nor say anything worth listening to if they could. I should think they have few nerves to speak of, or they could never survive one attempt to address an audience. Yet these are the very people who are the most anxious to be heard. In my open-air experience I suffered many things from them, because volunteers for that service are always eagerly welcomed, the rule being among most religious communities that if a man is fit for no other form of Christian service he will do to preach the Gospel in the open air. If any proof of this be needed it is only necessary to become an auditor at any open-air meeting for the propagation of the Gospel. The Salvation Army, which certainly does not follow the rule that anybody will do for the open air that is unfit for anything else, because all the members are called upon if willing, is no exception to the former rule. You will hear good speakers in the open-air meetings of the S.A., but—they are nearly always women. The men all seem to drop into a raucous, nauseous shout to which it is painful and entirely unprofitable to listen. The painful and pitiful thing is that people do listen, showing thereby that they have never heard any good speaking and so do not know how bad that is to which they are listening so intently.
I have taken the open-air preachers of the Gospel as my awful example, because of the splendid opportunities they daily and nightly waste through the ignorance of their leaders. If you want to hear good open-air speaking, listen to the Socialist orator, or the Suffragette speaker. They have no use for the duffers, and so none are employed. I might go farther and say that they are in earnest—but I am afraid I shall be misunderstood. However, I cannot help it, I know it is as I say.
But the art of public speaking, simple as it may seem to be, is at a very low ebb. Go to any public function you like, nay, go to church, not chapel, and ask yourself what these people can be thinking of to stand up and try the nerves of their fellows with such mumblings and thought-mush. I know that there are some voices to which it is a sheer delight to listen, even if what they say is not worth hearing. At any rate, they do take the pains to make themselves audible, even if they cannot impart any useful information, and if it be in church it will hardly matter, because although all can hear, very few will heed, and unless the sermon is reported and gets into the press the preacher may say very nearly what he likes, and his congregation will not notice anything amiss.
Fortunately the “Platform,” with a capital P, as lecturers love to designate their own special métier, is not at all likely to fail in making itself heard or understood. For in the first place, before a lecturer can hope to get anything like a decent fee or a sufficient number of engagements to-day he must have special qualifications, and especially he must speak so as to be heard and understood. Either he has made some subject peculiarly his own and is known as an authority upon that subject, or he is a traveller with special gifts of description and able to visualise the scenes he has witnessed for his audience, or he is a humorist, rarest and best gift of all. Were I offered my choice of a fairy’s catalogue of offerings to men I would choose before all others the power of making men and women laugh—it takes but very little talent to make them weep—I had almost said that anyone can perform that sad feat. I look back upon the few occasions when in freakish mood I have got my audience laughing, and becoming imbued with their merry spirit have gone on in the same direction until we were all laughing together; I look back upon them, I say, as the golden hours of my life, hours that I rejoice to have lived and covet to live again, only that I know it to be impossible.
Let me recall one somewhat similar experience, but pray do not accuse me of irreverence in telling it since nothing can be farther from my thoughts. In the earlier days of my lecturing I often used to be engaged upon the understanding that I would preach in the local chapel or hall on the Sunday, the lecture being arranged for either Saturday or Monday night. On one such occasion I was booked to lecture in Scotland (never mind the town) on a certain Monday, on condition that I preached in the church the preceding morning and evening. From motives of economy, for it was in the early days, I travelled up by the night train, third class, and had the usual weary, cold, and sleepless experience consequent upon a winter night, spent in a corridor compartment with three others. I arrived at the church at about 9.30 and was shown by the caretaker into the vestry, where I had a wash and brush up and then laid down upon the sofa and went sound asleep.
Shortly after ten I was aroused by the pastor, and at first had some little difficulty in remembering where I was and what was expected of me. But the little rest had done wonders for me, and in a few minutes I felt quite ready for anything, my usual good spirits having fully returned. The pastor then timidly enquired what my subject would be for the morning’s address, and I frankly replied that I did not know. My mind was a perfect blank as to topics, no new experience for me in such a position, since if I did prepare an address it was never of any use, never the one I delivered. He looked at me curiously when I told him this, thinking no doubt that I was treating my responsibilities with great levity, and then enquired if I had any wishes about the order of service. I told him that I wished he would do everything but the address.
At this he begged me most earnestly to let him off, telling me that he had been promising himself a rare treat and, well, he said many other things that I won’t record for modesty’s sake. These words had the effect of making me consent, and I selected the hymns, portions, etc., going into the pulpit a few minutes before the time in order to give the congregation what they always enjoy, a good look at the man who is going to address them, without their being able to reply, for half an hour or so. I sat in that elevated position looking straight down the church into the street, watching the people streaming in. And I got my subject—oh, yes, I got it splendidly. For the good folk approached the kirk door greeting one another with smiling faces, and pleasant words. In fact, all seemed as if the glorious morning had put them in the best of humours with all the world. And then they turned into the cool shade of the church door and a gloom fell upon their faces, I might reasonably say a blight, as if the news had just reached them of the loss of all they held dear. That sad frame persisted after they had taken their seats, in almost ludicrous contrast to the bright faces outside, still coming in and presently to assume the same lugubrious cast.
The voluntary ceased, the service commenced. I had chosen joyful hymns and psalms, but they were sung like dirges. At last I came to the sermon, and facing my audience squarely, without opening the Bible, said in a high, ecstatic voice,
“Oh, enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
And into His courts with praise.”
Another pause, and then I went on to ask them in an easy, colloquial tone, smilingly, what was the matter with them. I spoke of the amazing contrast between their faces outside the building and within, and assumed that they had all been suddenly reminded of some poignant sorrow. And soon, with all the sarcasm I could muster, I lashed their assumed lugubriousness. They sat and stared as if uncertain whether they could possibly be hearing aright, and once a middle-aged man burst into an outrageous chuckle which very nearly infected the congregation. As I proceeded, the time flying all too rapidly, I had the satisfaction of seeing a natural expression beaming on all the faces, and when I concluded with the splendid words,
“In His presence is fulness of joy!
And at His right hand are pleasures for evermore,”
I could see that nothing but tradition, steel-hard tradition, prevented them from sending up a great shout of “Hallelujah.”
Following me into the vestry, the pastor gripped me by both hands, saying:
“I would give a year of my life to be able to talk to my congregation like that. But, alas! it is impossible for many reasons. I shall never forget this morning though.”
I laughed happily, for my present trouble was over, and replied:
“Nor I either. I’ve had a very enjoyable time. You see I’m a firm believer in the doctrine of “open thy mouth wide and I will fill it.” I opened mine wide enough this morning, for surely there never was a poor wretch who had to speak to a waiting, critical assemblage emptier than I was. My head was like a bad nut, nothing in it but dust and shucks. And even now I don’t know what I said, but your testimony and the look of the folks as they went out seem to tell me that it wasn’t half bad, as the schoolboys say.”
But somehow, owing, I suppose, to a certain freshness and unconventionality in treating the subject (I can safely say that now I shall never speak in public again), I was always a success as a preacher. Not, thank God, that I ever adopted the hat-on-back-of-the-head, cigar-in-mouth, hands-in-pocket style of preaching, so popular in the United States. Oh no, I had a far deeper idea of the sacredness of things than that. But there is a vast difference between solemnity and stupidity, and that is what many preachers do not seem to have found out yet.
The highest compliment upon my preaching that was ever paid me was at Dollar, a pleasant health resort near Edinburgh. I had been preaching in the Scotch Episcopal Church that morning, and I well remember energetically refusing to wear the black gown that the dear old minister fondly pressed upon me. As always, I did my best, but was not conscious of having excelled in any sense. On my way home to my host’s house, however, in company with a very charming man, Mr. Robert Annan, I became aware of two small boys in Eton costume shyly waylaying me and endeavouring to catch my eye. I stopped, saying to Mr. Annan:
“I believe those boys want to speak to one of us.”
He immediately turned to the boys, saying:
“Well, lads, what is it?”
“Please, sir, we’d like to speak to Mr. Bullen.”
“Certainly, my boys,” I answered instantly, “go ahead.”
“Are you going to preach again this evening, sir?” said one of them, simply.
“I don’t think so,” I replied, “but suppose I was, what then?”
“Well, sir,” murmured the boy, looking down, “if you were, we wanted to come and hear you again.”
Nothing that has ever been said to me or about me in connection with my oratorical efforts has ever given me such unmitigated delight as those few words, spoken, as I am convinced they must have been, with the most absolute sincerity. But it is quite unnecessary to enlarge upon them, their significance will be seen at once.
And now in order to close this chapter, already too long, let me say that there is a class of public speaker, fortunately very small, who neither in manner nor in matter is worth listening to, and yet these men will hold an otherwise intelligent audience, nay, will compel enthusiasm and subsequent adherence to the most fantastic or immoral of causes. I have in mind two such men, widely differing in personal character and aim but both indubitably possessed of this dangerous power, call it what one may. Some twelve years ago I stood in the Auditorium at Chicago and listened to John Alexander Dowie. I honestly declare that I never looked upon a less attractive man. In spite of his gorgeous robes (he was then posing as Elijah) all purple velvet and gold, his face and form were mean and contemptible, looking only fit for the taproom of a low public-house. And his address! It was beneath contempt. Poor, shoddy, bad in delivery, sheer ungrammatical twaddle meaning nothing and leading nowhere. Yet his audience hung upon those banal words as if they had been the very oracles of God. In Heaven’s name why?
The other man was Richard Seddon, Prime Minister of New Zealand. I attended a banquet given in his honour at the Australia Hotel, in Sydney, N.S.W., and sat among the élite of Southern journalism. Indeed, the company present was a thoroughly representative one, for the occasion was most important. I occupied the seat next but one to Mr. Seddon, and can honestly say that no guest there could be less biased than I was. I knew nothing of the man except common rumour, and that was entirely favourable. Yet before he spoke I was fascinated by the back of his head, which sloped forward from the neck without any “bulge” at all. In common parlance he had no back to his head. And I confess I felt doubtful. But when I heard him speak, and continue speaking for one hour and a quarter, I was aghast. I have heard a hundred times better matter from street-corner orators, in fact I have rarely listened to more turgid rubbish. The most astounding thing of all was that it literally hypnotised his audience. Had an archangel been addressing them they could not have shown wilder excitement, in fact whenever they got a chance they raved. And when the sorry performance was over I said to my friend next to me, the Editor of one of the great Sydney newspapers:
“In Heaven’s name, what does all this mean? What is the matter with all these people?”
He had been just as bad as the rest, but he was now slightly ashamed of himself, I think, for he passed off my question diffidently and did not attempt to answer me. I could not call it turgid rhetoric, for it was not rhetoric, it was simply noisy rubbish, the few grains of sense that it contained being poured out within the first five minutes, and afterwards the whole performance might well have been summed up in Shakespeare’s immortal lines:
“Like unto a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
And signifying nothing.”