CHAPTER III
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.