Wit, humor, reason, rhetoric, prose, poetry and story woven into eight popular lectures

by George W. Bain

PLATFORM EXPERIENCES.

Though announced to lecture on Platform Experiences, it is my purpose to give you a kind of platform analysis, to tell you what I know about lecturing, lectures, oratory and orators, using personal experiences for illustration.

We have about eight thousand Chautauqua days, and fifteen thousand lecture courses in this country every year, and yet comparatively few persons know the history of the platform. Many have an idea that free speech, like free air, has ever been a boon to mankind. They have no conception of what it has cost, in imprisonment, exile, blood and tears.

I am indebted to "Pond's History of the Platform" for facts and illustrations in the early history of the platform in England. Two hundred years ago in our mother land, the word platform meant no more than a resting place for boxes and barrels. A religious service was simply a routine of ritual, while such a thing as a public man addressing the masses was unknown. Sir William Pitt, one of England's greatest statesman and orators, in all his public life uttered only two sentences to the public outside of Parliament. If William Jennings Bryan had lived in Pitt's day, he would have been ignored by the Prime Minister of England.

The first leaders of thought to come in contact with the people and thrill them by the power of speech were John Wesley and George Whitefield. "On a mount called Rose Hill, near Bristol, England, George Whitefield laid the foundation of the modern platform." From Rose Hill his audiences grew until on Kensington Commons thirty thousand people tried to get within reach of his captivating voice. It has been truthfully said: "At the feet of John Wesley and George Whitefield the people of England learned their first lessons in popular government."

This innovation, however, met with sneers, jeers and persecution from the established conservatism of church and state, and when the platform attempted to enter the arena of politics, Parliament decided the "public clamor must end." A bill was framed forbidding any public gatherings except such as should be called by the magistrates.

In advocating this bill a member of Parliament said: "The art of political discussion does not belong outside of Parliament. Men who are simply merchants, mechanics and farmers must not be allowed to publicly criticise the constitution." To this the platform made reply: "From such as we the Master selected those who were to sow the seed of living bread in the wilds of Galilee." The bill passed by an overwhelming majority. Punishment ran from fine and imprisonment to years of exile from the country, and from this time on, the battle raged between Parliament and platform. Later on we shall note the results.

I am often interviewed by men, and sometimes by women, who desire to reach the platform. They say to me: "What steps did you take?"

My answer is, I never took any; I stumbled, was picked up by circumstances and pitched upon the platform.

At a picnic in a grove near Winchester, Ky., in 1869, a noted temperance orator was to give an address. He failed to reach the grove on time, and I was prevailed upon to act as time-killer until his arrival. I was not entirely without experience, having belonged to a debating society in a country school.

When I had spoken about thirty minutes, to my great relief, the orator of the day made his appearance. The flattering comments upon my talk induced me to accept other invitations to address temperance meetings, and before I knew what had happened, the platform was under my feet, calls were numerous and my life work was established. I suppose those who consult me are encouraged to know a mere stumble directed my course, and if so, by purpose and preparation they can surely succeed.

Some persons seem to think lecturing a very simple occupation, requiring only a glib tongue, and a good pair of lungs. Several years ago, I received a letter from a young man in which he wrote: "I heard you lecture last week. I would like to become a lecturer myself. I have no experience and very little education, but I have a very strong voice and am sure I could be heard by a large audience. I have been working in a horse-barn but am now out of a job. If I had a lecture, I think I could make a living; besides I would get to see the country. If you will write me one I will send you two dollars." I do not know whether the young man gauged the price by the estimate of the lecture he had heard me give, or his monetary condition, but if audacity is a requisite for the platform, this young man was not entirely without qualification.

This is an extreme case, and yet there are those whose minds are storehouses of knowledge, who can no more become popular platform speakers, than could the young man, who was ready to set sail on the sea of oratory, with a lusty pair of lungs and a two dollar lecture.

Charles Spurgeon, the great London preacher, said: "I have never yet learned the art of lecturing. If you have ever seen a goose fly, you have seen Spurgeon trying to lecture."

Mr. Spurgeon called lecturing an art, and why not? If the hand that paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the eye, is the hand of an artist, why is not the tongue that paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the mind's eye the tongue of an artist?

It is an art to know how to get hold of an audience. There was an occasion in my experience when I had extreme necessity for the use of this art. When President Cleveland wrote his Venezuela message in which he threatened war with England, the threat was published in Toronto, Canada, on Saturday and I was announced to lecture in the large pavilion on Sunday afternoon.

The message of President Cleveland had aroused the patriotic spirit of Canada. The hall was packed. It seemed to me I could see frost upon the eyebrows of every man and icicles in the ears of the women.

When introduced there was a painful silence. I began by saying: "Doubtless many of you have come to hear what an American has to say about Venezuela. I must admit I am not acquainted with the merits of the question. I suppose, however, the message of our President is one of the arts of diplomacy. But I do know I speak the sentiment of the best people of my country when I say: 'May the day never dawn whose peace will be broken by signal guns of war between Great Britain and the United States.'" I said:

"When John and Jonathan forget,

The scar of anger's wound to fret,

And smile to think of an ancient feud,

Which the God of nations turned to good;

Then John and Jonathan will be,

Abiding friends, o'er land and sea;

n their one great purpose, the world will ken,

Peace on earth, goodwill to men."

The great audience arose and cheered until all sense of chill had departed.

It is not only an art to get hold of an audience, but equally a matter of good taste to know when to let go. This is a qualification some have not acquired. I followed a very distinguished man several years ago and the comment was: "He was fine the first hour and a half, but the last hour he grew tiresome."

In this busy age, the world wants thoughts packed into small compass. The average audience wants a preacher to put his best thoughts into a thirty-minute package. The day was, when people would sit on backless board benches and listen to a sermon of two hours; now they won't swing in a hammock and endure one of more than fifty minutes.

Rev. Dr. Dewey, of Brooklyn, New York, tells of a minister who was given to reading his sermons. On one occasion when he had read about twenty minutes, he halted and said: "I have a young dog at my house that is given to chewing paper. I find he has mutilated my manuscript, which is my excuse for this short sermon." A visiting lady after service said: "Doctor, have you any more of the breed of that dog? I would like to get one for our pastor."

In this age of crowded moments concentration means executation; energy means success. If you can't put fire into your sermon, put your sermon in the fire.

A few years ago when in New York City, I went to see Madame Bernhardt in her famous play, Joan of Arc. She spoke in French, an unknown tongue to me; but when she came to her defense before the court, I realized as never before the power of speech and action. She had given one-fourth of that marvelous appeal, when the great audience arose and began to cheer. Madame Bernhardt folded her arms, bowed her head and waited for silence.

When order was restored she sprang a step forward. It seemed to me every feature of her face, every finger on her hands, every gleam of eye and movement of body was an appeal to the stern tribunal. In the trembling, murmuring voice that ran like a strain of sad, sweet music through sunless gorges of grief, the great audience read her plea for mercy and wept. Some who could not restrain their emotion sobbed aloud.

When from the depths of solemn sound that same voice arose like the swell of a silver trumpet, and in clarion tones demanded justice, cheer after cheer testified to the power of the orator actress. Never was there a sob of the sea more mournful, than the voice of Sarah Bernhardt as she played upon the harp strings of pity; and never did words rush in greater storm fury from human lips, than when she demanded justice. No stop nor note nor pedal nor key in the organ of speech was left untouched by this genius in tragic art.

It would be well if every public speaker could hear Sarah Bernhardt give that defense of the Maid of Orleans. Indeed I believe if the forensic eloquence of the stage could be transferred to the pulpit greater audiences and greater rewards would follow. If you doubt this, go read the sermons of George Whitefield or the lectures of John B. Gough and you will wonder at their success unless you take into consideration their mysterious power of delivery.

I cannot give you one sentence Madame Bernhardt uttered, but I do know the influence of that address remains with me to this day and now and then I find myself reaching out after the secret of oratory. "It is not so much what you say as how you say it," has become a proverb.

Some years ago I lectured in an Iowa village on a bitter cold evening. The rear of the hall was up on posts. When introduced there was only one inch between my shoe soles and zero, while a cold wind from a broken window struck the back of my head. It occurred to me that if I would play Bernhardt I might save a spell of pneumonia.

In a few moments I was pacing the platform, swinging my arms and stamping my feet to keep up circulation. I put all the intensity, activity and personality possible into one hour and left the platform.

Returning to the hotel a commercial traveler who had heard me a number of times said: "I congratulate you; you get younger. I never heard you put so much life into your lecture."

I replied: "Why man, I was trying to keep my feet from freezing."

He said: "I advise you to go on the platform every evening with cold feet."

John and Charles Wesley were going along a street in London when they came upon two market women engaged in a wordy war. John Wesley said: "Hold up, Charles, and let's learn how to preach. See how these women put earnestness and even eloquence into their street quarrel. Can't we be just as earnest and eloquent in dealing out the truth?" No wonder John Wesley gave such impetus to the platform.

It is said what John Wesley and George Whitefield were to the religious platform, Fox and Burke became later on to the political platform. They saw the platform was fast becoming the voice of public sentiment and dared to indorse it.

When Mr. Fox made his first platform address he said: "This is the first time I ever had the privilege of addressing an uncorrupted assembly." Going back into Parliament he said: "Let's put an end to a policy that separates us from the people. Let's cut all cables, snap all chains that bind us to an unfriendly shore and enter the peaceful harbor of public confidence."

When Mr. Burke made his platform debut, he was so inspired by the enthusiasm of the people, it is said, he made the greatest speech ever made in the English language up to that time. When he appeared in Parliament next evening a leader of the government took occasion to denounce the platform as a disturber of public peace, directing his remarks to Mr. Burke. The great orator was ready with the reply: "Yes, and the firebell at midnight disturbs public peace, but it keeps you from burning in your beds."

It would seem after years of fruitless effort to silence the platform, Parliament would accept it as a power for good and give it wise direction. Yet we are informed that in face of its growing popularity when Henry Hunt attempted to address an audience in a grove in England, a regiment of cavalry charged the grove. Eleven were killed and several hundred wounded. Henry Hunt was thrown into prison, but when released later one hundred thousand people welcomed him to the streets of London.

As well now had Parliament attempted to prevent a London fog as to prohibit platform meetings. John Bright said: "When I consider these meetings of the people, so sublime in their vastness and resolution, I see coming over the hilltops of time the dawning of a nobler and better day for my country."

It is our privilege to live in the good day of which John Bright spoke. Yet while a public speaker today is in no dread of arrest or imprisonment for any decent expression of opinion, the platform is not without its hindrances; and some of these will never be cured, while babies cry, architects sacrifice acoustics to style, young people do their courting in public, janitors smother thoughts in foul air, and milliners persist in building up artistic barriers between speaker and audience.

Here let me give a bit of advice to my own sex. Gentlemen, when you purchase a new hat, no matter if a ten dollar silk, or a twenty dollar panama, do not attend a lecture, and taking a seat in front of some intelligent lady forget to remove your hat. The lady may want to see the speaker's face, and he may need the inspiration of her countenance, while you are interfering with both. "A hint to the wise is sufficient." This hint may not be in accord with the advice of Paul, but Paul never saw a twentieth century "Merry Widow" hat. Then too, Paul was already inspired and didn't need the inspiration of human countenances. I am speaking for the uninspired, to whom an audience of hatless heads is an inspiration.

But few persons realize how a public speaker is affected by little influences. The flitting of a blind bat over a church audience on a summer evening, will mar the most fascinating flight of eloquence ever plumed from a pulpit.

When Nancy Hanks broke the world's trotting record at Independence, Iowa, some years ago, her former owner, Mr. Hart Boswell, of Lexington, who raised and trained her, was asked if Nancy would ever lower that record. He replied: "Well, if the time comes that the track is just right, the atmosphere just right, the driver just right and Nancy just right, I believe she will." See the combination. Break it anywhere and the brave little mare would fail.

Just so speakers are affected by conditions, by acoustics, atmosphere, size and temper of the audience, and the speaker's own mental and physical condition. Many a good sermon has been killed by a poor sexton. Many a grand thought has perished in foul air.

Charles Spurgeon was preaching to a large audience in a mission church in London, when want of ventilation affected speaker and audience. Mr. Spurgeon said to a member of the church: "Brother, lift that window near you."

"It won't lift," replied the brother.

"Then smash the glass and I'll pay the bill to-morrow," said Spurgeon.

Suppose the great horse Uhlan should be announced to trot against his record; suppose at the appointed time, with the grandstand crowded and every condition favorable, as the great trotting wonder reached the first quarter pole, some one were to run across the track just ahead of the horse, then another and another; what kind of a record would be made?

What management would allow a horse to be thus handicapped? Where is the man who would be so inconsiderate as to thus hinder a horse? Yet when a minister has worked while the world slept, that he not only might sustain his record but gather souls into the kingdom; when the opening exercises have given sufficient time for all to be present; when the text is announced and the preacher is reaching out after the attention and sympathy of his audience some one enters the door, walks nearly the full length of the aisle; then another and then two more, each one crossing the track of the preacher and yet he is expected to keep up his record and make good. If you are a friend of your pastor be present when he announces his text; give him your attention and thus cheer him on as you would your favorite horse.

An eminent minister said: "There, I had a good thought for you, but the creaking of the new boots of that brother coming down the aisle knocked it quite out of my head."

One who had heard me many times said: "Why do you do better at Ocean Grove than anywhere else I hear you?" My answer was: "Because of conditions. The great auditorium seats ten thousand, the atmosphere is invigorated by salt sea breezes; a choir of five hundred sing the audience into a receptive mood and the speaker is borne from climax to climax on wings of applause."

I would not have you infer from this that a large audience is always necessary to success. Indeed the most successful and satisfactory address I ever made was to an audience of one. If I can make as favorable an impression upon you as I did upon that young lady I shall be gratified.

In Pauling, New York, Chauncey M. Depew by his attention and applause inspired me more than the whole audience beside; while time and again have I been helped to do my best by the presence of that matchless queen of the platform, Frances E. Willard.

The very opposite of greatness has had the same effect upon me. At the Pontiac, Illinois, Chautauqua after lecturing to a great audience, I was invited by the superintendent of the State Reformatory to address the inmates of the prison. At the close of a thirty minutes' talk the superintendent said: "Your address to my boys exceeded the one you gave at the Chautauqua."

Why was it better? At the Chautauqua I was trying to entertain and instruct an intelligent audience. Within the grey walls of that prison I was reaching down to the very depths, endeavoring to lift up human beings, marred and scarred by sin and crime, but dear to the mothers who bore them and the Savior who died for them.

If I were a preacher in New York City and were announced to preach a sermon on home missionary work I would not go to the church by way of the mansions of the rich where children, shod in satin slippers dance and play over velvet tapestry, but by way of the slums where I would meet the children of misery, where,

"To stand at night 'mid the city's throng,

And scan the faces that pass along,

Is to read a book whose every leaf

Is a history of woe and want and grief.

As in tears of sorrow and sin and shame,

You read a story of blight and blame,

Your heart goes further than hand can reach

And you feel a sermon you cannot preach."

Whoever would prove worthy of the platform must have a message and give to it the devotion of mind, heart and conscience, no matter whether his purpose is to convince by reasoning, convert by appeal, delight by rhetoric, or cure melancholy by humor. Each has its useful influence on the platform.

Some persons have an impression that the student deals in logic, while the orator simply starts his tongue to running, and goes off and leaves it to work automatically.

Bishop Robert McIntyre was one of the greatest pulpit orators of his age, yet I dare say this gifted man gave as much time and thought to his famous word painting of the Chicago fire, as Joseph Cook ever gave to mining any treasure of thought he laid upon the altar of education.

I know many teachers of oratory say: "Study your subject, analyze it well, and leave words to the inspiration of the occasion." But suppose when the occasion comes, instead of inspiration one has indigestion, then what?

While a speaker should not be so confined to composition that he cannot reach out after, and cage any passing bird of thought, yet as the leaf of the mulberry tree must go through the stomach of a silk-worm, before it can become silk, so climaxes should be warped and woofed into language before they can be forceful and beautiful.

At the Lincoln, Nebraska, Assembly some years ago a noted humorist gave an address on the "Philosophy of Wit." He called oratory a lost art, and to prove his contention he quoted from William Jennings Bryan's famous Chicago convention speech. He said: "What would a young woman think of her lover who would say 'My darling, the crown of thorns shall never be pressed down upon your fair brow?'" The humorist expected applause but it failed to materialize, for Mr. Bryan is highly respected in his state and his oratory is a charm wherever he is heard.

The speaker not only exhibited poor taste, but his wit was pointless, for when a man can go before a convention of fourteen hundred delegates and by one burst of eloquence capture the convention, secure the nomination for the presidency, and then with the press and the leaders of his party against him go up and down the country, and from the rear of a railroad train, almost capture the White House, the day of oratory is not gone by.

Schriner, the great animal painter, painted the picture of a bony mule eating a tuft of hay. That picture sold in Petersburg, Russia, for fifteen thousand dollars, while the original mule sold for one dollar and thirty cents. If the painting of Schriner made in the price of that mule, a difference of fourteen thousand, nine hundred, ninety-eight dollars and seventy cents why is not word painting worth something?

Listen, while I give you a short extract from the address of James G. Blaine at the memorial service of our martyr President Garfield. With the audience wrought up to the greatest sympathy by his tribute he said:

"Surely if happiness can come from robust health, ideal domestic life and honors of the world James A. Garfield was a happy man that July morning. One moment strong, erect with promise of peaceful, useful years of life before him: The next moment wounded, bleeding, helpless.

"Through the days and weeks of agony that followed, he saw his sun slowly sinking, the plans and purposes of his life broken and the sweetest of household ties soon to be severed.

"Masterful in mortal weakness he became the center of a nation's love, and enshrined in the prayers of the Christian world.

"As the end drew near, his youthful yearning for the sea returned. The White House palace of power became a hospital of pain. He begged to be taken from its prison walls and stifling air.

"Silently, tenderly the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea. There with wan face lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked wistfully out upon the changing wonders of the ocean; its far-off sails white in the morning light; its restless waves rolling shoreward to break in the noon-day sun; the red clouds of evening arching low, kissing the blue lips of the sea, and above the serene, silent pathway to the stars.

"Let us believe his dying eyes read a mystic meaning only the parting soul can know; that he heard the waves of the ebbing tide of life breaking on the far-off shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the calm, sweet breath of heaven's morning."

Place behind these utterances the rich voice and magnetic manner of the "Plumed Knight" of the platform, and you can realize what oratory means.

If you will here pardon me for going from the sublime to the ridiculous, I will show you how a bit of a school boy rhetoric may win its way over solid argument. In the country school I attended, there was a debating society. Parents as well as their sons were admitted to the society and the public was invited to the debates. On one occasion the question for debate was: "Which is the more attractive, the works of nature or the works of art?"

There had been an appeal from a general debate and this time one speaker was chosen from each side. My father was chosen to represent the negative and I the affirmative. My father was a good speaker but so fond of facts he had no use for rhetoric. I had the opening address of thirty minutes, my father had forty-five minutes and I had fifteen minutes to close the debate.

As father talked I wondered how he ever got hold of so many facts. He piled them up until my first address was swept away by the triumphs of art. The only hope I had for the affirmative was in the closing fifteen minutes. Fortunately for me, the judge was a bachelor and very much in love with a golden-haired, accomplished young woman who lived in a country home very near the schoolhouse, and was then in the audience. In closing the debate I referred to father's address in a complimentary manner, and then asked the judge to be seated in imagination on a knoll nearby. On one side of that knoll I placed all my father had claimed for art, withholding nothing. On the other side was the home of this Blue Grass belle. I began a description of her home and personality. I pictured "the orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood and every loved spot" the judge well knew. I pictured the brook that ran through the meadow into the woodland and on down the valley, singing as it ran,

"I wind about and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing;

Here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grey-ling."

When my time was half gone I felt I was gone too unless I could get a little nearer the heart of the judge. Opening the door art had made to shut in the flowers of a lovely family I brought out the golden-haired girl.

Taking off the sun-bonnet of art, that the good-night kisses of the sinking sun might enrich her rosy cheeks and golden tresses, I sent her strolling down the winding walk hedged in by hawthorn and hyacinth to the water's brink. Here I gave her a cushion of blue-grass, and with the rising moon pouring its shimmering sheen upon the ripples at her feet, I sent her voice floating away on the evening air singing: "Roll on silver moon, guide the traveler on his way." Here the audience cheered, the judge smiled and I felt encouraged.

With but two minutes left I had the shapely fingers of nature, take out the hair-pins of art and the golden tresses fall about the snowy neck of nature. Then came the untying of the shoe-strings of art; off came the shoes and stockings of art, and the pretty feet of nature were dipping in the limpid stream. I said, "Judge, the question is, which is the more attractive, the works of nature or the works of art? With my father's picture of steam engines, stage coaches, reapers, binders, mowing machines and every known triumph of art on one side; on the other the highest type of the world's creation, a beautiful woman, the stars of nature stooping to kiss her brow, and laughing waters of nature leaping to kiss her feet; where your eyes would rest there let your decision be given."

After the debate a friend said to me: "It was that last home picture that saved you." My father who heard the remark said, "Yes, a picture of a red-headed girl washing her feet in a goose branch." I may add, I was careful after the contest not to get very near the young lady with whom I had taken such platform liberty.

Reason, rhetoric, pathos, poetry, diction, gesture, wit and humor, each has its place on the platform. While logic sounds the depths of thought, humor ripples its surface with laughing wavelets. While reason cultivates the cornfields of the mind, rhetoric beautifies the pleasure gardens.

John B. Gough was the most popular platform orator of his day. He began lecturing at from two to five dollars an evening. He grew in popularity until he was in demand at five hundred dollars a lecture, and no one before or since more successfully used all the arts of the platform, from the comic that drew the very rabble of the streets, to flights of eloquence that captured college culture. It has been well said: "While Gough was a great preacher of righteousness, he was a whole theatre in dramatic delivery." Lecturers, like preachers, are fishers of men, and there are as many kinds of people in an average audience as there are kinds of fish in the sea. It requires variety of bait for humanity as well as for fish.

Sam Jones used slang as one kind of bait and he used to say: "It beats all how it draws." I saw this verified at Ottawa, Kansas, Chautauqua. Giving a Saturday evening lecture he baited the platform with slang, satire and humor. Sunday afternoon an hour before time for his lecture the people were hurrying to the auditorium. When presented to the great audience he said: "Record! Record! Record!" I remember the sermon as one of the sweetest and most powerful I ever heard. Its influence will not cease this side the eternal morning.

Rowland Hill, the popular London preacher, used quaint humor to draw the people, and powerful appeal to sweep them into the kingdom.

It is said the fountain of laughter and fountain of tears lie very close together. My experience has been, that often the best way to the fountain of tears is by the way of the fountain of laughter. Some years ago at Ocean Grove, New Jersey, I was to lecture on the subject, "Boys and Girls, Nice and Naughty." A wealthy widow and her only son were there from New York, where the young boy had been leading a "gay life." Ocean Grove with its quiet, moral atmosphere was a dull place for this young man. He happened to read the subject for the lecture on the bulletin board, and thinking it suggestive of humor he went to hear the lecture. He had what he went for, as the lecture did deal with the fountain of laughter, but it also dealt with the fountain of tears. It swung the red lantern of danger athwart the pathway of the wayward young man. Following a story of mother love, I said: "Young man, let the cares and burdens of life press you down to the very earth, let the great waves of sorrow roll over your soul, but let no act of yours ever roll a clod upon the coffin of her, whose image, enshrined upon the inner walls of your memory, white winters and long bright summers can never wash away."

A minister told me after, that in a young people's meeting this young man arose and said: "I attended a lecture at Ocean Grove, thinking I would have a humorous entertainment. I left the auditorium the saddest soul in the great audience. Going down to the beach I tried to drive away the spell, but it grew upon me. I could see how I had grieved my mother, and the past came rolling up like the waves of the ocean. I shuddered as they broke on my awakened conscience and quickened memory. Behind me was an unhallowed past, and before me the brink of an awful eternity. There and then I resolved to change my course. Alone under the stars I made my resolve and then started to my mother. She was waiting for me, and said: 'My son, I wished for you at the lecture this evening. I think you would have enjoyed it.' I then told her I was determined to lead a new life and had come to seal my vow with her kiss."

That young man went to the lecture to laugh, he left to walk alone with God under the stars by the ocean deep, there to decide to lead a righteous life, and seal the vow with a loving mother's kiss.

So while in my humble way I have endeavored to use the arts that entertain I have cherished the purpose to better human lives.

I have referred to the platform as being baited for humanity. Have you ever considered how it is baited to resist the forces of evil?

The day was when Satan had an attraction trust that controlled about the whole output of entertainment. The platform now is a picture gallery where is to be had all beauty in nature, from our own land to the land of the midnight sun.

In moving pictures it presents to those who never saw ship, sail or sea, the landing of a great steamer, with splashing of spray as real as if seen from the dock. To those who enjoy music it furnishes band concerts, orchestra, bell-ringing, quartettes, solos, plantation melodies, rag-time tunes and women whistlers.

The platform today beats the devil in output of entertainment. It has scoured field and forest, trained birds and dogs to round out the program of a chautauqua.

Its breadth takes in all creeds and kinds. While it greets with waving lilies Bishop Vincent, leader of the great chautauqua movement, it cordially welcomes the priest, the Jew, the Chinaman, the negro, republican, democrat, progressive, prohibitionist, socialist and suffragist.

The platform has grown to be a great university, a musical festival, a zoological garden, an art institute, an agricultural college and a domestic science school.

Do you ask has the platform any blemishes? I answer yes. All enterprises have their blemishes. The press is a potent power for good and yet many bad things get into print. Sometimes from the platform come voices without the ring of sincerity, entertainments without uplifting influence and anecdotes without respect to public decency. When attending platform entertainments one should discriminate as when eating fish, enjoy the meat and discard the bones. With good taste in selection one rarely ever need go away hungry.

I am often asked: "Where do you find the most appreciative audiences?"

First, I would reply, in rural communities where the people are not surfeited with entertainment. Second, I would say, applause does not always mean appreciation. It is said "still water runs deep." In Chickering Hall, New York, one Sunday afternoon a lady sat before me whose diamonds and dress indicated wealth. A lad sat by her side. My subject was, "The Safe Side of Life for Young Men." It was a temperance address and the thought came to me; that lady is a wine drinker and she is disappointed that I am to talk temperance. She did not cheer with the audience, nor did she give any expression of face that would indicate her interest, except that she kept her eyes fixed upon the speaker. At the close she came to the platform and said: "I brought my son with me and you said what I wanted him to hear; I thank you," and with this she took my hand saying, "Again I thank you," and turning away, left a coin in my hand.

I put it in my pocket, and on returning to the hotel found she had given me a twenty dollar gold piece. That was gold standard appreciation.

I am frequently asked: "What do you recall as the best introduction you ever had?"

I have had all kinds, some amusing, but the one I cherish most was given by Ferd Schumacher, the deceased oatmeal king of Akron, Ohio. He came to this country from Germany. By industry and economy he accumulated enough money to engage in making oatmeal. When he had rounded up more than a million of dollars in wealth, the insurance ran out on his great "Jumbo Mills" in Akron. The insurance company raised the rate and while he was dickering with the company, the great plant was swept away in a midnight fire. Mr. Schumacher was a very earnest temperance man and was to introduce me for the W.C.T.U. in the large armory the Sunday after the fire. It was supposed he would not be present because of the severe strain and his great loss. But prompt to the minute he entered the door, and 'mid the applause of sympathetic friends he took the platform.

In presenting the speaker he said: "Ladies and schentlemen, I must be personal for a moment while I thank the people of Akron for their sympathy. I did not know I had so many good friends. But the mill vot vos burned vos made of stone and vood and nails and paint. We come to talk to you about a fire vot is burning up the homes, the hopes, the peace of vimen and children and the immortal souls of men; vill you please take your sympathy off of Ferd Schumacher and give it to Mr. Bain while he talks about the great fire of intemperance."

I am opposed to indiscriminate immigration to this country, but if the old world has any more Ferd Schumachers desiring to come to America, may He who rules winds and waves, fill with harmless pressure the billows on which they ride and give them safe entrance into our country's haven.

Many inquire of me about the lyceum platform as a profession. My answer is: "like the famed shield it has two sides." One who has a lovely home and rarely leaves it said to me: "I envy you your life-work. You get to see the country, visit the great cities, meet the best people and get fat fees for your lectures." How distance does lend enchantment to the view sometimes!

A few years ago we notified the bureaus not to make engagements away from the railroads in the northwest during the blizzard months. A letter came saying: "Enter Wessington College, outside of Woonsocket." We supposed outside meant adjacent. Arriving at Woonsocket in a blizzard I found Wessington seventeen miles away. Wrapped in robes I made the drive, arriving about six o'clock in the evening. On arrival I was informed that smallpox had broken out in the village. The hotel had been quarantined but a room had been engaged for me in a private home. While taking my supper my hostess said: "Would you know smallpox if you were to see the symptoms?"

"Know what? Why do you ask that?" I asked.

She called attention to the face of her daughter who was serving the supper. One glance and my appetite fled, as I said: "Excuse me, please. I must get ready for my lecture," and I left the room. One hour later I stood before a vaccinated audience with visions of smallpox floating before me, and for days after I imagined I could feel it coming.

Add to this experience midnight rides on freight trains, long drives in rain, mud and storm, ten minutes for lunch at sandwich counter, eight months of the year away from home—the only heaven one who loves his family has on earth, and you have a taste of the side my neighbor did not see.

There is, however, a bright side. Whoever can get the ear of the public from the platform, has an opportunity to sow seed, the fruit of which will be gathered by angels when he has gone to his reward. One so long on the platform as I have been, cannot fail in having experiences that gladden the heart, if he has done faithful service.

Out of hundreds I select one experience that should encourage all who labor in the Master's vineyard. I had traveled two hundred miles in a day to reach an engagement, and the last seven miles in a buggy over a miserable road. I did not reach the village until nine o'clock. Without supper and chilled by the ride, I threw off my wraps and wearily made my way through the lecture. A little later in my room at the hotel, while I was taking a lunch of bread and milk, a minister entered and said: "You seem to be very tired." When I answered, "Never more so," he replied: "I have a story to tell you which will perhaps rest you."

Continuing he said: "Some twenty years ago, you lectured in a village where there was a state normal school. It was Sunday evening. At the hotel were three young men, and to see the girls of the college, these young men went to the lecture. One was the only son of a wealthy widow. He had not seen his mother for months. She had begged him to come home, but he was sowing his wild oats and ashamed to face his mother. That evening you made an earnest appeal to young men in the name of home and mother. The arrow went to the heart of the wild young fellow. On returning to the hotel he said to his companions: 'Come up to my room, let's have a talk.' On entering the room he closed the door and said: 'Boys, I want to open my heart to you. I am overwhelmed with a sense of wrong-doing. I am done with the saloon, done with the gambling table, done with evil associations. I am going home to-morrow and make mother happy. Boys, let's join hands and swear off from drink and evil habits; let's honor our manhood and our mothers.'

"Now for the sequel that I think will rest you. That wild boy is now a wealthy man. I give you his name, though I would not have you call it in public. He is a Christian philanthropist, and has never broken his pledge. The second boy holds the highest office in the gift of this government in a western territory, and the third stands before you now, an humble minister of the gospel."

It did rest me. I would rather have been the humble instrument in turning those three young men to a righteous life, than to wear the brightest wreath that ever encircled a stateman's brow.

For such men as Sylvester Long, Roland A. Nichols, Robert Parker Miles and Bishop Robert McIntyre to tell me my lectures helped to shape their lives, fills my soul with joy as I face the setting sun.

Chance, the noted English engineer, built a thousand sea-lights, shore-lights and harbor-lights. When in old age he lay dying, a wild storm on the sea seemed to revive him by its association with his life-work. He said to the watchers: "Lift me up and let me see once more the ocean in a storm."

As he looked out, the red lightning ripped open the black wardrobe of the firmament, and he saw the salted sea driven by the fury of the hurricane into great billows of foam. Sinking back upon his pillows his last words were: "Thank God, I have been a lighthouse builder, and though the light of my life is fast fading, the beams of my lighthouse are brightening the darkness of many a sailor's night."

When my life-work closes, and my platform experiences are ended, I would ask no better name than that of an humble lighthouse builder, who here and there from the shore-points of life's ocean, has sent out a friendly beam, to brighten the darkness of some brother's night.