Confessions of a Tradesman

by Frank Thomas Bullen

The upshot of this practice at home, as I might say, was that I began to get a local reputation as a lecturer, and any struggling church or chapel in the neighbourhood trying to raise funds would give me a cordial invitation to come and help them, providing my own lanternist, etc., for the good of the cause; and for a time I went, unconscious that I was by way of being a blackleg, but exceedingly conscious that the silver collections asked for on these occasions were mostly copper with a goodly sprinkling of farthings. In my natural modesty (the reader may laugh quietly at this but I can assure him that the possession of this quality, so beautiful in women, is in excess entirely detrimental to man, since the world takes us largely at our own valuation), I felt that these meagre results were a sufficient gauge of my popularity.

Still I did remember occasionally, to my comfort, a small experience I had once, in Portland, Oregon. Three of us common sailors were invited to a Methodist Episcopal Church to hear a lecture, by a phenomenal preacher, entitled, "The Life, Death, and Resurrection of an Arab." We were almost appalled by the magnificence of the place, which, for luxury of appointment, could give points to any place of public entertainment I have ever been in. Silk velvet lounges for pews, upholstered like feather beds, soft Turkey carpets on the floor, hammered brass enrichments to the carven woodwork—the place reeked of wealth. At the close of the lecture the preacher went round with his own top hat for the collection, in his humility not desiring any help from the church officers. And the result in spot cash, as they would say, was four dollars and ninety-two cents! of which our party might have been credited with ten cents. A widow's mite indeed, for it was all we had. Able seamen ashore in a foreign port, except on liberty day, rarely have any money, and I am sure I don't know why we had that solitary dime. But the lesson of the affair was that services, however valuable in themselves, rendered gratis, or in the hope that the audience will be generous, are usually taken by the recipients as not worth recognising. The higher the price the performer can charge and get, the more he or she is appreciated. It is a fact never to be forgotten.

Thus it came about that I did not get puffed up by any roseate visions of becoming a popular lecturer—how could I when I had seen an audience of eight hundred yield fourteen shillings and elevenpence three farthings? But I had a solid asset always in the glow of satisfaction that I could address a big crowd and interest them, a pleasure which was hardly clouded even for a moment by such remarks as I heard a burly man make once in a chapel at Peckham where I was lecturing. In a hoarse whisper he said to a neighbour, "What's this 'ere all about, Guvnor?" "Whales," replied his interlocutor. "Ho, is it?" he growled. "Well, s'rimps is more in my line or winkles. 'Ere, let me get aht!"

Almost imperceptibly I was dropping my picture framing connection. Much as I had enjoyed the work, apart from the struggle to add to my income by it, I had grown to hate it from its associations. That none of the men who had trusted me with their goods had even so much as appeared against me when I had figured as a bankrupt under examination only made me feel grateful to them, it did not lessen my horrors of the means by which I had been brought to the sad pass I had so lately emerged from. And so as I did not pursue the business with any energy it gradually fell away, and I was not in the least sorry, although I had not got to the point yet of refusing any work that came in my way.

But I had grown quite unconsciously into the habit of writing, had become used to seeing what I had written in print even to the point of wondering not what the world would think of it, but what the editor would think it worth while to pay me for it. Also I had grown to be infected by the spirit of adventure, common to most literary men. By which I mean that, unlike the tradesman, who, with a steady demand for his goods, which people must have, fixes his profits with due regard to the practice of his competitors, and does not dream of vicissitudes, they must always reckon upon a change in the public taste or in the idiosyncrasies of editors. It is a sportsmanlike feeling, and I must say that it appealed to me very strongly as a pastime, but I always regarded the cheques which I received as a gift from on high. When I got an article or story accepted, I rejoiced and was exceedingly glad, and then I endeavoured to forget all about it. Because I never knew what I was going to get, nor when I was going to receive it. Therefore when it came it was in the nature of a find. Needless to say, I always wanted it very badly, and always wondered whatever I should have done without it, but that I think only added to my joy.

Then came an opportunity which I thought but little of, at that time, but have since seen the importance of. An article appeared in a scientific journal of high standing upon a subject which I had made peculiarly my own, and about which I had the most intimate personal knowledge. A friend brought this article to my notice, and I, feeling amazed at its assumptions, wrote to the editor about it. As a result he requested me to write an article for him on the matter, and I did so. Now, having regard to the standing of the journal in question, and the fact that I had been invited to write, I broke my rule of non-expectancy, and looked for a substantial reward. Alas for my hopes. The article duly appeared—it was well over four thousand words, and in three months I received for it thirty-seven and sixpence! I regard that now as I regarded it then, an outrage. Yet I suppose that is really how men of science are paid in this country.

I am happy to say that I have never written for a scientific journal since, and I put that experience by the side of the other which I mentioned before as being parallel cases and warnings. Why, many a provincial newspaper struggling for a bare existence would have paid a hack writer more. But few people outside the charmed circle know how shamefully certain journals with an immense advertisement revenue exploit the poor scribes who fill their columns of reading matter with the fine fruit of brains and experience.

There is another curious little matter connected with this, which is entirely germane, and I think it of considerable interest, which I should like to mention as a particular instance. At one of our seaport towns I met with a man in Government employ, whose pay was at the rate of about £100 a year, but who possessed ability and mathematical qualifications of a very high order. In the course of conversation with him one day I learned that he had contributed over sixty articles, in the space of two years, to at least a dozen different daily and weekly journals. Some of these articles were 3000 words in length, and none were under a thousand. Many of them had been printed in prominent places, and were obviously considered by the editors as of great importance, as indeed they were. When I had glanced through some of them I said cheerfully, "I am very glad that you have been able to add to your scanty income in this way; it should lead to something very lucrative in time." "Oh," he replied, quite innocently, "I have never received anything for them. I thought that they weren't worth paying for."

I was astounded for a moment, and then asking him for a piece of paper, I drafted him a form of account to send to each of those journals. He did so, and in a week's time I was delighted to receive a grateful letter from him saying that my little bit of advice had resulted in his getting £60. He added that it would probably save the life of his dear wife, who had been ordered away by the doctor, advice impossible for him to follow before owing to lack of means. Well, heaven knows the remuneration he received was little enough, but it was better than nothing. What a condition of things when concerns yielding huge fortunes to their owners will stoop so low as to allow poor men to give them of their best, and never offer a halfpenny in return until dunned for it, and then only on so niggardly a scale.

I cannot close this chapter without saying that this practice is by no means universal, but it is decidedly general. I have myself been begged by an editor, yes, literally begged, to write an article for a pittance so small that I am ashamed to say I accepted it; and found afterwards that the article in question had been sold to several other journals for a big profit!