Now I have no knowledge of the means used by the Lecture Agency to spread the fame of a lecturer and get him engagements, I only know that after my performances at Newcastle and Shields engagements began to pour in, some to my amazement and secret pride from the great classic Public Schools. These engagements did not come singly either. For instance, I received in one bunch bookings for eight different institutes around Birmingham, all of which were within a short distance, under half an hour’s journey from the centre of the City. I afterwards learned that it was the highly commendable practice of the secretaries of these institutes to meet and arrange their lecture dates so that a lecturer could go from one to the other on successive nights, thus giving him the minimum of travel and expense and enabling him to take lower fees with no monetary disadvantage to himself. Unhappily that good practice has come to an end for nearly all the institutes are no more, at least so I was told by the secretary of one who claimed to be the last survivor.
Speaking of Birmingham, an experience befell me there which is one of the most salient memories of that interesting time. It also shows how little I yet knew of what I may call the intricacies of railway travel in my own country. I was booked to lecture at the Birmingham Town Hall (I had never yet been to the City) at 7 p.m. one Sunday, and chose the L. and N.W. I did not trouble to look at the G.W. time-tables or I might have found, as I did recently, an incomparably better and quicker train with a luncheon car attached. However, I joined the train at Willesden at about 10 a.m. and giving a porter my bag asked him to put me in the Birmingham portion of the train, although I did not then know that any part of the train went anywhere else.
I found a comfortable seat, and when the train stopped at Rugby I went to the refreshment room and bought a penny loaf, bread having been omitted from the nose-bag I carried as suspecting no food arrangements. I rejoined the train, lunched comfortably, and went to sleep afterwards, waking up to find the train passing through Rugeley. Now my scanty geographical knowledge of England told me that something was wrong, an idea which was confirmed when the train drew up at Stafford. Alighting in great trepidation, I sought an official who told me that the next train back to Birmingham was due to arrive there at 8 p.m.—it was then 2 p.m.—but he added abstractedly, “It generally don’t get there much afore half-past.” And my lecture was at 7!
I am fairly well able to keep my head under any circumstances, but I confess that I was really daunted now. Thirty miles from Birmingham on a Sunday afternoon. I thought of a bike, madness! Taxis had not been thought of yet, and a special train was out of the question. So I sat down and allowed my mind to rest awhile—that is I didn’t think of anything for a few minutes. But a genial porter came along who must have seen a certain woe-begone look in my face, for he accosted me with a cheery “What’s up, governor?”
I immediately poured my sad story into his ears as plainly as possible. When I had finished he smiled brightly and said:
“You see our stationmaster, governor; he’ll put you right, you see if he don’t. Fine old cock our stationmaster is.”
I confess that I did not feel hopeful, but the man’s manner was infectious and, moreover, I was ready, like a drowning man, to catch at any straw. So I begged him to lead me to the stationmaster. That worthy was one of the jolliest-looking old men I have ever seen, and his very appearance was comforting. He heard me tell my tale, then said cheerfully:
“You’re all right, young man; Sunday is the very best day for getting anywhere, although the time-table knows nothing about that. I’ve got no less than four theatrical specials coming through this afternoon, any one of which would drop you at Brum. I’ll stop the first one for you and you’ll get to New Street about 3.30. How will that suit you?”
Well, I’ll leave it to you. I am glad to say that I tipped that good porter a florin in my gratitude, and according to promise found myself going up Corporation Street at half-past three. But when at about 6.40 I made my way to Chamberlain Square and saw it black with people all making their way to the magnificent classical building in the centre, I fell a-trembling to think that I might have disappointed that vast crowd. In fact I had hardly recovered myself when the time came for me to go on the platform. But the sight I then saw steadied me. The vast building was crowded to its utmost capacity and I looked upon a veritable sea of heads. The platform and orchestra were also crowded, only leaving a small oblong for me.
After the singing of a hymn and the reading of some notices I was introduced and the volume of cheering that greeted me brought a big lump into my throat, for I was totally unprepared for it as well as unused to such a greeting. My subject was “Romance and Reality at Sea,” and I can say without boasting that not even the great Birmingham orator could have held that audience better. I had been told to cease at the hour, and obedient to instructions I did so, telling the audience why. A mighty shout went up of “Go on, go on,” so I went on for another half-hour, receiving such an ovation as I closed that I was fairly stupefied. Many hundreds of lectures have I enjoyed since then and have received as much appreciation as any man ought to have, but that night in Brum overtops them all. And I was within an ace of missing it altogether!