I cannot help feeling glad though that I never reached that stage, for I cherish the most delightful memories of all my hosts and hostesses, save two or three, and those only during the South African War, when some of the best and most truthful of men seemed to lose their heads and forget what the truth was, deeming any falsehood believable if it would blacken the character of men who were giving their lives for their country. I certainly did have some bad times with those people, and have had to leave the company to avoid speaking my mind, but I hope that will soon all be forgotten now.
What I chiefly prize about the hospitality which I received is the numbers of good friends, not ephemera, but real friends that I made. I have gone into a house one day and left it the next, having in the meantime made friends whom I can never cease to love while I live and who I feel humbly grateful to think will never cease to love me until they can love no longer. But of all the hospitality I ever enjoyed the quaintest was at Rishton, a suburb of Blackburn, and the manner of it was as follows. I was lecturing at Blackburn in the Town Hall, and on arrival went to the principal hotel with the secretary of the society who met me at the station. There, however, I could only get a bathroom to change in, for they were full, and my friend sent a man round with my bag to another hotel, assuring me that I should be all right there.
After the lecture the secretary invited me to spend an hour at the club, and as I felt fresh I readily consented. There I was introduced to a number of genial clubmen, and the time flew rapidly by until one of those present said:
“I don’t want to break up this happy gathering, but I understand Mr. Bullen’s staying at the ——, and if he doesn’t go now he’ll get shut out. It’s eleven o’clock, and they’re mighty particular.”
I rose at once and began to shake hands, when one of the members said nonchalantly:
“Mr. Bullen isn’t stopping at the ——, he’s stopping with me. George, go over to the —— and ask for Mr. Bullen’s bag; tell ’em I sent you.”
There was some little, very little, palaver over this, but I laughed and said I was quite happy whichever way it was, and so we settled down again. It was something past two and only a few of the members remained when my host said cheerily:
“Now, Mr. Bullen, if you’re quite ready, don’t let me hurry you, I think we’ll be getting home.”
I rose with haste and professed my perfect readiness to go, indeed I had been wondering slightly how much longer this club séance was going to last. My host then shouted:
“George, call a hansom! An’ see what sort of a night it is, won’t ye?”