Only my fixed determination to avoid mentioning names prevents me from giving the title of a noble chairman who filled that office for me in a certain country town. Those of my late colleagues who do me the honour to read these lines will quite understand what I mean when I say that I had not the least idea, although I saw his name on the bills, that the chairman would appear. The trick is a very old one, and so often practised that it ceases to surprise. A good name brings the people, and an apology for his unavoidable absence and inability to keep his engagement from some well-known substitute always seems to go down. Therefore I was considerably astonished when the noble individual arrived punctually, accompanied by his lady. He made a most charming introductory speech, lasting barely ten minutes, during which he said many pleasant things, but more especially made it evident that he had carefully read my books, and so got up the subject on which I was to lecture. And after the lecture was over he made another little speech, to which I listened with extreme pleasure. In fact, I have rarely enjoyed anything more than I did this noble gentleman’s two addresses, so free were they from fulsome adulation on the one hand, and offensive patronage on the other.
By way of contrast I recall a most unpleasant experience I had in a Congregational church of all places. Now most of my lectures have been given in connection with Nonconformist places of worship, and except that they are rather given to lengthy proceedings at the end, when everybody wants to get away, the lecturer most of all, I must say I have always enjoyed them very much—especially Congregationalists. Some of the other denominations are a bit inclined to be narrow (though that is really personal), but I have always found among the Congregationalists a broadness of toleration and outlook that is very pleasant. It is no easy matter, then, to judge of my surprise when during my lecture at this particular church of which I am speaking, my chairman, who was the pastor, suddenly sprang to his feet and flatly contradicted something I had said. The funny part was that it was really a quotation I made, and the utterance of the chairman was: “Professor So-and-so never said anything of the kind!”
This sudden outburst placed one in a grave difficulty. I had never had a similar experience, and I, of course, did not carry books with me to prove the correctness of my memory. For a few seconds there was an utter silence and considerable nervous tension. Then I said very quietly and distinctly:
“Perhaps the best thing to do under the circumstances, Mr. Chairman, will be to allow the lecture to proceed, and at its close I will endeavour to justify any statements I have made, and answer any of your questions.”
The chairman just bobbed up and apologised, saying that he had forgotten himself, and I proceeded. But at the close of the lecture, though I professed my willingness to go freely into the matter, there was no challenging word spoken by the chairman or anyone else, and the matter then dropped, as they say in the House of Lords. But I have often wondered since how far the chairman of a lecture is justified in thus interrupting the lecturer, even when his knowledge of the subject is far greater than that of the speaker. In this case it certainly was not so, but the chairman was fanatic upon the subject of evolution, and he was afraid that I was trying to teach evolution to his congregation by a side-wind.
I had a great deal of fun out of one chairman, who was also my host, a rough jewel, if ever there was one. It was in one of the dingy, dreary Lancashire manufacturing towns, and my host was the Mayor as well as being the biggest mill-owner in the place. He had risen literally from the ranks, and his speech was hardly intelligible to me; also his house, which was small, was so crammed with incongruous rubbish as to be almost uninhabitable, while he and his good wife spoke their minds to me and each other with a frankness that took a little getting used to, as they say.
They were mightily amused at me, principally at my very small appetite. Their table was loaded at meal-times with the most solid food, and I specially remember the hot buttered toast, the hot, greasy cakes, the great dish of fried fish at tea-time, the very thought of that mountain of food gives me indigestion. That, however, is not the point. On the day of my lecture the weather was very bad, and as the time approached for us to go, the rain increased, until it was a regular tropical downpour. His Worship’s carriage was at the door, and we scurried into it, very nearly getting drenched in the passage. As soon as we had started I said to his Worship: “It’s almost a pity to leave home, isn’t it? There cannot be anybody there on a night like this.”
“They’ll be all there,” he replied sententiously. “The ’all’ll be full, you’ll see. We don’t mind th’ weather up ’ere.”
I cannot hope to reproduce his Lancashire dialect, so do not try. Indeed, it would be impossible, for most of the time he was quite unintelligible to me, and I had previously prided myself on my ability, not merely to pick up languages, but to assimilate any dialect of my own tongue. Nothing more was said between us, and we duly arrived at the hall, when his Worship at once asked the official who met us at the side door if the audience were in their places, and was answered by a laconic “Ay!” We entered the anteroom on the stroke of eight, and, to my amazement as well as amusement, an official came forward with the mayoral robes and insignia of office—very imposing and massive they were too. Truly his Worship looked a gallant figure as he stalked on to the platform, and I felt quite insignificant beside him in my evening dress.
A great shout of welcome went up from the audience at which I bowed, but his Worship stood stiffly erect, and then, taking my seat, I stared with utter astonishment at the sight before me. The great hall was packed from end to end, even to the standing room, and there was quite a haze hanging over them, from the heat acting on their wet clothes. Some one, I forget who, had told me that many of them had been in their places since seven o’clock, and as I looked at them I felt full of pity, for I thought how dull and drab their lives must be for them to crowd like this to a lecture. There can be little else here to amuse them.