Recollections / The Reminiscences of the Busy Life of One Who Has Played the Varied Parts of Sailor, Author & Lecturer

by Frank Thomas Bullen

It is of no use disguising the fact that the lecturers themselves do often give the secretary a bad quarter of an hour. I am not now thinking of those secretaries who seem to imagine that no one but themselves has any idea of time, dates or engagements. Who will worry with correspondence, both agency and lecturer, weeks ahead of an engagement, as if other people had nothing else to do but write and say, “Yes, I have your date noted, and if I live will be on hand as arranged.” No, I am now thinking of the usual secretary, who, having got his agreement signed, goes calmly on his way, until the day of the lecture. He knows that he has done his part, knows that at eight there will be in all human probability an eager crowd of some eight hundred people or so to hear the lecturer, but, being human, he cannot help wishing that he had just a line from the lecturer to say that it is all right. Of course, if we were all perfect in every respect, he would not worry, but—you never can tell, and a halfpenny post card is so easily sent, and makes such an enormous difference to the peace of mind of a man who is doing a lot of gratuitous work, and does not deserve gratuitous worry as well.

Yet it does happen that the minute hand of the clock goes steadfastly on towards the XII which will denote that it is VIII o’clock, and not a sign is received from the lecturer. Then just as everybody is beginning to wonder what the secretary will do, the lecturer strolls in, and is calmly indignant to learn that there has been any anxiety about him. Forgetfulness may explain, though it cannot excuse, such behaviour. I have been guilty of forgetfulness myself, but I am glad to say that on these occasions I have always arrived long enough before the time for appearing to relieve the secretary of that gnawing worry that he must feel if he is fit for his job when nothing has been heard from the lecturer, and he does not appear until the clock has struck.

But there are deeper depths than these for the hapless secretary. There are the occasions when the lecturer does not write and does not appear? To my shame and sorrow be it said I was once guilty of such a crime, and I can only plead for forgiveness on the following grounds. I was booked to lecture at Croydon on a certain date which fell on a Monday. Now on Friday I had travelled down to Altrincham, having accepted an invitation to stay there with a dear friend until Monday. Unhappily I caught a very severe cold going down, and on Sunday night was delirious, the condition lasting over Monday. In my lucid intervals I remembered my engagement, but, most strangely, thought it was for Tuesday, and when on Tuesday morning I awoke sane, though very weak, my first thought was a glad one—I should be able to keep my appointment after all. I turned up my lecture slip at breakfast-time for the secretary’s address, in order to send him a wire, and then discovered that my engagement was for the previous night! I cannot sufficiently blame myself for not letting the agency know my whereabouts, for the outraged secretary had rung them up, and they could not find me, my wife having accompanied me to Altrincham.

The condition of that secretary’s mind with that packed hall before him, and not only no lecturer, but no news of him, I can never get out of my mental vision, and I feel that it was such a fault as I could never meet by any sufficient apology. I could not help falling ill, and I was perfectly justified in visiting a friend, but nothing could excuse my failing to let my agents know of my whereabouts when away from home during the lecture season, except when keeping engagements made for me by them. To finish the story. I was treated with the utmost courtesy and forbearance. They made another appointment for me much later on in the season, but the audience neither forgot nor forgave, and when I did appear the hall was barely a quarter filled, which, of course, penalised the wrong people altogether.

Another occasion I must refer to. Since I cannot find any fault, any reasonable fault that is, with secretaries, it is only fitting that I should admit some of my own. I was engaged to lecture at Ilford on a certain evening at a Presbyterian Church. Carelessly glancing at the engagement slip, I did not notice with sufficient precision where the church was situated, but as I had for some years lived near Ilford I did not trouble about that. I knew, or thought I knew, where the place was. I lived in the country then, so I stayed at a hotel in London, and in good time dressed and caught my train from Fenchurch Street. I had hardly been in the train a minute before I realised that I had left my engagement slip in the hotel. It did not trouble me at all, for I felt sure of where to find the Congregational Church. Now, why or how the denomination got changed in my mind I cannot tell, but I know that until past nine o’clock I scoured Ilford, vastly grown and changed since I knew it, and could find no Congregational Church that was open or where there were any signs of a lecture.

So I was fain to return, beaten and horribly ashamed of myself, because I, being a Londoner, and withal well acquainted with that particular neighbourhood, had failed to find the place where I was to lecture. Also that I had been so careless as to leave my instructions in my room at the hotel. I found immediately upon my return what a stupid mistake I had made, and at once sat down to write the most complete apology I could compose. I offered no excuse for myself, indeed, I don’t think I could frame a decent one, and I also offered to agree to any proposal that the secretary might make.

That gentleman replied very kindly and courteously, proposing that I should deduct all the expense the society had been put to from the amount of my fee, and fixing another date. I thankfully agreed, and I am glad to say that the audience on my second date was a bumper one. But the pastor, who was my chairman, did his duty by me as a faithful friend. He produced a MS., which he flourished before my eyes, saying that after his previous experience, when he had to rake in his memory for something to tell the congregation, so that they should not go away utterly disappointed, he had come prepared for any little forgetfulness on the part of Mr. Bullen. After a few more pleasantries of the sort, I stood up and confessed my offence, repeated my apologies, and then said that I did not know whether it was or was not an aggravation or a palliation of my offence that it should be the first time such a thing had happened to me in a lecturing experience of sixteen years, and a delivery of over a thousand lectures. I did not mention the Croydon affair, for I was then ill, and had I not been I should certainly have kept my engagement. And the rest was joy.

Three times in the course of my lecture career I have been approached by secretaries, all, as I well remember, paid officials, to ask if I would reduce my fee, after the lecture. The excuse in every case was the same: the low state of the society’s funds. My answer was in all cases the same, i.e. had I been asked before the engagement whether I would under the circumstances lecture for a reduced fee, the opportunity of choice would have been afforded me. But I always went on to ask on what grounds of equity could I, a single individual earning my living, be expected to contribute several pounds to the funds of a society consisting of several hundred people. And the answer was always that my objections were perfectly just, and that had the secretary been able to exercise his own option, he would not have put such a request to me, but that, being a paid official, he had to do as he was told.

Now I would not for one moment attempt to dissuade any of my brethren or sisters of the lecture platform from giving their services in the cause of charity, when asked to do so beforehand. But I would strongly urge them always to insist upon their full fee being paid to them, and then making it, or part of it, a donation to the funds. For if a lecturer consents to give his services, he may be very sure that he will get a very poor audience, no one will think it is worth their while to work in order that his, the lecturer’s, efforts in the cause of charity may be successful. In a word, what people get for nothing they do not value, which is an old but much ignored axiom.

In this connection I would like to mention an experience of my own in Scotland, although I may not give the names of the two places. It was in bitter winter weather, very snowy, when I arrived, and the town looked frost-bitten. But the hall where I was to lecture was a beautiful one, warm and comfortable, and the great library and reading-rooms attached were well filled. The secretary, a genial, jovial gentleman, bade me heartily welcome, and introduced me to several grave magnates as the members of his committee. As the clock struck we all filed on to the platform, and to my consternation there was just one more person in the audience than there was on the platform.