Is there any pleasure akin to this? I think not. At any rate, though the above lines may seem somewhat vainglorious, I know that they tell no more than the truth. Had I any doubts about that, the remembrance of the hatred with which I was regarded by many old members of the various open-air bands where I was invited to speak while they stood aside, would reassure me. But I have no doubts. I knew that I was in my proper element and my hearers knew it also.
This brings me naturally to my first lecture. I was associated with a very humble little gathering of Christians at Peckham, a part of whose activities was the providing of free teas periodically during the winter. And it came about that winter befell and there was no money wherewith to purchase any materials for these feeble banquets.
None of the members could help, for we were all living on the edge, and we began to say to ourselves that this year the children must go without. But a new convert was added unto us, filled with the big desire of doing something, and he was mightily distressed at the thought of such a backward stride as we were contemplating. So one evening during a prolonged discussion of ways and means at our little mission hall the thought suddenly occurred to me that if I could get some slides made and we could hire a hall—our own little place not being suitable, I might give a lecture on my experiences in the South Sea Whale Fishery, which ought to bring in something for the Tea Fund. Our new brother seized the notion at once and offered to advance £5 from his savings for the expenses. It was there and then decided to take the Peckham Public Hall for the occasion and when the affair was over, whatever the result, the slides were to be mine to use as I thought fit afterwards.
Everybody worked with a will, and I remember that somebody wrote to Sir John Blundell Maple, because they said as member for the division he was good for a guinea, and he was. I must not forget either that the proprietor of the hall let it to us at half-price and that a lantern enthusiast, Mr. R. Sprules, operated free. Well, the great night came and the hall was crowded. Unhappily here the only hitch occurred at the outset. A highly respected local minister was asked to take the chair, and he, spying a prominent member of his congregation in the audience, said after a few preliminaries:
“Our brother Jones will now lead us in prayer!”
Remember it was a Public Lecture, composed of all sorts and conditions of men and women, yet that old ass thumped his chair and roared out what would have been blasphemous nonsense if he had known it, for fifteen minutes. Oh dear good patient people, you stood it, or sat it stolidly, but I tremble to think what you might legitimately have done. At last I got started and I can freely confess that my relief at the escape from disaster on that terrible opening was so great as to overcome any stage fright that I might otherwise have felt. The audience was splendid and I grew more and more at my ease with them until I noticed that my slides were nearly finished. Then I had a small panic. Had I given my listeners enough? Impossible, for I did not seem to have been talking for forty-five minutes. So I leaned forward and asked the time, in a stage whisper, of a friend whom I knew had a watch. He said—his voice wouldn’t modulate and filled the hall, “Five past ten, Tom!”
There was a sudden upheaval, lights were turned up by some wise watcher and half the audience fled to catch trains, for they came from all parts of London. And my superintendent, a genial little chimney-sweep, coming to the front of the platform to “render thanks” cried sobbingly:
“I never knew we ’ad such a bruvver!”
A few of us adjourned to the local stewed-eel shop for refreshment and mutual congratulations upon the wonderful success of the evening, most wonderful of all in that the net proceeds, after all expenses were paid, came to thirteen pounds, enough to provide, with tea at 1s. a pound, milk at 4d. a tin, and cake at 3d. a pound, refreshment for a noble army of children. Also the fragments were no mean consideration to the parents, as we found later.
But before closing this description of my first lecture I must include one out of the many startling coincidences of my life. Remember this was in Rye Lane in 1896. After the lecture was over a man came up to me and said: