I was once asked to give a lecture, and it was
widely announced. I saw my own name in capital letters upon
advertisements displayed in the street. On the evening appointed, I
went to the place, and met the chairman of the meeting and some of
the officials in a room adjoining the hall where I was to speak. We
bowed and smiled, paid mutual compliments, congratulated each other
on the importance of the occasion. At last the chairman consulted
his watch and said it was time to be beginning. A procession was
formed, a door was majestically thrown open by an attendant, and we
walked with infinite solemnity on to the platform of an entirely
empty hall, with rows of benches all wholly unfurnished with
guests. I think it was one of the most ludicrous incidents I ever
remember. The courteous confusion of the chairman, the dismay of
the committee, the colossal nature of the fiasco filled me, I am
glad to say, not with mortification, but with an overpowering
desire to laugh.
I may add that there had been a mistake about the announcement of
the hour, and ten minutes later a minute audience did arrive, whom
I proceeded to address with such spirit as I could muster; but I
have always been grateful for the humorous nature of the snub
administered to me.
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