ARRIVAL--THE CUSTOM HOUSE--THINGS LOOK BAD--THE INTERVIEWERS--FIRST
VISITS--THINGS LOOK BRIGHTER--"O VANITY OF VANITIES."
_New York Harbor; January 5._
At seven o'clock in the morning the Custom House officers came on board.
One of them at once recognizing me, said, calling me by name, that he
was glad to see me back, and inquired if I had not brought Madame with
me this time. It is extraordinary the memory of many of these Americans!
This one had seen me for a few minutes two years before, and probably
had had to deal with two or three hundred thousand people since.
All the passengers came to the saloon and made their declarations one
after another, after which they swore in the usual form that they had
told the truth, and signed a paper to that effect. This done, many a
poor pilgrim innocently imagines that he has finished with the Custom
House, and he renders thanks to Heaven that he is going to set foot on a
soil where a man's word is not doubted. He reckons without his host. In
spite of his declaration, sworn and signed, his trunks are opened and
searched with all the dogged zeal of a policeman who believes he is on
the track of a criminal, and who will only give up after perfectly
convincing himself that the trunks do not contain the slightest dutiable
article. Everything is taken out and examined. If there are any objects
of apparel that appear like new ones to that scrutinizing eye, look out
for squalls.
[Illustration: CUSTOM HOUSE OFFICERS.]
I must say that the officer was very kind to me. For that matter, the
luggage of a man who travels alone, without Madame and her
_impedimenta_, is soon examined.
Before leaving the ship, I went to shake hands with Captain Parsell,
that experienced sailor whose bright, interesting conversation, added to
the tempting delicacies provided by the cook, made many an hour pass
right cheerily for those who, like myself, had the good fortune to sit
at his table. I thanked him for all the kind attentions I had received
at his hands. I should have liked to thank all the employees of the
"White Star" line company. Their politeness is above all praise; their
patience perfectly angelical. Ask them twenty times a day the most
absurd questions, such as, "Will the sea soon calm down?" "Shall we get
into harbor on Wednesday?" "Do you think we shall be in early enough to
land in the evening?" and so on. You find them always ready with a kind
and encouraging answer. "The barometer is going up and the sea is going
down," or, "We are now doing our nineteen knots an hour." Is it true, or
not? It satisfies you, at all events. In certain cases it is so sweet to
be deceived! Better to be left to nurse a beloved illusion than have to
give it up for a harsh reality that you are powerless against. Every one
is grateful to those kind sailors and stewards for the little innocent
fibs that they are willing to load their consciences with, in order that
they may brighten your path across the ocean a little.
* * * * *
_Everett House. Noon._
[Illustration: CAPTAIN PARSELL, R. M. S. "MAJESTIC."]
My baggage examined, I took a cab to go to the hotel. Three dollars for
a mile and a half. A mere trifle.
[Illustration: EVERY ONE HAS THE GRIPPE.]
It was pouring with rain. New York on a Sunday is never very gay. To-day
the city seemed to me horrible: dull, dirty, and dreary. It is not the
fault of New York altogether. I have the spleen. A horribly stormy
passage, the stomach upside down, the heart up in the throat, the
thought that my dear ones are three thousand miles away, all these
things help to make everything look black. It would have needed a
radiant sun in one of those pure blue skies that North America is so
rich in to make life look agreeable and New York passable to-day.
In ten minutes cabby set me down at the Everett House. After having
signed the register, I went and looked up my manager, whose bureau is on
the ground floor of the hotel.
The spectacle which awaited me was appalling.
There sat the unhappy Major Pond in his office, his head bowed upon his
chest, his arms hanging limp, the very picture of despair.
The country is seized with a panic. Everybody has the influenza. Every
one does not die of it, but every one is having it. The malady is not
called influenza over here, as it is in Europe. It is called "Grippe."
No American escapes it. Some have _la grippe_, others have _the grippe_,
a few, even, have _the la grippe_. Others, again, the lucky ones, think
they have it. Those who have not had it, or do not think they have it
yet, are expecting it. The nation is in a complete state of
demoralization. Theaters are empty, business almost suspended, doctors
on their backs or run off their legs.
At twelve a telegram is handed to me. It is from my friend, Wilson
Barrett, who is playing in Philadelphia. "Hearty greetings, dear friend.
Five grains of quinine and two tablets of antipyrine a day, or you get
_grippe_." Then came many letters by every post. "Impossible to go and
welcome you in person. I have _la grippe_. Take every precaution." Such
is the tenor of them all.
The outlook is not bright. What to do? For a moment I have half a mind
to call a cab and get on board the first boat bound for Europe.
I go to my room, the windows of which overlook Union Square. The sky is
somber, the street is black and deserted, the air is suffocatingly
warm, and a very heavy rain is beating against the windows.
Shade of Columbus, how I wish I were home again!
* * * * *
Cheer up, boy, the hand-grasps of your dear New York friends will be
sweet after the frantic grasping of stair-rails and other ship furniture
for so many days.
I will have lunch and go and pay calls.
* * * * *
Excuse me if I leave you for a few minutes. The interviewers are waiting
for me downstairs in Major Pond's office. The interviewers! a gay note
at last. The hall porter hands me their cards. They are all there:
representatives of the _Tribune_, the _Times_, the _Sun_, the _Herald_,
the _World_, the _Star_.
What nonsense Europeans have written on the subject of interviewing in
America, to be sure! To hear them speak, you would believe that it is
the greatest nuisance in the world.
A Frenchman writes in the _Figaro_: "I will go to America if my life can
be insured against that terrific nuisance, interviewing."
An Englishman writes to an English paper, on returning from America:
"When the reporters called on me, I invariably refused to see them."
Trash! Cant! Hypocrisy! With the exception of a king, or the prime
minister of one of the great powers, a man is only too glad to be
interviewed. Don't talk to me about the nuisance, tell the truth, it is
always such a treat to hear it. I consider that interviewing is a
compliment, a great compliment paid to the interviewed. In asking a man
to give you his views, so as to enlighten the public on such and such a
subject, you acknowledge that he is an important man, which is
flattering to him; or you take him for one, which is more flattering
still.
I maintain that American interviewers are extremely courteous and
obliging, and, as a rule, very faithful reporters of what you say to
them.
Let me say that I have a lurking doubt in my mind whether those who have
so much to say against interviewing in America have ever been asked to
be interviewed at all, or have even ever run such a danger.
I object to interviewing as a sign of decadence in modern journalism;
but I do not object to being interviewed, I like it; and, to prove it, I
will go down at once, and be interviewed.
* * * * *
_Midnight._
The interview with the New York reporters passed off very well. I went
through the operation like a man.
After lunch, I went to see Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, who had shown me
a great deal of kindness during my first visit to America. I found in
him a friend ready to welcome me.
The poet and literary critic is a man of about fifty, rather below
middle height, with a beautifully chiseled head. In every one of the
features you can detect the artist, the man of delicate, tender, and
refined feelings. It was a great pleasure for me to see him again. He
has finished his "Library of American Literature," a gigantic work of
erudite criticism and judicious compilation, which he undertook a few
years ago in collaboration with Miss Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. These
eleven volumes form a perfect national monument, a complete cyclopaedia
of American literature, giving extracts from the writings of every
American who has published anything for the last three hundred years
(1607-1890).
[Illustration: THE INTERVIEWERS.]
On leaving him, I went to call on Mrs. Anna Bowman Dodd, the author of
"Cathedral Days," "Glorinda," "The Republic of the Future," and other
charming books, and one of the brightest conversationalists it has ever
been my good fortune to meet. After an hour's chat with her, I had
forgotten all about the _grippe_, and all other more or less imaginary
miseries.
I returned to the Everett House to dress, and went to the Union League
Club to dine with General Horace Porter.
The general possesses a rare and most happy combination of brilliant
flashing Parisian wit and dry, quiet, American humor. This charming
_causeur_ and _conteur_ tells an anecdote as nobody I know can do; he
never misses fire. He assured me at table that the copyright bill will
soon be passed, for, he added, "we have now a pure and pious
Administration. At the White House they open their oysters with prayer."
The conversation fell on American society, or, rather, on American
Societies. The highest and lowest of these can be distinguished by the
use of _van_. "The blue blood of America put it before their names, as
_Van Nicken_; political society puts it after, as _Sullivan_."
O VAN-ITAS VAN-ITATUM!
Time passed rapidly in such delightful company.
I finished the evening at the house of Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll. If
there had been any cloud of gloom still left hanging about me, it would
have vanished at the sight of his sunny face. There was a small
gathering of some thirty people, among them Mr. Edgar Fawcett, whose
acquaintance I was delighted to make. Conversation went on briskly with
one and the other, and at half-past eleven I returned to the hotel
completely cured.
To-morrow morning I leave for Boston at ten o'clock to begin the lecture
tour in that city, or, to use an Americanism, to "open the show."
* * * * *
There is a knock at the door.
[Illustration: HALL PORTER.]
It is the hall porter with a letter: an invitation to dine with the
members of the Clover Club at Philadelphia on Thursday next, the 16th.
I look at my list of engagements and find I am in Pittsburg on that day.
I take a telegraph form and pen the following, which I will send to my
friend, Major M. P. Handy, the president of this lively association:
Many thanks. Am engaged in Pittsburg on the 16th. Thank God, cannot
attend your dinner.
I remember how those "boys" cheeked me two years ago, laughed at me, sat
on me. That's my telegram to you, dear Cloverites, with my love.
[Illustration]