"Tell us more," said the prince.
"Well," I continued, "one day the mayor of the city invited me
to accompany him to the station, as the divorce train was about
to arrive. I found at the station a judge and one of the court
attendants. The attendant had a large package of divorce decrees
to which the seal of the court had been attached, and also the
signature of the judge. They only required to have the name of
the party desiring divorce inserted. Alongside the judge stood
a clergyman of the Established Church in full robes of his sacred
office. When the passengers had all left the cars, the conductor
jumped on to one of the car platforms and shouted to the crowd:
'All those who desire divorce will go before the judge and make
their application.'
"When they had all been released by the court the conductor again
called out: 'All those who have been accompanied by their partners,
or where both have been to-day released from their former husbands
and wives to be remarried, will go before the rector.' He married
them in a body, whereupon they all resumed their places on the
train. The blowing of the whistle and the ringing of the bell on
the locomotive was the music of their first, second, or third
honeymoon journey."
The old lady threw up her hands in horror and cried: "Such an
impious civilization must come speedily not only to spiritual and
moral destruction, but chaos."
Most of the company saw what an amazing caricature the whole story
was and received it with great hilarity. The effect of it was to
end, for that circle, at least, and their friends, a serious
discussion of the universality of American divorces.
The prince was always an eager sportsman and a very chivalric
one. At the time of one of the races at Cowes he became very
indignant at the conduct of an American yachtsman who had entered
his boat. It was charged by the other competitors that this
American yachtsman violated all the unwritten laws of the contest.
After the race the prince said to me: "A yacht is a gentleman's
home, whether it is racing or sailing about for pleasure. The
owner of this yacht, to make her lighter and give her a better
chance, removed all the furniture and stripped her bare. He even
went so far, I am told, that when he found the steward had left
his stateroom a tooth-brush, he threw it out of the port window."
It will be seen from these few anecdotes how intensely human was
the Prince of Wales. He did much for his country, both as prince
and king, and filled in a wise and able way the functions of his
office. Certainly no official did quite so much for the peace of
Europe during his time, and no royalty ever did more to make the
throne popular with the people. I heard him speak at both formal
and informal occasions, and his addresses were always tactful
and wise.
While at Homburg we used to enjoy the delightful excursions to
Nauheim, the famous nerve-cure place. I met there at one time
a peculiar type of Americans, quite common in former years. They
were young men who, having inherited fortunes sufficient for their
needs, had no ambitions. After a strenuous social life at home
and in Europe, they became hypochondriacs and were chasing cures
for their imaginary ills from one resort to another.
One of them, who had reached middle life, had, of course, become
in his own opinion a confirmed invalid. I asked him: "What
brought you here? You look very well."
"That is just my trouble," he answered. "I look very well and
so get no sympathy, but my nervous system is so out of order that
it only takes a slight shock to completely disarrange it. For
instance, the cause of my present trouble. I was dining in Paris
at the house of a famous hostess, and a distinguished company
was present. The only three Americans were two ladies and myself.
I was placed between them. You know one of these ladies, while
a great leader at home, uses very emphatic language when she is
irritated. The dinner, like most French dinners, with many
courses, was unusually long. Suddenly this lady, leaning over
me, said to her sister: 'Damn it, Fan, will this dinner never end?'
The whole table was shocked and my nerves were completely shattered."
The great war, as I think, exterminated this entire tribe.
I was delighted to find at Nauheim my old friends, Mark Twain and
the Reverend Doctor Joseph Twichell, of Hartford, Conn. Doctor
Twichell was Mark Twain's pastor at home. He was in college with
me at Yale, and I was also associated with him in the governing
corporation of Yale University. He was one of the finest wits
and remarkable humorists of his time. Wit and humor were with
him spontaneous, and he bubbled over with them. Mark Twain's
faculties in that line were more labored and had to be worked out.
Doctor Twichell often furnished in the rough the jewels which
afterwards in Mark Twain's workshop became perfect gems.
I invited them to come over and spend the day and dine with me
in the evening at Homburg. Mark Twain at that time had the
reputation in England of being the greatest living wit and humorist.
It soon spread over Homburg that he was in town and was to dine
with me in the evening, and requests came pouring in to be invited.
I kept enlarging my table at the Kursaal, with these requests,
until the management said they could go no farther. I placed
Mark Twain alongside Lady Cork, one of the most brilliant women
in England. In the course of years of acquaintance I had met
Mark Twain under many conditions. He was very uncertain in a
social gathering. Sometimes he would be the life of the occasion
and make it one to be long remembered, but generally he contributed
nothing. At this dinner, whenever he showed the slightest sign
of making a remark, there was dead silence, but the remark did
not come. He had a charming time, and so did Lady Cork, but the
rest of the company heard nothing from the great humorist, and
they were greatly disappointed.
The next morning Mark Twain came down to the springs in his
tramping-suit, which had fairly covered the continent. I introduced
him to the Prince of Wales, and he was charmed with him in their
hour of walk and talk. At dinner that evening the prince said
to me: "I would have invited Mark Twain this evening, if I thought
he had with him any dinner clothes."
"At my dinner last night," I said, "he met every conventional
requirement."
"Then," continued the prince, "I would be much obliged if you
would get him for dinner with me to-morrow evening."
It was very much the same company as had dined with the prince
the night before. Again Twain was for a long time a complete
disappointment. I knew scores of good things of his and tried
my best to start him off, but without success. The prince, who
was unusually adroit and tactful in drawing a distinguished guest
out, also failed. When the dinner was over, however, and we had
reached the cigars, Mark Twain started in telling a story in his
most captivating way. His peculiar drawl, his habit in emphasizing
the points by shaking his bushy hair, made him a dramatic narrator.
He never had greater success. Even the veteran Mark himself was
astonished at the uproarious laughter which greeted almost every
sentence and was overwhelming when he closed.
There are millions of stories in the world, and several hundred
of them good ones. No one knew more of them than Mark Twain,
and yet out of this vast collection he selected the one which
I had told the night before to the same company. The laughter
and enjoyment were not at the story, but because the English had,
as they thought, caught me in retailing to them from Mark Twain's
repertoire one of his stories. It so happened that it was a story
which I had heard as happening upon our railroad in one of my
tours of inspection. I had told it in a speech, and it had been
generally copied in the American newspapers. Mark Twain's
reputation as the greatest living humorist caused that crowd to
doubt the originality of my stories.
Mark had declined the cigars, but the prince was so delighted that
he offered him one of the highly prized selection from his own
case. This drew from him a story, which I have not seen in any
of his books. I have read Mark Twain always with the greatest
pleasure. His books of travel have been to me a source of endless
interest, and his "Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc" is the
best representation of the saint and heroine that I know.
When the prince offered him the cigar, Mark said: "No, prince,
I never smoke. I have the reputation in Hartford, Conn., of
furnishing at my entertainments the worst of cigars. When I was
going abroad, and as I would be away for several years, I gave
a reception and invited all my friends. I had the governor of
the State of Connecticut and the judges of the highest courts,
and the most distinguished members of the legislature. I had
the leading clergymen and other citizens, and also the president
and faculty of Yale University and Trinity College.
"At three o'clock in the afternoon my butler, who is a colored
man, Pompey by name, came to me and said: 'Mr. Clemens, we have
no cigars.' Just then a pedler's wagon stopped at the gate. In
England they call them cheap jacks. I hailed the merchant and
said: 'What have you in your wagon?' 'Well,' he answered, 'I have
some Gobelin tapestries, Sevres china, and Japanese cloisonne
vases, and a few old masters.' Then I said to him: 'I do not
want any of those, but have you cigars, and how much?' The pedler
answered: 'Yes, sir, I have some excellent cigars, which I will
sell you at seventeen cents a barrel.' I have to explain that
a cent is an English farthing. Then I told him to roll a barrel in."
"It was a great occasion, one of the greatest we ever had in the
old State of Connecticut," continued Mark, "but I noticed that
the guests left unusually early after supper. The next morning
I asked the butler why they left so early. 'Well,' he said,
'Mr. Clemens, everybody enjoyed the supper, and they were all
having a good time until I gave them the cigars. After the gentleman
had taken three puffs, he said: "Pomp, you infernal nigger, get
me my hat and coat quick." When I went out, my stone walk, which
was one hundred yards long from the front door to the gate, was
just paved with those cigars.'" This specimen of American
exaggeration told in Mark Twain's original way made a great hit.
I met Mark Twain at a theatrical supper in London given by
Sir Henry Irving. It was just after his publishing firm had failed
so disastrously. It was a notable company of men of letters,
playwrights, and artists. Poor Mark was broken in health and
spirits. He tried to make a speech, and a humorous one, but it
saddened the whole company.
I met him again after he had made the money on his remarkable
lecture tour around the world, with which he met and paid all his
debts. It was an achievement worthy of the famous effort of
Sir Walter Scott. Jubilant, triumphant, and free, Mark Twain that
night was the hero never forgotten by any one privileged to
be present.
One year, after strenuous work and unusual difficulties, which,
however, had been successfully met, I was completely exhausted.
I was advised to take a short trip to Europe, and, as usual, the
four weeks' change of air and occupation was a complete cure.
I decided to include Rome in my itinerary, though I felt that my
visit would be something like the experience of Phineas Fogg, who
did the whole of Europe and saw all there was of it in ten days.
When I arrived in the Eternal City, my itinerary gave me four days
there. I wanted to see everything and also to meet, if possible,
one of the greatest of popes, Leo XIII. I was armed only with a
letter from my accomplished and distinguished friend, Archbishop
Corrigan. I secured the best-known guide, who informed me that
my efforts to see the sights within my limited time would be
impossible. Nevertheless, the incentive of an extra large commission
dependent upon distances covered and sights seen, led to my going
through the streets behind the best team of horses in Rome and
pursued by policemen and dogs, and the horses urged on by a driver
frantic for reward, and a guide who professionally and financially
was doing the stunt of his life. It was astounding how much ground
was really covered in the city of antiquities and art by this
devotion to speed and under competent guidance.
When I asked to see the pope, I was informed that his health was
not good and audiences had been suspended. I wrote a letter
to the cardinal-secretary, enclosing Archbishop Corrigan's letter,
and stated my anxiety to meet His Holiness and the limited time
I had. A few hours afterwards I received a letter from the cardinal
stating that the Holy Father appreciated the circumstances, and
would be very glad to welcome me in private audience at eleven
o'clock the next morning.
When I arrived at the Vatican I was received as a distinguished
visitor. The papal guards were turned out, and I was finally
ushered into the room of Cardinal Merry del Val. He was a young
man then and an accomplished diplomat, and most intimately informed
on all questions of current interest. Literature, music, drama,
political conditions in Europe were among his accomplishments.
He said the usual formula when a stranger is presented to the pope
is for the guest to kneel and kiss his ring. The pope has decided
that all this will be omitted in your case. He will receive you
exactly as an eminent foreigner calling by appointment upon the
President of the United States.
When I was ushered into the presence of the pope he left his
throne, came forward, grasped me cordially by the hand, and welcomed
me in a very charming way. He was not a well man, and his bloodless
countenance was as white and pallid as his robes. This was all
relieved, however, by the brilliancy of his wonderful eyes.
After a few preliminary remarks he plunged into the questions in
which he was deeply interested. He feared the spread of communism
and vividly described its efforts to destroy the church, ruin
religion, extirpate faith, and predicted that if successful it
would destroy civilization.
I told him that I was deeply interested in the encyclical he had
recently issued to reconcile or make more harmonious the relations
between capital and labor. He commenced speaking upon that
subject, and in a few minutes I saw that I was to be privileged
to hear an address from one who as priest and bishop had been
one of the most eloquent orators of the age. In his excitement he
leaned forward, grasping the arms of the throne, the color returned
to his cheeks, his eyes flashed, his voice was vibrant, and I was
the audience, the entranced audience of the best speech I ever
heard upon the question of labor and capital.
I was fearful on account of his health, that the exertion might be
too great, and so arose to leave. He again said to me, and taking
my hand: "I know all about you and am very grateful to you that
in your official capacity as president of the New York Central
Railroad you are treating so fairly the Catholics. I know that
among your employees twenty-eight thousand are of the Catholic
faith, and not one of them has ever known any discrimination
because of their belief, but all of them have equal opportunities
with the others for the rewards of their profession and protection
in their employment."
The next day he sent a special messenger for a renewal of the
conversation, but unhappily I had left Rome the night before.
During my stay in Rome of four days I had visited most of its
antiquities, its famous churches, and spent several hours in the
Vatican gallery. Our American minister, one of the most accomplished
of our diplomats, Mr. William Potter, had also given me a dinner,
where I was privileged to meet many celebrities of the time.
Among English statesmen I found in Lord Salisbury an impressive
figure. In a long conversation I had with him at the Foreign Office
he talked with great freedom on the relations between the
United States and Great Britain. He was exceedingly anxious that
friendly conditions should continue and became most cordial.
The frequent disposition on the part of American politicians to
issue a challenge or create eruptions disturbed him. I think he
was in doubt when President Cleveland made his peremptory demands
on the Venezuela boundary question if the president recognized
their serious importance, both for the present and the future. He,
however, reluctantly yielded to the arbitration, won a complete
victory, and was satisfied that such irritating questions were
mainly political and for election purposes, and had better be met
in a conciliatory spirit.
I remember a garden-party at Hatfield House, the historical home
of the Cecils, given in honor of King Victor Emmanuel III, who
had recently come to the throne. Lord Salisbury was of gigantic
proportions physically, while the king was undersized. The contrast
between the two was very striking, especially when they were in
animated conversation--the giant prime minister talking down to
His Majesty, and he with animated gestures talking up to the premier.
It is not too great a stretch of imagination, when one knows how
traditional interviews and conversations between European rulers
affect their relations, present and future, to find in that
entertainment and conference that the seed there was sown for
the entrance of Italy, at one of the crises of the Great War, on
the side of the Allies and against Germany, to whom she was bound
by the Triple Alliance.
Mr. Gladstone said to me at one time: "I have recently met a most
interesting countryman of yours. He is one of the best-informed
and able men of any country whom I have had the pleasure of talking
with for a long time, and he is in London now. I wish you would
tell me all about him."
Mr. Gladstone could not recall his name. As there were a number
of American congressmen in London, I asked: "Was he a congressman?"
"No," he answered; "he had a more important office."
I then remembered that DeWitt Clinton, when a United States senator,
resigned to become mayor of the City of New York. On that
inspiration I asked: "Mayor of the City of New York?"
"Yes, that is it," Mr. Gladstone answered.
I then told him that it was Abram S. Hewitt, and gave him a
description of Mr. Hewitt's career. Mr. Gladstone was most
enthusiastic about him.
It was my fortune to know Mr. Hewitt very well for many years.
He richly merited Mr. Gladstone's encomium. He was one of the
most versatile and able Americans in public or private life during
his time. His father was an English tenant-farmer who moved with
his family to the United States. Mr. Hewitt received a liberal
education and became a great success both in business and public
life. He was much more than a business man, mayor of New York,
or a congressman--he was public-spirited and a wise reformer.
Mr. Hewitt told me two interesting incidents in his career. When
he visited England he was received with many and flattering
attentions. Among his invitations was a week-end to the home
of the nobleman upon whose estates his father had been a
tenant-farmer. When Mr. Hewitt told the nobleman, who was
entertaining him as a distinguished American, about his father's
former relations as one of his tenants, the nobleman said: "Your
father made a great mistake in giving up his farm and emigrating
to the United States. He should have remained here."
Mr. Hewitt said: "But, my lord, so far as I am concerned I do
not think so."
"Why?" asked his lordship.
"Because," answered Mr. Hewitt, "then I could never have been a
guest on equal terms in your house."
Mr. Hewitt was one of the foremost iron founders and steel
manufacturers of the country. At the time of our Civil War our
government was very short of guns, and we were unable to manufacture
them because we did not know the secret of gun-metal.
The government sent Mr. Hewitt abroad to purchase guns. The English
gunmakers at once saw the trouble he was in and took advantage
of it. They demanded prices several times greater than they were
asking from other customers, and refused to give him any information
about the manufacture of gun-metal.
After he had made the contract, with all its exorbitant conditions,
he went to his hotel and invited the foreman of each department
of the factory to meet him. They all came. Mr. Hewitt explained
to them his mission, and found that they were sympathetic with
Mr. Lincoln and his administration and the Union cause. Then he
told them of the trouble he had had with their employers, and the
hard terms which they had imposed. He asked them then all about
the manufacture of gun-metal. Each one of the foremen was very
clear and explicit as to his part, and so when they had all spoken,
Mr. Hewitt, with his expert knowledge of the business, knew all
the secrets of the manufacture of gun-metal, which he, of course,
gave to the government at Washington for use in their several
arsenals and shops.
"Now," he said to his guests, "you have done me a great favor.
I will return it. Your company is obliged by the contract to
deliver this immense order within a limited time. They are going
to make an enormous amount of money out of it. You strike and
demand what you think is right, and you will get it immediately."
The gun company made a huge profit but had to share some of it
with their workers. It was an early instance of the introduction
of profit-sharing, which has now become common all over the world.
One of the most interesting Englishmen, whom I saw much of both
in London and in the United States, was Sir Henry Irving. The world
of art, drama, and history owes much to him for his revival of
Shakespeare. Irving was a genius in his profession, and in private
life perfectly delightful.
He gave me a dinner and it was, like everything he did, original.
Instead of the usual formal entertainment, he had the dinner at
one of the old royal castles in the country, which had become a
very exclusive hotel. He carried us out there in coaches.
The company of authors, playwrights, and men of affairs made the
entertainment late and the evening memorable. Returning home
on the top of the coach, the full moon would appear and reappear,
but was generally under a cloud. Irving remarked: "I do much
better with that old moon in my theatre. I make it shine or
obscure it with clouds, as the occasion requires."
I received a note from him at the time of his last visit to the
United States, in which he said that a friend from the western part
of the country was giving him a dinner at Delmonico's to precede
his sailing in the early morning on his voyage home. The company
was to be large and all good friends, and he had the positive
assurance that there would be no speaking, and wished I would come.
The dinner was everything that could be desired. The company was
a wonderful one of distinguished representatives of American life.
The hours passed along rapidly and joyously, as many of these
original men contributed story, racy adventure, or song.
Suddenly the host arose and said: "Gentlemen, we have with us
to-night--" Of course, that meant an introductory speech about
Irving and a reply from the guest. Irving turned to me, and in
his deepest and most tragic Macbeth voice said: "God damn his
soul to hell!" However, he rose to the occasion, and an hour or
so afterwards, when everybody else had spoken, not satisfied with
his first effort, he arose and made a much better and longer
speech. He was an admirable after-dinner speaker as well as
an unusual actor. His wonderful presentations, not only of
Shakespeare's but of other dramas, did very much for the stage
both in his own country and in ours.
Those who heard him only in his last year had no conception of
him in his prime. In his later years he fell into the fault, so
common with public speakers and actors, of running words together
and failing to articulate clearly. I have known a fine speech and
a superior sermon and a great part in a play ruined because of
the failure to articulate clearly. The audience could not follow
the speaker and so lost interest.
Sir Henry told me a delightful story about Disraeli. A young
relative of Irving's took orders and became a clergyman in the
Established Church. At the request of Irving, Disraeli appointed
this young man one of the curates at Windsor.
One day the clergyman came to Irving in great distress and said:
"The unexpected has happened. Every one has dropped out, and
I have been ordered to preach on Sunday."
Irving took him to see Disraeli for advice. The prime minister
said to the young clergyman: "If you preach thirty minutes,
Her Majesty will be bored. If you preach fifteen minutes,
Her Majesty will be pleased. If you preach ten minutes, Her Majesty
will be delighted."
"But," said the young clergyman, "my lord, what can a preacher
possibly say in only ten minutes?"
"That," answered the statesman, "will be a matter of indifference
to Her Majesty."
Sir Frederick Leighton, the eminent English artist, and at one time
president of the Royal Academy, was one of the most charming men
of his time. His reminiscences were delightful and told with rare
dramatic effect. I remember a vivid description which he gave me
of the wedding of one of the British royalties with a German
princess. Sir Frederick was one of the large and distinguished
delegation which accompanied the prince.
The principality of the bride's father had been shorn of territory,
power, and revenue during the centuries. Nevertheless, at the
time of the wedding he maintained a ministry, the same as in the
Middle Ages, and a miniature army. Palaces, built centuries
before, housed the Cabinet.
The minister of foreign affairs came to Sir Frederick and unbosomed
himself of his troubles. He said: "According to the usual
procedure I ought to give a ball in honor of the union of our house
with the royal family of England. My palace is large enough, but
my salary is only eight hundred a year, and the expense would eat
up the whole of it."
Sir Frederick said: "Your Excellency can overcome the difficulty
in an original way. The state band can furnish the music, and
that will cost nothing. When the time comes for the banquet,
usher the guests with due ceremony to a repast of beer and pretzels."
The minister followed the instructions. The whole party appreciated
the situation, and the minister was accredited with the most
brilliant and successful ball the old capital had known for a century.
For several years one of the most interesting men in Europe was
the Duke d'Aumale, son of Louis Philippe. He was a statesman
and a soldier of ability and a social factor of the first rank.
He alone of the French royalty was relieved from the decree of
perpetual banishment and permitted to return to France and enjoy
his estates. In recognition of this he gave his famous chateau
and property at Chantilly to the French Academy. The gift was
valued at ten millions of dollars. In the chateau at Chantilly
is a wonderful collection of works of art.
I remember at one dinner, where the duke was the guest of honor,
those present, including the host, were mostly new creations in
the British peerage. After the conversation had continued for
some time upon the fact that a majority of the House of Lords had
been raised to the peerage during the reign of Queen Victoria,
those present began to try and prove that on account of their
ancient lineage they were exempt from the rule of parvenu peers.
The duke was very tolerant with this discussion and, as always,
the soul of politeness.
The host said: "Your Royal Highness, could you oblige us with
a sketch of your ancestry?"
"Oh, certainly," answered the duke; "it is very brief. My family,
the Philippes, are descendants from AEneas of Troy, and AEneas
was the son of Venus." The mushrooms seemed smaller than even
the garden variety.
The duke was talking to me at one time very interestingly about the
visit of his father to America. At the time of the French Revolution
his father had to flee for his life and came to the United States.
He was entertained at Mount Vernon by Washington. He told me
that after his father became King of France, he would often
hesitate, or refuse to do something or write something which his
ministers desired. The king's answer always was: "When I visited
that greatest man of all the world, General Washington, at his
home, I asked him at one time: 'General, is it not possible that
in your long and wonderful career as a soldier and statesman that
you have made mistakes?' The general answered: 'I have never
done anything which I cared to recall or said anything which I would
not repeat,' and the king would say: 'I cannot do that or sign
that, because if I do I cannot say for myself what General Washington
said of himself.'"
The duke asked me to spend a week-end with him at Chantilly, and
it is one of the regrets of my life that I was unable to accept.
I happened to be in London on two successive Sundays. On the first
I went to Westminster Abbey to hear Canon Farrar preach. The
sermon was worthy of its wonderful setting. Westminster Abbey is
one of the most inspiring edifices in the world. The orator has to
reach a high plane to be worthy of its pulpit. I have heard many
dull discourses there because the surroundings refuse to harmonize
with mediocrity. The sermon of Canon Farrar was classic. It
could easily have taken a place among the gems of English
literature. It seemed to me to meet whatever criticism the eminent
dead, buried in that old mausoleum, might have of these modern
utterances. I left the Abbey spiritually and mentally elated.
The next Sunday I went to hear Charles Spurgeon. It was a wonderful
contrast. Spurgeon's Metropolitan Tabernacle was a very plain
structure of immense proportions but with admirable acoustics.
There was none of the historic enshrining the church, which is
the glory of Westminster Abbey, no church vestments or ceremonials.
Mr. Spurgeon, a plain, stocky-looking man, came out on the platform
dressed in an ordinary garb of black coat, vest, and trousers.
It was a vast audience of what might be called middle-class people.
Mr. Spurgeon's sermon was a plain, direct, and exceedingly forcible
appeal to their judgment and emotions. There was no attempt at
rhetoric, but hard, hammerlike blows. As he rose in his indignation
and denunciation of some current evils, and illustrated his
argument with the Old Testament examples of the punishment of
sinners, the audience became greatly excited. One of the officers
of the church, in whose pew I sat, groaned aloud and gripped his
hands so that the nails left their mark. Others around him were
in the same frame of mind and spirit.
I saw there and then that the men who fought with Cromwell and won
the battle of Naseby had in modern England plenty of descendants.
They had changed only in outward deference to modern usages and
conditions. If there had been occasion, Mr. Spurgeon could have
led them for any sacrifice to what they believed to be right.
I felt the power of that suppressed feeling--I would not say
fanaticism, but intense conscientiousness--which occasionally
in elections greatly surprises English politicians.
Canon Farrar's sermon easily takes its place among the selected
books of the library. Spurgeon's address was straight from the
shoulder, blow for blow, for the needs of the hour.
One of the novel incidents of the generous hospitality which I
enjoyed every year in London was a dinner at the Athenaeum Club
given to me by one of the members of the government at that time.
He was a gentleman of high rank and political importance. There
were twenty-six at the dinner, and it was a representative gathering.
At the conclusion our host made a very cordial speech on more
intimate relations between the United States and Great Britain,
and then in a complimentary phrase introduced me, saying: "I hope
you will speak freely and without limit."
I was encouraged by a most sympathetic audience and had a good
time during my effort. No one else was called upon. My host was
complimentary and said: "Your speech was so satisfactory that
I thought best not to have any more."
Some time afterwards he said to me: "Many of my friends had heard
of you but never heard you, so I made up my mind to give them
the opportunity, and what was really a purely social affair for
every other guest, I turned into an international occasion just
to draw you out. However, the fraud, if it was a fraud, was an
eminent success."
No one in England did more for Americans than Sir Henry Lucy.
Every American knew all about him, because of his reputation, and
particularly because he was the author of that most interesting
column in Punch called the "Essence of Parliament."
At his luncheons he gathered eminent men in public life and in
the literary and journalistic activities of Great Britain. These
luncheons were most informal, and under the hospitable genius
of Lucy the guests became on intimate terms. There was no table
in London where so many racy stories and sometimes valuable
historical reminiscences could be heard.
To be a guest at one of Sir Lucy's luncheons was for an American
to meet on familiar terms with distinguished men whom he knew all
about and was most anxious to see and hear.
At a large dinner I had a pleasant encounter with Sir Henry.
In order to meet another engagement, he tried to slip quietly
out while I was speaking. I caught sight of his retreating figure
and called loudly the refrain of the familiar song, "Linger longer,
Lucy." The shout of the crowd brought Sir Henry back, and the
other entertainment lost a guest.
In several of my visits to London I went to see not only places
of interest but also houses and streets made famous in English
literature. In one of my many trips to St. Paul's Cathedral I was
looking at the tomb of the Duke of Wellington in the crypt and
also at the modest tomb of Cruikshank, the artist, near by.
The superintendent asked me who I was and many questions about
America, and then said: "Many Americans come here, but the most
remarkable of them all was Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll. He was
very inquisitive and wanted to know all about Wellington's tomb.
I told him that the duke's body was first put in a wooden coffin,
and this was incased in steel; that this had made for it a position
in a stone weighing twenty tons and over that was a huge stone
weighing forty tons. He gave me a slap on the back which sent
me flying quite a distance and exclaimed: 'Old man, you have
got him safe. If he ever escapes cable at my expense to
Robert G. Ingersoll, Peoria, Illinois, U. S. A.'"
I had an opportunity to know that the war by Germany against France
and England was a surprise to both countries. While in London
during part of June, 1914, I met Cabinet ministers and members
of Parliament, and their whole thought and anxiety were concentrated
on the threatened revolution in Ireland.
The Cabinet had asked the king to intervene and he had called
representatives of all parties to meet him at Buckingham Palace.
After many consultations he declared settlement or compromise were
impossible. The situation was so critical that it absorbed the
attention of the government, the press, and the public.
About the first of July I was in Paris and found the French worried
about their finances and the increase in their military expenses
which were reaching threatening figures. The syndicate of French
bankers were seriously alarmed. There was no suspicion of German
purpose and preparations for attack.
While in Geneva a few weeks afterwards I became alarmed by letters
from relatives in Germany who were socially intimate with people
holding very important positions in the government and the army,
and their apprehensions from what their German friends told them
and what they saw led to their joining us in Switzerland.
One day the Swiss refused to take foreign money or to make exchange
for Swiss, or to cash letters of credit or bank checks. I immediately
concluded that the Swiss bankers knew of or suspected Germany's
hostile intentions, and with only two hours, and two families
with their trunks to pack, we managed to reach and secure
accommodations on the regular train for Paris. There was nothing
unusual either at the railroad station or in the city.
One of the amusing incidents which are my life-preservers occurred
at the station. Two elderly English spinsters were excitedly
discussing the currency trouble. One of them smoothed out a bank
of England note and said to her sister: "There, Sarah, is a bank
of England note which has been good as gold all over the world
since Christ came to earth, and these Swiss pigs won't take it."
I told this incident afterwards to a banker in London. He said
they were very ignorant women, there were no bank of England notes
at that time.
German hostility developed so rapidly that our train was the last
which left Switzerland for France for nearly two months. We were
due in Paris at ten o'clock in the evening, but did not arrive until
the next morning because of the mobilization of French recruits.
The excitement in Paris was intense. A French statesman said
to me: "We are doing our best to avoid war. Our troops are kept
ten kilometres from the frontier, but the Germans have crossed
and seized strategic points. They will hear nothing and accept
nothing and are determined to crush us if they can."
From all ranks of the people was heard: "We will fight to the
last man, but we are outnumbered and will be destroyed unless
England helps. Will England help? Will England help?" I have
been through several crises but never witnessed nor felt such
a reaction to ecstatic joy as occurred when Great Britain joined
France.
The restrictions on leaving Paris required time, patience, and
all the resources of our Embassy to get us out of France. The
helpfulness, resourcefulness, and untiring efforts of our Ambassador,
Myron T. Herrick, won the gratitude of all Americans whom the war
had interned on the continent and who must get home.
There was a remarkable change in England. When we left in July
there was almost hysteria over the threatening civil war. In October
the people were calm though involved in the greatest war in their
history. They did not minimize the magnitude of the struggle, or
the sacrifices it would require. There was a characteristic grim
determination to see the crisis through, regardless of cost.
Cabinet ministers whom I met thought the war would last three years.
The constant appeal to me, as to other Americans, was, "When will
you join us? If we fail it is your turn next. It is autocracy and
militarism against civilization, liberty, and representative
government for the whole world."
We had a perilous and anxious voyage home and found few grasping
the situation or working to be prepared for the inevitable, except
Theodore Roosevelt and General Wood.