He wore no shell. His ways were frank and open, and the road to his
large sympathies was straight and unobstructed. His was a nature which
invited affection--compelled it, in fact--and met it halfway. Hence he
was “Tom” to the most of his friends, and to half of the nation. The
abbreviating of such a man’s name is a patent of nobility, and is
conferred from the heart. Mr. Reed had a very strong and decided
character, and he may have had enemies; I do not know; if he had
them--outside of politics--they did not know the man. He was
transparently honest and honorable, there were no furtivenesses about
him, and whoever came to know him trusted him and was not disappointed.
He was wise, he was shrewd and alert, he was a clear and capable
thinker, a logical reasoner, and a strong and convincing speaker. His
manner was easy and engaging, his speeches sparkled with felicities of
phrasing thrown off without apparent effort, and when he needed the
happy help of humor he had a mine of it as deep and rich as Kimberly to
draw from. His services to his country were great, and they were
gratefully acknowledged.
I cannot remember back to a time when he was not “Tom” Reed to me, nor
to a time when he would have been offended at being so addressed by me.
I cannot remember back to a time when I could let him alone in an
after-dinner speech if he was present, nor to a time when he did not
take my extravagances concerning him and misstatements about him in good
part, nor yet to a time when he did not pay them back with usury when
his turn came. The last speech he made was at my birthday dinner at the
end of November, when naturally I was his text; my last word to him was
in a letter the next day; a day later I was illustrating a fantastic
article on Art with his portrait among others--a portrait now to be laid
reverently away among the jests that begin in humor and end in pathos.
These things happened only eight days ago, and now he is gone from us,
and the nation is speaking of him as one who _was_. It seems incredible,
impossible. Such a man, such a friend, seems to us a permanent
possession; his vanishing from our midst is unthinkable; as unthinkable
as was the vanishing of the Campanile, that had stood for a thousand
years, and was turned to dust in a moment.
I have no wish, at this time, to enter upon light and humorous
reminiscences connected with yachting voyages with Mr. Reed in northern
and southern seas, nor with other recreations in his company in other
places--they do not belong in this paper, they do not invite me, they
would jar upon me. I have only wished to say how fine and beautiful was
his life and character, and to take him by the hand and say good-by, as
to a fortunate friend who has done well his work and goes a pleasant
journey.
THE FINISHED BOOK
(On Finishing _Joan of Arc_)