His writings make a rich library, which covers much of Asiatic life.
There are ten volumes dealing with Sanscrit, Hindoo, and Persian
subjects. His output has not only been splendid, but great in quantity,
and one wonders how, with his unremitting daily labors on the
_Telegraph_ for the last forty years, he has been able to accomplish so
much of permanent form and value.
The poet-editor, like all notable workers I have known, has orderly
habits and hours. His editorial room at the _Telegraph_ office, Fleet
Street, London, was a modest one, furnished in light oak and with walls
of a soft gray tint. Sir Edwin has kept but few books there, because he
needed them little for reference, his wonderful memory having always
placed dates and facts at command.
Arnold has a contempt for fussiness and keeps the newspaper man’s
faculty of being able to prepare copy under any circumstances. He was
always at work during the period of my personal knowledge. When on his
Japanese “vacation” he told me that he had “written some sixty-two
columns in letters to the _Telegraph_, composed an epic poem longer than
‘The Light of Asia,’ and furnished articles besides for _Scribner’s
Magazine_ that made a volume, learned to speak colloquial Japanese, and
to write the Kata Kara character.” He added, “I was not so very idle,
you will see, Major.” “The Light of the World” went to press without his
reading the last proofs, and the correctness of copy this shows is
characteristic of all his work. His editorial “leaders” went to the
printer’s hand as he dropped his pen or ceased dictation.
He once said: “I do not at any time force poetry. I must be thoroughly
in the mood. These moods come imperatively, but very irregularly. My
method is this: either I write first, and roughly, on scraps of paper,
or my daughter takes it down from my dictation--she is the only one who
can do so for me--as I walk up and down the room and smoke. I put the
rough notes in my pocket until the next day. Then I read the verse over
and over, correct and copy all out myself, altering it very much, and
filling it up. These scraps I enter into a sort of day book or ledger
until the work is nearly finished. I treat the matter thus compiled as
the rough draft. I go over it myself, polish it, and transcribe it into
a second book, which may be called the poem itself, but still in a rough
state. Then I copy it out again, and finally, in a fair manuscript for
the printer. Every line of the poem, therefore, passes through my mind
three or four times. Sometimes the lines are importunate and _will_ be
at once registered. Reading, smoking, driving, dressing for dinner--it
does not matter how I may be then engaged, the verses will haunt and
fascinate me, dance before my imagination, demanding to be fixed; and I
must catch them then and there or they will go. Sometimes the right
ideas will come as suddenly as if by electric message.”
The popularity of Sir Edwin Arnold as a poet was more widespread in the
United States than in his own country when, in 1886, I first approached
him with the proposition to make a reading tour on this side of the
Atlantic. It is quite singular to note how little personal and popular
knowledge there is in Great Britain of the men who really mould
intellectual thought. If we Americans do not personally know a man who
has written books and sung poems for us, we do at least strive to know
his face, by wide possession of a “counterfeit presentment.” In our land
John G. Whittier’s portrait hangs on the walls of many thousands of what
the English call “middle-class” homes; yet no English poet of equal rank
finds such recognition in his own land. Tennyson and Browning are far
more widely known among us by their pictures than they are in England.
It was a constant surprise to Sir Edwin Arnold to find himself
recognized and his poems so extensively known in the United States. When
he left our shores for Japan, and later resumed his editorial and
literary labors at home, he was not only better known and appreciated as
a poet than he was when he came to us, but he was personally better
known to more thousands of cultivated people here than he was to scores
in England.
My earliest attempt to secure him for a lecture tour in this country
was unsuccessful, as the following quotation from his first letter to me
shows:
* * * * *
“42 DENMARK VILLA, WEST BRIGHTON,
“December 31, 1886.
“I thank you for the compliment conveyed in your letter of the 25th, and
it is my wish and intention to visit America. It would, however, be
impossible for me to go there now.”
* * * * *
The poet-editor was familiar enough with the United States, by marriage
tie and several visits here, to understand our lecture platform and
audiences, as well as our habits of travel and our needs. Mrs. Arnold
was a Miss Channing of Boston. The present Lady Arnold is a member of a
prominent and cultured Japanese family, who has become one of the most
popular hostesses in London.
After Stanley’s return to England at the conclusion of his most
remarkable lecture tour (1890-91), the proposition to secure Sir Edwin
was again broached, and was fully discussed between us, the Stanleys
taking a very friendly interest in the matter and declaring that they
would do all in their power to influence the poet’s decision. The
accompanying letters show how thoroughly the great explorer fulfilled
his promise, for under date of June 26, 1891, after writing relative to
his pending lecture tour in Australia, he referred as follows to the
Anglo-Indian poet, with whom I was then corresponding in relation to the
proposed tour:
* * * * *
“I had Edwin Arnold to lunch the other day and we all did our best to
induce him to make you his agent, but I find he has already engaged
himself to another man--if he lectures, of which he is not assured yet.”
* * * * *
This was not very encouraging, but I am not easily discomfited. The
negotiations proceeded, and an agreement was reached between the poet
and myself. Stanley’s generous and constant interest is shown by this
letter, written September 30, 1891:
* * * * *
“Yesterday Sir Edwin Arnold took tea with us, and naturally we talked of
you and of his approaching departure for America. I do not think you
need have any fear that he will fail. He has an unusually flexible
voice, which is entirely at his command, admirably suited for the
drawing-room or for the platform. It is at its best to-day. The way he
manages it to attract, soothe, or excite, proves that were he not a
first-class poet, he would make a first-class actor.
“I have often heard him make after-dinner speeches, wherein he is
different from most men. He always contrives to express graceful
sentiments appropriate to the occasion, uttered in those benevolent
tones which leave you most kindly disposed toward him. You find his
speech seemingly unstudied--and spoken right on, pleasing to the ear, as
his expression charms the eye. He appears to be following a cue, which
is to make every one feel pleasant and agreeable, and bereave them of
unkindness toward one another. At a dinner, for instance, you never
detect in him a consciousness that he has something to say which must be
said, and that he bides his time to say it, meantime silently revolving
the subject. No, his speech drops sweetly on the hearing, smooth, bland,
and the guests look up wistful for more, for it is so apt, so rich in
thought and charity. His memory is stored with the flowers of literature
and the sweetest blossoms of poesy, and they are presented to his
hearers with the grace that marks the learned gentleman.
“From this rapid sketch of Sir Edwin you have enough to measure him by.
While he is in America he will only deem what is best in it worthy of
his regard. He cannot forget that human nature is weak and vain, but he
has a knack of shutting out observation of failings.”
* * * * *
It will be remembered, in passing, that Henry M. Stanley was sent to
Africa by Sir Edwin’s paper, the London _Daily Telegraph_, and by the
New York _Herald_.
I copy the last letter received from Sir Edwin before he sailed for
America, as evidence of the spirit in which he came:
* * * * *
“DAILY TELEGRAPH OFFICE,
“September 23, 1891.
“MY DEAR MAJOR POND:
“I have just received your kind and pleasant letter, and rejoice at your
renewed health. I replied to it by a telegram indicating that although I
cannot write anything new in the way of lectures, it will be very easy
to put together from my prose and verse interesting discourses with
poetical illustrations of ancient and modern India, Japan, etc. I
enclose a rough sketch of the topics I would treat in this way. You need
have no fear but that I shall hold and please your audiences.
“Best thanks for your very hospitable invitations as regards Miss
Arnold. But I shall come quite alone, and shall put up at the Everett
House, and always when we travel, as far as possible, at hotels. I have
written to accept the very courteous invitation of the Lotos Club, but,
as far as possible, I wish in America to preserve my time free from
social interruption, and I shall ask you to help me in this.
“Kindly arrange that we may commence as soon as possible. But all these
matters I gladly leave in your good hands.
“There will be just time, I think, for you to send me before I start
some little sketch of what you have already planned.
“Yours always sincerely,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
The engagement was for fifty “readings,” a descriptive word inadequate
to express what he gave. The term “lecture” certainly does not apply to
the delightful entertainment that Sir Edwin Arnold presented. The
descriptive talk which accompanied each reading was so fresh and varied,
and so full of the charm of scene and intimate knowledge, that it had
almost the air of personal and fireside talks with his varied and
delighted audiences. The man was felt so in it all--as traveller,
observer, teacher, and poet--that you realized the atmosphere in which
he had written, as well as the spirit of the poems which were its
product.
As he appeared to American audiences, Sir Edwin Arnold was of large
frame and good stature, with an open face, strong features, expansive
brow, and a broad, full, and well-rounded head, thickly covered with
iron gray hair. His complexion was fair, his eyes blue, mild, and
courteous in expression. His general air was one of kindness and good
breeding. He was in personal manner quite free from self-consciousness,
and on the platform was always absorbed in his task and by his audience.
His speaking voice was melodious, excellent in compass and timbre. It
was, in fact, among the very best for use and wear that the lecture
audiences had heard during twenty years. He has shown himself the
respect of securing a careful training for his voice, and he knows how
to take care of it. It has much of the high-bred gentleness in it that
made George William Curtis so great a favorite. In personal speech his
English intonation was apparent, but when he read, it seemed as though
the language lifted him above all such peculiarities. The modulation was
perfect, and was indeed sometimes thrilling. He is one of the few poets
that can both read and declaim their own poems. I was constantly
reminded of Stanley’s expression that if Arnold had not been a great
writer and poet, he would most assuredly have been a great actor, for at
fitting times the delivery became animated and dramatic.
He usually held the book of selections in his hand, but seldom did more
than glance at it; sometimes he laid it aside entirely, so that he could
use gesture more freely. Occasionally he read from manuscript, but
ordinarily he recited. The first line was enough to call up the entire
poem from his phenomenal memory. He could repeat perfectly any poem that
he had once heard. One evening in my library Sir Edwin was reclining on
a lounge. I was holding a rare volume of Shakespeare, which he had been
admiring and passed to me. “Now, Major,” said he, “give the first line
from any scene at random, and I’ll give you the whole scene.” I gave him
a line from one of the least known of the plays, and, to my
astonishment, he recited the entire scene. He told me afterward that he
could recite Shakespeare from beginning to end. I believe it. It was
this gift that made his readings so complete, for no public reader has
ever been a more complete success, personally and artistically, than Sir
Edwin Arnold. No better description of the poet as a reader, or of his
charm of voice and manner as a speaker, could be given than Stanley’s
words convey. I felt certain on reading them that our tour would be a
success, as it indeed proved to be. How heartily the poet entered on his
delightful task!
It was, after all, a campaign of careful preparation and hard work,
done assiduously and with the most distinct apprehension on his part of
what was due to the cordial audiences which were to give him such hearty
welcome and earnest attention. He was a model to those who were to
follow him. Beginning November 4, 1891, the tour closed February 15,
1892. For seven weeks he filled completely the demands of the situation,
working with unremitting patience and assiduity to make a complete
success.
The 21st of October, 1891, when he reached New York, was not an
auspicious day for his landing in America--wind and rain all day. Yet he
appeared in excellent health and very jolly. My office was the scene of
another remarkable interview. Representatives from all the daily papers
were there, and never has there been a more fascinated lot of reporters
than this crowd about Sir Edwin. For two hours he interested them,
answering every conceivable question as promptly as though he had been
prepared for it. He was interrogated upon all subjects, from the
Whitechapel murders to the effect of the death of Parnell upon the
status of the Irish factions. He discussed Kipling, “who has the magic
secret of style”; James Russell Lowell, “the best judge of literature
that he ever knew”; and Emerson, “the ablest American writer.” He
discussed Japan and theosophy. The only subject he refused to touch upon
was English politics. Richard Watson Gilder, who was there, asked Sir
Edwin if he had any favorite American poem. He replied, “‘Airs from
Arcady,’ but I do not know who is the author of it.” Mr. Gilder and Mr.
Robert U. Johnson, his colleague, were much pleased with his answer, for
the author was their friend, H. C. Bunner, editor of _Puck_.
When I went with Sir Edwin to Sarony’s to sit for pictures, Sarony was
in his element, for he found in Sir Edwin a critic who thoroughly
appreciated art. It was an interesting scene in that studio: the
exhibition of Sarony’s fine black and white drawings and the intelligent
discussion of them. We next visited Tiffany’s, and there Sir Edwin was
again at home with Mr. George Kunz, the gem expert. I had to leave the
two critics, scholars, and experts for two hours and return to my work.
A few days later Sir Edwin Arnold dined at our house, and after dinner
entertained us with a reading from his “Light of the World,” and made a
great hit. My predictions of success were again confirmed. He is one of
the most lovable and entertaining men, always even-minded and agreeable;
his tact is as invariable as his good humor, and both grow from
temperament and quality rather than from habit or policy. On this
occasion he presented Mrs. Pond with a copy of “The Light of the World,”
bound in white seal, gold clasped, telling her that he had two copies
bound alike, and that he had presented the other one to his queen. The
inscription in the book reads:
“To Mrs. Pond, with warm regards of the author.”
Before beginning the series of public appearances, he gave several other
private readings that were most enjoyable. One evening he read a chapter
from “The Light of the World” in the Everett House dining-rooms, before
a select circle of friends. On another day Joseph Jefferson, W. J.
Florence, St. Clair McKelway, Murat Halsted, Sir Edwin Arnold, and some
of our personal friends dined with us at our house in Brooklyn.
Jefferson and Florence were playing at the Brooklyn Academy of Music
that week, and in order that we might have plenty of time, and that they
should not miss their usual afternoon nap before going to the theatre,
we had dinner at noon. We had a good time together. Sir Edwin was at his
best. He read selections from “Saadi in the Garden,” and some
unpublished poems, to the delight of the two comedians, who
enthusiastically declared that they had never enjoyed anything more in
their lives. It was after six when they left us--no sleep that
afternoon. In the evening our entire party were in the theatre to see
Jefferson and Florence in “The Rivals.”
The Lotos Club, on the 31st of October, honored Sir Edwin and its own
members, by giving a dinner which, from the number participating and the
high character of the addresses made, was generally conceded never to
have been surpassed in brilliancy in the history of the club. President
Frank R. Lawrence occupied the chair, with the guest of honor on his
right, and President Seth Low of Columbia College on his left. Among the
other guests of the evening were George W. Childs, Richard Henry
Stoddard, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Gen. Horace Porter, Paul Dana, Murat
Halsted, E. B. Harper, W. H. McElroy, Arthur F. Bowers, Robert Edwin
Bonner, Ballard Smith, Walter P. Phillips, H. L. Ensign, Col. Thomas W.
Knox, William Winter, Gen. C. H. Collis, Richard Watson Gilder, Max
O’Rell, St. Clair McKelway, and Col. E. C. James.
The walls and alcoves were hung with emblems indicative of the honors
borne by the club’s distinguished guest. Siamese and Japanese flags
predominated. On the wall at the poet’s right hung a full-sized portrait
of himself, done in crayon by Sarony, and over the doorway which
separated the parlors was draped a banneret showing the “Order of the
White Elephant”--a Siamese decoration which had been conferred upon only
four English-speaking persons: Queen Victoria, Sir Edwin Arnold, Gen. J.
A. Halderman, and Col. Thomas W. Knox (the latter two, as it happened,
being both members of the Lotos and present.) Sir Edwin wore on his
breast his decorations, among which this order was conspicuous. Letters
of regret were read from Oliver Wendell Holmes, Charles A. Dana, John G.
Whittier, W. D. Howells, the Rev. John Hall, and George William Curtis.
President Lawrence, in presenting the guest of the evening, referred to
his many titles to distinction. “If there be one thing more than
another,” he said, in proposing Sir Edwin’s health, “which is worth
preserving in connection with the Lotos Club, it is our boast, for more
than a score of years, to strive to be among the first to welcome to New
York men of genius from foreign lands. This joyous custom has brought to
our club many happy moments--none more so than the present one. And so,
when it became known that Sir Edwin Arnold was to visit our shores, it
followed that the Lotos Club was to welcome him. As to his eminent
graces of mind and heart, I need not remind you or any other
English-speaking people thereof.
“He is, perhaps, best known to us as a poet. I should not say ‘perhaps,’
but that his many estimable qualities confuse me. He, more than any
other man, has brought us near Asia--that Asia of which we know so
little. We hear it said that the Laureate is in his declining days. We
hear it asked, ‘Who is to succeed him?’ Yet we know that the high
standard of English poetry will not die while the author of ‘The Light
of Asia’ lives.
“But, gentlemen, it is not alone as a poet that we meet and greet him
to-night; it is as a journalist as well. Well do we remember his
services as a moulder of public opinion in England. It was he, on behalf
of the London _Daily Telegraph_ and in connection with one of our own
good Americans, who sent Stanley in search of Livingstone--all honor to
that humane undertaking. As a poet, as a journalist, and as a scholar;
as one who might talk to us, if he chose, in many mystical tongues, we
welcome and we greet Sir Edwin Arnold.”
The health of the club’s guest was drunk, everybody rising and cheering.
He showed the deep impression made upon him as he gracefully bowed in
acknowledgment of the cheers. His speech was one long to be remembered,
both for the pleasing manner of delivery and for the apt and eloquent
appropriateness of its matter. He said in part:
“In rising to return my sincere thanks for the high honor done to me by
this magnificent banquet, by its lavish opulence of welcome, by its
goodly company, by the English so far too flattering which has been
employed by the president, and by the generous warmth with which you
have received my name, I should be wholly unable to sustain the heavy
burden of my gratitude, but for a consideration of which I will
presently speak. To-night must always be for me, indeed, a memorable
occasion. Many a time and oft during the seven lustrums composing my
life, I have had personal reason to rejoice at the splendid mistake
committed by Christopher Columbus in discovering your now famous and
powerful country.
“I have good reason to greet his name in memory owing, as I do, to him
the prodigious debt of a dear American wife, now with God, of children,
half American and half English, of countless friends, of a large part of
my literary reputation, and, to crown all, this memorable evening, _Nox
coenaque Deum_, which, of itself, would be enough to reward me for more
than I have done, and to encourage me in a much more arduous task than
even that which I have undertaken.”
Referring to America, he quoted the old poet, who sang:
“Her likeness and brightness do shine in such splendor,
That none but the stars are thought fit to attend her.”
He spoke of the recent passage of our international copyright law, and
half humorously suggested:
“Personally I was nearer a fanatic on the matter. I have always rather
had a tenderness for those buccaneers of the ocean of books who, in
nefarious bottoms, carried my poetical goods far and wide without any
charge for freight.”
Two of the most striking portions of his speech were his eloquent
references to our common language, and to the feeling of kinship and
unity between the great branches of the English-speaking race. “Let us
all try,” he said, “to keep in speech and in writing as close as we can
to the pure English that Shakespeare and Milton, and in these later
times Longfellow, Emerson, Whitman, and Hawthorne have fixed. It will
not be easy. Lord Tennyson recently expressed similar opinions to me
when he said: It is bad for us that English will always be a spoken
speech, since that means that it will always be changing. The time will
come when you and I will be as hard to read for the common people as
Chaucer is to-day.’ He then quoted Artemus Ward on Chaucer, ‘The
admirable poet, but as a spellist a decided failure.’
“To the treasure house of that noble tongue, the United States has
splendidly contributed. It would be far poorer to-day without the tender
care of Longfellow, the serene and philosophic pages of Emerson, the
convincing wit and clear criticism of my illustrious departed friend,
James Russell Lowell, the Catullus-like perfection of the lyrics of
Edgar Allan Poe, and the glorious, large-tempered dithyrambics of Walt
Whitman.”
As he closed his speech, he said:
“Between the two majestic sisters of the Saxon blood the hatchet of war
is, please God, forever buried. We have no longer to prove to each other
or to the world that Englishmen and Americans are high-spirited and
fearless; that Englishmen and Americans alike will do justice, and will
have justice, and will put up with nothing else from each other and from
the nations at large. Heartily, gratefully, and with a mind from which
the memory of this glorious evening will never be effaced, I thank you
for the very friendly and favorable omens of this banquet.”