brother poet. President Seth Low referred to the connection of the guest
of the evening with the cause of education, he having been at one time a
college president. Paul Dana responded for the press. General Porter
spoke as the all-round man of the world, soldier, statesman, and orator,
in a speech full of wit, humor, anecdote, and hearty appreciation of the
guest. St. Clair McKelway made one of his brilliant speeches, carrying
the audience with him to the height of feeling and amusement rarely
equalled. At the close of the banquet, Sir Edwin Arnold read his
now-famous poem of “Potiphar’s Wife,” the manuscript of which he gave to
the club as a souvenir of his visit. It is framed and hangs with his
picture on the wall of the club house. This banquet will remain in the
history of the literary events of New York one of the most notable; and
as one of the brightest pages to be recorded in the annals of the Lotos
Club.
When we went to Philadelphia we were met at the Lafayette Hotel by John
Russell Young, Henry Guy Carleton, and a number of newspaper men, among
whom was Clark Davis, editor of the _Public Ledger_. It was an
interesting evening. Sir Edwin read several poems, to the delight of
reporters and friends present.
The following day Sir Edwin Arnold, John Russell Young, and I went to
Camden to call on the picturesque old poet Walt Whitman, who was living
there in his own house. We were shown up a flight of stairs by the
mistress of the house, to the bare front room, where, in the midst of a
heap of newspapers, magazines, books, kindling wood, lamps, and old
pictures, from one to six feet deep, the poet sat, in a high-backed
chair, over which was thrown a goatskin robe, once white. The long hair
of the poet and of the robe, and his great wide open shirt collar, made
a picture unique beyond description. Back of his chair was a heap of
newspapers which suggested the pile of cornstalks at an old-fashioned
husking, where, when you husked the corn, the stalks and husks were
thrown back over your shoulders until they formed a big stack. Walt had
been accustomed to reading his morning papers and then throwing them
back on this stack, until they had accumulated in this enormous mass
fully as high as the back of his chair. That pile must have been the
accumulation of several years.
There was a different scene when the two poets, already known to each
other by correspondence, exchanged greetings. They plunged into animated
conversation at once, though the “good gray poet” was quite feeble. But
his was a grand personality indeed, as he leaned back against the deep
back of his huge old rush-bottomed, wide-armed chair. Something was said
of Whitman’s poems, and Arnold took down “Walt Whitman’s Complete Poems
and Prose,” a large octavo volume, from a nearby shelf. The volume was
uncut, and Whitman began looking for a paper-knife, saying, “Let me get
you something to cut the leaves with.”
“No, no. Never mind, Walt Whitman,” replied Arnold. “I have no need to
cut these leaves. I can see the first lines in the index. What poem
would you like to hear?”
A poem was named, and immediately the rich voice gave it vocal form, and
that, too, with a perfection of rhythmic tone and shade which indicated
the perfect mastery of a most difficult subject. We spent an hour and a
half, Sir Edwin and Walt quoting and commenting. It was a great day.
In the afternoon we went to Bryn Mawr, and to Mr. George W. Childs’
home, where we dined and Sir Edwin planted a tree. Here we met Mr. Clark
Davis of _The Ledger_, Mr. McAllister of Drexel Institute, Miss Thomas,
dean of Bryn Mawr College, and Mrs. Childs. We then returned to the
city, where the Penn Club gave Sir Edwin a grand reception.
In the Philadelphia Academy of Music Sir Edwin Arnold made his first
appearance on any stage. Although it was the evening of a hotly
contested election, and there were bonfires and bands of music outside,
and the streets were packed with crowds of excited people, we had a
large house. The gross receipts were $1,317. The readings were a great
success; the audience was delighted. Arnold read two and a half hours,
and held them all that time.
The Philadelphia papers were enthusiastic. One critic wrote: “A grace of
manner, genial presence, and a mellow, full voice are notable
characteristics of the poet-scholar; and the familiar poems which are
not less known and loved in this country than in the poet’s home,
acquired new beauty from the author’s wonderful reading of them. Without
striving in the hackneyed way, Sir Edwin, by his expressive face and
voice of many modulations, recites tales of love, pathos, or tragedy in
a manner which many a trained actor might envy.”
The first New York reading, in Carnegie Hall, November 4th, was a
tremendous success. I cannot recollect having ever before seen so large
an audience in that hall and, for a reading, held so spellbound. The
enthusiasm knew no limit. There had been a great demand for tickets for
this performance, and as the house was sold for the benefit of St.
Mark’s Hospital, Mr. A. B. de Frece, the vice-president of that
association, decided upon an auction sale of seats and boxes, which
occurred in the hall on October 26th. Twenty-six boxes brought about
$1,500 premium. The great desire both to honor and to meet the poet was
shown not alone in the sale of tickets, but even more in the eagerness
of many people to be members of the committee of reception, which
occupied seats on the platform. Such distinguished representatives of
learning and of letters were present as Edmund Clarence Stedman, Richard
H. Stoddard, Richard Watson Gilder, William Winter, William Dean
Howells, George William Curtis, Brander Matthews, the Hon. Seth Low,
President of Columbia University, and many others.
Chauncey M. Depew, as chairman, made one of his happy speeches,
referring to the event as of international significance, for “an English
audience applauding James Russell Lowell, and an American audience
cheering Sir Edwin Arnold, present the unity in essentials of these
great empires, and the possibilities which are before English-speaking
peoples. Our language is conquering the earth. It is destined in the
future to be for the East more than Buddha, ‘the Light of Asia,’ and to
diffuse around the globe ‘The Light of the World.’
The genial orator, always himself a luminous personality, made other
appropriate remarks, and when the poet rose from the remarkable group of
celebrities who crowded the platform, he was cordially welcomed. His
presence was a fine one for just such an occasion, and as he briefly
thanked the introductory speaker, he expressed the wish that the
audience would do him the honor of encouraging the ancient and classic
custom of a poet’s reading selections from works of his own creation.
Thus, from the first words, his appearance was a triumph. More than
that, he was a delight. Remembering other “readers” I had known, Sir
Edwin Arnold’s closing of the book he held in his hands, after one long
and almost rapt glance at it, was, perhaps, the most delightful episode
of the evening to me. He did not once refer to the book after that. He
knew his own poems and was always accurate to the letter. He knew, too,
the poems of other poets. His memory is remarkable, but his mastery of
the words was no more complete than his absolute possession of the
rhythm. His recitation was music itself. You felt the meaning in all the
varying shades of that perfect modulation and intonation. I make no
pretence to criticism, yet I think myself able to comprehend the
capacity of a human voice. Sir Edwin Arnold’s voice was, for his
purpose, a perfect instrument. The marvel was that only once before had
he read in public.
The following evening Sir Edwin read in the Brooklyn Academy of Music
before a magnificent audience, to which he was introduced by the Rev.
Dr. Storrs. A Brooklyn critic wrote thus of his power of improvisation:
“Sir Edwin was not restrained by any idea of slavish fidelity to his own
printed page. He gave himself up to the spirit of his poems and to the
music of his verse, and his eyes were upon the audience rather than upon
the book which he held. If one followed him in the text, it soon became
evident that he had not prepared himself by committing the poems. There
were hardly half a dozen lines in which the language was not varied.
Once or twice he used a striking phrase too soon, and had to omit a line
or two to avoid obvious repetitions. As he read, one wondered how a man
could make the substitution he was making without breaking the rhythm or
the sense, but he avoided any more serious entanglement than that of
once or twice repeating a phrase.”
Our next point was Boston. Reporters of all the papers met us at the
Parker House at about ten in the forenoon, and Sir Edwin entertained
them with a delightful chat about Japan and India, closing the interview
by reading a poem. He took well, and his reception by the Boston press
was, in short, simply a repetition of the scenes in Philadelphia and New
York, though enhanced, if possible.
Distinguished callers were constantly coming in, among whom were
President Eliot of Harvard University, Edward Everett Hale, Oliver
Wendell Homes, T. W. Higginson, John Holmes of the _Herald_, and Editor
Clement of the _Transcript_. Dr. Edward Everett Hale introduced him at
his first reading in Music Hall, and Col. T. W. Higginson at the second.
The _Herald_ critic grasped the true spirit of the occasion when he
wrote:
“The acts and tricks of the trained elocutionist were lacking, but in
their place were a divine earnestness, a sincerity and force which would
be lacking in an elocutionist.”
The _Transcript_, at the end of a column and a half review, said:
“The audience was simply held entranced and spellbound by the recital of
that impassioned ballad, ‘He and She,’ whose closing stanzas are:
“‘The utmost wonder is this: I hear
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear,
And am your angel who was your bride,
And know, though dead, I have never died.’
“The charm of presence is an especial gift of Sir Edwin’s, and the
entertainment was one of the most delightful ever enjoyed in this city.”
His readiness, his anxiety even, to vary and brighten his programme is
shown in the following letter, which I received after I left Boston. It
illustrates his conscientious spirit and sincere desire to meet all
proper demands--a spirit which, like Sir Henry M. Stanley, he had to a
marked degree:
* * * * *
“PARKER HOUSE, Boston, Nov. 10, 1891.
“MY DEAR MAJOR POND:
“I miss you very much indeed, but Mr. Angleman is all that can be
desired in the way of obliging and active friendship, and we had a
splendid time in the City Hall, Springfield (see _Republican_).
To-morrow I go at 10:15 A.M. to Wellesley College, having just arranged
this with one of the ladies; and at night, to Smith College.
“It is very difficult to devise a programme which does not shut out
something too good to lose. You see I must not quite fall into being
merely a reciter of songs and ballads! I am a serious and solid poet,
and the people themselves like some of my graver writings. Still, I know
you are right about these mixed audiences, that pieces too long waste
time and strength; so I have greatly cut down such items. The poems that
always take are:
“1. ‘He and She.’
“2. ‘Egyptian Slippers.’
“3. ‘Rajput Nurse.’
“And the little beautiful Nume from ‘Pearls of the Faith.’ I will write
on the other side my programme for to-night, and that for Wellesley
College.
“For your unbounded kindness and dear Mrs. Pond’s, my grateful thanks. I
am too much a Bohemian, I fear, ever to settle down again.
“Yours always,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
As will be seen from the letter that I have just quoted, Sir Edwin
lectured in Springfield on the evening of November 9th. A Springfield
reporter wrote this striking review:
“When he [the poet] speaks in his own proper person, in preface to his
poems, directly addressing his audience, the Englishman is recognized in
his intonations; but as soon as he begins to recite, he renders the
English language in very beautiful modulation, with fitness to the
characters who are introduced, and with rare dramatic expression. It is
seldom that a reader like him is heard. The tricks of elocution are not
his; he often hesitates and pauses for a moment to recall the phrase,
either from memory or from his text, but he puts the life of his deepest
feeling into the recital, and the hearer drinks in the meaning with
unalloyed content. The fervor of his declamation in certain passages of
the talk of Pontius Pilate was thrilling; a better reading of tragedy
than he gave to the story of the Rajput Nurse could hardly be expected,
and perhaps above these would be put the picture of ‘Shah Jehan,’ when
he resists the temptation of the flesh through his faithfulness to
Arjuna, for whom he built the Taj-Mahal.”
Before returning to New York, Arnold lectured with great success in
Cambridgeport, Lowell, Hartford, New Haven, Utica, and Syracuse.
One of the most effective descriptions appeared in a Syracuse daily,
where the reporter said:
“The speaker uttered the more powerful passages with his head thrown
back, his body erect, and his chest heaving. The book was held in the
left hand, the right, and occasionally both, being used for gestures.
When he spoke of sorrow, his voice was pathetic almost to tears; of joy,
it thrilled with rapture; of power and victory, it rang like a clarion;
and in poetic description, it was as when ‘the dewdrop slips into the
shining sea.’”
I give these bits of evidence from time to time as proof of Stanley’s
keenness of judgment, and in support of my own declaration that Sir
Edwin Arnold was by far the best of author-readers that England has
given for our delight. America has yet to produce his equal.
After returning to New York the Press Club of that city gave Sir Edwin a
reception. Mr. Depew, a member of the club, in his spicy introduction,
spoke of Sir Edwin as a fellow-journalist whom he was proud to welcome.
Sir Edwin’s reply was one of the brightest speeches that he made in
America, as those privileged to be present will always remember.
We were all much shocked when we learned of the death of W. J. Florence.
Sir Edwin sent a wreath for his funeral, with the following words:
“Sans Adieu. EDWIN ARNOLD.
“W. J. Florence, November 23, 1891.”
A new deal was made with Sir Edwin under which arrangement he was to
continue one hundred nights, for which I was to pay him $20,000. He
lectured in Albany, Rochester, Buffalo, Toronto, Detroit (twice), Grand
Rapids, Pittsburg, Cleveland, Oberlin, Toledo, Cincinnati (twice),
Louisville, St. Louis, and Chicago. Excellent reports came in from all
along the line. The day of our arrival in Chicago was an eventful one.
Representatives of the press thronged to see Sir Edwin all the morning
at the Auditorium Hotel. He was in excellent condition. Although the
weather was muddy, nasty, and foggy we visited the new _Herald_
building, declared by Chicagoans to be the finest printing-office in the
world. Mr. Scott, president of the _Herald_ Co., introduced Sir Edwin to
the compositors, and he made a little speech to them. Then a sumptuous
lunch in Scott’s office, where Sir Edwin was introduced to the managing
editors of each of the great Chicago daily papers. The party sat down to
lunch at twelve. To everybody’s surprise it was six o’clock when they
separated. In the evening a reception by the Chicago Press Club, where
he made a handsome speech and read “Queen Arjamund and the Dagger.”
At his first public reading in Chicago--in Central Music Hall--the house
was packed with a fine audience of Chicago’s best. President Harper of
Chicago University presided. Sir Edwin was in excellent form and scored
another success. The newspapers contained columns of favorable notices,
and never was a visitor more heartily welcomed.
His whole Western tour was a series of triumphs. Milwaukee, Chicago
(again), Evanston, Kansas City, St. Paul, Minneapolis, Janesville
(Wis.), Rockford, Cedar Rapids, Des Moines, and Clinton, were all in the
Western itinerary.
From Chicago I returned to New York. During the trip I received the
following letter:
* * * * *
“MILWAUKEE, Dec. 17, 1891.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“Thanks, many and sincere, for your flying note, full of kindness, like
everything you say and do. I am afraid if I let go my audiences from the
fine and subtle spell of poetry, I might lose command of them, like the
juggler who leaves off blowing his reed. But I will bear your valuable
advice in mind, if again my voice feels at all in need of resting.
“I cannot thank you enough for the repeated kindness of your wish to
keep me in America, and even under your own roof. I am touched to the
heart by such generous friendship, which I heartily reciprocate; but,
after this unwonted and difficult enterprise is concluded, let me fly
away and find the repose and change for which I shall long with
unspeakable desire. Perhaps after a period of quiet I shall feel even a
strong wish to use again the experience acquired, and to do Australia
with you, but my present feelings are concentrated upon getting through
with this series in the very best manner I can, for your cause and my
own, and then resting.
“My very warmest regards to dear Mrs. Pond. I wish I could make millions
of dollars for her and you.
“Ever most sincerely yours,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
I had arranged five matinees for Sir Edwin at Daly’s Theatre. He
lectured here twice in the morning and in Philadelphia in the evenings
of the same days. He was to lecture in Trenton on the following evening,
but I was obliged to cancel this engagement because of his illness. This
was the beginning of the end, as my diary shows. He was booked for
Newark, Baltimore, Washington, Middletown, New York (four times),
Brooklyn, Portland, Providence, Lakewood, Montclair, Orange, and
Worcester. Owing to the superior knowledge of a learned doctor, he was
obliged to be ill.
It came about in this way: Sir Edwin was sick with grippe at the Everett
House, when his friend Andrew Carnegie called on him. The meeting was a
very cordial one, as Sir Edwin declared that he was under everlasting
obligations to Mr. Carnegie for the kindness he had shown to his son
when on a visit to America. Mr. Carnegie insisted on Sir Edwin’s seeing
his doctor, a learned young Scotch physician, with titles too numerous
to mention. He was the man who could tone him up. Without waiting for
Arnold to acquiesce, Carnegie sent him right around. The young physician
told Sir Edwin that he was a sick man, that he had better have a nurse,
that he must not appear on the platform the next day, and that he must
cancel all his engagements. There was nothing for Sir Edwin to do but
yield to whatever the physician prescribed, as his friend Mr. Carnegie
had sent him. So the next day we were obliged to return about $1,800 at
the box office at Daly’s Theatre to a disappointed public, telling them
that undoubtedly Sir Edwin would be able to keep his next two
engagements; but that there was no chance for those particular ticket
holders to hear him, as the seats for the remaining readings had been
sold out.
A few days later Sir Edwin finally told me that he could not go any
further, and I consented to cancel our agreement if he would give me six
more readings in New York after the present course. I then arranged for
this supplemental course at Daly’s Theatre. On the day before the
readings were to be resumed, Sir Edwin seemed in good spirits, but his
doctor forbade his reading the next day, and I was obliged to cancel all
of his new dates. It made a difference of over $3,000 to me.
I could not win over the doctor. He worried Sir Edwin very badly. The
latter said to me, “Oh, Major, if I don’t get out of this country soon I
will never be able to go at all.” I know he frightened me too. If I had
been in Sir Edwin’s place I should have thought myself about to die. He
told me that Sir Edwin was in exactly the same condition as a man who
was just convalescing from a run of typhoid fever.
When I gave back the money at Daly’s to a great crowd of New York’s best
people, everybody expressed sympathy and regret that Sir Edwin was ill.
I never witnessed a more pathetic scene around a box office, and I felt
that the poet had a hold on New Yorkers that would surely last.
A day or two later, while calling on Sir Edwin, Mr. Carnegie came in,
and when he congratulated the poet on his good fortune in having sent
him a physician who unquestionably saved his life, Sir Edwin gave me a
side wink and a smile at Mr. Carnegie’s absurdities. He then told Mr.
Carnegie that he had decided to go to Japan, and should leave as soon as
possible. He did not care to stay longer in America. He thought that an
ocean voyage would cure him of the grippe. Mr. Carnegie expostulated
with him, but Sir Edwin said his mind was made up. The next day he left
the Everett House to visit Mr. Andrew Carnegie, during the remainder of
his stay. I called on him there and found him not in the best of
spirits. He was lonesome and homesick. He would have been better off to
have kept on with his readings, he said.
On February 5th Sir Edwin gave the first of what promised to be a final
series of four morning readings at Daly’s Theatre. The house was packed.
Immediately after the reading the box-office was besieged, and I saw at
once that there would be a fine business. The next three readings were
already announced, but once more the doctor stepped in, and dates were
cancelled. The Saturday before Sir Edwin was to sail, I called on him at
Mr. Carnegie’s house. He said to me:
“Major Pond, I should like to tell the American people how much I think
of them if you will give me a chance, but you have only from now until
next Monday to do it in. Take all the receipts; I want nothing but the
audience.”
“All right,” I said. “Please send me a letter to that effect.”
It was only a few minutes after returning to my office that I received a
letter authorizing me to go ahead and book the reading for the Monday
morning following. The letter was as follows:
* * * * *
“5 WEST 51ST STREET, NEW YORK, Feb. 8, 1892.
“MY DEAR MAJOR POND:
“If it were possible to arrange for one more of my public readings in
New York, I should regard the opportunity as a pleasure and a privilege.
I am reluctant to quit, even for a time, the land where I have met so
many and such generous and enlightened audiences, without some sign of
the delight with which I should have continued to meet them--some
occasion permitting me to acknowledge their good will toward me,
interrupted only by my illness. It may be, moreover, that there are
those who would like to hear me for the first time, albeit in a farewell
reading, and briefly if it can be compassed--you may count, before I
leave New York, on the willing acceptance of
“Yours always most sincerely,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
I had only Saturday night, Sunday, and Monday morning to advertise. The
reading came off in Daly’s Theatre, Monday morning, February 15th, at
eleven o’clock. It was Sir Edwin’s last appearance in New York, and the
house was filled to its capacity. The audience was of the best,
appreciative of all the poet’s efforts, and in touch with every shade of
expression. He read the “Discourse of Buddha,” and, as a sequel, the
conversation between Mary Magdalen and the Magi, from “The Light of the
World.” “The Egyptian Slippers” was given from the manuscript copy. “The
Renegade Lovers” was another of the poems not yet in print. The
exquisite ballad of “He and She,” one of the favorites, was also given.
Before the programme closed he gratified his audience by a brief
address, which was not merely eloquent in words, but most effective by
the earnestness of his delivery.
“I ask your permission, before I conclude this last of my readings with
some verses from the Persian of Saadi, which explains and justifies my
books, to offer first to you, and next, through you, to those sixty-five
audiences which I have had the honor to address in various cities of the
United States, my most respectful and heartfelt thanks for the grace and
kindness of the reception which they have given me. I do not presume to
praise--what is far above my praise--the large-minded enlightenment, the
glad interest in great thought which I have found everywhere existing
and active in this country, evidenced to me in many clear and remarkable
ways. But I will dare say that here, if anywhere in the world, the poet
whose credentials are honest good-will toward his kind and firm faith in
their glorious destiny, may fearlessly speak what is in his heart and
brain, and be sure of an attention as gentle and as generous as it is
cultivated.