lover. I have the deepest conviction that the future history of the
human race depends for its happy development upon that firm and eternal
friendship of the great Republic and of the British Empire which is at
once so necessary and so natural. Resolve on your side of the Atlantic,
along with us who know you on the other, to allow no ignorance, no
impatience, no foolish transient passion to share that amity. The peace
and progress of the earth are founded upon it, and those who would
destroy it are guilty of high treason against humanity. Accept, I pray
you, and allow me to express to others through this large and
representative assemblage, the sincere gratitude I feel for the unbroken
goodness, the incomparable patience, the quick appreciation, and the
‘sweet reasonableness’ which I have met with universally among American
audiences.”
The reading closed with the lines from Saadi, entitled, “In Many Lands.”
The enthusiasm was tremendous. People crowded around the stage to say
good-by, and Sir Edwin was not able himself to carry away a tithe of the
flowers that were heaped upon him.
The receipts were $1,851. I told Sir Edwin that there was $1,000 clear
profit from the lecture, and I thought he was entitled to it. “Not a
penny, Major Pond. You have been disappointed and obliged to return many
hundreds of dollars to a disappointed public. I only wish it were $5,000
for you instead of one.”
That evening he spent with us, appearing well and in excellent spirits.
The next day he left for San Francisco, by way of New Orleans. He spent
several days in California, at the Lick Observatory, in San José and in
San Francisco, and then sailed for Japan, where he remained a number of
months. He returned homeward in September through the United States,
accompanied by Miss Arnold, his daughter, and the Japanese lady who is
now his devoted wife.
While in New York on this homeward trip he read in my office to a party
of friends, principally connected with the New York newspapers, the
greater part of a Japanese tragedy which he had written while in the
Island Empire. It was entitled “Adzuma; or, the Japanese Wife.” Sir
Edwin gave permission to publish but one passage, and that because it
had previously been published in a Japanese newspaper. He dined at our
house that evening, and the following day sailed for England. Friendly
letters have passed between us at short intervals ever since. His
letters to me are among my literary treasures.
In 1897 Mrs. Pond and I visited England to attend the Queen’s Jubilee.
On our arrival in Glasgow, June 9th, I found a telegram from Sir Edwin
Arnold, saying:
* * * * *
“Have good places for you and Mrs. Pond to see procession. Let me know
when you will be in London.”
* * * * *
I wrote him the time we expected to arrive, and when we reached London I
found another telegram reading as follows:
* * * * *
“You and Mrs. Pond breakfast with me at 225 Cromwell Road at twelve
to-morrow.
EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
My diary contains the following entry:
* * * * *
“LONDON, Saturday, June 19, 1897.
“Breakfasted with Sir Edwin Arnold at 225 Cromwell Road at twelve, and a
delightful visit it was. Sir Edwin welcomed us in his characteristic
genial manner, which made us feel that the entire establishment was
ours. His son, a young physician, with his wife, was there, also the
Japanese lady whom we met at his house in 1891, and who is now the head
of his household. She has mastered our language and is very refined and
intelligent. Her name is Antomesan.
“Sir Edwin presented me with a copy of his new book, ‘Wandering Words,’
and a guinea cigar. He also gave me two tickets on the first row of the
Grand Stand in the tribune of St. Paul’s Cathedral, for the grand
parade. They were hundred-guinea tickets.
“These seats were within fifty feet of where Her Majesty’s carriage
stopped during the services. I could look down on the bishops, and after
the impressive service I met our Bishop Potter.
“‘How came you in here?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you one of the nobility?’
“I think I was the only untitled man in that assemblage of people.”
* * * * *
In the light of the intimate and most friendly relations that have
existed between us, and my high appreciation of the friendship with
which Sir Edwin Arnold honored me, I shall perhaps be pardoned for
quoting a few of the letters which I have received from him, some being
in reply to my efforts to induce him to return to the United States and
others being more purely personal in character. They are of especial
value, perhaps, in view of the fact that the poet and editor is now and
has been for nearly three years past confined to his residence. Under
the dates given he has some pleasant things to say in the following
letters:
* * * * *
“225 CROMWELL MANSIONS, KENSINGTON, S.W.,
“July 11, 1894.
“MY EVER DEAR MAJOR:
“I am ashamed when I compare the date of your last kind letter with that
of my reply. But one is borne in such a whirl of politics and society
in this London season that much may be forgiven. I was rejoiced to hear
of the well-being of dear Mrs. Pond, the boy, and yourself; and by no
means surprised that you had developed as a great success upon the
platform. Who, indeed, ought to understand that difficult business
better than you, under the shadow of whose skill and kindness we have
all graduated? I have no doubt you would succeed over here.
“As for Dean Hole, I have the highest opinion of him; and I believe he
will delight his audiences. He is a genial Christian gentleman, whose
piety is bright with gay humor and the love of nature--the best judge of
roses in the world, and in every way a fine specimen of the English
Dean.
“What a state you are in with your strikes and strikers!
“Give very kindest messages to Mrs. Pond and ‘Bim,’ and ever believe me,
“Yours most sincerely,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
By his own permission, as with Henry M. Stanley, I was often privileged
to ask questions relative to English gentlemen to whom attention was
directed as available for our platform service. Here is a letter wherein
a valuable suggestion was made, which could not be followed, however, in
time:
* * * * *
“GRAND HOTEL, PARIS, Oct. 8, 1895.
“MY EVER DEAR MAJOR POND:
“In reply to your very kind letter from Paris--having just started for a
little holiday trip to Spain, after a rather fatiguing spell of work in
politics and literature. It delights me to hear that you and Mrs. Pond
and the little one are all well. I note that you have been having a good
time with Mark Twain, for whose misfortunes we have all--on this
side--felt most deeply. I should think you could easily get Du Maurier,
unless ‘Trilby’ has made him too rich. As for me, dear Major, it would
be glorious to serve under your victorious flag again, but I must not
encourage myself or you to expect that. However, I shall be back in
England before Christmas and will write to you again. I thank you with
all my heart for your friendly thoughts of me. Be sure they are
cordially returned, and ever believe me,
“Sincerely and affectionately yours,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
Again he declines my request for another tour, and in doing
so gives a glimpse of his own busy hours:
* * * * *
“225 CROMWELL MANSIONS, KENSINGTON, S.W.,
“April 30, 1896.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“I have just returned from a month’s holiday in the Canary Islands.
Hence the sad delay in replying to your kind and welcome letter of
(alas!!) the 20th of March. It delighted me by its news that Mrs. Pond,
and the ‘laddie,’ and yourself, were all well. So am I, but tremendously
busy with politics, and also with preparations for a journey to Russia,
whither I go to see the Tsar crowned.
“I am sorry to say that I don’t think Mr. Ingersoll would ‘catch on’
over here. I know and admire his great abilities and eloquence, but our
public is religious, orthodox, and conservative--so far as the ‘paying’
part of it goes. Your own lectures would be far more attractive.
“For my humble self, I wish I could see my way to once more run round
with you. At present I dream of being in India all next winter about
some temple business and have declined some very honorable
presidentships and appointments with that view. All the same, most
heartily do I thank you for your kind proof of friendly opinion and
confidence.
“Love to your home circle.
“Sincerely your very attached friend,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
From the office of the _Daily Telegraph_, under date of August 4, 1896,
this letter of introduction came to me:
* * * * *
“MY DEAR MAJOR POND:
“The bearer is our good and trusted colleague, Mr. Ellerthorpe, who goes
to America to observe the social, political, commercial, and
intellectual life of your great Republic, and to send letters to the
_Daily Telegraph_ upon these topics. Be so good as to receive and, if
you can, to help him with useful introductions. He is a most worthy
gentleman and I know you will do what you can for him for ‘Auld Lang
Syne.’
“Yours affectionately,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
Later in April, 1897, comes a note introducing Mr. Edward Le Sage, son
of the managing editor of the _Daily Telegraph_, who visited the United
States as a representative of that paper. I am asked “to be as good as
ever I can” to the gentleman. Then came a pleasant reminder in the form
of wedding cards, with the following very pleasant epistle as a friendly
accompaniment:
* * * * *
“31 BOLTON GARDENS, LONDON, S.W.,
“November 26, 1897.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“The enclosed card will tell you, what you probably have long ago heard,
that I have married the gentle and faithful Japan lady whom you saw with
us. We have settled down very quietly in this new and pleasant house and
only wish that you and dear Mrs. Pond were here to have a chat
sometimes.
“I have had lately a nasty bout of rheumatism, or gout, or something,
which makes me a prisoner to my room, but am slowly getting better. I
trust you are all very well. It is not impossible you may see me again
in the States, for my doctor tells me to take rest and travel.
“Yours always affectionately,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
This later letter I give explains itself, and refers to the pathetic
physical condition which now afflicts Sir Edwin.
* * * * *
“31 BOLTON GARDENS, S. KENSINGTON,
“LONDON, S.W., Jan. 2, 1898.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“Warmest thanks for your kind message, and most cordial returns of the
same to you and yours!
“Your charming invitation is of course attractive, but at present I am
the victim of some strange weakness of the lower limbs, which the
doctors say may prove chronic, and which prevents me standing long or
walking much. This will oblige me, I fear, to go into the East for
sunshine, just before Lent, and at present I do all my daily work by
carriage and driving. But I will write again and give you a later
report.
“Kindest regards to Mrs. Pond and Bim, in which Lady Arnold joins.
“Ever yours affectionately,
“EDWIN ARNOLD.”
* * * * *
[Illustration: _COPYRIGHT--ELLIOTT & FRY--LONDON._
DR. JOHN WATSON (“IAN MACLAREN”)]
The Rev. Dr. John Watson (“IAN MACLAREN”)
made his first lecture tour in America between
October 1 and December 16, 1896, and I think I saw
more happy faces while accompanying him than any other man
was ever privileged to see in the same length of time. During
this period Dr. Watson had ninety-six as large audiences
of men and women as could be crowded into the largest public
halls in the principal cities of the United States and Canada.
These great multitudes, with bated breath and outstretched
necks, sat and listened to him with intermingled laughter and
tears, like sunshine making the rain radiant.
Dr. Watson is a tall, straight, square-shouldered, deep-chested
man of middle age, with a large, compact, round, and
well-balanced head, thinly thatched with brown and grayish
hair, well-moulded refined features that bear the impress of
kindly shrewdness, intellectual sagacity, and spiritual clearness,
tempered, too, with a mingled sense of keen humor and
grave dignity. The eyes are open, fine, and clear in expression,
and thoughtful and observant to a controlling degree.
He is sometimes called an Englishman, because he happened
to be born in the county of Essex; but he himself says: “I
am a pure Highlander. My mother was a Maclaren, and came
from Loch Tay and spoke the Gaelic tongue. My father was
born at Braemar, and Gaelic was the language of my paternal
grandfather.” His father was a Free Church elder, and his
mother a woman of strong religious character and great spirituality.
He is himself a typical Scotch Highlander in appearance,
with every movement indicating alertness and force.
His voice is excellent, because its tones express the feeling
to be conveyed. It is skilfully used, with fine inflections and
tonal shadings that give emphasis and delicacy to his delivery.
The doctor’s mobile mouth easily lends itself to vocal changes.
He is not an orator in the usual sense of the word, but he is a
speaker who readily holds an audience to the last moment.
No one leaves while he speaks, and that is the finest test.
One day Horace Greeley, Henry Ward Beecher, and I were
passing through Bridgeport. Mr. Greeley remarked: “This is
Bridgeport. I had a successful lecture here once.”
Mr. Beecher said: “Greeley, what do you call a successful
lecture?”
“Oh, more people stayed in than went out.”
Dr. Watson’s ten weeks were filled almost beyond belief.
Yet his parting sermon at Plymouth Church was as fresh in
matter and manner as when he began at New Haven with his
famous Yale lectures on preaching given before the Divinity
School.
In physique and in his mental spirit Dr. Watson recalls Mr.
Beecher very distinctly. A broad sympathy with their fellows
is their common inheritance. The rejoicing love of nature
belongs to both lives. Dr. Watson illustrates, as Mr.
Beecher did, in book, sermon, lecture, social intercourse, that
he sees the best in all men, feels their moods, holds charity
with errors, and joys with service, is touched by pathos and
becomes tender with suffering. Dr. Watson brought a wholesome
manhood as well as a gracious mind to the work he did,
and has left a memory that all who heard him will continue
to enjoy. America is richer by his visit, and he himself carried
away the delight of sympathetic and genial associations.
It is probable that Dr. Watson, or “Ian Maclaren,” as he is
more commonly called, would still have been nothing more
than the pastor of a well to-do congregation in Liverpool if it
had not been for one man.
For many years Dr. Watson had been intimately acquainted
with Dr. Robertson Nicoll, editor of the _British Weekly_ and
_The Bookman_, and the latter, who has a keen eye for literary
ability, discovered in his conversations with the Scotch minister
latent qualities which he determined to bring out. It happened
that at this time Dr. Nicoll was on a hunt for genius.
It had been through his instrumentality that both J. M. Barrie
and S. R. Crockett had been brought before the public, but
this same fickle public, having acknowledged the merit of
these two writers, was already clamoring for something new.
Dr. Nicoll realized that if he was to sustain his reputation he
would be obliged to produce another genius without delay. Is
it surprising, when he found in Dr. Watson what he was seeking,
that he should pay no heed to either the man’s age, his
peace of mind, or the wishes of his family, but should determine
to launch him, whether he desired it or not, upon the
sea of letters?
To this end the editor wrote to his intended victim, telling
him of his unknown ability, and asking him to contribute to
the _British Weekly_ a few short stories, especially dealing with
Scotch character. But Dr. Watson at the time was deeply
engaged in an analysis of the character of the Jebusites, and
Dr. Nicoll’s request was unheeded. The latter, however,
did not intend to forfeit his reputation for such a trifling
cause. The letters and appeals which he sent to Liverpool
gradually increased in number until Dr. Watson received one
nearly every day. Before long letters were followed by telegrams,
and the fate of “The Bonnie Briar Bush” was finally
settled by the weary minister at last consenting to attempt a
short story. This was forwarded to Dr. Nicoll, and was
promptly returned, with the intimation that it was not what
was desired, while at the same time more explicit directions
were given. Dr. Watson made another attempt, and the next
week the first story of “The Bonnie Briar Bush” series appeared
in print.
The full significance of the title which Dr. Watson has
given to his book is not generally understood. The Jacobites
sang, “There grows a bonnie briar bush in our kailyard,” and
wore the white rose as their emblem. A Highlander with
Jacobite traditions, Dr. Watson has always loved the simple,
beautiful flower, which is found in many country gardens in
Scotland. When a title was needed for his volume, the author
chose this because the suggestion of the book is that in every
garden, however small and humble, there may be a flower.
The whole idea of his writing, Dr. Watson says, “is to show
the rose in places where many people look for cabbages.”
His mission is to set forth what plain people, who do not analyze
their feelings, really do and suffer.
From my very first meeting with him, as he landed at New
York from the _Germanic_, I liked him even more than I had
expected. He impressed me at once as strong, yet refined
and very natural. He was dressed in a plain business garb--rather
more like a Scotch merchant than a minister--and appeared
a simple, delightful man in every sense the word implies.
I liked him then; I love him now.
With Mrs. Watson--a frail, little body, with black hair and
eyes, and very quiet--we drove at once to the Everett House,
where pleasant rooms were waiting. They lunched with me.
I ordered a large double sirloin steak and hashed brown potatoes
with cream--just what never fails to catch an Englishman.
My guests had never before seen the like. “A monumental
steak,” said the doctor to his wife. “I’ve heard of
your American beefsteaks. The stories have not been overdrawn.”
After luncheon Dr. Watson and I called on Mr. John Sloane,
who had invited Dr. and Mrs. Watson to spend the Sunday
following with him at his home in Lenox. After a delightful
chat for a few minutes and the completion of arrangements
for the Lenox visit, we returned to my office, where the reporters
from the New York, Brooklyn, Boston, and Philadelphia
papers were waiting for an interview. The group was gathered
about the same round table where the two Arnolds, Stanley,
Max O’Rell, and Conan Doyle had been interviewed. It
did not take the reporters long to discover that they had an
ideal target for their ingenuity, and for two hours the air was
full of sharp and brilliant sayings from the lips of my star.
It seemed more like the Stanley epoch than any other, and,
next to Stanley and Sir Edwin Arnold, best of all. The symptoms
were promising. I thought to myself that if he didn’t
make a clean sweep, then no man could.
I went up to New Haven to hear him give the first of his
course of lectures on “The Ethics of Preaching” before the
Yale theological students. It was a delightful address. His
manner and expression were elegant. He was magnetic, brimful
of wit and sparkling with humor, and he couldn’t help it.
I knew he would be a great go on the platform.
Applications were coming in from all parts of the country
for “Ian Maclaren.” The doctor allowed me three evenings
between his Yale lectures for trial readings, so we opened up
at Springfield. I rented the theatre there and advertised in
the newspapers only--used no posters or circulars and had no
local society to back it.
I had not visited Springfield for some years, as nothing but
a theatrical attraction seemed to draw there. The night of
“Ian Maclaren’s” lecture, however, reminded me of the
palmy days of Beecher and Gough. The theatre was full.
President Gates and a large party of students from Amherst
College were there, another party from Smith College, Northampton,
besides Springfield’s best people. Dr. and Mrs. Watson
were both very nervous, but he made a great hit. His
entertainment was conversational and delightful. He had
plenty of voice of a rich, carrying quality. After the reading
the doctor seemed somewhat doubtful as to his success, but I
was satisfied.
Next morning the Springfield papers contained elaborate and
very enthusiastic notices of “Ian Maclaren’s” performance the
previous evening. The doctor himself paid very little attention
to his press notices, but Mrs. Watson read and enjoyed
them, and instructed me to save a copy of each paper for her
sons in Liverpool.
The second of the “trial performances” was given in Unity
Hall, Hartford, which has only seven hundred seats. Every
seat was sold and all the standing room occupied. The doctor
gave a lecture here, not a reading, on “Certain Traits of
Scotch Character.” Both audience and manager were delighted.
We had planned to return to New Haven the same night,
but our plan failed through a misadventure that was somewhat
amusing, although rather discomforting to me. We had
boarded the New Haven train at about a quarter to eleven,
and were very busily engaged in conversation. I was talking.
The brakeman called out the name of a station, which I did
not hear distinctly, but looking at my watch I saw it was a
quarter to twelve--the time we were due at New Haven. I
jumped up, saying, “This is New Haven?” and we all hurried
out, and the train moved on. The depot did not look familiar
to any of us, and we did not see Professor Fisher’s carriage,
which we were expecting, to take Dr. and Mrs. Watson to his
house, as they were his guests while in New Haven. There
was no carriage and not a person to be seen. After some running
about, I found a policeman and asked him where we were.
“You are in Meriden,” said the officer.
“In Meriden!” I exclaimed. “I thought this was New
Haven. When does the next train go to New Haven?”
“About six in the morning.”
I can’t describe my feelings. Dr. and Mrs. Watson overheard
the conversation, and I saw them look at each other and
smile. I didn’t know what to say, but Dr. Watson said:
“Isn’t there a public house where we can get a bedroom?”
The policeman pointed out a hotel over the way, a good
one, where we secured comfortable rooms. I sent a man out
to bring in some oysters and sandwiches, and we all sat down
to our late supper. Dr. Watson was never in better humor;
he was full of laughter and apparently amused at my embarrassment.
We sat and told stories until after one. I told the
doctor that his taking the blunder so pleasantly had made me
feel worse than if he had pitched into me. He bade me good-night,
saying, “Major, you may have something worse than
this to put up with before you are through with me.”
The doctor must have told this story to all of his friends in
England, for a year later when over there, I was often slyly
asked by friends of his if I knew a town in America called
Meriden.
After the Yale lectures were completed I arranged to have
the doctor give one public lecture in New Haven. The McKinley-Hobart
campaign was on. Here and the next night
at Bridgeport we had Tom Reed and his torchlight processions--which
took two hours to pass a given point--against
us, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on our business.
What other man could have drawn full houses under such
conditions?
Returning to New York, the doctor dined one evening with
me and a party of friends at the Lotos Club. There were
present Gen. Horace Porter, Seth Low, Frank R. Lawrence,
William Winter, John Elderkin, and Hamilton W. Mabie. It
was an enjoyable affair. There were bright sayings, good
stories, and flashes of wit that only such an occasion could
produce. It was one o’clock when Dr. Watson and I reached
the Everett House, he declaring, “You Americans are really
a wonderful people.”