car all to ourselves. The weather was the most disagreeable possible--a
cold, sleety rain, which later changed to a gale so severe as to impede
the progress of the train. We lost time all day. When the conductor told
the doctor that we were losing time on account of the wind, he
exclaimed: “How absurd! Do you mean to tell me that any wind can retard
the speed of a heavy locomotive and train like this?” The conductor
assured him that nothing else had caused the lateness of the train. He
insisted that it was ridiculous, and wouldn’t listen to it; but I have
known a gale to lift a locomotive and whole train off the track. Little
he knows of the Iowa and Kansas zephyrs.
When I saw that we were bound to be late, I telegraphed my correspondent
in Des Moines that the train was losing time. All day we travelled over
the boundless prairie, thickly dotted with frail frame houses that
appeared hardly able to withstand the gale. This was the first real
prairie country the doctor had ever seen, and it was a surprise to him.
As there were no eating stations along the line and no food to be had on
the train, we were obliged to go without eating all day, which the
doctor did not relish, and declared that this was the last time he would
be caught on a long journey without food. I told him that we would go
right to the hotel as soon as we arrived and get something. He was
obliged to dress on the sleeper, and was very much worried, because he
was afraid he would have to lecture without his supper. I began to fear
that he was right when he told me in Meriden I might sometimes have to
put up with some very disagreeable things.
It was after eight when we reached the hotel. The clerk told us that we
could get nothing to eat, as the dining-room closed at eight (it is so
with all provincial hotels), but the doctor rushed to the dining-room
and made a loud noise on the door, which was opened by a man in evening
dress. He proved to be the head waiter.
“I want some food immediately,” said the doctor. The man stood
paralyzed.
“I must have some food right away,” the doctor repeated, and rushed by
the man to a table where were the remains of the dinner of the latest
comer. He attacked it, and the head waiter tried to stop proceedings,
but the doctor kept right on. He managed to get part of a meal, and
hurried out, the man following him. In the carriage on the way to the
Opera House the doctor told me that he hoped he had not permanently
injured that man who persisted in trying to prevent him from eating what
he could find. I think I never experienced a more amusing incident. It
was nearly nine o’clock when Dr. Watson stepped upon the stage. I’ll let
the Des Moines _Leader_ tell the story:
“At five minutes before nine o’clock the lecturer came around the flies.
During the long wait the audience was entertained with a violin solo and
a piano solo. An impromptu choir on the stage started ‘America,’ and
four verses were sung. Then came ‘Annie Laurie,’ and it was during the
singing of that that Dr. Watson took his seat. ‘How appropriate,’ every
one said to his neighbor, and the tedium of the long delay was
forgotten. It was a gathering of which any person might be proud, and
evinced extraordinary interest concerning the new star in the literary
firmament, unknown except in his clerical capacity two years ago.”
The president of the Woman’s Club, under whose auspices the lecture was
given, introduced the speaker in a very few words of eulogy on the man
and his work. She said, “The long-anticipated hour has come,” and Dr.
Watson stood up before the audience. He said that no one could convey a
reproach so delicately as a woman, and that when he heard the words
“long-anticipated hour” combined with what was complimentary, it
reminded him of his childhood days when medicine was administered in
sweets. “Only the other day,” he continued, “I was congratulating myself
on never being late, either for pulpit or platform, but now the boast
has come home to me, as such things usually do.”
At 11:30 we were again on board the sleeper bound for Galesburg. Our
journey was interrupted by an enforced long wait at Rock Island--from 8
A.M. to 2:40 P.M.--but it proved a very delightful wait. We took a
carriage and drove about the town, visiting the United States Arsenal,
where arms and war equipments are manufactured. Through the politeness
of the commanding officer, Colonel Buffington, Dr. Watson was most
graciously entertained all the forenoon.
At Rock Island, President John Finley of Knox College (then the youngest
college president in America) met us with the private car of the
superintendent of the road, to convey us to Galesburg. The college
students, male and female, had turned out en masse to meet “Ian
Maclaren” at the station, and behind a band of music and the students
our carriage was escorted to President Finley’s house. Here was a
telegram from Mrs. Watson telling her husband that she was much improved
and would meet us in Chicago the next morning.
“Astonishing,” said the doctor, his face fairly beaming. “Can I send a
telegram right away?” he asked.
“I’ll take it,” said I, for I wanted to do something.
He wrote a telegram after the English manner--as few words as
possible--and this is the way it read:
* * * * *
“MRS. WATSON, WEST HOTEL, MINNEAPOLIS.
“Much lifted.
WATSON.”
* * * * *
I made a copy of it, which I handed in at the office, retaining the
original. I have never parted with a word of his or Mr. Beecher’s
manuscript.
After dinner, Dr. Watson visited the rooms of the new “Abraham Lincoln
Memorial to Art and Science.” About a hundred young ladies were in
waiting, dressed in white, with a little green ribbon about their necks
and each one wearing a white rose. The doctor christened the new
society, “Circle of the Order of the White Rose,” and the occasion
inspired him to make one of the sweetest addresses I ever heard. I did
not know of a man since Mr. Beecher had gone who could rise to such an
occasion as Dr. Watson did.
The lecture that evening was to help establish a fund to aid in the
objects of the new society. The Knox College students completely filled
the Opera House from floor to ceiling. As the doctor stepped upon the
stage he was greeted with a Western college cheer, given with a vigor
that could not be excelled for volume. It seemed to inspire him for the
evening’s work. This was one of the most hearty receptions he had in
America. After the lecture we returned to Dr. Finley’s home, where
flashlight pictures were taken of the party.
By 11:30 we were on the train for Chicago, Dr. Finley with us, arriving
at 6:30 Sunday morning. Our entire party were guests of my old friends,
Mr. and Mrs. C. H. McConnell, on the South Side. Although it was such an
unseasonable hour to disturb friends, Mr. McConnell met us at the door
and welcomed Dr. Watson with heart and hand in such a manner as to cause
him to say before we fairly got into the house:
“Major, I’m very glad we’re here.”
At 8:30 A.M., Mrs. Watson arrived from Minneapolis. I met her at the
train. She did look feeble, but she insisted on carrying her handbag to
the carriage, and was very cheerful and anxious to know how everybody
had gotten along without her. I assured her that she had been very much
missed, and that from now on we were all right.
That afternoon Dr. Watson preached in the Chicago University for
President Harper, and when he returned with Mr. and Mrs. McConnell,
found Mr. Lyman Gage (later Secretary of the Treasury) waiting to escort
him to his house to dinner. I suppose they went to Mr. Gage’s and waited
until the Sabbath was over and then had a good time, because the doctor
never visits on Sunday excepting on parishional work, and I heard him
say on Monday morning at breakfast, “I’ve already given one reading this
morning.”
This Monday was our red-letter day in Chicago, when we took in over
$4,000, at the matinée and evening reading; this, too, notwithstanding
it poured all day and the audience came in carriages and under
umbrellas, or dressed in waterproofs, and giving the lobby of Central
Music Hall the appearance of a small river.
Mrs. Watson was improving all the time, but we left her and Mrs. Pond
in Chicago with our friends the McConnells, to join us in Niagara Falls
the following Saturday night, where we would spend Sunday and see the
falls. Dr. Watson and I went on to Oberlin, Pittsburg, and Cleveland.
The strange old Lyceum course in Oberlin is one of the oldest in
America, and the Park Hotel is the same old barracks that I have visited
year after year with John B. Gough, Beecher, Twain and Cable, Gilmore’s
band, Clara Louise Kellogg, and many others. The people of Oberlin gave
“Ian Maclaren” a grand ovation. It was the evening of election day, and
some of the early election returns were announced at the lecture. It is
a time-honored custom in Oberlin that lectures begin at 6:30 in the
evening, and invariably open with prayer.
“I never before met a people who would pay an admission fee to hear a
long prayer,” said the doctor to me after the lecture.
Dr. Watson was the guest of the college dean. I would not attempt to
describe the impressions made on him while in Oberlin. It is an
absolutely teetotal town and all dinners are dry. The election returns
had brought the news of a McKinley landslide, and the students’
enthusiasm knew no bounds. They surrounded the dean’s house, where Dr.
Watson was stopping, built a number of bonfires, and remained there most
of the night, shouting, “What’s the matter with McKinley? _He’s all
right!_” Dr. Watson never got over that.
The day after the election, when we reached Cleveland, which is only
seven miles from McKinley’s home, I doubt if there could be found a
person there that day who was not hoarse. I never saw such a litter of
débris before or since. The streets were covered with papers, old box
and barrel hoop irons, ashes, and embers of bonfires, and hardly a soul
was to be seen at ten o’clock in the morning. They were used up. It did
look like the break up of a hard winter or the ruins of a burned
district. In registering, Dr. Watson asked the clerk of the hotel,
“What’s the matter with McKinley?” and he got it good and strong: “_He’s
all right!_” Everybody in the room and vicinity shouted. He certainly
had entered into the spirit of that contest. Notwithstanding all this
excitement, the people had roused up in the evening, and we had about
$1,100 in cash in the big Music Hall there.
There was no lack of excitement on this tour. The next day the doctor
was down for two entertainments in Pittsburg, besides a luncheon and a
dinner. We took an early morning train, reaching Pittsburg at noon,
where we were met by a delegation of ministers and business men, with
Andrew Carnegie at the head. They had planned a luncheon for Dr. Watson,
which was waiting, and then to lecture at two o’clock! I looked after
the business while the doctor was entertained by his friends. We were
getting nearly all we wanted of luncheons. One gentleman had assured Dr.
Watson that Major Pond had made a great mistake in placing a matinée
lecture, for the new Carnegie Hall could accommodate all the people, and
as there was not a soul to be seen when the doctor and Mr. Carnegie
drove up to the Opera House, the doctor said to me:
“Major, you have made a great mistake here. One reading is enough. You
have the obstinacy of a Scot.”
“Have I?” I replied. “Well, all you will have to do is to give your
‘small audience’ a better lecture this afternoon.”
When he got around on the stage and faced the crowd, he found the most
select audience Pittsburg could possibly muster. There was not a vacant
seat, and “Standing Room Only” was on the signs in the lobby. We took in
$1,800 that afternoon. He went to dinner with Mr. Carnegie, who
introduced him to another audience that evening of over three thousand
people.
At the eating station in Oil City, the next day, while on our way to
Jamestown, the doctor left his hat. I had to go into the baggage car and
get his hat box, and he went all the way into Jamestown and Buffalo
wearing his silk hat. We had one lecture at Jamestown, with no
particular incident except that the President of the Y. M. C. A. kept
the audience in agony fifteen minutes with his introductory speech.
The next day, in Buffalo, there were two lectures, a club luncheon, and
a supper, after which we went by trolley to Niagara Falls, where our
wives were soundly sleeping at 1:30 A.M. Sunday. I don’t believe Dr.
Watson had had ten spare minutes during the two weeks previous to that
time.
We saw the falls through disagreeable mist and cold drizzly rain. A more
uncomfortable day out of doors could not be, but Mr. Isaacs’s cosy
Prospect House was unalloyed comfort. Once Mr. Beecher wrote me from
this hotel: “Good room, good bed, good table, and good host. What a
cluster of blessings! Next to being at home is the blessedness of being
away from home in a good hotel.”
Two performances were given in Rochester, and here I succumbed. I could
stand it no longer, but went to bed and sent for a physician. The ladies
went directly to New York from the Falls, and the doctor “managed” for
me, which kept him pretty busy. He came to my room after the evening
performance and wished to nurse me during the night. My physician
declared me in a serious condition and ordered me to take the first
train home. Dr. Watson insisted that under such conditions I was too
feeble to move, and ruled against the physician; so I stayed in bed and
left for New York the next morning, leaving the doctor in Syracuse to
fill two engagements there.
He spoke to two unusually large crowds in Syracuse; at Ithaca the
following noon, at Elmira in the evening, and then back to New York.
Twice a day he had been keeping up his readings while I dragged and
pushed him along, and a better-natured, more delightful spirit never was
known. My business was to make the work as easy for him as possible, no
matter what fatigue it caused the “manager.” What else is a “manager”
for?
I was side-tracked at home two days. I had planned for several readings
in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. The biggest business was yet to
come. The Watsons were our guests for a couple of days while I was laid
up. One must entertain and house Dr. Watson under one’s roof to know
what a buoyant, soul-reviving, happy spirit he possesses. He was in
excellent humor and entertained us all day long with whimsical
descriptions of cranks who visit him--crank preachers from foreign lands
who get their living by appeals in all directions for collections and
opportunities to preach. It was certainly the most remarkable,
inimitable, and side-splitting facial display of serio-comic genius I
ever saw or heard. What an actor he would have made!
Our next stand was Philadelphia, November 14th, where Mr. Harold Pierce,
the gentleman who had the doctor in charge for that Saturday afternoon
and Sunday, prior to the doctor’s lecture the Monday following, met us
and took absolute charge of the doctor and his party. Pierce is a
hero-worshipper, but a splendid fellow.
Mr. John Russell Young gave the doctor a luncheon at the Union League
Club at one o’clock, at which were a number of Philadelphia’s most
distinguished men as guests. At the right of Mr. Young at the table was
Dr. Watson; at his left, Archbishop Ryan. Next to Dr. Watson was John
Wanamaker. I don’t think that any party has ever been privileged to
listen to a more delightful theological discussion than that which took
place between the Catholic archbishop and the Presbyterian Scotch
minister. It was quite a display of wit and historical knowledge, which
made the occasion intensely interesting. It was a protracted luncheon.
We did not get up from the table until half-past three. Then the doctor
went to the New Century Club for a reception. At least Pierce called it
a reception. There was a large auditorium, every seat of which was
occupied. The doctor was led out upon the stage and introduced to the
audience. He gave there one of the brightest and most interesting
lectures of his whole tour, not finishing until five o’clock. He was
unprepared for a speech and was obliged to work out his salvation by
thinking on his feet. He was equal to the occasion, and made his best
speech in America there. He took a carriage direct to the station and
went out to Pottstown, where he gave a lecture under the auspices of the
Hill School, returning at midnight to Philadelphia. The following Sunday
he preached in Germantown, Philadelphia, in the morning. In the
afternoon, with John Wanamaker, he was introduced to many Sunday
schools and saw the working of John Wanamaker’s famous system for the
Sunday religious instruction of the young. In addition to these duties
the doctor had been interviewed by all the reporters in Philadelphia,
and his face and his name were the prominent features in all the daily
papers.
At one of his interviews, speaking of the manner in which his short
stories were written, Dr. Watson said:
“Each one was turned over in my mind for months before I put pen to
paper. It took a prodigious amount of mental labor before I even had a
story formed in my head. Then I blocked it out at one sitting. Then the
thing was put aside, while I went over and over in my mind each
detail,--each line of dialogue, each touch of description,--determining
on the proper place, attitude, share, color, and quality of each bit, so
that the whole might in the end be a unit, not a bundle of parts. By and
by came the actual writing, with the revision and the correction which
accompanies and follows. The actual composition of ‘The Bonnie Briar
Bush’ stories occupied fifteen months. They were the more difficult,
because in every case the character is revealed in dialogue exclusively.
It is different where the writer has a plot--a murder, for
instance--because then there is something definite to hold the
attention, and one can dash ahead compared with the slow progress I was
forced to make.”
The lecture in Philadelphia, in the Academy of Music, on Monday, was
attended by the largest and best-paying audience up to date, the gross
receipts being $3,009.50 for a single night.
Next came our visit to Washington, on which I had counted much, being
well acquainted with nearly all the heads of departments, as well as
with President Cleveland and every member of his cabinet. The Doctor was
the guest of the Rev. Dr. McKaye Smith, a clergyman of much distinction
and social influence, who is a relative of the Vanderbilts, and whose
home in Washington is in keeping with the wealth at his command. I had
suggested to Dr. and Mrs. Watson that I hoped to show them the Capitol
that morning, and get some good snap-shots, as they had engaged to lunch
early with the President. There were to be two lectures, afternoon and
evening. He informed me that he had accepted an invitation from
another--a gentleman who knew everything and who had come from
Philadelphia on purpose to show them the sights of Washington. I was
disappointed, for I knew the _gentleman_ to be one of the small class of
hero followers that pursue celebrities and in many instances succeed in
hypnotizing them to that extent that they can believe no one else, not
even their well-known friends. This man turned out to be exactly what I
tried to intimate to my friends, in as delicate a way as possible and
not offend them, what he really was. He has since fled the country, and
I doubt if there is a pleasant recollection of him anywhere.
Dr. and Mrs. Watson lunched at the Executive Mansion with President and
Mrs. Cleveland, Secretary of State Olney and Mrs. Olney, Mr. H. T.
Thurber, private secretary to the President, and Mrs. Thurber. In order
to show further his admiration for the great Scotch writer, the
President engaged seats for himself and his family, and the entire party
attended Dr. Watson’s lecture that evening.
From Washington we went to Baltimore, where the doctor lectured under
the auspices of the Peabody Institute and was the guest of President
Gilman of Johns Hopkins University. As we had spent the day sight-seeing
in Washington, we did not arrive in Baltimore until a quarter after
eight, and the doctor proceeded at once to the great hall. We found a
man at the door waiting to admit “Ian Maclaren” to the platform. He
insisted that it was impossible for me to get inside the door, as there
was not a place for me to stand; and it proved absolutely true that
every inch of available room was occupied by people standing as thick as
they could be crowded in the aisles, around the platform, and against
the door. The jam was so solid that it was all Dr. Watson could do to
squeeze himself in and get to the rostrum. I did not see the audience or
hear him that night. While standing outside, two well-dressed young
ladies came up to me and asked if I were not Major Pond.
“Yes,” I said.
“We must see and hear Dr. Watson. Is it not possible?”
“I cannot possibly get in myself,” I said. “There is no earthly use for
you to try.”
“Can’t you crowd that door open so we can get inside?”
I said, “I’ll try.”
I made an effort, and managed to squeeze them inside, and the door was
pressed against me. I never saw them afterward and never knew whether
they were able to see and hear the doctor, but such was the intense
interest to hear him. He did not see his host until after the lecture,
and it was past midnight when he arrived at President Gilman’s house to
have a late supper and a chat, and then to be called at 6:30 the
following morning in order to lecture in Philadelphia at noon.
The doctor stood the crowds and endured the high pressure very
heroically, occasionally intimating to Mrs. Watson that “the boys’
bicycles are pretty safe,” and remarking to me from time to time, as we
left one city for another, “The people are not unfriendly, Major.”
We still had ahead of us Boston and New England, which I believed would
surpass everything else. At Providence we had two great crowds,
afternoon and evening. The people were simply in love with “Ian
Maclaren”; somehow he takes hold of all hearts.
Crowds followed him to the station, and the interest grew more intense
as he neared Boston.
In Boston, Dr. Watson was the guest of Mrs. James T. Field.
The crush at the box office had been unbroken for a week. The advance
sales were nearly $10,000. It was in Tremont Temple, Wednesday
afternoon, November 25th, at two o’clock, that he made his first bow to
a Boston audience, and the great house was overflowing with people who
came to see and to hear--who remained to laugh and cry; and, when the
lecture was at an end, to stand in their places for many minutes with
eyes and opera glasses levelled upon the tall and kindly visaged
Scotchman. He bore well the scrutiny of those thousands, for there were
thousands present, as he shook hands with his brethren of the ministry
who occupied the platform seats. For three-quarters of an hour before
two o’clock two solid masses of humanity wrestled for admission. Men and
women, but mostly women, crowded up the two stairways, an eager,
expectant throng. Presently all the seats on the floor and in the
balconies were filled, and the Rev. George A. Gordon of the New Old
South, the Rev. Dr. Cuckson, the Rev. Alvah Hovey of Newton, and many
other ministers of Boston and vicinity took seats on the platform. “Ian
Maclaren” was among them, but was not immediately recognized, as he kept
well in the background. The Rev. Dr. Gordon stepped forward, and in his
strong, sonorous voice, which reverberated to the farthest portion of
the great Temple, introduced the lecturer with these words:
“_The hour--the expected moment--is come--and now is_--when we are to
listen to him whose coming we have awaited expectantly--_Ee-on
Maclaren!_ John Watson!”
Applause and cheers, waving of handkerchiefs and pealing of the organ
were kept up, with now and then a fresh augmentation from some seemingly
impossible source, until the full limit and capacity of the audience was
exhausted. Then the doctor began:
“You will understand me when I say no English-reading man can approach
your city without pleased expectancy. Since our fathers taught us to
read, we have known this city of Boston, and we have become familiar
with many of the scenes and places of which your people have written.
During the few days of my stay here I shall try to identify all the
places the Autocrat has told us about, only sorrowing because I cannot
see his well-beloved face.”
Then he referred to his intention to say something of the traits of his
countrymen, of “an almost inarticulate nation,” and the audience
laughed, knowing now that it had come to hear a man of genial nature say
things genially.