know, denies that there is anything in our humor that is light in touch,
delicate, and graceful. He asserts instead that there is much that is
austere and awkward, tiresome and unpleasant. Now each nation takes its
humor in its own way, and, as might be expected, the Scotchman, on the
surface, does take his seriously, severely, and austerely. None take
humor so carefully and conscientiously as the Scotchman.
“Whenever a humorous situation presents itself to the Southern mind it
is embraced on the instant, and it is taken home for the enjoyment of
the family, and perhaps the neighbors hear it through the doors. Then
for days afterward the man who captured it shares it with his
fellow-passengers in conveyances, possibly impressing it forcibly upon
them.
“In the Scotch mind, when a jest presents itself, the question arises,
‘Is it a jest at all?’ and it is given a careful and analytical
examination; and if, after twenty-four hours, it continues to appear to
be a jest, it is accepted and done much honor.”
His final lectures in Boston were Saturday afternoon and evening,
November 28th. Not even standing room was to be had at either of them.
When the readings were over and Dr. Watson had taken his seat, the
audience would not release him without a personal word. In response to
the Chautauqua salute he made a pleasant little speech. He had dreaded
to come to Boston--he had heard so much of the city, its high standards,
its severe judgment. But having come here he could say that nowhere that
he had lectured had he been more cordially and sympathetically received,
and he would return to his home across the sea with brightest memories
of Boston and its neighborhood.
From Boston we returned to New York, where, on the 30th of November, I
opened the first of a course of five readings at the Waldorf-Astoria, at
eleven o’clock in the morning. At two in the afternoon Dr. Watson
delivered the lecture on “Robert Burns” in the Empire Theatre before an
immense crowd. The evening of the same day he was the guest of the St.
Andrew’s Society, at their dinner at Delmonico’s, where he made a great
speech.
We were in Troy and Albany on the 1st of December; had two immense
audiences and a private luncheon with the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Hall, the
former an old classmate of Dr. Watson’s in Scotland. That evening at
Albany the lecture was in Odd Fellows’ Hall, a new magnificent lecture
hall after the style of the former lyceum halls in New England. It was
refreshing and delightful to hear the speaker in this immense room, with
its perfect acoustics and a large audience all apparently clustered
around him. That evening the St. Andrew’s Society gave him a decoration;
then, in company with a party of friends, we visited the Orange Club,
where we had supper and stories until after midnight.
Then on to Schenectady, where, at one o’clock the next day, the doctor
was introduced to a Union College audience by President W. V. Raymond.
He lectured in Utica in the evening. Everywhere the crowds were limited
by the capacity of the auditoriums. We returned to New York, where on
the following morning Dr. Watson lectured at the Waldorf and in the
evening at Flushing, L. I. On Saturday, the 5th, he lectured at the
Waldorf at eleven, and at Jamaica, L. I., at 2:30. That evening occurred
the Lotos Club dinner, which is still regarded as one of the greatest
events in the history of the club. When introduced by President Frank R.
Lawrence, Dr. Watson said:
“Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Lotos Club:--“Your president has
referred to Bohemia and has indicated that he thinks there will be
struck up an alliance between Scotland and Bohemia--on first sight, one
of the most unlikely alliances that ever could be consummated.
(Laughter.) The president no doubt has many things in his eye, and when
we remember the careless garb of a Bohemian and the kilt of Scotland;
when we remember a Bohemian’s tendency to live, if he can, in a
good-natured way upon his neighbors, and the tendency of my respected
ancestors to take any cattle that they could see; and when also we
remember that a Bohemian’s sins are all atoned for by his love of
letters, and that all the hardness and uncouthness of Scotland may well
deserve to be passed over because no country has ever loved knowledge or
scholarship more than Scotland--I declare the president is predicting a
most harmonious marriage. (Applause.)
“Your kindness, gentlemen, is only crowning the great kindness which I
have received during the past months--a kindness which I never expected,
and a kindness which I am fully conscious I have never merited. Were I a
lad of twenty-five, I declare it would be dangerous, for after the
audiences that have been good enough to listen to me, and the favor I
have received, also, at the hands of the distinguished men of letters, I
declare, if I were twenty-five I might be confused about my position.
But, gentlemen, when one receives as much kindness as one has in
America, it doesn’t--if you will excuse in this most cultured club an
expression not quite within the range of literature--it doesn’t swell
one’s head. (Laughter.) But, gentlemen, it does something better; it
swells one’s heart. (Applause.)
“Any man who has only entered the republic of letters within a few
years, and who is fully conscious of his imperfections and has never
counted on attaining to any great standard of art, through his slowness
in beginning and through the exigencies of his position, can yet obtain
the favorable ear of the public simply because he deals with humanity.
Humanity will add what is not possible to men richly endowed with the
spirit of letters alone; it will add to such an accomplishment a grace
that no recent recruit, no amateur writer, ever can. (Applause.)
“I am convinced, Mr. President, that if those men whom, we look up to
and who sit in high places, whose witchery of style and magnificent
genius we all respect, could withdraw themselves from the study of
certain mottoes which they believe are fantastic, and certain sides of
humanity confined only to literary coteries and to great cities, the
triumph they have won in the world of letters would be as nothing
compared to the triumph they would win if, with all their genius, they
laid their hand upon the heart of the common people. (Loud applause.)
“During these months it is impossible that one should travel to and fro
without having formed impressions; and it is pleasant to go back with
such entirely friendly and kindly impressions of the nation whose best
thought and feeling are represented in this room. One thing that
profoundly impressed me--I am speaking in perfect seriousness--was the
courtesy of your people. (Hear! Hear!) Without any question--and I am
not saying this for the saying’s sake--your people are the most
courteous people one could meet, whether he be travelling on the road or
engaged in ordinary intercourse. Courtesy may be tried by various
standards, and possibly the highest form of courtesy is respect to
women. I have never seen anywhere, and certainly not among continental
nations, who rather boast of their courtesy in this direction--I have
never seen such genuine, unaffected, and practical courtesy paid to the
weaker and gentler sex as I have seen in America. (Applause.)
“Courtesy also can be tried by general agreeableness. During my
tour--and owing to the arduous exercise of my friend, Major Pond, I have
never stayed long in one place--I have travelled far and wide and
haven’t always been able to ride in parlor cars. I have, consequently,
seen a great deal of people; but with the exception of one single
person, and she was an immigrant, and, I have no doubt, a delightful
woman, although somewhat indifferent as to her personal appearance, with
the exception of that single individual, I have met no woman and no man
in the cars with whom I would not be willing to sit in the same
compartment or the same seat of the car during a day’s journey. That
seems to me a remarkable thing, but it may seem to you nothing. To us,
from an European standpoint, it means a great deal. It means the comfort
of your people; it means the self-respect of your people; it means the
manners of your people; it means many things on which I congratulate you
as a nation. (Applause.)
“And, sir, what has interested me deeply is that while you are
contending with the difficulties which fall to the lot, not only of a
new and growing people, but of a nation into which is flowing the very
refuse of Europe, there is throughout your people a great love of
letters and of art. I have seen again and again in the houses of men who
are, as they say in Europe, self-made, great evidence that their love is
not set merely on the things that a man holds in his hand, but on the
means of culture through which we see into the unseen and the beautiful.
Some of the most lovely pictures which can possibly be obtained now are
contained in the houses of those men. They do not have their pictures,
gentlemen, merely as pieces of furniture, which they have bought for so
much money, but the men who have them, as I can bear testimony, are men
who can appreciate the beauty of those pictures and who are in no mean
degree art critics. On the other side I have been assured that if a
bookseller has a rare book, one of those lovely books that we all like
to have, with a creamy and beautiful binding like that of the past, and
marked, perhaps, with a king’s or a pope’s arms, it is not in England
that he finds a purchaser, but in America. And, Mr. President, I would
congratulate you on the fact that to your high spirit and great
enterprise you are also adding a love of the past, and especially that
love of letters and art which are surely the height of perfection.
(Applause.)
“I would only add, Mr. President, one other thing, and it is this, that
while the good will between the old country and yours can be maintained
and is going to be maintained by honorable international agreement, we
are encouraged to cherish the hope that the two nations will be bound
more and more closely together, until at last the day comes when from
Washington to London may go forth a voice on the great international
question of righteousness that no nation will dare to pass by.
(Applause.) While that can only be secured, and is being secured by the
agreement of eminent statesmen, yet surely, gentlemen, the coming and
going of individuals treated kindly and hospitably after a most friendly
fashion on this side, and I trust also treated after the same fashion
on the other side, will weave together many bonds that will not only
unite men of letters and men of grammars, but will also unite our two
great nations with silken cords that can never be broken. (Applause.)”
The speech by William Winter which followed Dr. Watson’s on this
occasion is also well worth being recorded here nearly in full. He said:
“You, my hearers, fortunate children of the lotos flower, have had the
singular happiness to come into personal communion with some of the
foremost men of your time, whether in action or in thought; with Froude,
who depicted so royally the pageantry and pathos of the past; with
Grant, who led so superbly the warrior legions of the present; with Mark
Twain, the best of modern humorists; with Irving, the prince of actors,
and with many more. I need not name them. You will recall them, you will
remember them all with deep affection; and I am sure you will agree with
me that in every case when the generous heart has paid its homage to a
great man, the impulse is not that of adulation, but that of gratitude.
(Applause.)
“Such is the feeling of this hour when now you are assembled to pay
honor to the finest literary artist in the art of mingled humor and
pathos that has come into literature since Sir Walter Scott. (Applause.)
“There are two canons of criticism to which I have fixed my
allegiance--that it is always better to show mankind the things which
are to be imitated, rather than the things which are to be avoided; and
since the moral quality is present in everything, whether as morality or
immorality, penetrating all subjects and everything that can be
imagined, no work of art should have any avowed and fixed moral. Those
principles are imitated in the writings of Dr. Watson. He has himself
told you that it is impossible to analyze a spiritual fact. We all know
that his race are noble in their influence, that they have exerted a
noble influence upon society. We do not know the secret of his charm. I
cannot tell it to you; I wish I could. I think perhaps it is that same
inaccessible magic which I find in ‘King Lear,’ which I find in the
death speech of Brutus:
“‘Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,
That have labor’d to attain this hour.’
* * * * *
“‘This day breathed first; time is come round,
And where I did begin there shall I end.’
“I find it in Robert Burns when he sang of the cavalier who ‘turned his
charger as he stepped upon the Irish shore, and gave his bridle rein a
shake with adieu forevermore, my love, adieu forevermore.’ (Applause.) I
have felt it in many of the stories, the matchless American stories of
Bret Harte. I feel it in that talk of poor old Bowes, the fiddler, when
standing on the bridge in the evening; I feel it in the Colonel’s
response when the chapel bell rings in the old Charterhouse, and I say
that there is but one step from the death-bed of William Lucian to the
death-bed of William Maclure. All through literature runs that plaintive
note, ‘So from hand to hand the divine torch of genius has passed
along.’ When Robert Burns died, in 1796, it might have been thought that
the voice of poetry was done, but at that time Byron was playing along
the banks of the Dee. Any one might have thought that all was ended; but
then others were ripening for the work of generations to come. So when
we look about us and see what has been done; when we see Dr. Watson, and
Barrie, and Hardy, we feel that the time of mourning for Dickens, and
Thackeray, and George Eliot has come to an end.
“I am not surprised to find that this voice comes from Scotland. When I
have stood on the old Calton hill under a blue and black sky, and seen
the drifting smoke from a thousand chimneys fall over Edinburgh; when
from the height of the necropolis I have looked down upon old Glasgow
and the grim figure of Drumtochty; when from the slopes of Ben Cruachan
1 have seen the sunsets fade and darken in the valleys; when just before
the dawn I have looked down upon the town slumbering in darkness; when I
have been in the old broken cathedral of Iona and have heard there the
swashes of the murmuring sea, I have not wondered that Scotland has all
the poetry, and that deep in the heart of every Scotchman there is a
note which thrills to the melodies of Burns, of Hogg, Ramsay, and to the
eternal memories of Scott. (Great applause.) Scotland, its beauties, its
glories, and its loves! I will read a few verses of mine, unknown, I
think, to you, descriptive of my feelings when I parted from the most
sacred of its shrines:
“FAREWELL TO IONA.
I.
“Shrined among their crystal seas--
Thus I saw the Hebrides:
All the land with verdure dight;
All the heavens flushed with light;
Purple jewels ’neath the tide;
Hill and meadow glorified;
Beasts at ease and birds in air;
Life and beauty everywhere!
Shrined among their crystal seas--
Thus I saw the Hebrides.
II.
“Fading in the sunset smile--
Thus I left the Holy Isle;
Saw it slowly fade away,
Through the mist of parting day;
Saw its ruins, grim and old,
And its bastions, bathed in gold,
Rifted crag and snowy beach,
Where the sea-gulls swoop and screech,
Vanish, and the shadows fall,
To the lonely curlew’s call.
Fading in the sunset smile--
Thus I left the Holy Isle.
III.
“As Columba, old and ill,
Mounted on the sacred hill,
Raising hands of faith and prayer,
Breathed his benediction there--
Stricken with its solemn grace--
Thus my spirit blessed the place:
O’er it while the ages range,
Time be blind and work no change!
On its plenty be increase!
On its homes perpetual peace!
While around its lonely shore
Wild winds rave and breakers roar,
Round its blazing hearths be blent
Virtue, comfort, and content!
On its beauty, passing all,
Ne’er may blight nor shadow fall!
Ne’er may vandal foot intrude
On its sacred solitude!
May its ancient fame remain
Glorious, and without a stain;
And the hope that ne’er departs,
Live within its loving hearts!
IV.
“Slowly fades the sunset light,
Slowly round me falls the night.
Gone the Isle, and distant far
All its loves and glories are:
Yet forever, in my mind,
Still will sigh the wandering wind,
And the music of the seas,
’Mid the lonely Hebrides.”
(Very great applause.)
Later in the evening Dr. Watson declared that Mr. Winter’s speech was
the most beautiful he had ever heard.
I offered Dr. Watson $24,000 if he would give me twelve more weeks. I
never could understand why he did not go on, excepting that he had
promised his people he would come back, and he considered a promise
worth more than $24,000--this, too, at the close of the nineteenth
century, although many of his parishioners told me afterward that they
would have been glad to have had him remain longer if he wished.
The doctor had such confidence in human nature that he would believe the
very first man he met, a rather amusing instance of which occurred
during our visit to Poughkeepsie.
We arrived there shortly after noon on the 9th of December, and were met
at the station by the editor and owner of a prominent Poughkeepsie
paper, with whom Dr. Watson and I were to dine at one o’clock. As we
were being driven from the station to his house, our host began
entertaining his guest by regretting that he was to have a small
audience, because the lecture had not been properly advertised. This
reminded me that when I had first announced that Dr. Watson was going to
Poughkeepsie, this gentleman had written me asking if I had not better
devote some extra space to advertising in his paper, to which I replied
that the manager of the Opera House attended to that matter for me, and
that whatever he did went.
I said to the gentleman, “Is there no interest here?”
He said, “None whatever. No advertising has been done.”
The doctor seemed chopfallen and showed me a rather unkind look, as he
had been hurried around in a lively manner that day. I didn’t discuss
the matter very extensively with our host, but on our way to his house I
noticed that my three sheet posters announcing Dr. Watson were on all
the bulletin boards, and that lithographs appeared in many of the
windows along the streets through which we were driving. I called his
attention to this, but he remarked that that kind of advertising had no
effect in Poughkeepsie. We arrived at his house, where a number of local
ministers and private friends were assembled to meet Dr. Watson at
dinner. It was not the kind of meeting that would naturally inspire a
man who had been speaking three times a day and travelling between
times. I begged to be excused, and asked our host, inasmuch as he was
to preside and introduce Dr. Watson, if he would see to getting him to
the Opera House at two o’clock, saying that if he would do so, I would
go and look after the business. On my arrival at the Opera House at 1:30
I found it packed with people. I hurried to the box office, and the
manager told me that he was in trouble, as he had sold every seat in the
house, and some of his best patrons, supposing, of course, there would
be no difficulty in securing seats, were bitterly disappointed; that he
was trying to arrange some chairs for them on the stage, but that they
had some hesitancy in going there.
“Your house is sold out?” said I.
“Yes, everything, Major. It is the greatest rush we have had for a long
time.”
By two o’clock the house was entirely seated. There were many on the
stage, and all the standing room in the galleries was occupied. The
manager, against my wishes, made the prices 50 cents, 75 cents, and $1,
which precluded there being a very large money house. It was a cold
December day, and the disappointed ones hurried away from the theatre,
so that when Dr. Watson and his host drove up there was not a soul in
sight. When they entered the lobby I said to the editor:
“Will you please step right through the lobby to the stage? There are no
more people expected, and you might as well begin at once.”
He looked around to Dr. Watson, as much as to say: “You see, Doctor, it
is as I told you; you have not been advertised.” Then the Doctor gave me
a very rebukeful look, and I said:
“Please go on, Doctor. I remember what Mr. Beecher once said to me when
I told him there was a very small audience in front. He replied: ‘That
is not my part of it; but I will try to give them a little better
lecture.’”
The gentleman led the Doctor through the alley to the stage door and on
to the stage, and as they stepped into view the sight must have
astonished him.
The presence of “Ian Maclaren” of course brought a demonstration from
that eager audience such as no man but he has ever heard in
Poughkeepsie. He was unprepared for the ovation, and I thought that he
was rather at his wits’ end to collect himself in order to begin as he
wished. But he never was in a more delightful atmosphere. Poughkeepsie’s
best, and all of the Vassar girls, were there. There is an intelligent
public in that Hudson River town, a fact that is known nowhere better
than among themselves. After the performance many rushed to the stage
and congratulated the Doctor.
“How is this?” I asked the gentleman who had been so doubtful as to the
size of the audience that would turn out to hear Dr. Watson.
His reply was: “Major Pond, where in the world did these people come
from?”
“Why,” I said, “somebody has told them about it. We don’t have to
advertise ‘Ian Maclaren.’ You just tell somebody he is coming, and he
tells somebody else, and so it spreads around. I have just paid a bill
of $60 for advertising this lecture, so you see even newspaper men are
sometimes mistaken.”
“How many people are there in here?” he asked, and I said:
“I don’t know exactly how many, but there is over $1,000 in the house,
at $0.50, $0.75, and $1.”
“Well, Major,” he replied, “this is the greatest thing I have ever known
in this city. Now, we want to take the Doctor out to Vassar.”
“Oh, my dear sir, do let the Doctor have one hour’s rest before he takes
the train for Kingston to-night. He has been on the move every moment,
night and day, for the last two weeks. Won’t you be merciful and let him
rest quietly here in the green room?”
No, he could not do that; he had promised President Taylor to take him
out to Vassar, and had a carriage in waiting. The Doctor finally
yielded. We got into an old, cold, rickety carriage, with a pair of poor
horses, and in that chilly afternoon drove four miles, not even having a
lap robe. When we were in the carriage and started for Vassar College
the Doctor said:
“Well, Major, it might have been worse.”
“Yes,” I said, “Doctor, it might have been worse. We have got over $750
out of that $3 telegram which I sent some time ago, you will
remember--and from utilizing the hours your New York friend wanted for a
breakfast.” Dr. Watson showed an expression of genuine satisfaction.
Arrived at the college, there was just time to be introduced to
President Taylor, see the pretty chapel of which they are so proud, a
dormitory, and one or two classrooms. We drove back to the station,
urging the driver and the poor horses to the extent of their
capabilities, arriving there just in time to catch the train to
Rhinecliff, which connected with the steamer to Rondout and the trolley
cars to Kingston, arriving at 7:30 P.M. We had dinner, and at eight
o’clock “Ian Maclaren” was addressing another great crowd.
No better description of a lively week’s work can be given than to copy
verbatim from my diary the entries for the last week Dr. Watson spent in
this country:
* * * * *
“THURSDAY, Dec. 10, 1896.