brought to light much interesting new material relating to the
early history of George Washington. A new lecture has been
prepared by Mr. Ellsworth on the subject, which I was invited
to hear at his home, Esperanza Farm, near New Hartford,
Conn., in August, 1900. This has certainly proved the most
interesting and charming of all. Gifted with a descriptive
voice that is strong, resonant, and absolutely faultless in delivery,
with the personal magnetism that is so essential to
a lecturer’s success, Mr. Ellsworth is unquestionably one of
the best-equipped men for an instructive and entertaining
lecture that the lyceum has yet produced. From one of
Mr. Ellsworth’s lectures the rising generation can obtain
more knowledge of the early history of our nation than from
a whole winter of hard study. School boards and teachers
are beginning to find out that one of the simplest and most
thorough means of instruction nowadays is the lecture platform.
In the city of New York there is hardly a public
school that does not have a large hall set aside for lectures.
Last year over three thousand free lectures were given in the
public schools in Greater New York on nearly every possible
educational topic, generally illustrated with stereopticon pictures
which greatly enhanced their value. In this special
line great advances are being made, and they are due to the
fact that such men as Mr. Ellsworth, who have something
to give in return for what they receive, are available for the
work.
[Illustration:
COPYRIGHT 1897 BY ROCKWOOD N.Y.
ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS]
Anthony Hope Hawkins was discovered by Robert Barr, who first went to
London in the interests of the Detroit _Free Press_. One night Barr,
then editing _The Idler_ with Jerome K. Jerome, met a thin, pale, bald
young barrister who talked so charmingly about books that Barr, who is
big, burly, bouncing, and straightforward, asked him:
“Do you do anything of the sort?”
Mr. Hawkins confessed, with a blush, that he did when not painfully
busy.
“I’ll come and read some of ’em to-morrow,” said Barr. And he did. After
he had read the last sheet he said:
“Say, Hawkins, how much have you got like this?”
“Considerable.”
“Want to sell it?”
“Why--why, yes, I’d like to.”
“How much do you want a thousand words?”
Hawkins was amazed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Would a pound be too
much?”
Barr laughed. “You don’t know much about this business, do you?” he
asked.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Well,” drawled Barr, “I’ll give you several pounds a thousand, and
we’ll start publishing right away.”
Beneath the title of each sketch Mr. Hawkins had written: “By Anthony
Hope.”
“Ought I to put my last name there?” he asked.
“It doesn’t make any difference about the name,” answered Barr; “it’s
the stuff that counts.”
And count it did.
Anthony Hope Hawkins is an English gentleman in every sense that the
words implies. I cannot say that I ever associated with a man whom I
held in higher esteem. He sees everything from the most agreeable point
of view. He has one of the most delightful laughs in conversation that
ever I heard, and I made it my business to excite as often as possible
the vein in his nature that brought it out.
He has the better qualities of the English voice, its softer tones and
accents. Owing to its richness, he can be heard distinctly by every
auditor. Although monotonous in his delivery, because of his distinct
enunciation and the sweetness of his voice, the monotony is not
objectionable.
He charms invariably his audiences, because he feels his characters and
is able to exploit them.
I shall never forget Mr. Hawkins’ first appearance in America. It was
really his first regular platform appearance anywhere. We had spent the
previous night at the Parker House, Boston, and some of the members of
the Woman’s Club of Lowell, Mass., under whose auspices he was to read
next day, telephoned me to know if we would not come early, that they
might give him a little reception before the reading. Mr. Hawkins
declined. He said he preferred to be by himself until he was introduced
to the public. On our arrival at Lowell we went directly to the hall. He
met the committee of ladies, who escorted him to the platform, and as he
went on he shook hands with me, saying: “Good by, Major. I may never see
you again.” I felt so nervous for him that I really didn’t know whether
he had made a hit or not; but as soon as his voice was heard there was
the closest attention, and an expression of satisfaction appeared on
every face in front of him. He could not possibly have escaped the
infection. I saw his beautiful face light up with a gleam of real
satisfaction. His voice rolled out in resonant tones, and the hearty
response from his hearers gave him what I believe was the most
satisfactory hour of his life. His reading of the “Dolly Dialogues” on
that occasion was one of the finest efforts that I remember.
He enjoyed his audiences very much when the benches were full in front
of him, but a small audience and a row of empty benches disheartened
him. On two occasions he urged me to return the money to the auditors;
but he filled every date, and on those two occasions I think he was as
well pleased after the performance as where he had had more and less
enthusiastic hearers.
Just after our train drew out of Boston on our way to Hartford, I
ordered luncheon in the buffet car, for we were both desperately hungry.
The composite cook, waiter, and porter promised us some royal chicken,
which he was able to furnish, he said, as good as we could get anywhere.
We came near getting it. We saw it as it was set before us just as we
arrived at Williamantic, where we were obliged to change cars.
I leave it to an anonymous journalist, who happened to be on the car, to
describe the incident as he wrote it up for the New York _Evening Sun_:
“Persons who met Mr. Hope on his way to Boston last Wednesday remarked
how fine and hearty he was looking. And yet at the same hour a day
later, when Hope boarded the New York train to go to Hartford, his next
stand, he looked almost an old man. His color was gone and there were
circles round his eyes. Whether the two receptions he had to attend or
twelve hours of Major Pond’s consecutive conversation had brought Hope
to this condition, none can say. But comparatively speaking he looked a
wreck, and no sooner was he on board the train than he and the Major
waylaid the waiter of a buffet car and ordered an elaborate breakfast.
Broiled Philadelphia chicken was the star attraction of the bill of
fare, and the Major, in his loudest tones, ordered that two broiled
Philadelphians should be sacrificed at once.
“Having had nothing to eat since the night before, the author and the
manager awaited their meal expectantly. At the end of the first hour Mr.
Hope looked up and inquired good-naturedly:
“‘Don’t you think it’s about time for that chicken?’ For answer the
Major hurried to the kitchen, and there was the making of a first-rate
dialect story in the sounds which emerged from that vicinity within the
next few minutes. Presently the Major came back looking so pleased with
himself that Hope lay back in his chair and hoped once more. Another
half-hour passed. Again the Major repaired to the kitchen. This time
Hope made notes of the conversation on the back of his cuff.
“Ten minutes later came the waiter bearing a three-foot tray. Hope’s
eyes were dancing, the Major smacked his lips as he grabbed the carving
knife. Just then from the end of the car the conductor cried,
‘Willimantic!’ Surely the parting between the Princess Flavia and
Rassendell was a mere farce comedy to Hope’s adieu to that chicken. His
first impulse was to seize a drumstick and run, but the Major restrained
him.
“The manager’s practised eye had noticed a crowd of Willimantic belles
on the platform intent upon catching a glimpse of Hope gratis. It would
never do for his star to make his début in Willimantic drumstick in
hand. So gently, but firmly, he persuaded Hope to renounce the chicken’s
leg in favor of his satchel. Hope, however, as he left the car, had the
good taste to do his swearing under his breath.
“On the platform the Major met the waiter, who thrust the bill into his
hand. The Major stamped on it and said he’d see him in Philadelphia
first. Neither of them had one mouthful, and he was going to report the
matter to Chauncey Depew.
“It may interest Mr. Hope to know, however, that as soon as the train
started, two drummers bought his chicken at an advance on regular rates,
and one of them, with a gallantry worthy of the Dolly Dialogues hero
himself, had the wish-bone of Mr. Hope’s chicken polished, and presented
it to his sweetheart as a souvenir.”
Mr. Hawkins and I made the tour together, visiting Montreal, Ottawa,
Toronto, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, Minneapolis, and
Philadelphia, and everywhere he was the recipient of the choicest honors
that I have ever known a man of letters to receive. His readers were of
the most select literary class we have. His audiences varied in
different cities more than did those of some others, but where he had
been secured in a regular lyceum course and in clubs, they were
invariably large.
To him were tendered many of the most delightful banquets that I have
known any foreigner to get. The leading clubs in Toronto, Montreal, and
Ottawa entertained him. He was the guest of the Governor-General of
Canada--Lord Aberdeen. In Chicago the Lawyers’ Club gave him a
breakfast, attended by the leading members of the bar of that city, a
distinction that no other literary man has had that I remember.
At Detroit, after the reading, the Fellowcraft Club gave Mr. Hawkins a
supper, with an elaborate menu. It was Robert Barr’s home, and Mr. Barr
had undoubtedly warned his fellow-citizens of the character of the
expected visitor, and they were prepared to meet him and do him honor,
which they did. I don’t believe the good fellows of Detroit ever had a
better time. The speeches and stories of that occasion would make a rare
book, and I should like to own the copyright. It will never be printed.
Colonel Livingstone, editor of the Detroit _Journal_ and president of
the Fellowcraft Club, is “equalled by few and excelled by none” as a
club president.
Mr. Hawkins is not superstitious. A few years ago he moved from his
lucky chambers in the quiet Middle Temple, London, where he practised
law without clients, and has working offices on Buckingham Street, near
the Strand--much as one might say West Tenth Street, near Broadway. The
house is old and dark and dingy. It overlooks the London lodgings of
Benjamin Franklin and the rooms of Peter the Great of Russia when they
were in the city. It is on the site of the famous York House, home of
Bacon. Hope’s lodgings are full of books; on the mantel there are
original drawings by Charles Dana Gibson, and there are many pipes, and
other convivial equipments.
In Washington Mr. Hawkins was met on his arrival by the Hon. John
Russell Young, librarian of Congress, who entertained and showed him
through that magnificent library and about the Capitol, introducing him
to many of the judges of the Supreme Court, and then going to the White
House, presented him to President McKinley, who entertained him about
an hour in social chat, while politicians in waiting fairly congested
the waiting-room outside. After the evening reading, Mr. Thomas Nelson
Page gave him a supper at his beautiful Washington home, where were
present Mr. Lyman Gage, Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Theodore
Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Mr. James Lane Allen, and
Mr. John Fox, Jr., the two most prominent Southern novelists, and
several other gentlemen whose names I cannot now recall. I am unable to
describe this occasion, although one of the honored guests. One can
imagine the charming intellectual atmosphere of such an event. It seemed
that there must have been some fault in the reckoning of time, for it
was four o’clock when the party reluctantly dissolved.
Everywhere we went Mr. Hawkins was the honored guest of the choicest of
our American men of letters. In Indianapolis two social events in one
day: the afternoon was a reception at the Woman’s Club, where Mrs.
Harrison, wife of the ex-President, received; and in the evening the
largest audience of the beauty and fashion of the Hoosier capital packed
the hall, being welcomed by James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet. In
Boston, among the first callers besides the press representatives were
Col. T. W. Higginson, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Edward Everett Hale, and
Judge Holmes, son of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, and many of the Harvard
faculty. I copy from my diary the following notes:
“Mr. Hawkins and I visited the Academy of Fine Arts, Trinity Church
(formerly Phillips Brooks’), the Boston Public Library, where we were
shown over all parts of the library and introduced to all the modern
systems of its wonderful operations; the new court house, where Judge
Holmes personally conducted us through the different courts, and we sat
half an hour listening to a judge charge a jury. Missed our lunch.
Hurried to depot, just caught train for Hartford, and missed lunch on
buffet car, owing to the incapacity of the composite cook and porter.
Reached Hartford, the Hublein, 6:30. Reading at 8:30 finished in an
hour. Joe Jefferson against us at Perkins’ Opera House, but we had $360
in Unity Hall. Joe Jefferson had reserved a box for us, and we saw
nearly all of ‘Lend Me Five Shillings.’ Then we all had supper together,
Joe Jefferson, his three sons, and the wife of young Jefferson. Joe was
at his best, as he is a lover of Anthony Hope’s writings, and they had
never met before, and it seemed as though they never meant to part; for
it was far beyond midnight when the weary waiters were relieved, and a
tired but happy crowd went to bed.”
“Good-night, Major,” said Anthony Hope; “you Americans are too much for
us Englishmen.”
I think the last speech that Mr. Hawkins made in New York was at a
public dinner given him by the Lotos Club, which is the most famous of
all our American clubs for its receptions and dinners to men of letters.
On this occasion he said:
“Mr. President and Gentlemen:--I am too well aware of the history of
your club and of the distinction of the guests whom you have entertained
before, not to rise on this occasion with perhaps more than usual--shall
I say trepidation or discomfort?--which possesses an after-dinner
speaker. I have received here to-night an appreciation which would have
been wholly delightful if I were not persistently haunted with the idea
that it is too excessively indulgent.
“As I crossed the Atlantic Ocean, feeling less at ease than I usually do
on land, an intelligent sailor came up to me and told me that we were in
the Gulf Stream. The consolation was slight, because the Gulf Stream
seemed to me as turbulent as any other part of the ocean. But it has
occurred to me since, that he spoke, as it were, in a metaphor, and that
what he really referred to was the gulf stream that flows between here
and England; of the gulf stream of sympathy which unites the two
countries, and which, unlike the merely physical and uncomfortable
stream, flows both ways, from us to you and from you to us. (Applause.)
“It is indeed, in a way, strange for an Englishman to make his first
visit to this country. I was asked by a cynical friend before I started
why I was going, and he referred not obscurely to the hopes I
entertained of paying my expenses. (Laughter.)
“Well, gentlemen, the ancient epigram forbids us to say that it is
necessary to live; but I am still among those who consider that it is
desirable. (Laughter.) I agree with a clergyman in my own country who
said that the Scriptures teach that the laborer is worthy of his hire,
but that, for his part, he thought it ought to be paid free of income
tax. (Laughter.)
“But that was not the sort, not exclusively the sort, of American gold
which was in my mind; and if it had been when I started, I should before
now have found out my mistake. Better than that, gentlemen, is the gold
of your cordial reception, which still sits on my heart as too much
undeserved.
“But to come here is indeed, in the old phrase, the experience of a
lifetime. It has been my fate--I don’t know whether you will be
surprised about it--to be asked quite three or four times already what
were my impressions of America. (Laughter.) When in Quarantine I was
asked first; and my only impression then was that I should never get
here. I was asked again at the landing, when my sole feeling was that I
was very glad to get here. (Laughter and applause.)
“The question I have not yet answered. It is difficult to answer. One
comes to a country that is unfamiliar, and yet not strange; that is new,
and yet recalls every moment the things that are old; that is foreign,
and yet is distinct with a separate, individual, and proud nationality.
(Applause.)
“And as with your nationality, so, if I may say so, it seems to me, with
your literature. It has its roots where our literature has; but
patriotic as I am, I must admit that a brighter sun has shone upon it,
copious rain has nourished it, it has its own fruit and its own flavor;
and thus it enhances and glorifies the English language, in which both
itself and our literature on the other side of the Atlantic are
expressed. (Applause.)
“It is far from my desire to speak to you long to-night, but it is
impossible for me to sit down, without at least trying to say to you how
very deeply I feel the generosity and the kindness of this greeting, and
to say also how I have felt for years back the kindness and the
readiness with which the public of America greets us English writers.
(Applause.)
“We come here with no credentials save that our country has played in
the past a part which our country would not repeat in the future.
(Applause.) But if you do not forget that--and perhaps you do not forget
it--you are at least willing to forgive it; and as members of the same
family, we remember, not the occasions on which every now and then,
perhaps from living too close together, we fell out, but rather the time
when we made friends again and celebrated the event by a cordial dinner.
(Applause.)
“Gentlemen, I thank you.” (Loud and continued applause.)
From October 17, 1897, to January 13th following, Mr. Hawkins and I
travelled together, visiting sixty different cities, and he gave
seventy-six readings. He saw the face of America’s book-loving public.
He spent Christmas at my home, making it a memorable day in our
household. On New Year’s day, in company with his publisher, Mr. Fred.
A. Stokes, John S. Wise, and his son, of Virginia, Mr. William Carey of
the _Century Magazine_, and Mr. George F. Foster of Stokes & Co., and
_me too_, Mr. Hawkins was given a Chinese dinner in Mott Street, the
Chinese quarters of New York. The menu was in Chinese hieroglyphics, and
as far as any of us could tell the dinner was as much hieroglyphic as
the menu. The host, Mr. Stokes, had anticipated the inability of the
party to make out or digest the Oriental spread, and took with him a
satchel filled with sandwiches, cigars, and a canteen or two of _pure_
water, and this, with the stories, supplied the necessaries of the day
and occasion, both of which are not easy to forget, for the delight they
gave.
Since Mr. Hawkins’ return to England we have frequently corresponded,
and many of the letters that I have received from him illustrate so
well the genial spirit of the man that I take the liberty of reproducing
a few of them by his kind permission.
* * * * *
“25th Jan., ’98,
“16 BUCKINGHAM STREET.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“A peaceful, prosperous voyage! The old ship rolled a bit, but my colors
were not lowered. We got in at two on Saturday--since when I have been
overwhelmed with work which had accumulated here. Your album delights my
father and family--not least your inscription at the end--which delights
me too. I feel myself a very much travelled man, although you made light
of my wanderings. I wish you well through yours in the West and look
forward to yours here in the East.
“I hope all does go well--and I think of you and drink to your health.
“Your ever,
“A. H. H.”
* * * * *
“17th May, ’98,
“16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“You have found out by now what a bad correspondent I am--for your cable
from San Francisco came and was appreciated and yet not answered--but
your letter reaches me to-day and I must congratulate you on your safe
achievement of your big journey and your return home. Our little trip
together sinks quite into insignificance, doesn’t it? I’m afraid you’d
have found me a very lazy and trying companion for so long a jaunt. If
you weren’t devoted to moving, I would wish you a good long rest at home
now, but, since you’re the man you are, I’ll wish a good and speedy
voyage _to England_, with Mrs. Pond and your boy this time. We have a
good many of your folks here--among them Cable, who is being well
treated, I think; he’s giving some public readings and I’m going to hear
him in about a fortnight in one of them. Our thoughts have been much
with you all in the war. I feel it even as I should an English war, and
I’m sure the great--the vast--majority over here are of the same way of
thinking. But I think _you’ve_ done enough fighting for your country and
may fairly let the boys have a look in this time--or are you pining to
be in Cuba with your scouts? I am living my usual quiet life, writing
and reading proofs--and, I must add, dining out--when I talk quite
learnedly about America on the strength of my journey with you. _The
Critic_ printed my letter all right--in fact I was very well treated,
smoothed down, and complimented, and called a real gentleman, and
everything that was nice. So that’s all over and all is well. And, to
prove I think so, I’ve been advising more than one eminent gentleman to
go out and do a trip with you.
“You must read ‘Rupert of Hentzau’ when it comes--we consider it rather
a good yarn.
“Give Mrs. Pond all my remembrances--just as cordial as you know how to
make them. So, my dear Major,
“Ever yours,
“ANTHONY H. HAWKINS.”
* * * * *
“22d Sept., ’98,
16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“I was very glad to get your letter--but why haven’t you been over? I’ve
been expecting, or at least hoping, to hear of your coming all the
summer. Thanks for your news of ‘Ursula’--it seems to have made a good
beginning--here we are busy rehearsing it and hope to do as well in
London. I’m back from my holiday for this purpose--also to have teeth
out--for the holiday was spoilt by a violent attack of toothache. I had
a face like a turnip--thankful am I that this didn’t happen while I was
with you, or we should have had to bring the curtain down for a
fortnight at least. But I got a run in France and another in Scotland,
so I mustn’t complain. Only just now I’m a wreck from that dentist’s
nefarious deeds!
“I think you ought to have a success with Zangwill--he’s an interesting
personality. For me--well, I hope indeed to come over again, but I doubt
whether the reading desk will see me any more--they like my books better
than they like me, and I am very content to have it so. But I wouldn’t
have missed the tour we did together and the experience of it. Just now
I’m doing nothing--except the aforesaid rehearsals. All inspiration for
new work tarries. It’ll come some day perhaps. Congratulations that you
are well and prosperously through the war! The feeling here has
surprised me by its warmth and generality. So there’s one good result,
anyhow.
“My best remembrances to Mrs. Pond. No, I didn’t solve the riddle and
had to look! I suppose it’s no good hoping for you here before next
summer now, but then you must come at all risks.
“Yours ever, my dear Major,
“ANTHONY H. HAWKINS.”
* * * * *
“30th Dec., ’98,
“16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
“MY DEAR MAJOR: