wishes to you and yours for the New Year. On Christmas day I did not
fail to remember our cheery banquet under your roof a year ago, and I
drank your health and Mrs. Pond’s--hoping you were drinking mine out of
a certain mug! [A loving cup which Mr. H. presented me, and which I
found on my desk after he had sailed, inscribed, “Here’s Your Good
Health, Major.”] I hope all goes well with you in health. For success,
your letter seems to tell of a good season--you’ll have made more than I
could make for you--though upon my word I don’t believe that would
prevent you from having me over again. I am glad to hear that Caine and
Zangwill both did so well--they are both very interesting people, so
it’s small wonder. I have been rather ill this ‘fall’ (you see I don’t
forget the language).... That little play I brought over to New York in
my portmanteau has come to the rescue and I come out at the right end.
It’s capital news that you hope to come over in the summer. I am sure to
be here, I think, and we’ll fight our battles over again. We are all
Americans here now--a development of feeling that gives me the heartiest
pleasure. But whether the nations go on loving one another or not, your
welcome here is safe whenever you come.
“Kindest remembrances to Mrs. Pond and your son--and I am, my dear
Major, with friendliest thoughts,
“Ever yours,
“ANTHONY H. HAWKINS.”
* * * * *
“26th July, ’99,
“16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
“MY DEAR MAJOR:
“I am the basest of men in that I never answered your very pleasant
letter. The only excuse is that I have been _buried_ in a new story and
came up to the surface only yesterday! Moreover--yes, here’s
another--I’ve a vivid recollection that you were coming over this summer
and have hoped to hear your knock on my door. You haven’t come--and I
suppose won’t now?
“For me? Well, I was nearly tempted over to New York--just for fun--but
prudence stepped in and I stuck to work. That’s done, and I’ve a series
of little holidays before me, broken by the task of rehearsing a play
in the end of August. I am well, but tired--amiable but irritable (as
you may remember!)--and shall be very much better for a month of the
country. Except geographically, I _have_ been living in America--so many
pleasant friends from your side of the water have been here and so much
dissipation have they led me into. People keep turning up whom we met on
our journeyings together. They asked me if _you_ worked _me_ very hard,
and I have to confess that I gave you a much worse time than you
succeeded in inflicting on me.
“What a splendidly successful season you seem to have had! You will hear
with complete resignation that I don’t think I shall ever face the
footlights again, although I do by all means intend to find myself in
America again, and that before very long. But I’ve read here once or
twice--oh, so badly! I believe I need the stimulus of your kindly but
critical eye on the back benches of the hall!
“My best remembrances and regards to Mrs. Pond, and to yourself always
good wishes and most friendly memories.
“Yours,
“ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS.”
* * * * *
I quote from my diary of January 15, 1898:
“Saw my dear friend Anthony Hope Hawkins on board the _Umbria_, bound
for England. Sorry to part with him; never had a better time in any
man’s company for three months. He is an honor to his profession, his
country, and his race. This evening I join F. Marion Crawford for a
three-months’ tour to the Pacific coast.”
George W. Cable, with his “Old Creole Days” and his Southern stories,
and George Kennan, with his “Travels and Explorations Among the Convict
Colonies in Siberia,” are the only public favorites as readers and
lecturers that have been brought into prominence through magazine
articles almost exclusively. Both of these gentlemen were introduced to
me by Roswell Smith, President of the _Century Magazine_ Company.
[Illustration]
One morning Mr. Smith called at my office to ask me if I had read George
W. Cable’s Creole stories, which were appearing in the _Century_. I told
him that I had not, but that I had heard Mr. Beecher speak of Mr. Cable,
and was very anxious to meet him. Mr. Beecher had mentioned him to me as
having “developed great literary ability,” and advised me to go and hear
him read “just for the sake of the enjoyment.” Mr. Smith said he would
bring him in and introduce him, which he did a day or two later. I found
him a charming gentleman, and I know that he made a very fine impression
on me at the time. He told me that he had been reading in Boston and had
met with great success; that he had given five readings in Chickering
Hall which, to his surprise, had netted him about $1,000 profit. This
certainly was an excellent report for an author reader. I asked him if
he would give a public reading for me before he returned South. He said
he would. I at once arranged for an appearance in the Long Island
Historical Society Hall in Brooklyn, and asked Mr. Beecher if he would
preside; but a lecture engagement in Boston prevented his being able to
introduce Mr. Cable, much as he would have liked to present him to the
Brooklyn public. He said, however, that he would make an announcement of
the reading from his pulpit on Sunday, which he did in the following
words, taken down at my request by Mr. Ellingwood (Mr. Beecher’s
stenographer):
“Mr. George W. Cable will give a reading from his own works to-morrow
evening in the Hall of the Historical Society, at eight o’clock.
Admission, including reserved seat, one dollar. I give notice of this,
not because it is for any charitable purpose, but because I am very glad
to mark, and to asked you to observe, the fact that our literary
treasures are not confined to the North, nor to the Middle States, nor
are they all of Yankee blood. Next Friday and Saturday evenings are to
be given to the New England Societies of Brooklyn and New York, when we
shall prove that there is nothing good on the face of the earth that did
not come from New England blood. But until that is proved, it is worth
your while to believe that God has made some smart men somewhere else
besides in New England and the Middle States. After the period of
separation between the North and the South, now happily passed, it ought
to be a pleasure to every generous man to greet every returning sign of
amity and friendship. When a man, born and bred in the South, has, under
the providence of God, developed great literary talent, especially given
to America an entirely new vein of dramatic interest, and brought it out
with delicacy and richness, and with very great power, as Mr. Cable
has--all of whose works I believe I have read, and read with the utmost
relish and delight--when such a man appears among us, our hospitality
ought to be so marked that there shall be one man, at any rate, from the
South who will admit that Yankees have got hearts, and that they are not
cold. Besides all this, if you want to know what an enjoyable evening
is, go, just for the sake of the enjoyment.”
I told Mr. Cable of the pleasant things Mr. Beecher had said to me about
him, of his regret at not being able to introduce him in Brooklyn, and
of the cordial announcement made from his pulpit. Mr. Cable made no
response whatever--was absolutely silent--and I was rather surprised, as
the indorsement of Mr. Beecher assured success in Brooklyn.
The night of Mr. Cable’s appearance, Historical Hall was crowded. He
walked on to the platform alone. There was no introductory speech, but,
instead, a round of applause--I think about as hearty as Mr. Cable ever
had. He began his programme, and then everybody listened attentively to
the simple readings and delineations of the characters that he had
created, and the quaint singing of the Creole-African songs. I am bound
to say that never in my life have I witnessed an audience more
absolutely charmed than this one, by these simple natural readings. It
was a revelation to them.
Mr. Cable was obliged to return to New Orleans the next day, to be
absent three weeks. Meanwhile I made arrangements for a course of five
readings in New York, Philadelphia, and neighboring cities, I to
accompany him on the tour.
Somehow I never could get a response from him when Mr. Beecher’s name
was mentioned, and yet he must have realized Mr. Beecher’s part in the
hearty reception that he had received in Brooklyn.
On the day after Mr. Cable returned from New Orleans to begin his course
of New York readings in Chickering Hall, he said to me:
“Major Pond, you must have noticed that whenever you have mentioned Mr.
Beecher to me I have never said very much. As you know, Southern public
opinion is very hostile to him, and I am well aware that all accounts I
have had of him, or virtually all, were colored by hostile prejudice;
but it is already known of me, as far as I am known at all, that I am
not always guided by Southern opinion. I have never allowed myself to
form a fixed opinion of Mr. Beecher. I have read writings, sermons, and
speeches of his, but I have never heard him preach, and I should like to
do so to-morrow. If you can secure me entertainment for to-night (it
was Saturday) and to-morrow, I will go and hear him. I would not go from
New York on Sunday, as I never travel in public conveyances on the
Sabbath.”
This delighted me, and I at once telegraphed a common friend of Mr.
Beecher’s and mine, in Brooklyn (a lady who had a fine home on Columbia
Heights and who was a prominent member of Plymouth Church), asking if
she would entertain Mr. George W. Cable over Sunday, as he wished to
hear Mr. Beecher preach. A very hearty invitation came at once, and a
carriage was sent to the Everett House for Mr. Cable to take him to
Brooklyn.
The next day he and I sat in Mr. Beecher’s pew, and he listened to the
first sermon he ever heard the Plymouth pastor preach. It seemed to
please him greatly. After the sermon he very cordially approached Mr.
Beecher and told him how delighted he was with the sermon, and told him
then and there that he had never before felt entitled to form a fixed
opinion of him. Mr. Beecher said to me:
“Pond, will you please escort Mr. Cable to my house? I want you both to
remain and take dinner with us. I have a committee meeting which will
occupy about ten minutes, and I will join you.”
Turning to Mr. Cable, he said, “My family are all anxious to meet you,
Mr. Cable.”
All of Mr. Beecher’s family were at home to dinner and they had all read
Mr. Cable’s stories, and his characters were brought into discussion and
comment in a way that only the Beecher family could do it. It must have
been very satisfactory to the author. Mr. Beecher left the table about
two o’ clock for his accustomed afternoon sleep, and the party
dissolved, Mr. Cable and I returning to the home of his Brooklyn
hostess.
I felt much gratification at seeing Mr. Cable’s silent neutrality change
to outspoken friendship. After that, Mr. Cable and Mr. Beecher were very
fast friends, and when Mr. Cable brought his family North and settled in
Northampton, Mass., I arranged for Mr. Beecher to lecture in that city
with the view that Mr. Cable and his family should hear him. It was
quite an occasion in Northampton. Mr. Cable invited some friends to meet
Mr. Beecher at his house, and the afternoon before the lecture Mr.
Beecher planted an elm, which is now a handsome tree on Mr. Cable’s
beautiful place in Northampton, and is known as “The Beecher Elm.”
Among the first letters that I received at the time of Mr. Beecher’s
death were the two following from Mr. Cable:
* * * * *
“NORTHAMPTON, MASS.,
“March 7, 1887.
“DEAR MAJOR:
“Can the sad rumor be true--that Mr. Beecher is stricken with apoplexy?
It is dreadful as a mere possibility. How shall one express the feeling
of loss that comes to every hearer of such tidings? How shall we send
words of sympathy to the family when as to him we are all in a greater
degree than of any other one man, his children? He is--I trust we need
not yet say was--the fatherliest man to the whole people our land has
given us. You will know whether to show this to Mrs. Beecher or not.
Yours truly,
“G. W. CABLE.”
“P. S.--I have just read the sad, sad news.--G. W. C.”
* * * * *
“NORTHAMPTON, MASS.,
“March 8, 1887.
“DEAR MAJOR POND:
“Your letter of March 6th, written at Mr. Beecher’s desk, touches me
deeply. I know you are losing in his death the best friend you ever had;
a man who had the art of being a friend as few have it. May God turn
this great loss to your spirit’s gain, as only He can. I wish you had
written me more; but I hope to hear from you again very soon.
“The blow seems to strike everywhere. No one fails to feel that the
world is losing one of its greatest lights.
“This evening I go to read in Meriden. To-morrow I shall be back here. I
hope you will find opportunity to come up soon and let me help you in
the work--more a labor of love to you now than ever before--which you
had projected.
“Four of my children are confined with scarlet fever, but the cases are
light, and I can assist you, though not in my own house.
Yours truly,
“G. W. CABLE.”
* * * * *
When Mr. Cable first began to give public readings he had so little
voice that he could not comfortably make himself heard by an audience of
two hundred and fifty. He decided that the first thing to do was to
secure a training of his voice, which all his life he had been using so
injuriously, because so faultily. Many of his friends advised him not to
take elocution lessons, but he persisted, with the end in view just
mentioned.
Mr. Cable’s singing of Louisiana folk-songs was a charming, quaint, and
fascinating feature of his entertainment, and was so commented on by the
newspapers everywhere. It never failed to awaken applause from his
audiences, who would have had him sing the songs over and over again had
he been willing to humor his appreciative listeners. Yet he rarely sang
more than one in an evening and almost never more than two. For a long
time he omitted them entirely from his programmes, because, as he said,
“he felt jealous for the readings when reporters spent their praises on
the songs.” One season he thought of preparing a lecture on these Creole
songs, to be illustrated by singing a number of them interspersed
through the lecture; but when Mr. Gilder told him “it seemed hardly to
comport with his dignity as an author,” he took the same view, and never
prepared the lecture.
Of late Mr. Cable has gotten back to his original usage, giving to the
public what they ask--the Creole songs and stories as he originally sang
and told them. Two years ago he gave them, in Great Britain with all the
attractive naturalness of his maiden efforts.
As a reader of his own stories, George W. Cable is among the greatest of
lyceum favorites. These creations are unique, and he alone gives them
full value. But he is also highly esteemed as a lecturer. In that field
he makes his own road also, just as he has done in realistic and
character-making literature.
The essentials for a platform entertainment were so aptly and ably
suggested in one of Mr. Cable’s letters that, for the benefit of
committees, associations, and managers they are submitted:
* * * * *
“NEW YORK, Feb. 10, 1886.
“MY DEAR MAJOR POND:
“To make an end of all misconceptions, let us write a list of things we
have to have and of things we would be happy without. For instance,
among the essentials it is probably not unreasonable to demand a
platform, brightly lighted and furnished with a table, which is all the
better if it is decidedly heavy, so that one can freely lean against it
without its starting away on its castors. Also, one chair, light enough
to be freely lifted about by the speaker with one hand. A comfortable
retiring room one need hardly mention; it is nearly always supplied.
Foot-lights, if practicable. These are really about all that one need
say are important to have.
“But there are other things that gladden one by their absence. One
doesn’t want any lights behind the speaker, unless they are high
overhead; nor any light on the table; nor any reading desk. Much less
any sort of railing in front of the speaker; and still less a water
pitcher and glass. Even less than these, any orchestra or band of music;
and least of all, any species of _performance_, amateur or professional,
long or short, musical or unmusical. And one thing which can be
dispensed with even joyfully is sitters on the platform--except in the
event of a crowded house; when everybody is welcome everywhere.
“Once more: Often there are those who would like to make certain
non-essential yet pleasant additions to the appointments of the stage if
they only knew what would be acceptable. We owe it to such kind friends
to say what luxuries of the platform are to our taste. It is pleasant,
for instance, but not imperative to have a space on the platform of
about fifteen feet square or its equivalent. A carpet is always far
pleasanter than a bare floor. An introduction to the audience is
acceptable, yet of no importance. Where practicable, it is very pleasant
to have an enclosed scene set, say a drawing-room, library, or study. A
few books in modest bindings, inkstand, pen-rack, etc., decorate the
table agreeably. Floral decorations had better be scanty than too
abundant. A tasteful programme free from advertisements and printed on
cardboard is a comfort. These trifles are real helps, and add to the
pleasures of the evening both on the platform and beyond it. Yet there
is almost nothing that cannot be dispensed with if not procurable.
Yours truly,
“G. W. CABLE.”
* * * * *
Walt Whitman gave a few readings under my management during his life.
They were mostly testimonials from friends, and benefits given in the
theatres of New York City. On one occasion Mr. Carnegie took a box for
$500. I think the receipts were $1,800. It was a performance well worth
attending, and attracted a strange audience, consisting mostly of poets,
literary lights, and rich people who admired the writings of the “Good
Gray Poet.”
[Illustration]
It was indeed a picturesque spectacle at Walt’s last appearance in the
Madison Square Theatre, on Lincoln’s birthday. Just as he was about to
recite “My Captain,” a little girl, the granddaughter of Edmund Clarence
Stedman, walked out upon the stage and presented him with a beautiful
bouquet of roses.
Walt Whitman’s Camden home seemed to be a Mecca for the litterateurs of
Europe who visited this country. Both Matthew Arnold and Sir Edwin
Arnold visited him there, and a number of other distinguished men as
well. It was during Sir Edwin Arnold’s last visit to New York that he
suggested he would like to call on Walt Whitman again. He and I went to
Philadelphia together, and, with John Russell Young, took a carriage at
the Lafayette Hotel about noon and drove to his Camden home. Whitman,
who of course knew of Sir Edwin Arnold, and he seemed cheered and
pleased by the attention. I had planned the visit the night before by
telegraph to Mr. Young, saying that we would surprise Walt. He had no
intimation of our coming until we arrived.
The aged poet sat in his bedroom. He was wrapped in a big blanket, upon
which his gray beard, that of a typical sage, flowed. The floor was
littered with books and papers, almost blocking our approach. Sir Edwin
Arnold managed to wade through the literary débris, and stood in the
full light of the window before his host.
An inexpressible flood of delight passed over the face of the American
poet as he beheld his great English confrère. Sir Edwin rushed toward
him and exclaimed, “My dear friend, I am delighted to see you.”
“Arnold, I did not expect you; how kind and considerate!” was the
surprised exclamation of the aged poet as he held out his hand. But
there was more than the usual hand-shaking. The greeting was a literal
embrace, for the two poets loved each other in the strictest literary
sense. Sir Edwin had always been infatuated with Walt Whitman’s poetry,
and the American bard found equal delight in the productions of the
former. It was the second time that the two had met. Sir Edwin Arnold’s
visit to this country in 1892 was made expressly to see Walt Whitman.
After the two poets had embraced, Walt Whitman received John Russell
Young and me with an effusive greeting.
For the next hour and a half the talk ran fast and without intermission.
Walt had much to tell, and so had Sir Edwin; it was a shower of literary
epigrams. Sir Edwin was very sorry that his friend was not in the best
of health.
“If I had hold of you,” said Sir Edwin, pointing his finger
affectionately, “I’d soon get you well. You are not sick; why, if I
could only have you, I wager that I could make you young again.
Seventy-three years--that’s not much. You’re certainly good for fifteen
years more, and during that time you can keep me delighted with books of
new verse.”
“Oh, what beautiful things you say of me,” responded Walt; “and Arnold,
how can I repay you for that splendid little tribute to me at the Lotos
Club? You don’t know how it pleased me. It stirs the cockles of my blood
to read the nice things you say of me.”
The two sat alongside of each other and began talking about American and
English poetry.
“Arnold, we’re a lively, hustling people,” said the American bard, “and
we’re too practical yet to appreciate the full sentiment of our verse.
What a wealth has been written! Yes, we have not the high poetical
spirit of the Japanese in this country. Over there in Japan there is so
much sentiment--so much that is ideal.”
Sir Edwin said he hoped that the day would not be far distant when the
people of America would have a very soft poetical glow to their
temperament. “Americans,” said he, “are a great people, of remarkable
intellect. What a future they have!”
Sir Edwin and his host next fell to musing over the great men of the
country. They talked about Washington, Lincoln, and Grant, whose
characters and deeds Sir Edwin avowed he was always fond of reading
about. Then the pair had a literary treat by talking of Emerson,
Longfellow, and other American poets. Each quoted many selections. Sir
Edwin then asked Whitman if he should not recite from memory some of the
latter’s gems.
“Have you some of my poetry in your memory?” exclaimed the aged poet.
“Well, I will guarantee to be able to recite at least half of what you
have written,” replied Sir Edwin playfully.
“Now let me try you.”
Sir Edwin then stood up when he was asked to recite a portion of Walt
Whitman’s verse on the death of Lincoln. The famous English bard’s eyes
twinkled, and he began:
“Come early and soothing Death.
Undulate round the world, severely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate death.”
Sir Edwin kept on reciting until tears filled the eyes of the American
poet and he reached forth his hand thankfully. Sir Edwin recited several
more selections, and then his host repeated many lines from Sir Edwin’s
works.
Before the party arose to take their departure, Walt Whitman had three
volumes brought to him by a servant. Each volume was very large, and
contained all of his productions in verse and prose. He jotted down his
autograph on each, and as he handed them to his guests he spoke like a
playmate to his companions: “I won’t say that I will write to you
fellows; it’s all inside the book.”
“God bless you and keep you safe and well!” responded Sir Edwin, and the
visit came to an end.
Sir Edwin spoke thus of Walt Whitman: “Great, good poet that he is, he
stands next to Emerson.”
WALT WHITMAN.
Gone has the savor from the salt
With Walt.
An untamed stallion, strong and sure,
He galloped through our literature;
No critic trainer had the grit
To tame him to the bridle bit,
No rein his headlong speed could halt,
Unharnessed Walt.
A man of many a flaw and fault
Was Walt.
He never tried to train his thought
To blossom in a flower pot;
With careless hand he flung his seeds,
And some grew roses, some grew weeds,
And some rich flowers of purple blood
Sprung from the mud.
O’er custom’s fence, with easy vault,
Leaped Walt.
The pedant’s gown he would not don,
Nor hold his pen with handcuffs on.
His rhythm, like a fetterless sea,
Broke in mad music and débris
Against the bowlders of his age
With giant rage.
We shall not find ’neath heaven’s vault
Another Walt.
He gave a gift beyond all pelf,
Man’s greatest gift--he gave himself.
Then bear, with dead hands on his breast,
This shaggy old man to his rest.
A strong, audacious soul has fled,
Now Walt is dead.
--SAM WALTER FOSS.
[Illustration: A. CONAN DOYLE]
Dr. A. Conan Doyle came to this country in October, 1894, and gave forty
public readings. Had it not been for his invalid wife, with whom he had
promised to spend Christmas, he could have continued during the season
and returned home with a small fortune in American dollars.
There was something about his personality that attracted people, and
still he was not what I would say the most satisfactory reader of his
writings. There was something about him that fairly charmed his
audiences, and many of his great admirers were seriously disappointed
when they found that as soon as the lecture was over the Doctor had made
his escape from the stage door, so that those friends who had rushed to
meet him and congratulate him could not do so.