Part 3

Chapter 34,152 wordsPublic domain

The great agitator’s tact was only equalled by the serene humor and pleasant wit that he exhibited. An old friend has recently told me of Mr. Phillips questioning him as to the highest grade he had won in the Union army on the occasion of his going to the Federal capital just after muster-out, as a special correspondent. Mr. Phillips, knowing the young man’s radical views, had given him several letters of introduction and was writing one to Senator Sumner when he asked this question, remarking with a gentle laugh: “Yes, a title has its value with my friend Charles.” His unvarying urbanity was in conspicuous contrast with the Senator’s sometimes unpleasant surliness.

Mr. Phillips was decidedly old-fashioned in many of his ways. When at home, for example, he did his own marketing, and he knew how to buy. His chief purchases, however, were always in the way of dainties for his invalid wife. His own table habits were of the simplest. He was quite apt to answer his own door bell. On the entrance to that quiet Boston house there was no door-plate--only the name painted in large black letters--

=PHILLIPS.=

I called on him one morning at his house. He answered the bell himself. I remarked:

“Mr. Phillips, you have a very conspicuous sign on your door.”

He told me that as the door-plate had been torn off by vandals he had decided to have his name painted on the door so conspicuously that any one who wished to find his house could easily distinguish the name.

A large commercial block now occupies the ground where the house stood. On the corner of this modern building there is a bronze tablet bearing the following inscription:

His benevolence was abounding. He inherited a fair fortune for those days, and he earned a great sum of money as a lecturer. Yet when he died there was nothing left--not even a debt. Mrs. Phillips, who did not long survive him, never knew this, for the friends about her arranged that the frugal household--and that it always was--should go on till the end.

Mr. Phillips was quite an adept with tools, keeping the household goods always in repair. At home, when not with Mrs. Phillips, he was always puttering with tools or engaged in reading and studying. He claimed that, as a boy, there was not an ordinary craft at which he had not done a good day’s work. His understanding of the building trades made him always at home with their workers.

Mr. Phillips was in demand wherever his services could be secured. He did not earn so much money lecturing as he might have made. He never allowed lecture committees to lose money if he knew it. In case of bad weather, or a disappointment of any kind to the persons who had failed to realize a profit on the large fee promised, he would invariably insist that he receive only an equitable portion of the profits. Seldom was there such an occasion, for his were the palmiest days of the lyceum.

Mr. Phillips’s repertoire was encyclopædic, embracing a vast list: travel, science, current politics, reform, labor, anti-slavery, education, legal topics, foreign matters, biography, and religion. Some of his titles were: “Street Life in Europe,” “The Lost Arts,” “The Times, or a Lesson of the Hour,” “Temperance,” “Woman,” “The Indians, or in Early Days,” “Agitation,” “Training,” “Law and Lawyers,” “Courts and Jails,” “The Irish Question,” “O’Connell,” “Sumner,” and “Christianity a Battle, not a Dream.”

No speaker of his day ever treated a greater variety of topics, nor with more even excellence, than Wendell Phillips. I quote from some of his letters illustrating an experience while on a long Western lecture tour. From Illinois he writes in a car with a lead pencil: “The weather is dull; only two days since I left that I have seen the sun. Rain, snow, clouds, damp, mud, and grim heavens. Still, the audiences are large.” From, one of the oil towns in Pennsylvania: “Here I am in an oil town, mud over the hubs of the wheels; literally, one horse was smothered in it; the queerest crowd of men, with trousers tucked in their boots; no privacy--hotels all one crowd--chambers mere thoroughfares, everybody passing through at will, and here I must stay until Sunday. I find some of the Boston people here. Everybody here is making money--the first place I have found where this is the case. Explanation--they have all struck oil.”

Again he writes from an Iowa town: “It has been extremely cold. I have been in the smaller towns and have had poor hotels and a generally hard time, rushed from one train to another, and puffed from station to station. In eleven days I have slept in a regular bed but four nights, still I have been fortunate in filling every engagement, and Sumner has been the favorite subject.

“In Milwaukee, I was at the ‘Plankington,’ where I had a fine suite of rooms, bath, chamber, parlor with pier glass ten feet high and five feet broad--nothing showy--just comfortable.”

Another time from Davenport, Iowa, to Redpath, his former abolitionist friend, as well as manager: “I, the traveller, the ‘elderly gentleman,’ have been--kissed! in Illinois! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, if you can without choking your envious soul. Yes, kissed!! on a public platform, in front of a depot, the whole world envying me. ‘Who did it?’ do you ask? It was an old man of seventy-three years--a veteran abolitionist, a lovely old saint. In the early days of the cause we used to kiss each other like the early Christians, and when he saw me he resumed the habit.”

William Lloyd Garrison.--Now that Phillips and Garrison and the era in which they flourished have passed into history, it is common for writers who treat on that period to talk of these two champions of freedom as if they were equals, or of Phillips, even, as if he were Garrison’s inferior.

Those who knew both men smile at such absurdities.

Phillips and Garrison were equals in one respect only--in moral courage and unselfish devotion to the slave. Garrison was a commonplace man in respect to intellectual ability, whereas Phillips was a man of genius of the rarest culture. Garrison was a strong platform speaker. Phillips was one of the greatest orators of the century. Only three men of his time could contest the palm of eloquence with him--Webster, Clay, and Beecher.

There never was a more benevolent face than William Lloyd Garrison’s. He had a kindly eye, a winning smile, a gentleness of way, a crisp, straightforward way of talking, and a merciless movement in straight lines of thought.

Mr. Garrison visited England after the war was over and the emancipation of the slaves was accomplished, and received unusual courtesies. At a dinner given him by the British Anti-Slavery Society he was presented with a gold watch. As he took it in his hand he said:

“Well, gentlemen, if this had been a rotten egg I should have known what to do with it, but as it is a gold watch, I have nothing to say.”

Charles Sumner was an aristocrat. He was my father’s ideal. After I had got back from Kansas and visited my father’s home in Wisconsin, father said to me: “James, the Honorable Charles Sumner is going to speak at R----. We must hear him.”

So we arranged to go. We walked nine miles to hear him speak. My father never spoke of him without giving him his title. He had enjoyed that speech intensely. I do not know whether I did or not. Father occupied a front seat with the intention of rushing up to the platform and greeting him by the hand when he was finished, but the Honorable Charles was too quick for him. He disappeared, got to his hotel, and nobody saw him.

Father said: “James, the Honorable Charles Sumner is going to Milwaukee to-morrow morning, and we can ride with him a part of the way.”

We were on the train early the next morning, and so was the Honorable Charles Sumner. He was sitting reading in the drawing-room car.

Father stepped up and said: “The Honorable Charles Sumner? I have read all of your speeches. I feel that it is the duty of every American to take you by the hand. This is my son. He has just returned from the Kansas conflict.”

Honorable Charles Sumner did not see father nor his son, but he saw the porter and said: “Can you get me a place where I will be undisturbed?”

Poor father! His heart was almost broken. During his last twenty-five years he never referred to the Honorable Charles Sumner. Sumner was in greater demand as a lecturer than any other man of his time just about those years.

When at the height of his fame, he lectured in Providence and, at the close, the committee gave him a check for $500, expecting that he would hand it back, as it was at that time such an unprecedented fee. But Mr. Sumner put the check into his pocket.

His price with the bureau was $300 to $500. There was never any difficulty in getting it.

Chauncey M. Depew I regard as the peerless all-round orator of the present time. I have listened to him on all sorts of occasions for the past twenty-five years, and I am bound to say that I have never known a more versatile public speaker. I have heard many jocose references to Chauncey’s chestnuts, and have been chestnut hunting whenever I could get into the field where he was, with poor pickings--at public dinners, college commencements, Press Club gatherings, alumni associations, mechanics’ associations, workingmen’s societies, and political campaigns--and must say that without exception he deviates from the line in which he is expected to talk less than anybody I have ever known excepting Beecher.

I remember a dinner of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick in Delmonico’s early in the ’80’s, where Mr. Beecher and Mr. Depew were the principal speakers. It was a large gathering of the representative Irish-Americans, and there were present quite a number of distinguished foreigners. While Mr. Beecher was speaking, Mr. Depew came over and sat by me, and on one or two occasions intimated that it was one of the most remarkable orations he had ever listened to. After Mr. Beecher had finished, Mr. Depew was called upon, and Mr. Beecher came over and occupied the chair that Mr. Depew had vacated. There was tremendous applause when “Our Chauncey” was called upon. After quiet had been restored, Mr. Depew assumed a very serious expression. In opening his address he told his hearers that he had something serious to say to them: that we were on the eve of a great crisis--great labor strikes--and that he stood there as the representative of the largest labor constituency in America, and he told those men that he should hold them in a certain degree responsible for what might happen. He wanted them to _distinctly understand that he and those he represented were prepared to meet this crisis_. It was a long, earnest speech. There was not much applause until after Mr. Depew had finished.

Mr. Beecher and I left immediately afterward, drove in a carriage to Dorlon’s Oyster House, in Fulton Market, as was his usual custom after a New York speech, where we had supper. During our ride from Delmonico’s to Fulton Ferry Mr. Beecher did not speak. He was very quiet until supper was served. I remember the first words that came from his lips were something like this:

“The people of New York and of this country generally have looked upon Chauncey M. Depew as a sort of an entertainer and comedian for public occasions, and don’t realize the greatness of the man.” Then, after referring to the many responsibilities and trusts which were under Mr. Depew’s guidance, he wound up by saying, “Chauncey M. Depew is a great man, and I would like to vote for him for president of the United States.”

Of course Mr. Depew is not a lyceum lecturer, but he might be the most successful in America. He never will accept a fee for lecturing, and consequently the manager has little use for him in a business way.

I met him in his office November 27, 1899, and asked him if he could tell me of any incident in his speech-making career that had not been published. He told me that he thought the best speech he ever made in his life had never got into print, and he related the incident:

He and General Grant both had cottages at Long Branch. The General had taken offence at something that Mr. Depew had said in a speech, and for a long time they had passed each other without speaking. This silence lasted about four years. One day he received a letter from Judge Daly urging him to speak at the Sons of St. Patrick’s dinner at Delmonico’s, saying that General Grant was to be there and would speak. At that time General Grant had never made a public speech. “I took pains,” said Mr. Depew, “to prepare a speech for that occasion, although the time was very short and I had a case in the Supreme Court and was obliged to come from Washington on a late train which reached New York at nine o’clock. I hurried into my evening dress and to the dining hall, where I arrived about ten o’clock. General Grant was speaking. He discovered me as I was twisting myself through the crowd to the guest table. Grant stopped speaking (he told me afterward that his knees were knocking together under the table). As I arrived at my seat I heard the general say, ‘Oh! if I could only stand in Depew’s shoes!’ and he sat down. As I was called upon, I threw away my prepared speech and replied, ‘Who could stand in Grant’s shoes?’ and then all of Grant’s achievements multiplied before me and I believe I made the best speech of my life. It never got reported. After I sat down I felt some one take hold of my hand. I looked around; it was General Grant. He whispered to me, ‘That was the greatest speech that ever fell from human lips.’ Grant insisted on driving me home in his carriage that night, and we were close friends ever afterward.”

“Mr. Depew, who are our greatest orators?” I asked. “Compared with a quarter of a century ago we have no great orators, have we?”

“No, we have not,” said Mr. Depew. “I know one very eloquent man, with a big resounding voice, who holds his audience spell-bound, but what does he say? It is dull reading the next day.” He told me that Phillips and Beecher were the two greatest orators of their time, and that he thought they must have surpassed Webster and Clay.

I told Mr. Depew that when I was in England in 1886, I heard his name mentioned more among the religious classes than any American preacher in the country excepting Mr. Beecher.

He said, “You mean my reply to John Fiske at the Twentieth Century Club?”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s the speech. It was circulated as a religious tract in Great Britain.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I am told that millions of them have been circulated. I never considered that much of a speech. It was more an outburst of my heart at the time.”

With Mr. Depew’s permission I submit the speech, which, with the exception of “In His Steps,” has had the greatest circulation in England of any religious document ever published:

* * * * *

THE CHRISTIAN FAITH: A REPLY TO JOHN FISKE.

“I am a practical man, overwhelmed with the cares of business. It is exceedingly difficult for me to get on the plane of philosophic thought. I am a practical man. I believe in the Old Testament and the New Testament precisely as they are presented by Christianity. I am in antagonism to Mr. Wakeman, who dismisses the Bible as entirely a mass of legend, and with Professor Fiske, who accepts it with an interpretation entirely his own.

“It was the atheism of France that taught license for liberty and led to the French Revolution. Where are those old philosophies and the old philosophers? They are dead, while Christianity survives. The school of atheism led to despair. Materialism soon found that every violation of the moral law could go on consistently with its teachings. So pantheism and positivism have followed, only to be destroyed, and now we have the school of humanity and the cosmic philosophy coming close to the borders of Christianity as expounded by John Fiske.

“They tell us there is no more Creator, only a cosmic dust. Who made the dust? There is only protoplasm, indeed. Who made the protoplasm? They tell us of evolution from dust to monkey and then to man; but all the scientists have never found the missing link. The simple gospel of the humble son of a carpenter, preached by twelve fishermen, has survived the centuries and outlives all other philosophies of eighteen hundred years.

“I am not versed in the terminology of the philosophies. I believe them to be of little use to reach the hearts and to influence the actions of simple men. There is no liberty that lasts in the world, and there is no government which has liberty in it which lasts, that does not recognize the Bible. What is the object of all theology? It is to reach the human heart and to control the actions of men as they are.

“How many of us can even understand what the philosopher says? You might take the whole Stock Exchange and read Kant to them, and it would be utterly incomprehensible to them. Not so with the teachings of the Golden Rule. They could understand at least what that means. I read Mr. Wakeman’s pamphlet last night. They tell us God must disappear; that prayer is begging; that the Holy Communion is cannibalism. When did such a religion send out a missionary? When you show me a colony of ten thousand people who have come to live decently by its teachings, I may believe it. But I say now that the Christian faith of my mother is good enough for me. If we believe this faith, what harm? If we disbelieve it, and thereby do wrong, what of our future?”

* * * * *

Gen. Horace Porter, previous to his accepting the appointment of ambassador to France, has, next to Chauncey M. Depew, received the most applications to deliver orations, make after-dinner speeches, and to lecture. Probably he has received every year thousands more of such applications than he could possibly accept. If he were not a rich man and had no other means of earning money he could, by lecturing, very soon make a fortune probably greater than any other public man in our country could make in the same way.

His inimitable humor, the keenness of his satire, the blandness of his voice, his matchless mastery of himself and his theme, and his love of principle, make him the peerless champion of every worthy cause not only in the community where he lives, but throughout all this land of ours.

He is very popular with the soldiers, having been at one time chief of staff of the late General Grant. I have never known a man whose speeches are so fruitful of genuine fun. During the last two years that he was commander of the Military Order of the Loyal Legion of New York, General Porter secured for the social gatherings of the Legion some of the best and ablest orators and public speakers that could be had, but invariably and unconsciously, with his irresistible introductions or opening addresses, he took the wind out of the sails of nearly every one who followed him. I should not care a pin to present a star for an opening speech before a metropolitan audience where General Porter was in order to precede him.

General Porter and Dr. Depew are alike fluent on all sorts of occasions, and to hear these two after-dinner orators at a banquet on any great occasion is to listen to an intellectual display not to be equalled by any other two men living. No better idea of General Porter’s inimitable manner could possibly be conveyed than to quote from the last speech he made in America at a dinner given him by the Lotus Club in New York, January 10, 1897, the evening before he took his departure for France. He said:

“When I was informed that this club was about to tender me a dinner, although the news was broken to me gently and deliberately, I was seized with a hypnotic intensity of memory which took on the form of neuralgia of the emotions. (Laughter.) But I determined to brace up and come here to-night, whether the ceremonies were of the nature of an ovation or a wake (renewed laughter), for I realized, if ever a man realized, that not to be dined by the Lotus Club would cause in life the feeling of failure and regret. Last night I could think only of what would occur in twenty-four hours after then. I tried to sleep, but that gentle solace did not visit my eyelids. I found myself murmuring over and over again the words: ‘Wake me early, mother dear, for I’m to be queen of the May.’ (Laughter.)

“There is sometimes a doubt as to whether there is more satisfaction from a dinner in the realization or in the anticipation. Some think it is better not to give a man a dinner, and then have people going about saying, ‘Why don’t they give him a dinner?’ than to give a dinner and have people say of him, ‘Why did they give _that_ man a dinner?’ (Laughter.) But having tasted the enjoyments thus far this evening, I shall always in the future cast my vote in favor of realization.

“So far you have made things easy for me, but my experience has been somewhat like that of a man whom I met in Texas. I got into conversation with him, and he remarked to me: ‘I have struck a big thing.’ I asked him in what manner he had struck this big thing, and he replied: ‘I was sent down here by a religious organization to distribute tracts, and every time I gave a man a tract in Texas he invariably hauled out a gun from one pocket and a bottle of whiskey from another, and, handing me the bottle, he said: “Say, drink some of this, and drink it p---- d---- q----, or my gun will go off!” I have not had to pay for my liquor in this State since I have been distributing tracts.’ (Laughter.)

“Your president, in speaking of me to-night, has filled me full with his encomiums. The only fear I have is that I cannot get away with them all; I fear that some of them may leak out in somewhat the same style as Mark Twain experienced at Niagara Falls. During a visit to the Falls, Mark Twain has stated that while walking under the cataract he became scared and called out to the guide, and in so doing took in about three-quarters of the Falls. Speaking of this afterward, he remarked: ‘It was an anxious and perilous moment for me, because I knew if I sprung a leak I should be lost.’

“There is one thing I am glad of to-night, and that is that you have not announced the guests in the formal style they adopt in London. On one occasion when I was there, I attended a reception which was being held in a gentleman’s house, and there was a flunky in plush livery, a Home Ruler from the neighboring island. Among the guests who arrived while I was at that reception were General Badeau, General Grant, and Colonel McCook. The flunky, throwing open the door, announced them thus: ‘Banjo, General Drunk, and the Colonel’s Cook.’