Part 31

“The bearer is our good and trusted colleague, Mr. Ellerthorpe, who goes to America to observe the social, political, commercial, and intellectual life of your great Republic, and to send letters to the _Daily Telegraph_ upon these topics. Be so good as to receive and, if you can, to help him with useful introductions. He is a most worthy gentleman and I know you will do what you can for him for ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

“Yours affectionately, “EDWIN ARNOLD.”

* * * * *

Later in April, 1897, comes a note introducing Mr. Edward Le Sage, son of the managing editor of the _Daily Telegraph_, who visited the United States as a representative of that paper. I am asked “to be as good as ever I can” to the gentleman. Then came a pleasant reminder in the form of wedding cards, with the following very pleasant epistle as a friendly accompaniment:

* * * * *

“31 BOLTON GARDENS, LONDON, S.W., “November 26, 1897.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“The enclosed card will tell you, what you probably have long ago heard, that I have married the gentle and faithful Japan lady whom you saw with us. We have settled down very quietly in this new and pleasant house and only wish that you and dear Mrs. Pond were here to have a chat sometimes.

“I have had lately a nasty bout of rheumatism, or gout, or something, which makes me a prisoner to my room, but am slowly getting better. I trust you are all very well. It is not impossible you may see me again in the States, for my doctor tells me to take rest and travel.

“Yours always affectionately, “EDWIN ARNOLD.”

* * * * *

This later letter I give explains itself, and refers to the pathetic physical condition which now afflicts Sir Edwin.

* * * * *

“31 BOLTON GARDENS, S. KENSINGTON, “LONDON, S.W., Jan. 2, 1898.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“Warmest thanks for your kind message, and most cordial returns of the same to you and yours!

“Your charming invitation is of course attractive, but at present I am the victim of some strange weakness of the lower limbs, which the doctors say may prove chronic, and which prevents me standing long or walking much. This will oblige me, I fear, to go into the East for sunshine, just before Lent, and at present I do all my daily work by carriage and driving. But I will write again and give you a later report.

“Kindest regards to Mrs. Pond and Bim, in which Lady Arnold joins.

“Ever yours affectionately, “EDWIN ARNOLD.”

* * * * *

The Rev. Dr. John Watson (“IAN MACLAREN”) made his first lecture tour in America between October 1 and December 16, 1896, and I think I saw more happy faces while accompanying him than any other man was ever privileged to see in the same length of time. During this period Dr. Watson had ninety-six as large audiences of men and women as could be crowded into the largest public halls in the principal cities of the United States and Canada. These great multitudes, with bated breath and outstretched necks, sat and listened to him with intermingled laughter and tears, like sunshine making the rain radiant.

Dr. Watson is a tall, straight, square-shouldered, deep-chested man of middle age, with a large, compact, round, and well-balanced head, thinly thatched with brown and grayish hair, well-moulded refined features that bear the impress of kindly shrewdness, intellectual sagacity, and spiritual clearness, tempered, too, with a mingled sense of keen humor and grave dignity. The eyes are open, fine, and clear in expression, and thoughtful and observant to a controlling degree.

He is sometimes called an Englishman, because he happened to be born in the county of Essex; but he himself says: “I am a pure Highlander. My mother was a Maclaren, and came from Loch Tay and spoke the Gaelic tongue. My father was born at Braemar, and Gaelic was the language of my paternal grandfather.” His father was a Free Church elder, and his mother a woman of strong religious character and great spirituality. He is himself a typical Scotch Highlander in appearance, with every movement indicating alertness and force.

His voice is excellent, because its tones express the feeling to be conveyed. It is skilfully used, with fine inflections and tonal shadings that give emphasis and delicacy to his delivery. The doctor’s mobile mouth easily lends itself to vocal changes. He is not an orator in the usual sense of the word, but he is a speaker who readily holds an audience to the last moment. No one leaves while he speaks, and that is the finest test.

One day Horace Greeley, Henry Ward Beecher, and I were passing through Bridgeport. Mr. Greeley remarked: “This is Bridgeport. I had a successful lecture here once.”

Mr. Beecher said: “Greeley, what do you call a successful lecture?”

“Oh, more people stayed in than went out.”

Dr. Watson’s ten weeks were filled almost beyond belief. Yet his parting sermon at Plymouth Church was as fresh in matter and manner as when he began at New Haven with his famous Yale lectures on preaching given before the Divinity School.

In physique and in his mental spirit Dr. Watson recalls Mr. Beecher very distinctly. A broad sympathy with their fellows is their common inheritance. The rejoicing love of nature belongs to both lives. Dr. Watson illustrates, as Mr. Beecher did, in book, sermon, lecture, social intercourse, that he sees the best in all men, feels their moods, holds charity with errors, and joys with service, is touched by pathos and becomes tender with suffering. Dr. Watson brought a wholesome manhood as well as a gracious mind to the work he did, and has left a memory that all who heard him will continue to enjoy. America is richer by his visit, and he himself carried away the delight of sympathetic and genial associations.

It is probable that Dr. Watson, or “Ian Maclaren,” as he is more commonly called, would still have been nothing more than the pastor of a well to-do congregation in Liverpool if it had not been for one man.

For many years Dr. Watson had been intimately acquainted with Dr. Robertson Nicoll, editor of the _British Weekly_ and _The Bookman_, and the latter, who has a keen eye for literary ability, discovered in his conversations with the Scotch minister latent qualities which he determined to bring out. It happened that at this time Dr. Nicoll was on a hunt for genius. It had been through his instrumentality that both J. M. Barrie and S. R. Crockett had been brought before the public, but this same fickle public, having acknowledged the merit of these two writers, was already clamoring for something new. Dr. Nicoll realized that if he was to sustain his reputation he would be obliged to produce another genius without delay. Is it surprising, when he found in Dr. Watson what he was seeking, that he should pay no heed to either the man’s age, his peace of mind, or the wishes of his family, but should determine to launch him, whether he desired it or not, upon the sea of letters?

To this end the editor wrote to his intended victim, telling him of his unknown ability, and asking him to contribute to the _British Weekly_ a few short stories, especially dealing with Scotch character. But Dr. Watson at the time was deeply engaged in an analysis of the character of the Jebusites, and Dr. Nicoll’s request was unheeded. The latter, however, did not intend to forfeit his reputation for such a trifling cause. The letters and appeals which he sent to Liverpool gradually increased in number until Dr. Watson received one nearly every day. Before long letters were followed by telegrams, and the fate of “The Bonnie Briar Bush” was finally settled by the weary minister at last consenting to attempt a short story. This was forwarded to Dr. Nicoll, and was promptly returned, with the intimation that it was not what was desired, while at the same time more explicit directions were given. Dr. Watson made another attempt, and the next week the first story of “The Bonnie Briar Bush” series appeared in print.

The full significance of the title which Dr. Watson has given to his book is not generally understood. The Jacobites sang, “There grows a bonnie briar bush in our kailyard,” and wore the white rose as their emblem. A Highlander with Jacobite traditions, Dr. Watson has always loved the simple, beautiful flower, which is found in many country gardens in Scotland. When a title was needed for his volume, the author chose this because the suggestion of the book is that in every garden, however small and humble, there may be a flower. The whole idea of his writing, Dr. Watson says, “is to show the rose in places where many people look for cabbages.” His mission is to set forth what plain people, who do not analyze their feelings, really do and suffer.

From my very first meeting with him, as he landed at New York from the _Germanic_, I liked him even more than I had expected. He impressed me at once as strong, yet refined and very natural. He was dressed in a plain business garb--rather more like a Scotch merchant than a minister--and appeared a simple, delightful man in every sense the word implies. I liked him then; I love him now.

With Mrs. Watson--a frail, little body, with black hair and eyes, and very quiet--we drove at once to the Everett House, where pleasant rooms were waiting. They lunched with me. I ordered a large double sirloin steak and hashed brown potatoes with cream--just what never fails to catch an Englishman. My guests had never before seen the like. “A monumental steak,” said the doctor to his wife. “I’ve heard of your American beefsteaks. The stories have not been overdrawn.”

After luncheon Dr. Watson and I called on Mr. John Sloane, who had invited Dr. and Mrs. Watson to spend the Sunday following with him at his home in Lenox. After a delightful chat for a few minutes and the completion of arrangements for the Lenox visit, we returned to my office, where the reporters from the New York, Brooklyn, Boston, and Philadelphia papers were waiting for an interview. The group was gathered about the same round table where the two Arnolds, Stanley, Max O’Rell, and Conan Doyle had been interviewed. It did not take the reporters long to discover that they had an ideal target for their ingenuity, and for two hours the air was full of sharp and brilliant sayings from the lips of my star. It seemed more like the Stanley epoch than any other, and, next to Stanley and Sir Edwin Arnold, best of all. The symptoms were promising. I thought to myself that if he didn’t make a clean sweep, then no man could.

I went up to New Haven to hear him give the first of his course of lectures on “The Ethics of Preaching” before the Yale theological students. It was a delightful address. His manner and expression were elegant. He was magnetic, brimful of wit and sparkling with humor, and he couldn’t help it. I knew he would be a great go on the platform.

Applications were coming in from all parts of the country for “Ian Maclaren.” The doctor allowed me three evenings between his Yale lectures for trial readings, so we opened up at Springfield. I rented the theatre there and advertised in the newspapers only--used no posters or circulars and had no local society to back it.

I had not visited Springfield for some years, as nothing but a theatrical attraction seemed to draw there. The night of “Ian Maclaren’s” lecture, however, reminded me of the palmy days of Beecher and Gough. The theatre was full. President Gates and a large party of students from Amherst College were there, another party from Smith College, Northampton, besides Springfield’s best people. Dr. and Mrs. Watson were both very nervous, but he made a great hit. His entertainment was conversational and delightful. He had plenty of voice of a rich, carrying quality. After the reading the doctor seemed somewhat doubtful as to his success, but I was satisfied.

Next morning the Springfield papers contained elaborate and very enthusiastic notices of “Ian Maclaren’s” performance the previous evening. The doctor himself paid very little attention to his press notices, but Mrs. Watson read and enjoyed them, and instructed me to save a copy of each paper for her sons in Liverpool.

The second of the “trial performances” was given in Unity Hall, Hartford, which has only seven hundred seats. Every seat was sold and all the standing room occupied. The doctor gave a lecture here, not a reading, on “Certain Traits of Scotch Character.” Both audience and manager were delighted.

We had planned to return to New Haven the same night, but our plan failed through a misadventure that was somewhat amusing, although rather discomforting to me. We had boarded the New Haven train at about a quarter to eleven, and were very busily engaged in conversation. I was talking. The brakeman called out the name of a station, which I did not hear distinctly, but looking at my watch I saw it was a quarter to twelve--the time we were due at New Haven. I jumped up, saying, “This is New Haven?” and we all hurried out, and the train moved on. The depot did not look familiar to any of us, and we did not see Professor Fisher’s carriage, which we were expecting, to take Dr. and Mrs. Watson to his house, as they were his guests while in New Haven. There was no carriage and not a person to be seen. After some running about, I found a policeman and asked him where we were.

“You are in Meriden,” said the officer.

“In Meriden!” I exclaimed. “I thought this was New Haven. When does the next train go to New Haven?”

“About six in the morning.”

I can’t describe my feelings. Dr. and Mrs. Watson overheard the conversation, and I saw them look at each other and smile. I didn’t know what to say, but Dr. Watson said:

“Isn’t there a public house where we can get a bedroom?”

The policeman pointed out a hotel over the way, a good one, where we secured comfortable rooms. I sent a man out to bring in some oysters and sandwiches, and we all sat down to our late supper. Dr. Watson was never in better humor; he was full of laughter and apparently amused at my embarrassment. We sat and told stories until after one. I told the doctor that his taking the blunder so pleasantly had made me feel worse than if he had pitched into me. He bade me good-night, saying, “Major, you may have something worse than this to put up with before you are through with me.”

The doctor must have told this story to all of his friends in England, for a year later when over there, I was often slyly asked by friends of his if I knew a town in America called Meriden.

After the Yale lectures were completed I arranged to have the doctor give one public lecture in New Haven. The McKinley-Hobart campaign was on. Here and the next night at Bridgeport we had Tom Reed and his torchlight processions--which took two hours to pass a given point--against us, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on our business. What other man could have drawn full houses under such conditions?

Returning to New York, the doctor dined one evening with me and a party of friends at the Lotos Club. There were present Gen. Horace Porter, Seth Low, Frank R. Lawrence, William Winter, John Elderkin, and Hamilton W. Mabie. It was an enjoyable affair. There were bright sayings, good stories, and flashes of wit that only such an occasion could produce. It was one o’clock when Dr. Watson and I reached the Everett House, he declaring, “You Americans are really a wonderful people.”

On the day following, Dr. and Mrs. Watson were entertained by Frank H. Dodd, Bleeker Von Wagenen (of the firm of “Ian Maclaren’s” publishers), and the Rev. Dr. Lyman Abbott, and their wives, with an excursion up the Hudson to West Point. On their return the doctor came into my office fairly bubbling over with fun. He had been delightfully entertained and had enjoyed the magnificent scenery of “your beautiful Hudson River. It is grand.” He sat and chatted with me for an hour and charmed me with his description of the day’s outing. He saw the bright side of everything, and the humorous side too. He had brought with him and gave to me, fresh from the press, a copy of “Kate Carnegie,” his new book, telling me that this was the second copy out of the bindery; Mrs. Watson had the first copy. In the copy that he gave to me he wrote:

* * * * *

“TO MAJOR J. B. POND:

“The second copy of this book is given by the author after the week of his American tour, during which he has already come to consider the Major his friend.

“New York, October 10, 1896.”

* * * * *

One of the proudest days of my life was the following Sunday, when I accompanied Dr. and Mrs. Watson to Plymouth Church. I felt that the whole of that vast congregation must envy me. My star was the centre of all eyes until the sermon began. Dr. Abbott was at his best, and Dr. Watson enjoyed him. “That’s great preaching,” he said to me at the close. Friends crowded around us in great numbers, and “Ian Maclaren” must have “shaked hands” with hundreds.

“Ian Maclaren’s” American tour really began on the evening of October 12th, in the Academy of Music, Brooklyn, under the auspices of the Consumptives’ Home, and under the supervision of Mr. S. V. White. Before Dr. Watson went on the stage Deacon White handed me a check for $1,000--the fee for the lecture. The good old minister who introduced Dr. Watson took advantage of the occasion (it was probably the largest audience he had ever faced) to make a twenty-minute speech. The audience of highly bred ladies and gentlemen endured it heroically. Almost any other audience in any other city would have given vent to their pent-up feelings and called, “Maclaren, Maclaren!” but they patiently waited and suffered. Finally the speaker of the evening was introduced, and for an hour and a half more that audience sat in breathless suspense, listening to a man who gave them as much delightful pleasure as they had ever before enjoyed in that length of time. I saw that there was going to be lively work ahead of us for the next two months. The second lecture in America was in Carnegie Hall, New York, under the auspices of the St. Andrew’s Society. Sitting on the platform was a reception committee of over four hundred, including college presidents, clergymen, judges, statesmen, lawyers, and men of letters, besides other prominent men. Chauncey M. Depew introduced the doctor in one of his delightful speeches. Dr. Watson’s voice was distinctly heard in all parts of the great hall. He was a success in every way. The gross receipts were $2,455.50.

As the political cauldron was boiling in the States (the McKinley campaign), I chose to fill in the early portion of our tour in Canada, and on our way up there we made one stop, at Burlington, Vt. It was the first ride either Dr. or Mrs. Watson had taken in a drawing-room car, and they enjoyed it the more for having a sumptuous compartment all to themselves. The doctor appeared tired but cheerful. I found him an athletic man with a perfect physique and no fear of being overworked, but Mrs. Watson seemed delicate and hardly fitted for such a rush as we were about entering on.

Before reaching Burlington a committee of citizens came on board the train to welcome the doctor to Vermont. We arrived in the town at just eight o’clock in the evening, and were obliged to hurry from the hotel to the Opera House, where we found an immense jam in waiting. Even the stage was utilized by placing two hundred chairs there, which had been sold for a dollar apiece.

At Burlington it was the initial experience of my friends in a typical American hotel, the Van Ness. Mrs. Watson missed the bread plate and the two knives. She didn’t enjoy spreading butter with the same knife that she used to cut her meat. The doctor learned to his surprise that preserves and jam are one and the same, and he inquired if he were expected to spread his preserves on bread. If so, he wanted some bread.

Owing to the necessity of an early start, we got only an hour or two of sleep that night. The Watsons were up on time--2:30--and stood the unseasonable disturbance very gracefully and cheerfully. It seemed rough on the little lady, but she did not complain. All slept well into Montreal, where we enjoyed as good a breakfast at the Windsor Hotel as ever was set before hungry travellers. I noticed a look of pride and an at-home air about the Watsons as soon as they knew that they were in the Queen’s dominions, and it seemed to give a relish to their food when I exclaimed, “God save the Queen!”

At Montreal there was a delegation of representative Scotchmen waiting to do honors to “Ian Maclaren.” I don’t think there was a man in the city that day who hadn’t Scotch blood in him, at least I did not see one. The lecture was in the St. James Methodist church, an immense auditorium, with a seating capacity of about 2,300, but with reverberating acoustics that enabled a speaker to hear the echo of his words five times repeated. I don’t think very many could understand the reading, and it was about the stupidest audience I ever saw for one so numerous. The lecture, however, was a great financial success. The local manager who had engaged the doctor for the lecture was an insurance agent. He tried to keep possession of Dr. Watson and worried him all day long.

Dr. Watson was up very early the next morning and knocked at my door, saying:

“Major, are you up?”

“Come in,” I said, throwing open my door, ready to go to breakfast.

“Major, not a bad meeting last night. I see the papers are not unfriendly; but oh! that late supper. We will have no more of them.”

We went on to Ottawa by the Canadian Pacific Overland Express. The general manager of the road had set aside for Dr. and Mrs. Watson a drawing-room car containing more photographs of scenery along the Canadian Pacific route than I think they could possibly have examined in a month, even had they done nothing else. Dinner in the dining car pleased them. They declared it a most interesting way of enjoying a meal, and such a good meal, too! Where could it possibly be prepared?

There was a novel experience awaiting Dr. Watson in Ottawa. Mr. Knowles, the local manager, turned out to be a clergyman and rector of a church there. The lecture was in the Knox Presbyterian Church. Sir Wilfred Laurier, the Premier of Canada and a Roman Catholic, presided. He is Canada’s famous orator, and this was a great occasion for him. When the doctor was told that a Catholic would introduce him in a Presbyterian church, he was greatly surprised; but he was in for it and bore it heroically, and made a very pretty allusion to it in his introductory speech. Later in the evening he said to me:

“Major, isn’t this a wonderful country? Think of it; I, a Scotch minister, have given readings for a clergyman of the Church of England, in a John Knox Presbyterian church, introduced by a Roman Catholic!”

There were cheers and handclapping during the entire evening, closing with a motion for a vote of thanks, seconded by a speech, then a vote of thanks to the chairman and another eloquent speech, after which the doctor read “McClure’s Last Ride,” as an extra. What enthusiasm! I had hardly seen the doctor since our arrival. Friends had taken possession of him and he had done the town between 2:30 and 6.

When we got back to our hotel, the Russell, we met Mr. Isaac Campbell and Hon. John Cameron, two prominent politicians and thoroughbreds of Winnipeg, who had come all the way to see and hear “Ian Maclaren.”