Part 34
“During these months it is impossible that one should travel to and fro without having formed impressions; and it is pleasant to go back with such entirely friendly and kindly impressions of the nation whose best thought and feeling are represented in this room. One thing that profoundly impressed me--I am speaking in perfect seriousness--was the courtesy of your people. (Hear! Hear!) Without any question--and I am not saying this for the saying’s sake--your people are the most courteous people one could meet, whether he be travelling on the road or engaged in ordinary intercourse. Courtesy may be tried by various standards, and possibly the highest form of courtesy is respect to women. I have never seen anywhere, and certainly not among continental nations, who rather boast of their courtesy in this direction--I have never seen such genuine, unaffected, and practical courtesy paid to the weaker and gentler sex as I have seen in America. (Applause.)
“Courtesy also can be tried by general agreeableness. During my tour--and owing to the arduous exercise of my friend, Major Pond, I have never stayed long in one place--I have travelled far and wide and haven’t always been able to ride in parlor cars. I have, consequently, seen a great deal of people; but with the exception of one single person, and she was an immigrant, and, I have no doubt, a delightful woman, although somewhat indifferent as to her personal appearance, with the exception of that single individual, I have met no woman and no man in the cars with whom I would not be willing to sit in the same compartment or the same seat of the car during a day’s journey. That seems to me a remarkable thing, but it may seem to you nothing. To us, from an European standpoint, it means a great deal. It means the comfort of your people; it means the self-respect of your people; it means the manners of your people; it means many things on which I congratulate you as a nation. (Applause.)
“And, sir, what has interested me deeply is that while you are contending with the difficulties which fall to the lot, not only of a new and growing people, but of a nation into which is flowing the very refuse of Europe, there is throughout your people a great love of letters and of art. I have seen again and again in the houses of men who are, as they say in Europe, self-made, great evidence that their love is not set merely on the things that a man holds in his hand, but on the means of culture through which we see into the unseen and the beautiful. Some of the most lovely pictures which can possibly be obtained now are contained in the houses of those men. They do not have their pictures, gentlemen, merely as pieces of furniture, which they have bought for so much money, but the men who have them, as I can bear testimony, are men who can appreciate the beauty of those pictures and who are in no mean degree art critics. On the other side I have been assured that if a bookseller has a rare book, one of those lovely books that we all like to have, with a creamy and beautiful binding like that of the past, and marked, perhaps, with a king’s or a pope’s arms, it is not in England that he finds a purchaser, but in America. And, Mr. President, I would congratulate you on the fact that to your high spirit and great enterprise you are also adding a love of the past, and especially that love of letters and art which are surely the height of perfection. (Applause.)
“I would only add, Mr. President, one other thing, and it is this, that while the good will between the old country and yours can be maintained and is going to be maintained by honorable international agreement, we are encouraged to cherish the hope that the two nations will be bound more and more closely together, until at last the day comes when from Washington to London may go forth a voice on the great international question of righteousness that no nation will dare to pass by. (Applause.) While that can only be secured, and is being secured by the agreement of eminent statesmen, yet surely, gentlemen, the coming and going of individuals treated kindly and hospitably after a most friendly fashion on this side, and I trust also treated after the same fashion on the other side, will weave together many bonds that will not only unite men of letters and men of grammars, but will also unite our two great nations with silken cords that can never be broken. (Applause.)”
The speech by William Winter which followed Dr. Watson’s on this occasion is also well worth being recorded here nearly in full. He said:
“You, my hearers, fortunate children of the lotos flower, have had the singular happiness to come into personal communion with some of the foremost men of your time, whether in action or in thought; with Froude, who depicted so royally the pageantry and pathos of the past; with Grant, who led so superbly the warrior legions of the present; with Mark Twain, the best of modern humorists; with Irving, the prince of actors, and with many more. I need not name them. You will recall them, you will remember them all with deep affection; and I am sure you will agree with me that in every case when the generous heart has paid its homage to a great man, the impulse is not that of adulation, but that of gratitude. (Applause.)
“Such is the feeling of this hour when now you are assembled to pay honor to the finest literary artist in the art of mingled humor and pathos that has come into literature since Sir Walter Scott. (Applause.)
“There are two canons of criticism to which I have fixed my allegiance--that it is always better to show mankind the things which are to be imitated, rather than the things which are to be avoided; and since the moral quality is present in everything, whether as morality or immorality, penetrating all subjects and everything that can be imagined, no work of art should have any avowed and fixed moral. Those principles are imitated in the writings of Dr. Watson. He has himself told you that it is impossible to analyze a spiritual fact. We all know that his race are noble in their influence, that they have exerted a noble influence upon society. We do not know the secret of his charm. I cannot tell it to you; I wish I could. I think perhaps it is that same inaccessible magic which I find in ‘King Lear,’ which I find in the death speech of Brutus:
“‘Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have labor’d to attain this hour.’
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“‘This day breathed first; time is come round, And where I did begin there shall I end.’
“I find it in Robert Burns when he sang of the cavalier who ‘turned his charger as he stepped upon the Irish shore, and gave his bridle rein a shake with adieu forevermore, my love, adieu forevermore.’ (Applause.) I have felt it in many of the stories, the matchless American stories of Bret Harte. I feel it in that talk of poor old Bowes, the fiddler, when standing on the bridge in the evening; I feel it in the Colonel’s response when the chapel bell rings in the old Charterhouse, and I say that there is but one step from the death-bed of William Lucian to the death-bed of William Maclure. All through literature runs that plaintive note, ‘So from hand to hand the divine torch of genius has passed along.’ When Robert Burns died, in 1796, it might have been thought that the voice of poetry was done, but at that time Byron was playing along the banks of the Dee. Any one might have thought that all was ended; but then others were ripening for the work of generations to come. So when we look about us and see what has been done; when we see Dr. Watson, and Barrie, and Hardy, we feel that the time of mourning for Dickens, and Thackeray, and George Eliot has come to an end.
“I am not surprised to find that this voice comes from Scotland. When I have stood on the old Calton hill under a blue and black sky, and seen the drifting smoke from a thousand chimneys fall over Edinburgh; when from the height of the necropolis I have looked down upon old Glasgow and the grim figure of Drumtochty; when from the slopes of Ben Cruachan 1 have seen the sunsets fade and darken in the valleys; when just before the dawn I have looked down upon the town slumbering in darkness; when I have been in the old broken cathedral of Iona and have heard there the swashes of the murmuring sea, I have not wondered that Scotland has all the poetry, and that deep in the heart of every Scotchman there is a note which thrills to the melodies of Burns, of Hogg, Ramsay, and to the eternal memories of Scott. (Great applause.) Scotland, its beauties, its glories, and its loves! I will read a few verses of mine, unknown, I think, to you, descriptive of my feelings when I parted from the most sacred of its shrines:
“FAREWELL TO IONA.
I.
“Shrined among their crystal seas-- Thus I saw the Hebrides:
All the land with verdure dight; All the heavens flushed with light;
Purple jewels ’neath the tide; Hill and meadow glorified;
Beasts at ease and birds in air; Life and beauty everywhere!
Shrined among their crystal seas-- Thus I saw the Hebrides.
II.
“Fading in the sunset smile-- Thus I left the Holy Isle;
Saw it slowly fade away, Through the mist of parting day;
Saw its ruins, grim and old, And its bastions, bathed in gold,
Rifted crag and snowy beach, Where the sea-gulls swoop and screech,
Vanish, and the shadows fall, To the lonely curlew’s call.
Fading in the sunset smile-- Thus I left the Holy Isle.
III.
“As Columba, old and ill, Mounted on the sacred hill, Raising hands of faith and prayer, Breathed his benediction there--
Stricken with its solemn grace-- Thus my spirit blessed the place:
O’er it while the ages range, Time be blind and work no change!
On its plenty be increase! On its homes perpetual peace!
While around its lonely shore Wild winds rave and breakers roar,
Round its blazing hearths be blent Virtue, comfort, and content!
On its beauty, passing all, Ne’er may blight nor shadow fall!
Ne’er may vandal foot intrude On its sacred solitude!
May its ancient fame remain Glorious, and without a stain;
And the hope that ne’er departs, Live within its loving hearts!
IV.
“Slowly fades the sunset light, Slowly round me falls the night.
Gone the Isle, and distant far All its loves and glories are:
Yet forever, in my mind, Still will sigh the wandering wind,
And the music of the seas, ’Mid the lonely Hebrides.”
(Very great applause.)
Later in the evening Dr. Watson declared that Mr. Winter’s speech was the most beautiful he had ever heard.
I offered Dr. Watson $24,000 if he would give me twelve more weeks. I never could understand why he did not go on, excepting that he had promised his people he would come back, and he considered a promise worth more than $24,000--this, too, at the close of the nineteenth century, although many of his parishioners told me afterward that they would have been glad to have had him remain longer if he wished.
The doctor had such confidence in human nature that he would believe the very first man he met, a rather amusing instance of which occurred during our visit to Poughkeepsie.
We arrived there shortly after noon on the 9th of December, and were met at the station by the editor and owner of a prominent Poughkeepsie paper, with whom Dr. Watson and I were to dine at one o’clock. As we were being driven from the station to his house, our host began entertaining his guest by regretting that he was to have a small audience, because the lecture had not been properly advertised. This reminded me that when I had first announced that Dr. Watson was going to Poughkeepsie, this gentleman had written me asking if I had not better devote some extra space to advertising in his paper, to which I replied that the manager of the Opera House attended to that matter for me, and that whatever he did went.
I said to the gentleman, “Is there no interest here?”
He said, “None whatever. No advertising has been done.”
The doctor seemed chopfallen and showed me a rather unkind look, as he had been hurried around in a lively manner that day. I didn’t discuss the matter very extensively with our host, but on our way to his house I noticed that my three sheet posters announcing Dr. Watson were on all the bulletin boards, and that lithographs appeared in many of the windows along the streets through which we were driving. I called his attention to this, but he remarked that that kind of advertising had no effect in Poughkeepsie. We arrived at his house, where a number of local ministers and private friends were assembled to meet Dr. Watson at dinner. It was not the kind of meeting that would naturally inspire a man who had been speaking three times a day and travelling between times. I begged to be excused, and asked our host, inasmuch as he was to preside and introduce Dr. Watson, if he would see to getting him to the Opera House at two o’clock, saying that if he would do so, I would go and look after the business. On my arrival at the Opera House at 1:30 I found it packed with people. I hurried to the box office, and the manager told me that he was in trouble, as he had sold every seat in the house, and some of his best patrons, supposing, of course, there would be no difficulty in securing seats, were bitterly disappointed; that he was trying to arrange some chairs for them on the stage, but that they had some hesitancy in going there.
“Your house is sold out?” said I.
“Yes, everything, Major. It is the greatest rush we have had for a long time.”
By two o’clock the house was entirely seated. There were many on the stage, and all the standing room in the galleries was occupied. The manager, against my wishes, made the prices 50 cents, 75 cents, and $1, which precluded there being a very large money house. It was a cold December day, and the disappointed ones hurried away from the theatre, so that when Dr. Watson and his host drove up there was not a soul in sight. When they entered the lobby I said to the editor:
“Will you please step right through the lobby to the stage? There are no more people expected, and you might as well begin at once.”
He looked around to Dr. Watson, as much as to say: “You see, Doctor, it is as I told you; you have not been advertised.” Then the Doctor gave me a very rebukeful look, and I said:
“Please go on, Doctor. I remember what Mr. Beecher once said to me when I told him there was a very small audience in front. He replied: ‘That is not my part of it; but I will try to give them a little better lecture.’”
The gentleman led the Doctor through the alley to the stage door and on to the stage, and as they stepped into view the sight must have astonished him.
The presence of “Ian Maclaren” of course brought a demonstration from that eager audience such as no man but he has ever heard in Poughkeepsie. He was unprepared for the ovation, and I thought that he was rather at his wits’ end to collect himself in order to begin as he wished. But he never was in a more delightful atmosphere. Poughkeepsie’s best, and all of the Vassar girls, were there. There is an intelligent public in that Hudson River town, a fact that is known nowhere better than among themselves. After the performance many rushed to the stage and congratulated the Doctor.
“How is this?” I asked the gentleman who had been so doubtful as to the size of the audience that would turn out to hear Dr. Watson.
His reply was: “Major Pond, where in the world did these people come from?”
“Why,” I said, “somebody has told them about it. We don’t have to advertise ‘Ian Maclaren.’ You just tell somebody he is coming, and he tells somebody else, and so it spreads around. I have just paid a bill of $60 for advertising this lecture, so you see even newspaper men are sometimes mistaken.”
“How many people are there in here?” he asked, and I said:
“I don’t know exactly how many, but there is over $1,000 in the house, at $0.50, $0.75, and $1.”
“Well, Major,” he replied, “this is the greatest thing I have ever known in this city. Now, we want to take the Doctor out to Vassar.”
“Oh, my dear sir, do let the Doctor have one hour’s rest before he takes the train for Kingston to-night. He has been on the move every moment, night and day, for the last two weeks. Won’t you be merciful and let him rest quietly here in the green room?”
No, he could not do that; he had promised President Taylor to take him out to Vassar, and had a carriage in waiting. The Doctor finally yielded. We got into an old, cold, rickety carriage, with a pair of poor horses, and in that chilly afternoon drove four miles, not even having a lap robe. When we were in the carriage and started for Vassar College the Doctor said:
“Well, Major, it might have been worse.”
“Yes,” I said, “Doctor, it might have been worse. We have got over $750 out of that $3 telegram which I sent some time ago, you will remember--and from utilizing the hours your New York friend wanted for a breakfast.” Dr. Watson showed an expression of genuine satisfaction.
Arrived at the college, there was just time to be introduced to President Taylor, see the pretty chapel of which they are so proud, a dormitory, and one or two classrooms. We drove back to the station, urging the driver and the poor horses to the extent of their capabilities, arriving there just in time to catch the train to Rhinecliff, which connected with the steamer to Rondout and the trolley cars to Kingston, arriving at 7:30 P.M. We had dinner, and at eight o’clock “Ian Maclaren” was addressing another great crowd.
No better description of a lively week’s work can be given than to copy verbatim from my diary the entries for the last week Dr. Watson spent in this country:
* * * * *
“THURSDAY, Dec. 10, 1896.
“Three lectures to-day. Waldorf at eleven, gross receipts were $1,498.50. It was the social event of the season. Had luncheon there with Dr. and Mrs. Watson, Professor Fisher of Yale, and Mrs. Pond. Then we rode in Andrew Carnegie’s carriage to Brooklyn, where Oscar Murray had a $2,200 house waiting for us in the Academy of Music. Mrs. Howard, eighty-four years old--the only surviving charter member of Plymouth Church--came back on the stage to congratulate and thank Dr. Watson. Refreshments at the Hamilton Club, then Doctor and I went to Jersey City, where we all dined previous to the lecture, with the Rev. Dr. Brett, in whose church the lecture was given. The gross receipts were $560. Everybody was very much pleased, and the Doctor never spoke better. Gross business to-day, $4,269.50.
“To-day we have travelled on the trolley from Kingston to Rondout, by boat to Rhinecliff, cars to New York, cab to the Waldorf, carriage to Brooklyn, hack to the Annex Ferry, Annex boat to Jersey City, trolley to lecture hall, and the Doctor back by trolley, ferry, and elevated road to his hotel in New York. _I am tired_, but Dr. Watson is apparently as fresh as a morning lark. ‘Major, the people are not unfriendly,’ he remarked. ‘I think the boys will get their bicycles.’”
* * * * *
“FRIDAY, Dec. 11th.
“Three more speeches to-day! Up at seven, at the office at half-past eight, and at the Waldorf by ten. Lecture on Burns attracted a full house. Dr. Watson and I donated the net proceeds to the poor fund of St. Andrew’s Society. After lunch at the Waldorf, we drove to the Amphion Theatre, Brooklyn, where he gave ‘Annals of Drumtochty.’ Then back to New York, and to Stamford, in the evening, where he gave a reading. The house was packed.
“Through the kindness of George L. Connor, the Boston express stopped at Stamford at 10:09 and took us back to New York. The Doctor in good form. Got home at 12:30 A.M. As he returned he said to me: ‘People are not unfriendly, Major; those bicycles are pretty certain.’”
* * * * *
“SATURDAY, Dec. 12th.
“Another three-timer, and the last day of the pleasantest, most vigorous, and most satisfactory short lecture tour I ever had the honor to manage. Dr. Watson addressed the students of the Union Theological Seminary in New York at ten, luncheon at 12:30, lectured in Paterson at three, and Englewood at eight. He is happy and jolly, and gives no sign of being tired in body or voice. Hundreds of thousands of people have been made happier and benefited by coming in contact with him. He has been the centre of loving hearts wherever he went. I love him, and almost envy him the abundance of love people show him, and am thankful that I have been so favored. I have worked hard; he has worked hard, too. It has paid us both, and him a thousandfold more than the thousands of dollars he has cleared in the two short months. It is hard to part with him. How I shall miss him!”
* * * * *
“SUNDAY, Dec. 13th.
“Went to Plymouth Church. Dr. Watson was the preacher--his last public utterance in America. It was a great sermon. Thousands thronged the neighboring thoroughfares leading to the church, and long before the doors were thrown open to the public the line of anxious people extended from the church to Fulton Street on one side and past Hicks Street on the other. Never did I see such a crowd excepting when the body of Mr. Beecher was lying in state.”
* * * * *
“MONDAY, Dec. 14th.
“Dr. Watson spent an hour with me in the office signing books and photographs, and telling us about his receptions and entertainments. He christened a Scotch child in Gaelic at eleven, signed a lot of books at Dodd, Mead & Co.’s, signed fifty more books and lithographs for me, attended a big lunch in his honor at the Union League Club, at four went to a reception given by Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Carnegie, and to evening dinner at the house of John Sloane. Everybody seems to want him, and the pressure is very great. His time is all filled between sunrise and midnight.”
* * * * *
“WEDNESDAY, Dec. 16th.
“It is very stormy. Snow-ploughs are at work in every street. Dr. and Mrs. Watson sailed at twelve on the _Majestic_. The Doctor made me a handsome present and wrote me a letter which is one of my most precious treasures. Here it is:
* * * * *
“‘5 WEST 51ST STREET, NEW YORK, “‘Dec. 16, 1896.
“‘DEAR MAJOR POND:
“‘The day has come when we leave America and return home, and as I look back on our campaign I am much impressed by the ability with which you conducted the operations from beginning to end, and your unfailing courage, good temper, and kindness.
“‘You will forgive me if at times I was depressed or irritable. It is a Celt’s infirmity; but I have never failed to note your care for our comfort and your sacrifices on our behalf.
“‘Accept with this note a little case for your expeditions, and as often as you use it--out with some greater star--give a thought to Drumtochty and its story-teller.
“‘Accept for Mrs. Pond and yourself this sincere assurance of our regard, and believe me ever,
“‘Yours faithfully, “‘JOHN WATSON.’
* * * * *
“Dr. Watson’s copy of ‘The Bonnie Briar Bush’ from which he read on the tour he inscribed to me as follows:
* * * * *
“‘With grateful thoughts for his best-natured friend, from a fiery Celt.--IAN MACLAREN.’
* * * * *
“He is a noble man. My heart is too full for utterance. Our tour has been a great success. In ten weeks we have cleared $35,795.91. This beats all records except Stanley’s, and I think I have seen more smiling and happy faces during the last ten weeks than any man has ever before seen in that length of time.”
* * * * *
On his return to Liverpool he wrote me the following letter:
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