Part 38

“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.

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.”

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.

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.

I remember that I made a promise to a group of very prominent New York ladies, who had made a special request to meet the Doctor after his reading, that they could have the privilege of being introduced to him. While in the wings as he was stepping on the stage I told the Doctor what I had done and asked him to please wait and meet them. He replied: “Oh, Major, I cannot, I cannot. What do they want of me? Let me get away. I haven’t the courage to look anybody in the face.” He was a pessimist in regard to the satisfactoriness of his entertainment.

He is a gentleman with very hot blood. He seldom wears an overcoat, even in the coldest weather. He seemed to like everybody he met and everything he saw in America excepting our heated hotel lobbies, public halls, and railway cars. When he had a matinée lecture he removed his vest and buttoned his Prince Albert coat close to his body. This he could not very well do in his evening dress.

Dr. Doyle comes of a family of artists and literary men, his grandfather having been a famous caricaturist, and one of his uncles the famous Richard Doyle of the early days of London _Punch_, and another, James Doyle, the historian. He studied medicine, and at nineteen went to the Arctic regions as medical officer to a whaler. On his return to Edinburgh he continued his medical studies and there met Dr. James Bell, the eminent surgeon, the man who suggested “Sherlock Holmes,” his most famous character.