Chapter IV (2)

After our contract was duly signed, I at once engaged the Lyceum Theatre in New York for his initial performance in America. It took place on the afternoon of October 11th, 1898. The pretty theatre was crowded with as intelligent and fashionable an audience as New York could turn out to welcome a stranger. “The Drama as a Fine Art” was the subject chosen by Mr. Zangwill. He told me that he would speak without notes, as he had been assured that to attempt to read a lecture to a New York audience was fatal. There was no use of arguing this with him. It was with some difficulty that he got under way, but the lecture itself was a shower of epigrams interspersed with sparkles of wit that carried his audience with him from the beginning to the very last word. Not until the close of the lecture did a single person leave the house. The speaker was recalled and cheered vociferously for a long time.

The lecture was a severe criticism of the dramatic critics, and most of our New York critics were there. The only one of whom Zangwill had spoken kindly was William Winter, on whom the compliment was lost because the latter had ceased long ago to take interest in such affairs.

Many of New York’s best people rushed upon the stage to congratulate Zangwill on his real success. Some of the most prominent Jewish citizens were there--among them Mr. Seligman and Mr. Isidor Straus. The latter, who sat by me, declared that I had certainly found a winner. I don’t think I ever knew an audience to be more delighted.

Yet the papers the next morning, much to my surprise, were not very complimentary of Mr. Zangwill’s criticism, and when Zangwill and I met to join Hall Caine and Judge Sulzburger, with whom we were to lunch that day at the Waldorf, he wore about as dejected an expression as I have ever seen. Mr. Caine’s play “The Christian” was receiving very vigorous treatment at the hands of the New York papers about this time, and when he and Mr. Zangwill met at the lunch table, I think Judge Sulzburger must have noticed that the two men were in so chopfallen and dejected a state of mind that they might have put pepper in their coffee instead of sugar without ever having known the difference.

If the reporters could have heard that little interchange of opinions of the American press from two such brilliant minds, their story would have delighted the general public if not the journalists themselves.

I had little difficulty in booking Zangwill. After New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, he went to Buffalo, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Chicago, St. Louis, and Memphis; from there to Birmingham, Ala., Atlanta, and back to New York, making a succession of the longest rides that ever a lecturer attempted in this country. Everywhere Zangwill met big crowds, and his audiences were delighted.

On his return in November he gave a series of three lectures in the Waldorf-Astoria; but the newspapers had succeeded in creating a prejudice against the speaker, and these lectures were very poorly attended.

I booked him for a Sunday night in Boston, and there was a large advance sale up to the Friday evening before the lecture. Then came a blizzard, and not another ticket was sold until the night of the lecture, when only $2 was taken in at the box office. It was one of the historic blizzards of Boston. The advance sale had been $480 up to Friday, and Sunday night it was swelled to $482, but very few of the people who had purchased tickets in advance were able to get to the theatre.

Arrangements were made for another Sunday night in Boston three weeks later, but the public proposed to wait until the night came before buying their tickets, as many of them had been disappointed on the last occasion. On the Saturday before this Sunday another blizzard set in. Mr. Zangwill was on hand and filled the bill, but the house was empty. Nobody could get there. Mr. Zangwill and I had rented the theatre and were speculating. Our loss was about $80, but Mr. Zangwill wrote me a letter declaring he thought he must have been the Jonah on this occasion, and insisted on paying all the loss out of his own pocket.

The two leading Jewish clubs in New York, the Harmony Social and the Freundschaft, each paid him $500 for a lecture on Sunday evening, and I don’t believe Mr. Zangwill or anybody else ever faced a more cultivated or appreciative audience than on these occasions.

Many offers were made to Mr. Zangwill for his literary work, and he accepted a dazzling proposition from Harpers to write a novel, and withdrew _forever_ from the platform, as he said.

I tried very hard to secure Mr. Zangwill for another season, as his lectures had given great satisfaction in the large cities which he visited and they had been extensively reported. He was about the best-advertised man in the country, and the public had learned that he had something to give for the money which the American public has always been willing to pay under such conditions. But it was no use. Theatrical managers were after him to dramatize “The Children of the Ghetto.” Mr. Zangwill was a great dramatic critic, and he believed he could write a great play, and managers had the same belief, which they were ready to back up with large sums of money.

He came over again in 1899 and produced the play in Washington in October of that year. There were fine criticisms and every prospect of a fortune in sight; but it was not what New York wanted, and so, after a long and fair trial, it was withdrawn from the boards of the Herald Square Theatre.

Zangwill is a good lecturer, because his subject-matter is educational to a great degree, and his copious flow of English and epigrammatic sentences render it as entertaining and novel as it is instructive. There is good money for him in America whenever he wishes to set aside the time for it; but he will not do it. He cannot jump on a steamer and come over here, give a few lectures and run back again, without notifying the people in advance that he is coming.

William Webster Ellsworth is a man whose fame as a lecturer was not acquired through _The Century Magazine_, but who has helped to make _The Century_ what it is at this time. He has been secretary of the great corporation which publishes _The Century_ since its establishment by Roswell Smith. Mr. Ellsworth is of Puritan stock, a great-grandson of Chief Justice Ellsworth and of Noah Webster, and he was reared in Connecticut, a stamping-ground of Revolutionary heroes. A few years ago he found himself a recognized authority on Revolutionary subjects. It came about, I believe, through a publisher’s suggestion to an author. Mr. Ellsworth asked Elbridge S. Brooks to write a book for boys and girls on the Revolution, proposing that it should take the form of a trip to the battlefields, and he offered to go with Mr. Brooks. They made the trip together, and the photographs taken by Mr. Ellsworth were used as illustrations for “The Century Book of the American Revolution,” and were afterward made the basis of a lecture by Mr. Ellsworth which many of the societies of Sons and Daughters of the American Revolution promptly asked to hear. His position gave him access to private and public collections of manuscripts and printing, and with his heart in the subject Mr. Ellsworth has brought to light more interesting documents and pictures than were ever supposed to exist. Scores of lyceum, patriotic, and historical societies have had his two lectures, one on the Revolutionary War, and the other on “Arnold and Andre: the Story of the Treason,” which he prepared two years ago.

During the last two years he has made discoveries and brought to light much interesting new material relating to the early history of George Washington. A new lecture has been prepared by Mr. Ellsworth on the subject, which I was invited to hear at his home, Esperanza Farm, near New Hartford, Conn., in August, 1900. This has certainly proved the most interesting and charming of all. Gifted with a descriptive voice that is strong, resonant, and absolutely faultless in delivery, with the personal magnetism that is so essential to a lecturer’s success, Mr. Ellsworth is unquestionably one of the best-equipped men for an instructive and entertaining lecture that the lyceum has yet produced. From one of Mr. Ellsworth’s lectures the rising generation can obtain more knowledge of the early history of our nation than from a whole winter of hard study. School boards and teachers are beginning to find out that one of the simplest and most thorough means of instruction nowadays is the lecture platform. In the city of New York there is hardly a public school that does not have a large hall set aside for lectures. Last year over three thousand free lectures were given in the public schools in Greater New York on nearly every possible educational topic, generally illustrated with stereopticon pictures which greatly enhanced their value. In this special line great advances are being made, and they are due to the fact that such men as Mr. Ellsworth, who have something to give in return for what they receive, are available for the work.

COPYRIGHT 1897 BY ROCKWOOD N.Y.

ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS]

Anthony Hope Hawkins was discovered by Robert Barr, who first went to London in the interests of the Detroit _Free Press_. One night Barr, then editing _The Idler_ with Jerome K. Jerome, met a thin, pale, bald young barrister who talked so charmingly about books that Barr, who is big, burly, bouncing, and straightforward, asked him:

“Do you do anything of the sort?”

Mr. Hawkins confessed, with a blush, that he did when not painfully busy.

“I’ll come and read some of ’em to-morrow,” said Barr. And he did. After he had read the last sheet he said:

“Say, Hawkins, how much have you got like this?”

“Considerable.”

“Want to sell it?”

“Why--why, yes, I’d like to.”

“How much do you want a thousand words?”

Hawkins was amazed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Would a pound be too much?”

Barr laughed. “You don’t know much about this business, do you?” he asked.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Well,” drawled Barr, “I’ll give you several pounds a thousand, and we’ll start publishing right away.”

Beneath the title of each sketch Mr. Hawkins had written: “By Anthony Hope.”

“Ought I to put my last name there?” he asked.

“It doesn’t make any difference about the name,” answered Barr; “it’s the stuff that counts.”

And count it did.

Anthony Hope Hawkins is an English gentleman in every sense that the words implies. I cannot say that I ever associated with a man whom I held in higher esteem. He sees everything from the most agreeable point of view. He has one of the most delightful laughs in conversation that ever I heard, and I made it my business to excite as often as possible the vein in his nature that brought it out.

He has the better qualities of the English voice, its softer tones and accents. Owing to its richness, he can be heard distinctly by every auditor. Although monotonous in his delivery, because of his distinct enunciation and the sweetness of his voice, the monotony is not objectionable.

He charms invariably his audiences, because he feels his characters and is able to exploit them.

I shall never forget Mr. Hawkins’ first appearance in America. It was really his first regular platform appearance anywhere. We had spent the previous night at the Parker House, Boston, and some of the members of the Woman’s Club of Lowell, Mass., under whose auspices he was to read next day, telephoned me to know if we would not come early, that they might give him a little reception before the reading. Mr. Hawkins declined. He said he preferred to be by himself until he was introduced to the public. On our arrival at Lowell we went directly to the hall. He met the committee of ladies, who escorted him to the platform, and as he went on he shook hands with me, saying: “Good by, Major. I may never see you again.” I felt so nervous for him that I really didn’t know whether he had made a hit or not; but as soon as his voice was heard there was the closest attention, and an expression of satisfaction appeared on every face in front of him. He could not possibly have escaped the infection. I saw his beautiful face light up with a gleam of real satisfaction. His voice rolled out in resonant tones, and the hearty response from his hearers gave him what I believe was the most satisfactory hour of his life. His reading of the “Dolly Dialogues” on that occasion was one of the finest efforts that I remember.

He enjoyed his audiences very much when the benches were full in front of him, but a small audience and a row of empty benches disheartened him. On two occasions he urged me to return the money to the auditors; but he filled every date, and on those two occasions I think he was as well pleased after the performance as where he had had more and less enthusiastic hearers.

Just after our train drew out of Boston on our way to Hartford, I ordered luncheon in the buffet car, for we were both desperately hungry. The composite cook, waiter, and porter promised us some royal chicken, which he was able to furnish, he said, as good as we could get anywhere. We came near getting it. We saw it as it was set before us just as we arrived at Williamantic, where we were obliged to change cars.

I leave it to an anonymous journalist, who happened to be on the car, to describe the incident as he wrote it up for the New York _Evening Sun_:

“Persons who met Mr. Hope on his way to Boston last Wednesday remarked how fine and hearty he was looking. And yet at the same hour a day later, when Hope boarded the New York train to go to Hartford, his next stand, he looked almost an old man. His color was gone and there were circles round his eyes. Whether the two receptions he had to attend or twelve hours of Major Pond’s consecutive conversation had brought Hope to this condition, none can say. But comparatively speaking he looked a wreck, and no sooner was he on board the train than he and the Major waylaid the waiter of a buffet car and ordered an elaborate breakfast. Broiled Philadelphia chicken was the star attraction of the bill of fare, and the Major, in his loudest tones, ordered that two broiled Philadelphians should be sacrificed at once.

“Having had nothing to eat since the night before, the author and the manager awaited their meal expectantly. At the end of the first hour Mr. Hope looked up and inquired good-naturedly:

“‘Don’t you think it’s about time for that chicken?’ For answer the Major hurried to the kitchen, and there was the making of a first-rate dialect story in the sounds which emerged from that vicinity within the next few minutes. Presently the Major came back looking so pleased with himself that Hope lay back in his chair and hoped once more. Another half-hour passed. Again the Major repaired to the kitchen. This time Hope made notes of the conversation on the back of his cuff.

“Ten minutes later came the waiter bearing a three-foot tray. Hope’s eyes were dancing, the Major smacked his lips as he grabbed the carving knife. Just then from the end of the car the conductor cried, ‘Willimantic!’ Surely the parting between the Princess Flavia and Rassendell was a mere farce comedy to Hope’s adieu to that chicken. His first impulse was to seize a drumstick and run, but the Major restrained him.

“The manager’s practised eye had noticed a crowd of Willimantic belles on the platform intent upon catching a glimpse of Hope gratis. It would never do for his star to make his début in Willimantic drumstick in hand. So gently, but firmly, he persuaded Hope to renounce the chicken’s leg in favor of his satchel. Hope, however, as he left the car, had the good taste to do his swearing under his breath.

“On the platform the Major met the waiter, who thrust the bill into his hand. The Major stamped on it and said he’d see him in Philadelphia first. Neither of them had one mouthful, and he was going to report the matter to Chauncey Depew.

“It may interest Mr. Hope to know, however, that as soon as the train started, two drummers bought his chicken at an advance on regular rates, and one of them, with a gallantry worthy of the Dolly Dialogues hero himself, had the wish-bone of Mr. Hope’s chicken polished, and presented it to his sweetheart as a souvenir.”

Mr. Hawkins and I made the tour together, visiting Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, Minneapolis, and Philadelphia, and everywhere he was the recipient of the choicest honors that I have ever known a man of letters to receive. His readers were of the most select literary class we have. His audiences varied in different cities more than did those of some others, but where he had been secured in a regular lyceum course and in clubs, they were invariably large.

To him were tendered many of the most delightful banquets that I have known any foreigner to get. The leading clubs in Toronto, Montreal, and Ottawa entertained him. He was the guest of the Governor-General of Canada--Lord Aberdeen. In Chicago the Lawyers’ Club gave him a breakfast, attended by the leading members of the bar of that city, a distinction that no other literary man has had that I remember.

At Detroit, after the reading, the Fellowcraft Club gave Mr. Hawkins a supper, with an elaborate menu. It was Robert Barr’s home, and Mr. Barr had undoubtedly warned his fellow-citizens of the character of the expected visitor, and they were prepared to meet him and do him honor, which they did. I don’t believe the good fellows of Detroit ever had a better time. The speeches and stories of that occasion would make a rare book, and I should like to own the copyright. It will never be printed. Colonel Livingstone, editor of the Detroit _Journal_ and president of the Fellowcraft Club, is “equalled by few and excelled by none” as a club president.

Mr. Hawkins is not superstitious. A few years ago he moved from his lucky chambers in the quiet Middle Temple, London, where he practised law without clients, and has working offices on Buckingham Street, near the Strand--much as one might say West Tenth Street, near Broadway. The house is old and dark and dingy. It overlooks the London lodgings of Benjamin Franklin and the rooms of Peter the Great of Russia when they were in the city. It is on the site of the famous York House, home of Bacon. Hope’s lodgings are full of books; on the mantel there are original drawings by Charles Dana Gibson, and there are many pipes, and other convivial equipments.

In Washington Mr. Hawkins was met on his arrival by the Hon. John Russell Young, librarian of Congress, who entertained and showed him through that magnificent library and about the Capitol, introducing him to many of the judges of the Supreme Court, and then going to the White House, presented him to President McKinley, who entertained him about an hour in social chat, while politicians in waiting fairly congested the waiting-room outside. After the evening reading, Mr. Thomas Nelson Page gave him a supper at his beautiful Washington home, where were present Mr. Lyman Gage, Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Mr. James Lane Allen, and Mr. John Fox, Jr., the two most prominent Southern novelists, and several other gentlemen whose names I cannot now recall. I am unable to describe this occasion, although one of the honored guests. One can imagine the charming intellectual atmosphere of such an event. It seemed that there must have been some fault in the reckoning of time, for it was four o’clock when the party reluctantly dissolved.

Everywhere we went Mr. Hawkins was the honored guest of the choicest of our American men of letters. In Indianapolis two social events in one day: the afternoon was a reception at the Woman’s Club, where Mrs. Harrison, wife of the ex-President, received; and in the evening the largest audience of the beauty and fashion of the Hoosier capital packed the hall, being welcomed by James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet. In Boston, among the first callers besides the press representatives were Col. T. W. Higginson, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Edward Everett Hale, and Judge Holmes, son of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, and many of the Harvard faculty. I copy from my diary the following notes:

“Mr. Hawkins and I visited the Academy of Fine Arts, Trinity Church (formerly Phillips Brooks’), the Boston Public Library, where we were shown over all parts of the library and introduced to all the modern systems of its wonderful operations; the new court house, where Judge Holmes personally conducted us through the different courts, and we sat half an hour listening to a judge charge a jury. Missed our lunch. Hurried to depot, just caught train for Hartford, and missed lunch on buffet car, owing to the incapacity of the composite cook and porter. Reached Hartford, the Hublein, 6:30. Reading at 8:30 finished in an hour. Joe Jefferson against us at Perkins’ Opera House, but we had $360 in Unity Hall. Joe Jefferson had reserved a box for us, and we saw nearly all of ‘Lend Me Five Shillings.’ Then we all had supper together, Joe Jefferson, his three sons, and the wife of young Jefferson. Joe was at his best, as he is a lover of Anthony Hope’s writings, and they had never met before, and it seemed as though they never meant to part; for it was far beyond midnight when the weary waiters were relieved, and a tired but happy crowd went to bed.”

“Good-night, Major,” said Anthony Hope; “you Americans are too much for us Englishmen.”

I think the last speech that Mr. Hawkins made in New York was at a public dinner given him by the Lotos Club, which is the most famous of all our American clubs for its receptions and dinners to men of letters. On this occasion he said:

“Mr. President and Gentlemen:--I am too well aware of the history of your club and of the distinction of the guests whom you have entertained before, not to rise on this occasion with perhaps more than usual--shall I say trepidation or discomfort?--which possesses an after-dinner speaker. I have received here to-night an appreciation which would have been wholly delightful if I were not persistently haunted with the idea that it is too excessively indulgent.

“As I crossed the Atlantic Ocean, feeling less at ease than I usually do on land, an intelligent sailor came up to me and told me that we were in the Gulf Stream. The consolation was slight, because the Gulf Stream seemed to me as turbulent as any other part of the ocean. But it has occurred to me since, that he spoke, as it were, in a metaphor, and that what he really referred to was the gulf stream that flows between here and England; of the gulf stream of sympathy which unites the two countries, and which, unlike the merely physical and uncomfortable stream, flows both ways, from us to you and from you to us. (Applause.)

“It is indeed, in a way, strange for an Englishman to make his first visit to this country. I was asked by a cynical friend before I started why I was going, and he referred not obscurely to the hopes I entertained of paying my expenses. (Laughter.)

“Well, gentlemen, the ancient epigram forbids us to say that it is necessary to live; but I am still among those who consider that it is desirable. (Laughter.) I agree with a clergyman in my own country who said that the Scriptures teach that the laborer is worthy of his hire, but that, for his part, he thought it ought to be paid free of income tax. (Laughter.)

“But that was not the sort, not exclusively the sort, of American gold which was in my mind; and if it had been when I started, I should before now have found out my mistake. Better than that, gentlemen, is the gold of your cordial reception, which still sits on my heart as too much undeserved.

“But to come here is indeed, in the old phrase, the experience of a lifetime. It has been my fate--I don’t know whether you will be surprised about it--to be asked quite three or four times already what were my impressions of America. (Laughter.) When in Quarantine I was asked first; and my only impression then was that I should never get here. I was asked again at the landing, when my sole feeling was that I was very glad to get here. (Laughter and applause.)

“The question I have not yet answered. It is difficult to answer. One comes to a country that is unfamiliar, and yet not strange; that is new, and yet recalls every moment the things that are old; that is foreign, and yet is distinct with a separate, individual, and proud nationality. (Applause.)

“And as with your nationality, so, if I may say so, it seems to me, with your literature. It has its roots where our literature has; but patriotic as I am, I must admit that a brighter sun has shone upon it, copious rain has nourished it, it has its own fruit and its own flavor; and thus it enhances and glorifies the English language, in which both itself and our literature on the other side of the Atlantic are expressed. (Applause.)

“It is far from my desire to speak to you long to-night, but it is impossible for me to sit down, without at least trying to say to you how very deeply I feel the generosity and the kindness of this greeting, and to say also how I have felt for years back the kindness and the readiness with which the public of America greets us English writers. (Applause.)

“We come here with no credentials save that our country has played in the past a part which our country would not repeat in the future. (Applause.) But if you do not forget that--and perhaps you do not forget it--you are at least willing to forgive it; and as members of the same family, we remember, not the occasions on which every now and then, perhaps from living too close together, we fell out, but rather the time when we made friends again and celebrated the event by a cordial dinner. (Applause.)

“Gentlemen, I thank you.” (Loud and continued applause.)

From October 17, 1897, to January 13th following, Mr. Hawkins and I travelled together, visiting sixty different cities, and he gave seventy-six readings. He saw the face of America’s book-loving public. He spent Christmas at my home, making it a memorable day in our household. On New Year’s day, in company with his publisher, Mr. Fred. A. Stokes, John S. Wise, and his son, of Virginia, Mr. William Carey of the _Century Magazine_, and Mr. George F. Foster of Stokes & Co., and _me too_, Mr. Hawkins was given a Chinese dinner in Mott Street, the Chinese quarters of New York. The menu was in Chinese hieroglyphics, and as far as any of us could tell the dinner was as much hieroglyphic as the menu. The host, Mr. Stokes, had anticipated the inability of the party to make out or digest the Oriental spread, and took with him a satchel filled with sandwiches, cigars, and a canteen or two of _pure_ water, and this, with the stories, supplied the necessaries of the day and occasion, both of which are not easy to forget, for the delight they gave.

Since Mr. Hawkins’ return to England we have frequently corresponded, and many of the letters that I have received from him illustrate so well the genial spirit of the man that I take the liberty of reproducing a few of them by his kind permission.

* * * * *

“25th Jan., ’98, “16 BUCKINGHAM STREET.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“A peaceful, prosperous voyage! The old ship rolled a bit, but my colors were not lowered. We got in at two on Saturday--since when I have been overwhelmed with work which had accumulated here. Your album delights my father and family--not least your inscription at the end--which delights me too. I feel myself a very much travelled man, although you made light of my wanderings. I wish you well through yours in the West and look forward to yours here in the East.

“I hope all does go well--and I think of you and drink to your health.

“Your ever, “A. H. H.”

* * * * *

“17th May, ’98, “16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“You have found out by now what a bad correspondent I am--for your cable from San Francisco came and was appreciated and yet not answered--but your letter reaches me to-day and I must congratulate you on your safe achievement of your big journey and your return home. Our little trip together sinks quite into insignificance, doesn’t it? I’m afraid you’d have found me a very lazy and trying companion for so long a jaunt. If you weren’t devoted to moving, I would wish you a good long rest at home now, but, since you’re the man you are, I’ll wish a good and speedy voyage _to England_, with Mrs. Pond and your boy this time. We have a good many of your folks here--among them Cable, who is being well treated, I think; he’s giving some public readings and I’m going to hear him in about a fortnight in one of them. Our thoughts have been much with you all in the war. I feel it even as I should an English war, and I’m sure the great--the vast--majority over here are of the same way of thinking. But I think _you’ve_ done enough fighting for your country and may fairly let the boys have a look in this time--or are you pining to be in Cuba with your scouts? I am living my usual quiet life, writing and reading proofs--and, I must add, dining out--when I talk quite learnedly about America on the strength of my journey with you. _The Critic_ printed my letter all right--in fact I was very well treated, smoothed down, and complimented, and called a real gentleman, and everything that was nice. So that’s all over and all is well. And, to prove I think so, I’ve been advising more than one eminent gentleman to go out and do a trip with you.

“You must read ‘Rupert of Hentzau’ when it comes--we consider it rather a good yarn.

“Give Mrs. Pond all my remembrances--just as cordial as you know how to make them. So, my dear Major,

“Ever yours, “ANTHONY H. HAWKINS.”

* * * * *

“22d Sept., ’98, 16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“I was very glad to get your letter--but why haven’t you been over? I’ve been expecting, or at least hoping, to hear of your coming all the summer. Thanks for your news of ‘Ursula’--it seems to have made a good beginning--here we are busy rehearsing it and hope to do as well in London. I’m back from my holiday for this purpose--also to have teeth out--for the holiday was spoilt by a violent attack of toothache. I had a face like a turnip--thankful am I that this didn’t happen while I was with you, or we should have had to bring the curtain down for a fortnight at least. But I got a run in France and another in Scotland, so I mustn’t complain. Only just now I’m a wreck from that dentist’s nefarious deeds!

“I think you ought to have a success with Zangwill--he’s an interesting personality. For me--well, I hope indeed to come over again, but I doubt whether the reading desk will see me any more--they like my books better than they like me, and I am very content to have it so. But I wouldn’t have missed the tour we did together and the experience of it. Just now I’m doing nothing--except the aforesaid rehearsals. All inspiration for new work tarries. It’ll come some day perhaps. Congratulations that you are well and prosperously through the war! The feeling here has surprised me by its warmth and generality. So there’s one good result, anyhow.

“My best remembrances to Mrs. Pond. No, I didn’t solve the riddle and had to look! I suppose it’s no good hoping for you here before next summer now, but then you must come at all risks.

“Yours ever, my dear Major, “ANTHONY H. HAWKINS.”

* * * * *

“30th Dec., ’98, “16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“Most cordial thanks to you for your greetings--and the best of good wishes to you and yours for the New Year. On Christmas day I did not fail to remember our cheery banquet under your roof a year ago, and I drank your health and Mrs. Pond’s--hoping you were drinking mine out of a certain mug! [A loving cup which Mr. H. presented me, and which I found on my desk after he had sailed, inscribed, “Here’s Your Good Health, Major.”] I hope all goes well with you in health. For success, your letter seems to tell of a good season--you’ll have made more than I could make for you--though upon my word I don’t believe that would prevent you from having me over again. I am glad to hear that Caine and Zangwill both did so well--they are both very interesting people, so it’s small wonder. I have been rather ill this ‘fall’ (you see I don’t forget the language).... That little play I brought over to New York in my portmanteau has come to the rescue and I come out at the right end. It’s capital news that you hope to come over in the summer. I am sure to be here, I think, and we’ll fight our battles over again. We are all Americans here now--a development of feeling that gives me the heartiest pleasure. But whether the nations go on loving one another or not, your welcome here is safe whenever you come.

“Kindest remembrances to Mrs. Pond and your son--and I am, my dear Major, with friendliest thoughts,

“Ever yours, “ANTHONY H. HAWKINS.”

* * * * *

“26th July, ’99, “16 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.

“MY DEAR MAJOR:

“I am the basest of men in that I never answered your very pleasant letter. The only excuse is that I have been _buried_ in a new story and came up to the surface only yesterday! Moreover--yes, here’s another--I’ve a vivid recollection that you were coming over this summer and have hoped to hear your knock on my door. You haven’t come--and I suppose won’t now?

“For me? Well, I was nearly tempted over to New York--just for fun--but prudence stepped in and I stuck to work. That’s done, and I’ve a series of little holidays before me, broken by the task of rehearsing a play in the end of August. I am well, but tired--amiable but irritable (as you may remember!)--and shall be very much better for a month of the country. Except geographically, I _have_ been living in America--so many pleasant friends from your side of the water have been here and so much dissipation have they led me into. People keep turning up whom we met on our journeyings together. They asked me if _you_ worked _me_ very hard, and I have to confess that I gave you a much worse time than you succeeded in inflicting on me.

“What a splendidly successful season you seem to have had! You will hear with complete resignation that I don’t think I shall ever face the footlights again, although I do by all means intend to find myself in America again, and that before very long. But I’ve read here once or twice--oh, so badly! I believe I need the stimulus of your kindly but critical eye on the back benches of the hall!

“My best remembrances and regards to Mrs. Pond, and to yourself always good wishes and most friendly memories.

“Yours, “ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS.”

* * * * *

I quote from my diary of January 15, 1898:

“Saw my dear friend Anthony Hope Hawkins on board the _Umbria_, bound for England. Sorry to part with him; never had a better time in any man’s company for three months. He is an honor to his profession, his country, and his race. This evening I join F. Marion Crawford for a three-months’ tour to the Pacific coast.”

George W. Cable, with his “Old Creole Days” and his Southern stories, and George Kennan, with his “Travels and Explorations Among the Convict Colonies in Siberia,” are the only public favorites as readers and lecturers that have been brought into prominence through magazine articles almost exclusively. Both of these gentlemen were introduced to me by Roswell Smith, President of the _Century Magazine_ Company.

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.