Eccentricities of genius

I immediately wrote him asking if he would lecture, and got a favorable reply. I also sent out “feelers” to my customers, and to my surprise applications came pouring in from all parts of the country. I saw that success was almost certain, and proposed to Mr. Kennan a certain sum of money for two hundred lectures. I offered him $100 a lecture—$20,000 for two hundred lectures—and to pay all of his expenses, which he accepted.

It was the season of 1889 and 1890. Mr. Kennan was in wretched health during the entire tour, devoting his nights to writing letters and sending his earnings to the poor Siberian exiles whom he had known in that country. He was loaded down, and almost broken down, with sympathy for the poor people, whose cause he was so ably championing in this country. But notwithstanding all of his other work, Mr George Kennan travelled and lectured two hundred consecutive secular nights, travelling almost every day. Not an audience was disappointed nor a railroad connection missed.

Mr. Kennan cleared $20,000 that season from his lectures. The next season he did a very handsome business, and could have been much more popular had it not been for the revolting stories he told of the wretched condition of those suffering Siberian exiles. Many of his stories were heart-sickening, and for that reason, I believe, more than any other, he is not to-day the most popular lecturer in America. His excellent voice, charm of manner, and grace of diction are all that is best in a platform speaker.

FREDERICK VILLIERS, war artist, can lay claim to a more varied experience in the field than perhaps any of his fellows. The intimate friend of Archibald Forbes in seven campaigns, the fourth man in the quartette of war artists that followed the Russian army to the gates of Constantinople, he has also done service in Afghanistan, in Egypt, in the Soudan, in Servia, in Burmah; and everywhere he has been in the thickest of the fight.

Of the group of war artists and correspondents in the battle of Metemmeh, on the Nile, and the Egyptian campaign, he alone escaped unscathed, while J. A. Cameron, of the London Standard; St. Leger Herbert, of the London Morning Post; Capt. W. H. Gordon, of the Manchester Guardian; Col. Fred Burnaby, of the Morning Post, and Edward O’Donovan, of the London Daily News, were killed outright, and Colonel Burleigh, of the London Daily Telegraph, was wounded. Mr. Villiers was the only European war artist in the war between Japan and China.

In 1895 he started from New York on a lecture tour through America and Canada, and visited Australasia, lecturing in all the principal towns of Australia, New Zealand and Tasmania. He eventually returned to England via the Cape, lecturing in Cape Colony and the Transvaal, and completing his second tour around the world.

In the following year he visited Moscow a second time, for the coronation of the present Emperor, Nicholas II. In 1897 he acted as special correspondent for The Standard with the Greek army, and for that paper and The Illustrated London News during the 1897 Soudan campaign.

He has been all through the recent Nile expedition, and was present at the capture of Khartoum in his capacity of correspondent for the Globe and Illustrated London News. When the South African War broke out Mr. Villiers was lecturing in Australia, with a tour booked around the world via Japan and across the American continent. He cancelled a long list of engagements from California to New England and went back to the latest war as correspondent for his London papers. He has again returned to England and is now lecturing on the Boer war. Villiers is one of the heroes of the present century.

A man of remarkable coolness, he never flinched under fire and was always able to seize a vantage point for his work without undue recklessness. He was the artist and writer at all times in the field, never a volunteer fighter; but always ready to help the wounded, if near, and occasion offered. Perhaps no man in his chosen work was always so ready for departure and so instantly able to compass the best methods of reaching his destination and of getting at work upon arrival. An excellent speaker, simple and straightforward, with much to tell, he goes at his audience just as he works on the scenes before him when on the march or under fire.

DR. FREDERICK A. COOK, of Brooklyn—physician, anthropologist, Arctic and Antarctic explorer, author and lecturer—has not only made an enviable reputation for himself along each of these varied lines, but is personally one of the most charming of men. He is as modest and unassuming as he is accomplished, although he has succeeded in doing some things which no other man before him ever did. From nearly 80 degrees north latitude to 71 degrees 36 minutes south latitude is a long distance for a north-and-south journey, but Dr. Cook can say, as no other man living can: “I have done it.”

He filled the position of surgeon and anthropologist with Peary’s first Arctic expedition in 1891, and during 1893 and 1894 he was engaged in explorations of the west coast of Greenland. Again in 1897 he joined the Belgian expedition which sailed on the Belgica to explore the Antarctic continent and channels, being the only American in the party. For thirteen months their ship drifted in the pack ice, in which she had been caught, and was finally got out only by sawing a channel through the ice nine miles long. This expedition was the first, and Dr. Cook was the only American, that ever camped and sledged on the Antarctic continent.

While in these far southern latitudes, Dr. Cook, as anthropologist to the expedition, visited and described a cannibal tribe from whom no previous scientist had escaped alive.

His lecture descriptive of his adventures has proven one of the most interesting yet offered to the lyceum. It is illustrated with photographs taken by the doctor himself, and these are as beautiful as they are unlike any others ever shown to the public.

Dr. Cook is gifted with a fascination of description and a powerful voice which make his lecture even more interesting, if possible, than to read of his thrilling adventures in his book, recently published.

Among polar explorers I do not regard any one as more bold, more to be depended upon for accuracy of statement, or whose scientific training better fits him rightly to appreciate the value of each new fact discovered, than Dr. Frederick A. Cook, our fellow-countryman.

ROBERT E. PEARY, Civil Engineer, U. S. Navy, returned in the autumn of 1892 from his second Arctic exploration, bringing with him a number of dogs, the sledges on which he made his journeys, and a collection of Esquimau souvenirs, such as sledges, dog harness, clothing, tents, spears, fishing tackle, cooking utensils, and furniture, and gave an exhibition in the Academy of Music, Philadelphia, under the auspices of the Academy of Science. I attended the lecture, or rather, exhibition. Mr. Peary appeared in his Arctic costume, with the dogs, sledges, tents, weapons, bear skins, and seal furs in great quantity and variety on the stage—a sort of Esquimau village. It was an interesting exhibit. Mr. Peary gave a delightful lecture, illustrated with some of the finest stereoscopic views of Arctic scenery I had ever seen presented, views which he had himself taken while on the expedition.

I tried my best to secure Mr. Peary for some lectures in New York, Boston, and other cities, but, being an officer of the Government and under orders, it was impossible to secure him. Later on he obtained leave of absence and permission to fit out a second expedition, and he could lecture from January until April, so I arranged for what proved to be one of the most vigorous lecture campaigns that I had ever managed up to that time.

We began in the Academy of Music, Brooklyn, and up to the first of April (one hundred and three days) Mr. Peary gave one hundred and sixty-five lectures. The five dogs were as much a drawing feature as Peary himself, and were a great advertising card, especially where there was sleighing, as Henson, Mr. Peary’s colored servant, who had accompanied him on the expedition, hitched them up and drove them about the cities wherever they went, attracting the attention and wonder of the entire communities. They seemed to take as much interest in the show as they probably had shown in their great overland journeys across the Greenland Ice Cap with their master. The dogs were very fond of being petted, and liked ladies and children. After the lecture they were brought on the stage and the children in the audience were allowed to rush forward and meet them. There was never an instance of the dogs showing the slightest ill temper or of objecting to be caressed or fed by the auditors. One remarkable thing about the dogs was that they would insist upon their rights and their share of the entertainment. They would wait very patiently until the time for Mr. Peary to finish, but if he happened to speak a little longer than the usual time, the dogs would set up a howl so that he would have to stop. They never became uneasy until their own time arrived.

It was a general tour, and Mr. Peary visited most of the large cities, two lectures a day. It was a great combination. Of all the tours I ever had the pleasure of managing none met with greater success on a short notice than this one. The profits for those few weeks were about $18,000. Yet Mr. Peary was disappointed, for he was fitting out a second Arctic expedition and needed something like $80,000 for his scheme. He admitted that under any other circumstances he would have considered the tour one of the most successful in the world, but because he could not make $2,000 or $3,000 a day it seemed a loss of time to him, and he was obliged to resort to other means to raise the funds that he needed. However, Mr. Peary never once complained, I never heard him speak an unkind word either to the employees or to his dogs. He is a great worker. His stenographer and typewriter accompanied him, and he carried on an immense correspondence, together with his other work, perfecting all plans for his expedition.

He met with many misfortunes on the second expedition of twenty-five months’ stay in North Greenland in 1893-95, and his return to the lecture field proved not very remunerative. No doubt this was partly due to the fact that he undertook to give simply illustrated lectures, without the dogs and the other attractions which he had on the previous tour.

Mr. Peary is one of the finest descriptive lecturers we have ever had, with his heart and soul in his work. If he succeeds in reaching the Pole (which we shall probably know before this book goes to press), then he will be the biggest attraction in the world. Otherwise, he will be classed as one of the great Arctic heroes who did his best and knows how to relate the accounts of his heroic adventures to as many auditors as still retain interest in Arctic explorations. Peary is a nineteenth-century hero, and will continue to push on because he cannot stop.

In writing this book, I am not making a programme, preparing a circular, or giving a list of speakers and entertainers. I recall only those names and work that come back most impressively, and any omission is not from lack of appreciation, but one of memory only. Yet though the walls are crowded, there is still room to give a name to one of the bravest. Another of the beloved women yet remains among us. My reference is to Mrs. Peary, the wife of the famous Arctic explorer. She has not intellectual capacity alone, but more than womanly courage, as is proven by the years spent in Greenland wastes of ice and snow, the first woman of Caucasian stock known to have wintered within the Arctic Circle. Later, the same high devotion made her take up the no less exacting task of raising funds for her husband’s relief, the return of his belated expedition and the saving thereby of the important scientific results and personal fruits of the great and toilsome, as well as dangerous exploration work he has set himself to accomplish. Mrs. Peary entered the lecture field to accomplish and achieve this work of relief. She did it, too, and in so doing showed possession of a speaking talent that would have made her a permanent success.

CAPT. JOSHUA SLOCUM, who conceived the idea that he could sail alone around the world, is about the newest and most remarkable of the small list of hazardous adventurers who have done something that no other man has succeeded in accomplishing, and thereby acquired world-wide fame. He is well entitled to a place alongside the heroes Peary, Nansen, and Dr. Cook.

Captain Slocum comes of “a blue-nosed ancestry, with Yankee proclivities,” as he puts it. “Both sides of my family were sailors,” says the captain “and if any Slocum should be found not seafaring, he will show at least an inclination to whittle models of boats and contemplate voyages. My father was the sort of man who, wrecked on a desolate island, would find his way home if he had a jack-knife and could find a tree.”

After following the sea twenty years as a shipmaster and losing his bark, Aquidneck, wrecked on the coast of Brazil, and making the voyage home with his family in a canoe, Captain Slocum conceived the idea of building a boat and sailing alone around the world. He accomplished this remarkable feat, built the Spray entirely with his own hands, launched, equipped, and sailed her by himself, over forty thousand miles, visiting many foreign ports, to the great amazement of the natives of every clime. In his voyage around Cape Horn there were over seventy days during which he never heard a sound except his own voice, the wind, and the lapping of the waves.

What is most remarkable of all is that Captain Slocum is able to write and describe the incidents of the entire voyage and his wonderful experiences in a manner so graphic and simple that it absolutely charms and fascinates his hearers as few ever did or ever could do.

The experiences of Captain Slocum have proved him to be one of the greatest navigators of the age.

It is wonderful to listen to the descriptions of some of his hairbreadth escapes and to hear him answer, as quick as a flash, questions of every conceivable sort put to him by expert seafaring auditors. I have listened for hours to these seeming tournaments in navigators’ skill, and never yet did the captain hesitate for an instant for a reply that went straight to the mark like a bullet.

Captain Slocum’s book, “Sailing Alone Around the World,” (published by The Century Company), has had a large sale, which is constantly increasing.

Had all this occurred twenty years ago, it would have meant a fortune for Captain Slocum, and a stimulant for the lyceum such as it is impossible to secure under present conditions. “Because why?” you ask. Because under the present conditions, lecture courses are forced upon the communities by agents representing various lecture bureaus, who start out with sample photographs and circulars (regulation size), round up a committee of enterprising citizens who want to do something for the town, and persuade them to go on a guarantee fund to secure a course of lectures and entertainments. They listen to the bureau agent’s recommendations of “the greatest orator of the times, Mr. Breeze,” and “the great traveller and adventurer, Mr. Push,” “the latest and most original dialect poet, Mr. Verse,” “Miss Wonder, whose dramatic recitations have captivated metropolitan audiences in all the large cities,” and “Miss Good, who is a direct descendant of a great-grandniece of Oliver Wendell Holmes’s cousin.” The course is made up, and contracts are signed before the agent leaves town. Then for six months the course is being talked up. The bureau agent remains for a few days to assist the local canvassers in getting started, telling them who the celebrities are that are to make the town so famous by their visit, etc.

Over fifty such courses are already announced for the State of Michigan the coming autumn, August, 1900, over two hundred in the State of Illinois, nearly as many in Iowa, and so proportionately all over the country. More than $6,000 a week is now being disbursed by bureaus to agents “selling courses.”

So when the newspapers and The Century Magazine, McClure’s Magazine, and Harper’s Magazine publish the accounts of such heroic adventures as Captain Slocum’s, and a circular is sent out announcing his intention to relate from the lecture platform for the enlightenment of the public the story of his adventures, this local guarantee committee informs the captain that they already have “a course” in their city, which means that an independent lecture or entertainment of any kind, no matter how meritorious, is boycotted by the local committee in every city in the Union of from 2,500 to 40,000.

JOHN L. STODDARD was the most phenomenal success as a professional lecturer, pure and simple, that I have ever known. He began in Boston with the bureau in 1878, together with what he could do for himself, as the bureau did not see enough in his lectures to make him an offer for all of his time. I heard him several times in churches in and about Boston, and declared him a success. I wanted to make him a big offer, but partnership stipulations—that our firm should not speculate—prevented that. I went nightly to hear him and see his pictures. Two young men engaged him for a lecture in Music Hall, Boston, and made a lot of money. They tried it again with the same result; then in suburban towns. Until the warm summer days and short nights set in, crowds were limited to the capacity of the auditorium. I have heard many lecturers whom I thought Stoddard’s superior from a professional point of view, but no other lectures with illustrations have ever drawn one quarter the people to hear them that his did. He has held first place as a stereopticon lecturer for twenty years and has retired with a fortune. Men and women have said to me: “What is the secret of this man’s success?” My only reply is: “The people like to hear him. I like to hear him.”

ACTORS AND DRAMATIC CRITICS

One Sunday morning, in Plymouth Church, just as Mr. Beecher was about to begin his sermon, and there was a deathly silence all over the house, Mr. Beecher said:

“Yes, I have been to the theatre. Mr. Beecher has been to the theatre. Now if you will all wait until you are past seventy years of age and will then go and see Joseph Jefferson in ‘Rip Van Winkle,’ I venture the risk that it will not affect your eligibility for heaven if you do nothing worse.”

Mr. Jefferson can command $1,000 a night in the large cities, if he will only consent to lecture. He and Sir Henry Irving are overrun with invitations to appear before college audiences.

WILLIAM WINTER was first called to my attention by Henry Ward Beecher, in 1876, while we were on the train between Fall River and Boston. Mr. Beecher was reading the New York Tribune. He usually read his morning paper from beginning to end, and this time he had got as far as the dramatic criticism, when he said to me:

“If you want to have the true estimate concerning the drama you should read William Winter in The Tribune. He is the most graphic writer there is, and he is a fine critic and absolutely clean. Here’s what he says of this young actress, Mary Anderson, as ‘Juliet.’”

Mr. Beecher then read aloud to me a column prophesying a brilliant success, which proved to be fully realized. Since that time I have read everything Mr. Winter has written. I watched and read and admired the man. I noted the interest that he took in all matters pertaining to the advancement, culture, and education of the community where he lives, his founding of the Arthur Winter Memorial Library at the Staten Island Academy, with a contribution of rare books and gems of literature that could have been collected only by one of fine gifts and refined tastes such as Mr. Winter possesses.

Reading of this acquisition to the academy and the erection of a hall for lectures, etc., I felt an interest in the success of this movement, and wrote my first letter to Mr. Winter, proposing to furnish such of my stars as would contribute lectures and entertainments for his public.

A most gracious and appreciative letter of thanks came in return, which is one of my choicest delights. I so wrote him, and received another characteristic reply. So it has kept up ever since. I now, as far as possible, stipulate with my coming stars that they give one evening during their season to the Winter Memorial Library, and it has come about that they all look forward to that appointment with great expectation, because it is an audience that, for fine appreciation, is not to be excelled anywhere. Marion Crawford, Annie Grey, H. E. Krehbiel, and Ernest Seton-Thompson, all declare the Winter Memorial their ideal audience.

For over thirty-five years (since August, 1865), Mr. Winter has been the dramatic critic of the New York Tribune, and during that time he has wielded an influence more potent in the advancement of the drama than that of all the other New York critics combined. He is incorruptible and not afraid of consequences. Once a very prominent manager, knowing that Mr. Winter and I were friends, came into my office and asked for a confidential talk, which was granted. He began like this:

“You know William Winter well, do you not?”

“I have very little association with him. I know him well enough to understand that he is my friend and would go as far to serve me as he would any friend.”

“Is he well fixed or is he poor?” asked the manager.

“He’s not rich. How could he be, with only the resources of his pen as his income, and with a family of sons and a daughter to educate?”

“Major, would $2,500 be any inducement for him to visit the Union Square Theatre to-morrow evening, and give that girl, the greatest actress in the world, a send off?”

I said: “It would be a waste of time and money. You would be as safe in offering $50,000 as any other amount. If Mr. Winter goes there he will write as he sees, and will do the subject justice.”

The manager told me that he had made sure of every paper that he wanted but the Tribune, and he would give more for that paper than for all the others, because whatever Winter wrote the public believed. He had already secured the next best dramatic writer for less than half he offered me if I could secure Winter.

While I was writing this book, one of the other New York dramatic critics to whom that manager referred was in my office, and we went out to lunch together. He wanted to borrow $2. He said that the New York newspapers of to-day would accept nothing from his pen, nor from other prominent old journalists, while William Winter seemed to be as much in evidence as ever.

I couldn’t help saying: “I will quote what a theatrical manager said to me twelve years ago: ‘I secured the next best writer in New York for less than half what I would offer to Winter, but the public believes what Winter writes’; and it is true.”

In reply to a letter from him recommending a great Shakespearean scholar and reader, I once wrote Mr. Winter that there was no public demand for a scholarly address on Shakespeare or any literary subject; that there was scarcely a statesman even, or any man of letters, that even colleges and institutions of learning cared to engage for commencements and other public occasions, but that I had letters from many leading colleges offering fabulous prices if I could secure Henry Irving or Joseph Jefferson for them, and on this encouraging symptom I offered each of these great actors $10,000 if they would each give ten addresses on these occasions.

Here is Mr. Winter’s reply:

“September 5, 1896.

“My Dear Major Pond:

“I observed with some wonder your amazing offer of $1,000 a night to Irving and to Jefferson, for ten lectures, for college commencements. There must, of course, be some ‘business’ in this, or you would not think of it, but I should be very glad to know what qualifications are possessed by these gentlemen, or by any other actors, which entitled them to this peculiar eminence. A university is a seat of learning, and I have always supposed that the honors and rewards of learning are due to great scholars, whose lives have been passed in study, in thought, and in labor for the art of literature and the cause of education. Mr. Irving and Mr. Jefferson are masters of the art of acting, and no one admires them more than I do; but I should hardly select either of them as monitors for a university commencement, any more than they would select me as a director of the stage.

“Faithfully yours, “William Winter.”

One of Mr. Winter’s most cherished friends was George William. Curtis, and it is his ambition to add a George William Curtis Memorial Lyceum to the Staten Island Academy. He is sure to accomplish the work if he is spared another five years.

He is the last of his kind. Only by his bravery and his fidelity to his profession could he survive the natural loneliness of his environment.

There has been scarcely a great actor or actress or theatrical manager for the last forty years whom he has not known intimately and who has not been his dear friend. Among this number must be included Joseph Jefferson, Sir Henry Irving, Edwin Booth, Lester Wallack, John McCullagh, Lawrence Barrett, Barney Williams, W. J. Florence, William Weaver, John Gilbert, Adelaide Neilson, Ellen Terry, Charlotte Cushman, and Augustin Daly. One can readily come in touch with the tender vibrations and longings of his heart by reading the following poem in memory of his friend Augustin Daly, which is here reprinted by the kind permission of the Macmillan Co.:

A. D.
Died June 7, 1899.

SIR HENRY IRVING’S advancement to the order of knighthood aroused great interest among theatrical people throughout the world. An honor has been conferred upon dramatic art, and it has fallen on the one person in the English-speaking world most fitted to bear it as the representative of all that is best in dramatic art.

Honors of this kind have been bestowed with much freedom on painters, writers, and musicians, but never before accorded to an actor. This instance, therefore, involves an unusual recognition of the acted drama as the peer of its kindred arts.

No actor is held in higher esteem by his fellow-actors than Sir Henry Irving. His high abilities are not more admired on the stage than his personal qualities in private life. The congratulations he has received on this advancement are more general and more sincere than could have been bestowed on any other living actor. For the above reason, Sir Henry Irving is offered fabulous sums if he will lecture or give readings. I offered him $10,000 if he would give ten readings before college societies.

It was my privilege to introduce Henry Irving to Mr. Beecher during the season of the latter’s first visit to this country. I accompanied him and Miss Terry to Plymouth Church; we all sat in Mr. Beecher’s pew with Mrs. Beecher. Two more attentive listeners Mr. Beecher never had. Irving had heard Mr. Beecher lecture once—that memorable lecture in Manchester, England, in 1863, when he stood before that great English mob four hours before they would allow him to be heard. Mr. Irving had told me of having been one of the standees on that occasion, and was so intensely interested that he hadn’t time to be tired.

Mr. Irving listened without moving even a muscle of his face during the sermon.

Of course, no two auditors would have attracted the attention of that great congregation more intensely at that time. After the benediction, everybody seemed fixed in their places with eyes centred on Irving and Terry. Mr. Beecher stepped down from the pulpit and made his way to the pastor’s pew. As he approached Mr. Irving he said in a loud voice that all could hear, “Will the congregation please move out?” He then extended his hand to Mr. Irving, saying to me, “Mr. Pond, please walk with Mr. Irving to my house.” He then shook hands with Miss Terry, who at that time held Mrs. Beecher in her embrace. As the crowd passed out, Mr. Irving and I walked ahead of Mr. Beecher, who had Miss Terry on his left arm and Mrs. Beecher on his right. As we entered Mr. Beecher’s drawing-room, Mr. Irving and Mr. Beecher engaged in topical conversation on the sofa, and Mrs. Beecher sat down in a rocking-chair, and Miss Terry, taking an ottoman, placed it at Mrs. Beecher’s feet and threw herself upon it, with both hands clasping Mrs. Beecher, and her head in Mrs. Beecher’s lap. She was not aware of the capture she had made, to the surprise of all the Beecher family; for of all women that Mrs. Beecher had always shunned and despised, actresses she most abhorred, and Miss Terry was the first one to whom she had even spoken to her knowledge. This was the beginning of a friendship that was more like that of mother and daughter than mere friends, and continued until the end of Mrs. Beecher’s life.

At dinner was such a Sunday scene as was often the custom, one which could occur nowhere else except in the Beecher family. There were present Col. H. B. Beecher, Henry Ward’s eldest son, and his wife; Colonel Beecher’s daughter Kate (the late Mrs. Harper); and Mr. William C. Beecher, the second son, all endowed with Beecher brains. The hour was a display of intellect and wit. I never saw Mr. Irving so delightfully entertaining as on this occasion, and he and Miss Terry told me it was the most interesting and delightful day of their lives.

When Mr. Beecher died, I received a cablegram from Henry Irving, asking me to place a wreath on the casket, with the card, “Adieu, noble friend!—Henry Irving.”

Mr. Irving came into my office one morning in November, 1887, while he and his company were playing at Wallack’s Theatre. He asked if I were busy. Of course I was at his service then and there. He said:

“I see by the papers that a fund is being raised for a statue to Mr. Beecher, in Brooklyn. Can you tell me if the plans are formulated, and if Miss Terry and I can be of assistance? I think my company would gladly contribute their services for an extra matinée of ‘Faust’ for that object.”

I assured Mr. Irving that it would be highly appreciated. I went with him to the theatre, where a rehearsal was on. Mr. Irving asked the attention of the company for a moment. He told them that he and Miss Terry would like to invite them all to join in an extra performance of “Faust,” the entire proceeds to be given to the Henry Ward Beecher Statue Fund. The suggestion met with a very hearty and unanimous approval. The matinée was given, and $3,100 was sent to Ripley Ropes, treasurer of the fund, which was duly acknowledged.

MISS CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN was on the stage forty years. The last twenty-five of these years she was the greatest actress of her time. She died in the Parker House, Boston, February, 1876. I started for Kings Chapel, from where she was buried, at 8:30, and found the little church and neighboring thoroughfares thronged with the sorrowing multitude waiting with the hope of getting just one view of the casket which contained the remains of their departed friend.

Miss Cushman’s memory is still green. Her cottage at Newport and her grave at Mount Auburn are among the first objects inquired for by visitors to these places.

The last few years of her public life were devoted to public reading. In that department she was without a rival,—Fanny Kemble having retired to private life,—and in simplicity, personal magnetism, humor, and stalwart force of execution her readings have never been equalled. In the autumn of 1874 she gave six readings in Chicago for Messrs. Carpenter & Sheldon, managers of the Star Course, for which they paid her $5,000. The readings took place in McCormick’s Hall, on the north side of the city. The gross receipts for those six readings aggregated upward of $17,000.

In 1857 a tramping jour printer had come from Kansas seeking employment on the daily papers in St. Louis. It was the year of the great financial panic. There were so many printers out of work that those having steady employment yielded half of their time to “subs.”

At the house where I boarded I sat next to the prompter of the People’s Theatre, an old man, the most popular prompter ever known to the profession, Jimmie Anderson. I took to the old fellow, and he was very nice to me. One evening he invited me to the theatre, on the stage, where I stood beside him and saw Neafie in the “Corsican Brothers.” I walked home with him after the theatre. Before retiring that night he told me that the office of call-boy in the theatre was vacant, and I might have it—seven dollars a week. I began the following Monday. Charlotte Cushman opened that night with Lady Macbeth. It was the first time I ever saw her.

During the play Miss Cushman came to Mr. Anderson somewhat excited, saying, “Jimmie”—they all called him Jimmie—“the boy who carried my basket to-night loitered by the way. That basket contains most of my jewels. I must have somebody that I can rely upon who will walk faithfully by my side.”

Anxious to earn an extra dollar, I hunched old Jimmie, and he turned around and spoke very savagely to me:

“Will you do it?”

“Yes,” said I.

So that night I walked home with Charlotte Cushman, the great actress, carrying her basket to her room in the Planters’ House.

I did this until Saturday, when I was taken ill and obliged to send a substitute, who brought the basket on Saturday night.

After the play, when the lights were turned off with the exception of the star’s dressing-room, I was curled up on the stage among a lot of scenery. I heard Miss Cushman, coming out of her room, say:

“Where is that boy who carried my basket?”

I replied, “Here.”

She walked across the stage, piloted by the night watchman with his lantern, and reaching out her hand to me said:

“I hope you are not going to be ill,” and placed a coin in my hands.

I hurried to get to where there was sufficient light, to discover that I was the owner of a twenty-dollar gold piece.

That night I changed my lodging.

I did not meet Miss Cushman personally after that until 1874-5. I was giving Sunday-night entertainments in Boston, which were meeting with very great success. I thought of Charlotte Cushman, and telegraphed her at Newport, offering her $1,000 if she would give a reading in the Boston. She accepted.

The night of the reading I was so busy that I did not have an opportunity to place in Miss Cushman’s hands the envelope containing the certified check for $1,000. It was not until after the performance that I went to her hotel and sent up my card. The bell-boy returned with the answer, “Miss Cushman says show the gentleman up.”

Miss Cushman met me very cordially in her room. She was in a very happy mood, as the hall had been crowded with people.

“Miss Cushman,” I said, “I intended to hand this envelope to you on the platform, but I was so busy in front of the house that I could not get an opportunity. Please pardon me.”

“Oh, that is all right, Major Pond. Sit down and have some supper.” (Stars always have supper after their performances.)

During the conversation at the table I said: “Miss Cushman, that $1,000 check of this evening is the interest on twenty dollars that you invested in me in 1857.”

Then I related the incident of the twenty-dollar gold piece which she gave me when I was sick back of the stage in St. Louis.

“Are you that boy?” she asked, with a reminiscent smile.

“Yes,” said I, smiling back, “the very boy.”

“Well, I am glad to see you. I have often wondered if you survived.”

We were both glad.

MISS ELLEN TERRY, the greatest actress of our times, possesses a remarkable range of powers from low comedy to the highest tragic force, but always suggesting a lovely spirit behind the mask. At one moment she can be a queen of tragedy, at another a boisterous hoyden, at another a gentle, refined, high-bred lady. Her mirth is perfect gladness.