HENRY M. STANLEY was engaged by me in the summer of 1886, while travelling in England with Henry Ward Beecher. I was asked if I did not want Henry M. Stanley in America. I replied that Mr. Stanley had once made the attempt, and had been a most dismal failure. A day or two later, when I mentioned this circumstance to Mr. Beecher, he replied: “Get Stanley if you can. He is one of the greatest men we have. I have been reading ‘Through the Dark Continent’; it is a great book. He is doing good work for civilization. He is clean.”
I arranged then to call upon Mr. Stanley at his apartments in New Bond Street and learn what his ideas were in regard to revisiting the United States. There I saw him for the first time, and found a very quiet, unassuming little man with dark hair and penetrating light blue eyes, reticent, but very pleasant. He allowed me to do the talking.
I related what I had heard Mr. Beecher say of him, and saw at once that it pleased him. It was about one o’clock. I asked him if he had lunched; he had not, so I invited him to the Café Royal, where we lunched together.
At luncheon I tried to entertain him with conversation, telling of America and the changes that had taken place during his absence. He listened attentively, but made no response; finally, in order to get him to speak, I began to put questions to him about Africa and its people. I then discovered that I had found and touched the proper key, and he was soon relating to me wonderful accounts of his adventures. When we came to separate, I remarked that there was a great American comedian playing at the Gaiety Theatre, and asked if he would not like to see and hear him. He replied that he would be delighted, so the appointment was made, and we occupied a box at the Gaiety together that evening in company with a young English friend of mine. Mr. Stanley seemed to enjoy the play very much, paying the closest attention until the curtain dropped.
We parted at Charing Cross, Stanley saying, “Good-night; I am indebted to you for a very enjoyable evening,” and started home. I don’t know why, but as he turned the first corner I hurried after him. I have never told this before, and I cannot tell now why it was that I could not help following him. But he had produced a most remarkable impression upon me. I kept saying to myself: “That is Stanley! Stanley, the wonderful explorer! What a life he has had! How I should like to have shared with him his hazardous adventures! How I should like to serve such a man!”
The next morning I received the following letter from Mr. Stanley, which he must have written and mailed to me on his return from the theatre:
“My Dear Major Pond:
“I am willing to go to America and deliver fifty lectures for you, beginning November 29th next, six lectures a week, you paying me $100 a lecture and my travelling expenses from the date of the first lecture to the close of the tour, settlements to be made weekly. In case I am recalled by the King of the Belgians, I am to be allowed to return without let or hindrance. If this proposition meets your views, you may sign and return a copy of this letter, which I send in duplicate.
“Yours very truly,
“Henry M. Stanley.”
I at once signed a duplicate copy of the letter, and then cabled to America that I had secured Stanley for a lecture tour. I returned home in October, and found a number of letters and inquiries relating to the lectures.
When Mr. Stanley arrived in America, November 27, 1886, I had rented Chickering Hall, New York, for the first lecture of the tour. I secured Henry Ward Beecher to present Mr. Stanley, who had been interviewed fully by the reporters on his arrival. There were columns about him in all the newspapers in New York and adjoining cities.
The evening came, but tickets had gone slowly. Mr. Beecher introduced Mr. Stanley in a brief description of his remarkable career, paying a handsome tribute to his work for usefulness to mankind, and then followed the lecture entitled “Through the Dark Continent.” It was descriptive of his many adventures in Central Africa, and proved to be thrilling and interesting in the extreme.
Mr. Beecher had prophesied correctly.
At the third lecture, given in New Haven, it became evident that Mr. Stanley would be a success. Mr. Beecher had been right. The next lecture was at Hartford. I could not get a hall or opera house, so I rented Unity Church. Here in Hartford Mr. Stanley was the guest of his friend S. L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”), who presided and introduced the explorer in a characteristic address of welcome to his city and his fireside. After the lecture, returning to Mr. Clemens’s home, I invited “Mark” to go to Boston with us on the following day and introduce Stanley, where I was sure of a great crowd. “Mark” said the only objection to accepting such an invitation was the “taking a feller so unawares, with no possible time to prepare a suitable, impromptu, extemporaneous speech for so important an occasion.” Mr. Stanley seemed pleased with the suggestion, and as the two men were great friends, the arrangement was made. As “Mark,” Stanley, and I spent the time together after the Hartford lecture, each apparently unmindful of the coming event of the evening, the following introductory speech by Mark on that occasion will give an idea of his resources in an emergency. The humorist and the explorer walked on to the platform simultaneously—a combination such as a Boston audience has rarely met. “Mark” stepped to the front and introduced his friend as follows:
“Ladies and Gentlemen: If any should ask, Why is it that you are here as introducer of the lecturer? I should answer that I happened to be around and was asked to perform this function. I was quite willing to do so, and, as there was no sort of need of an introduction, anyway, it could be necessary only that some person come forward for a moment and do an unnecessary thing, and this is quite in my line. Now, to introduce so illustrious a name as Henry M. Stanley by any detail of what the man has done is clear aside from my purpose; that would be stretching the unnecessary to an unconscionable degree. When I contrast what I have achieved in my measurably brief life with what he has achieved in his possibly briefer one, the effect is to sweep utterly away the ten-story edifice of my own self-appreciation and leave nothing behind but the cellar. When you compare these achievements of his with the achievements of really great men who exist in history, the comparison, I believe, is in his favor. I am not here to disparage Columbus.
“No, I won’t do that; but when you come to regard the achievements of these two men, Columbus and Stanley, from the standpoint of the difficulties they encountered, the advantage is with Stanley and against Columbus. Now, Columbus started out to discover America. Well, he didn’t need to do anything at all but sit in the cabin of his ship and hold his grip and sail straight on, and America would discover itself. Here it was, barring his passage the whole length and breadth of the South American continent, and he couldn’t get by it. He’d got to discover it. But Stanley started out to find Doctor Livingstone, who was scattered abroad, as you may say, over the length and breadth of a vast slab of Africa as big as the United States.
“It was a blind kind of search. He was the worst scattered of men. But I will throw the weight of this introduction upon one very peculiar feature of Mr. Stanley’s character, and that is his indestructible Americanism—an Americanism which he is proud of. And in this day and time, when it is the custom to ape and imitate English methods and fashion, it is like a breath of fresh air to stand in the presence of this untainted American citizen who has been caressed and complimented by half of the crowned heads of Europe; who could clothe his body from his head to his heels with the orders and decorations lavished upon him. And yet, when the untitled myriads of his own country put out their hands in welcome to him and greet him, ‘Well done,’ through the Congress of the United States, that is the crown that is worth all the rest to him. He is a product of institutions which exist in no other country on earth—institutions that bring out all that is best and most heroic in a man. I introduce Henry M. Stanley.”
After this Boston triumph, applications by telegraph and mail came pouring in from all parts of the country. Stanley saw that he was a success, and seemed pleased that his manager was on the winning side. He suggested that I might as well lay my season out for one hundred lectures, instead of fifty (singular, too, he did not suggest a rise in his fee), and so we agreed, and I hurried back to New York to complete the bookings for one hundred nights. Of course, in our contract, Mr. Stanley had stipulated that in case he was recalled by the King of Belgium, he was to be allowed to return without let or hindrance, but that was not expected.
Mr. Stanley was delivering his tenth lecture in Amherst, Mass., on Saturday evening, November 11th. I was in my office in New York writing letters. It was ten o’clock in the evening when I received the following telegram:
“Amherst, Mass., November 11, 1886.
“J. B. Pond, Everett House, New York.
“Must stop lecturing. Recalled. Sail Wednesday at 4 A.M.
“Henry M. Stanley.”
All my hopes dashed to the ground in a moment! It was not the first disappointment in my life, however. I turned out my lights and retired, to try to rest and think. Stanley certainly would and must go, and no power on earth could prevent that. I determined to meet him cordially on his arrival, and to lend him all the aid in my power toward getting away on so short a notice.
The next morning (Sunday, November 12th), about 6 o’clock, Mr. Stanley arrived, and came immediately to my room in my hotel to tell me that it required every moment of his time to get ready and sail Wednesday morning by steamship Eidler at four o’clock. His decorations and valuable presents from Queen Victoria and other monarchs were at a jeweller’s on exhibition. He asked me to collect them personally, as he had a great deal to do. He had accepted a commission to go back to Africa at once, heading an expedition for the relief of Emin Pasha; there was no time to lose, for he must equip the expedition in the shortest possible time, as many lives were at stake.
Early in the forenoon people began to call. There were representatives of the manufacturers of firearms and every sort of equipment necessary for the work.
That evening, after a long day of consultations and dictations of correspondence in preparation for his hurried departure, after we had dined together, Mr. Stanley sat down in my office for about two hours, smoking vigorously and uttering not a word. I knew he was undergoing a severe mental struggle. He realized the hazardous risk he was taking, the deprivation and suffering incumbent on such an expedition, with the chances, even the most favorable to be considered, against losing not only his own life, but the lives of many others. He finally spoke to me of the singular business he had been engaged in during the day—that of examining and getting information as to which were the most effective firearms for the destruction of human life.
As his and my experience in the Indian country had been somewhat similar, he asked me if I did not think, after all, that if we had pursued wholly peaceful tactics with the Indians our Government would have been more successful with them. He was considering whether it was not best to undertake this mission across Africa with an unarmed company rather than to have the appearance of a body of armed invaders. So far as the natives were concerned, he had no misgivings, but the army of slave-hunting Arabs under the leadership of Tippoo Tib were dangerous foes and must be resisted. I discovered in Mr. Stanley that night a good man, with a brave, sympathetic, tender heart. I know I felt a deep sympathy and love for him and confidence in him that has lasted ever since, and will last while I live.
Monday morning Mr. Stanley and his stenographer were at work early. People that he had set to work on Sunday were going in and out, all busy carrying out instructions or orders for such arms and equipment as he wanted and could best get in this country. I know he ordered several hundred repeating rifles and a large stock of camp equipments.
Monday night a dinner was given to Mr. Stanley at Delmonico’s by his friend Mr. Henry S. Wellcome, an American merchant residing in London. It was a delightful occasion. All who were present knew Stanley well and expressed absolute faith in the ultimate success of this the most hazardous adventure the great explorer had ever attempted. As the Eidler was to sail at the unseasonable hour of 4 the next morning, we proposed to see Stanley on board the ship, so there was a long evening on hand. Stanley related many incidents of his African experiences, among them a visit among the Karaguas, a large and somewhat intelligent African tribe. There was a bulldog in his caravan which attracted the special admiration of a Karagua chief, who called attention to the fact that the white man’s dog resembled his men more than the white man himself, for the dog’s nose and the Karaguas’ noses were very much alike, and the white man and the Karagua dogs were also very much alike, both having long noses.
It was proposed that we adjourn to Madison Square Garden, to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. We occupied two boxes and enjoyed the performance to a late hour. And as it was not in the nature of Stanley to keep his friends waiting up all night, he insisted on a separation then and there, that he might go on board the steamer. As he and I shook hands when we parted, all that he said to me was: “I owe you eighty-nine lectures, which I will deliver if ever I return from Africa.”
Stanley went to Africa; three years rolled by, during two years of which no tidings were heard of him or his expedition. Finally the news came—he had reached the goal. Since his departure for Africa I had been non-committal in all of my correspondence for Stanley. I heard that his London agent was booking dates. I was satisfied that if such were the case he was doing it without authority, for no one had had time to hear from him; besides, he was otherwise engaged. His friend Mr. Wellcome, in London, wrote me that he was sure Stanley would not lecture, as he had his book to write; besides, he was such a hero now, and was receiving so much recognition from royalty, that he could not lecture in public, for it would be undignified. The air was full of rumors, but remembering Stanley’s last words, I had not the slightest fear of these rumors.
In due time, after the explorer’s arrival in Zanzibar with Emin Pasha, I received a long letter from him, telling me that he had yet to finish his book; that as soon as he got to London he would write me again. He reached there in April, 1890, after an absence of three and a half years. Business took me to London at that time, where I arrived on May 8, 1890. Stanley was the hero of the hour, and his name was on every tongue. Here let me say that at no time had I for one moment a doubt of his safe return to civilization, nor—a matter of much less moment—a single fear that when the time came he would fail me in renewing the broken lecture tour we were engaged in when he was called to take the leadership of the Emin Relief Expedition. This brief statement will serve as a key to the little comedy that followed on my arrival. It was given out that Mr. Stanley would see no one. The book, which he himself considered as his report of the Emin Expedition, was being written, and the publishers naturally were pressing for “copy.” There were other reasons for speech, as was seen when the cruel and strangely sad story of the rear guard had not only to be published, but more fully explained in its tragic features, because a concerted attack on Stanley’s reputation in Great Britain was made. It came about when there was a possibility of its wrecking the lecture tour, which finally grew into the most successful lecture engagement ever made in the United States.
I said nothing of all this in London, but at once called on Mr. Wellcome at his place of business there. I found him absorbed in preparation for a great dinner to be given to Henry M. Stanley by “Americans in London.” He declared himself glad to see me, but regretting that he was too busy to give me any attention. I was at once informed that no one could see Stanley. He received no callers in his apartment, I was candidly told, and was so overwhelmed with letters and cards that none received attention except those under royal seal. I must wait until June 3d and see him at the banquet, where all would have an equal chance. There was no use in writing to him, for he opened no letters. So I must wait and take my chances with the crowd, according to this information. At the same time, I could see no reason why I should not drop Mr. Stanley a line of congratulation and let him know I was near him. This I did.
The next morning came a rap on my door and a call, “Letter, sir.” “Tuck it under the door,” I replied. I took my time getting out of bed. When I did get up and opened the letter, I found it was from Mr. Stanley, dated the same evening I had written:
“34 Devere Gardens, S.W.
“Dear Major Pond: I am glad to know that you are in London; come down and see me at eleven to-morrow. You will see ‘Not in’ on the door. Get into the lift and come straight to my apartments. Will be glad to see you.
“Henry M. Stanley.”
I was in that “lift” at exactly eleven o’clock on the morning of May 14, 1890. The “lift” boy asked, “Is this Major Pond?” “Yes,” I replied. “This way, please,” and he opened a door. There stood Stanley; not the Stanley of three and a half years ago. His black hair was now white. We grasped each other by the hand, and it was some time before Stanley said: “It’s all right, Major. I am glad to see you. Sit down.” I replied that I did not want to occupy one moment of his time. He assured me that I need not hurry. So for an hour he entertained me, relating much of his experience; how gratifying it was to return, and how much he would like to accept the generous hospitality and courtesies shown him on all sides, but he had his book to finish and some engagements to dine with friends, so with the coming dinner by Americans he was filled up as far as he dared engage himself. Of course I said nothing about lecturing in America and soon arose to bid him “Good-by.” He asked for my address, which, was given, but I did not see him again until the American banquet. Then he discovered me in the crowd and sent for me, and in the presence of that great crowd of hero-worshippers and banqueters, introduced me to his officers, Dr. Park, Stairs, Jephson, and Nelson, who were seated on the right and left of him.
After that first interview I thought I would call on Mr. Wellcome again. I found him still eagerly engaged in the preparations for the coming banquet. He was very cordial. I told him that I had called to see if I could ascertain any further news about our hero. He assured me that I should surely see him at the dinner; but he could give me one piece of news: Stanley was not going to lecture. I did not tell him, or any one else, that I had seen Stanley.
Business kept me fast in London until early in June. It was Friday, the 6th, when I received a telegram from Stanley at Ascot, asking me to meet him at his London apartments at five o’clock that day. I was there, and he met me cordially, saying:
“Major Pond, on the 25th of September I am to be married, and on the 10th of October I take a degree at Cambridge. I owe you eighty-nine lectures. It is needless for me to tell you that I have received some very fabulous offers. I show you two of them, but I conceal the signatures.”
They were very dazzling. I recognized the writing of one of them. It was an offer of fifteen hundred dollars a lecture for one hundred lectures, and all expenses from London and return.
“I have no thought of accepting them. I want you to go to your hotel and put your proposition in writing, whatever you wish; do the best you can for me. Come Sunday at five o’clock and we will sign the papers. We will have a little dinner together. I will introduce you to the future Mrs. Stanley. Then you can go about your work.”
I was there with the proposition made out in duplicate, and found a card on the door, which read as follows:
“Major: Unavoidably called away. Put the papers under the door. I will sign and return them.”
(No signature.)
I was disappointed, not distrustful. I had expected to meet Miss Tennant, of whom so much was being said and written. It was a lonesome walk back to my hotel. I did not care to visit the club and did not wish to talk, so I dropped into a Methodist meeting at St. James’s Hall, heard the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes give a great crowd a real Calvinistic lashing, and then dined at the Café Royal, alone and gloomy and homesick. Reaching my hotel at ten o’clock I found a package in a large envelope waiting for me. It was the contract I had drawn up and left at Stanley’s apartments, duly signed by Henry M. Stanley. It was for one hundred lectures, more or less, in America, to begin in New York, Tuesday, November 11, 1890. Not an alteration of any kind or a word of suggestion was made.
I did smile all by myself that night, and the smile lingered on my face all the next day, when I called again on my friend Wellcome and told him I was going back home to America, asking him if he could possibly give me any encouragement about Stanley; he replied that he could not. “It would not do for so great a man to disregard the general sentiment of royalty as to condescend to lecture for money, though he might obey royal command and speak for some charities.”
I told him that I was going on Wednesday to Glasgow (the Royal Scottish Geographical Society were to dine Stanley that night, and I had received an invitation from the president, of course at Stanley’s request), and I wished that he, Villiers, and a few friends would dine with me at the Savoy on Tuesday. Wellcome accepted, and six of his friends and my friends had a jolly good time. During the evening Mr. Wellcome entertained us with talk about his friend Stanley. Everybody knew he was the nearest man to the hero of the hour.
During the evening Mr. Wellcome mentioned that Stanley was going to be banqueted in Glasgow. I suggested (having an invitation in my pocket) that I should like to be there. He explained how impossible it was for any one not a member to obtain an invitation or to be admitted.
After a long and to me enjoyable evening, when the gray dawn showed itself on the Thames embankment, the party broke up. I called Mr. Wellcome to one side and in strict confidence told him that I had a contract with Stanley for an American lecture tour; that we had frequently been together; that I was going to Glasgow to the Stanley dinner. He—well, he wilted!
Stanley was something more than a lecturer to me. I had known of him over twenty years before in the West, as a newspaper correspondent. His graphic descriptions of Western events and scenes in which I was a small part always found favor in my sight because of their simple exactness. I had seen him in Omaha and also on the plains, in connection with the remarkable Indian campaigns of the later sixties, but never had the courage to approach him. I felt an awe and respect for him that held me aloof.
And yet Stanley was the personification of modesty. At the dinner given by Americans in London to Stanley, the Rev. Dr. Joseph L. Parker, the famous London preacher, came up to me and said: “Major Pond, I wish you would introduce me to Stanley.”
“I shall not have to go far to do that,” said I; “the gentleman with whom you just saw me talking is the man himself.”
“No, no,” said Dr. Parker, “that can’t be; why, that is a small man. Stanley must be a great big fellow.”
The explorer is not more than five feet seven inches in height, but stocky and well set.
A moment later Stanley advanced toward Dr. Parker, reached out his hand, and said: “I am very glad to meet you, Dr. Parker, and I am gratified that so eminent a man should have expressed a desire to be introduced to me.” As a matter of fact, nothing of the sort had been intimated to Stanley; he had simply overheard the remark about his size and at once had tactfully smoothed matters over.
It was on his return from a trip to Aldershot, 1890, where he had been to visit the graves of some of his comrades, that he told me of his coming marriage and the honor awaiting him at Cambridge. He then suggested a date for his departure to New York after October 25th. “The Teutonic sails on October 29th,” was my reply. His answer was: “That will do.”
The Teutonic arrived November 5th, and was detained over night at quarantine on account of a heavy fog. The party consisted of Mr. Stanley and his bride, Mrs. Dorothy Tennant Stanley; Mrs. Tennant, her mother; Lieutenant Mounteney Jephson, and Hamilton Aide, a well-known London literary man, dramatic author, and critic. I met Stanley and his wife standing on the upper deck, and he greeted me very cordially, introducing me to Mrs. Stanley, who quietly remarked:
“I don’t like you, Major Pond.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Stanley. I think so much of your husband that it will be sad for me if I cannot have your friendship.”
“That’s why I’m sure I’ll dislike you. Why should you want him more than I do?”
“We’ll see,” I said. In a few minutes more we were all having a delightful conversation together. I was introduced to Mrs. Tennant, Mrs. Stanley’s mother, and Mr. Hamilton Aide, her nephew.
At the first word of the sighting of the Teutonic, the New York newspaper men, headed by Colonel Finley Anderson, of the United Press, Stanley’s personal friend, came down to meet their distinguished fellow-craftsman. It was noticed that Mr. Stanley, in replying to Colonel Anderson’s little speech of welcome, referred to his arrival as to a “home-coming.” Then an appointment was made at my office for five o’clock in the afternoon. The New York newspaper men were waiting in my office at the time set, but Stanley was then unaware of the important matter that they wished to bring to his attention. A representative of the London Times awaited his arrival at the hotel with a cabled message from the Thunderer. While Stanley was on the ocean the English press had contained severe and somewhat startling attacks on the truth of the famous chapter on the rear guard in his new book. In this the story of Major Bartellot and his death had been told, not to the credit of the deceased officer. I am not intending again to present the controversy that Bartellot’s family and Lieutenant Throop had launched with their volumes replying to Stanley’s severe but restrained criticism of Bartellot’s actions and methods. A storm of almost savage indignation against Stanley had been aroused thereby. The Times had cabled in full the article it had published, and had directed its representative in New York to obtain and cable Mr. Stanley’s reply. The situation had become almost threatening.
I did not doubt that Stanley would fully maintain his own honor, but I began to understand that such scandals were involved as might set the public mind against the whole business of African exploration.
Stanley retired with The Times correspondent. It is a matter of almost “ancient history” to recall the plain and simple, but able and courageous, frankness with which the Bartellot-Throop-Jamieson attacks were met. The explorer had endeavored to hold back the personal misconduct, of which he knew the men intrusted with the command of the rear guard had been guilty. He now told the whole story, the details of which are still fresh in the public mind. Forced to defend himself, he did so with the same steady courage and directness of will that had always marked his actions. He gave dates and names, as well as acts, and placed at the disposal of the London Times the complete evidence which he had heretofore been very desirous, because of the families and friends of the men, to keep from becoming public property. That interview was printed in The Times the next morning. It changed the situation almost immediately so far as English opinion was concerned. But it was the American press and what might follow of adverse criticism that affected me most closely.
I dined with the party that evening, and Stanley was as jovial, cordial, and self-poised as I ever saw him. He showed no sign of the fatigue attending such a remarkable strain as that five hours of momentous interviewing.
In the interview of that evening Stanley was absolutely great. There were twenty-three reporters present, picked men of the great newspapers of New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and Chicago. One of the best-known men, Mr. Balch, was chosen to direct the questions. My rooms were packed. The men were all keen set and full of the historical significance, too, of their opportunity. Stanley seated himself, smiling, and for three hours submitted to an intellectual ordeal which was simply astounding. The interviewers, with ample time to look up the issues, were prepared with keen questions, and, as he answered, others were called out on every side. Balch, an able man, declared it was a wonderful exhibition of knowledge and will power. “Stanley,” he said, “was the best witness I ever saw. He was armed at all points, and answered without a moment’s hesitancy, never once crossing himself in the slightest degree.”
During the latter part of the scene various gentlemen who had come to call on Mr. Stanley, among them Charles A. Dana and Murat Halstead, stood in the open hallway of my office, listening to the remarkable proceeding, and admiring the skill and power of the man who sat there with lighted eyes, animated features, and a live brain that burned through every movement and lighted up every word he uttered.
The first Stanley lecture in New York in 1890 was a remarkable event. The interest was made greatly more active by publication on Friday, the 7th of November, of the remarkable series of interviews of which mention has been made. But no one anticipated its tremendous character. The gross receipts were $17,800. Such a jam never was known before, and the carriage crush about the building was almost beyond police control. The lecture originally announced was “The Relief of Emin Pasha.” At Mrs. Stanley’s suggestion, “The March through the Forest” was chosen, which brought in the story of the pygmies and other remarkable discoveries made.
The tour that followed this entrée was like the march of a triumphal hero. Our evenings after the lecture were delightful, and the daily intercourse so long continued was personally maintained without a jar or break of any sort. I found Mr. Stanley not only strictly honorable in business matters, but generous also. When for a brief period business was bad, he showed a marked disposition to make matters more even, though there was no necessity whatever, taking the tour as a whole, to make any change in the agreement made in London. Perhaps the most striking feature of the engagement was, so far as concerns Mr. Stanley, the remarkable fidelity that he gave to the work he had undertaken. He was constantly remoulding, polishing, and improving the lectures during the tour.
Stanley is one of the most conscientious men I ever knew. While in Boston, after we had been about a week on the tour, the weather was fine and there was beautiful sleighing. Mrs. Stanley and the ladies of our party had come in from a delightful sleigh ride which some friends had tendered. They all looked so rosy and fresh, beaming with delight as they stepped from the sleigh, that we agreed then and there that Mr. Stanley really should lay aside his writing and take a sleigh ride too, behind that spanking four-horse team, and hear the jingle of the hundreds of sleigh bells. I said, “He must come and enjoy it.” Mrs. Stanley said, “Let’s you and I go fetch him.”
We rushed up to his room; he was working on his lecture, making some changes, when Mrs. Stanley, with cheeks like roses and charged with oxygen of the outdoor atmosphere, threw her fur-clad arms about his neck, saying: “O, Bulle-me-tal-ie (the name he is known by in Africa), come and have a ride and breathe the most delicious air under heaven. Do come; it will do you so much good and help you for to-night.”
After listening to Mrs. Stanley’s eloquent pleadings a moment or two, he rose from his seat and said to me:
“Major Pond, you are paying me a fabulous sum for my nightly services. Now it is my duty to do the best I can. If you say you are satisfied with my work as it now is, I will stop and go for a drive.”
I could not answer his argument, and he did not take the sleigh ride. From the start until the finish, one hundred and ten lectures, Stanley showed signs of steady improvement. He was good at the start, but shortly became a fine speaker and then a better speaker, and before he had finished he was the best descriptive speaker I ever heard. He had overcome difficulties that would discourage any other man; as Casati wrote of him (Casati, ten years with Emin Pasha in Africa): “Jealous of his own authority, Stanley will not tolerate interference, neither will he take the advice of any one. Difficulties do not discourage him, neither does failure frighten him, as with extraordinary celerity of perception he finds his way out of every embarrassment.”
Henry M. Stanley was never fond of company. He appreciates friends, and those who know him intimately are very fond of him. He is generally cautious and sparing of words, especially when strangers are about. Receptions and dinners worry him, as he cannot bear being on exhibition under showers of forced compliments. His manners and habits are those of a gentleman. He shows great fondness for children, especially young lads, who often approach him for his autograph. He will enter into conversation with them and question them as to their purposes in life, advising them as to the importance of honesty and character as essential to success in life, and generally concluding with some incident in his experience that is sure to make a lasting impression. In our private car, where we lived for three months, were Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, Mrs. Tennant, Mrs. Pond and her sister, and often some visiting friends. Stanley would entertain us night after night with incidents of his wonderful experience that would make a far more interesting book than he has yet written. His best sayings have been spoken in private. Mrs. Stanley, being a brilliant conversationalist, had the happy faculty of bringing out his most interesting points.
Stanley is one of the best-read men I have ever met. He is familiar with the histories of all civilized and uncivilized peoples. As a journalist he is appreciated by reporters and interviewers more highly than any man I ever knew except Mr. Beecher. Never did he refuse to see a representative of the press who sent up his card. If busy, he would say: “Please make my compliments to the gentleman and say that as soon as I am disengaged I will be pleased to see him.”
Altogether, I have never parted with a client with greater regret, or found one holding me in bonds of friendship and respect to so great a degree. Sir Henry Stanley does me the honor to regard me as a friend, and I am constantly indebted to him, and to Lady Stanley also, for delightful correspondence. Some extracts from the many letters in my possession will illustrate the value of the views expressed and the soundness of a judgment which has been almost wholly verified by events. I present without apology the extracts which follow.
A capital letter from the Richmond Terrace (London) home, under date of October 2, 1892, is of interest because of its description of electioneering in England:
“I am pledged,” he writes, “to many things in the coming time—the contest at North Lambeth again, Bible Society, Missionary and anti-Slavery meetings, keeping up the Uganda question before the public, stimulating and comforting the Directors, and trivial things of this kind. They absorb time and keep a man from stagnating, and perhaps a modicum of good is extracted from the whole.
“As regards the election, I fear on your side they do not understand anything about it. I sometimes see the cablegrams sent over from here, and I do not wonder that you are all misled. I was asked at the last moment to stand; there were only nine clear days for work and to get made known among 7,300 electors, to get offices, posters, pamphlets, and canvassers, and that entailed an amount of work that was appalling. My opponent had been at work three years, nursing the constituency; I had only nine days. The results were that I was defeated by 130. Of course, the usual lying was resorted to. They can lie here with as much disregard to future torments as in New York, and they have introduced largely pernicious systems from America, which I know the Americans would gladly extinguish if they knew how. Added to these, the lower classes have something which is peculiarly their own: a noisy, brutal disposition which must relieve itself by pounding or breaking something, while the intolerance they display toward their opponents is wholly unknown in America. When this temper is at the hottest, women go down before the brawny fist like sheep in the shambles, and bald heads often get seriously cracked. I used to think that England was a country of order and that only at Donnybrook would you meet with such scenes as I have witnessed. There is no attempt at order, there is no policeman present to preserve it. Only might is respected—clubs and arms. The doors are thrown open to all—the radical candidate seeks for a strong force of roughs by whom, when the Unionist presents himself, he is greeted with a continuous uproar. If he persists in speaking, the mob advances and ‘ware’ heads then. This, in short, is politics at its worst over here, but homicide is much rarer than with you.”
A London letter of May 31, 1894, gives a still more vividly interesting account of electioneering methods. Mr. Stanley writes:
“I see that you scarcely comprehend what the term electioneering means in England. It would be impossible for a candidate to absent himself from his constituency for any longer period than the national holidays. He must hold himself ready for any request from any of his supporters every day between the hours of 10 A.M. and 10 P.M. He, in the mean time, must visit every house in the borough (7,200 houses in mine) to try to make the acquaintance of every voter and of some member of his family. He must contribute not only his services as patron (chairman, supporter of numberless charities, meetings), but funds as well, whenever solicited. But more than that, he must hold himself ready to exchange his services with those of fellow-candidates in the country. These various duties which fall upon the candidate must be performed cheerfully and with good will, otherwise it will be charged to him that he is indifferent to the cause and to the public he has affected to serve. I have as many as eighty visits in a day, and if you will only take the trouble to calculate you will find that to visit 7200 voters requires a large number of days, and as visits can only be made in the intervals between public functions of great variety, not more than 200 a week can be expected from the most active. You may fairly say that it requires a year’s steady work to get through an ordinary constituency. Then, you know the failing of the public is to forget your face and name, and to keep them in mind you will have to begin again and continue what is called the ‘musing.’ I need not say more. You will see why a candidate cannot absent himself for more than a fortnight or so from the duties he has undertaken, and I think your letter is thus fairly answered. We are waiting to hear the sound of the trumpet to enter the lists. It may be heard any day, and we are on the tiptoe of expectation.”
From Richmond Terrace, under date of June 19, 1896, came an interesting letter which refers in the beginning to the death, then recent, of the late Colonel Thomas Knox. Stanley writes:
“I had been much impressed by the aged appearance of Knox, but I did not expect so soon to hear of his death. He was a fine genial man, of grand appearance, and I always thought a dinner table enriched by his appearance. I am exceedingly sorry, for New York is the poorer for his loss—for there is one friend less to me.... But it is thus we drop away one by one.
“How suddenly that Venezuela business broke upon England! I had been prepared for it by my visit to the States, and I had clipped dozens of newspaper articles bearing upon the subject while I was over there. About ten days after my arrival here I was visited by the manager of one of the principal newspapers here, and asked what I thought of the Eastern question, and I had answered that I was not much interested in it, as I was interested in the squall brewing in the West. He asked me what I referred to, and I replied that we might expect a terrific explosion presently from America in regard to the Venezuela dispute. He was astonished, for he had not heard of it. I then gave him my clippings for his editor to study and prepare himself. Sixteen days after, the storm burst, taking England all aback.
“Now, on this Venezuela subject, I am entirely on the side of America, but I must admit I am not surprised that the English papers backed up Lord Salisbury and differed from me. Taught by the virulent remarks of your journals I had, of course, devoted much time to understanding it, whereas English editors were exceptionally ill-informed about the matter. There are two or three injudicious remarks in Olney’s despatch which put British backs up, but after reflection it is wonderful how many have come round to my opinion—that, whatever the transgressions of Olney may be, there is a great deal of justice in the American demand. I feel quite sure, now that so much is admitted, it will not be long before the opinion becomes general that we were in the wrong in refusing arbitration, while the more I think of Olney’s despatch, the more impressed I am that Olney could scarcely have written otherwise than he did. For I argue that had he contented himself with the usual suave tone of diplomacy he would not have succeeded in rousing the attention of the nation to the necessity of settlement. His despatch would have lain quietly in the archives of the Foreign Office, whereas now every Englishman knows sufficient of the subject to distinguish right from wrong; and while there is still a majority who take the despatch to be an affront to British dignity, there is a minority increasing in numbers who think that British honor would be consulted by considering the justice due to Venezuela, and that British interests would be promoted by acquiescing with the American demand.
“But that all your journalists were wrong in assuming that we in this country entertained any other feeling than that of true affection for the Americans has been conclusively proved by the different receptions accorded the President’s message and the German Emperor’s telegrams to Kruger. On reading the first our people were simply astonished and grieved, but the other roused the war feeling from the Hebrides to the Channel Islands. I have never witnessed anything like it in England before. It was entirely unexpected from one whom we had made so much of. It was premeditated, also, and this is what enraged us. No one could conceive what business it was of Germany’s to interfere with our Protectorate, nor how we had given any one a reason to suppose that, because Jameson had been so mad, we were so lost to all sense of honor and justice as not to be willing to do what was right in the case. It will be a long time before we forgive Germany, you may rest assured, and every act of hers for years to come will be viewed with great suspicion. Personally, I do not know which was maddest, Jameson’s ride for the gold mines of Johannesburg or the Emperor William’s attempt on the Protectorate of the Transvaal. Both were foolish.”
He closed this interesting letter with his always pleasant compliments and messages for my family.
From Argelus-Gazoust, France, under date of August 5, 1898, in response to a letter suggesting a lecture on Anglo-Saxon relations, Stanley replies:
“Yes, I quite agree with you that we have numerous highly endowed members of Parliament who would like to have the opportunity to address American audiences upon the Anglo-American alliance, or any other subject, but you see the faculty of orating is born with them; they can’t help it. Whereas with me it is different. I can’t speak unless I have something to say and the time to say what is imposed upon me has come.
“Now, with regard to this Anglo-American alliance. It is a good thing and a natural thing for both nations to come together and shake hands and make a league of friendship. But the necessity for that is not imperative for either side. England is at peace with all the world, though she frets herself now and then. America has her enemy at her mercy, and nobody is going to interfere with her. Where is the need for the hurry? Then, naturally, having passed the impressionable period of my life in America—and born in Britain, having an English wife and home—I feel able to see a trifle clearer than some of those who are all American or all English. I have not a particle of prejudice, though my duty lies on this side. My opinion is we must not be too precipitate. The two nations are gravitating together. True friendship cannot be forced, but is a slow process, requiring time. There are many Americans who have not even thought of the subject, there are English who cannot entertain the idea. If such people are spoken to about the alliance they are apt to say things neither kindly American nor kindly English would like to hear.
“No! Wisdom suggests we leave the feeling to grow and solidify. If either country was in distress, that would be the proper time to breathe more life into that spirit of kinship and kindliness which we know exists, and bring the reserved and proud peoples together, but to-day there is no necessity for either nation to think particularly about the matter. One is fat and proud with its Bank of England and big navy, the other is in a quiver of delight over Manila, and Santiago, and the heroes—Dewey, Schley, and Shafter. The time is not suitable for speaking of alliances. If you Americans will come out of that Continent and take your share of the Old World’s concerns, you will know better what is meant by alliances. Were I not in a dreadful hurry and every member of the family impatiently waiting for me, I could relate some curious thoughts of mine about that matter, but I am not allowed to form one connected sentence in peace. I cannot offer myself for the Lyceum this term.”
A fair picture, certainly, this of Ulysses the wanderer with the distaff in hand.
Under date of February 6, 1899, the day before Parliament was to meet, Sir Henry writes that, looking round for arrearages of work, his eyes caught sight of my 1899 letter.
“The year 1899 is starting so smoothly in England that the blank page might serve for a news letter. We have long ago calmed down about the mad French attempt on the Upper Nile, and we are so interested in the Czar’s Peace Circular that we relaxed our attention to Russian misdoing in China. With Germany we have no question, and America has civilly refrained from twisting our Lion’s tail. Old Kruger is probably more concerned with his personal infirmities and the Colonists are following their usually orderly habits, so that all around 1899 promises to be very quiet with us.”
This was a promise that events soon proved was easily broken, but even Stanley could not foresee the sharp awakening for England as well as ourselves. He proceeds:
“I wish I could feel your prospects are also as satisfactory. I don’t know what you think of it, but it seems to me this Imperialism is going to prove costly and disturbing to America, and her well-wishers are in doubt whether it be wise in her to take upon herself the task of regenerating the Philippines. If you don’t mind the expense and bother of reforming these barbarians and making them orderly, we will not do more than wish you well through the self-imposed task.”
Under date of November 24, 1899, Sir Henry M. Stanley replied to a letter of mine wherein, at the suggestion of an experienced editorial friend, I had pointed out to him the value of a short lecture tour in the United States, during which no man could with such authority as himself point out to the American people the situation in South Africa. My adviser very strongly urged the fact that the views of Sir Henry M. Stanley would not only greatly affect opinion here, but would tend largely to extend his influence as a statesman in his own country. Stanley illustrates his own modesty by ignoring in toto my suggestion, and then thus frankly criticises the British-Boer situation at the date of his writing:
“We are not doing so well in the Transvaal as I expected, but everything proves to me how really necessary it was that the evil humors which had been gathering for the last nineteen years should come to a head and be boldly dealt with. It proves, also, how remiss we have been in thus delaying in considering the Transvaal matters as serious. No people on earth are so averse to war as we are, and so prone to be guided by goody-goody sentiment. Being rich, prosperous, and contented, we seem to forget that all people are not so happy, and accordingly fail to provide against other people’s discontent with us.
“This sunny belief in the power of sentiment will certainly be our bane some day. From sentiment we left our African frontiers unprotected; we left our garrisons in Natal open to an enemy that has been breathing nothing but threats for ever so long; from sentiment we left the Afrikander Bund to make its preparations, diffuse its opinions, and conspire to oust us from South Africa; from sentiment we allow Kruger to build his forts, arm his people with cannon and Mausers, and, naturally, when everything is ready for the crisis for which Kruger has been preparing, we profess to be surprised that Natal and Cape Colony have been invaded, and that the Boers have been able to present such a bold front to us.
“That war itself and the small disasters we have met are the penalties we pay for the belief we profess that all men can be persuaded by reason or soothed by sentiment. By all means profess as loudly as you may the very best of sentiments toward people with whom you desire to be on amicable terms, but don’t forget that human beings are not angels or children, to be restrained by sentiment alone. If you have interests, no amount of sentiment will protect them, especially when they lie so temptingly close to another race. That is a paraphrase of the old saying: ‘Pray to God, but keep your powder dry.’ We have prayed both to God and the Boer, but in most reprehensible fashion we have forgotten all about the powder.
“What is going to happen to us if we continue to be thus neglectful of the commonest precautions? Heaven only knows. In England we are so given to the cultivation of beautiful phrases and logic that no one of the simple kind can hope to have simple truths listened to. Our newspaper leaders are written in such Johnsonian-Gladstonese that plain people pass them over as being ‘grand,’ but they are scarcely understood by the many. In admiration of the sound we have lost the sense, and the direct, simple English has no chance in these libretto days.
“In other ways we are also degenerate. Fancy ten thousand English soldiers, willing to be led anywhere, remaining penned up in that hollow of Ladysmith by a force of say even twenty thousand raw Boer militia! It is all of a piece with that grand strategic genius which chose a hollow for the South African Aldershot, with not even an intrenchment until it was too late.”
The following is a characteristic and forcible presentation of opinions which he of all men has the right to express:
“Furze Hill, Perbright, Surrey, October 10, 1899.
“My Dear Major: Your introduction of Mr. Howland has resulted, as you are probably aware, in the publication of an article in his magazine (The Outlook) on Anglo-Saxon Responsibilities. I have just seen it, and though it was written before the Transvaal crisis became acute, subsequent facts have, I think, borne my hints out.
“The above is my present address, where I am simply roughing it, owing to the chaos prevailing inside and out. I am therefore in no condition for writing a letter for the public eye, as you yourself would be the first to admit if you could see my surroundings. Besides, I cannot see the object of interesting the public in anything just now, and the Anglo-Saxon relations are the topic of a thousand pens more or less capable of instructing everybody who can read or think. Whether we shall fight or not depends upon Kruger. He alone has it in his power to stay the storm, but whether he will use that power or not, no one—probably not Kruger even—can say. My opinion of Kruger differs from almost every writer in the fact that I say he is a confirmed ass, or if you prefer the true meaning of it—an obstinate old fool.
“I wrote ‘Through South Africa’ some two years ago, and if you will look at chapter seven, I think—I have not the book by me—you will see how the present crisis and the probable termination of it are fulfilling the prediction I made.
“I really do not know which to pity most, the English who hate war and who would do anything in honor to avoid it—dragged to war and future trouble against their will—or the Boers, whose stupid obstinacy is likely to be their ruin.
“A few years ago, before the Jameson raid, Kruger said, ‘I will never give you anything, and now let the storm burst.’
“It is a bad-tempered man who said that, and Kruger’s bad temper is the most prominent characteristic of his nature. His sheer bad temper has caused all this row and will eventually bring him to shame unless, may the gods grant it, he is thoroughly frightened by a stronger, sterner, fiercer will.
“I have known individuals like Kruger before, and though their obstinate wills seemed adamantine, many yielded before a greater and superior will.
“The South African war—should it take place—will prove the salvation of South Africa, if it is conducted rightly. We should have an overwhelming force over there, and the utmost energy should be employed to bring it to a perfect finale, where all white should be free and equal. The country should be given up to the people, and outsiders should refrain from meddling in their affairs.”
At social functions given by the press in his honor Stanley was always at his best. He appeared among newspaper men as perfectly at home—one of the profession, claiming no honors or no place that could or would not be attained by any live journalist should the occasion offer. It is this attitude that so helped to make of him in America the favorite hero of the pressmen of the land.
GEORGE KENNAN was introduced to me by Mr. Roswell Smith, President of the Century Co. His letters on Siberia were appearing in The Century Magazine and creating a great deal of interest.
Mr. Smith called on me one morning. I was somewhat under the weather, having been ill for some time. He asked me if I had heard of George Kennan. I told him I had known more or less of Mr. Kennan; that he had been a lecturer in a small way before he went to Siberia. Mr. Smith told me that Kennan’s articles, he believed, had more than doubled the circulation of the magazine, and that one or two editions had already been exhausted and they were obliged to reproduce them. He suggested that I secure Mr. Kennan for some lectures, and gave me his address.