Memories and Anecdotes Part 4

I hardly knew my own name at the Packer Inst.i.tute. The students called me "Canary," I suppose on account of my yellow hair and rather high treble voice; Mr. Crittenden always spoke to me as Miss "Sunburn," and when my laundry was returned, it was addressed to "Miss Lampoon."

Beecher was to me the clerical miracle of his age--a man of extraordinary personal magnetism, with power to rouse laughter and right away compel tears, I used to listen often to his marvellous sermons. I can see him now as he went up the middle aisle in winter wearing a clumsy overcoat, his face giving the impression of heavy, coa.r.s.e features, thick lips, a commonplace nose, eyes that lacked expression, nothing to give any idea of the man as he would look after the long prayer. When the audience reverently bowed their heads my own eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the preacher. For he prayed as if he felt that he was addressing an all-powerful, omnipresent, tender, loving Heavenly Father who was listening to his appeal. And as he went on and on with increasing fervour and power a marvellous change transfigured that heavy face, it shone with a white light and spiritual feeling, as if he fully realized his communion with G.o.d Himself. I used to think of that phrase in Matthew:

"And was transfigured before them, And his face did s.h.i.+ne as the sun."

I never heard anyone mention this marvellous transformation. But I remember that Beecher once acknowledged to a reporter that he never knew what he had said in his sermon until he looked at the resume in Monday's paper.

During the hard days of Beecher's trial a lady who was a guest at the house told me she was waked one morning by the merry laughter of Beecher's little grandchildren and peeping into their room found Mr.

Beecher having a jolly frolic with them. He was trying to get them dressed; his efforts were most comical, putting on their garments wrong side out or b.u.t.toning in front when they were intended to fasten in the back, and "funny Grandpa" enjoying it all quite as sincerely as these little ones. A pretty picture.

Saxe (John G.o.dfrey) called during one recess hour. The crowds of girls pa.s.sing back and forth interested him, as they seemed to care less for eating than for wreathing their arms round each other, with a good deal of kissing, and "deary," "perfectly lovely," etc. He described his impressions in two words: "Unconscious rehearsing."

Once he handed me a poem he had just dashed off written with pencil, "To my Saxon Blonde." I was surprised and somewhat flattered, regarding it as a complimentary impromptu. But, on looking up his poetry in the library, I found the same verses printed years before:

"If bards of old the truth have told, The sirens had raven hair; But ever since the earth had birth, They paint the angels fair."

Probably that was a habit with him.

When a friend joked him about his very-much-at-home manner at the United States Hotel at Saratoga, where he went every year, saying as they sat together on the upper piazza, "Why, Saxe, I should fancy you owned this hotel," he rose, and lounging against one of the pillars answered, "Well, I have a 'lien' on this piazza."

His epigrams are excellent. He has made more and better than any American poet. In Dodd's large collection of the epigrams of the world, I think there are six at least from Saxe. Let me quote two:

AN EQUIVOCAL APOLOGY

Quoth Madame Bas-Bleu, "I hear you have said Intellectual women are always your dread; Now tell me, dear sir, is it true?"

"Why, yes," answered Tom, "very likely I may Have made the remark in a jocular way; But then on my honour, I didn't mean you!"

TOO CANDID BY HALF

As John and his wife were discoursing one day Of their several faults, in a bantering way, Said she, "Though my _wit_ you disparage, I'm sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest This much, at the least, that my judgment is best."

Quoth John, "So they said at our marriage."

When Saxe heard of a man in Chicago who threw his wife into a vat of boiling hog's lard, he remarked: "Now, that's what I call going too far with a woman."

After a railroad accident, in which he received some bruises, I said: "You didn't find riding on the rails so pleasant?" "Not riding on, but riding off the rail was the trouble."

He apostrophized the unusually pretty girl who at bedtime handed each guest a lighted candle in a candlestick. She fancied some of the fas.h.i.+onable young women snubbed her but Saxe a.s.sured her in rhyme:

"There is not a single one of them all Who could, if they would, hold a candle to you."

He was an inveterate punster. Miss Caroline Ticknor tells us how he used to lie on a couch in a back room at the Old Corner Bookstore in Boston, at a very early hour, and amuse the boys who were sweeping and dusting the store until one of the partners arrived. I believe he never lost a chance to indulge in a verbal quibble. "In the meantime, and 'twill be a very mean time."

I often regret that I did not preserve his comical letters, and those of Richard Grant White and other friends who were literary masters.

Mr. Grant White helped me greatly when I was doubtful about some literary question, saying he would do anything for a woman whose name was Kate. And a Dartmouth graduate, whom I asked for a brief story of Father Prout, the Irish poet and author, gave me so much material that it was the most interesting lecture of my season. He is now a most distinguished judge in Ma.s.sachusetts.

Saxe, like other humourists, suffered from melancholia at the last.

Too sad!

After giving a lecture in the chapel of Packer Inst.i.tute at the time I was with Mrs. Botta in New York, I was surprised to receive a call the next morning from Mr. Charles Storrs of 23 Monroe Place, Brooklyn, asking me to go to his house, and make use of his library, which he told me Horace Greeley had p.r.o.nounced the best working and reference library he had ever known. A great opportunity for anyone! Mr. Storrs was too busy a man to really enjoy his own library. Mrs. Storrs and Miss Edna Dean Proctor, who made her home with them, comprised his family, as his only daughter had married Miss Proctor's brother and lived in Peoria, Illinois. Mr. Storrs had made his own fortune, starting out by buying his "time" of his father and borrowing an old horse and pedlar's cart from a friend. He put into the cart a large a.s.sortment of Yankee notions, or what people then called "short goods," as stockings, suspenders, gloves, shoestrings, thread and needles, tape, sewing silk, etc. He determined to make his own fortune and succeeded royally for he became a "merchant prince." His was a rarely n.o.ble and generous nature with a heart as big as his brain.

Several of his large rooms downstairs were crammed with wonderfully beautiful and precious things which his soul delighted in picking up, in ivory, jade, bronze, and gla.s.s. He was so devotedly fond of music that at great expense he had a large organ built which could be played by pedalling and pulling stops in and out, and sometimes on Sunday morning he would rise by half-past six, and be downstairs in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves hard at work, eliciting oratorio or opera music for his own delectation. A self-made man, "who did not wors.h.i.+p his creator." He was always singularly modest, although very decided in his opinions.

Men are asking of late who can be called educated. Certainly not a student of the ancient a.s.syrian or the mysteries of the Yogi, or the Baha, or the Buddhistic legends, when life is so brief and we must "act in the living present." But a man who has studied life and human nature as well as the best form of books, gained breadth and culture by wide travel, and is always ready for new truths, that man _is_ educated in the best sense, although entirely self-educated. Greeley used to say, "Charles Storrs is a great man."

Greeley used to just rest and enjoy himself at Mr. Storrs's home, often two weeks at a time, and liked to shut himself into that wonderful library to work or read. Once when he returned unexpectedly, the maid told Miss Proctor that Mr. Greeley had just come in from the rain and was quite wet, and there was no fire in the library. He did not at first care to change to Mr. Storrs's special den in the bas.e.m.e.nt. But Miss Proctor said "It is too cold here and your coat is quite wet." "Oh, I am used to that," he said plaintively. But his special desk was carried down to a room bright with an open fire, and he seemed glad to be cared for.

Whitelaw Reid was photographed with Greeley when he first came on from the West to take a good share of the responsibility of editing the _Tribune_. He stood behind Greeley's chair, and I noticed his hair was then worn quite long. But he soon attained the New York cut as well as the New York cult. Both Reid and John Hay were at that time frequent guests of Mr. Storrs, who never seemed weary of entertaining his friends. Beecher was one of his intimate acquaintances and they often went to New York together hunting for rare treasures.

I have several good stories about Mr. Greeley for which I am indebted to Miss Proctor who told them to me.

1. He used to write way up in a small attic in the _Tribune_ building, and seldom allowed anyone to interrupt him. Some man, who was greatly disgusted over one of Greeley's editorials, climbed up to his sanctum, and as soon as his head showed above the railing, he began to rave and rage, using the most lurid style of profanity. It seemed as if he never would stop, but at last, utterly exhausted and out of breath and all used up, he waited for a reply.

Greeley kept on writing, never having looked up once. This was too much to be endured, and the caller turned to go downstairs, when Greeley called out: "Come back, my friend, come back, and free your mind."

2. Mr. Greeley once found that one of the names in what he considered an important article on the Board of Trade had been incorrectly printed. He called Rooker, the head man in the printing department, and asked fiercely what man set the type for this printing, showing him the mistake. Rooker told him, and went to get the culprit, whom Greeley said deserved to be kicked. But when he came, he brought Mr.

Greeley's article in his own writing, and showed him that the mistake was his own. Mr. Greeley acknowledged he was the guilty one, and begging the man's pardon, added, "Tom Rooker, come here and kick _me_ quick."

3. Once when Greeley was making one of his frequent visits to Mr. and Mrs. Storrs, the widow of the minister who used to preach at Mansfield, Connecticut, when Mr. Storrs was a boy, had been invited by him to spend a week. She was a timid little woman, but she became so shocked at several things that Greeley had said or written in his paper that she inquired of Miss Proctor if she thought Mr. Greeley would allow her to ask him two or three questions.

Miss Proctor found him in the dining-room, the floor strewn with exchange papers, and having secured his consent, ushered in the lady.

She told me afterward that she heard the poor little questioner speak with a rising inflection only two or three times. But Mr. Greeley was always ready to answer at length and with extreme earnestness. He said afterwards: "Why that woman is way back in the Middle Ages."

When she came away from the interview, she seemed excited and dazed, not noticing anyone, but dashed upstairs to her room, closed the door, and never afterward alluded to her attempt to modify Mr. Greeley's views.

4. A little girl who was visiting Mr. Storrs said: "It would never do for Mr. Greeley to go to Congress, he would make such a slitter-slatter of the place."

Miss Proctor published _A Russian Journey_ after travelling through that country; has published a volume of poems, and has made several appeals in prose and verse for the adoption of the Indian corn as our national emblem. She is also desirous to have the name of Mount Rainier changed to Tacoma, its original Indian name, and has a second book of poems ready for the press.

When I first met her at the home of Mrs. Storrs, I thought her one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen--of the Andalusian type--dark hair and l.u.s.trous starry eyes, beautiful features, perfect teeth, a slender, willowy figure, and a voice so musical that it would lure a bird from the bough. She had a way all her own of "telling" you a poem. She was perfectly natural about it, a recitative semi-tone yet full of expression and dramatic breadth, at times almost a chant. With those dark and glowing eyes looking into mine, I have listened until I forgot everything about me, and was simply spellbound. Mr. Fields described Tennyson's reciting his own poems in much the same way.

Whittier once said to a friend, "I consider Miss Proctor one of the best woman poets of the day," and then added, "But why do I say _one_ of the best; why not _the_ best?"

Miss Proctor has always been glad to a.s.sist any plan of mine, and wrote a poem especially for my Christmas book, _Purple and Gold_. Mr.

Osgood, the publisher, when I showed him the poem, said, "But how do I know that the public will care for your weeds?" (referring to the asters and goldenrod). He said later: "The instant popularity and large sale of that booklet attested the happiness of Miss Sanborn's selection, and the kind contributions from her friends." Miss Proctor's contribution was the first poem in the book and I venture to publish it as it has never been in print since the first sale. My friend's face is still beautiful, her mind is as active as when we first met, her voice has lost none of its charm, and she is the same dear friend as of yore.

GOLDENROD AND ASTERS

The goldenrod, the goldenrod, That glows in sun or rain, Waving its plumes on every bank From the mountain slope to the main,-- Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine, Nor b.u.t.tercups, gems of summer, Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white, Can rival this latest comer!

On the plains and the upland pastures Such regal splendour falls When forth, from myriad branches green, Its gold the south wind calls,-- That the tale seems true the red man's G.o.d Lavished its bloom to say, "Though days grow brief and suns grow cold, My love is the same for aye."

And, darker than April violets Or pallid as wind-flowers grow, Under its shades from hill to meadow Great beds of asters blow.-- Oh plots of purple o'erhung with gold That need nor walls nor wardens, Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen, Her Babylonian gardens!

On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay, And England's lanes and fallows Are decked with broom whose winsome grace The hovering linnet hallows; But the robin sings from his maple bow, "Ah, linnet, lightly won, Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold Is the wan moon to the sun!"

And were I to be a bride at morn, Ere the chimes rang out I'd say, "Not roses red, but goldenrod Strew in my path today!

And let it brighten the dusky aisle, And flame on the altar-stair, Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood The solemn dimness there."

And should I sleep in my shroud at eve, Not lilies pale and cold, But the purple asters of the wood Within my hand I'd hold;-- For goldenrod is the flower of love That time and change defies; And asters gleam through the autumn air With the hues of Paradise!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.