Memories and Anecdotes Part 6

Through the kind suggestions of Mrs. Botta, I was asked to give talks on literary matters at the house of one of New York's most influential citizens. This I enjoyed immensely. Soon the large drawing-rooms were too small for the numbers who came. Next we went to the Young Women's Christian a.s.sociation, to the library there, and later I decided to engage the church parlours in Doctor Howard Crosby's Church, Fourth Avenue and Twenty-second Street, New York. When I realized my audacious venture, I was frightened. Ten lectures had been advertised and some not written!

On the day for my first lecture the rain poured down, and I felt sure of a failure. My sister went with me to the church. As we drew near I noticed a string of carriages up and down the avenue. "There must be a wedding or a funeral," I whispered, feeling more in the mood of the latter, but never dreaming how much those carriages meant to me. As I went timidly into the room I found nearly every seat full, and was greeted with cordial applause. My sister took a seat beside me. My subject was "Spinster Authors of England." My hands trembled so visibly that I laid my ma.n.u.script on the table, but after getting in magnetic touch with those before me, I did not mind.

The reading occupied only one hour, and afterwards I was surrounded by New Hamps.h.i.+re women and New Yorkers who congratulated me warmly. There were reporters sent from seven of the best daily papers, whom I found sharpening their pencils expectantly. They gave correct and complimentary notices, and my success was now a.s.sured.

Mr. James T. Fields not only advised his New York friends to hear me, but came himself, bringing my father who was deeply gratified. Mr.

Fields told father that I had a remarkably choice audience, among the best in the city. My father had felt very deeply, even to tears, the sharp, narrow and adverse criticism of one of his a.s.sociates who considered that I uns.e.xed myself by daring to speak in public, and who advised strongly against encouraging me in such unwomanly behaviour.

I was a pioneer as a lecturer on literature quite unconsciously, for I had gone along so gradually that I did not realize it--taken up and set down in a new place with no planning on my part.

Invited by many of the citizens of Hanover, New Hamps.h.i.+re, my old home, to go there and give my lecture on "Lady Morgan," the Irish novelist, for the purpose of purchasing a new carpet for the Congregational Church, I was surprised to feel again the same stern opposition; I was not permitted to speak in the church, but immediately was urged to accept the large recitation hall of the Scientific School. It was crowded to the doors and the college boys climbed up and swarmed about the windows. The carpet, a dark red ingrain, was bought, put down, and wore well for years.

Now came a busy life. I was asked to lecture in many places near New York, always in delightful homes. Had a cla.s.s of married ladies at the home of Dr. J.G. Holland, where I gave an idea of the newest books.

Doctor Holland gave me a department, "Bric-a-brac," in his magazine--_Scribner's Magazine_; and I was honoured by a request from the editors of the _Galaxy_ to take the "Club Room" from which Mark Twain had just resigned. Meeting him soon after at a dinner, he said with his characteristic drawl: "Awful solemn, ain't it, having to be funny every month; worse than a funeral." I started a cla.s.s in my own apartment to save time for ladies who wanted to know about the most interesting books as they were published, but whose constant engagements made it impossible to read them entirely for themselves. I suggested to the best publishers to send me copies of their attractive publications which I would read, condense, and then talk them over with these friends. All were glad to aid me. Their books were piled on my piano and tables, and many were sold. I want to say that such courtesy was a rare compliment. I used to go to various book stores, asking permission to look over books at a special reading table, and never met a refusal. I fear in these days of aiding the war sufferers, and keeping our bodies limber and free from rheumatism by daily dancing, this plan would not find patrons.

I was often "browsing," as they call it, at the Mercantile Library. At first I would sit down and give the names of volumes desired. That took too long. At last I was allowed to go where I liked and take what I wanted. I sent a pair of handsome slippers at Christmas to the man who had been my special servitor. He wrote me how he admired them and wished he could wear them, but alas! his feet had both been worn to a stub long ago from such continuous running and climbing to satisfy my seldom-satisfied needs. He added that several of the errand boys had become permanently crippled from over-exertion. I then understood why he had married a famous woman doctor. It is hard to get the books asked for in very large libraries. Once I was replying to an attack on Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps's style by Miss Dodge, well known under the pen name Gail Hamilton, and I gave this order: "Complete works of Miss Abigail Dodge--and please hurry." After intolerable waiting, two boys appeared looking very weary, bearing the many sermons and heavy memoirs of the Reverend Narcissus Dodge.

In my special cla.s.s at home I begged my friends to ask questions in an off-hand way, and to comment upon my opinions. That was stimulating to all. One morning my theme was "Genius and Talent." I said Genius was something beyond--outside of--ourselves, which achieved great results with small exertion. Not by any means was it a bit of shoemakers'

wax in the seat of one's chair (as Anthony Trollope put it). Talent must work hard and constantly for development. I said: "Genius is inspiration; Talent is perspiration." I had never heard that definition and thought it was mine. Of late it has been widely quoted, but with no acknowledgment, so I still think it is mine. Are there any other claimants--and prior to 1880?

There were many questions and decided differences of opinion. At last one lady said: "Please give us examples of men who possess genius rather than talent." As she spoke, the door opened, and in walked Mrs. Edmund Clarence Stedman, wife of the poet, and with her a most distinguished-looking woman, Mrs. William Whitney. I was a little embarra.s.sed, but replied sweetly, "Sheets and Kelley," meaning "Keats and Sh.e.l.ley." Then followed a wild laugh in which I joined.

Dr. John Lord once told me he had a similar shock. He spoke of "Westford and Oxminster," instead of "Oxford and Westminster," and never again could he get it correctly, try as he would. Neither his twist nor mine was quite as bad as that of the speaker who said: "I feel within me a half-warmed fish; I mean a half-formed wish."

All genius [continued Lady Henrietta], whether it is artistic, or literary, or spiritual, is something given from outside. I once heard genius described as knowing by intuition what other people know by experience.

Something, or, I should say, somebody, for it involves intelligence and knowledge, tells you these things, and you just can't help expressing them in your own particular way, with brush, or pen, or voice, whatever your individual instrument may be.

From _Patricia_ by Hon. Mrs. ROBERT HAMILTON.

It was a pleasure to see that my theory of Genius was the same as Lady Henrietta's in that charming book _Patricia_. I have enough collected on that subject to give me s.h.i.+vers of amazement as I read the ma.s.s of testimony. The mystery of Inspiration has always enthralled me.

I was invited to so many evenings "at home," dinners and luncheons, that I decided to reciprocate and be surely at home on Tuesday evenings. These affairs were very informal and exceedingly enjoyable.

There were many who gladly entertained us by their accomplishments.

Champney the artist, sent after blackboard and chalk, and did wonderfully clever things. Some one described a stiff and stupid reception where everyone seemed to have left themselves at home. Those who came to me brought their best. Mrs. Barnard, wife of President Barnard of Columbia College, urged me to give three lectures in her parlour. I could not find the time, but her house was always open to me. To know Mr. Barnard was a great privilege. When called to Columbia, it was apparently dying from starvation for new ideas, and stagnant from being too conservative and deep in set grooves. His plans waked up the sleepers and brought constant improvements. Though almost entirely deaf, he was never morose or depressed, but always cheerful and courageous. I used to dine with them often. Tubes from each guest extended into one through which he could hear quite well.

He delighted in discussion of current events, historical matters, politics of the day, and was apparently well informed on every question. Unlike Harriet Martineau, who always put down her trumpet when anyone dared to disagree with her opinions, he delighted in a friendly controversy with anyone worthy of his steel. He fought with patience and persistence for the rights of women to have equal education with men, and at last gained his point, but died before Barnard College was in existence. Every student of Barnard ought to realize her individual indebtedness to this great educator, regarding him as the champion of women and their patron saint.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE]

He was blessed in his home life. Mrs. Barnard was his s.h.i.+eld, suns.h.i.+ne, and strength.

Studio, 1271 Broadway, corner 32d Street.

April 8, 1887.

DEAR MISS SANBORN:

I send you "Ovis Montana" or Mountain Sheep, who never enjoyed the daily papers or devoured a sc.r.a.p of poetry. The only civilized thing he ever did was to give his life for a piece of cold lead and got swindled at that.

To be grafted in your Alb.u.m is immortality.

Sincerely yours, ALBERT BIERSTADT.

This gift was a big surprise to me. I was then corresponding with two Boston papers and one in the West. I thought it discourteous in the artists of the new Impressionist school, to sneer a little at Bierstadt's great paintings, as if he could ever be set back as a bye-gone or a has-been. And it gave me great pleasure to say so. I sent several letters to him, and one day I received a card asking me to call at his studio to look over some sketches. He said he wanted me to help him to select a sketch out of quite a pile on the table, as he wished to make a painting of one for a friend. I a.s.sured him I did not know enough to do that, but he insisted he was so busy that I must tell him which I thought would be most effective. I looked at every one, feeling quite important, and at last selected the Mountain Sheep poised on a high peak in a striking pose. A rare sight then.

At Christmas that splendid picture painted by Bierstadt was sent to our apartment for me. Never before had I received such appreciation for my amateur scribbling.

Ah, me! I was both complimented and proud. But my humiliation soon came. When I called to thank the kind donor and speak of the fine frame the mountain big-horn was now in, I was surprised to have Mr.

Bierstadt present to me a tall, distinguished-looking foreigner as Munkacsy, the well-known Hungarian artist. He was most cordial, saying in French that he was glad to meet an American woman who could doubtless answer many questions he was anxious to ask. I could only partially get his meaning, so Bierstadt translated it to me. And I, who could read and translate French easily, had never found time to learn to chat freely in any language but my own. I could have cried right there; it was so mortifying, and I was losing such a pleasure. I had the same pathetic experience with a Russian artist, Verestchagin, whose immense picture, revealing the horrors of war, was then on exhibition in New York.

Again and again I have felt like a dummy, if not an idiot, in such a position. I therefore beg all young persons to determine to speak and write at least one language beside their own.

Tom Hood wrote:

"Never go to France Unless you know the lingo If you do, like me, You'll repent by jingo."

But it's even worse to be unable in your own country to greet and talk with guests from other countries.

I should like to see the dead languages, as well as Saxon and Sanscrit, made elective studies every where; also the higher mathematics, mystic metaphysics, and studies of the conscious and subconscious, the ego and non-ego, matters of such uncertain study.

When one stops to realize the tragic brevity of life on this earth, and to learn from statistics what proportion of each generation dies in infancy, in childhood, in early maturity, and how few reach the Biblical limit of life, it seems unnecessary to regard a brain-wearying "curriculum" as essential or even sensible. Taine gives us in his work on English Literature a Saxon description of life: "A bird flying from the dark, a moment in the light, then swiftly pa.s.sing out into the darkness beyond."

And really why do we study as if we were to rival the ante-diluvians in age. Then wake up to the facts. I have been a.s.sured, by those who know, that but a small proportion of college graduates are successful or even heard of. They appear at commencement, sure that they are to do great things, make big money, at least marry an heiress; they are turned out like b.u.t.tons, only to find out how hard it is to get anything to do for good pay. One multi-millionaire of Boston, whose first wages he told me were but four dollars a month, said there was no one he so dreaded to see coming into his office as a college man who must have help,--seldom able to write a legible hand, or to add correctly a column of figures. There is solid food for thought.

Lowell said that "great men come in cl.u.s.ters." That is true, but it is equally true that once in a great while, we are vouchsafed a royal guest, a man who mingles freely with the ordinary throng, yet stands far above them; a man who can wrest the primal secrets from nature's closed hand, who makes astounding discoveries, only to gladly disclose them to others.

Such an unusual genius was Professor Robert Ogden Doremus, whose enthusiasm was only matched by his modesty. In studying what he accomplished, I wonder whether he was not sent from the central yet universal "powers that be" to give us answers to some of the riddles of life; or had he visited so many planets further advanced than our own--for as Jean Paul Richter wrote "There is no end"--that he had learned that the supposedly impossible could be done. He a.s.sisted John W. Draper in taking the first photograph of the human face ever made.

Science with him was never opposed to religion. His moving pictures and spectral a.n.a.lysis were almost miracles at that time. He delighted to show how the earth in forming was flattened at the poles, and he would ill.u.s.trate the growth of the rings of Saturn. As a lecturer he was a star, the only chemist and scientist to offer experiments. His lectures were always attended by crowds of admirers. As a toxicologist he was marvellous in his accuracy; no poisoner could escape his exact a.n.a.lysis. His compressed cartridges, made waterproof and coated with collodion, were used in the blasting operations at the Mont Cenis tunnel through eight miles of otherwise impenetrable stone, solid Alpine rock, between France and Italy.

When the obelisk in Central Park showed signs of serious decay, he saved the hieroglyphics by ironing it with melted parafine. He makes us think of the juggler who can keep a dozen b.a.l.l.s in the air as if it were an easy trick, never dropping one.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PROFESSOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS]

But I forget to give my own memories of Dr. and Mrs. Doremus in their delightful home on Fourth Avenue between 18th and 19th Streets,--a home full of harmony, melody, peace, and love. Vincenzo Botta called Dr. Doremus the "Maecenas of New York," and his beautiful wife, the ideal wife and mother, was named by her adoring husband the "queen of women." Mrs. Doremus was prominent in New York's various societies and charities, but the interests of her own family came first. One of her sons said: "She never neglected her children; we were always loved and well cared for." Both Dr. Doremus and his wife were devoted to music, always of the best. He was the first president of the Philharmonic Society who was not a musician by profession. All the preceding presidents had been selected from the active musicians in the society. One evening he was serenaded by the Philharmonic Society under the leaders.h.i.+p of Carl Bergman, the recently elected president of the society. After the cla.s.sic music had ceased, Dr. Doremus appeared and thanked the society for the compliment. All were invited into the house, where a bountiful collation was served and speeches made. If you could see the photograph of the Philharmonic Society serenading Dr. and Mrs. Doremus at their home, you would get a rare insight into the old New York life, as compared with the present, in which such a thing would be impossible. He said that his mother used to take a cup of tea at the Battery afternoons with her sons.

He was a lifelong friend of Christine Nilsson whom he considered the greatest vocal and dramatic genius of the age. He wrote: "Never did mortal woman sing as she sang that simple song that begins:

'Angels, Angels, bright and fair, Take, O take me to thy care!'"

I saw Nilsson and Parepa introduced there, who were to sail on the same steamer in a few days. Nilsson made the banjo fas.h.i.+onable in New York society, accompanying herself charmingly. All the famous opera singers regarded the house of Dr. Doremus a place where they were thoroughly at home, and always welcome. Ole Bull was for many years his most devoted friend. Dr. Doremus writes:

I recall that once when I was dining with Ole Bull, at the house of a friend, our host said: 'Doctor, I don't think much of Ole Bull's fiddling; you know what I mean--I don't think much of his fiddling as compared with his great heart.'

Mr. Edwin Booth, once walking with me, dropped my arm and exclaimed with a dramatic gesture: "Ole Bull wasn't a man--he was a G.o.d!"

The last time I had the privilege of listening to Ole Bull's witchery with his violin, he gave an hour to Norwegian folk-songs, his wife at the piano. She played with finish, feeling, and restraint. She first went through the air, then he joined in with his violin with indescribable charm. Critics said he lacked technique. I am glad he did: his music went straight to the heart. At the last he told us he would give the tune always played after a wedding when the guests had stayed long enough--usually three days--and their departure was desired. We were to listen for one shrill note which was imperative.