Memories and Anecdotes Part 7

No one would care or dare to remain after that.

Dr. Doremus showed me one evening a watch he was wearing, saying:

In Ole Bull's last illness when he no longer had strength to wind his watch, he asked his wife to wind it for him, and then send it to his best friend, saying: 'I want it to go ticking from my heart to his.'

That watch magnetized by human love pa.s.sing through it is now in the possession of Arthur Lispenard Doremus, to whom it was left by his father. It had to be wound by a key in the old fas.h.i.+on, and it ran in perfect time for twenty-nine years. Then it became worn and was sent to a watchmaker for repairs. It is still a reliable timekeeper, quite a surprising story, as the greatest length of time before this was twenty-four years for a watch to run.

I think of these rare souls, Ole Bull and Dr. Doremus, as reunited, and with their loved ones advancing to greater heights, constantly receiving new revelations of omnipotent power, which "it is not in the heart of man to conceive."

LINES

Read at the Celebration of the Seventieth Birthday of DOCTOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS, January 11th, 1894, at 241 Madison Avenue, by LUTHER R. MARSH.

What shall be said for good Doctor Doremus?

To speak of him well, it well doth beseem us.

Not one single fault, through his seventy years, Has ever been noticed by one of his peers.

How flawless a life, and how useful withal!

Fulfilling his duties at every call!

Come North or come South, come East or come West, He ever is ready to work for the best.

In Chemics, the Doctor stands first on the list; The nature, he knows, of all things that exist.

He lets loose the spirits of earth, rock or water, And drives them through solids, cemented with mortar.

How deftly he handles the retort and decanter!

Makes lightning and thunder would scare Tam O'Shanter; Makes feathers as heavy as lead, in a jar, And eliminates spirits from coal and from tar.

By a touch of his finger he'll turn lead or tin To invisible gas, and then back again; He will set them aflame, as in the last day, When all things are lit by the Sun's hottest ray.

With oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen,--all-- No gas can resist his imperative call-- He'll solidify, liquefy, or turn into ice; Or all of them re-convert, back in a trice.

Amid oxides and alkalies, bromides and salts, He makes them all dance in a chemical waltz; And however much he with acids may play, There's never a drop stains his pure mortal clay.

He well knows what things will affect one another; What acts as an enemy, and what as a brother; He feels quite at home with all chemic affinities, And treats them respectfully, as mystic Divinities.

His wisdom is spread from far Texas to Maine; For thousands on thousands have heard him explain The secrets of Nature, and all her arcana, From the youth of the Gulf, to the youth of Montana.

In Paris, Doremus may compress'd powder compound, Or, at home, wrap the Obelisk with paraffine round; Or may treat Toxicology ever anew, To enrich the bright students of famous Bellevue.

He believes in the spirits of all physical things, And can make them fly round as if they had wings; But ask him to show you the Spirit of Man-- He hesitates slightly, saying, "See!--if you can."

Wherever he comes there always is cheer; If absent, you miss him; you're glad when he's near; His voice is a trumpet that stirreth the blood; You feel that he's cheery, and you know that he's good.

No doors in the city have swung open so wide, To artists at home, and to those o'er the tide; As, to Mario, Sontag, Badiali, Marini, To Nilsson and Phillips, Rachel and Salvini.

Much, much does he owe, for the grace of his life, To the influence ever of his beautiful wife; She, so grand and so stately, so true and so kind, So lovely in person and so charming in mind!

I had the pleasure of being well acquainted with Mr. Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "funny man," who had homes in New York and Nantucket.

His slight stutter only added to the effect of his humorous talk. His letters to the New York _Tribune_ from Long Branch, Saratoga, etc., were widely read. He knew that he wrote absolute nonsense at times, but nonsense is greatly needed in this world, and exquisitely droll nonsensical nonsense is as uncommon as common sense. The t.i.tles of his various books are inviting and informing, as _Seaweed and What We Seed_. He wrote several parodies on sensational novels of his time.

_Griffith Gaunt_, he made fun of as "Liffith Lank"; _St. Elmo_, as "St. Twelmo." _A Wicked Woman_ was another absurd tale. But I like best a large volume, "_John Paul's Book_, moral and instructive, travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications, with several portraits of the author and other spirited engravings." This book was dedicated, "To the Bald-Headed, that n.o.ble and s.h.i.+ning army of martyrs." When you turn to look at his portrait, and the illuminated t.i.tle page, you find them not. The Frontispiece picture is upside down. The very ridiculosity of his easy daring to do or say anything is taking. He once wrote, in one of those trying books, with which we used to be bored stiff, with questions such as "What is your favourite hour of the day? He wrote dinner hour; what book not sacred would you part with last? My pocket-book. Your favourite motto? When you must,--you better." I especially liked the poem, "The Outside Dog in the Fight."

Here are two specimens of his prose:

The fish-hawk is not an eagle. Mountain heights and clouds he never scales; fish are more in his way, he scales them--possibly regarding them as scaly-wags. For my bird is pious; a stern conservator is he of the public morals. Last Sunday a frivolous fish was playing not far from the beach, and Dr. Hawk went out and stopped him. 'Tis fun to watch him at that sort of work--stopping play--though somehow it does not seem to amuse the fish much. Up in the air he poises pensively, hanging on hushed wings as though listening for sounds--maybe a fish's. By and by he hears a herring--is he hard of herring, think you? Then down he drops and soon has a Herring Safe. (Send me something, manufacturers, immediately.) Does he tear his prey from limb to limb? No, he merely sails away through the blue ether--how happy can he be with either!--till the limb whereon his own nest is built is reached. Does the herring enjoy that sort of riding, think you?

Quite as much, I should say, as one does hack-driving. From my point of view, the hawk is but the hackman of the air.

Sympathize with the fish? Not much. Nor would you if you heard the pitiful cry the hawk sets up the moment he finds that his claws are tangled in a fish's back. Home he flies to seek domestic consolation, uttering the while the weeping cry of a grieved child; there are tears in his voice, so you know the fish must be hurting him. The idea that a hawk can't fly over the water of an afternoon without some malicious fish jumping up and trying to bite him!

If a fish wants to cross the water safely, let him take a Fulton ferryboat for it. There he will find a sign reading:

"No Peddling or Hawking allowed in this cabin." Strange that hawking should be so sternly prohibited on boats which are mainly patronized by Brooklynites chronically afflicted with catarrh!

Never shall it be said that I put my hand to the plow and turned back. For that matter never shall it be said of me that I put hand to a plow at all, unless a plow should chase me upstairs and into the privacy of my bed-room, and then I should only put hand to it for the purpose of throwing it out of the window. The beauty of the farmer's life was never very clear to me. As for its boasted "independence," in the part of the country I came from, there was never a farm that was not mortgaged for about all it was worth; never a farmer who was not in debt up to his chin at "the store." Contented! When it rains the farmer grumbles because he can't hoe or do something else to his crops, and when it does not rain, he grumbles because his crops do not grow. Hens are the only ones on a farm that are not in a perpetual worry and ferment about "crops:"

they fill theirs with whatever comes along, whether it be an angleworm, a kernel of corn, or a small cobblestone, and give thanks just the same.

THE OUTSIDE DOG IN THE FIGHT

You may sing of your dog, your bottom dog, Or of any dog that you please, I go for the dog, the wise old dog, That knowingly takes his ease, And, wagging his tail outside the ring, Keeping always his bone in sight, Cares not a pin in his wise old head For either dog in the fight.

Not his is the bone they are fighting for, And why should my dog sail in, With nothing to gain but a certain chance To lose his own precious skin!

There may be a few, perhaps, who fail To see it in quite this light, But when the fur flies I had rather be The outside dog in the fight.

I know there are dogs--most generous dogs Who think it is quite the thing To take the part of the bottom dog, And go yelping into the ring.

I care not a pin what the world may say In regard to the wrong or right; My money goes as well as my song, For the dog that keeps out of the fight!

Mr. Webb, like Charles Lamb and the late Mr. Travers, stammered just enough to give piquancy to his conversation. To facilitate enunciation he placed a "g" before the letters which it was hard for him to p.r.o.nounce. We were talking of the many sad and sudden deaths from pneumonia, bronchitis, etc., during the recent spring season, and then of the insincerity of poets who sighed for death and longed for a summons to depart. He said in his deliciously slow and stumbling manner: "I don't want the ger-pneu-m-mon-ia. I'm in no ger-hurry to ger-go." Mrs. Webb's drawing-rooms were filled with valuable pictures and bronzes, and her Thursday Evenings at home were a delight to many.

How little we sometimes know of the real spirit and the inner life of some n.o.ble man or woman. Mrs. Hermann was a remarkable instance of this. I thought I was well acquainted with Mrs. Esther Hermann, who, in her home, 59 West fifty-sixth Street New York, was always entertaining her many friends. Often three evenings a week were given to doing something worth while for someone, or giving opportunity for us to hear some famous man or woman speak, who was interested in some great project. And her refreshments, after the hour of listening was over, were of the most generous and delicious kind. Hers was a lavish hospitality. It was all so easily and quietly done, that no one realized that those delightful evenings were anything but play to her.

She became interested in me when I was almost a novice in the lecture field, gave me two benefits, invited those whom she thought would enjoy my talks, and might also be of service to me. There was never the slightest stiffness; if one woman was there for the first time, and a stranger, Mrs. Hermann and her daughters saw that there were plenty of introductions and an escort engaged to take the lady to the supper room. Mrs. Hermann in those early days, often took me to drive in the park--a great treat. We chatted merrily together, and I still fancied I knew her. But her own family did not know of her great benefactions; her son only knew by looking over her check books, after her death, how much she had given away. Far from blazoning it abroad, she insisted on secrecy. She invited Mr. Henry Fairfield Osborn to call, who was keenly interested in securing money to start a Natural History Museum, he bringing a friend with him. After they had owned that they found it impossible even to gain the first donation, she handed Mr. Osborn, after expressing her interest, a check for ten thousand dollars. At first he thought he would not open it in her presence, but later did so. He was amazed and said very gratefully: "Madam, I will have this recognized at once by the Society." She said: "I want no recognition. If you insist, I shall take back the envelope." Her daughter describes her enthusiasm one very stormy, cold Sunday. Stephen S. Wise, the famous rabbi, was advertised to preach in the morning at such a place. "Mother was there in a front seat early, eager to get every word of wisdom that fell from his lips." Mr. Wise spoke at the Free Synagogue Convention at three o'clock P.M. "Mother was there promptly again, in front, her dark eyes glowing with intense interest." At eight P.M. he spoke at another hall on the other side of the city, "Mother was there." At the close, Mr. Wise stepped down from the platform to shake hands with Mrs. Hermann, and said, "I am surprised at seeing you at these three meetings, and in such bad weather." She replied,

"Why should you be surprised; you were at all three, weren't you?"

She had a long life of perfect health and never paid the least attention to the worst of weather if she had a duty to perform.

There was something of the fairy G.o.dmother in this large-hearted woman, whose modesty equalled her generosity. She dropped gifts by the way, always eager to help, and anxious to keep out of sight. Mrs.

Hermann was one of those women who sow the seeds of kindness with a careless hand, and help to make waste places beautiful. She became deeply interested in education early in life, and her faith was evidenced by her work. She was one of the founders of Barnard College.

Her checks became very familiar to the treasurers of many educational enterprises. She was one of the patrons of the American a.s.sociation for the Advancement of Sciences, and many years ago gave one thousand dollars to aid the a.s.sociation. Since then she has added ten thousand dollars as a nucleus toward the erection of a building to be called the Academy of Science. With the same generous spirit she contributed ten thousand dollars to the Young Men's Hebrew a.s.sociation for educational purposes. It was for the purpose of giving teachers the opportunity of studying botany from nature, that she gave ten thousand dollars to the Botanical Garden in the Bronx.

Her knowledge of the great need for a technical school for Jewish boys preyed on her mind at night so that she could not sleep, and she felt it was wrong to be riding about the city when these boys could be helped. She sold her carriages and horses, walked for three years instead of riding, and sent a large check to start the school. It is pleasant to recall that the boys educated there have turned out wonderfully well, some of them very clever electricians.

I could continue indefinitely naming the acts of generosity of this n.o.ble woman, but we have said enough to show why her many friends desired to express their appreciation of her sterling virtues, and their love for the gentle lady, whose kindness has given happiness to countless numbers. To this end, some of her friends planned to give her a a testimonial, and called together representatives from the hundred and twenty-five different clubs and organizations of which she was a member, to consider the project. This suggestion was received with such enthusiasm that a committee was appointed who arranged a fitting tribute worthy of the occasion.

The poem with which I close my tribute to my dear friend, Mrs.

Hermann, is especially fitting to her beautiful life. Her family, even after they were all married and in happy homes of their own, were expected by the mother every Sunday evening. These occasions were inexpressibly dear to her warm heart, devoted to her children and grandchildren. But owing to her reticence she was even to them really unknown.

I had given at first many more instances of her almost daily ministrations but later this seemed to be in direct opposition to her oft-expressed wish for no recognition of her gifts. "We are spirits clad in veils," but of Mrs. Hermann this was especially true and I love her memory too well not to regard her wishes as sacred.

GNOSIS