II.
“Ladies’ Night.—The Papyrus Club request the pleasure of the company of Miss Ellen Terry at the Revere House, December 15th, at six o’clock. Boston, 1883. Please reply to J. T. Wheelwright, 39 Court street.”[29]
Thus ran the invitation, which was adorned with a miniature view of the Pyramids in a decorative setting of the reed that is familiar to travellers in the Nile valley.
Miss Terry concluded to accept, and I had the honor of being her escort. The handsome rooms of the Revere House that were devoted to the service of the club on this occasion were crowded with ladies and gentlemen when we arrived. Among the guests in whom Miss Terry was especially interested were Mrs. Burnett, the author of “Joan” and other remarkable novels; Miss Noble, the author of “A Reverend Idol”; Miss Fay, Mrs. John Lillie, Mrs. Washburne, and other ladies known to the world of letters. She was surrounded for a long time by changing groups of ladies and gentlemen, who were presented in a pleasant, informal way by Mr. Babbitt, the president of the club, and other of its officers.
The dinner was a dainty repast (one of the special dishes was a “baked English turbot with brown sauce.”) The details of it were printed upon a photographic card which represented the loving-cup, punch-bowl, Papyrus’ manuscripts, gavel, pen and ink, and treasure-box of the institution.
During dinner Miss Terry was called upon to sign scores of the menu cards with her autograph. Upon many of them she scribbled poetic couplets, Shakespearian and otherwise, and on others quaint, appropriate lines of her own. She captivated the women, all of them. It is easier for a clever woman to excite the admiration of her sex in America than in England. A woman who adorns and lifts the feminine intellect into notice in America excites the admiration rather than the jealousy of her sisters. American women seem to make a higher claims upon the respect and attention of men than belongs to the ambitious English women, and when one of them rises to distinction they all go up with her. They share in her fame; they do not try to dispossess her of the lofty place upon which she stands. There is a sort of trades-unionism among the women of America in this respect. They hold together in a ring against the so-called lords of creation; and the men are content to accept what appears to be a happy form of petticoat government. So the women of Boston took Ellen Terry to their arms and made much of her.
After dinner the President expressed, in quaint terms, the club’s welcome of its guests, and the Secretary read the following official and authorized
REPORT OF THE LAST MEETING.
Scene.—The Banqueting Hall of the Papyrus Club. The members, reclining in the Roman fashion, sip the cool Falernian from richly-chased pateræ, while the noiseless attendants remove the wild Etrusian boar (the only one in the club). The President raps sharply upon the table with his gavel.
Spurius Lartius (a provincial guest from a hamlet called New York).—Truly, Marcenas, the ruler of the feast is a goodly youth; a barbarian by his golden beard, I ween.
Marcenas (a literary member of the club, who derives his income, in whole or in part, from the fact that his father is working.)—“Non Anglus sed Angelus.” Perhaps, some day. But, mark, he is calling upon a player for a speech, one of a strolling band which hath of late amused the town.
Spurius Lartius.—Me herculi. ‘Tis Wyndham. I have seen him oft in Terence’s comedy, “Pink Dominoes.”
Wyndham arises, pulls down his tunic, and makes a neat speech. (Cheers and applause.)
The President.—Gentlemen, we have among us to-night an inspired Prophet; the Chronicler of the Gospel’s according to St. Benjamin.
The Prophet arises, takes a stone tablet from his waistcoat-pocket, and reads
The Gospel according to St. Benjamin.
Chapter xiv.
1. And lo! it was the fall of the year, and the greatest fall was that of Benjamin.
2. And his lyre was hushed.
3. Yet he stretched his hand out unto the people and cried, “Lo, I like this! I would rather be put under the people, having the suffrages of a hundred and fifty thousand, than be put over them with the suffrages of a hundred and thirty-five thousand.”
4. And the people smote their knees and laughed, and cried “If thou likest it, Benjamin, so we do, also. Go to, and write a Thanksgiving proclamation.”
5. And he did.
(The stone tablet falls upon a finger-bowl with a crash, and the club votes that the Chronicles be printed at the Prophets expense.)
Spurius Lartius.—But who is this man, that arises with flashing eye and curling lip? Mayhap he is a Kelt.
Marcenas.—He is a Kelt, from Keltville, and a poet to boot.
The Poet arises and reads
A BUNCH OF ROSES.
Sweet rose! In thee the summer bides;
Thy deep, red breast a secret hides,
Which none may know but only she
Whose eyes are stars lit up for me.
Red rose! Unto her sweetly speak,
And glow against her burning cheek;
Ah! breathe this in her shell-like ear,—
“Thou makest it summer all the year.”
Spurius Lartius.—I should imagine the rose to be a waiter, from the instruction to “breathe in her shell-like ear.”
Poet.—A moment. There is a third stanza to this poem, written on receiving the florist’s bill:—
Great Scott! List to my heart’s dull thud!
Thou hast a dollar cost a bud.
She is now my rival’s bride;
Again I’ll wear that ulster tried.
The President.—And now the gentleman at the end of the long table will tell one of his inimitable anecdotes.
The Gentleman at the End of the Long Table.—Trade is so dull now that the anecdote market is overstocked. The bon-mot and jest mills are rolling up their products; but middlemen are cautious, and consumers wary. The stock of last year’s “chestnuts”[30] is being worked off; and I have one, a little shop-worn, which I have dusted for the occasion:—
The Fable of the Inquisitive old Broker and the Queer Bundle.
An inquisitive old broker noticed a queer bundle upon the lap of a man sitting opposite him in the horse-car. He looked at the bundle, in wonder as to what it might contain, for some minutes; finally, overmastered by curiosity, he inquired:—
“Excuse me, sir; but would you mind telling me what is in that extraordinary bundle?”
“Certainly; a mongoose,” replied the man, who was reading “Don’t,” and learning how to be a real, true gentleman.
“Ah, indeed!” ejaculated the broker, with unslacked curiosity.... “But what is a mongoose, pray?”
“Something to kill snakes with.”
“But why do you wish to kill snakes with a mongoose?” asked the broker.
“My brother has the delirum tremens and sees snakes all the time. I am going to fix ‘em.”
“But, my dear sir, the snakes which your brother sees in his delirium are not real snakes, but the figments of his diseased imagination,—not real snakes, sir!”
“Well! this is not a real mongoose.”—Moral. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.
Spurius Lartius.—I always liked that story. My father used to tell it.
Marcenas.—Hush, Spurius; the club Vers de société writer is about to favor us.
The Club Vers de Société Writer.—I have, in my pocket, some dainty verses. I have long written rondeaux, triolets, and pantouns.
I have, however, lately invented two new metres.
The first is called a “cabriolet,” and the other is a combination of a pantoun and a triolet, called a pantalet.
I will read them to you if you will be very, very still, for they are as delicate as porcelain:—
A BRITON’S WAIL IN NEW YORK CITY.
(A Cabriolet.)
I hired me a hack,
I cried out “Alack!”
I must dine upon bread;
I gave up my purse.
Never ride in a hack
Unless you are dead;
Then ride in a hearse,
Lying flat on your back.
I hired me a hack!
I would I were dead!
“PELLUCID HER EYE.”
(A Pantalet.)
But, oh! I was dry,
And the starved dancers crushed,
Till my shirt-front was mushed.
The champagne was dry—
I cannot say why;
But the night-bird was hushed,
Yet the throstle-wits thrushed—
I cannot say why;
(The champagne was dry).
Ah, pellucid her eye!
And her oval cheek flushed
Like a strawberry crushed.
How pellucid her eye!
I cannot say why—
(The champagne was dry).
I sighed, “Let us fly!”
She smiled not nor gushed,
But from me she rushed.
Maphap I seemed “fly”
The wine was quite dry.
But pellucid her eye,
I cannot say why.
This report having been voted correct, and ordered to be inscribed on the minutes, Mr. Howard M. Ticknor then recited, with excellent elocutionary point, the following “Greeting to Ellen Terry”:—
“Honor,” said Cassius, “is my story’s theme.”
Honor shall best my verse to-night beseem.
For some, how safe, how permanent, how sure!
Written in characters that will endure,
Until this world begins to melt away
And crumble to its ultimate decay.
The picture fades; but color still is there,
Even in ruin is the statue fair;
The province won, the city burnt or built,
The inwrought consequence of good or guilt,
Shape after epochs to time’s latest span,
And link enduringly a man to man.
But he who is himself artist and art,
Whose greatest works are of himself a part;
Who, sculptor, moulds his hand, his form, his face;
Who, painter, on the air his lines must trace;
Musician, make an instrument his voice,
And tell, not write, the melody of his choice;
Whose eloquence of gesture, pose and eye
Flashes aglow, in instant dark to die;—
Where are for him the honor and the fame?
A face on canvas, and perhaps a name
Extolled awhile, and then an empty word
At sound of which no real thrill is stirred.
What, then, shall recompense his loss? What make
Atonement for the ignorant future’s sake?
What but the tribute of his honor now,
The native wreath to deck his living brow?
Then, as he passes beyond the mortal ken,
His glory shall go with him even then,
Not as a hope, a doubt, and a desire,
But as a spark of his own living fire,
Of his eternal self a priceless part,
Eternal witness to his mind and heart.
And so, to-night, when she who comes from far
To show in one what many women are,
Sits at our board, and makes our evening shine,
Breaks bread with us, and pledges in our wine,
Let us be quick to honor in our guest
So many a phase of life by her expressed.
Portia’s most gracious, yet submissive word—
“You are my king, my governor, my lord;”
Her courage, dignity, and force,
Warning the Jew that justice shall have course;
The trenchant wit of Beatrice, and her pride,
Her loyalty as friend, her faith as bride;
Letitia’s stratagems; the tragic fate
Of sweet Ophelia, crushed by madness’ weight.
How many chords of happiness or woe,
Her lips that quiver and her cheeks that glow;
Her speech now clear, now clouded, and her eyes
Filling by turns with anguish, mirth, surprise—
Can wake to throb, again to rest can still—
Potent her power as Prospero’s magic will!
Present alone is hers—alone is ours,
Now, while she plants, must we, too, cull the flowers?
For future wreaths she has no time to wait;
Unready now, they are for aye too late.
Now is the moment our regard to show,
Let every face with light of welcome glow;
Let smiles shine forth, glad words be spoken;
Formality for once be broken.
Let hand strike hand, let kerchiefs wave,
Keep not her laurels for her grave;
Twine our proud chaplet for her fair, smooth brow,
And bid her take our share of tribute now;
Then shall it be a recollection dear,
That we to-night greet Ellen Terry here!