C.K.S. AND U.S.A.
The news that our own and only C.K.S.—the "Great Clem of Literature," and the "Wee Cham of Literature," as he is alternatively and affectionately known to the members of the Johnson Club—was on his way to America aroused the liveliest excitement among our fellow-war-winners, and preparations on a grand scale were made for his reception. The statue of Liberty was transformed to resemble Mnemosyne (pronounced more or less to rhyme with limousine), the mother of the Muses, and a bodyguard of poets, novelists, writers, journalists and brainy boys generally was drawn up on the quay.
As soon as the new Columbus was through the Customs these formed a procession and escorted him to his hotel, where a private suite had been engaged, with hot and cold ink laid on.
At a banquet given by the Highbrow Club in the evening the illustrious visitor was the principal guest. As a pretty compliment the floral decorations were all of shamrock, and everything in the menu was Spherical, or nearly so, beginning with radishes and passing on to rissoles, dumplings, potatoes and globe artichokes, plum pudding and tapioca. Humorous allusions to the Eastern and Western Clemi-spheres were of constant occurrence.
In response to the toast of "Literature, Ancient and Modern," coupled with the name of its most vigilant champion, Mr. SHORTER said that he was indeed happy to be on soil hallowed by association with so many writers of merit. To name them would be invidious, but he might say that he had enjoyed the pleasure of intimate correspondence with a large number of them, all of whom had testified to the value which they set upon his friendship. Although he looked upon himself as the least of men (cries of "No, no"), yet he should always be proud to remember that some of his criticisms had not fallen on stony ground. (Loud cheers.) He had in his pocket friendly letters from men whose eminence would electrify his hearers. (Sensation.) He would not read them (moans of despair) because that would be to break the seal of secrecy. (Loud cheers and singing "For he's a jolly Shortfellow.")
Mr. SHORTER'S main purpose is to meet the best American minds in friendly intercourse and thus to promote Britannico-Columbian amity and an even freer interchange of ideas than the theatre now ensures. To this end he has visited or will visit every place of importance, including the Bowery, China Town, Uncle Tom's Cabin, the Yosemite Valley, Niagara, Tuxedo, Chicago, the Waldorf-Astoria, Bunker's Hill, Milwaukee, Chautauqua, the Clover Club, Greenwich Village and Troy.
Mr. SHORTER'S visit to America is otherwise a purely private one. More Irish than the Irish though he is known to be, he has for the moment sheathed his shillelagh. None the less, the condition of Ireland being so critical, he hopes to address a few meetings on the aspirations of his adopted country.
Although the tour is of this private character, Mr. SHORTER is not unprepared to record his opinions as they occur to him or to continue to nourish his mind on the latest productions of the human intellect. His travelling entourage comprises a brace of highly-trained typists, a librarian, the Keeper of the Paper-knife and a faithful stenographer known as "Boswell," who is pledged to miss none of the Master's dicta. During the voyage Mr. SHORTER had the services of a special Marconi operator, so that he might receive half-hourly bulletins as to the state of the publishing world, contents of the literary papers, deaths of editors and fellow-critics, new knighthoods and so forth. The Atlantic, on the whole, did not displease him.
Details of the tour which have already reached home indicate that its success is profound.
At Boston Mr. SHORTER, although his visit was brief, found time to deliver his famous causerie, "Men of Letters Whom I have Influenced," with special reference to GEORGE MEREDITH.
At Waterbury (which there is some possibility of renaming Shorterbury) the great critic was made the recipient of an address of welcome and a watch.
At Pittsburg the freedom of the Carnegie Libraries all over the world was conferred upon him by the famous iron-master.
At Haworth (Minn.) Mr. SHORTER presented the postmaster with an autographed copy of his magnum opus on the BRONTËS.
At Salt Lake City he enchanted the Mormon Elders by anecdotes of THACKERAY'S relations with their namesake, the London publisher.
At Peoria (Ill.) he kept his audience in roars by recounting the good sayings of his critical confrère, Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL.
At Philadelphia a very old man, who claimed to be a younger brother of Mr. Rochester (in Jane Eyre), publicly embraced the illustrious visitor and borrowed two dollars.
The rumour that Mr. SHORTER is to be appointed as our Ambassador in Washington must not be too lightly dismissed. America often sends us a man of letters—LOWELL, for example, and HAY. Why should we not return the compliment? It would be a better appointment than many that could be named.
The fact cannot be concealed that at home the absence of Mr. SHORTER in America is seriously felt. Fleet Street wears a bereaved air and Dublin is conscious of a poignant loss. As for our authors, they are in a state of dismay; some, it is true, like mice when the cat is away, are taking liberties, but most are paralysed by the knowledge that the watchful eye is not there, the hand, so instant to blame or praise, is resting. Even publishers, normally an insensitive race are shaken, and books that were to have been issued have been held back. For what is the use of bringing out new books if C.K.S. is not here to pass definitive comments upon them before their ink is dry?
England's loss is, however, America's gain. A new cocktail has been named after him.
