In my division was a captain who was noted for religious life and extreme orthodoxy in belief and conduct. He was a strong Sabbatarian and had never been known to utter an oath, or even a mild word of the “cuss” variety. I regarded him as a Miss Nancy sort of man and feared he would be of no use in a battle, unless a quick and successful retreat might be necessary. But one day, while a big battle was going on, I saw right in the thickest of the fight, my mild mannered Captain waving his sword and urging his men on in such splendid style that I could not help admiring him! I rode up to compliment him, but when I got near him his language made me smile.
“Give ’em hell! Give ’em hell, boys!” he would yell after each volley—and he did not vary his remarks. I couldn’t resist saying,
“Captain, I’m really surprised at such language from you,—you, our most religious soldier.”
“Well, General,” he replied, “I’m saying just what I feel, and just what I mean. Excuse me, but—business is business.” Then he waved his sword again and repeated, “Give ’em hell, boys, give ’em hell—— Give ’em hell—— Give ’em hell,” and gentlemen, those three words express the entire sentiment of a soldier while he is in battle! And, religious though they were, those three ministers looked as if they felt compelled to believe me.
One evening I stood at the landing of the grand staircase of General Alger’s handsome residence at Detroit, looking down on a great social gathering on the floor below. Great men and charming women, elegant attires and animated faces combined to make a picture that I would not have missed for anything, but somehow my thoughts persisted in running in a contemplative groove, so I was not astonished when the general tapped me on the shoulder and rallied me on standing apart and being very quiet and serious. I replied, there were times when a professional funny man found it hard to live up to his reputation when he chanced to find himself alone and in a reflective mood. He not only understood me, but spoke most sympathetically of the necessary fluctuations of a mercurial temperament, and of the tendency of quicksilver to fall as quickly as it mounts.
Most truthfully did John G. Saxe, the humorous poet, write, “It’s a very serious thing to be a funny man.” Real fun must be spontaneous. The hostess who pounces upon me suddenly when the guests begin to yawn and exclaims imploringly, “Oh, Mr. Wilder! Do say something funny!” does not realize that she sends the mercury down with a rush.
Several times I have had the pleasure of meeting General Lew Wallace, the distinguished soldier, author and diplomat. He served his country gallantly in the Mexican War, when he was but twenty-one years of age, and afterward did inestimable service in the Civil War; he has been Governor of New Mexico, and American minister to Turkey, yet it is as the author of “Ben Hur” that he is most widely known and loved by his own country, as well as by Christian people of all nations, for his book has been translated into almost every European tongue.
When I was in New Mexico I visited the Spanish Palace at Santa Fé, which was General Wallace’s residence during his governorship. The building was erected in 1598, long before the Pilgrim Fathers and Captain John Smith ever set foot on the Western Hemisphere, so it is one of the show places of the American Continent, yet the greatest interest of every visitor is the room in which “Ben Hur” was written.
Like every other real man of affairs, General Wallace has a large sunny side to his nature, and a gift for story-telling. I have listened to him with huge delight. To repeat all his stories good enough to print would crowd everything else out of my book, but here is one that I have often recalled, and with a hearty laugh each time:
In Stamboul, Turkey, lived a well-to-do native, named Ismail Hassan. He did not have the imagination of Rider Haggard or the eloquence of some Americans I could name, but he had a ready oriental wit that could always be trusted to get him out of a tight place. A neighbor called on him one day and wanted to borrow his donkey. Ismail made a low salaam and replied: