"I had the pleasure of meeting E. P. Roe twice. The first time was in May, 1888, at the Authors' Club in New York. It was a balmy spring evening. I had strolled into the club-rooms feeling rather lonesome among so many strangers, for I was then a new member of the Club, and, stopping at the table to admire a great basketful of apple-blossoms, I fell into conversation with a tall, fine-looking, genial-faced gentleman, who told me that he had just brought the flowers down from his farm on the Hudson for 'the boys.' I was mentally guessing who this gentleman with the noble brow and the black flowing beard could be, when some one approached and called him 'Roe.' We were soon left alone again, and I hastened to say: 'Have I the honor of speaking to E. P. Roe?' Placing a hand on my shoulder, and bending near me with a kindly smile, he answered: 'I am E. P. Roe; and may I ask your name?' Finding that I was from the South, he seemed to be especially glad of my acquaintance, and we were soon off in a corner, seated face to face, he asking questions fast, and with the greatest interest, and I answering to the best of my ability, concerning the war history and the mountain scenery of my native State. He was particularly anxious to get at the exact social relation between the whites and blacks at the close of the war—especially the feeling of the blacks toward the whites—with a view of making correct statements in a novel that he thought of writing. Each member of the Club soon wore an apple-blossom boutonnière, and the rooms were full of the delicate perfume of these delicious flowers. That night, on leaving the Club, I took home with me a spray of the blossoms, and put it in water, and on the following day it shed its fragrance for the pleasure of one who was then an invalid. In her name I wrote Mr. Roe a note of thanks for the flowers, and I received from him a characteristic reply. He wrote:—
"'... I was delighted that my hastily gathered apple-blossoms gave such pleasure to your wife. How little it costs to bestow a bit of brightness here and there, if we only think about doing it!'
"The Authors' Club was invited by Mr. and Mrs. Roe to spend Saturday, the 16th of June, at their home near Cornwall-on-Hudson, where we were cordially promised a feast of strawberries and pleasant outdoor pastimes. The day was a perfect, a happy, and a memorable one to all who accepted the hospitality of the novelist. He met us at the river landing with a hearty hand-shake and a word of welcome for each guest, and personally conducted us to carriages which had been provided to convey us to his farmhouse, which we soon found to be an ideal home of unpretentious elegance. At luncheon our host addressed us, begging us to lay aside all formality, and get all the pleasure possible from his fruits and flowers, green grass and cooling shade. The strawberries in his patch were enormous, and each visitor to the vines in turn found Roe at his side, parting the leaves for him, and showing him where to pick the finest specimens. He was ubiquitous that day. If one strolled off among the myriad roses, and stopped to pluck a bud, he found the shapely hand of the farmer-author pulling for him a more beautiful one. If you flung yourself on the grass to dream awhile, Roe was lying down by you, telling you how happy this union of friends made him feel.
"The day wore on to sunset, when a dance, to the music of banjos, was improvised on the lawn, the banjos being played by some handsome youths in lawn-tennis attire, who, with their gayly beribboned instruments, made a pretty scene. Roe clapped his hands with delight as he moved from group to group. I heard him say, 'How often will I recall this scene! I can bring you all back here just as you are now, whenever I want to.' His wife and daughters were unceasing in gracious attentions to their guests.
"When the time for parting arrived, and the carriages were drawn up, Mr. Roe hurried from one to another of us, begging each and all not to go, assuring us of ample accommodation if we would stay over night. A few remained, and those who left did so reluctantly, some of them, I am sure, quite sorrowfully. I remember wondering at myself for being overcome by such a feeling of sadness as I waved the family a last farewell from the departing carriage. I had said good-by to the famous writer as we came down the broad steps of his vine-covered veranda, he with his arm about my waist.
"Never lived a more lovable and kindlier man than E. P. Roe; and when, soon after that golden day, I read one morning of his sudden death, my heart welled up with tears over the bereavement of that stricken household in the shadow of old Storm King; yet I felt that their grief must be illumined by the pure light that hallowed the name 'of him who uttered nothing base.'"
"Elrod Burke."
"I fancy there are few of those active, tireless Americans, who, nevertheless, steal time from their business to read many newspapers and many books, who have heard of an association of men in New York called the Authors' Club. Authors, in their eyes, are apt to seem like inhabitants of a world apart, a world separated by a broad boundary from the sphere of average commercial labor. Authors are, as it were, abstractions; they are heard and not seen. They are heard through their books, which are the concrete essence of themselves; yet the author is, after all, an extremely concrete personage, who strives as hard as anyone for his living, and whose reward is seldom commensurate with his efforts. It is the exceptional great man of literature—the great author being a better illustration than the small one—who is lucky enough to enjoy felicity during his lifetime.
"But I did not start out here to make the old argument—which has been so often a fanciful and sentimental argument—against literature as a remunerative profession. My idea was a simple one: To assume that authors are more generally hidden from public view than almost any other class of men, and that, for this reason especially, the least important bit of gossip touching the private doings, goings, and sayings of authors interests, without question, a very large number of people. The writer of a famous novel or poem may walk the length of Broadway, yet remain absolutely a stranger to the crowd among whom he walks. A nobody of a politician passing over the same space would, I am sure, be liberally recognized as a somebody, and not the least sort of a somebody by any means. The stranger to the crowd, however, the author derives practical benefit from the 'charm of mystery.' To be at once celebrated and unknown is for him a desirable condition. His books are read. He piques curiosity. What more could he ask for?
"The Authors' Club, being merely an association of authors, is therefore somewhat outside of public view. Its peculiar distinction is that it brings together various men whom the world honors, and a few more whom the world may or may not learn to honor. It is a very modest little Club, possibly with a very large future before it. If I should praise it for one thing heartily, that would be the good fellowship which animates it and which has permitted it to thrive. Among the older members of the club—the members who actually possess reputation—are Stoddard, Stedman, Curtis, Edward Eggleston, John Hay, M. U. Conway, Mark Twain, George H. Boker, Henry Drisler, E. P. Roe, Andrew Carnegie, Henry James, E. L. Godkin, Parke Godwin, S. Weir Mitchell, Noah Brooks, and (in an honorary sense) J. R. Lowell, Holmes, Whittier, R. L. Stevenson, and Harriet Beecher Stowe. The younger members count such names as Gilder, Lathrop, Bunner, Boyesen, Bishop, Luska, Will Carleton, Rutton, Matthews, McMaster, Miller, Bronson Howard, Mabie, DeKay, Boyle O'Reilly, Thorndike Rice, and others hardly less well known. Of all the men whom I just mentioned none has a wider reading public than Edward P. Roe, some of whose books have passed through twenty or more editions.