1897.]

GENTLEMEN:--The members of the Authors' Club are closely
associated to-night with many other citizens in a sentiment felt by one
and all--that of love and reverence for the chief guest of the evening.
He has our common pride in his fame. He has what is, I think, of even
more value to him, our entire affection. We have heard something of late
concerning the "banquet habit," and there are banquets which make it
seem to the point. But there are also occasions which transfigure even
custom, and make it honored "in the observance." Nor is this a feast of
the habitual kind, as concerns its givers, its recipient, and the city
in which it is given. The Authors' Club, with many festivals counted in
its private annals, now, for the first time, offers a public tribute to
one of its own number; in this case, one upon whom it long since
conferred a promotion to honorary membership. As for New York, warder of
the gates of the ocean, and by instinct and tradition first to welcome
the nation's visitors, it constantly offers bread and salt--yes, and
speeches--to authors, as to other guests, from older lands, and many of
us often have joined in this function. But we do not remember that it
has been a habit for New York to tender either the oratorical bane or
the gustatory antidote to her own writers. Except within the shade of
their own coverts they have escaped these offerings, unless there has
been something other than literary service to bring them public
recognition. In the latter case, as when men who are or have been
members of our club become Ambassadors, because they are undeniably
fitted for the missions to Great Britain and France, even authors are
made to sit in state. To-night's gathering, then, is, indeed,
exceptional, being in public honor of an American author here
resident--of "one of our own"--who is not booked for a foreign mission,
nor leaving the country, nor returning, nor doing anything more unusual
than to perform his stint of work, and to sing any song that comes to
him--as he tells us,

"Not because he woos it long,
But because it suits its will,
Tired at last of being still."

Our homage is rendered, with love and enthusiasm, for his service to
"mere literature"--for his indomitable devotion throughout half a
century to the joy and toil of his profession, in which he has so fought
the fight and kept the faith of a working man of letters. It is rendered
to the most distinguished poet, of his