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автор Joseph Hatton

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HENRY IRVING’S
IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA

NARRATED IN A SERIES OF

SKETCHES, CHRONICLES, AND CONVERSATIONS

BY

JOSEPH HATTON

AUTHOR OF
“CLYTIE,” “CRUEL LONDON,” “THREE RECRUITS,” “TO-DAY IN AMERICA,” ETC.

BOSTON
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY
1884

Copyright, 1884
James R. Osgood and Company

All rights reserved

Press of Rockwell and Churchill, 39 Arch St.

TO THE AMERICAN PUBLIC.

This book is the outcome of a desire to chronicle, in a lasting form, some of the events of a tour which your kindness has made a delight to Ellen Terry and myself. Before leaving London I ventured upon a prophecy that in journeying to America we were going amongst friends. That prophecy has been fulfilled.

In the history of the stage the Lyceum Company is the first complete organization which has crossed the Atlantic with the entire equipment of a theatre.

As the tour is, I believe, unique, so also is this record of it; and I particularly desire to emphasize a fact concerning its authorship. I am, myself, only responsible for my share in the conversations and dialogues that are set down, everything else being the work of my friend, Joseph Hatton, well known to you as the author of “To-day in America.”

I can but trust that I have not erred in expressing, for publication, some passing thoughts about a country which has excited my profound admiration, and which has the highest claims upon my gratitude.

HENRY IRVING.

New York, April 30, 1884.

CONTENTS.

I.—AT HOME.

PAGE

Talking of America—Warned against the Interviewer—“Travellers’ Tales”—Good-by to London—International Gossip—A Mythical Palace on the Thames—Reports from “A Little English Friend”—The Grange—A Grafton Street Interior—Souvenirs and Portraits—An Actor on His Audiences—Hamlet at the Lyceum—Critics and Public Opinion—The Final Verdict—First Nights—Anonymous Letters—Notable Gifts—The Character of Louis XI.—“A Poor Mother who had Lost Her Son”—Scene Calls—Stories of a “Dresser”—Behind the Scenes—“Waking Up”—The Original Beefsteak Club Room—Host and Guests

1

II.—NEW YORK.

Going to Meet the “Britannic”—The “Blackbird”—Skirmishers of the American Press—The London “Standard’s” Message to New York, Boston, and Chicago—“Working” America—“Reportorial” Experiences—Daylight off Staten Island—At Quarantine under the Stars and Stripes—“God Save the Queen!” and “Hail to the Chief!”—Received and “Interviewed”—“Portia on a Trip from the Venetian Seas”—What the Reporters Think and what Irving Says—The Necessity of Applause—An Anecdote of Forrest—Mr. Vanderbilt and the Mirror—Miss Terry and the Reporters—“Tell them I never loved home so well as now”—Landed and Welcomed—Scenes on the Quay—At the Brevoort

39

III.—FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Union Square, New York—An Enterprising Chronicler—The Lambs—The Newspapers and the New-comers—“Art must Advance with the Times”—“Romeo and Juliet” at the Lyceum—“Character Parts”—No Real Tradition of Shakespearian Acting—“Mannerisms”—The Stage as an Educator—Lafayette Place—A Notable Little Dinner—The Great American Bird, “Not the Eagle, but the Duck”—A Question of “Appropriate Music”—Speculators in Tickets and their Enormous Profits—Middlemen, the Star Theatre, and the Play going Public

65

IV.—AT THE LOTOS CLUB.

The Savage Club of America—Thackeray and Lord Houghton—A Great Banquet—Mr. Whitelaw Reid on Irving and the Actor’s Calling—“Welcome to a Country where he may find not Unworthy Brethren”—An Answer to the Warnings of the English Traveller of Chapter I.—“Shakespeare’s Charles the First”—A Night of Wit and Humor—Chauncey M. Depew on Theatrical Evolution—The Knighting of Sullivan—The Delineator of Romance visiting the Home of America’s Creator of Romance—After-dinner Stories—Conspiring against the Peace of a Harmless Scotchman—A Pleasant Jest

84

V.—THE NIGHT BEFORE THE PLAY.

The Vividness of First Impressions—New York Hotels—On the Elevated Road with “Charlie”—Trotting Horses—Audiences on both Sides of the Atlantic—“A Man knows best what he can do”—“Americanisms,” so called—A Satirical Sketch, entitled “Bitten by a Dog”—Louis and the Duke of Stratford-on-Avon—Macready and the Forrest Riots

108

VI.—THE BELLS.

A Stormy Night in New York—Ticket-Speculators at Work—A First-night Audience—Mathias received with Enthusiasm—Behind the Scenes—Lighting the Stage—Returning Thanks—Criticism of the Crowd—John Gilbert’s Opinion—Actor and Audience—English Playgoers and Londoners—Laughter and Applause—An Artistic Triumph

123

VII.—“RED LETTER DAYS.”

Miss Ellen Terry’s First Appearance in New York—The Press on Charles and the Queen—A Professional Matinée—An Audience of Actors to See Louis XI.—How they Impressed the Actor, and what they Thought of Him—A Visit to Henry Ward Beecher—At Church and at Home—Mrs. Beecher and Miss Terry—Reminiscences—Studies of Death, Physiological and Idealistic—Louis’ Death and Hamlet’s—A Strange Story

140

VIII.—A QUIET EVENING.

A First Visit behind the Scenes—Cooper and Kean—The University Club—A very Notable Dinner—Chief Justice Davis and Lord Chief Justice Coleridge—A Menu worth Discussing—Terrapin and Canvas-Back Duck—“A Little Family Party”—Florence’s Romance—Among the Lambs—The Fate of a Manuscript Speech—A Story of John Kemble—Words of Welcome—Last Night of the New York Engagement—

Au Revoir! 165

IX.—AT PHILADELPHIA AND “IN CLOVER.”

Rivalries of American Cities—Boston and Philadelphia—The Real and the Picturesque—Miss Terry’s Portia—“Three Kinds of Criticism”—First Appearance as Hamlet—Miss Terry’s Ophelia—Journalism and the Stage—Critics, Past and Present—Philadelphia and English Cities—A New Style of Newspaper—Bogus Reports and Interviews; an Example of Them—The Clover Club—A Letter from an Eminent American Tragedian—Presented with Forrest’s Watch—The Macready Trouble—Hamlet, and an Invitation from Guest to Hosts

187

X.—BOSTON AND SHYLOCK.

Rural Scenes on Both Sides of the Atlantic—First Impressions of Railway Travel—The Cars—One of the Largest Theatres in America—The Drama in Boston—Early Struggles to represent Plays in Public—“Moral Lectures”—Boston Criticisms—Shylock, Portia, Hamlet, and Ophelia—Different Readings of Shylock—Dressing-Room Criticism—Shylock considered—A Reminiscence of Tunis—How Shakespeare should be interpreted on the Stage—Two Methods illustrated—Shylock before the Court of Venice—How Actors should be judged

214

XI.—A CITY OF SLEIGHS.

Snow and Sleigh Bells—“Brooks of Sheffield”—In the Boston Suburbs—Smokeless Coal—At the Somerset Club—Miss Ellen Terry and the Papyrus—A Ladies’ Night—Club Literature—Curious Minutes—“Greeting to Ellen Terry”—St. Botolph—Oliver Wendell Holmes and Charles the First—“Good-by and a Merry Christmas”

237

XII.—LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS.

Interviewing in England and America—Rehearsing Richard and Lady Ann—Reminiscences of a Christmas Dinner—A Homely Feast—Joe Robins and Guy Fawkes—He would be an Actor—The Luxury of Warmth—“One Touch of Nature”

254

XIII.—A WILD RAILWAY JOURNEY.

A Great American Railway Station—Platforms and Waiting-Rooms—A Queer Night—“Snow is as Bad as Fog”—A Farmer who Suggests Mathias in “The Bells”—A Romance of the Hudson—Looking for the “Maryland” and Finding “The Danites”—Fighting a Snow-storm—“A Ministering Angel”—The Publicity of Private Cars—Mysterious Proceedings—Strange Lights—Snowed up—Digging out the Railway Points—A Good Samaritan Locomotive—Trains Ahead of Us, Trains Behind Us—Railway Lights and Bells—“What’s Going On?”

264

XIV.—CHRISTMAS, AND AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY.

At Baltimore—Street Scenes—Christmas Wares—Pretty Women in “Rubber Cloaks”—Contrasts—Street Hawkers—Southern Blondes—Furs and Diamonds—Rehearsing under Difficulties—Blacks and Whites—Negro Philosophy—Honest Work—“The Best Company on its Legs I have ever seen”—Our Christmas Supper—“Absent Friends”—Pictures in the Fire and Afterwards—An Intercepted Contribution to Magazine Literature—Correcting a Falsehood—Honesty and Fair Play

285

XV.—FROM BROOKLYN TO CHICAGO.

“Fussy”—The Brooklyn Ferry—Crossing the North River—A Picturesque Crowd—Brooklyn Bridge at Night—Warned against Chicago—Conservatism of American Critics—Dangers of the Road—Railway-Train Bandits—An Early Interviewer—A Reporter’s Story—Life on a Private Car—Miss Terry and her “Luck”—American Women

305

XVI.—THE PRAIRIE CITY.

First Impressions of Chicago—A Bitter Winter—Great Storms—Thirty Degrees below Zero—On the Shores of Lake Michigan—Street Architecture—Pullman City—Western Journalism—Chicago Criticism—Notable Entertainments—At the Press Club—The Club Life of America—What America has done—Unfair Comparisons between the Great New World and the Older Civilizations of Europe—Mistaking Notoriety for Fame—A Speech of Thanks—Facts, Figures, and Tests of Popularity, Past and to Come

321

XVII.—ST. LOUIS, CINCINNATI, INDIANAPOLIS, COLUMBUS.

Sunshine and Snow—Wintry Landscapes—Fire and Frost—Picturesque St. Louis—“The Elks”—A Notable Reception—“Dime Shows”—Under-studies—Germany in America—“On the Ohio”—Printing under Difficulties—“Baggage-smashing”—Handsome Negroes and Sunday Papers—The Wonders of Chicago

344

XVIII.—CHIEFLY CONCERNING A HOLIDAY AT NIAGARA.

The Return Visit to Chicago—Welcomed Back again—Farewell Speech—Niagara in the Winter—A Sensation at the Hotel—Requisitioning adjacent Towns for Chickens and Turkeys—Ira Aldridge and a Colored Dramatic Club—A Blizzard from the North-west—The Scene of Webb’s Death—“A great Stage-manager, Nature”—Life and Death of “The Hermit of Niagara”—A Fatal Picnic—The Lyceum Company at Dinner—Mr. Howe Proposes a Toast—Terriss meets with an Accident that recalls a Romantic Tragedy

363

XIX.—FROM TORONTO TO BOSTON.

Lake Ontario—Canadian Pastimes—Tobogganing—On an Ice Slide—“Shooting Niagara and After”—Toronto Students—Dressing for the Theatre—“God Save the Queen”—Incidents of Travel—Locomotive Vagaries—Stopping the Train—“Fined One Hundred Dollars “—The Hotels and the Poor—Tenement Houses—The Stage and the Pulpit—Actors, Past and Present—The Stage and the Bar-room—The Second Visit to Boston—Enormous Receipts—A Glance at the Financial Results of the Tour

382

XX.—WASHINGTON, NEW ENGLAND, AND SOME “RETURN VISITS.”

From Rail to River—Once More on Board the “Maryland”—Recollections of President Arthur—At the White House—Washington Society—An Apt Shakespearian Quotation—Distinguished People—“Hamlet”—A Council of War—Making Out the Route of a New Tour—A Week in New England Cities—Brooklyn and Philadelphia Revisited

399

XXI.—“BY THE WAY.”

“My Name is Mulldoon, I live in the Twenty-fourth Ward”—Protective Duties and the Fine Arts—“The General Muster”—A Message from Kansas City—American Cabmen—Alarming Notices in Hotels—The Chicago Fire Service—What a Fire Patrol can Do in a few Seconds—Marshalling the Fire Brigades—William Winter—“Office Rules”—The Reform Club and Politics—Enterprising Reporters—International Satire—How a Man of “Simple and Regular Habits” Lives—Secretaries in Waiting—The Bisbee Murders—“Hunted Down”—Outside Civilization—“The Bazoo”—The Story of a Failure—A Texan Tragedy—Shooting in a Theatre—Evolutions of Towns

423

XXII.—“THE LONGEST JOURNEY COMES TO AN END.”

“Our Closing Month in New York”—Lent—At Rehearsal—Finishing Touches—Behind the Scenes at the Lyceum and the Star—The Story of the Production of “Much Ado” in New York—Scenery and Properties on the Tour—Tone—Surprise for Agents in Advance—Interesting Technicalities—An Incident of the Mounting of “Much Ado”—The Tomb Scene—A Great Achievement—The End

463

IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA.

I.
AT HOME.

Talking of America—Warned against the Interviewer—“Travellers’ Tales”—Good-by to London—International Gossip—A Mythical Palace on the Thames—Reports from “A Little English Friend”—The Grange—A Grafton-Street Interior—Souvenirs and Portraits—An Actor on His Audiences—Hamlet at the Lyceum—Critics and Public Opinion—The Final Verdict—First Nights—Anonymous Letters—Notable Gifts—The Character of Louis XI.—“A Poor Mother who had Lost Her Son”—Scene Calls—Stories of a “Dresser”—Behind the Scenes—“Waking Up”—The Original Beefsteak Club Boom—Host and Guests.

I.

“And I don’t think he believes a word I have said,” was Mr. John T. Raymond’s own commentary upon a series of romances of “the wild West” which he had related to Mr. Henry Irving[1] with an intensity that was worthy of Col. Sellers himself.

The comedian’s reminiscences were graphic narratives of theatrical and frontier life, with six-shooters and bowie-knives in them, and narrow escapes enough to have made the fortunes of what the Americans call a ten-cent novel.

“Oh, yes, I believe it is the duty of the door-keeper at a Western theatre to collect the weapons of the audience before admitting the people to the house; that what we call the cloak-room in London, you might call the armory out West; and that the bowie-knife of a Texan critic never weighs less than fourteen pounds. But I am not going as far as Texas, though one might do worse if one were merely crossing the Atlantic in search of adventures.”

America was at this time a far-off country, about which travellers told Irving strange stories. I recall many a pleasant evening in the Beefsteak Club room, of the Lyceum Theatre, when famous citizens of the United States, actors more particularly, have sat at his round table, and smoked the Havannah of peace and pleasant memories: Booth, Barrett, Boucicault, McCullough, Raymond, Florence, and others of their craft; Generals Horace Porter, Fairchild, Merritt, Mr. Sam. Ward, Mr. Rufus Hatch, Mr. James R. Osgood, Mr. Hurlbert, Mr. Crawford, Col. Buck, Mr. Dan Dougherty, and many others. They all promised him a kindly reception and a great success.

“I question, however,” said an English guest, taking the other side, as Englishmen love to do, if only for the sake of argument, “if America will quite care for the naturalness of your effects, the neutral tones of some of your stage pictures, the peaceful character, if I may so style it, of your representations. They like breadth and color and show; they are accustomed to the marvellous and the gigantic in nature; they expect on the stage some sort of interpretation of these things,—great rivers, lofty mountains, and the startling colors of their fall tints. Your gentle meads of Hampton, the poetic grace of “Charles the First,” the simplicity of your loveliest sets, and the quiet dignity of your Shylock, will, I fear, seem tame to them.”

“Human nature, I fancy,” Irving responded, “is the same all the world over, and I have played to many Americans in this very theatre. You will say, perhaps, that they will accept here in London what they would not care for on the other side of the Atlantic. You would say we are an old country, with fairly settled tastes in art, a calm atmosphere, a cultivated knowledge; and that possibly what we, in our narrower ways, regard as a subtilty of art, they may not see. That may be so, though some of their humor is subtle enough, and the best of it leaves a great deal to the imagination. I know many persons, American and English, have talked to me in your strain; yet I never saw quieter or more delicate acting than in Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle. As I said before, human nature is ever the same: it loves and hates, it quarrels and murders, it honors valor, sympathizes with the unfortunate, and delights in seeing human passions delineated on the stage. Moreover, are not the Americans, after all, our own flesh and blood? I never think of them in the sense of foreigners, as one does of the French and Germans, and the other European nations who do not speak our language; and I have yet to learn that there is any difference between us so marked that the jangle of “The Bells,” shall not stir their imagination as much as the sorrows of Charles shall move their hearts, and the story of Louis heighten their pulses. We shall see. I cannot exactly say that my soul’s in arms and eager for the fray, but I have no doubt about the result. That love of breadth, of largeness, of color, you talk of, should go hand in hand with a catholic taste, devoid of littleness and combined with a liberal criticism that is not always looking for spots on the sun.”

“You are not nervous, then, as to your reception?”

“No, I am sure it will be kindly; and, for their criticism, I think it will be just. There is the same honesty of purpose and intention in American as in English criticism, and, above all, there is the great play-going public, which is very much the same frank, generous, candid audience all over the world.”

“But there is the American interviewer! You have not yet encountered that interesting individual.”

“Oh, yes, I have.”

“Has he been here, then?”

“Yes; not in his war-paint, nor with his six-shooter and bowie-knife, as he goes about in Raymond’s Texan country, yet an interviewer still.”

“And you found him not disagreeable?” asked the travelled guest.

“I found him well informed and quite a pleasant fellow.”

“Ah, but he was here under your own control, probably smoking a cigar in your own room. Wait until he boards the steamer off New York. Then you will see the sort of person he is, with his string of questions more personal than the fire of an Old Bailey lawyer at a hostile witness under cross-examination. The Inquisition of old is not in the race with these gentlemen, except that the law, even in America, does not allow them to put you to physical torture, though they make up for that check upon their liberty by the mental pain they can inflict upon you. Apart from the interviewers proper, I have known reporters to disguise themselves as waiters, that they may pry into your secrets and report upon your most trivial actions.”

“You have evidently suffered,” said Irving.

“No, not I; but I have known those who have. Nothing is sacred from the prying eyes and unscrupulous pens of these men. ‘You smile, old friend,’ to quote your ‘Louis the Eleventh,’ but I am not exaggerating nor setting down aught in malice. You will see! The interviewers will turn you inside out.”

“You don’t say so! Well, that will be a new sensation, at all events,” answered Irving; and, when our friend had left, he remarked, “I wonder if Americans, when they visit this country, go home and exaggerate our peculiarities as much as some of our own countrymen, after a first trip across the Atlantic, evidently exaggerate theirs.”

“There are many travellers who, in relating their experiences, think it necessary to accentuate them with exaggerated color; and then we have to make allowances for each man’s individuality.”

“How much certain of our critical friends make of that same ‘individuality,’ by the way, when they choose to call it ‘mannerism’! The interviewers, I suppose, will have a good deal to say on that subject.”

“English papers and American correspondents have given them plenty of points for personal criticism.”

“That is true. They will be clever if they can find anything new to say in that direction. Well, I don’t think it is courage, and I know it is not vanity; yet I feel quite happy about this American tour.”

A week or two later and Irving spoke the sentiments of his heart upon this subject, at the farewell banquet given to him by artistic, literary, legal, social, and journalistic London, under the presidency of Lord Chief Justice Coleridge; and it will be fitting, I trust, to close these preliminary paragraphs with his characteristic and touching good-by:—

“My Lord Chief Justice, my lords and gentlemen,—I cannot conceive a greater honor entering into the life of any man than the honor you have paid me by assembling here to-night. To look around this room and scan the faces of my distinguished hosts would stir to its depths a colder nature than mine. It is not in my power, my lords and gentlemen, to thank you for the compliment you have to-night paid me.

“‘The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.’

“Never before have I so strongly felt the magic of those words; but you will remember it is also said, in the same sentence, ‘Give thy thoughts no tongue.’ (Laughter.) And gladly, had it been possible, would I have obeyed that wise injunction to-night. (Renewed laughter.) The actor is profoundly influenced by precedent, and I cannot forget that many of my predecessors have been nerved by farewell banquets for the honor which awaited them on the other side of the Atlantic; but this occasion I regard as much more than a compliment to myself,—I regard it as a tribute to the art which I am proud to serve—(Cheers),—and I believe that feeling will be shared by the profession to which you have assembled to do honor. (Cheers.) The time has long gone by when there was any need to apologize for the actor’s calling. (Hear! Hear!) The world can no more exist without the drama than it can without its sister art,—music. The stage gives the readiest response to the demand of human nature to be transported out of itself into the realms of the ideal,—not that all our ideas on the stage are realized; none but the artist knows how immeasurably he may fall short of his aim or his conception; but to have an ideal in art, and to strive through one’s life to embody it, may be a passion to the actor, as it may be to the poet. (Cheers.) Your lordship has spoken most eloquently of my career. Possessed of a generous mind and a highly judicial faculty, your lordship has been to-night, I fear, more generous than judicial. But, if I have in any way deserved commendation, I am proud that it is as an actor that I have won it. (Cheers.) As the director of a theatre my experience has been short, but as an actor I have been before the London public for seventeen years; and on one thing I am sure you will all agree,—that no actor or manager has ever received from that public more generous and ungrudging encouragement and support. (Cheers.) Concerning our visit to America I need hardly say that I am looking forward to it with no common pleasure. It has often been an ambition with English actors to gain the good-will of the English-speaking race,—a good-will which is right heartily reciprocated towards our American fellow-workers, when they gratify us by sojourning here. (Cheers.) Your God-speed would alone assure me a hearty welcome in any land; but I am not going amongst strangers,—I am going amongst friends (Cheers),—and when I, for the first time, touch American ground, I shall receive many a grip of the hand from men whose friendship I am proud to possess. (Cheers.) Concerning our expedition the American people will no doubt exercise an independent judgment,—a prejudice of theirs and a habit of long-standing,—(Laughter),—as your lordship has reminded us, by the fact that to-day is the fourth of July,—an anniversary rapidly becoming an English institution. Your lordship is doubtless aware, as to-night has so happily proved, that the stage has reckoned amongst its stanchest supporters many great and distinguished lawyers. There are many lawyers, I am told, in America,—(Laughter),—and as I am sure that they all deserve to be judges, I am in hopes that they will materially help me to gain a favorable verdict from the American people. (Cheers and laughter.) I have given but poor expression to my sense of the honor you have conferred upon me, and upon the comrades associated with me in this our enterprise,—an enterprise which, I hope, will favorably show the method and discipline of a company of English actors; on their behalf I thank you, and I also thank you on behalf of the lady who has so adorned the Lyceum stage,—(Cheers),—and to whose rare gifts your lordship has paid so just and gracious a tribute. (Cheers.) The climax of the favor extended to me by my countrymen has been reached to-night. You have set upon me a burden of responsibility,—a burden which I gladly and proudly bear. The memory of to-night will be to me a sacred thing,—a memory which will, throughout my life, be ever treasured; a memory which will stimulate me to further endeavor, and encourage me to loftier aim. (Loud and continued cheers.)

II.

No man was ever more written of or talked about in America than Henry Irving; probably no man was ever more misrepresented as to his art and his life. A monster, according to his enemies; an angel, if you took the verdict of his friends; he was a mystery to untravelled American journalists, and an enigma to the great play-going public of the American cities. They were told that people either loved or hated him at first sight. American tourists even carried home contradictory reports of him, though the majority were enthusiastic in praise of him as an actor and as a man. The American newspaper correspondent is naturally a trifle more sensational in the style of his work than his English colleague, because his editor favors graphic writing, entertaining chronicles, picturesque descriptions. Then the sub-editor or compiler of news from the foreign exchanges looks out for “English personals,” gossip about the Queen, notes on the Prince of Wales, out-of-the-way criticisms of actors and public persons of all classes; and so every outre thing that has been published about Irving in England has found its way into the ubiquitous press of America. Added to this publicity, private correspondence has also dealt largely with him, his work, his manners, his habits; for every American who travels writes letters home to his family and often to his local paper, and many English people who have visited America keep up a pleasant epistolary communication with their good friends in the New World.

III.

Being in New York ahead of Mr. Irving’s arrival, I found much of the curious fiction of which gossip had made him the hero, crystallized into definite assertions, that were accepted as undisputed facts. A day’s sail from the Empire city, in a pretty Eastern villa, I discovered the London gossip-monger’s influence rampant. But if a prominent critic in London could publicly credit Mr. Irving’s success as an actor to his hospitable dispensation of “chicken and champagne,” one need not be surprised that ordinary gossips should draw as liberally on their imagination for illustrations of his social popularity. A leading figure in the world of art, and a person of distinction in Vanity Fair, it is not to be wondered at that Jealousy and Mrs. Grundy, standing outside his orbit, should invent many startling stories about him. I have not exaggerated the following conversation, and I am glad to use it here, not only as illustrative of the singular misrepresentations of Irving’s life and habits, but to bind up in this volume a sketch of the actor and the man which has the merit of being eminently true, and at the same time not inappropriate to these pages.

“Lives in chambers!” exclaimed an American lady, during an after-dinner conversation in a pleasant eastern home. “I thought he owned a lovely palace.”

“Indeed; where, madam?” I asked, “in Utopia?”

“No, sir; on the banks of your Thames river. A little English friend of mine told me so, and described the furnishing of it. I understand that it is as splendid as Claude Melnotte’s by the Lake of Como.”

“And as real?”

“I don’t know what you mean; but, if what she says is true, it is wickeder, any way. You do not say that it is all false about his banquets to the aristocracy, his royal receptions? What about the Prince of Wales, then, and Lord Beaconsfield and Mr. Gladstone and the Poet Laureate visiting him? And his garden parties and the illuminations at night, parterres of flowers mixed up with colored lamps, his collections of rhododendrons and his military bands?”

“Were you ever at a Botanical Fête in Regent’s Park?” I asked.

“I have never crossed the Atlantic.”

“Your little English friend evidently knows the Botanical well.”

“She is acquainted with everything and everybody in London. I wish she were here now. Perhaps she knows a little more than some of Mr. Irving’s friends care to admit.”

“Does she know Mr. Irving?”

“She knows his house.”

“By the Lake of Como?”

“No, sir; by the Thames.”

“One comes from home to hear news. Will you not tell us all about it, then?”

“No, I will not. I think you are positively rude; but that is like you English. There, I beg your pardon; you made me say it. But, seriously now, is not Mr. Irving as rich as—”

“Claude Melnotte?”

“No; Crœsus, or Vanderbilt, or Mackay? And does he not live in that palace, and have crowds of servants, and visit with the court and the aristocracy? Why, I read in the papers myself, quite lately, of an estate he had bought near, let me see,—is there such a place as Hammersmith?”

“Yes.”

“Is that on the Thames?”

“Yes, more or less.”

“Well, then, is that true? More or less, I suppose. You are thinking how inquisitive I am. But you started the subject.”

“Did I?”

“You said he lives in chambers.”

“I answered your own question.”

“Ah!” she said, laughing merrily, “now I know my little English friend spoke the truth, because I remember she said there was a mystery about Mr. Irving’s lovely house; that he only receives a certain princely and lordly set there. How could she have described it if she had not seen it? A baronial castle, a park, lovely gardens, great dogs lying about on the lawns, wainscoted chambers, a library full of scarce books and costly bric-à-brac, Oriental rugs, baths, stained-glass windows, suits of armor, and a powerful bell in a turret to call the servants in to meals.”

“Beautiful! But if there is a mystery about it, what of those gorgeous receptions?”

“Oh, don’t ask me questions. It is I who am seeking for information. There is no public person in the world just at this moment in whom I take a deeper interest. If he were not coming to America I should have been obliged to go to London, if only to see what you call a first night at the Lyceum. We read all about these things. We are kept well informed by our newspaper correspondents—”

“And your little English friend.”

“Yes, she writes to me quite often.”

“Well, now I will tell you the truth about that palace on the Thames,” I said.

“Ah! he confesses,” exclaimed the bright little lady, whose friends suspect her of writing more than one of the famous American novels.

An interested and interesting group of ladies and gentlemen brought their chairs closer to the conversational centre of the company.

“A few years ago, Irving and a friend, strolling through the purlieus of Brook Green (a decayed village that has been swallowed up by the progress of West End, London), towards Hammersmith, saw a house to be sold. It was low and dilapidated, but it had an old-fashioned garden, and the lease was offered at a small sum. Irving knew the house, and he had a mind to examine its half-ruined rooms. He did so, and concluded his investigation by buying the lease. It cost him about half the money you would pay for an ordinary house off Fifth avenue, in New York; less than you would pay for a house in Remsen street, Brooklyn; in Michigan avenue, Chicago; or in Commonwealth avenue, Boston. Since then it has been one of his few sources of amusement to lay out its garden, to restore the old house and make it habitable. It is a typical English home, with low red roofs, ancient trees, oaken stairs, and a garden with old-fashioned flowers and fruit in it; but it is the home of a yeoman rather than a prince, the home of a Cincinnatus rather than the palace of an Alcibiades. The staff of servants consists of a gardener and his wife, and I have been present at several of the owner’s receptions. The invitation was given in this wise: ‘I am going to drive to the Grange, on Sunday afternoon,—will you bring your wife, and have a cup of tea?’ And that described the feast; but Irving, looking at his gilliflowers and tulips, watching the gambols of his dogs, and discussing between whiles the relative cost of carpets and India matting, illustrated the truth of the philosophy, that there is real recreation and rest in a mere change of occupation. Those persons who tell you that Irving’s tastes are not simple, his private life an honor to him, and his success the result of earnestness of purpose, clearness of aim, deep study and hard work, neither know him nor understand how great a battle men fight in England, who cut their way upwards from the ranks, to stand with the highest at head-quarters.”

Quite a round of applause greeted this plain story.

“Why, my dear sir,” exclaimed my original interlocutor, “I am right glad to hear the truth. Well, well, and that is Mr. Irving’s real home, is it? But I thought you said he lives in chambers.”

“One day he hopes to furnish and enjoy the simplicity and quiet of that cottage in a garden, four miles from his theatre; but he still lives, where he has lived for a dozen years or more, in very unpretentious rooms in the heart of London.”

And now, courteous reader, come straightway into this little company of the friendly and the curious, and I will show you where Henry Irving lived until he set sail for America, and you shall hear him talk about his art and his work; for my good friend, the editor of “Harper’s Magazine,” commissioned me to describe the famous English actor at home, and here is the result:—

IV.

At the corner of Grafton street, where the traffic of a famous West End artery ebbs and flows among picture exhibitions and jewelry stores, lives the most popular actor of his time. It is a mysterious-looking house. The basement is occupied by a trunk store. From the first floor to the top are Mr. Henry Irving’s chambers. They present from the outside a series of dingy, half-blind windows that suggest no prospect of warmth or cheer. “Fitting abode of the spirit of tragic gloom!” you might well exclaim, standing on the threshold. You shall enter with me, if you will, to correct your first impressions, and bear testimony to the fact that appearances are often deceptive.

This sombre door, the first on the left as we enter Grafton street from Bond street, leads to his chambers. Two flights of stairs (not bright, as a Paris staircase), not with the sunlight upon the carpet, as in New York, but darkened with the shadows of a London atmosphere,—and we enter his general room. With the hum of the West End buzzing at the windows, the colored glass of which shuts out what little sunlight falls there, the apartment is characteristic of a great artist and a great city. The mantel-piece recalls the ancient fashion of old English mansions. It is practically an oak cabinet, with a silver shield as the centre-piece. On the opposite side of the room is a well-stocked bookcase, surmounted by a raven that carries one’s thoughts to Poe and his sombre story. On tables here and there are materials for letter-writing, and evidence of much correspondence, though one of the actor’s social sins is said to be the tardiness with which he answers letters. The truth is, the many pressing claims on his time do not enable him to act always upon the late Duke of Wellington’s well-known principle of immediately replying to every letter that is addressed to him. A greater philosopher than His Grace said many letters answer themselves if you let them alone, and I should not wonder if Irving finds much truth in the axiom. Bric-à-brac, historic relics, theatrical properties, articles of virtu, lie about in admired disorder. Here is Edmund Kean’s sword, which was presented to Irving on the first night of his Richard III. by that excellent and much-respected artist Mr. Chippendale, who had acted with Edmund Kean, and was his perpersonal friend. In a glass case near this precious treasure is a ring that belonged to David Garrick. It is an exquisite setting of a miniature of Shakespeare. This was given to Irving by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. In a cabinet near one of the windows, the order of the George, which Edmund Kean wore in “Richard III.,” and his prompt-book of “Othello.” Close by are three marble busts,—one of Young, with a faded wreath upon its brow; another of Mrs. Harriet Brown, “a most dear and valued friend” (to use his own words); and the third, of Ellen Terry, sculptured by Irving’s friend, Brodie,—a portrait of Rossi (presented by the actor) as Nero; a photograph of Charles Dickens (presented by Miss Mary Dickens),—the one by Gurney, of New York, which the great author himself thought an excellent portrait; medallions of Émile Devrient and John Herchell (the latter a gift from Herchell’s daughter); and a sketch of a favorite Scotch terrier (very well known to his friends as “Charlie”), which during the last year or two has become his most constant companion at home and at the theatre. The adjoining room continues the collection of the actor’s art treasures,—not the mere connoisseur’s museum of articles of virtu, but things which have a personal value and a special history associated with the art their owner loves.

It is a frank smile that greets us as the actor enters and extends his long, thin hand. I know no one whose hand is so suggestive of nervous energy and artistic capacity as Irving’s. It is in perfect harmony with the long, expressive face, the notably æsthetic figure!

“You want to talk shop,” he says, striding about the room, with his hands in the pockets of his loose gray coat. “Well, with all my heart, if you think it useful and interesting.”

“I do.”

“May I select the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would like to go back to one we touched upon at your own suggestion some months ago.”

“An actor on his audiences?”

“Yes. The subject is a good one; it interests me, and in that brief anonymous newspaper sketch of a year ago you did little more than indicate the points we discussed. Let us see if we cannot revive and complete it.”

“Agreed. I will ‘interview’ you, then, as they say in America.”

“By all means,” replied my host, handing me a cigar, and settling himself down in an easy-chair by the fire. “I am ready.”

“Well, then, as I think I have said before when on this subject, there has always appeared to me something phenomenal in the mutual understanding that exists between you and your audiences; it argues an active sympathy and confidence on both sides.”

“That is exactly what I think exists. In presence of my audience I feel as safe and contented as when sitting down with an old friend.”

“I have seen Lord Beaconsfield, when he was Mr. Disraeli, rise in the House of Commons, and begin a speech in a vein and manner evidently considered beforehand, which, proving at the moment out of harmony with the feelings of the house, he has entirely altered from his original idea to suit the immediate mood and temper of his audience. Now, sympathetic as you are with your audience, have you, under their influence in the development of a new character, ever altered your first idea during the course of the representation?”

“You open up an interesting train of thought,” he answered. “Except once, I have never altered my original idea under the circumstances you suggest; that was in ‘Vanderdecken,’ and I changed the last scene. I can always tell when the audience is with me. It was not with me in ‘Vanderdecken’; neither was it entirely on the first night of ‘Hamlet,’ which is, perhaps, curious, considering my subsequent success. On the first night I felt that the audience did not go with me until the first meeting with Ophelia, when they changed toward me entirely. But as night succeeded night, my Hamlet grew in their estimation. I could feel it all the time, and now I know that they like it,—that they are with me heart and soul. I will tell you a curious thing about my ‘Hamlet’ audience. It is the most interesting audience I play to. For any other piece there is a difficulty in getting the people seated by half-past eight. For ‘Hamlet’ the house is full and quiet, and waiting for the curtain to go up, by half-past seven. On the first night the curtain dropped at a quarter to one.”

“In what part do you feel most at home with your audience, and most certain of them?”

“Well, in Hamlet,” he replied, thoughtfully.

“Has that been your greatest pecuniary success?”

“Yes.”

“What were the two unprecedented runs of ‘Hamlet’?”

“The first was two hundred nights; the second, one hundred and seven; and in the country I have often played it ten times out of a twelve nights’ engagement. But, as we have moved into this line of thought about audiences, it should be remembered that, with the exception of two or three performances, I had never played Hamlet before that first night at the Lyceum. Indeed, so far as regards what is called the classic and legitimate drama, my successes, such as they were, had been made outside it, really in eccentric comedy. As a rule, actors who have appeared for the first time in London in such parts as Richard III., Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello, have played them previously for years in the country; and here comes a point about my audiences. They knew this, and I am sure they estimated the performance accordingly, giving me their special sympathy and good wishes. I believe in the justice of audiences. They are sincere and hearty in their approval of what they like, and have the greatest hand in making an actor’s reputation. Journalistic power cannot be overvalued; it is enormous; but, in regard to actors, it is a remarkable fact that their permanent reputations, the final and lasting verdict of their merits, are made chiefly by their audiences. Sometimes the true record comes after the players are dead, and it is sometimes written by men who possibly never saw them. Edmund Kean’s may be called a posthumous reputation. If you read the newspapers of the time you will find that during his acting days he was terribly mauled. Garrick’s impersonations were not much written about in his day. As to Burbage, Betterton, and other famous actors of their time, whose names are familiar to us, when they lived there were practically no newspapers to chronicle their work.”

“You believe, then, that merit eventually makes its mark, in spite of professional criticism, and that, like Masonic rituals, the story of success, its form and pressure, may go down orally to posterity?”

“I believe that what audiences really like they stand by. I believe they hand down the actor’s name to future generations. They are the judge and jury who find the verdict and pronounce sentence. I will give you an example in keeping with the rapid age in which we live. I am quite certain that within twelve hours of the production of a new play of any importance all London knows whether the piece is a success or a failure, no matter whether the journals have criticised it or not. Each person in the audience is the centre of a little community, and the word is passed on from one to the other.”

“What is your feeling in regard to first-night audiences, apart from the regular play-going public? I should imagine that the sensitive nature of a true artist must be considerably jarred by the knowledge that a first-night audience is peculiarly fastidious and sophisticated.”

“I confess I am happier in presence of what you call the regular play-going public. I am apt to become depressed on a first night. Some of my friends and fellow-artists are stimulated and excited by a sense of opposition. I fear it lowers me. I know that while there is a good, hearty crowd who have come to be pleased, there are some who have not come to be pleased. God help us if we were in the hands of the few who, from personal or other motives, come to the theatre in the hope of seeing a failure, and who pour out their malice and spite in anonymous letters!”

“Detraction and malicious opposition are among the penalties of success. To be on a higher platform than your fellows is to be a mark for envy and slander,” I answered, dropping, I fear, into platitude, which my host cut short with a shrug of the shoulders and a rapid stride across the room.

He handed to me a book, handsomely bound and with broad margins, through which ran a ripple of old-faced type, evidently the work of an author and a handicraftsman who love the memories both of Caxton and his immediate successors. It was entitled “Notes on Louis XI.; with some short extracts from Commines’ Memoirs,” and was dated “London, 1878,—printed for the author.”

“That book,” said my host, “was sent to me by a person I had then never seen nor heard of. It came to me anonymously. I wished to have a second copy of it, and sent to the printer with the purpose of obtaining it. He replied by telling me the work was not for sale, and referring me to the author, whose address he sent to me. I made the application as requested; another copy was forwarded, and with it a kindly intimation that if ever I should be near the house of the writer, ‘we should be glad to see you.’ I called in due course, and found the author one of a most agreeable family. ‘You will wonder,’ they said at parting, ‘why we wrote and compiled this book. It was simply for this reason: a public critic in a leading journal had said, as nothing was really known of the character, manners, and habits of Louis XI., an actor might take whatever liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.’ Here is another present that I received soon afterward,—one of the most beautiful works of its kind I ever remember to have seen.”

It was an artistic casket, in which was enshrined what looked like a missal bound in carved ivory and gold. It proved, however, to be a beautifully bound book of poetic and other memorials of Charles the First, printed and illustrated by hand, with exquisite head and tail pieces in water-colors, portraits, coats-of-arms, and vignettes, by Buckman, Castaing, Terrel, Slie, and Phillips. The work was “imprinted for the author at London, 30th January, 1879,” and the title ran: “To the Honor of Henry Irving: to cherish the Memory of Charles the First: these Thoughts, Gold of the Dead, are here devoted.” As a work of art, the book is a treasure. The portraits of the Charleses and several of their generals are in the highest style of water-color painting, with gold borders; and the initial letters and other embellishments are studies of the most finished and delicate character.

“Now these,” said their owner, returning the volumes to the book-shelves over which the raven stretched its wings, “are only two out of scores of proofs that audiences are intellectually active, and that they find many ways of fixing their opinions. These incidents of personal action are evidences of the spirit of the whole. One night, in “Hamlet,” something was thrown upon the stage. It struck a lamp, and fell into the orchestra. It could not be found for some time. An inquiry was made about it by some person in the front,—an aged woman, who was much concerned that I had not received it,—so I was informed at the box-office. A sad-looking woman, evidently very poor, called the next day; and, being informed that the trinket was found, expressed herself greatly pleased. ‘I often come to the gallery of the theatre,’ she said, ‘and I wanted Mr. Irving to have this family heirloom. I wanted him alone in this world to possess it.’ This is the trinket, which I wear on my watch-chain. The theatre was evidently a solace to that poor soul. She had probably some sorrow in her life; and she may have felt a kind of comfort in Hamlet, or myself, perhaps, possessing this little cross.”

As he spoke, the actor’s lithe fingers were busy at his watch-chain, and he seemed to be questioning the secret romance of the trinket thrown to him from the gallery.

“I don’t know why else she let it fall upon the stage; but strange impulses sometimes take hold of people sitting at a play, especially in tragedy.”

The trinket about which he speculated so much is an old-fashioned gold cross. On two sides is engraved, “Faith, Hope, and Charity”; on the front, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins”; and on the reverse, “I scorn to fear or change.”

“They said at the box-office,” went on the actor, musingly, “that she was a poor mother who had lost her son;” and then, rousing himself, he returned brightly to the subject of our conversation. “One example,” he said, “of the generous sympathy of audiences serves to point the moral of what I mean; and in every case the motive is the same, to show an earnest appreciation, and to encourage and give pleasure to the actor. At Sheffield one night, during the grouse season, a man in the gallery threw a brace of birds upon the stage, with a rough note of thanks and compliments; and one of the pit audience sent me round a knife which he had made himself. You see, the people who do these things have nothing to gain; they are under no extraneous influence; they judge for themselves; and they are representative of that great Public Opinion which makes or mars, and which in the end is always right. When they are against you it is hard at the time to be convinced that you are wrong; but you are. Take my case. I made my first success at the St. James’s. We were to have opened with ‘Hunted Down.’ We did not. I was cast for Doricourt in ‘The Belle’s Stratagem,’—a part which I had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me. I felt that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, on my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience that I was compelled to reappear on the scene,—a somewhat unusual thing, as you know, except on the operatic stage.”

“And in America,” I said, “where scene-calls are quite usual, and quite destructive of the illusion of the play, I think.”

“You are right; and, by the way, if there must be calls, I like our modern method of taking a call after an act on the scene itself. But to proceed. I next played ‘Hunted Down,’ and they liked me in that; and when they do like, audiences are no niggards of their confessions of pleasure. My next engagement was at the Queen’s Theatre, where I was successful. Then I went to the Gaiety, where I played Chevenex. I followed at Drury Lane in ‘Formosa,’ and nobody noticed me at all.”

“Do you think you always understand the silence of an audience? I mean in this way: on a first night, for example, I have sometimes gone round to speak to an actor, and have been met with the remark, ‘How cold the audience is!’ as if excessive quietness was indicative of displeasure, the idea being that when an audience is really pleased, it always stamps its feet and claps its hands. I have seen an artist making his or her greatest success with an audience that manifested its delight by suppressing every attempt at applause.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he answered. “I recall a case in point. There was such an absence of applause on the first night of ‘The Two Roses,’ while I was on the stage, that I could not believe my friends when they congratulated me on my success. But with experience one gets to understand the idiosyncrasies and habits of audiences. You spoke of the silence of some audiences. The most wonderful quiet and silence I have ever experienced as an actor, a stillness that is profound, has been in those two great theatres, the one that was burned down at Glasgow, and the Standard, in London, during the court scene of ‘The Bells.’”

V.

Genius is rarely without a sense of humor. Mr. Irving has a broad appreciation of fun, though his own humor is subtle and deep down. This is never better shown than in his Richard and Louis. It now and then appears in his conversations; and when he has an anecdote to tell he seems to develop the finer and more delicate motives of the action of the narrative, as if he were dramatizing it as he went along. We dropped our main subject of audiences presently to talk of other things. He related to me a couple of stories of a “dresser” who was his servant in days gone by. The poor man is dead now, and these incidents of his life will not hurt his memory.

“One night,” said Irving, “when I had been playing a new part, the old man said, while dressing me, ‘This is your masterpiece, sir!’ How do you think he had arrived at this opinion? He had seen nothing of the piece, but he noticed that I perspired more than usual. The poor fellow was given over to drink at last; so I told him we must part if he did not mend his ways. ‘I wonder,’ I said to him, ‘that, for the sake of your wife and children, you do not reform; besides, you look so ridiculous.’ Indeed, I never saw a sillier man when he was tipsy; and his very name would set children laughing,—it was Doody. Well, in response to my appeal, with maudlin vanity and with tears in his eyes, he answered, ‘They make so much of me!’ It reminded me of Dean Ramsay’s story of his drunken parishioner. The parson, you remember, admonished the whiskey-drinking Scot, concluding his lecture by offering his own conduct as an example. ‘I can go into the village and come home again without getting drunk.’ ‘Ah, minister, but I’m sae popular!’ was the fuddling parishioner’s apologetic reply.”

A notable person in appearance, I said just now. Let me sketch the famous actor as we leave his rooms together. A tall, spare figure in a dark overcoat and grayish trousers, black neckerchief carelessly tied, a tall hat, rather broad at the brim. His hair is black and bushy, with a wave in it on the verge of a curl, and suggestions of gray at the temples and over the ears. It is a pale, somewhat ascetic face, with bushy eyebrows, dark dreamy eyes, a nose that indicates gentleness rather than strength, a thin upper lip, a mouth opposed to all ideas of sensuousness, but nervous and sensitive, a strong jaw and chin, and a head inclined to droop a little, as is often the case with men of a studious habit. There is great individuality in the whole figure, and in the face a rare mobility which photography fails to catch in all the efforts I have yet seen of English artists. Though the popular idea is rather to associate tragedy with the face and manner of Irving, there is nothing sunnier than his smile. It lights up all his countenance, and reveals his soul in his eyes; but it is like the sunshine that bursts for a moment from a cloud, and disappears to leave the landscape again in shadows, flecked here and there with fleeting reminiscences of the sun.

The management of the Lyceum Theatre has a moral and classic atmosphere of its own. A change came over the house with the success of “The Bells.” “Charles I.” consummated it. You enter the theatre with feelings entirely different from those which take possession of you at any other house. It is as if the management inspired you with a special sense of its responsibility to Art, and your own obligations to support its earnest endeavors. Mr. Irving has intensified all this by a careful personal attention to every detail belonging to the conduct of his theatre. He has stamped his own individuality upon it. His influence is seen and felt on all hands. He has given the color of his ambition to his officers and servants. His object is to perfect the art of dramatic representation, and elevate the profession to which he belongs. There is no commercial consideration at work when he is mounting a play, though his experience is that neither expense nor pains are lost on the public.

VI.

When Mr. Irving’s art is discussed, when his Hamlet or his Mathias, his Shylock or his Dei Franchi, are discussed, he should be regarded from a broader stand-point than that of the mere actor. He is entitled to be looked at as not only the central figure of the play, but as the motive power of the whole entertainment,—the master who has set the story and grouped it, the controlling genius of the moving picture, the source of the inspiration of the painter, the musician, the costumer, and the machinist, whose combined efforts go to the realization of the actor-manager’s conception and plans. It is acknowledged on all hands that Mr. Irving has done more for dramatic art all round than any actor of our time; and it is open to serious question whether any artist of any time has done as much. Not alone on the stage, but in front of it, at the very entrance of his theatre, the dignified influence of his management is felt. Every department has for its head a man of experience and tact, and every person about the place, from the humblest messenger to the highest officer and actor, seems to carry about with him a certain pride of association with the management.

Mr. Irving’s dressing-room at the theatre is a thorough business-like apartment, with at the same time evidences of the taste which obtains at his chambers. It is as unpretentious and yet in its way as remarkable as the man. See him sitting there at the dressing-table, where he is model to himself, where he converts himself into the character he is sustaining. His own face is his canvas, his own person, for the time being, the lay figure which he adorns. It is a large square table in the corner of the room. In the centre is a small old-fashioned mirror, which is practically the easel upon which he works; for therein is reflected the face which has to depict the passion and fear of Mathias, the cupidity of Richard, the martyrdom of Charles, the grim viciousness of Dubosc, the implacable justice of the avenging Dei Franchi, and the touching melancholy of Hamlet. As a mere matter of “make-up,” his realizations of the historical pictures of Charles the First and Philip of Spain are the highest kind of art. They belong to Vandyck and Velasquez, not only in their imitation of the great masters, but in the sort of inspiration for character and color which moved those famous painters. See him sitting, I say, the actor-artist at his easel. A tray on the right-hand side of his mirror may be called his palette; it contains an assortment of colors, paint-pots, powders, and brushes; but in his hand, instead of the maulstick, is the familiar hare’s-foot,—the actor’s “best friend” from the earliest days of rouge and burned cork. To the left of the mirror lie letters opened and unopened, missives just brought by the post, a jewel-box, and various “properties” in the way of chains, lockets, or buckles that belong to the part he is playing. He is talking to his stage-manager, or to some intimate friend, as he continues his work. You can hear the action of the drama that is going on,—a distant cheer, the clash of swords, a merry laugh, or a passing chorus. The “call-boy” of the theatre looks in at intervals to report the progress of the piece up to the point where it is necessary the leading artist should appear upon the stage. Then, as if he is simply going to see a friend who is waiting for him, Irving leaves his dressing-room, and you are alone. There is no “pulling himself together,” or “bracing up,” or putting on “tragic airs” as he goes. It is a pleasant “Good-night,” or “I shall see you again,” that takes him out of his dressing-room, and you can tell when he is before the audience by the loud cheers that come rushing up the staircases from the stage. While he is away, you look around the room. You find that the few pictures which decorate the walls are theatrical portraits. Here is an etching of Garrick’s head; there a water-color of Ellen Terry; here a study of Macready in Virginius; there a study in oil of Edmund Kean, by Clint, side by side with a portrait of George Frederic Cooke, by Liversiege. Interspersed among these things are framed play-bills of a past age and interesting autograph letters. Near the dressing-table is a tall looking-glass, in front of it an easy-chair, over which are lying a collection of new draperies and costumes recently submitted for the actor-manager’s approval. The room is warm with the gas that illuminates it; the atmosphere delightful to the fancy that finds a special fascination behind the foot-lights.

VII.

A reflective writer, with the power to vividly recall a past age and contrast it with the present, might find ample inspiration in the rooms to which Mr. Irving presently invites us. It is Saturday night. On this last day in every acting week it is his habit to sup at the theatre, and, in spite of his two performances, he finds strength enough to entertain a few guests, sometimes a snug party of three, sometimes a lively company of eight or ten. We descend a carpeted staircase, cross the stage upon the remains of the snow scene of the “Corsican Brothers,” ascend a winding stair, pass through an armory packed with such a variety of weapons as to suggest the Tower of London, and are then ushered into a spacious wainscoted apartment, with a full set of polished ancient armor in each corner of it, an antique fireplace with the example of an old master over the mantel, a high-backed settee in an alcove opposite the blind windows (the sills of which are decorated with ancient bottles and jugs), and in the centre of the room an old oak dining-table, furnished for supper with white cloth, cut glass, and silver, among which shine the familiar beet-root and tomato.

“This was the old Beefsteak Club room,” says our host; “beyond there is the kitchen; the members dined here. The apartments were lumber-rooms until lately.”

Classic lumber-rooms truly! In the history of the clubs no association is more famous than the Sublime Society of Beefsteaks. The late William Jerdan was the first to attempt anything like a concise sketch of the club, and he wrote his reminiscences thereof for me and “The Gentleman’s Magazine” a dozen years ago, in the popular modern days of that periodical. Jerdan gave me an account of the club in the days when he visited it. “The President,” he said,—“an absolute despot during his reign,—sat at the head of the table adorned with ribbon and badge, and with the insignia of a silver gridiron on his breast; his head, when he was oracular, was crowned with a feathery hat, said to have been worn by Garrick in some gay part on the stage. He looked every inch a king. At the table on this occasion were seated the Bishop, Samuel Arnold, the patriotic originator of English opera, and strenuous encourager of native musical talent. He wore a mitre, said to have belonged to Cardinal Gregorio; but be that as it might, it became him well as he set it on his head to pronounce the grace before meat, which he intoned as reverently as if he had been in presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury instead of a bevy of Steakers. Near him was John Richards, the Recorder, whose office in passing sentence on culprits was discharged with piquancy and effect. Captain Morris, the Laureate, occupied a distinguished seat; so also did Dick Wilson, the Secretary, a bit of a butt to the jokers, who were wont to extort from him some account of a Continental trip, where he prided himself on having ordered a ‘boulevard’ for his dinner, and un paysan (for faisan) to be roasted; and last of all I can recall to mind, at the bottom of the plenteous board sat the all-important ‘Boots,’ the youngest member of the august assembly. These associated as a sort of staff with a score of other gentlemen, all men of the world, men of intellect and intelligence, well educated, and of celebrity in various lines of life—noblemen, lawyers, physicians and surgeons, authors, artists, newspaper editors, actors,—it is hardly possible to conceive any combination of various talent to be more efficient for the object sought than the Beefsteaks. The accommodation for their meetings was built, expressly for that end, behind the scenes of the Lyceum Theatre, by Mr. Arnold; and, among other features, was a room with no daylight to intrude, and this was the dining-room, with the old gridiron on the ceiling, over the centre of the table. The cookery on which the good cheer of the company depended was carried on in what may be called the kitchen, in full view of the chairman, and served through the opposite wall, namely, a huge gridiron with bars as wide apart as the ‘chess’ of small windows, handed hot-and-hot to the expectant hungerers. There were choice salads (mostly of beet root), porter, and port. The plates were never overloaded, but small cuts sufficed till almost satiated appetite perhaps called for one more from the third cut in the rump itself, which His Grace of Norfolk, after many slices, prized as the grand essence of bullock!”

Other times, other manners. The rooms are still there. The gridiron is gone from the ceiling, but the one through which sliced bullock used to be handed “hot-and-hot” to the nobility of blood and intellect remains. It and the kitchen (now furnished with a fine modern cooking-range) are shut off from the dining-room, and neither porter nor port ever weighs down the spirits of Mr. Irving’s guests. He sometimes regales a few friends here after the play. The menu on these occasions would contrast as strangely with that of the old days as the guests and the subjects of their conversation and mirth. It is classic ground on which we tread, and the ghosts that rise before us are those of Sheridan, Perry, Lord Erskine, Cam Hobhouse, and their boon companions. Should the notabilities among Irving’s friends be mentioned, the list would be a fair challenge to the old Beefsteaks. I do not propose to deal with these giants of yesterday and to-day, but to contrast with Jerdan’s picture a recent supper of guests gathered together on an invitation of only a few hours previously. On the left side of Irving sat one of his most intimate friends, a famous London comedian; on the right, a well-known American tragedian, who had not yet played in London; opposite, at the other side of the circular-ended table, sat a theatrical manager from Dublin, and another of the same profession from the English midlands; the other chairs were occupied by a famous traveller, an American gentleman connected with literature and life insurance, a young gentleman belonging to English political and fashionable society, the editor of a Liverpool journal, a provincial playwright, and a north-country philanthropist. The repast began with oysters, and ran through a few entrées and a steak, finishing with a rare old Stilton cheese. There were various salads, very dry sherry and Champagne, a rich Burgundy, and, after all, sodas and brandies and cigars. The talk was “shop” from first to last,—discussions of the artistic treatment of certain characters by actors of the day and of a previous age, anecdotes of the stage, the position of the drama, its purpose and mission. Every guest contributed his quota to the general talk, the host himself giving way to the humor of the hour, and chatting of his career, his position, his hopes, his prospects, his ambition, in the frankest way. Neither the space at my disposal nor the custom of the place will permit of a revelation of this social dialogue; for the founder of the feast has revived, with the restored Beefsteak rooms, the motto from Horace’s “Epistles” (paraphrased by the old club Bishop), which is still inscribed on the dining-room wall:—

“Let no one bear beyond this threshold hence,
Words uttered here in friendly confidence.”

II.
NEW YORK.

Going to Meet the “Britannic”—The “Blackbird”—Skirmishers of the American Press—The London “Standard’s” Message to New York, Boston, and Chicago—“Working” America—“Reportorial” Experiences—Daylight off Staten Island—At Quarantine under the Stars and Stripes—“God Save the Queen!” and “Hail to the Chief!”—Received and “Interviewed”—“Portia on a Trip from the Venetian Seas”—What the Reporters Think and what Irving Says—The Necessity of Applause—An Anecdote of Forrest—Mr. Vanderbilt and the Mirror—Miss Terry and the Reporters—“Tell them I never loved home so well as now”—Landed and Welcomed—Scenes on the Quay—At the Brevoort.

I.

Four o’clock in the morning, October 21, 1883. A cheerful gleam of light falls upon a group of Lotos guests as they separate at the hospitable door-way of that famous New York club. Otherwise Fifth avenue is solitary and cold. The voices of the clubmen strike the ear pleasantly. “Going to meet Irving,” you hear some of them say, and “Good-night,” the others. Presently the group breaks up, and moves off in different directions. “I ordered a carriage at the Brevoort House,” says one of the men who pursue their way down Fifth avenue. They are the only persons stirring in the street. The electric arcs give them accompanying shadows as black as the night-clouds above them. The Edison lamps exhibit the tall buildings, sharp and clear, against the darkness. Two guardians of a carpet-store, on the corner of Fourteenth street, sleep calmly among the show-bales that decorate the sidewalk. An empty car goes jingling along into Union square. A pair of flickering lights are seen in the distance. They belong to “the carriage at the Brevoort House.” It will only hold half our number. The civilities that belong to such a situation being duly exchanged, there are some who prefer to walk; and an advance is made on foot and on wheels towards the North river.

For my own part I would, as a rule, rather walk than ride in a private carriage in New York. The street cars and the elevated railroad are comfortable enough; but a corduroy road in a forest track is not more emphatic in its demands upon the nerves of a timid driver than are the pitfalls of a down-town street in the Empire city. I nevertheless elect to ride. We are four; we might be any number, to one who should attempt to count us, so numerous does the jolting of our otherwise comfortable brougham appear to make us. We are tossed and pitched about as persistently as we might be in a dingy during a gale off some stormy headland. Presently the fresh breeze of the river blows upon us as if to justify the simile; then we are thrown at each other more violently than ever; a flash of gas-light greets us; the next moment it is dark again, and we stop with alarming suddenness. “Twenty-second street pier,” says our driver, opening the door. We are received by a mysterious officer, who addresses us from beneath a world of comforters and overcoats. “Want the ‘Blackbird’?” he asks. We do. “This way,” he says. We follow him, to be ushered straightway into the presence of those active scouts and skirmishers of the American press,—the interviewers. Here they are, a veritable army of them, on board Mr. Starin’s well-known river steamer, the “Blackbird,” their wits and their pencils duly sharpened for their prey. Youth and age both dedicate themselves to this lively branch of American journalism. I tell a London friend who is here to “mind his eye,” or they may practise upon him, and that if he refuses to satisfy their inquiries they may sacrifice him to their spleen; for some of them are shivering with cold, and complaining that they have had no rest. Finding an English artist here from the “Illustrated London News,” I conduct him secretly to the “Ladies’ cabin.” It is occupied by a number of mysterious forms, lying about in every conceivable posture; some on the floor, some on the sofas; their faces partially disguised under slouch hats, their figures enveloped in cloaks and coats. They are asleep. The cabin is dimly lighted, and there is an odor of tobacco in the oily atmosphere. “Who are they?” asks my friend, in a whisper. “Interviewers!” I reply, as we slip back to the stove in the saloon. “What a picture Doré would have made of the ladies’ cabin!” says the English artist.

II.

We encounter more new-comers in the saloon. Two of them bring copies of the morning papers. I recognize several of the interesting crowd, and cannot help telling them something of the conversation of the Beefsteak Club room guest who drew their pictures in London, as a warning to the traveller whom they were going to meet. I find them almost as ill-informed, and quite as entertaining, concerning Irving’s mannerisms, as was the traveller in question touching their own occupation. They talk very much in the spirit of what has recently appeared here in some of the newspapers about Irving and his art-methods. New York, they say, will not be dictated to by London; New York judges for itself. At the same time they do not think it a generous thing on the part of the London “Standard” to send a hostile editorial avant-courier to New York, to prejudice the English actor’s audiences and his critics.[2] Nor do they think this “British malevolence” will have any effect either way, though the “Standard” practically proclaims Mr. Irving and Miss Terry as impostors. This article has been printed by the press, from New York to San Francisco, while the Lyceum Company and its chief are on the Atlantic. I have often heard it said, in England, that Irving had been wonderfully “worked” in America. Men who are worthy to have great and devoted friends unconsciously make bitter enemies. Irving is honored with a few of these attendants upon fame. If the people who regard his reputation as a thing that has been “worked” could have visited New York a week before his arrival they could not have failed to be delighted to see how much was being done against him, and how little for him. An ingenious and hostile pamphleteer was in evidence in every bookseller’s window. Villainous cheap photographs of “actor and manager” were hawked in the streets. Copies of an untruthful sketch of his career, printed by a London weekly, were circulated through the mails. The “Standard’s” strange appeal to New York, Boston, and Chicago was cabled to the “Herald” and republished in the evening papers. Ticket speculators had bought up all the best seats at the Star Theatre, where the English actor was to appear, and refused to sell them to the public except at exorbitant, and, for many play-goers, prohibitive rates. So far as “working” went the London enemies of the Lyceum manager were so actively represented in New York that his friends in the Empire city must have felt a trifle chilled at the outlook. The operations of the ticket speculators, it must, however, be admitted, seemed to project in Irving’s path the most formidable of all the other obstacles.

III.

But Irving’s ship is sailing on through the darkness while I have been making this “aside,” and the “Blackbird” is in motion; for I hear the swish of the river, and the lights on shore are dancing by the port-holes. Mr. Abbey’s fine military band, from the Metropolitan Opera House, has come on board; so also has a band of waiters from the Brunswick. Breakfast is being spread in the saloon. The brigands from the ladies’ cabin have laid aside their slouch hats and cloaks. They look as harmless and as amiable as any company of English journalists. Night and dark-lanterns might convert the mildest-mannered crowd into the appearance of a pirate crew.

I wish the Irving guest of my first chapter could see and talk to these interviewers. I learn that they represent journals at Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, St. Louis, and other cities besides New York. One of them has interviewed Lord Coleridge; another was with Grant during the war; a third was with Lee. They have all had interesting experiences. One is an Englishman; another hails from “bonnie Scotland.” There is no suggestion of rowdyism among them. I owe them an apology on the “excuse accuse” principle, for saying these things; but the “interviewer” is not understood in England; he is often abused in America, and I should like to do him justice. These gentlemen of the press who are going out to meet Irving are reporters. Socially they occupy the lowest station of journalism, though their work is of primary importance. Intellectually they are capable men, and the best of them write graphically, and with an artistic sense of the picturesque. They should, and no doubt do, develop into accomplished and powerful journalists; for theirs is the best of education. They study mankind; they come in contact with the most prominent of American statesmen; they talk with all great foreigners who visit the United States; they are admitted into close intercourse with the leading spirits of the age; they have chatted on familiar terms with Lincoln, Sheridan, Grant, Garfield, Huxley, Coleridge, Arnold, Patti, Bernhardt, Nilsson, and they will presently have added to the long list of their personal acquaintances Irving and Miss Terry. They are travellers, and, of necessity, observers. Their presscard is a talisman that opens to them all doors of current knowledge; and I am bound to say that these men on board the “Blackbird” are, in conversation and manners, quite worthy of the trust reposed in them by the several great journals which they represent.

IV.

“‘Britannic’ ahead!” shouts a voice from the gangway. We clamber on deck. It is daylight. The air is still keen. The wooded shores of Staten island are brown with the last tints of autumn. Up the wide reaches of the river, an arm of the great sea, come all kinds of craft; some beating along under sail; others, floating palaces, propelled by steam. These latter are ferry-boats and passenger steamers. You have seen them in many a marine picture and panorama of American travel. The “Blackbird” is typical of the rest,—double decks, broad saloons, tiers of berths, ladies’ cabins, and every ceiling packed with life-buoys in case of accident. We push along through the choppy water, our steam-whistle screaming hoarse announcements of our course. The “Britannic” lies calmly at quarantine, the stars and stripes at her topmast, the British flag at her stern. She is an impressive picture,—her masts reaching up into the gray sky, every rope taut, her outlines sharp and firm. In the distance other ocean steamers glide towards us, attended by busy tugs and handsome launches. One tries to compare the scene with the Mersey and the Thames, and the only likeness is in the ocean steamers, which have come thence across the seas. For the rest, the scene is essentially American,—the broad river, the gay wooden villas ashore, the brown hills, the bright steam craft on the river, the fast rig of the trading schooners; and above all the stars and stripes of the many flags that flutter in the breeze, and the triumphant eagles that extend their golden wings over the lofty steerage turrets of tug and floating palace.

Now we are alongside the “Britannic.” As our engines stop, the band of thirty Italians on our deck strikes up “God save the Queen.” One or two British hands instinctively raise one or two British hats, and many a heart, I am sure, on board the “Britannic” beats the quicker under the influence of the familiar strains. A few emigrants, with unkempt hair, on the after deck, gaze open-mouthed at the “Blackbird.” Several early risers appear forward and greet with waving hands the welcoming crowd from New York. One has time to note the weather-beaten color of the “Britannic’s” funnels.

“What sort of a passage?” cries a voice, shouting in competition with the wind that is blowing hard through the rigging.

“Pretty rough,” is the answer.

“Where is Mr. Irving?” cries out another “Blackbird” passenger.

“In bed,” is the response.

“Oh!” says the interrogator, amidst a general laugh.

“Beg pardon, no,” presently shouts the man on the “Britannic,”—“he’s shaving.”

Another laugh, drowned by a salute of some neighboring guns. At this moment a boat is lowered from the splendid yacht “Yosemite,” which has been steaming round about the “Britannic” for some time. It is Mr. Tilden’s vessel. He has lent it to Mr. Lawrence Barrett and Mr. William Florence. They have come out to meet Irving and Miss Terry, with a view to carry them free from worry or pressure to their several hotels. The two well-known actors are in the yacht’s pinnace, and some of us wonder if they are good sailors. The waves which do not stir the “Britannic,” and only gently move the “Blackbird,” fairly toss the “Yosemite’s” boat; but the occupants appear to be quite at home in her. She disappears around the “Britannic’s” bows to make the port side for boarding, and as she does so Mr. Irving suddenly appears between the gangway and the ship’s boats, on a level with the deck of the “Blackbird” about midships. “There he is!” shout a score of voices. He looks pale in the cold, raw light; but he smiles pleasantly, and takes off a felt bowler hat as the “Blackbird” gives him a cheer of welcome.

“Won’t you come here? The quarantine authorities object to our visiting the ship until the doctor has left her.”

A plank is thrust from our paddle-box, Irving climbs the “Britannic’s” bulwark, and grasps a hand held out to steady him as he clambers aboard the “Blackbird” right in the midst of the interviewers. Shaking hands with his manager, Mr. Abbey, and others, he is introduced to some of the pressmen, who scan his face and figure with undisguised interest. By this time Messrs. Barrett and Florence appear on the “Britannic.” They have got safely out of their boat and have a breezy and contented expression in their eyes. Irving now recrosses the temporary gangway, and is fairly embraced by his two American friends. The band strikes up, “Hail to the Chief!” Then the gentlemen of the press are invited to join Mr. Irving on board the “Yosemite.” They are arrested by what one of them promptly designates “a vision of pre-Raphaelitish beauty.” It is Miss Ellen Terry.[3] Every hat goes off as she comes gayly through the throng. “Portia, on a trip from the Venetian seas!” exclaims an enthusiastic young journalist, endeavoring to cap the æsthetic compliment of his neighbor. Escorted by Mr. Barrett, and introduced by Mr. Irving, she is deeply moved, as well she may be, by the novel scene. “Britannic” passengers crowd about her to say good-by; the band is playing “Rule, Britannia”; many a gay river boat and steamer is navigating the dancing waters; the sun is shining, flags fluttering, and a score of hands are held out to help Portia down the gangway on board the “Yosemite,” which is as trim and bright and sturdy in its way as a British gun-boat. While the heroine of the trip is taking her seat on deck, and kissing her hand to the “Britannic,” the “Yosemite” drives ahead of the ocean steamer. Mr. Irving goes down into the spacious cabin, which is crowded with the gentlemen against whose sharp and inquisitive interrogations he has been so persistently warned.

V.

“Well, gentlemen, you want to talk to me,” he says, lighting a cigar, and offering his case to his nearest neighbors.

The reporters look at him and smile. They have had a brief consultation as to which of them shall open the business, but without coming to any definite arrangement. Irving, scanning the kindly faces, is no doubt smiling inwardly at the picture which his London friend had drawn of the interviewers. He is the least embarrassed of the company. Nobody seems inclined to talk; yet every movement of Irving invites interrogatory attack.

“A little champagne, gentlemen,” suggests Mr. Florence, pushing his way before the ship’s steward and waiters.

“And chicken,” says Irving, smiling; “that is how we do it in London, they say.”

This point is lost, however, upon the reporters, a few of whom sip their champagne, but not with anything like fervor. They have been waiting many hours to interview Irving, and they want to do it. I fancy they are afraid of each other.

“Now, gentlemen,” says Irving, “time flies, and I have a dread of you. I have looked forward to this meeting, not without pleasure, but with much apprehension. Don’t ask me how I like America at present. I shall, I am sure; and I think the bay superb. There, I place myself at your mercy. Don’t spare me.”

Everybody laughs. Barrett and Florence look on curiously. Bram Stoker, Mr. Irving’s acting manager, cannot disguise his anxiety. Loveday, his stage-manager and old friend, is amused. He has heard many curious things about America from his brother George, who accompanied the famous English comedian, Mr. J. L. Toole (one of Irving’s oldest, and perhaps his most intimate, friend), on his American tour. Neither Loveday nor Stoker has ever crossed the Atlantic before. They have talked of it, and pictured themselves steaming up the North river into New York many a time; but they find their forecast utterly unlike the original.

“What about his mannerisms?” says one reporter to another. “I notice nothing strange, nothing outre either in his speech or walk.”

“He seems perfectly natural to me,” the other replies; and it is this first “revelation” that has evidently tongue-tied the “reportorial” company. They have read so much about the so-called eccentricities of the English visitor’s personality that they cannot overcome their surprise at finding themselves addressed by a gentleman whose grace of manner reminds them rather of the polished ease of Lord Coleridge than of the bizarre figure with which caricature, pictorially and otherwise, has familiarized them.

“We are all very glad to see you, sir, and to welcome you to New York,” says one of the interviewers, presently.

“Thank you with all my heart,” says Irving.

“And we would like to ask you a few questions, and to have you talk about your plans in this country. You open in ‘The Bells,’—that was one of your first great successes?”

“Yes.”

“You will produce your plays here just in the same way as in London?” chimes in a second interviewer.

“With the same effects, and, as far as possible, with the same cast?”

“Yes.”

“And what are your particular effects, for instance, in ‘The Bells’ and ‘Louis XI.,’ say, as regard mounting and lighting?”

“Well, gentlemen,” answers Irving, laying aside his cigar and folding his arms, “I will explain. In the first place, in visiting America, I determined I would endeavor to do justice to myself, to the theatre, and to you. I was told I might come alone as a star, or I might come with a few members of my company, and that I would be sure to make money. That did not represent any part of my desire in visiting America. The pleasure of seeing the New World, the ambition to win its favor and its friendship, and to show it some of the work we do at the Lyceum,—these are my reasons for being here. I have, therefore, brought my company and my scenery. Miss Ellen Terry, one of the most perfect and charming actresses that ever graced the English stage, consented to share our fortunes in this great enterprise; so I bring you almost literally the Lyceum Theatre.”

“How many artists, sir?”

“Oh, counting the entire company and staff, somewhere between sixty and seventy, I suppose. Fifty of them have already arrived here in the ‘City of Rome.’”

“In what order do you produce your pieces here?”

“‘The Bells,’ ‘Charles,’ ‘The Lyons Mail,’ ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ we do first.”

“Have you any particular reason for the sequence of them?”

“My idea is to produce my Lyceum successes in their order, as they were done in London; I thought it would be interesting to show the series one after the other in that way.”

“When do you play ‘Hamlet?’”

“On my return to New York in the spring.”

“Any special reason for that?”

“A managerial one. We propose to keep one or two novelties for our second visit. Probably we shall reserve ‘Much Ado’ as well as ‘Hamlet.’ Moreover, a month is too short a time for us to get through our repertoire.”

“In which part do you think you most excel?”

“Which do you like most of all your range of characters?”

“What is your opinion of Mr. Booth as an actor?”

These questions come from different parts of the crowd. It reminds me of the scene between an English parliamentary candidate and a caucus constituency, with the exception that the American questioners are quite friendly and respectful, their chief desire evidently being to give Mr. Irving texts upon which he can speak with interest to their readers.

“Mr. Booth and I are warm friends. It is not necessary to tell you that he is a great actor. I acted with him many subordinate parts when he first came to England, about twenty years ago.”

“What do you think is his finest impersonation?”

“I would say ‘Lear,’ though I believe the American verdict would be ‘Richelieu.’ Singularly enough ‘Richelieu’ is not a popular play in England. Mr. Booth’s mad scene in ‘Lear,’ I am told, is superb. I did not see it; but I can speak of Othello and Iago: both are fine performances.”

“You played in ‘Othello’ with Mr. Booth in London you say?”

“I produced ‘Othello’ especially for Mr. Booth, and played Iago for the first time on that occasion. We afterwards alternated the parts.”

“Shakespeare is popular in England,—more so now than for some years past, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“What has been the motive-power in this revival?”

“England has to-day many Shakespearian societies, and our countrymen read the poet much more than they did five and twenty years ago. As a rule our fathers obtained their knowledge of him from the theatre, and were often, of course, greatly misled as to the meaning and intention of the poet, under the manipulation of Colley Cibber and others.”

“Which of Shakespeare’s plays is most popular in England?”

“‘Hamlet.’ And, singularly, the next one is not ‘Julius Cæsar,’ which is the most popular after ‘Hamlet,’ I believe, in your country. ‘Othello’ might possibly rank second with us, if it were not difficult to get two equally good actors for the two leading parts. Salvini’s Othello, for instance, suffered because the Iago was weak.”

“You don’t play ‘Julius Cæsar,’ then, in England?”

“No. There is a difficulty in filling worthily the three leading parts.”

By this time Mr. Irving is on the most comfortable and familiar terms with the gentlemen of the press. He has laid aside his cigar, and smiles often with a curious and amused expression of face.

“You must find this kind of work, this interviewing, very difficult,” he says, presently, in a tone of friendly banter.

“Sometimes,” answers one of them; and they all laugh, entering into the spirit of the obvious fun of a victim who is not suffering half as much as he expected to do, and who indeed, is, on the whole, very well satisfied with himself.

“Don’t you think we might go on deck now and see the harbor?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” they all say; and in a few minutes the “Yosemite’s” pretty saloon is vacated.

Mr. Irving and his friends go forward; Miss Terry is aft, in charge of Mr. Barrett. She is looking intently down the river at the far-off “Britannic,” which is now beginning to move forward in our wake, the “Yosemite” leaving behind her a long, white track of foam.

The interviewers are again busily engaged with Mr. Irving. He is once more the centre of an interested group of men. Not one of them takes a note. They seem to be putting all he says down in their minds. They are accustomed to tax their memories. One catches, in the expression of their faces, evidence of something like an inter-vision. They seem to be ticking off, in their minds, the points as the speaker makes them; for Irving now appears to be talking as much for his own amusement as for the public instruction. He finds that he has a quick, intelligent, and attentive audience, and the absence of note-books and anything like a show of machinery for recording his words puts him thoroughly at his ease. Then he likes to talk “shop”; as who does not? And what is more delightful to hear than experts on their own work?

“Do your American audiences applaud much?” he asks.

“Yes,” they said; “oh, yes.”

“Because, you know, your Edwin Forrest once stopped in the middle of a scene and addressed his audience on the subject of their silence. ‘You must applaud,’ he said, ‘or I cannot act.’ I quite sympathize with that feeling. An actor needs applause. It is his life and soul when he is on the stage. The enthusiasm of the audience reacts upon him. He gives them back heat for heat. If they are cordial he is encouraged; if they are excited so is he; as they respond to his efforts he tightens his grip upon their imagination and emotions. You have no pit in your American theatres, as we have; that is, your stalls, or parquet, cover the entire floor. It is to the quick feelings and heartiness of the pit and gallery that an actor looks for encouragement during his great scenes in England. Our stalls are appreciative, but not demonstrative. Our pit and gallery are both.”

Irving, when particularly moved, likes to tramp about. Whenever the situation allows it he does so upon the stage. Probably recalling the way in which pit and gallery rose at him—and stalls and dress-circle, too, for that matter—on his farewell night at the Lyceum, he paces about the deck, all the interviewers making rapid mental note of his gait, and watching for some startling peculiarity that does not manifest itself.

“He has not got it; why, the man is as natural and as straight and capable as a man can be,” says one to another.

“And a real good fellow,” is the response. “Ask him about Vanderbilt and the mirror.”

“O Mr. Irving!—just one more question.”

“As many as you like, my friend,” is the ready reply.

“Is it true that you are to be the guest of Mr. Vanderbilt?”

“And be surrounded with ingeniously constructed mirrors, where I can see myself always, and all at once? I have heard strange stories about Mr. Vanderbilt having had a wonderful mirror of this kind constructed for my use, so that I may pose before it in all my loveliest attitudes. Something of the kind has been said, eh?” he asks, laughing.

“Oh, yes, that is so,” is the mirthful response.

“Then you may contradict it, if you will. You may say that I am here for work; that I shall have no time to be any one’s guest, though I hope the day may come when I shall have leisure to visit my friends. You may add, if you will” (here he lowered his voice with a little air of mystery), “that I always carry a mirror of my own about with me wherever I go, because I love to pose and contemplate my lovely figure whenever the opportunity offers.”

“That will do, I guess,” says a gentleman of the interviewing staff; “thank you, Mr. Irving, for your courtesy and information.”

“I am obliged to you very much,” he says, and then, having his attention directed to the first view of New York, expresses his wonder and delight at the scene, as well he may.

Ahead the towers and spires of New York stand out in a picturesque outline against the sky. On either hand the water-line is fringed with the spars of ships and steamers. On the left stretches far away the low-lying shore of New Jersey; on the right, Brooklyn can be seen, rising upwards, a broken line of roofs and steeples. Further away, joining “the city of churches” to Manhattan, hangs in mid-air that marvel of science, the triple carriage, foot, and rail road known as the Brooklyn bridge. Around the “Yosemite,” as she ploughs along towards her quay, throng many busy steamers, outstripping, in the race for port, fleets of sailing vessels that are beating up the broad reaches of the river before the autumn wind.

VI.

“She is not quite pretty,” says a New York reporter, turning to me during his contemplation of Miss Terry, who is very picturesque as she sits by the taffrail at the stern; “but she is handsome, and she is distinguished. I think we would like to ask her a few questions; will you introduce us?”

I do the honors of this presentation. Miss Terry is too much under the influence of the wonderful scene that meets her gaze to receive the reporters with calmness.

“And this is New York!” she exclaims. “What a surprising place! And, oh, what a river! So different to the Thames! And to think that I am in New York! It does not seem possible. I cannot realize it.”

“If you had a message to send home to your friends, Miss Terry, what would it be?” asks Reporter No. 1, a more than usually bashful young man.

The question is a trifle unfortunate.

“Tell them I never loved home so well as now,” she answers, in her frank, impulsive way.

She turns her head away to hide her tears, and Reporter No. 2 remonstrates with his companion.

“I wouldn’t have said it for anything,” says No. 1. “I was thinking how I would add a few words for her to my London cable,—that’s a fact.”

“It is very foolish of me, pray excuse me,” says the lady; “it is all so new and strange. I know my eyes are red, and this is not the sort of face to go into New York with, is it?”

“I think New York will be quite satisfied, Miss Terry,” says a third reporter; “but don’t let us distress you.”

“Oh, no, I am quite myself now. You want to ask me some questions?”

“Not if you object.”

“I don’t object; only you see one has been looking forward to this day a long time, and seeing land again and houses, and so many ships, and New York itself, may well excite a stranger.”

“Yes, indeed, that is so,” remarks No. 1, upon whom she turns quickly, the “Liberty” scarf at her neck flying in the wind, and her earnest eyes flashing.

“Have you ever felt what it is to be a stranger just entering a strange land? If not you can hardly realize my sensations. Not that I have any fears about my reception. No, it is not that; the Americans on the ship were so kind to me, and you are so very considerate, that I am sure everybody ashore will be friendly.”

“Do you know Miss Anderson?”

“Yes. She is a beautiful woman. I have not seen her upon the stage; but I have met her.”

“Do you consider ‘Charles I.’ will present you to a New York audience in one of your best characters?”

“No; and I am not very fond of the part of Henrietta Maria either.”

“What are your favorite characters?”

“Oh, I hardly know,” she says, now fairly interested in the conversation; and turning easily towards her questioners, for the first time, “I love nearly all I play; but I don’t like to cry, and I cannot help it in ‘Charles I.’ I like comedy best,—Portia, Beatrice, and Letitia Hardy.”

“Do you intend to star on your own account?”

“No, no.”

“You prefer to cast your fortunes with the Lyceum company?”

“Yes, certainly. Sufficient for the day is the Lyceum thereof. There is no chance of my ever desiring to change. I am devoted to the Lyceum, and to Mr. Irving. No one admires him more than I do; no one knows better, I think, how much he has done for our art; no one dreams of how much more he will yet do if he is spared. I used to think, when I was with Charles Kean,—I served my apprenticeship, you know, with Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean,—that his performances and mounting of plays were perfect in their way. But look at Mr. Irving’s work; look at what he has done and what he does. I am sure you will be delighted with him. Excuse me, is that the ‘Britannic’ yonder, following in our wake?”

“Yes.”

She kisses her hand to the vessel, and then turns to wonder at the city, which seems to be coming towards us, so steadily does the “Yosemite” glide along, hardly suggesting motion.

Then suddenly the word is passed that the “Yosemite” is about to land her passengers. A few minutes later she slips alongside the wharf at the foot of Canal street. The reporters take their leave, raising their hats to Miss Terry, many of them shaking hands with Mr. Irving. Carriages are in waiting for Mr. Barrett and his party. A small crowd, learning who the new-comers were, give them a cheer of welcome, and Henry Irving and Ellen Terry stand upon American soil.

“I am told,” says Mr. Irving, as we drive away, “that when Jumbo arrived in New York he put out his foot and felt if the ground was solid enough to bear his weight. The New Yorkers, I believe, were very much amused at that. They have a keen sense of fun. Where are we going now?”

“To the Customs, at the White Star wharf, to sign your declaration papers,” says Mr. Florence.

“How many packages have you in your state-room, madame?” asks a sturdy official, addressing Miss Terry.

“Well, really I don’t know; three or four, I think.”

“Not more than that?” suggests Mr. Barrett.

“Perhaps five or six.”

“Not any more?” asks the official. “Shall I say five or six?”

“Well, really, I cannot say. Where’s my maid? Is it important,—the exact number?”

There is a touch of bewilderment in her manner which amuses the officials, and everybody laughs—she herself very heartily—when her maid says there are fourteen packages of various kinds in the state-room of the “Britannic,” which is now discharging her passengers. A scene of bustle and excitement is developing just as we are permitted to depart. A famous politician is on board. There is a procession, with a band of music, to meet him. Crowds of poor people are pushing forward for the “Britannic” gangway to meet a crowd of still poorer emigrant friends. Imposing equipages are here to carry off the rich and prosperous travellers. Tons of portmanteaus, trunks, boxes, baggage of every kind, are sliding from the vessel’s side upon the quay. Friends are greeting friends. Children are being hugged by fathers and mothers. Ship’s stewards are hurrying to and fro. The expressman, jingling his brass checks, is looking for business; his carts are fighting their way among the attendant carriages and more ponderous wagons. A line of Custom-House men form in line, a living cord of blue and silver, across the roadway exit of the wharf. There is a smell of tar and coffee and baked peanuts in the atmosphere, together with the sound of many voices; and the bustle repeats itself outside in the rattle of arriving and departing carts and carriages. Above all one hears the pleasant music of distant car-bells. We dash along, over level crossings, past very continental-looking riverside cabarets and rum-shops, under elevated railroads, and up streets that recall Holland, France, Brighton, and Liverpool, until we reach Washington square. The dead leaves of autumn are beginning to hide the fading grass; but the sun is shining gloriously away up in a blue sky. Irving is impressed with the beauty of the city as we enter Fifth avenue, its many spires marking the long line of street as far as the eye can see. The Brevoort House has proved a welcome, if expensive, haven of rest to many a weary traveller. To-day its bright windows and green sun-blinds, its white marble steps, and its wholesome aspect of homelike comfort, suggest the pleasantest possibilities.

Let us leave the latest of its guests to his first experiences of the most hotel-keeping nation in the world.

III.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Union Square, New York—An Enterprising Chronicler—The Lambs—The Newspapers and the New-comers—“Art Must Advance with the Times”—“Romeo and Juliet” at the Lyceum—“Character Parts”—No Real Tradition of Shakespearian Acting—“Mannerisms”—The Stage as an Educator—Lafayette Place—A Notable Little Dinner—The Great American Bird, “Not the Eagle, but the Duck”—A Question of “Appropriate Music”—Speculators in Tickets and their Enormous Profits—Middlemen, the Star Theatre, and the Play-going Public.

I.

“It is not like my original idea of it, so far,” said Irving, the next morning,—“this city of New York. The hotel, the Fifth avenue, the people,—everything is a little different to one’s anticipations; and yet it seems to me that I have seen it all before. It is London and Paris combined. I have been ‘round to call on Miss Terry. She is at what she calls ‘The Hotel—ahem!’—the Hotel Dam, in Union square. Dam is the proprietor. It is a handsome house. A fine square. The buildings are very tall. The cars, running along the streets, their many bells, the curious wire-drawn look of the wheels of private carriages,—all a little odd. Fifth avenue is splendid! And what a glorious sky!”

He rattled on, amused and interested, as he stood in the back room of his suite of three on the ground floor at the Brevoort.

“Several interviewers in there,” he said, pointing to the folding-doors that shut us out from the other apartment. “One reporter wanted to attend regularly, and chronicle all I did,—where I went to, and how; what I ate, and when; he wished to have a record of everybody who called, what they said, and what I said to them.”

“An enterprising chronicler; probably a ‘liner,’ as we should call him on the other side,—a liner unattached.”

“He was very civil. I thanked him, and made him understand that I am modest, and do not like so much attention as he suggests. But these other gentlemen, let us see them together.”

It was very interesting to hear Irving talk to his visitors, one after the other, about his art and his work. I had never seen him in such good conversational form before. So far from resisting his interrogators, he enjoyed their questions, and, at the same time, often puzzled them with his answers. Some of his visitors came with minds free and unprejudiced to receive his impressions; with pens ready to record them. Others had evidently read up for the interview; they had turned over the pages of Hazlitt, Lamb, and Shakespeare with a purpose. Others had clearly studied the ingenious pamphlet of Mr. Archer; these had odd questions to ask, and were amazed at the quickness of Irving’s repartee. As a rule they reported the new-comer correctly. The mistakes they made were trivial, though some of them might have seemed important in prejudiced eyes. I propose, presently, to give an example of this journalistic work.

After dinner Mr. Irving went to a quiet little reception at the house of a friend, and at night he visited the Lambs Club. The members are principally actors, and Sunday night is their only holiday. Once a month they dine together. On this night they held their first meeting of the season. The rooms were crowded. Irving was welcomed with three cheers. Mr. William Florence, Mr. Raymond, Mr. Henry Edwards, Mr. Howson, and other well-known actors introduced him to their brother members, and a committee was at once formed to arrange a date when the club could honor itself and its guest with a special dinner.

“It is very delightful to be so cordially received,” said Irving, “by my brother actors. I shall be proud to accept your hospitality on any evening that is convenient to you. It must be on a Sunday, of course. I am told New York is strict in its observance of Sunday. Well, I am glad of it,—it is the actor’s only day of rest.”

II.

On Monday morning the newspapers, from one end of the United States to the other, chronicled the arrival of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry. The New York journals rivalled each other in columns of bright descriptive matter, with headings in more than customary detail. The “Herald” commenced its announcement in this way:—

IRVING—TERRY.

Arrival of the Famous English Actor and the Leading Lady of the Lyceum.

A Hearty Welcome Down the Bay by Old Friends.

AN INTERVIEW WITH MR. IRVING.

His Views on the Drama and Stage of To-day.

PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.

The “Sun” greeted its readers with,—

UP EARLY TO MEET IRVING!

A BUSINESS-LIKE HAMLET AND A JOLLY OPHELIA ARRIVE.

What the Famous English Actor Looks Like, and How He Talks—A Stentorian Greeting Down at Quarantine before Breakfast.

The “Morning Journal” (the latest success in cheap newspaper enterprise) proclaimed:—

ENGLAND’S GREAT ACTOR.

Henry Irving Cordially Welcomed in the Lower Bay.

He Tells of His Hopes and Fears, and Expresses Delight over Dreaded Newspaper Interviewers— Miss Terry Joyful.

A leading Western journal pays a large salary to a clever member of its staff, whose duty is confined to the work of giving to the varied news of the day attractive titles. The New York press is less exuberant in this direction than formerly.

The sketches of the arrival of the “Britannic’s” passengers are bright and personal. They describe the appearance of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry. The vivacity of Miss Terry charmed the reporters. The quiet dignity of Irving surprised and impressed them. The “interviews” generally referred to Mr. Irving’s trip across the Atlantic; his programme for New York; his hopes of a successful tour; his ideas of the differences between American and English theatres; what he thought of Booth, and other points which I have myself set forth, perhaps more in detail than was possible for the journals, and, what is more important, from the platform of an interested English spectator. The following conversation is, in the main, a revised edition of an interview that appeared in the “Herald.”

“And now to speak to you of yourself as an actor, and also of your theatre,—let me ask you, to what mainly do you attribute your success?”

“The success I have made, such as it is, has been made by acting—by acting alone, whether good or bad.”[4]

“There is a notion in America, Mr. Irving, that your extraordinary success is due to your mise en scène and the research you have given to the proper mounting of your pieces.”

“Indeed, is that so? And yet ‘The Cup’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet’ were the only two pieces I have done in which the mise en scène has been really remarkable. During my early association with the Lyceum nothing of that kind was attempted. For instance, the church-yard scene in ‘Hamlet’ was a scene painted for ‘Eugene Aram,’ as the then manager of the Lyceum (my old friend, Mr. Bateman), did not believe in the success of ‘Hamlet.’ The run of the play was two hundred nights. I have been associated with the Lyceum since 1871, eleven years, and, until the production of ‘The Corsican Brothers’ and ‘The Cup,’ in 1880-1881, no play in which I acted had ever been elaborately mounted. Before the time of these plays I had acted in ‘The Bells,’ ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Eugene Aram,’ ‘Philip,’ ‘Richelieu,’ ‘Hamlet,’ ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Louis XI.,’ ‘Othello,’ ‘Richard III.,’ ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘The Iron Chest,’ and others; and this, I think, is sufficient answer to the statement that my success has, in any way, depended upon the mounting of plays. When I played ‘Hamlet,’ under my own management, which commenced in December, 1878, I produced it with great care; and many things, in the way of costume and decoration, which had been before neglected, I endeavored to amend. But take, for instance, ‘The Merchant of Venice,’—it was put upon the stage in twenty-three days.”

“It will be impossible for managers to go back to the bad system of mounting formerly in vogue, will it not?”

“I think so. Indeed, it is impossible for the stage to go back to what it was in any sense. Art must advance with the times, and with the advance of other arts there must necessarily be an advance of art as applied to the stage. In arranging the scenery for ‘Romeo and Juliet’ I had in view not only the producing of a beautiful picture, but the illustration of the text. Every scene I have done adds to the poetry of the play. It is not done for the sake of effect merely, but to add to the glamor of the love story. That was my intention, and I think that result was attained. I believe everything in a play that heightens and assists the imagination, and in no way hampers or restrains it, is good, and ought to be made use of. I think you should, in every respect, give the best you can. For instance, Edwin Booth and I acted together in ‘Othello.’ He alone would have drawn a great public; yet I took as much pains with it as any play I ever put upon the stage. I took comparatively as much pains with the ‘Two Roses’ and the ‘Captain of the Watch’ as with ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ But there is no other play in Shakespeare that seems to me to so much require a pictorial setting as ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ You could not present plays nowadays as they formerly did, any more than you could treat them generally as they were treated.”

“How did you come to identify yourself so much with the revival of Shakespearian acting?”

“I will try to tell you briefly what I have done since I have been before the London public. Much against the wish of my friends I took an engagement at the Lyceum, then under the management of Mr. Bateman. I had successfully acted in many plays besides ‘Two Roses,’ which ran three hundred nights. It was thought by everybody interested in such matters that I ought to identify myself with what they called ‘character parts’; though what that phrase means, by the way, I never could exactly understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a character. I always wanted to play in the higher drama. Even in my boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre I recited the drama of ‘Eugene Aram,’ simply to get an idea as to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. I hoped I could, and at once made up my mind to prepare myself to play characters of another type. When Mr. Bateman engaged me he told me he would give me an opportunity, if he could, to play various parts, as it was to his interest as much as to mine to discover what he thought would be successful,—though, of course, never dreaming of ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Richard III.’ Well, the Lyceum opened, but did not succeed. Mr. Bateman had lost a lot of money, and he intended giving it up. He proposed to me to go to America with him. By my advice, and against his wish, ‘The Bells’ was rehearsed, but he did not believe in it much. He thought there was a prejudice against the management, and that there would probably be a prejudice against that sort of romantic play. It produced a very poor house, although a most enthusiastic one. From that time the theatre prospered. The next piece was a great difficulty. It was thought that whatever part I played it must be a villain, associated with crime in some way or other; because I had been identified with such sort of characters it was thought my forte lay in that direction. I should tell you that I had associated histrionically with all sorts of bad characters, house-breakers, blacklegs, assassins. When ‘Charles I.’ was announced, it was said that the bad side of the king’s character should be the one portrayed, not the good, because it would be ridiculous to expect me to exhibit any pathos, or to give the domestic and loving side of its character. After the first night the audience thought differently. Following ‘Charles I.’ ‘Eugene Aram’ was, by Mr. Bateman’s desire, produced. In this we have a character much like that of Mathias, but with a pathetic side to it. Then Mr. Bateman wished me to play ‘Richelieu.’ I had no desire to do that; but he continued to persuade, and to please him I did it. It ran for a long time with great success. What I did play, by my own desire, and against his belief in its success, was ‘Hamlet,’ for you must know that at that time there was a motto among managers,—‘Shakespeare spells bankruptcy.’”

“What is your method in preparing to put a play on the stage,—say one of Shakespeare’s; would you be guided by the tradition of Shakespearian acting?”

“There is no tradition of Shakespearian acting; nor is there anything written down as to the proper way of acting Shakespeare. We have the memoirs and the biographies of great actors, and we know something of their methods; but it does not amount to a tradition or to a school of Shakespearian acting. For instance, what is known on the stage of Shakespeare’s tradition of Richard? Nothing. The stage tradition is Colley Cibber. ‘Off with his head,—so much for Buckingham!’ is, perhaps, the most familiar line of his text. We have had some men who have taken this or that great actor as their exemplar; they have copied him as nearly as they could. Actors, to be true, should, I think, act for themselves.”

“You would advise an actor, then, to go to the book and study the play out for himself, and not take this or that character by rote?”

“Certainly; take the book, and work the play out to the best of your intelligence. I believe my great safeguard has been that I have always tried to work out a character myself. As a boy I never would see a play until I had studied it first.”

“That would be an answer to the strictures which have been made on you, that you have not kept to the old acting versions, but have made versions for yourself?”

“True; and why should I not, if I keep, as I do, to Shakespeare? For many actors Shakespeare was not good enough. A picture which hangs in my rooms affords an instance in point. It represents Mr. Holman and Miss Brunton in the characters of Romeo and Juliet, and gives a quotation from the last scene of Act V. Juliet says, ‘You fright me. Speak; oh, let me hear some voice beside my own in this drear vault of death; or I shall faint. Support me.’ Romeo replies, ‘Oh! I cannot. I have no strength, but want thy feeble aid. Cruel poison!’ Not one word of which, as you know, is Shakespeare’s.”

“You referred just now to the necessity of an actor acting ‘from himself;’—in other words, not sinking his own individuality in the part he is trying to represent; would it not be an answer to those who charge you with mannerisms on the stage? Is it not true, in short, that the more strongly individual a man is the more pronounced his so-called mannerisms will be?”

“Have we not all mannerisms? I never yet saw a human being worth considering without them.”

“I believe you object to spectators being present at your rehearsals. What are your reasons for that course?”

“There are several, each of which would be a valid objection.”

“For instance?”

“Well, first of all, it is not fair to author, manager, or actor, as the impression given at an incomplete performance cannot be a correct one.”

“But surely by a trained intellect due allowance can be made for shortcomings?”

“For shortcomings, yes; but a trained intellect cannot see the full value of an effort, perhaps jarred or spoiled through some mechanical defect; or, if the trained intellect knows all about it, why needs it to be present at all? Now, it seems to me that one must have a reason for being present, either business or curiosity, and business cannot be properly done, while curiosity can wait.”

“Another reason?”

“It is unjust to the artists. A play to be complete must, in all its details, finally pass through one imagination. There must be some one intellect to organize and control; and in order that this may be effected it is necessary to experimentalize. Many a thing may be shown at rehearsal which is omitted in representation. If this be seen, and not explained, a false impression is created. A loyal company and staff help much to realize in detail and effect the purpose of the manager; but still, all are but individual men and women, and no one likes to be corrected or advised before strangers.”

“As to the alleged dearth of good modern English plays, what do you think is the cause of their non-production?”

“I deny the dearth, except so far as there is always a dearth of the good things of the world. I hold that there are good English plays. I could name you many.”

“What are your opinions of the stage as an educational medium? I ask the question because there is a large class of people, both intelligent and cultured, who still look upon the stage and stage-plays, even if not downright immoral, as not conducive to any intellectual or moral good.”

“My dear sir, I must refer you to history for an answer to that problem. It cannot be solved on the narrow basis of one craft or calling. Such ideas are due to ignorance. Why, in England, three hundred years ago,—in Shakespeare’s time,—in the years when he, more than any other human being in all that great age of venture and development, of search and research, was doing much to make the era famous, actors were but servants, and the stage was only tolerated by court license. A century later, in London city, actors were pilloried and the calling deemed vagrancy; while in France a Christian burial was denied to Molière’s corpse. The study of social history and development teaches a lesson in which you may read your answer. When bigotry and superstition fade, and toleration triumphs, then the work of which the stage is capable will be fairly judged, and there will be no bar to encounter. The lesson of toleration is not for the player alone; the preacher must learn it.”

III.

The first week in New York was, in a great measure, spent between the theatre and the hotel. Invitations to dinner and receptions were, as a rule, declined. The exceptions were breakfasts given by Mr. Vanderbilt and Judge Shea. Many distinguished persons called. All kinds of polite attentions were offered, some of which it is to be feared Irving had not time or opportunity to acknowledge as he could have wished. One gentleman placed his carriage at Mr. Irving’s disposal; another offered to lend him his house; another his steam launch. These courtesies were tendered gracefully and without ostentation. Flowers were sent regularly from unknown hands to the Hotel Dam. Miss Terry went driving with friends in the Park, and found the trotting-track a fascinating scene. Within forty-eight hours Irving was a familiar figure in the lower part of Fifth avenue and Union square, as he walked to and from the theatre. He and Miss Terry made their first acquaintance at Delmonico’s in company with myself and wife. An elegant little dinner, of which the ice-creams were its most successful feature. Artistic in construction, they were triumphs of delicate color. I think they were the chef’s tributes to Miss Terry’s supposed æsthetic taste. No wonder the Delmonicos made millions of dollars, when it is possible that the chief reminiscence of a dinner may be associated with the ice-creams and sweets. On Tuesday, after a rehearsal and a drive down-town on a pouring wet day, I piloted the new-comer to Sieghortner’s, in Lafayette place. This well-known café occupies the house in which the Astors lived. It is a building characteristic of the early days of New York’s first millionnaires,—marble steps, heavy mahogany doors, rich Moorish decorations, spacious hall-ways. Close by is the Astor Library, a valuable institution, and the street itself has quite an Old-World look. It was once the most fashionable quarter of New York; but wealth has moved towards the park, and left Lafayette place to restaurants, boarding-houses, public baths, and stores. Sieghortner himself is a typical Dutchman, a veritable Knickerbocker of hotel-keepers, and a gourmet. He is almost the only “landlord” (as we would call him at home) in New York who will condescend to wait upon his guests. It is a pleasure to look upon his beaming face when you order a dinner and leave menu and wines to his judgment. As he stands by your chair, directing his attendants, he is radiant with satisfaction if you are pleased, and would no doubt be plunged into despair if you were dissatisfied. Shrewsbury oysters, gumbo soup, cutlets, canvas-back ducks, a soufflé, Stilton cheese, an ice, a liqueur, a dish of fruit, and a bottle of hock that filled the room with its delicious perfume.

“It was perfection, Mr. Sieghortner,” said Irving, as he sipped his coffee, and addressed the old man,—“the canvas-back superb. You are so interested in the art of dining that you will appreciate a little experience of mine in connection with the great American bird,—I don’t mean the eagle, but the duck.”

Sieghortner rubbed his hands, and said, “Oh, yes,—why, of course!”

“An old American friend of mine,—dead now, alas!—when he was in his prime, as they say, frequently had numbers of canvas-back ducks sent to London from New York. On the first great occasion of this kind he invited thirty guests to eat thirty ducks. He spent a day or two instructing the chef of a well-known club how to cook them. The kitchen was to be well heated, you know, and the ducks carried gently through.”

“Oh, yes, that’s the way!” said Sieghortner, rubbing his hands.

“Well, the night came. His guests were in full force. The ducks were served. They had a whitey-brown and flabby appearance. Bateman cut one and put it aside. He tried another, and in his rage flung it under the table. The dinner was an utter failure.”

“Dear! dear!” exclaimed Sieghortner.

“My friend did not forget it for months. He was continually saying, ‘I wonder how that fool spoiled our ducks; I have tried to find out, but it is a mystery.’ Nearly a year afterwards I heard of the chef’s sudden death. Meeting my friend, I said, ‘Have you heard of poor So-and-so, the chef at the club,—he is dead!’—‘I am very glad of it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you know, he cooked those ducks over the gas!’”

“Dear! dear!” exclaimed Sieghortner, a quick expression of anger on his face, “why, he ought to have been hanged!”

IV.

It is customary in American theatres for the orchestra to play the audience out as well as in.

“We will dispense with that,” said Irving to his conductor, Mr. Ball.

“It is a general habit here,” remarked the Star manager.

“Yes, I understand so,” Irving replied; “but it seems to me a difficult matter to select the music appropriately to the piece. What sort of music do you usually play?”

“A march.”

“Ah, well, you see our plays are so different, that a march which would do one night would be entirely out of place the next. Have you the score of ‘The Dead March in Saul’?”

“No,” was the conductor’s reply.

“Well, then, I think we will finish as we do in London,—with the fall of the curtain. If we make a failure on Monday night, the most appropriate thing you could play would be ‘The Dead March.’ As you have no score of it we will do without the exit music.”

“And who knows,” said Irving, as we walked back to the hotel, “whether we shall have a success or not? The wild manner in which the speculators in tickets are going on is enough to ruin anything.[5] They have bought up every good seat in the house, I am told, and will only part with them at almost prohibitive prices. The play-goers may resent their operations and keep away; if they pay ten and twenty dollars for a seat, instead of two and a half or three, they cannot be expected to come to the house in a contented frame of mind. The more money they have been plundered of, the more exacting they will be in regard to the actors; it is only natural they should. Then we have no pit proper, and the lowest admission price to the gallery is a dollar. I would have preferred to play to Lyceum prices; but in that case they say I should only have been putting so much more into the pockets of the speculators. These operators in tickets are protected by the law; managers are obliged to sell to them, and the dealers have a right to hawk them on the pavement at the entrance of the theatres.”

“This is a State or city law, only applying to New York. I don’t think it exists anywhere else in the Union. It certainly does not at Philadelphia and Boston.”

“It is an outrage on the public,” he replied. “Legitimate agencies for the convenience of the public, with a profit of ten or twenty per cent. to the vendor, is one thing; but exacting from the public five and ten dollars for a two-and-a-half-dollar seat is another. After all, a community, however rich, have only a certain amount of money to spend on amusements. Therefore the special attractions and the speculators get the lion’s share, and the general or regular amusements of the place have to be content with short commons.”

“If the ‘Sun’ reporter could hear you he would congratulate himself on having called you ‘a business-like Hamlet.’”

IV.
AT THE LOTOS CLUB.

The Savage Club of America—Thackeray and Lord Houghton—A Great Banquet—Mr. Whitelaw Reid on Irving and the Actor’s Calling—“Welcome to a Country where he may find not Unworthy Brethren”—An Answer to the Warnings of the English Traveller of Chapter I.—“Shakespeare’s Charles the First”—A Night of Wit and Humor—Chauncey M. Depew on Theatrical Evolution—The Knighting of Sullivan—The Delineator of Romance visiting the Home of America’s Creator of Romance—After-dinner Stories—Conspiring against the Peace of a Harmless Scotchman—A Pleasant Jest.

I.

The Lotos Club is the Savage of America, as the Century is its Garrick; each, however, with a difference. The Lotos admits to membership gentlemen who are not necessarily journalists, authors, actors, and painters, earning their subsistence out of the arts. They must be clubable and good fellows, in the estimation of the committee; and herein lies their best qualification. This combination of the arts proper with trade and finance has made the club a success in the broadest sense of the term. Their home is a palace compared with that of the Savage in London. The general atmosphere of the Century is more akin to that of the Garrick, and it is a far closer corporation than the Lotos. Mr. Thackeray spent a good deal of his time there when he was in New York; while Lord Houghton, it is said, preferred the more jovial fireside of the Lotos. In those days the younger club was in humbler, but not less comfortable, quarters than those it now occupies; while the Century, conservative and conscious of its more aristocratic record, is well content with the house which is associated with many years of pleasant memories.

The Lotos honored Irving with a banquet; the Century welcomed him at one of its famous monthly reunions. The Lotos dinner was the first public recognition, outside the press, of Irving in America. He had accepted its invitation before sailing for New York, and sat down with the Lotos-eaters on the Saturday (October 27) prior to his Monday night’s appearance at the Star Theatre. The club-rooms had never been so crowded as on this occasion. Dishes were laid for a hundred and forty members and guests in the dining-room and salon of the club, and fifty others consented to eat together in the restaurant and reading-room upstairs, and fifty or sixty others had to be content to come in after dinner. Mr. Irving sat on the right hand of the President of the club, Mr. Whitelaw Reid, editor of the “Tribune.” At the same table were Chauncey M. Depew, Dr. A. E. Macdonald, General Horace Porter, E. Randolph Robinson, Algernon S. Sullivan, R. B. Roosevelt, Thomas W. Knox, H. H. Gorringe, W. H. Smith, Rev. Robert Laird Collyer, and F. R. Lawrence. Among others present were Lawrence Barrett, Joseph Jefferson, William J. Florence, R. W. Gilder, Dr. Fordyce Barker, D. G. Croly, General Winslow, and A. Oakey Hall. In a window alcove behind the President’s chair stood an easel, holding a large portrait of Irving as Shylock.

Coffee being served, Mr. Irving was conducted upstairs to be introduced to the diners in his honor who were crowded out of the lower rooms. They received him with a loud cheer, and then accompanied him to join the other guests. The company broke up into groups, stood about the door-ways, and thronged around the President, who thereupon arose and addressed them as follows:—

“You must excuse the difficulty in procuring seats. You know the venerable story which Oscar Wilde appropriated about the sign over the piano in a far-western concert-hall: ‘Don’t shoot the performer; he’s doing the best he can.’ (Laughter.) The committee beg me to repeat in their behalf that touching old appeal. They’ve done the best they could. There are five hundred members of this club, and only one hundred and forty seats in this dining-room; they have done their utmost to put the five hundred men into the one hundred and forty seats. Don’t shoot! They’ll come down, apologize, retreat, resign,—do anything to please you. They’ve thoroughly tried this thing of putting two men in one seat and persuading the other three that standing room is just as good; and to-night, as the perspiration rolls from their troubled brows, their fervent hope and prayer is that the manager for your distinguished guest may be haunted by that self-same trouble all through his American tour! (Applause and laughter.)

“London appropriated our national anniversary, to do honor to its favorite actor as he was about to visit us. On that occasion, on the Fourth of July last, at a banquet without a parallel in the history of the British stage, and to which there are actually none to be compared, save the far less significant, but still famous, entertainments to Kean and Macready,—at that banquet your guest said: ‘This God-speed would alone insure me a hearty welcome in any land. But I am not going among strangers. I am going among friends.’ (Applause.)

“Let us take him at his word. Once we were apt to get our opinions from the other side. If that grows less and less a habit now, with the spread among us, since we attained our national majority, of a way of doing our own thinking, we are still all the more glad to welcome friendships from the other side.

“We know our friendly guest as the man whom a great, kindred nation has agreed to accept as its foremost living dramatic representative. We know that his success has tended to elevate and purify the stage, to dignify the actor’s calling, to widen and better its influence. We know the scholarship he has brought to the representation of the great dramatists, the minute and comprehensive attention he has given to every detail alike of his own acting and of the general management. His countrymen do not say that if he were not the foremost actor in England he would be the first manager;—they declare that he is already both. (Applause.)

“We bid him the heartiest of welcomes to a country where he may find not unworthy brethren. Our greeting indeed takes a tone of special cordiality not so much from what we know of his foreign repute, or from our remembering the great assemblage of representative countrymen gathered to give him their farewell and God-speed. It comes even more from our knowing him as the friend of Edwin Booth (Applause), and Joseph Jefferson (Applause), and Lawrence Barrett (Applause), and John McCullough (Applause), and William Florence (Applause). And if anything else were needed to make the grasp of every man’s hand in this club yet warmer, it is furnished when we remember that his conspicuous friend among English actors is our friend, John Toole. (Applause.)

“It would not be fair to our distinguished but unsuspicious guest, adventuring into these foreign parts, if, before sitting down, I did not warn him that all this, and much more which he is likely to hear, is said around the dinner-table. Let him not think that he wholly knows us, and is fairly naturalized, until he has read the papers the morning after his first performance. What they may contain no living man knoweth (Laughter); but others have sometimes groaned that we treat our guests with too much attention; that we accord them, in fact, the same distinguished honor we give our national bird,—the turkey,—which we first feed and afterwards carve up. (Great laughter.)

“But the prologue is an antiquated device, now pretty well banished from the stage, because it merely detains you from what you came to hear. I will detain you no longer. I give you, gentlemen, Our Guest,—

“O trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!”

“Health to Henry Irving, and a hearty welcome.” (Great applause.)

II.

The toast was drank with ringing cheers, and in its report of the reply the “Tribune” says: “Mr. Irving spoke in measured tones, and with a singularly clear and effective enunciation, his frequent ironical sallies being received with bursts of laughter and applause.” He said:—

“Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen,—It is not in my power to thank you, with eloquence, for the reception that you have given me to-night. In spite of the comforting words and suggestions of our friend, the chairman, that on Tuesday morning my feelings may undergo a change, I am quite determined that to-night and to-morrow night, if all be well, I shall have a good night’s rest. I do feel naturalized; and, whatever may be said to the contrary, I shall always bear away with me the impression that I am among my own flesh and blood. (Applause.) The simile of the turkey did not affect me very much; for if the ill-omened bird (I do not know whether he is as familiar in your country as he is in mine), the goose, is not served up I shall be very content. (Applause.)

“You have received me, not as a stranger, but as a welcome friend (Applause), and that welcome I appreciate with all my heart and soul. In coming here amongst you I really had—I may as well confess it—but one terror. The Atlantic I would brave; the wind and weather I would scorn; even sea-sickness I would enjoy; but there was one terror,—the interviewer. (Laughter.) But I am very glad to tell you that that is passed; and I have said so much to the interviewer that I have very little left to say to you. I must, however, also tell you that I find the interviewer a very much misrepresented person. He seemed to me to be a most courteous gentleman, who had but an amiable curiosity to know a little about myself that he did not know before; and I was very well satisfied to gratify him as much as I could. I was told that he would turn me inside out; that he would cross-examine me, and then appear against me the following morning. (Laughter.) But I found nothing of the sort; and if I had any complaint to make against him, the comments with which he tempered his suggestions were so flattering and so gratifying to myself that I forgave him the suggestions that he made. The only thing that I would quarrel with him for was for saying that I reminded him of Oscar Wilde. (Laughter.) Oscar Wilde is a very clever fellow, and I am not going to descant upon him. You know more about him than I do; and I hope that when Oscar Wilde reads what I have said—as I suppose he will—he will take no offence. I am extremely indebted to the interviewer, also, for telling me that I was classed with Edwin Booth. With that I have no fault to find.

“To the courtesy and kindness of American gentlemen I have long been accustomed; for if you have not in London, as you have in Paris, an American quarter, it is really because Americans are found everywhere in London; and I think that everywhere in London they are welcome. (Applause.) Our interests are mutual; and in our art we are getting day by day more closely allied. London is now talking with raptures of your Mary Anderson (Applause); of your great tragedian, Booth (Applause); of your great comedian, Jefferson (Applause)—I dislike the words ‘tragedian’ and ‘comedian’; actor is so much better, and it is a household word. McCullough and Clarke, and my friends Florence and Raymond, have had amongst us the heartiest of welcomes. And I am quite sure that your famous actress, Clara Morris, need only come amongst us—as my friend, Lawrence Barrett, is coming—to have another welcome.

“Mr. Whitelaw Reid has spoken of my work in my art in the kindest and most appreciative way. If I have done anything to gain that commendation, it is because I have striven to do my duty; and but for the appreciation of many of my countrymen, who have thought so, and but for the appreciation that I receive now at this table, I am quite sure that my work would have been in vain.

“I do not intend to bore you with any ideas of mine about my art, either histrionically or pictorially. My method, histrionically, is a very simple one. I merely endeavor to go to the fountain-head to get my inspiration; and by what my work is I know that you will judge it, and judge it fairly. I am quite sure of this: that no people will go to a theatre with a greater desire to do justice to an actor than you will go to the theatre to see me on Monday night. (Applause.) If you like me you will express it; and, if you do not like me, still you will treat me kindly.

“Our art is cosmopolitan. Every actor has his own methods, as every painter has his methods, and every writer has his style. The best actor amongst us has a great deal to learn. It is only at the end of his career that he finds how short is his life, and how long is his art. Concerning the mounting of plays, I give to a play of Shakespeare the same advantage that I would give to any modern author; and until a greater man than Shakespeare arrives, I think I shall continue to do so. (Applause.)

“In my own dear land I am glad to tell you that the love for Shakespearian drama is very greatly increasing. Shakespearian societies throughout our land have done much to encourage that. You know very well that there was a time when Shakespeare was said by a London manager to spell ‘bankruptcy,’ and Lord Byron ‘ruin.’ I remember that at one of the revivals of Shakespearian plays at the Lyceum, a gentleman leaving the theatre was heard to express the opinion that the play was not a bad one; that he thought it might have a tolerable run, but that it would be very much improved if it had not contained so many quotations. (Laughter.) The play was ‘Macbeth.’ (Laughter.) I have been told that that gentleman is sometimes to be found in the British Museum, in the old reading-room devoted to Shakespearian manuscripts, and that he is very frequently found turning them over; but with what success I do not know. I also remember that once, when a play was produced, a friend of mine asked me what the subject of it was. I said to him that the subject was Charles I.; at which he hemmed and hawed and said, ‘Very good; very good; oh, capital! Charles I. Yes, I should think that would do very well. Let me see. Charles I. Do you mean Shakespeare’s Charles I.?’ (Laughter.) However, these things are improving, and even the old play-goer,—I do not know whether such a character exists amongst you,—who is amongst us a very dreadful creature; even he is beginning to tolerate the student who goes to the book, instead of to traditional characters, for his inspiration.

“We are very hypocritical, however, some of us, in England. We go to the Crystal Palace to see the play of ‘Hamlet,’ and go to the Crystal Palace because it is not a theatre; and when we would not go to a theatre to see the play of ‘Hamlet,’ we will go to the Crystal Palace, or some other such place, to see the ‘Pink Dominoes.’ (Laughter.) We will crowd sometimes to the French theatre, without understanding the nationality, the gesture, of the actors, or a word of their language, when we will desert our own theatres where these pieces are being played. But fortunately no such difference as that can exist between us; and I cherish the hope that it will be my good fortune, and more especially the good fortune of my fellow-workers, and especially of my gifted companion and friend, Ellen Terry (Great applause),—I say that I cherish the hope that we shall be able to win your favor. (Applause.) I dare say that you will find many of us very strange and very odd, with peculiarities of speech, and with peculiarities of manner and of gesture; but it would, perhaps, not be so pleasurable if we were all just alike. (Laughter.) It is not our fault, you know, if we are Englishmen.

“Gentlemen, I thank you with all my heart for the greeting you have given me. I thank you for the brotherly hand that you have extended to me. And if anything could make one feel at home, and comfortable, and sure of having a real good time amongst you, it is the cordiality with which I have been received to-night. The very accents of your hearty greeting, and the very kindness of your genial faces, tell me that there are in your hearts good and kind overflowing wishes. Gentlemen, I thank you with all my heart; and I feel that there is a bond between us which dates before to-night.”

The speaker sat down amidst great applause. His manner and matter had evidently given great satisfaction. How he had been misrepresented as to his mannerisms is unconsciously admitted by the note of the “Tribune” reporter that he spoke clearly. He did, and in that quiet, self-possessed, conversational style which was remarked as so effective at the London banquet.

III.

As it was generally admitted that the speaking on this night had never been exceeded in wit and humor, and for its cordiality towards a famous Englishman, at any of the Lotos dinners, I make no apology for printing portions of the other addresses. Mr. Chauncey M. Depew, General Porter, and ex-Mayor Oakey Hall, have long since made distinct reputations for themselves as American orators. At an English dinner men speak to set toasts. In America they are called upon, frequently without warning, to speak to a sentiment, or “to say a few words.” It was in this fashion that the speakers at the Irving banquet were brought into the extemporized programme, and with the most agreeable results. Mr. Chauncey M. Depew, being asked by the chairman to speak, rose promptly, amidst the clouds of many Havanas, and said:—

“Mr. President,—The best criticism that was made upon the speech of our guest to-night was, ‘He talks like an American.’ I am sure that this memorable night will be recollected from the fact that, in the midst of the din of wars and contests and controversies about us, this is simply a peaceful tribute on behalf of this club to one of the chief and most devoted of the exponents of the drama. We have welcomed to this country recently many eminent Englishmen, and among them Lord Coleridge, whom we were glad to see and to honor, both for what he is and what he represents. We have received, at the same time with Mr. Irving, Matthew Arnold, and, while as a great thinker we give him welcome, we warn him that orthodoxy has for him its scalping-knife sharp, and that the theological hatchet is thirsting for his gore. (Laughter.)

“The whole town is in a din and furore with the operatic war, and tenors are peeping over high ‘C’s’ to get at each other, while sopranos are hauled before the courts. (Laughter.) Mapleson walks around with the chip on his shoulder, and Abbey calls upon the police to prevent him from hurting somebody. (Laughter.)

“But, while this controversy rages, we meet here to-night, with one voice and one accord, to welcome the most eminent dramatic scenic painter of this century and the most eminent English actor of this generation. (Applause.) We have welcomed to this board many men from beyond the seas, and while they have poured something into this vast reservoir of intellectual wealth, we have done more for them. Lord Houghton asserts that his health and longevity after his reception here were largely due to the fact that he learned at this place the way to longevity by a cheap and frugal meal. (Laughter.) From this board Sullivan arose to become a knight. (Laughter and applause.) We are all of us familiar with the oratory which usually characterizes an expression of the relations between the old country and the new. There is nothing better known in the whole range of eloquence than that which refers to the interdependent relations, in respect to literature and science and art, between America and England. While this chord is familiar there is one string which is not often touched, and that is the debt we owe to the English thinkers, Huxley, Tyndall, and Darwin, who have created the shibboleth, known in all the schools of America, that evolution is the great principle of modern science.

“While the most of us believe in evolution in theory, in practice we have seen it only upon the stage. The Englishman, from whom our Yankee inherits commercial instincts, saw our want and supplied it. First he sent to us Lydia Thompson and her troupe. (Laughter.) And then the shrewd Englishman sent us ‘Pinafore.’ We were at first fascinated, then charmed, and then annihilated. We could stand ‘Pinafore’ for six hundred consecutive nights in all the theatres, to the exclusion of everything else; in the parlor, upon the piano, in the school-room, on the hurdy-gurdy and on the hand-organ; but when the church choir could do nothing else, then there rose a cry for relief from one end of this country to the other. (Great laughter.) The like of that cry has never been heard since the children of Israel sought to escape from Egypt. (Renewed laughter.) Then, in recognition of his great service, Queen Victoria summoned the author to her presence, and said to him: ‘For one hundred years I have sought to subdue those children of ours beyond the seas, but without avail; but for your grand success arise and take your place with the knights of armor.’ (Great laughter.)

“There is nothing which more clearly indicates the development of this American people from provincialism and its bigotry than the welcome given to Macready, and that which we accord to Irving. To secure a hearing for Macready required that the soldiery should march with fixed bayonets and shotted guns, while the blood of the mob poured through the gutter. But now the American people have developed into a recognition of the fact that to be a great people they must adopt that catholicity that embraces men all over the world; that, while they may believe in Protection for textile fabrics and manufactures, there must be Free Trade in genius. (Applause.)

“We hail, with the gladdest acclaim and heartiest welcome, the German Barnay, the Italian Salvini, and the English Irving, because we wish to have the best the world has of art in any of its departments, and because we want to show them that their success is incomplete until they have passed the ordeal of American criticism. (Applause.) The very best tribute of recent times to the sentiment of right-minded men of culture and intelligence on both sides of the Atlantic, notwithstanding what demagogues may say, is that a London audience crowded the house and rose to the highest enthusiasm to greet the appearance, and applaud the acting, of the American, Edwin Booth (Applause); and its counterpart will be the reciprocity manifested by the American people in crowding the house and applauding the acting of Henry Irving. (Applause.) Still, in illustration of the same idea, while London renders her most generous tribute to the beauty and genius of Mary Anderson, we here, with an equal chivalry, will receive with our best loyalty that beautiful, charming, and genial woman, that brilliant actress, that great genius, Ellen Terry.” (Great applause.)

General Horace Porter, being called up by the President, assured the company that he was really not prepared to speak. He said he felt considerably embarrassed. His audience evidently did not believe him, and he amply justified their scepticism. In an easy, conversational manner he said:—

“I do not even feel that security which was enjoyed by Daniel in the lions’ den, for he had the comfortable assurance that as these animals had their original programme, although he might be eaten, it was not likely that he would be called upon for an after-dinner speech. (Laughter.) But if there is any stimulus which can arouse the most sluggish mind it has been abundantly furnished to-night by the finished and chaste address which has fallen from the lips of our distinguished guest. He has shown us to-night how well qualified he is to furnish us with that dish which I know is so much relished in his own country,—after-dinner tongue garnished with brains. Standing, as we do, in the presence of so distinguished a representative of that profession which is accustomed to speak the carefully prepared words of the dramatists, I would not be surprised to hear our guest say, in the language of Romeo to Juliet in the balcony scene, as he listens to my ill-considered words, ‘He speaks, yet he says nothing.’ (Laughter.) I hope Mr. Irving is beginning to understand that speech is the peculiar form of insanity that comes upon the American mind after dinner, and that here men keep silent only when they are salivated. (Laughter.) Our guest, no doubt, begins to realize what this martyrdom is. By the time he is ready to depart from us he will, no doubt, have greater respect than ever before for the beneficence of that Providence which has endowed us with two ears and only one mouth, (Laughter.) But this martyrdom to-night does not seem to be of the nature of the martyrdom of Charles I., for throughout it all he has not lost his head. It seems to be rather that martyrdom of Cranmer,—he has been so thoroughly toasted on every side. (Laughter.) But there is one privilege that Mr. Irving must not expect to enjoy. When German and French artists came here they enjoyed a special and peculiar privilege; they were not able to understand a word that was said by the speakers. (Laughter.)

“But I cannot sit down without saying a few words in all seriousness. It is that this club considers that it enjoys a peculiar privilege in having the distinguished guest of the night partaking of his first family meal within our land in these walls. (Applause.) It has been a cherished desire on the part of this club to press the cup of greeting to his lips. We recognize in him the masterly interpreter of the sublime works of that prince of dramatists whom both countries claim as their own. He comes amongst us with a name that is no stranger to our hearts. In his coming here I see the great delineator of romance visiting the land of our most charming creator of romance,—Henry Irving visiting the home of Washington Irving. The American people feel under a deep sense of obligation to our guest, because when that great representative of the American drama set foot upon foreign shores the lips that gave him the warmest greeting, the hands that led him to the boards of London’s most distinguished temple of the drama, were those of Henry Irving. He shared equally with Booth the honors of his own stage; and laid down the principle that has become a law, which declares the path of ambition is never so narrow that two cannot walk abreast upon it.

“It was my privilege a year ago to hear Mr. Irving in his own home. It was my privilege to feast my vision upon the masterly creations of the stage of the Lyceum. There one saw at once the reality of painting. There the curtain rises upon absolute perfection. If I were asked the secret of his success I should say it is owing to his constant aspirations after the highest realms of dramatic art. I would that words or deeds of mine could add to the warmth of the welcome he has received.” (Loud applause.)

Dr. A. E. Macdonald, ex-Mayor A. Oakey Hall, Dr. Robert Laird Collier, Mr. Joseph Jefferson, and other gentlemen, also responded to the chairman’s call. Dr. Macdonald indulged in some good-humored sallies at the expense of Mr. Depew. He also spoke of the New York press having “only just arrived at a proper estimate of its true value,—the result being a general reduction in price to two cents.” Mr. Oakey Hall, referring to the many streets and buildings he had been officially called upon to name, said, “I now, in memory of this night, declare that the window recess in which our illustrious guest is sitting shall, from henceforth, be known as ‘The Henry Irving!’” Mr. Jefferson said, “Gentlemen, Charles Lamb is reported to have declared that there are only two classes in the world,—one born to borrow, and the other to lend. So do I think there are two classes of speech-makers,—one born to get into it, the other to get out of it. I belong to the latter crowd. Nevertheless on this occasion I rise cheerfully to do my best among the born talkers. Mr. Irving must be getting tired of hearing his name mentioned so often with words of welcome and admiration, and I will only say that I join heartily in all the kind and worthy things that have been said of him.”

IV.

It was late before the Lotos-eaters parted, although London clubmen take more out of the night than is the habit with New-Yorkers. The raciness of the evening’s speeches was repeated in the stories that were told by the genial few, who sat and talked and smoked with their guest until Fifth avenue was as quiet and deserted as it was when a crowd of admiring friends went out to meet the “Britannic” a week previously. Apropos of an amusing anecdote, with a practical joke in it, which was related, I think, by Colonel Knox, the courteous honorary secretary of the club, Irving said, “I am not much of a hand at that kind of fun, but I remember an incident in which my old friend Toole, a Glasgow doctor, and myself were engaged that may amuse you. Some years ago we found ourselves with a holiday forced upon us by the church of Scotland. We utilized it by going out a short distance into the country and dining together at a famous roadside inn. The house was quite empty of guests, and we claimed the privilege of travellers, on our way to the next town, to sit over our dinner a trifle later than it was the custom to keep the bar open. The landlord was very civil, and we had an excellent dinner. The waiter who attended to our wants was a quaint old fellow,—one of those rugged sort of serving-men with whom Sir Walter Scott has made us all so well acquainted. While he was respectful, he was, nevertheless, very talkative. He told us there had been of late many robberies in the neighborhood. The constabulary, he said, were quite out of their reckoning in regard to tracing the thieves. He wondered if the country was going back again to the coaching days when cracksmen and highwaymen had it all their own way in those parts. The old fellow was a little superstitious too, and a lover of the marvellous, as many of the country people who live outside great cities are apt to be.

“‘You seem a trifle hipped,’ I said; ‘take a glass of wine.’

“‘I am just a wee bit low,’ he said; ‘what wi’ the bad weather, the dull times’—

“‘And the robberies you’ve lately had about here,’ I suggested.

“‘Ah, weel, they’re nae calculated to raise one’s sperits. Good health to you, gentlemen!’

“We thanked him and I filled his glass again.

“‘This house,’ said Toole, ‘is rather a lonely place; you don’t have many guests staying here?’

“‘Not at this time o’ the year,’ he replied; ‘only just chance customers.’

“I filled his glass again before he went for the cheese. When he came back I took up a fork, and expressed some surprise that his master should, in these thieving days, entrust his guests with real silver plate.

“‘I dinna bring it oot for everybody,’ he replied; ‘but for a pairty o’ gentlemen like yoursels, it’s a defferent thing.’

“‘Is the salver there,’ asked Toole, taking up the running and pointing to the sideboard, ‘real silver?’

“‘Indeed it is, and all the plate aboot is silver, and I ken they dinna mak’ sich silver nowadays.’

“‘Bring us a little whiskey!—a pint in a decanter; a drop of the best,’ I said.

“Having planted the right kind of seed in his mind for the working of a little jest I had in my own, my companions and myself entered into a conspiracy against the peace of this harmless Scotchman. Invited to take a nip of whiskey, he readily complied, and just as readily took a seat. We drew him out about all the robberies and murders he could remember, and then deftly got from him the statement that his master had gone to bed, leaving up only himself, the bar-maid, and his wife. Presently the doctor looked at his watch, and said it would soon be time for us to go. ‘I think you had better get our bill, Sandy,’ I said, for by this time I was quite on familiar terms with him, and he with me. ‘You need not be in a hurry; let us have it in about a quarter of an hour,’ added Toole, somewhat mysteriously. ‘We are not quite ready to go yet.’

“‘Vary weel, and thank ye,’ he said, at the same time making us a bow which was quite a study of manner, combining independence and servility. He was a fine old fellow, straight as a poplar, but with a face full of wrinkles, and a characteristic gait that some people would call a mannerism.

“The moment he left the room each of us seized a piece of plate until we had cleared up every bit of silver in the room. We noted the exact places from which we took every piece; then we opened the window. It was a very dark night, but we had noticed that close by the window there were some thick shrubs. We put out the gas, but left alight two candles on the table, so that we could see from our hiding-place what Sandy’s face would look like when it should dawn upon him that we were a pack of thieves—perhaps part of the gang of swell mobsmen who had become the terror of the district.

“I shall never forget the bewildered expression of the poor fellow’s face as he stared at the empty room. Amazement gave place to fear, and fear to indignation, when he discovered that the silver had been carried off.

“‘Great heevens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thieves! berglers! robbers! An’ if the rogues hae nae carried off the plate and gan awa’ wi’out payin’ their score into the bargain, my name is nae Sandy Blake!”

“He rushed to the open window and peered wildly out into the darkness.

“‘The scoundrels were just fooling me, like any softy.’

“Then he began to shout ‘Thieves!’ and ‘Murder!’ and ran off, as we hoped and expected he would, to alarm the house. We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind, relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. We could hear Sandy, at the top of his voice, telling the story of the robbery; and in a few minutes we heard, evidently the entire household, coming pell-mell to the dining-room. Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon us, suddenly paused en masse, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel, weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’

“‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door; but we could hear how both master and wife abused poor Sandy, who did nothing but call upon his Maker and declare, if he had to die that minute, when he went into the room it was empty of both guests and silver. He was told to go to bed and sleep off his drunk, and thank his stars that his long service saved him from instant dismissal.

“We rang the bell. The landlord himself answered it. We asked for an explanation of the hubbub. It was nothing, he said, only that his man had got drunk and made a fool of himself. Was that all, we asked. Well, yes, except that he was very sorry to have so disturbed us. To have all the house burst in upon us, we said, was such a strange proceeding, that we begged he would explain it. He said he did not like to do so. It was the first time Sandy had ever been known to get so drunk as to lose his senses, and all he could do was to express his regret that his servant had made a fool of himself; but he would not insult his guests by telling them how great an ass the fellow was. We coaxed him, however, to explain the entire business; and at last, with many apologies, he told us how the drunken fool had mistaken us for a pack of thieves, and swore we had run off without paying our bill and taken the plate with us. We humored the landlord for a time, and when he was at last in a genial temper we told him the true story, and he enjoyed the joke as well as any of us. Then we had him send for Sandy, who was so glad to discover that he had not lost his wits that a couple of sovereigns left him, at our departure, just as happy and contented a man as he was before making the acquaintance of ‘a parcel of actors,’ who are still regarded in some remote corners of Great Britain as the ‘rogues and vagabonds’ they are proclaimed in our ancient statute-books.”

V.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE PLAY.

The Vividness of First Impressions—New York Hotels—On the Elevated Road with “Charlie”—Trotting Horses—Audiences on both Sides of the Atlantic—“A Man knows best what he can do”—“Americanisms,” so called—A Satirical Sketch, entitled “Bitten by a Dog “—Louis and the Duke of Stratford-on-Avon—Macready and the Forrest Riots.

I.

“A journalist from Chicago is anxious to have your opinion of New York, and some suggestions about your feelings in regard to your first appearance in America,” I said; “and if you will talk to him I have undertaken to collaborate with him in writing the interview, so that I may revise and adopt it for our book of impressions.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, he has come over a thousand miles for the purpose, and his chief is an old friend of mine, the proprietor of ‘The Daily News.’”

“I am quite willing,” he said, “if you think my impressions are of sufficient importance to record, after only a week of New York.”

“First impressions of a new country are always the most vivid. I believe in first impressions, at all events, in your case. It is another matter when one comes to treat them as a basis for philosophical argument. Your friend, Mr. Matthew Arnold, was not backward in discussing the American people, their cities, their institutions, their manners and customs, before he had crossed the Atlantic at all.”

“Well, let us talk to Chicago then, if you wish it.”

“So far, are you satisfied with your reception in this country?”

“More than satisfied; I am delighted, I might say amazed. It is not only the press and the public who have shown me so much attention, but I have received many courtesies privately,—some from American friends whom I have met in London, some from gentlemen whom I have never seen.”

“What is your general impression of New York, its theatres, hotels, streets, and its social life?”

“I think Wallack’s, or the Star, as it is called, one of the most admirable theatres I have ever seen, so far as the auditorium is concerned, and, in some respects, as to the stage. The appointments behind the foot-lights are rather primitive; but, as a whole, it is a fine house.”

“Is it as good as your own in London?”

“Better, in many respects. As for the hotels, they are on a far larger scale, and seem more complete in their arrangements than ours. The Brevoort is, I am told, more like an English house than any other in the city. The genial proprietor evidently desires to make his guests think so. Portraits of Queen Victoria, the late Prince Consort, and pictorial reminiscences of the old country, meet you at every turn. As for social life in New York, what I have seen of it is very much like social life in London—a little different in its forms and ceremonies, or, I might say, in the absence of ceremony—with this exception, that there does not appear to be what you would call an idle class here,—a class of gentlemen who have little else to do but to be amused and have what you call ‘a good time.’ Everybody seems to be engaged in business of some kind or another.”

“Is this your first visit to America?”

“Yes; though I seem to have known it for a long time. American friends in London have for years been telling me interesting things about your country. I had heard of the elevated road, Brooklyn bridge, and the splendid harbor of New York. But they are all quite different to what I had imagined them. The elevated railway is a marvellous piece of work. I rode down-town upon the Sixth-avenue line yesterday. They compelled me to carry my dog Charlie; and I notice, by the way, a remarkable absence of dogs in the streets. You see them everywhere, you know, in London. Charlie, an old friend of mine, attracted great attention on the cars.”

“More than you did?”

“Oh, yes, much more. He’s a well-bred little fellow, and one gentleman, who took a great interest in him, tried to open negotiations to buy him from me. Poor Charlie!—he is getting old and blind, though he looks sprightly enough. He has travelled with me in Europe and Africa, and now in America; some day we hope to see Asia together.”

“Does he go with you to the theatre?”

“Always; and he knows the pieces I play. I suppose he knows them by the color of the clothes I wear. During some plays he sniffs about all night—during the long ones he settles quietly down. When Hamlet is played he is particularly sedate. He hates the ‘Lyons Mail,’ because there is shooting in it. When the murder scene comes he hides away in the furthermost corner he can find.”

“You are fond of animals?”

“Yes, very; and the most characteristic thing I believe I have yet seen in America is your trotting-horse. I have been twice upon the track beyond the park; it is a wonderful sight.”

“Have you no trotting-horses in England?”

“Nothing like yours, and no light vehicles such as yours. I could only think of the old chariot-races as I watched the teams of magnificent trotters that rushed by me like the wind. I hear you have a fine race-course at Chicago. Our friend Hatton told me long ago about seeing the famous Maud S. make her great time there.”

“Oh, yes. I remember how astonished he was. Maud S. and our fire-engine service captured his fancy. He described the racing in ‘To-day in America.’ You are coming to Chicago?”

“Yes. I am informed that I shall strike quite a different civilization in your city to that of New York; that public life with you is even more ardent than it is in the Empire city, and that the spirit of your commerce is more energetic. I can hardly understand that; but I long to see your wonderful streets and your city boundaries that daily push their way into the prairie. John McCullough, I remember, once gave me a startling description of Chicago.”

“I see that Mr. Sala, in the ‘Illustrated London News,’ warns you to expect our press to attack you. Is Mr. Sala a friend of yours?”

“Yes; and a dear friend and a very remarkable man. But we are wandering a little from the subject you came to talk about.”

“Not much. May I ask if you have any nervousness as to your first appearance?”

“Yes, the natural nervousness that is part of an actor’s first appearances everywhere. I cannot think that the taste for the drama is any different in New York and Chicago from Dublin, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool, Birmingham, or London, in my own country.”

“Very much is expected of you. It would be hardly possible for you to realize the exaggerated ideas of some people. If you were a god you could not satisfy their expectations.”

“Nor, if I were a demon, could I achieve the attitudes and poses of my caricaturists. Between the two there is hope.”

“You feel that it is a great ordeal any way?”

“Yes.”

“Some of your methods are new, more particularly as to Shakespearian productions?”

“I believe so. In my early days I had little opportunity to see other actors play Shakespeare, except on the stage where I acted with them, and then I was so occupied with my own work that I had little time to observe theirs. I had, consequently, to think for myself. It does not follow, of course, that I have always done the right thing, but my principle has been to go straight to the author. I have not taken up the methods of other actors, nor modelled my work on this or that tradition. A man knows best what he can do; and it seems to me just as absurd for one actor to imitate another, to recite this speech, or impersonate that action, as he has seen some other actor recite or impersonate, as it would be for a writer to print a historical incident just as some other had done, or for a modern novelist to write his stories on the lines of Fielding, Richardson, or Thackeray, without giving play to his own talents, or reins to his own imagination and conception of character.”

“I will not weary you by going over the old ground concerning your alleged mannerisms; but I see that a New York paper has already taken you to task for jesting about the Pilgrim fathers. Did you notice that?”

“Oh, yes; you mean as to the Pilgrim mothers. I had no intention to jest about Plymouth rock. I only repeated a story told me by an American friend, the point of which was that the austerity of the Pilgrim fathers must have made them trying persons for the Pilgrim mothers. A very harmless bit of fun. One of my interviewers makes me speak of ‘Americanisms’ too. The word should have been ‘mannerisms.’ In regard to the so-called Americanisms of American actors, all I have heard in that way have fallen from the lips of Raymond and Florence, just as you would hear cockneyisms from our humorous comedians, Toole and Brough. The accent of your great actors does not strike me as different to our own; though a reporter on board the ‘Britannic,’ last Sunday, told me he had understood I had a very strange accent, and was surprised to find that I spoke English as well as he did.”

II.

The night before Irving’s first appearance at the Star Theatre was spent at a quiet little supper, given to a few private friends, at the Manhattan Club. The conversation turned chiefly upon English actors.

“I was once at a dinner of a theatrical fund, over which a famous old actor presided,” said Irving. “His proposal of the first toast of the evening was a pathetic incident. His mind was wandering back to his early days. After alluding to the loyalty of all classes of Englishmen, and of actors in particular, he raised his glass and said, ‘Gentlemen, I beg to give you the health of His Majesty King George the Third!’”

Somebody suggested that the ocean trip had done Irving a great deal of good.

“It was the most perfect rest I ever remember to have had,” he said; “nothing to do, nothing to think of, no letters to answer—none to receive, for that matter; nothing to do but to rest. I took plenty of exercise, also, on deck. I must have walked many miles a day.”

Later in the evening, over a last cigar, he said to me, “But I did a little writing on board the ‘Britannic.’ I think it will amuse you. Watson asked me to send him something for the Christmas number of his newspaper,—an anecdote, or sketch of some kind. Shortly before I left Liverpool there appeared in the journals a paragraph to the effect that I had been bitten by a dog at some aristocratic house. It occurred to me on the ‘Britannic’ that this would make a good little story. You were telling me last night about my estate and palace on the Thames; and yet, I don’t suppose any man leads a quieter life than I do. I call my story ‘Bitten by a Dog.’”

He read as follows, and, like all good humorists, was tickled with his own fun, laughing now and then with real enjoyment at the suggestiveness of his satirical references to newspaper gossips, who, not knowing him personally, or being in any way acquainted with his habits, undertake to describe his inner life:—

“We regret to hear that Mr. Henry Irving, while on a visit near——, was severely bitten by a favorite dog, belonging to his host. He bled profusely, but we sincerely hope that he will not seriously suffer from this occurrence.—Newspaper Paragraph.

“The circumstance thus recorded was somewhat novel to me, and having received several telegrams and letters of condolence upon my sad misfortune, I thought I would attempt, during my leisure upon the good ship ‘Britannic,’ to tell this little story of ‘The Bite of a Dog,’ with a veracity equalling that of the inventor of the above-quoted paragraph.

“Seated in one of the suite of rooms which I invariably occupy in the hotels of the United Kingdom during my provincial tours,—which have become alike the wonder and amazement of the entire dramatic profession,—I was gazing into one of the many mirrors before which it is my regular habit to study grace of pose and poetry of expression. I was surrounded by the secretaries without whom I never travel; some telegraphing to the four corners of the globe the astounding success and enormous profit which accompany all my undertakings; others translating some of those essays on dramatic art which have done so much to regenerate the British drama; others copying in manifold certain not uncomplimentary criticisms of my own composition upon the most subtle and sublime of my impersonations; for, with Garrick, I agree that the actor should ever embrace the opportunity of becoming the critic of his own performances.

“In the midst of this multitudinous work a messenger was announced from the Duke of Stratford-upon-Avon. With a thrill of pleasure I sprang to my feet, and, greeting the messenger with a fascinating smile, begged him to be seated. Then throwing myself with a careless ease upon the velvet-pile sofa which adorned my room (a present from one of my admirers, and which I always carry with me, as I do my many mirrors), I crossed my graceful right over my still more graceful left leg, broke the duke’s seal, and perused his letter.

“It was an invitation to sojourn from Saturday to Monday at the duke’s feudal home, some fifteen miles from the town I was then appearing in. Throughout my life it has been my practice to solicit the favor and patronage of the great; for it is my firm belief that, to elevate one’s art, one should mix as much as possible with the nobility and gentry.

“‘To grovel to the great is no disgrace,
For nothing humble can be out of place.’

“This social opportunity was not to be lost; hesitation there was none; the invitation was accepted.

“On the night of my visit to His Grace, the theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling with an audience attracted by that cold curiosity which characterizes the public with regard to my performances. The play was ‘Louis XI.,’ and the difficult feat which I had to accomplish was to catch a train after the performance, in order to present myself at the mansion of my noble host in time to participate in the ducal supper.

“Throughout the play I labored with all heart and earnestness to cut short the performance by every means in my power. I was determined to sleep under the roof of the Stratford-upon-Avons that night, come what come would.

“The curtain fell only five minutes before the time of the train starting; so, throwing on my overcoat of sable furs (a handsome adjunct to my American expedition), and, still attired as King Louis,—for I had no time to change my costume,—I rushed into the brougham, ready at the stage-door, and, followed by my valet, drove frantically to the station.

“I was thrust immediately through the open door of the nearest compartment—the door was locked—the whistle shrieked—away sped the train—and, panting and breathless, I was left to my meditations.

“‘Ah, horror! most dreadful thought; too dreadful to relate! I have left the theatre without my teeth,—my beautiful teeth!’

“In order to heighten the realism of the impersonation when I first acted Louis, I had several teeth extracted by one of our most eminent dentists, who has offered, as an advertisement, to take out any others in the like liberal manner.[6] In my insane hurry to catch the train I had left my teeth in a glass on my dressing-room table.

“But regrets are useless; the train has stopped, and I enter the duke’s chariot, in waiting at the station, and through the broad woodlands soon reach the duke’s home.

“I alight from the ancestral coach and enter the ancestral hall, in which a cheerful fire is blazing upon the ancestral hearth.

“Suddenly I find myself in the presence of my host, surrounded by many scions of the nobility of ‘England, Home, and Beauty.’ The oddness of my position (dressed as I was, and minus my teeth), and the natural inferiority which I always feel when in the presence of the real aristocrat, robbed me for the moment of my self-possession, and I unconsciously permitted two of the gentlemen in powder to divest me of my overcoat, and there I stood revealed as that wicked monarch Louis XI.

“Now, this character I have long had an idea of abandoning, for in art the eye must be pleased; and though it is commendable to follow nature and truth, yet, if this can only be accomplished at the cost of one’s personal appearance, nature and truth should certainly give way. But to resume.

“Surprise at my aspect was in every face. There was a painful pause, and then a burst of laughter.

“‘What is it?’ whispered one.

“‘Who is it?’ whispered another.

“‘Irving,’ said a third.

“‘Who’s Irving?’ asked a fourth.

“‘What! don’t you know?—the actor—Irving, the actor—I’ve seen him at the Gaiety!’

“I was profoundly relieved by the duke coming to my rescue and graciously suggesting that I might, before supper, wish to see my room. I thanked His Grace with the dignity with which nature has endowed me, and strode like Marshal Stalk across the marble vestibule, when a fierce sanguinary Blenheim spaniel flew from the lap of a dowager duchess, and, with a terrific howl, buried its fangs in the calf of my beautiful left leg.

“Consternation and pallor were in every countenance; the dowager ran to seize her pet; but, to the dismay of all, the dog’s hold would not relax. They pulled and pulled again, and ‘Fido’ howled at every pull. His teeth, unlike mine, would not be extracted.

“There was a pause of painful silence. Mingled fear and compassion sat on every brow. The dowager was on the point of swooning in the arms of the duke, when the dignity and distinction which sometimes support me in emergencies came to my aid. Turning to the gentle assembly, with a seraphic smile upon my noble features, I said, as well as my articulation would permit me:—

“‘Be not alarmed, fair ladies; be not alarmed! The dog has not torn my leg, he has only torn my paddings!’”

III.

“Good-night,” I said, “and good luck! When next we say good-night New York will have pronounced its verdict.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” he answered. “It will be all right. But it seems strange, after all our talks of America, that to-morrow night I am to act here in New York. How everything comes to an end! Next year at this time, all being well, we shall be looking back upon the whole tour, recalling incidents of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Baltimore, Washington; and I dare say it will appear very much like a dream. It was not far from this hotel where Macready found refuge from the mob, in a friend’s house. During this week several persons who were present have mentioned the riots to me, and they all blame Forrest. I told them Forrest had some reason to believe that Macready had set Forster against him, which, no doubt, helped to embitter Forrest’s mind. They say, however, that Forrest’s hatred of English actors amounted to something like a mania. He must have been a remarkable and great actor in many parts.”[7]

Irving little thought that in the reminiscences of a past, which had yet to come, would be an incident that should inseparably link his own name with the Forrest-Macready riots.