Chapter III: Part 3

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.