Chapter V: Part 5

Shylock excited controversy, Louis inspired admiration, Dubosc and his virtuous double commanded respect, and the method of presenting the plays was a theme of praise and delight in and out of the press. Of Louis the “Sun” said “Mr. Irving won his audience to him almost at once. It was impossible to withstand the intensity, the vivid picturesqueness, and imposing reality of his portrayal, and after each great scene of the play he was called again and again before the curtain by hearty and most demonstrative applause. It was a wonderful performance, and the impression that it left is one that can never be laid aside.” The “Times” was struck with his appearance. “His make-up is as perfect in its kind as that of Charles the First, and nobody would imagine the actor to be the same as the actor in either of the other parts which he has presented. But the verisimilitude here goes much deeper than the make-up. There is the senile garrulity and the senile impatience of garrulity, the senile chuckle over successful strokes of business. And this character is deepened as the play advances. The occasional expressions of energy are spasmodic; and after each the patient relapses into a still more listless apathy, and this decay is progressive until the death-scene, which is the strongest and most impressive piece of realism that Mr. Irving has yet given us.” The “Herald” commended Shylock to the Shakespearian student, “as the best exposition of the character that can be seen on the stage”; while the “Tribune” said of Miss Terry, “Her simple manner, always large and adequate, with nothing puny or mincing about it, is one of the greatest beauties of the art which it so deftly conceals. Her embodiment of a woman’s loveliness, such as in Portia should be at once stately and fascinating, and inspire at once respect and passion, was felicitous beyond the reach of descriptive phrases. Her delivery of the Mercy speech was one of the few perfectly modulated and entirely beautiful pieces of eloquence that will dwell forever in memory. Her sweet and sparkling by-play in the ‘business’ about the ring and in her exit can only be called exquisite. Better comedy has not in our time been seen.”[12]

II.

AT the written request of the leading actors and theatrical companies of New York, Irving gave a “professional _matinée_” at the Star Theatre. The play was “Louis XI.” It was the first time Irving had appeared before an audience of actors in any country. The house was packed from floor to ceiling. It was a singularly interesting and interested audience. No actor, proud of his profession, could have looked at it without a thrill of pleasure. Well-dressed, beaming with intelligence and intellectuality, it was on good terms with itself, and it settled down, in stalls, boxes, and dress-circle, with an air of pleasant expectation that was refreshing to contemplate.[13]

Nothing could be more satisfactory to Mr. Irving and to his friends, after the demonstrative applause of this very remarkable audience, than the “Interviews” of many of the best-known actors and actresses which appeared in the “Herald” on the following morning. Irving had no idea that such a tribute was to be paid to him when, in talking with some gentlemen of the press, at the close of the play, he said:—

“I never played before such an audience, so spontaneous in its appreciation and applause, and it will remain with me as one of the most interesting and most memorable events in my dramatic career. It is very commonly said that actors are the worst judges of acting. But I would ask why should actors be worse judges of their art than painters of paintings or musicians of music?”

“Your audience was very enthusiastic, was it not?”

“It could not well have been more so. You see actors know well from experience that an actor, to be stimulated, needs applause, and plenty of it. Applause is as necessary to an actor as to an orator. The greater the applause the more enthusiasm the actor puts into his work. Therefore those who applaud most get most, and consequently my audience of this afternoon”—

“Got the most out of your performance?”

“Well, they certainly excited me to feel the effect of their appreciation on my own work. I felt an elation for them, and an elation such as I have rarely experienced. I happened to walk into Mr. Millais’ studio, before leaving England. He had just finished a painting in which I was interested,—in fact, it was a portrait of myself. I found him in an extraordinarily cheerful mood. He clapped his hands with delight, as he said, pointing to the portrait, ‘Watts has just been here, and says it is the best thing I have ever done.’ Millais was especially pleased, for this compliment came from a brother artist. I dare say you will see the parallel in this my especial pleasure in receiving the plaudits of my brother artists.”

“And how did the audience differ from the audiences you have been playing to here?”

“This is the distinction, I think,—actors applaud all the touches as you put them on; a general audience applaud the whole effect when made. And so it was that all the little asides and touches of by-play this afternoon were taken with as keen an appreciation of them as of the whole effect of any scene or situation. I felt that my audience thoroughly knew what they were applauding for. I felt that they applauded myself and our company because they were really pleased; and I will say again that my first professional _matinée_ has proved to be one of the pleasantest events of my life.”

“It was a great performance,” said Mr. Edward Gilmore, one of the managers of Niblo’s Garden.

“I have seen a good deal of acting,” said Mrs. Agnes Booth; “but I can honestly say I have never seen anything that pleased me more: it was simply perfect.”

“I have seen most of the performances in Europe of recent times,” said Mme. Cottrelly, who had been a leading German actress and manager before appearing on the Casino stage; “but I have never seen anything that equalled Mr. Irving’s performance this afternoon. I have never seen anything in the theatrical line that has been mounted more correctly. It has not been surpassed in the finest German court theatres that I have attended.”

“I think it is altogether one of the greatest performances the American public and profession have ever seen,” said Mr. Dan Harkins. “The wonderful perfection of detail and subtlety of by-play is, I think, greater than I have seen in any other performance, excepting, perhaps, Mr. Forrest’s ‘King Lear.’ Mr. Irving also is in a constant state of activity; when he is not talking he is acting. He is making some clever point all the time. The whole performance is great. It is great in the leading character, great in all that is subordinate to it, which, by an excellent stage management and a fine company, are brought into unusual prominence.”

Mr. McCaull remarked: “It’s a long way the finest piece of character-acting I have ever seen. Of course, I’m a young man, and haven’t seen much; but I’ve seen Mr. Irving twice in this part, and when I go to see a performance—out of my own theatre—twice, I can tell you that, in my opinion, it must be a very fine one.”

“I am very familiar with ‘Louis XI.,’” said Mr. Harry Edwards,[14] “as I have played in it myself a great deal. I appeared as Nemours with Mr. Gustavus V. Brooke, and his performance of Louis XI. was a very fine one. I then travelled for a year with Charles Kean, and played Courtier, the Physician, in ‘Louis XI.,’ and once appeared with Kean as Courtier. I also played Nemours with Charles Couldock. Well, I say all this to show you that I am pretty familiar with the play, and with great actors who have played ‘Louis XI.’ Mr. Irving’s Louis is one of the greatest performances I have ever seen as a whole, and far superior to that of any of his predecessors. He brings depth, more intensity, and more variety, to the character than any of them. His facial action is something wonderful. His performance stands on the highest plane of dramatic excellence, and on the same plane as Macready’s famous Werner. I may say that I am not an admirer of Mr. Irving in all parts, but his Louis is unapproachable. I never enjoyed a performance so much in my life, and I felt that I could sit it out for a week if I were given the opportunity.”

“He is the greatest actor who speaks the English language,” said Mr. Lewis Morrison. “I claim to know what good acting is. I have supported Salvini, whom I regard as the greatest artist on the foreign stage, and my preceptor was Edwin Booth. But even in Mr. Booth’s presence I must say that I have been moved to-day as I never was before. I am not given to gushing over an actor; but I never before saw a man’s soul, as I did in King Louis this afternoon. It was simply perfection. It was not the actor; it was Louis XI. that I saw. I must admit that I went to the theatre with a little prejudice against Mr. Irving. I had never seen him, and, from certain things which other actors had told me, I was prepared to find an overrated man. But what a performance it was! It was wonderful!—wonderful!”

Mr. W. A. McConnell, manager of Haverly’s Brooklyn Theatre, said: “He is a great actor. I have never before seen such conscientious attention to detail, such harmony in everything, from the people on the stage with him, down to the smallest thing. It is a lesson for us all.”

“As a manager,” said Mr. Palmer, of the Union Square Theatre, “it was a revelation to me to see such conscientious attention to detail. Every little thing in which good stage management could have been exhibited was shown by Mr. Irving’s company. They worked as one man. I have heard but one opinion among members of our company,—everybody was delighted.”

“What can I say that is strong enough?” exclaimed Miss Cary, of the Union Square Theatre Company. “I was delighted beyond measure. What a wonderful teacher Irving must be, and what a master of his art in every way! What impressed me particularly was the perfect harmony of the entire performance. How carefully and patiently everybody must have been drilled, and every detail which would add to the effect looked after!”

Mr. Osmond Tearle said: “I had seen Mr. Irving in everything except ‘Louis XI.’ before to-day’s _matinée_, and I have always admired him greatly as an actor. Now I have seen him as Louis XI. I admire him still more. It is the greatest thing I have ever seen him do. His business, as he warmed himself at the fire, was remarkable. When he came on in the last act, he looked like one of the fine old royal figures that stand outside Yorkminster in England; and when he took his crown off he looked like the picture of Father Time. His facial expression is astonishing, and in the wonderful death-scene his eyes seem to have gone altogether. The whole performance was fine; there was not a bad part in it.”

“I have only one word to say on this subject,” said Mr. John Gilbert, “and that is, that it is wonderful; perhaps I, however, may supplement that by saying that it is ‘extraordinary.’ I have seen Mr. Irving play ‘Louis XI.’ before to-day, and, in fact, I have attended nearly all his performances at the Star Theatre; but this afternoon he exceeded anything that he has done here before. He was clearly moved, in no slight degree, by the almost incessant applause of his professional brethren. I don’t know that I remember having seen a greater performance by any actor, not even excepting Macready’s Werner. I am not astonished at Mr. Irving’s great popularity in England. I am sure he deserves it.”

“I had never seen Mr. Irving before this afternoon,” said Mr. James Lewis, “and I was certainly not disappointed, although I had formed the highest expectations of him as an actor. There was a young actor, about nineteen years old, that sat by me, and he got on his seat and yelled ‘Bravo!’ Now, I didn’t do that; but I was just as much pleased and excited as the youngster. I think it was the greatest performance I ever saw. You have, perhaps, heard the popular gag, ‘That man tires me.’ Well, that man, Mr. Irving, tired me; but it was because he so wrought upon my feelings that when the play was over I felt so exhausted I could hardly leave my seat. The stage setting and management were good, but I have seen as good in this city before.”

Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, of Daly’s theatre, thought that it was the finest performance within her experience. “In the confession scene,” she said, “I thought him especially remarkable. I had seen him in ‘The Lyons Mail’ in London, and, now that I have seen his ‘Louis XI.,’ I want to see him in all his characters. The great applause that was given him by the vast gathering of his profession was, I assure you, not complimentary applause, but it was given in pure admiration of his great achievements.”

“Mr. Irving’s Louis,” said Mr. Dan Frohman, “is a vivid and powerful transcript from history. Once or twice, at the end of an act, he lapsed into his natural voice; but this may be excused from the great draught that such a character must make upon his strength. As a picture of the subtle, crafty, and avaricious old monarch, his representation was absolutely perfect. I think Mr. living’s ‘Louis XI.,’ in a word, is a sort of dramatic liberal education. Every actor can learn something from him. I wish our actors could keep the integrity of their characters as perfectly as Mr. Irving does.”

“Mr. Irving is the greatest actor I have ever seen,” said Mr. Tony Pastor. “I have been to see him several times, and this is my opinion. It aint buncombe. It comes from the heart. I’ve seen all the greatest actors, and have been a great deal to the theatres since I have been in this business; but I have never seen any one as good as Mr. Irving. This is a compliment I am paying to a man I am not personally acquainted with, and perhaps we shall never meet. I don’t praise him so because I had an invitation this afternoon; I would have admired and applauded his performance just as much if I had paid a twenty-dollar bill for it.”

“Mr. Irving’s Louis,” Mr. Colville said, “is superior beyond criticism. It is the most perfect performance I have ever witnessed. I was acting manager of the old Broadway Theatre when Charles Kean played there, and, of course, saw him in the part.”

III.

“IF one had arranged events in America to one’s own liking one could not have had them go along more pleasantly,” said Irving, one Sunday afternoon, when he was giving me an account of his visit to Mr. Henry Ward Beecher and Mrs. Beecher, at Brooklyn; “indeed, one would have had to lay in a stock of vanity to even dream of such a reception as we have had. It needs a little hostility here and there in the press at home, and on this side, to give a wholesome flavor to the sweets. It is a great reward, all this, for one’s labor. I was struck the other day with some passages of Emerson, in his essay on Fate, where he says, ‘Concentration is the secret of strength in politics, in war, in trade; in short, in all management of human affairs.’ One of the high anecdotes of the world is the reply of Newton to the inquiry, how he had ‘been able to achieve his discoveries’: ‘By always intending my mind.’ _Diligence passe sens_, Henry VIII. was wont to say, or, Great is drill. John Kemble said that the worst provincial company of actors would go through a play better than the best amateur company. No genius can recite a ballad at first reading so well as mediocrity can at the fifteenth or twentieth reading. A humorous friend of mine thinks the reason Nature is so perfect in her art, and gets up such inconceivably fine sunsets, is, that ‘she has learned at last by dint of doing the same thing so very often.’ A wonderful writer, Emerson! He gives the right cue to all stage-managers,—rehearsal! rehearsal! Mr. Beecher has evidently been a hard-worker all his life, a persistent man; and nothing is done without it. First lay down your lines; settle what you mean to do, what you find you can do, and do it; the greater the opposition the more courageous and persevering you must be; and if you are right, and strength and life hold out, you must win. But I want to tell you about the visit to Brooklyn. Miss Terry and I were invited to visit Mr. Henry Ward Beecher. We went on Sunday to his church. He preached a good, stirring sermon, full of strong common-sense. It was what might, in some respects, be called an old-fashioned sermon, though it was also exceedingly liberal. The spirit of its teaching was the doctrine of brotherly love. The preacher told his congregation that a man was not simply a follower of Christ because he went to church on Sundays. A man could, he said, be a follower of the Saviour without going to church at all. He could also be a follower of Christ, if he wished, and belong to any church he liked,—Baptist, Wesleyan, Lutheran. A Pagan could be a follower of Christ if he lived up to His doctrine of charity. To do good is the chief end and aim of a good life. It was an extemporaneous sermon so far as the absence of manuscript or notes went, and was delivered with masterful point and vigor, and with some touches of pure comedy; Mr. Beecher is a great comedian. After the service Mr. Beecher came to us, and offered his arm to Miss Terry. She took one arm, his wife the other. I followed with his son, and several other relations. A few members of the congregation joined the little procession. Following Mr. Beecher with the ladies, we walked down the aisle and into the street, to his house. There was something very simple and dignified about the whole business, something that to me smacked of the primitive churches, without their austerity. Mrs. Beecher is seventy-one years of age,—a perfect gentlewoman, Quaker-like in her dress and manners, gentle of speech, but with a certain suggestion of firmness of purpose. Beecher struck me as a strong, robust, genial, human man, a broad, big fellow. We had dinner,—the early dinner that was in vogue when I was a boy. It was, I should say, a regular solid New England meal,—rich soup, plenty of fish, a joint of beef; and some generous port was on the table. The host was most pleasant and simple; the hostess, most unsophisticated and kindly. She took greatly to Miss Terry, who also took greatly to her.”

“Mr. Beecher had been at the theatre the night before?”

“Yes, to see ‘Louis XI.’”

“Did he talk much?”

“Oh, yes! and his conversation was most interesting. He related, and very graphically, an incident of the troubled times before the abolition of slavery. ‘One day in the pulpit,’ he said, ‘I asked my people, suppose you had a sister, and she came to you and said, “I would like to stay in your city of Brooklyn; I think I would be very happy here; but I must go away, I cannot stay; I must depart, probably to live with a reprobate, some hard, cruel man, who will lay claim to me, body and soul.” You say, “Why, why must you go?” She answers, “Because my body is worth so much, and I am to be sold; and my little child, it, too, is of value in the same way; my child will be sold, and we shall be separated.” There was a dead silence in the church. ‘My friends,’ I said, ‘you have a sister in that position; and I want you to buy that woman!’ “Come up here, Dinah Cullum” (or whatever her name was), I said, and out of the congregation stepped a beautiful woman, a mulatto, and I said, “Here she is; here is my sister, your sister!” The collecting basket was sent around. More than enough was realized to buy the woman. And I said to her, “Dinah Cullum, you are free.” Then addressing my people again, I said, “Now you can buy the child”; and they did, and we gave the child to its mother!’

“It used to be said of Lord Beaconsfield,” Irving continued, “that his Oriental blood and his race instincts gave him his fondness for jewels; but Beecher seems to have the same kind of taste. He brought out from a cabinet a handful of rings, and asked me which I thought Miss Terry would like best. Then he took them to her and she selected an _aqua marina_, which he placed upon her finger, and begged her to accept as a souvenir of her visit to Brooklyn. ‘May I?’ said Miss Terry to Mrs. Beecher. ‘Yes, my dear, take it,’ said Mrs. Beecher; and she did. It was quite touching to see the two women together, so different in their stations, their years, their occupations. Miss Terry was the first actress Mrs. Beecher had ever known. To begin with, she was very courteous; her greeting was hospitable, but not cordial. The suggestion of coldness in her demeanor gradually thawed, and at the close of the visit she took Miss Terry into her arms, and the two women cried. ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.’ Human sympathy,—what a fine thing it is! It is easy to understand how a woman of the training and surroundings that belong to the class in which Mrs. Beecher has lived might regard an actress, and especially one who has made a name, and is therefore the object of gossip. All the more delightful is the bit of womanly sympathy that can bind together two natures which the austerity of professed religionists would keep asunder.”

“It is a greater triumph for the stage than you, perhaps, quite appreciate,—this visit to the home of a popular preacher; for, however liberal Mr. Beecher’s sentiments may be in regard to plays and players, there are members of his congregation who will not approve of his going to the theatre, and who will probably be horrified at his entertaining you at his own home.”

“No doubt,” Irving replied. “Beecher said to me, ‘I wish you could come and spend a week with me at my little country-house. You might leave all the talking to me, if you liked. I would give you a bit of a sermon now and then, and you in return should give me a bit of acting. Oh, we should have a pleasant time! You could lie on your back and smoke and rest. I suppose some day you will allow yourself a little rest.’”

“What was the Beecher home like? New or old,—characteristic of the host or not?”

“Quite characteristic, I should say. It impressed me as a home that had been gradually furnished over a period of many years. That was particularly the case with regard to the library. Around the walls were a series of cabinets, with old china and glass in them. The room had an old English, or what I suppose would be called an old New England, appearance. Books, pictures, china, and a wholesome perfume of tobacco-smoke. Mr. Beecher does not smoke, but his sons do. ‘I cannot pretend to put down these small vices,’ he said. ‘I once tried to, I believe.’—‘Oh, yes,’ said one of his sons, a fine fellow,—‘the only thrashing he ever gave me was for smoking a cigar; and when the war broke out, and I went to the front, the first present I received from home was a box of cigars, sent to me by my father.’ Altogether I was deeply impressed with Beecher. A robust, fearless man, I can quite understand how great he might be in face of opposition. Indeed, I was witness of this on the occasion of his famous platform fight at Manchester, during the war. I was acting in a stock company there at the time, and either in the first or last piece, I forget which, I was able to go and hear him speak. The incident, as you know, is historical on this side of the Atlantic, and it created quite a sensation in Manchester. The lecture-room was packed with secessionists. Beecher was attacking the South, and upholding the Federal cause. The great, surging crowd hooted and yelled at him. I fear I did not know much about the rights or wrongs of the matter. I had my work to do, and, though I watched the course of the American trouble, I had no very definite views about it. But I admired the American preacher. He faced his opponents with a calm, resolute face,—stood there like a rock. Whenever there was a lull in this commotion he would speak, and his words were defiant. There was the sound of the trumpet in them. We English admire courage, worship pluck, and after a time the men who had tried their hardest to shout Beecher down evidently felt ashamed. There presently arose cries of ‘Hear him!’ and ‘Fair play!’ Beecher stood there firm and defiant, and I felt my heart go out to him. Once more he got a few words in. They bore upon the rights of free speech, and in a little while he had the floor, as they say in America, and kept it. It seemed as if he were inspired. He spoke with a fervid eloquence I don’t think I have ever heard equalled. In the end he carried the entire meeting with him. The crowd evidently knew no more about the real merits of the quarrel between North and South than I did. They entered the hall Confederates, and left it out-and-out Federals, if one should judge by the thundering cheers that broke out every now and then during the remainder of Beecher’s oration, and the unanimous applause that marked the finish of it.”

IV.

AMONG the little suppers which Irving accepted after the play was a cosey entertainment given by Major Frank Bond, at which a dozen gentlemen of distinction in politics, science, and the army, were present. Dr. Fordyce Barker, who was intimate with Dickens, during that illustrious author’s visits to America, was one of the guests. He started, among other subjects, a very interesting conversation.

“Have you ever made studies of deaths for stage purposes?” asked Dr. Barker.

“No.”

“And yet your last moments of Mathias and of Louis XI. are perfectly consistent and correct psychologically.”

“My idea is to make death in these cases a characteristic Nemesis; for example, Mathias dies of the fear of discovery; he is fatally haunted by the dread of being found out, and dies of it in a dream. Louis pulls himself together by a great effort of will in his weakest physical moment, to fall dead—struck as if by a thunderbolt—while giving an arrogant command that is to control Heaven itself; and it seems to me that he should collapse ignominiously, as I try to illustrate.”

“You succeed perfectly,” the doctor replied, “and from a physiological point of view, too.”

“Hamlet’s death, on the other hand, I would try to make sweet and gentle as the character, as if the ‘flights of angels winged him to his rest.’”

“You seem to have a genius for fathoming the conceptions of your authors, Mr. Irving,” said the doctor; “and it is, of course, very important to the illusion of a scene that the reality of it should be consistently maintained. Last night I went to see a play called ‘Moths,’ at Wallack’s. There is a young man in it who acts very well; but he, probably by the fault of the author more than his own, commits a grave error in the manner of his death. We are told that he is shot through the lungs. This means almost immediate unconsciousness, and a quick, painless death; yet the actor in question came upon the stage after receiving this fatal wound, made a coherent speech, and died in a peaceful attitude.”

“Talking of interesting psychological investigations,” said Irving, “I came upon a curious story, the other day, of the execution of Dr. de la Pommerais, in 1864. He was a poisoner, somewhat after the Palmer type. I was present, then a boy, during the trial of the English murderer, and was, therefore, all the more interested in the last hours of the Frenchman. He was a skilled physician, it seems, and a surgeon named Velpeau visited him in his prison, the night before his execution, in the pure interest of physiological science. ‘I need not tell you,’ he said to de la Pommerais, ‘that one of the most interesting questions in this connection is, whether any ray of memory or sensibility survives in the brain of a man after his head is severed from his body.’ The condemned man turned a startled and anxious face to the surgeon. ‘You are to die; nothing, it seems, can save you. Will you not, therefore, utilize your death in the interest of science?’ Professional instinct mastered physical fear, and de la Pommerais said, ‘I will, my friend; I will.’ Velpeau then sat down, and the two discussed and arranged the proposed experiment. ‘When the knife falls,’ said Velpeau, ‘I shall be standing at your side, and your head will at once pass from the executioner’s hands into mine. I will then cry distinctly into your ear: “Count de la Pommerais, can you at this moment thrice lower the lid of your right eye while the left remains open?“‘ The next day, when the great surgeon reached the condemned cell, he found the doomed man practising the sign agreed upon. A few minutes later the guillotine had done its work,—the head was in Velpeau’s hands and the question put. Familiar as he was with the most shocking scenes, it is said that Velpeau was almost frozen with terror as he saw the right lid fall, while the other eye looked fixedly at him. ‘Again,’ he cried frantically. The lids moved, but they did not part. It was all over. A ghastly story. One hopes it may not be true.”

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 Discovering—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!_

I.

“TURN the gas down a little.”

“Yes, sir,” said the attentive Irish-American waiter at the Brevoort House.

“And don’t let us be disturbed.”

“Very well, sir.”

“The fire-light glows on the walls as if the so-called volcanic sunset had taken possession of the place,” said Irving, stretching his legs upon the hearth; “what a rest it is to sit and talk to a friend and look into the fire!”

“It is, indeed. Let us have a chat in that spirit, and call the chapter ‘A quiet evening.’”

“You mean a talk for the book?”

“Yes; one gets so few opportunities of this kind that it is worth while to avail ourselves of the present one. I think you had better tell me what you have done in New York, and I will chronicle it from your own lips.”

“Do you mean generally, or in detail? There are some things that fix themselves in one’s memory not to be forgotten. Of course, the first night at the Star Theatre—one is not likely to forget that!”

“No, I shall always remember you standing in the door-way of the burgomaster’s inn. It had seemed as if hours were passing between the rise of the curtain and your appearance!”

“Ah! I dare say; we were all more or less anxious.”

“But let us get away from the theatre. What do you look back upon so far, to remember with special pleasure, in the way of social entertainment and American hospitalities?”

“It is difficult to select, is it not? It is bewildering to try to select the incidents. The Lotos dinner,—that was glorious, eh! How well Whitelaw Reid spoke! and Mr. Depew, Dr. Macdonald, General Porter, Mr. Oakey Hall,—everybody, in fact. A great gift to be able to express your thoughts well, standing up in the presence of others! Then the Lambs Club. I felt their reception as a very pleasant thing, because there were so many actors present. I think I got well out of the speech-making there by adopting Florence’s written oration. That amused me greatly, and I think Florence enjoyed it as much as the others. Well, those are two of the New York events. I am endeavoring to think of them in their order, categorically. The breakfast which Mr. Joseph Harper gave me at the University Club,—what a rare lot of men! Mr. George William Curtis[15] struck me as one who might be very eloquent as a speaker.”

“He is.”

“So I should have thought, and he talks of the stage with the unsophistication of one who knows nothing about it mechanically, but is full of the romantic and poetic spirit of it. Let me see, it was at Franklin square where we saw that modern Dutch interior.”

“The private room at Harper Brothers?”

“Yes, and where we again met Mr. Curtis, Mr. Alden, the editor of the magazine, and Mr. Conant of “The Weekly,” I remember. Don’t you think that when America once takes up the work of a complete representation of legitimate and established plays she will go ahead at it as fast as she has done in the production of book-engravings?”

“I do.”

“And they tell me—actors tell me—that they have never had Shakespeare as completely and as worthily represented as at the Star this week. Mr. Gilbert says it will work a revolution in dramatic art in this country.”

“The papers are beginning to say so all round.”

“I confess I am as surprised as I am delighted. I thought more had been done in the way of harmonious representation, grouping, color, painting, lighting, than is evidently the case. By the way, I heard a good deal about this on the night of the Century Club reception.[16] They were very like Garrick men, many of them. An excellent idea having an exhibition of pictures at a club! I suppose it would hardly do in London to allow members such a margin in regard to the friends they introduce as in New York. I wish it could be done, and, especially, that granting of the entire privileges of the club to the stranger whom you invite to dinner. In case of transient membership, the compliment we pay to a stranger at the Garrick does include all the privileges of the club. The Manhattan is a cosey club. We got our first canvas-back in New York there. It was a little too early in the season; but in the way of a terrapin and canvas-back dinner the feast Buck gave us at Sieghortner’s was a triumph.[17] It scored by its simplicity. Let me see, I have the _menu_ here. Now to look at it in comparison with what is called a swell dinner, some people would think its dishes wanting in variety and number. Somebody, I remember, said at the time, ‘This is a man’s dinner! Let us dissect it!’”

He had fetched the _menu_ from his table, had returned to his seat by the fire, and was holding the _carte_ before his face, partly to read it, and partly to ward off the glow of the hot coals.

“Now, _first_, oysters on the half shell, and I noticed they were on the half shell. That is the proper way to serve an oyster, and they should be in their own liquor.[18] They were lying on a bed of crushed ice,—did you notice? The dainty half of a lemon was placed in the centre of them. Shall you include this conversation in the book?”

This last question he asked suddenly.

“Oh, yes! I think it will be very interesting.”

“Then they will say I am a gourmand.”[19]

“Who?”

“Some of our friends in London.”

He emphasized the word “friends.”

“They do now; you are reported as giving suppers and banquets in London on a grander scale than ever Lucullus dreamed of?”

“Am I? Well, I like to have my friends around me; but I think they appreciate a mutton-chop, a glass of fine wine, and a good cigar, as much as we do, and, after all, Dr. Johnson says, “The man who can’t take care of his stomach can’t take care of anything else.” If to be a gourmand, or, rather, let us say _gourmet_,[20] is to enjoy a well-cooked and elegantly served little dinner or supper, then I plead guilty to the soft impeachment; so let us go on eating the Sieghortner banquet over again, just as we shall, I hope, in future years sit down and re-fight our American victories by an English fireside. To return to the bill of fare. _Second_, soup. A vegetable soup, that reminded me a little of the cock-a-lukie which is so well constructed at the Garrick in London, only that the vegetable basis of it is in an esculent we have not,—the gumbo, or okra, which is so delicious here. Sauterne with the oysters, and a remarkably fine sherry with the soup. _Third_, terrapin. I am told this came from Baltimore ready for the cook.”

“They are celebrated at Baltimore for the three great American dishes,—oysters, terrapin, and canvas-back ducks. Terrapin is prepared there and shipped to all parts of the United States, and even to Europe. I am told that a Baltimore firm sends in the season supplies of terrapin and canvas-backs to England for the table of the Prince of Wales.”

“Indeed,” he answered, “His Royal Highness knows what is good! I wish he could have tasted the Baltimore terrapin at Sieghortner’s. Buck is a friend of the Duke of Beaufort, and the duke, they say, is up to all the luxurious tricks of American cooking.

“Now we are at the terrapin. It was handed round very hot, and, as your plate was removed, a fresh supply, better still, it seemed to me, was placed before you. It is polite to ask for terrapin twice; but, that no one might be embarrassed, it was served twice. Champagne and Burgundy with the terrapin. I prefer champagne. ‘Next to going to heaven,’ said a friend near me, ‘is to go down to——, Baltimore, and eat terrapin.’ _Fourth_, canvas-back duck. An entire breast of the bird on each plate. A chip-potato and a little celery; you should eat nothing else with a canvas-back duck, though some persons, I observe, take currant or cranberry jelly with it. As in the case of the terrapin, there were two courses of duck,—the first, roast; the second, grilled and devilled. An excellent notion this. A _soufflé_ followed; then cheese; then coffee. That was the dinner; and it was one of the greatest successes I remember, in the way of dining; though I do not forget how perfectly we had terrapin and canvas-back cooked in our own humble little kitchen at the Lyceum Theatre.”

“In responding to the toast of your health, you were very much moved.”

“I was. Chief Justice Davis supplemented the host’s words so eloquently, and with so much heart and earnestness, that he touched me deeply. Then his references to England,—to Lord Coleridge representing the high estate of the Bench, and to myself as being considered worthy in every way to represent my art, as he in his way is to represent his high calling,—and his tender tributes to the old country, and to the deep, sincere friendship that lies at the root of the relations between England and America,—this was all so sympathetic. And when I knew that many of the men around the board who cheered him so warmly had come as far as a thousand miles to meet me, I could not have attempted to say more than to try and thank them. There are occasions when silence is the best, when ‘Gentlemen, I thank you; my heart is too full to say more,’ is about the most eloquent speech you can make. Mr. John B. Lyon came all the way from Chicago in response to Buck’s invitation; Mr. John B. Carson came from Quincy,—a day’s journey further than Chicago; he had been fifty-two hours on the train; Mr. Watterson,—what a bright, witty fellow he is!—came almost as far, from Louisville in the South.”

II.

“THE supper given to me by Mr. Florence, at the St. James Hotel, was also an entertainment to remember. Quite a little family party, was it not? Mr. Jerome—Larry, as his friends call him—was splendid; and how many years of local dramatic history he had at his fingers’ ends! We were quite a little family party; Gilbert, Edwards, Jefferson,—God bless him!—they were among the guests. Florence, if you remember, had after supper a great brass urn placed upon the table, sat before it, and made whiskey toddy. How well actors understand the art of sociability! ‘Now, friends, let us gather round the tea-table,’ said Florence, ‘and try the brew!’ We pronounced it ‘nectar for the gods,’ and so it was. Do you remember the interesting episode of his boyish days that Florence told us? I repeated it to some people who supped here the other night. It is worth printing, with his permission.”

“And that of Mrs. Florence?” I suggest.

“Oh, yes, of course! I think I remember it. Florence was a very young man, a boy, in fact, and was filling one of his first engagements on any stage at the Bowery Theatre. A girl about his own age (who is now a wife, and a woman of position, in New York) in the company, was his first love. His adoration was mingled with the most gallant respect. Their salaries were about ten to twelve dollars each a week. For a time they only played in the first piece; for in those days two plays a night were more popular on the American stage than they are now. One evening, at about nine o’clock, after pulling himself together for so daring an effort in his course of courtship, he asked her if she would go to an adjacent restaurant and take something to eat. The house was kept by a person of the name of Shields, or Shiells. The supper-room was arranged something after the manner of the old London coffee-houses. It had compartments divided off from each other. Into one of these Florence escorted his sweetheart. He asked her what she would take. After some hesitation, and a good deal of blushing (more probably on his part than on hers), she said oyster-stew and lemonade. He concluded to have the same,—an incongruous mixture, perhaps; but they were boy and girl. Florence was more than once on the eve of declaring his undying passion and asking her to name the day. Presently, supper being ended, they rose to go, and Florence discovered that he had come away without his purse, or, rather, his pocket-book, as they call it here. He explained to the Irish waiter (and Florence, I suspect, is himself of Irish descent), who cut him short by saying, ‘No money? Oh, that won’t do; you’re not going to damage the moral character of the house, bringing of your girls here, and then say you can’t pay the bill.’—‘How dare you, sir!’ exclaimed Florence, the girl shrinking back. ‘Dare! Oh, bedad, if you put it that way, I’ll just give you a piece of my mind!’ and he did. It was a dirty piece, which hurt the poor young fellow. ‘Take me to your master,’ he said. The girl was crying; Florence was heart-broken. The master was not less rude than the man. ‘Very well,’ said the boy; ‘here’s my watch and ring. I will call and redeem them in the morning with the money. I am a member of the Bowery Company, and I will ask the manager to call and see you also. Your conduct is shameful!’—‘By heaven, it is!’ exclaimed a stranger, who, with some others, was smoking near the desk of the clerk, or landlord. ‘It is infamous! Cannot you understand that this young gentleman is a good, honest young fellow? Damme! you ought to apologize to him, and kick that waiter-fellow out. Don’t frown at me, sir. Give the young gentleman his watch and ring. Here is a fifty-dollar bill; take what he owes, and give me the change.’ The stranger was a well-dressed gentleman, with white hair; not old, but of a venerable appearance. They all went out together, Florence, the young lady, and their benefactor. As they stepped into the street, Florence said, ‘I cannot sufficiently thank you, sir. Where shall I call and leave the money for you?’—‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself about it,’ said the benevolent gentleman; ‘your surly friend won’t make much out of the transaction,—it was a counterfeit bill that he changed for me.’”

III.

IRVING did not expect to be called upon for a set speech at the Lambs Club. The President, Mr. Florence, did, and was prepared. He made no secret of his nervousness, nor of his arrangements against failure. The manuscript of his address was lying before him during the dinner. He consulted it occasionally, to the amusement of his neighbors. When the time came he rose, his speech in his hand, his heart in his mouth. The most eminent of actors have felt similar sensations under the influence of an exaggerated sense of the responsibility of making a public speech. This banquet of the Lambs was not reported in the newspapers. As in other instances where I have ventured to annex speeches and incidents for these pages, I have done so with the full consent of all the parties concerned.

“Gentlemen,” said President Florence, “we have met to-night to do honor to a brother actor,—for in that character do we welcome the distinguished guest of the evening,—an artist who has done more to elevate and dignify our calling than any actor that ever trod the stage.”

A ringing cheer greeted these few sentences. The applause evidently disturbed the speaker’s memory. He consulted his MS. and could make nothing of it. Throwing it upon the table, he continued his address. The few unstudied sentences that followed came from the heart, and were sufficiently effective. They commended Irving as an example to all of them,—an example of work, of unostentation, of success worthily won and worn, and expressed the gratification it afforded the Lambs—a club largely composed of actors—to welcome him at their board.

“I’ll never make another speech as long as I live!” exclaimed the president, as he resumed his seat.

“Give me the manuscript,” said Irving. “Do you mind my using it?”

“Not at all, my dear friend; do what you like with it.”

Irving, rising to reply, stood up with the president’s unspoken speech in his hand. Referring to the difficulties actors often experience in regard to public speaking, he said, “At Edinburgh, recently, looking over the old ‘Courant,’ I came across an incident _apropos_ of the present occasion. It was concerning a dinner given to John Kemble in that city. ‘The chair was taken at six o’clock by Francis Jeffrey, Esq., who was most ably assisted by the croupiers, John Wilson and Walter Scott,’—the creator in fiction of poor, old, wretched King Louis XI.—Walter Scott, the mighty master of romance, who also proposed this night ‘The Memory of Burns.’ (Applause.) In reply to the toast of his health, John Kemble said, ‘I am not successful in extemporaneous delivery; actors are so much more in the habit of giving utterance to the thoughts of others than in embodying their own, that we are much in the same position with those animals who, subsisting by the aid of others are completely lost when abandoned to their own resources.’ Gentlemen, brother actors, I feel that I am in a similar condition to-night. (Cries of ‘No! no!’ and laughter.) But my friend, the president, has given me leave to avail myself of the eloquent speech which he had written, but has not read to you.” (Laughter.)

Irving looked down at the president for his final consent.

“Certainly, go ahead,” was the response.

“The president,” said Irving, reading the MS. amidst shouts of laughter and applause, “was anxious to tell you that ‘the efforts of the guest of the evening have always been to make his dramatic work in every way worthy the respect and admiration of those who honor our art; and at the same time he has been none the less indefatigable in promoting the social and intellectual standing of the profession; this has been to him a labor of love.’”

Irving read these lines with mock-oratorical show; but when the laughter of his hearers changed to loud applause, he laid aside the written speech of his friend, and in a few simple words expressed himself proud of the honor the club had done him, and grateful for the cordiality of its welcome.

“There is one point, however, in that speech which I would like you to hear,” said the president, rising again, “and it is this: ‘We are not here to pass an opinion on Mr. Irving’s qualities as an actor,—the critics have done that already; and, if you had at first any doubts as to the high position he should occupy in our profession, the American critics and your own judgment have removed them. Possibly it was just as well that David Garrick did not live in the White Star epoch, for, had he ever crossed the Atlantic ocean, his bones might not now be reposing so peacefully under the ancient towers of Westminster Abbey.’”

During the evening Mr. Henry Edwards,[21] of Wallack’s, recited with stirring effect the following:—

WELCOME TO HENRY IRVING.

Round about the board of banquet
Blazed the bright wits of the town:
“A royal toast,” and well they drank it—
“‘Tis for a king to wear the crown;
Thrones may totter in the tempest,
Empires, too, may rise and fall;
But a king, by grace of genius,
Sits secure above them all.”

Thus, a grave and graceful poet,
And his glowing glass uplifts
With a warm eye-flash of welcome
To the Man of Many Gifts;
Then a clamor and kindly clinking
Like sudden song breaks round the board,
And the soul of the wine they’re drinking
Seems into their own souls poured.

And, “Huzza for our guest, King Irving;”
From a hundred hearty throats,
And the lovingly lengthened greeting,
Like a chorused chime, up floats—
When more swift than an earthly echo
Bursts a sound over guest and hosts,
Strangely shrill, yet faint and far off,—
“Way there for the coming ghosts!”

Into statued silence stricken,
Stand and gaze the speechless throng,
While the walls slide wide from side to side
As if moved in grooves along,
And a shadowy stage, whose foot-lights
Loom white through a weirdly mist,
Is peopled with phantoms of players
Trooping in as if keeping a tryst.

Then with buskined steps and soundless,
Streaming forward as a tide,
Surge the serried shades of actors
Whose greatness time has testified;
And their brows are bound with bay-leaves,
And their garments’ phantomed fold
Shape out the bygone costumes
Of the parts they played of old.

All the fine and famous faces
In the records of the stage,
Canonized in highest places
On the drama’s brightest page!
Their “brief hour” made eternal,
Where the deathless laurel nods,
And where Shakespeare reigns superral
In the green-room of the gods!

There, each grandly visioned visage,
Looking through a mellow haze
On the spell-bound reverent watchers
With a long, fraternal gaze,
Whose mute and mighty meaning
Seem, like a benediction, cast
O’er the promise of the present,
By the high priests of the past!

Then, at an unseen, silent signal,
Given by some mystic chief,
Each of the ghosts of great ones
From his own wreath plucks a leaf,
And fleeter than arrowed lightning
Through space a chaplet’s sped!
And the brow of the actor living
Is laurelled by actors dead!

And a sigh sweeps over the silence,
And the walls are walls again,
While the lights flash up to brightness,
And sparkles the gold champagne;
And the joyous voice of the poet
Rings out the blended toasts,
“Huzza for our good guest, Irving!”
And “Huzza for our grand old ghosts!”

IV.