Lottie Brookss Totally Disastrous Schooltrip

Katie Kirby download

https://ebookbell.com/product/lottie-brookss-totally-disastrous-
schooltrip-katie-kirby-62326244

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Lottie Brookss Totally Disastrous School Trip Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/lottie-brookss-totally-disastrous-
school-trip-katie-kirby-58102374

The Catastrophic Friendship Fails Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-catastrophic-friendship-fails-of-
lottie-brooks-katie-kirby-51210626

The Extremely Embarrassing Life Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-extremely-embarrassing-life-of-
lottie-brooks-katie-kirby-51215700

The Megacomplicated Crushes Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-megacomplicated-crushes-of-lottie-
brooks-katie-kirby-55505132
The Extremely Embarrassing Life Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-extremely-embarrassing-life-of-
lottie-brooks-katie-kirby-62326240

The Catastrophic Friendship Fails Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-catastrophic-friendship-fails-of-
lottie-brooks-katie-kirby-62326242

The Completely Chaotic Christmas Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-completely-chaotic-christmas-of-
lottie-brooks-katie-kirby-62326246

Lottie Biggs Is Not Mad Long Hayley

https://ebookbell.com/product/lottie-biggs-is-not-mad-long-
hayley-9078904

The Completely Chaotic Christmas Of Lottie Brooks Katie Kirby

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-completely-chaotic-christmas-of-
lottie-brooks-katie-kirby-58286336
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 “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.
For the last night of the New York engagement programme was a
novelty, in every respect, to a New York audience. Custom confines
the night’s entertainment in American theatres to one piece. On
occasion the play-bill contained the first act of “Richard III.”; the
Lyceum version of “The Belle’s Stratagem”; the, in England, well-
known recitation “Eugene Aram”; and Irving was also expected to
make a speech. The programme was played to an enthusiastic
audience; and, at the close of “The Belle’s Stratagem,” Mr. Irving
addressed them as follows:

“Ladies and Gentlemen,—A month ago, standing before you for

the first time, and stimulated by your most kind welcome, I
expressed the hope that our loves might increase as our days did
grow. You, for your part, have fulfilled my dearest wishes, and I can
but hope that we have not disappointed you. On that same first
night I bespoke your good-will for my sister artist, Ellen Terry. I felt
sure that she would win hearts, and I believe she has. For her, for all
comrades, and for myself, I thank you for your enthusiastic and
generous indorsement of our work. I sorry that the time has come
when I must leave you. I am glad that I have not yet to say ‘Good-
by,’ but only ‘Au revoir.’ In April next we shall have the honor—if all
be well—of appearing before you again, and I would propose to
present to you ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ and ‘Hamlet.’ In my old
home, on the other side of the Atlantic, these plays are often
performed by us; and I hope they will be welcome in—if I may say
so—my new home on this side of the sea. And now, ladies and
gentlemen, with a grateful remembrance of your kindness, I must
say ‘Au revoir.’ I find no words to adequately express my gratitude to
you; indeed, I would feel but little, if I could say how much.”

Retiring for a few minutes, Irving, in evening dress, returned to

the stage. A chair was placed in the centre of it. Now standing, now
sitting, he recited Hood’s dramatic poem. The audience sat spell-
bound. Even as Mathias, with the accessories of the mysterious
court-scene, Mr. Irving had not held New York play-goers with a
firmer grip. They followed the grim story almost in silence. The
ancient mariner’s narrative did not more impress the wedding-guest.
I have seen all kinds of audiences in both hemispheres, and under
all sorts of circumstances, and never saw a theatre full of people
more under the control of a story. At the end the applause was loud
and continued for some minutes, the reciter having to bow his
acknowledgments again and again. The next day a discriminating
critic pointed out to one of Irving’s few opponents, that “the pseudo
critic who pronounced Irving’s ‘Bells’ a mere success of lime-lights,
properties, scenery, and stage-management,” had been quite
extinguished “by the recitation of Hood’s ‘Dream of Eugene Aram,’
delivered in evening dress, without any lime-lights, properties,
scenery, or stage-management.”
 “And,” added a journalistic writer in the “Herald” “aside from the
artistic success Mr. Irving has made here the financial result should
be considered very satisfactory. The total amount received from
subscriptions and box-office sales for the four weeks’ engagement is
$75,687. The receipts for the first week were $15,772; for the
second week, $18,714; for the third week, $18,880, and for the
week closing last evening, $22,321. It has been estimated that the
public paid altogether, to speculators and to the box-office, upwards
of $200,000. Judged, therefore, by the financial standard of the box-
office, as well as by that of the highest criticism, New York’s answer
to the London “Standard” was a full and complete endorsement of
the English popularity of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry.”
But it remained for Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago, to
pronounce upon them. The campaign was only in its infancy, though
the first stronghold had been won. An advance was made upon
Philadelphia, on the day following the recitation of “Eugene Aram.”
The reader who follows the fortunes of the campaigners in these
pages will find the record justified by independent pens, and
supported by the current chronicles of the entire Union.
 IX.
AT PHILADELPHIA AND “IN CLOVER.”

Rivalries of American Cities—Boston and Philadelphia—The Real and the

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

I.
“The rivalries between American cities,” said Irving, “seem to take
a far more aggressive form than the rivalry between England and
America, or even between France and England; I mean in regard to
their criticisms of each other, and their hostile chaff or badinage in
regard to each other’s peculiarities.”
“Is it not very much the same in England?”
“Perhaps.”
“Sheffield scoffs at Birmingham, Liverpool sneers at Bristol,
Manchester is supercilious concerning London,” I said.
“And London mildly patronizes the whole of them. I think you are
right; but one does not notice the competition at home so much,
perhaps, as in America. Boston and Philadelphia seem to indulge in a
good deal of badinage at each other’s expense.”
 “And they are both sarcastic about the morality of Chicago.”
“A Boston friend of ours,” said Irving, “was telling me yesterday
of a little war of words he had with a Philadelphian. Said Boston to
the Quaker, ‘Well, there is one thing in which you have the best of
us.’—‘Glad you admit one point in our favor anyhow; what is
it?’—‘You are nearer to New York than we are.’ Our Boston friend is
fond of New York, takes his holidays there; says he likes it nearly as
well as London. A less subtle, but more direct, hit at Philadelphia
was that of the Bostonian, who, in reply to the question of a
Philadelphian, ‘Why don’t you lay out your streets properly?’ said, ‘If
they were as dead as yours we would lay them out.’”
“Looked at from a balloon,” I said, “Philadelphia would have the
appearance of a checker-board. Boston, on the other hand, would
present many of the irregular features of an English city. Both cities
are eminently representative of American characteristics, and both
are possibly more English in their habits, manners, and customs,
than any other cities of the Union.”
“There is nothing dead about the Philadelphia streets, so far as I
have noticed them,” Irving replied. “This morning I walked along
Chestnut street, and thought it particularly lively and pleasant. The
absence of the elevated railroad struck me as an advantage. I felt
that when walking down Broadway, in New York. Then the cars in
the street itself did not rush along at the New York pace. These
seem to me to be advantages in their way on the side of life in
Philadelphia. Perhaps one feels the rest, too, of a calmer city, a
quieter atmosphere.”
We are sitting near a front window at the Bellevue, looking out
upon Broad street. Presently we are joined by the interviewer, and
Irving is not long before he is engaged in a conversation about the
actor’s art, and his own methods.
“Every character,” he says, “has its proper place on the stage,
and each should be developed to its greatest excellence, without
unduly intruding upon another, or impairing the general harmony of
the picture. Nothing, perhaps, is more difficult in a play than to
determine the exact relation of the real, and what I may call the
picturesque. For instance, it is the custom in Alsatia for men to wear
their hats in a public room; but in a play located in that country it
would not do to have a room scene in which a number of men
should sit around on the stage with their hats on. There are reasons
why they should not do that. In the first place, their hats would hide
their faces from the audience. It is also an incongruity to see men
sitting in the presence of an audience with their heads covered.
Then, again, the attention of the audience would be distracted from
the play by a feeling of curiosity as to the reason why the hats were
not removed. These are little things that should be avoided; but in
general they are not likely to intrude themselves where proper
regard is paid to the general appearance of a scene. The make-up of
the stage is exactly like the drawing of a picture, in which lights and
colors are studied, with a view to their effect upon the whole. There
is another feature. I would not have the costume and general
appearance of a company of soldiers returning from a war exactly
the same as they appeared when the men were starting for the
battle-field. I would have them dishevel their hair and assume a
careworn aspect, but yet appear in clean clothes. Everything on the
stage should always be clean and pleasant.”
The subject of realism being mentioned, he said his death in
“The Bells” had been called very realistic, whereas the entire story
was unrealistic, in the strict sense, particularly the trial and death.
“Dramatically poetic, if you like,” he said, “but not realistic. There are
so-called realisms on the stage that are no doubt offensive,—
overstrained illustrations of the pangs of death, physical deformities,
and such like. As for the interest of an audience in the person who is
acting, the knowledge that what they see is an impersonation has its
intellectual attractions for them. For instance, it would not be
satisfactory to see an old man of eighty play ‘King Lear’; but it would
be highly satisfactory to an audience to know that the character was
being portrayed by a man in the vigor of life. As you look upon a
picture you do not see something that is real, but something that
draws upon the imagination.
 “Perhaps there is no character about which such a variety of
opinions has been expressed as that of Hamlet, and there is no book
that will give any one as much opportunity of understanding it as the
‘Variorum Shakespeare’ of Mr. Horace Howard Furness. He is still a
young man,—he is not an old man,—and I trust that he will be able
to complete the whole of the work that he has begun, and I hope
that some one will follow in his footsteps. It was a labor of love, of
most intense love to him, and he has earned the gratitude of all
readers of Shakespeare. I hope I shall meet him.”

II.
The Chestnut Street Theatre, where Irving appeared on
November 28, is a handsome brick building. The width of the stage
at the proscenium is thirty-three feet, depth forty feet, height of
proscenium forty feet. There are three tiers of seats, which will
accommodate one thousand five hundred people. The theatre was
first opened in 1863, under the management of William Wheatley,
with Edwin Forrest as the leading actor. The interior was
reconstructed in 1874, and improved in 1875, with results that make
the house singularly elegant and comfortable. Among the audience
on the first night of Irving’s appearance were his old friend Mr.
McHenry, and a party of relatives and friends; the latter including
Lord and Lady Bury, whom he and Miss Terry, and several of his
fellow-travellers, met at a number of social receptions during the
week.
Irving’s Louis made just as profound an impression here as in
New York. “No finer performance has been seen on the Philadelphian
stage for many years,” said the “Ledger.”—“From his first appearance
on the stage to the moment when he falls dead upon the floor, he
rose from climax to climax, and held, not the hearts, but the minds,
of his audience captive,” said the “Inquirer”; and they give the cue
to the general criticisms. The other plays were equally well received.
Shylock excited the usual controversy as to Shakespeare’s intentions,
but none as to Irving’s interpretation of his own views. The critics,
on the whole, were the honest mouth-pieces of the audiences in
regard to their enjoyment of the entire play. A writer, who confessed
to disappointment in Miss Terry’s Portia, and who counted Shylock’s
business as above his elocution, had no words to express his
admiration of the entire setting of the piece, which he described as
“a discovery and a conquest.” It is no reflection upon the literary skill
and critical powers of the Philadelphia press, when it has to be
admitted that here and there the notices bore evidence of an
influence preceding Mr. Irving’s appearance, notably in their
criticisms of Hamlet.
“There are three kinds of criticisms,” said Irving, when discussing
this point one evening after a quiet supper: “the criticism that is
written before the play; the criticism that is more or less under the
influence of the preconceived ideas that are associated with previous
representations by other actors; and the criticism that is bona fide a
result of the night’s performance, and also, in a measure, an
interpretation of the opinions of the audience. What I mean by a
criticism written before the play is the notice that has been partially
prepared beforehand, in connection with the literature of the
subject, and the controversies as to the proper or improper views
taken of the character under discussion. These start in on one side
or the other, just as the writer feels about it, irrespective of the art
that is exercised by the actor. This is more particularly the case in
regard to Shylock and Hamlet. As to the latter character there is the
natural loyalty some writers feel towards what is called the
established or accepted Hamlet of the country. It is not given to all
men to feel that art is universal, and of no country. Don’t think I am
complaining; I am not. I am trying to justify some of the
Philadelphian notices of Hamlet, which were in opposition to the
verdict of the audience before whom I played it in America for the
first time.”
“You were warned that Philadelphia claims to occupy the highest
critical chair in America; and that, of all other cities, it would be the
least likely to accept a new Hamlet, especially a Hamlet that aims at
being natural as against the artificial school; or, in better words, an
impersonation as opposed to the so-called traditional school of
declamation.”
“I think that decided me to play Hamlet for the first time in
Philadelphia; and I never played it to an audience that entered more
fully into the spirit of my work.”
“I have never,” said a Philadelphian, “seen an audience in this city
rise and cheer an actor as they cheered you when you took your call
after the play scene in Hamlet. Such enthusiasm is unknown here.
Miss Terry and yourself both might have had scene-calls of the most
cordial character. You both refused them; it is a rule, I understand,
with you to do so. The excitement of some audiences would have
been dampened by these checks. Not so yours,—the calls at the
close of the play were quite phenomenal for Philadelphia.”
A numerous company of critics and reporters came from New
York, Boston, and other cities, to be present at Irving’s first
appearance in Hamlet. Nowhere at any time during the tour were
the influences of London so apparent as in the criticisms of Hamlet
at Philadelphia; most of them entirely out of harmony with the
warmly expressed satisfaction of one of the most intellectual and
high-class audiences ever gathered together in the Chestnut Street
Theatre.[22] For instance, the “Evening Bulletin” found in the duelling
scene reminiscences of “æsthetic sketches from ‘Punch,’” and the
“Press” said “It is unfortunate that Du Maurier has taken Miss Terry
as the model of the æsthetic set. The curly blonde hair, delicate
face, and soft, clinging robes reminded one so often of ‘Punch’s’
caricature, that it was difficult to take it seriously.” There is, in
certain critical circles of Philadelphia, the same kind of affectation of
a knowledge of English thought, and a following of London taste, as
there is in London in regard to French art and French criticism. The
audience at the Chestnut Street Theatre had no difficulty in taking
Miss Terry’s Ophelia seriously. There was hardly a dry eye in the
house during her mad scene. The “Bulletin” critic aired his
knowledge of English affectation by associating her with “Burns-
Jonesism”; but the “Times” found “Miss Terry’s Ophelia tender and
beautiful, and pathetic beyond any Ophelia we have lately seen.”
The “Record” described it as “sweet and unartificial as the innocent
and demented maiden Shakespeare painted for us.” Said the
“Inquirer,” in a criticism of singular literary force:—
In the play scene, in which he seemed to fill the whole stage, in which
a real frenzy appeared to fall upon his mind, he justified by the greatness
of his acting almost all that has been or could be said in praise of it. So
grandly and impressively did he bring the scene to a close as to call down
thunders of applause from an audience that he had thrilled and swayed by
a power undeniably great. If that scene was ever before so nobly played
we were not there to see it done. Mr. Irving rose to greater heights of
excellence as the play proceeded. From the moment Miss Terry put her
foot upon the scene she held and controlled her audience as she would.
Never before upon our stage has there appeared an actress who played
Ophelia with such lovely grace and piteous pathos. To all who saw this
most perfect performance it was a revelation of a higher, purer, and nobler
dramatic art than they had ever seen or dreamed. What she did just here
or there, or how she did it, cannot be told. Over it all was cast the
glamour of the genius in which this fine woman is so greatly blessed. She
does not seem to act, but to do that which nature taught her.

III.
Talking of criticism and the press, the press and the stage, one
evening, Irving expressed some views in regard to the influence and
relations of the newspaper and the theatre which are full of
suggestiveness and point.
“Journalism and the stage,” he said, “have always been more or
less in sympathy with each other. As they have progressed this
sympathy may be said to have grown into an alliance in the best
interests of civilization. As exponents of the highest thought of the
greatest writers, as educationists of the most comprehensive
character, the press and the stage are, I think, two of the most
powerful institutions for good in our times, and represent the
greatest possibilities in the future.
“It is interesting to contemplate how closely they are associated,
these two institutions, artistically and commercially. The
advertisements of the theatres represent a large revenue to the
newspapers; the employment of writers and reporters in chronicling
and commenting upon the work of the theatres represents, on the
other hand, an important outlay for the newspapers. The press is
telling the story of the theatre from day to day; and, while it extends
an earnest and honest sympathy to dramatic art in its highest
aspirations of excellence, I hope the time will come when the
criticism of the work of the stage will be considered one of the most
serious features that belong to the general and varied compositions
of a newspaper.
“In the past we, in England, at all events, look upon but two men
as critics in the most complete sense,—men who, by thought and
study, feeling and knowledge, had the power to sympathize with the
intention of the artist, to enter into the motives of the actor himself,
criticising his conceptions according to his interpretation of that
which he desires to express. These two writers were Lamb and
Hazlett. But nowadays we have thousands of critics. Every
newspaper in Great Britain has its critic. Even the trade-journals, and
some of the professedly religious journals, have their critics, and
some of them speak with an emphasis and an authority on the most
abstruse principles of art which neither Lamb nor Hazlett would have
dreamed of assuming. I don’t know how this contrasts with America;
but I am sure that when the conductors of the great journals of the
two worlds are fully convinced of the deep interest and the friendly
interest the people are taking in the stage they will give increasing
importance to the dramatic departments of their papers.”
“You are going to a journalistic breakfast or supper one day this
week,” I said. “Is that your idea of the sort of speech you will make
to them?” I asked, for he expressed his opinions with more than
ordinary firmness, seeing that the topic was comparatively new.
“Well, I thought of saying something,” he replied, walking all the
time about his room. “Do you think the relations of the stage and
the press a good subject?”
“Excellent,” I said; “a text worthy of an essay in ‘The Fortnightly’
or the ‘Edinburgh Review.’”
 IV.
Taking a quiet stroll along Broad street, and occasionally up and
down the thoroughfares right and left, on the first Sunday afternoon
of our arrival in Philadelphia, we paused once or twice to note the
people coming out of church and chapel.
“You know that part of Manchester called Hulme,” said Irving. “Is
not this quarter like that? Could you not fancy we were in almost any
suburban part of Manchester? And the people, do you see anything
in their appearance to denote that they are any other than English?”
“No; they might be a Birmingham, or a Manchester, or a
Liverpool crowd.”
“Better dressed, perhaps, so far as the women go. This absence
of strong contrasts between American and English is often
noticeable. Nothing in that way struck me more forcibly than the
Lotos-Club dinner at New York. They might have been a gathering of
London clubmen, only that they all made such singularly humorous
speeches. The English after-dinner oratory is more solemn. And the
audience here last night,—I could not see their faces, of course; but
I felt their influence, and their response to various points was very
English. I am told that it is thoroughly American to hurry away the
moment the curtain falls on the last act.”
“It certainly is the general practice of American audiences. An
English friend of ours, and a popular comedian here, was only telling
me yesterday how the habit afflicts him and his company. ‘At first,’
he said, ‘it was terrible. We thought we had utterly failed, and we
shall never get used to it.’ He asked me how it affected you. I would
not hurt his feelings, of course, by telling him that your audiences,
so far, had waited every night to applaud, and to call you and Miss
Terry, and frequently other members of your company. I said you
seemed to drop into the habits of the country easily.”
“It is very generous, is it not? And I know they are making an
exception with us, because my attention has been called to it so
often. I drove down Chestnut street yesterday. Have you noticed
what a picturesque effect, both in form and color, the signboards
give to Chestnut street? And there is something very clean and
homelike about the private houses,—red brick mostly, with white
marble steps and green blinds. The atmosphere of the place is
calmer than New York. I have been reading a new daily paper here,
the ‘Evening Call,’—very odd, clever kind of paper.”
“Yes,” I said; “it is a type of quite a new departure in daily
journalism. The ‘Morning Journal,’ in New York, and the ‘Evening
News,’ in Chicago, are examples in point. Akin to the first idea of the
‘Figaro,’ in London, they are a little in the style of the ‘Cuckoo,’ which
croaked in the London streets for a short time. They may be
considered as outside the competition of the regular high-class daily
journals. They occupy ground of their own. Their leading idea is to
amuse, rather than to instruct. They employ humorous versifiers,
story-tellers, jesters. They are the cap and bells in print, the jester,
or court-fool, in newspapers; and sometimes are as personal as that
very strange jester in the American play of ‘Francesca da Rimini.’
How this new form of daily journalism represents American
civilization, or what side of it, is a point which Mr. Arnold or Spencer
may be left to discuss. I am glad you have noticed it, because I have
collected a few Philadelphian examples of its style,—bright, easy,
clever, frivolous, perhaps, and sometimes a trifle broad, but full of
go.”
We sat down at the hotel to look over my notes, and here are a
few items from them:—
Theatre-goer.—“I notice that a favorite device with Irving in a moment
of deep feeling is for him to clutch and perhaps tear open the collar or
loose scarf that is around his neck.”
Scarf Manufacturer.—“Well, I declare! That is the best news that I have
heard for a long time. Three cheers for Irving!”
Theatre-goer.—“Why, man, are you demented?”
Scarf Manufacturer.—“Not at all. Can’t you see? The five hundred
thousand amateur actors in this country will all be imitating Irving, and
the result will be the biggest kind of a boom in scarfs.”
 In the same column it is announced that “James Malley wants to
go on the stage,” and the editor adds, “We hope he will wait until
eggs are cheaper.” “You cannot convert 15,000 tons into 20,000
tons,” is quoted as a remark of the late Lord Beaconsfield to
accentuate the general grievance about short weight in coals.
“Dizzy’s remark clearly shows that he knew nothing about the coal
business.” Plumbers in America are subjects of much newspaper
sarcasm. “Three weeks ago,” says the “Lock Haven Express” “the
writer sent for a plumber, who never appeared, but yesterday he
sent in his bill.” The “Call” prints this to add, “He must have been a
poor sort of plumber to wait three weeks before sending in a bill.”
Chicago looks down upon some of the Eastern cities, and there is a
rivalry between the journals of Chicago and the cities that are
scorned, which is often amusing. “The only cure for love is
marriage,” says the “Call”; “the only cure for marriage, divorce.
Beware of imitations; none genuine without the word ‘Chicago’
blown on the bottle.”
An imaginary description of Irving’s visit to the Rev. Ward
Beecher, with an account of the family dinner and conversation, was
started by one of these new daily papers, and it was repeated even
by several of the more serious journals in other cities as a genuine
thing. It is difficult sometimes to know when the news of some of
these papers is true. Ingenious readers will probably ask in what
respect they thus differ from other papers. But our satirical friends
must always get in their little joke. It strikes me as a weakness, in
the programme of some of the new sheets, that you should for a
moment be left in doubt as to when they are in earnest and when in
fun; when they are recording real events, or when they are chaffing
history. Here is an extract from the report of Irving’s visit to Beecher:
—
The party rested in the parlor until the dinner was ready. The
conversation was of an every-day nature, and did not enter deeply either
into theatricals or religion.
The party filed into the dining-room, Mr. Beecher behind, turning his
cuffs end for end as he walked. In this room was a palatable show,—a big,
fat goose, entrenched in gravy, and flanked by all kinds of vegetables,
 slept the final sleep in the centre of the table. Everything necessary
accompanied the star of the feast.
“Dark meat, Miss Terry?” asked the reverend gentleman as he grasped
the carver.
“If you please, with plenty of stuffing,” returned the little lady.
All were helped from the generous goose, and Mr. Beecher sat down to
enjoy his reward. He is very fond of onion stuffing, and had taken care
that it was not all gone before his turn came.
“This goose,” began Mr. Beecher, the bird’s biographer, “has a history.
She is the seventh goose of a seventh”—
Just what the reverend gentleman was going to attribute to the goose
will not be known, as just then he tasted the stuffing. There was no onion
in it. A stern look came over his face, and he was on the point of saying
something when he caught the warning glance from his wife’s eyes and
kept quiet. Nothing was heard for ten minutes besides the tuneful play of
knives, forks, and dishes. The dinner was topped off with mince and
pumpkin pies, in whose favor the guests could not say too much. After
dinner a quiet, enjoyable talk was indulged in. Mr. Beecher neglected his
Sunday school to entertain the artists. He highly complimented Irving by
telling him that he was a born preacher.
“If I were not pastor of Plymouth Church, I would be Henry Irving,”
said Mr. Beecher.
“You are a born actor,” said Mr. Irving. “As for myself, there is no one I
feel more inclined to envy than the pastor of Plymouth Church.”
Miss Terry was not slighted much in Mr. Beecher’s meed of praise. The
topics of discussion momentarily changed from America to England and
back again, both of the leading gentlemen having well-stored minds that
relieved them from “talking shop.”
At four o’clock the visitors departed, carrying and leaving delightful
impressions.

“Newspapers are not allowed to be noisely hawked in the streets

here, I find,” said Irving; “and ticket speculators on the sidewalks are
also tabooed. A little newsboy offered me a paper yesterday quite
confidentially. By the way, you saw the military band belonging to
“The Evening Call.” It is composed of the employés of the
newspaper. It looked like a band of French guides. It serenaded Miss
Terry at her hotel yesterday, and afterwards serenaded me at mine.
I was just getting up. It quite affected me to hear “God save the
Queen” played as finely almost as if the and of Her Majesty’s Guards
were under my window.[23]

V.
“Irving in Clover,” was the journalistic title of a report of “a
notable breakfast given to the English tragedian,” which appeared in
the “Philadelphia Press.” “A gathering of distinguished men listen to
entertaining words by the famous actor; he is presented with the
watch of Edwin Forrest.”
The “Clover Club” is one of the pleasantest of Philadelphian
institutions. Its reception to Mr. Irving, and the Forrest incident,
which makes the day historical in the annals of the stage, calls for a
special record. As I was travelling at this time to another city, I
propose to repeat the chronicle of the local journalist, and Mr.
Irving’s own personal report of the interesting proceedings. Let me
say, then, in the language of the “Press,” that on the morning of
December 7 Mr. Irving broke his fast with the club that has a four-
leaved Shamrock on which to spread its bounty, à votre santé for its
toast cry, and for its motto the quatrain,—
“While we live,
We live in clover;
When we die,
We die all over.”

The banqueting-room of the Hotel Bellevue, the scene of so

many memorable gatherings, and the shrine at which the quadrifoil
devotees ever worship, had been turned into a fairy bower. The
regular clover table had an addition in the shape of a crescent,
spreading on either side from the stem of the club’s emblem and
from its centre, and concealing a pillar supporting the floor above,
arose what the florist’s art made to appear a gigantic plant. Its
branches, bearing numerous camellias, reached to the ceiling. At its
base, in a bed of emerald moss, grew ferns and lilies. Smilax (a
beautiful American creeper), in graceful windings, covered the entire
board, furnishing a radiant green setting for dazzling glass and
shining silver, and handsome plaques of flowers and fruits. Directly
in front of the president of the club, and the guest of the occasion,
was a handsome floral structure, from which the modest clover grew
around the name “Henry Irving,” composed of radiant blossoms. On
the emblematic gridiron was placed the massive “loving-cup.” The
walls of the room were covered with precious works of art, and over
all was shed the mellow light of many wax candles, with their rays
subdued by crimson shades. The sunlight, so suggestive of business
activity and all that rebukes feasting and frivolity, was rigorously
excluded from the scene of pleasure. An English and American flag
entwined draped one end of the room.
Breakfast was served shortly, at noon, fifty-three gentlemen
sitting around the clover-leaf. Around the table, beside Mr. Irving and
twenty-three members of the club, were seated the following
gentlemen: Ex-Attorney-General MacVeagh, Charles Wyndham, the
English comedian; A. Loudon Snowden, Superintendent of the Mint;
Charles Godfrey Leland (Hans Breitman); Calvin Wells, of Pittsburg;
Captain J. W. Shackford, of the yacht Atlanta; Professor E. Coppee
Mitchell, of the University; James D. Fish, president of the Marine
National Bank, New York, and owner of the New York Casino; John
B. Schoeffel, partner of Henry E. Abbey; Morton McMichael, Jr.,
cashier of the First National Bank; A. G. Hetherington, J. H.
Copleston, James H. Alexander; Commodore James M. Ferguson,
President of the Board of Port Wardens; E. A. Perry, of “The Boston
Herald”; E. T. Steel, President of the Board of Education; Thomas
Hovenden, J. W. Bailey, Marcus Mayer, Peter A. B. Widener, Dr. Alfred
C. Lambdin; Henry Howe, the “first old man” of Mr. Irving’s
company; W. E. Littleton, J. M. White; Hon. Robert P. Porter, of New
York; Nathaniel Childs, the comedian; Charles A. Dougherty, J.
Beaufoy Lane, and J. H. Palser.
After the “Baby”[24] member, Colonel John A. McCaull, had
descended from the high-chair and been divested of his rattle, and
the loving-cup had been passed around, and the game on the bill of
fare had been reached, President M. P. Handy arose, and in a few
fitting remarks introduced Mr. Irving, reminding him, in conclusion,
that “this unconventionality is our conventionality,” and, further, that
he was expected “to stir up the animals.”
After the warm applause that greeted him had subsided, Mr.
Irving, in a conversational, unrestrained manner, spoke as follows:—

“Gentlemen, I can never forget, so long as I live, the hearty

welcome you have given me, coupled with such unusual and hearty
hospitality. When it was first known that I was coming to
Philadelphia, your club extended to me a most kind invitation,—the
first invitation I received after my arrival in America, and one that
will ever be memorable to me. Your great hospitality, and the
gridiron there before me, has reminded me of an old organization of
which I am a member,—the Beefsteak Club. I hope I shall have the
pleasure of welcoming some of the members of this club whenever
they cross the water. Should any of them come to London I will
endeavor to make some return for this unexpected welcome. I hope
by that time we will have some of your unconventional
conventionalities of which you have, in such an excellent manner,
given me a specimen. I am told that speech-making is not part of
the programme. Therefore I can do no better than follow the
suggestion of my friend Dougherty, and give you an experience of
my early life. I don’t wish to do aught against the rules,—for I am a
great stickler for rules,—which I see you carry out; but I will tell you
a little story concerning my early life, or it may possibly be the story
of the early life of several of us.”
And then Mr. Irving branched off into a recitation descriptive of
how “some vast amount of years ago” a precocious youth—one Tom
by name, and but eleven years of age—had a prematurely amorous
longing for a spinster of thirty-two, who finally married an elder, but
hated, rival. At the conclusion of the recitation, which was received
with great laughter, he continued his remarks, as follows:—

“I feel most fondly unto you, O Clovers! Many of you, I believe,

are associated with the press. Between journalism and the stage
there has always been a great sympathy, and I fancy it will continue
so until all things cease to exist. I have often thought that the stage
is a sort of father of journalism,—it is a sort of Utopian idea,—but
from the days of the Greek drama to the time of Shakespeare there
was much news discussed at the theatres, such as we now find in
the newspapers. Our interests are mixed. We represent much of the
newspaper treasury I know, in England, and I fancy it is the same in
this country. We are therefore interested, to a very large amount, in
the newspapers, and I have found my friend, Charles Wyndham,
whom I am glad to meet at this board, interested to the extent of
anxiety concerning some of his large advertisements.
“But this is not solely a gathering of journalists. I have to-day the
honor of meeting many gentlemen who represent every class in
Philadelphia,—every class of professional calling. I will say from my
very heart that I thank you. I will remember, as long as I live, the
courtesy that has supplemented this sumptuous banquet, and your
kindness in calling me to meet such representative men. I am living
next door to this room, and had I only heard that I was to meet
such a distinguished gathering I am afraid I would have been
deterred from facing you. Mr. Handy, your president, has told me
that your conventionality consists in being unconventional, and I
have tried to be as unconventional as I possibly can. I thank you
with all my heart.”

At the conclusion of Irving’s remarks Secretary Deacon read the

following letter from the eminent American tragedian, James E.
Murdoch:—
Previous engagements of a domestic kind induce me to send
“Regrets,” in reply to your invitation to breakfast with the members of the
Clover Club and their distinguished guest, Mr. Henry Irving. In regard to
certain “effects, defective” consequent upon the “feast of reason and the
flow of soul,” I am constrained to say, in the language of Cassio
[somewhat altered], “I have but a poor and unhappy stomach for
feasting.” I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my
weakness with the tempting dishes of mind and matter so bountifully
served up at complimentary festivals. I hope it will not be considered out
of place for me to state that I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Irving
 socially, and of witnessing some of his performances. I esteem him as a
man of gentle manners, and regard him as a dramatic genius. He appears
to me to possess, in an eminent degree, all those qualities of thought and
action which marked so strikingly the historical career of Macready and
Charles Kean, and which established the reputation of those gentlemen
for consummate skill in stage direction, and for exquisite portraiture of
dramatic characters. Desiring to be excused for the obtrusion of my
opinion, allow me to add: although I shall not have the pleasure of sitting
down to your banquet, I take pleasure in saying:—

“Now, good digestion wait on appetite and health on both”—

... “Come, love and health, to all”....

I drink to the general joy of the whole table, and especially to the
health and happiness of your accomplished and worthy guest.
Yours, always, in the bonds of good-fellowship,
JAMES E. MURDOCH.

The next episode of the memorable occasion was one that

almost moved Mr. Irving to tears. It was as great a surprise to many
members of the club as it was to the guest of the day. Thomas
Donaldson, a well-known Clover, after some remarks concerning the
drama, in which he spoke of the United States having 1,800
theatres, 20,000 actors and actresses, and spending $40,000,000 for
theatrical entertainment, said: “Mr. Irving, I desire to present you
with the watch of the greatest genius America ever produced on the
mimic stage,—Edwin Forrest.” Mr. Irving clasped the relic extended
to him and reverently kissed it. He remained on his feet, having
impulsively arisen, and in a voice deep with feeling spoke again:—

“You have bereft me of all words. My blood alone can speak for
me in my face, and if my heart could tell it would describe to you my
gratitude. This recalls so many memories that you will pardon me if I
am not able to express my deep gratitude for this mark of affection.
I say affection, for to receive here such a memento of your great
country is more than I could have dreamt of. To think that to-day,
before so many distinguished Americans, a watch could be given to
me that belonged to Edwin Forrest! It recalls a most unfortunate
affair; I refer to the contretemps between Forrest and my
countryman, Macready. That such a tribute should have been offered
me shows how changed is your feeling towards art; shows how
cosmopolitan art is in all its phases. I shall wear this watch, Mr.
Donaldson, close to my heart. It will remind me of you all, and of
your city and of your country,—not that I need anything to remind
me,—but close to my heart it will remind me of your kind friendship.
With all my heart I thank you.”

As Mr. Irving sat down he kissed the watch again, and then
placed it in the upper left-hand pocket of his vest. Accompanying the
timepiece which had been Mr. Donaldson’s private possession, were
papers proving the authenticity of its original ownership.[25]
Ex-Attorney-General MacVeagh was the next speaker, and he paid
a very graceful tribute to foreign theatrical and operatic artists, and
the welcome they receive in these days on the shores of America.
Mr. Henry Howe (a leading member of Mr. Irving’s company),
who, for forty consecutive years, was a member of the Haymarket
Theatre Company, made a warm defence of Macready anent the
Forrest trouble. “I have heard him say,” said Mr. Howe, “time and
time again, ‘Never in my life did I do anything that would prevent
me from shaking Forrest by the hand. I appreciate his genius, and
that I could ever have been thought mean enough to do anything
against him is the greatest misfortune of my life.’ And henceforth,
gentlemen, I believe you will all be ready to defend this man who
has been unjustly assailed.”
After many other speeches, songs, and recitations Mr. Irving rose
to leave. He said:—

“The welcome you have given me has surpassed my most ideal

dream. I cannot describe my feelings. Such generosity, such
welcome, such friendship, as I have met with here, no act of mine
can repay. I hope to to be back here in the early part of the coming
year, and I ask if you will not all at that time be my guests. If you
will come you will only add to the greatness of my obligation.”
 As Mr. Irving left the room he passed around the table and shook
hands warmly with each gentleman present. The breakfast party did
not arise until five o’clock. Among those, other than the gentlemen
mentioned, who contributed to the pleasure of the occasion, by
speech, song, or recitation, were Dr. Edward Bedloe, Rufus E.
Shapley, John B. Schoeffel, A. Loudon Snowden, Hon. Robert P.
Porter, A. G. Hetherington, British Consul Clipperton, and Nat. Childs.
At the latter part of the festivities Attorney-General Brewster entered
the room and expressed his regrets that he had been unable to be
present in time to shake hands with the Clover guest, and add his
own to the club’s welcome of England’s leading actor.
 X.
BOSTON AND SHYLOCK.

Rural Scenes on Both Sides of the Atlantic—First Impressions of Railway

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

I.
Nothing in America is so unlike England as the desolate
appearance of the meadows in the fall and early winter months.
From New York to Boston, a journey of six hours, in the second
week of December, not a blade of green grass was to be seen. The
train ran through a wilderness of brown, burnt-up meadows. With a
tinge of yellow in the color of them, they would have resembled the
late corn-stubbles of an English landscape. But all were a dead,
sombre brown, except once in a way, where a clump of oaks still
waved their russet leaves. Another noticeable contrast to England is
the wooden houses, that look so temporary as compared with the
brick and stone of the old country. The absence of the trim gardens
of English rural districts also strikes a stranger, as do the curious and
ragged fences that take the place of the English hedge-rows. The
New England homesteads are, however, more like those of old
England than are the farms of other States in the Union.
The habit of letting out walls and buildings, roofs of barns, and
sides of houses, for the black and white advertisements of quack-
medicine venders and others, is a disfigurement of the land which
every English visitor notices with regret; and lovers of the
picturesque, Americans and English, grow positively angry over the
disfigurement of the Hudson by these money-making Goths and
vandals.
A change of scene was promised for the Irving travellers on their
return to New York, over the same line. A cold wave from the West
was predicted. “We shall have snow before long,” said an American
friend, “and not unlikely a hard winter. I judge so from the fact that
all the great weather prophets say it will be a mild one. Your
Canadian seer, for instance, is dead on an exceptionally calm and
warm winter. So let us look out.”
Boston delighted the members of Irving’s company; all of them,
except Loveday, who contracted, on the way thither, an attack of
malarial fever. With true British pluck he fought his assailant until his
first spell of important work was over, and then he retreated. Medical
assistance, rest, and plenty of quinine, pulled him through. But the
company were destined later to sustain other climatic shocks; and
they all, more or less, had a dread of the threatened winter. Until
Loveday broke down everybody had stood the change of climate
well. Reports came from England that Miss Ellen Terry was ill in New
York. On the contrary, she had never been better than during these
first weeks of the tour. She suffered, as all English women do, from
heated rooms. “That is my only fear,” she said to me. “The climate!—
I don’t object to it. If they would only be content with it, I would.
Some of the days are gorgeous. The snap of cold, as they call it, was
delightful to me. But when I would be driving out in open carriages
New York ladies would be muffled up in close broughams. And, oh,
the getting home again!—to the hotel, I mean. An English hot-
house, where they grow pine-apples,—that is the only comparison I
can think of. And their private houses! How the dear people can
stand the overwhelming heat of them, I don’t know!”
The railway journey from Philadelphia to Boston was Irving’s first
experience of American travel.
“It is splendid,” he said, when I met him at his hotel, on the night
of his arrival. “Am I not tired? Not a bit. It has been a delightful rest.
I slept nearly the whole way, except once when going to the
platform and looking out. At a station a man asked me which was
Irving, and I pointed to Mead, who had been walking along the
track, and was just then getting into his car. No; I enjoyed the ride
all the way; never slept better; feel quite refreshed.”
Said Miss Terry, the next morning, when I saw her at the
Tremont House, “Oh, yes, I like the travelling! It did not tire me.
Then we had such lovely cars! But how different the stations are
compared with ours! No platforms!—you get down really upon the
line. And how unfinished it all looks,—except the cars, and they are
perfect. Oh, yes! the parlor-car beats our first-class carriage. I shall
like Boston very much,—though I never expect to like any place as
well as New York.”

II.
The Boston Theatre is the largest of the houses in which Irving
has played on this side of the Atlantic. It is claimed that it is the
largest in the Union, though many persons say that the Opera House
at the Rocky Mountain city of Denver is the handsomest of all the
American theatres. The main entrance to the Boston house is on
Washington street. It has not an imposing exterior. The front
entrance is all that is visible, the rest being filled up with stores; but
the hall is very spacious, and the vestibule, foyer, lobbies, and grand
staircase beyond, are worthy of the broad and well-appointed
auditorium. The promenade saloon is paved with marble, and is
forty-six feet by twenty-six feet, and proportionately high. Upon the
walls, and here and there on easels, are portraits of Irving, Booth,
McCullough, Salvini, and other notable persons. The promenade and
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com