[Speech of William Winter at a dinner given by the Lotos Club, New
York City, November 30, 1878, to John Gilbert, in honor of the
fiftieth anniversary of his first appearance on the stage. Whitelaw
Reid presided. William Winter responded to the toast "The Dramatic
Critic."]
MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN:--I thank you very gratefully for
this kind welcome, and I think it a privilege to be allowed to take part
in a festival so delightful as this, and join with you in paying respect
to a name so justly renowned and honored as that of John Gilbert. I
cannot hope adequately to respond to the personal sentiments which have
been so graciously expressed nor adequately celebrate the deeds and the
virtues of your distinguished guest. "I am ill at these numbers ... but
such answer as I can make you shall command." For since first I became
familiar with the stage--in far-away days in old Boston, John Gilbert
has been to me the fulfilment of one of my highest ideals of excellence
in the dramatic art; and it would be hard if I could not now say this,
if not with eloquence at least with fervor.
I am aware of a certain strangeness, however, in the thought that words
in his presence and to his honor should be spoken by me. The freaks of
time and fortune are indeed strange. I cannot but remember that when
John Gilbert was yet in the full flush of his young manhood and already
crowned with the laurels of success the friend who is now speaking was a
boy at his sports--playing around the old Federal Street Theatre, and
beneath the walls of the Franklin Street Cathedral, and hearing upon the
broad causeways of Pearl Street the rustle and patter of the autumn
leaves as they fell from the chestnuts around the Perkins Institution
and the elms that darkened the sombre, deserted castle of Harris's
Folly. With this sense of strangeness though, comes a sense still more
striking and impressive of the turbulent, active, and brilliant period
through which John Gilbert has lived. Byron had been dead but four years
[1828] and Scott and Wordsworth were still writing when he began to act.
Goethe was still living. The works of Thackeray and Dickens were yet to
be created. Cooper, Irving, Bryant, Halleck, and Percival were the
literary lords of that period. The star of Willis was ascending while
those of Hawthorne and Poe were yet to rise; and the dramas of Talfourd,
Knowles, and Bulwer were yet to be seen by him as fresh contributions to
the literature of the stage. All these great names are written in the
book of death. All that part of old Boston to which I have referred--the
scene equally of Gilbert's birth and youth and first successes and of
his tender retrospection--has been swept away or entirely changed. Gone
is the old Federal Street Theatre. Gone that quaint English alley with
the cosey tobacconist's shop which he used to frequent. Gone the
hospitable Stackpole where many a time at the "latter end of a sea-coal
fire" he heard the bell strike midnight from the spire of the Old South
Church! But, though "the spot where many times he triumphed is
forgot"--his calm and gentle genius and his hale physique have endured
in unabated vigor, so that he has charmed two generations of play-goers,
still happily lives to charm men and women of to-day. Webster, Choate,
Felton, Everett, Rantoul, Shaw, Bartlett, Lunt, Halleck, Starr King,
Bartol, Kirk--these and many more, the old worthies of the bar, bench,
and the pulpit in Boston's better days of intellect and taste:--all saw
him as we see him in the silver-gray elegance and exquisite perfection
with which he illustrates the comedies of England.
His career has impinged upon the five great cities of Boston, New
Orleans, Philadelphia, London, and New York. It touches at one extreme
the ripe fame of Munden (who died in '32) and--freighted with all the
rich traditions of the stage--it must needs at its other extreme
transmit even into the next century the high mood, the scholar-like wit,
and the pure style of the finest strain of acting that Time has
bestowed upon civilized man. By what qualities it has been distinguished
this brilliant assemblage is full well aware. The dignity which is its
grandeur; the sincerity which is its truth; the thoroughness which is
its massive substance; the sterling principle which is its force; the
virtue which is its purity; the scholarship, mind, humor, taste,
versatile aptitude of simulation, and beautiful grace of method, which
are its so powerful and so delightful faculties and attributes, have all
been brought home to your minds and hearts by the wealth and clear
genius of the man himself!
I have often lingered in fancy upon the idea of that strange,
diversified, wonderful procession--here the dazzling visage of Garrick,
there the woful face of Mossop; here the glorious eyes of Kean; there
the sparkling loveliness of an Abington or a Jordan--which moves through
the chambers of the memory across almost any old and storied stage. The
thought is endless in its suggestion, and fascinating in its charm. How
often in the chimney-corner of life shall we--whose privilege it has
been to rejoice in the works of this great comedian, and whose happiness
it is to cluster around him to-night in love and admiration--conjure up
and muse upon his stately figure as we have seen it in the group of Sir
Peter and Sir Robert, of Jaques and Wolsey, and Elmore! The ruddy
countenance, the twinkling gray eyes, the silver hair, the kind smile,
the hearty voice, the old-time courtesy of manner--how tenderly will they
be remembered! How dearly are they prized! Scholar!--Actor!--Gentleman!
long may he be spared to dignify and adorn the stage--a soother of our
cares, and comfort to our hearts--exemplar for our lives!--the Edelweiss
of his age and of our affections! [Great applause.]
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