At that moment statesmen were hopefully estimating the chances of a
peaceful adjustment and solution of the sectional controversy. With the
prophet instinct of the artist he knew better. Though at no time taking
an active interest in politics or giving expression to party bias of
any kind, his personal associations led him into a familiar knowledge
of the trend of political opinion and the portent of public affairs,
and I can truly say that during the fifty years that passed thereafter
I never discussed any topic of current interest or moment with him that
he did not throw upon it the side lights of a luminous understanding,
and at the same time an impartial and intelligent judgment.
His mind was both reflective and radiating. His humor though perennial
was subdued; his wit keen and spontaneous, never acrid or wounding. His
speech abounded with unconscious epigram. He had his beliefs and stood
by them; but he was never aggressive. Cleaner speech never fell from
the lips of man. I never heard him use a profanity. We once agreed
between ourselves to draw a line across the salacious stories so much
in vogue during our day; the wit must exceed the dirt; where the dirt
exceeded the wit we would none of it.
He was a singularly self-respecting man; genuinely a modest man. The
actor is supposed to be so familiar with the pubic as to be proof
against surprises. Before his audience he must be master of himself,
holding the situation and his art by the firmest grip. He must
simulate, not experience emotion, the effect referable to the seeming,
never to the actuality involving the realization.
Mr. Jefferson held to this doctrine and applied it rigorously. On a
certain occasion he was playing Caleb Plummer. In the scene between the
old toy-maker and his blind daughter, when the father discovers the
dreadful result of his dissimulation—an awkward hitch; and, the climax
quite thwarted, the curtain came down. I was standing at the wings.
“Did you see that?” he said as he brushed by me, going to his
dressing-room.
“No,” said I, following him. “What was it?”
He turned, his eyes still wet and his voice choked. “I broke down,”
said he; “completely broke down. I turned away from the audience to
recover myself. But I failed and had the curtain rung.”
The scene had been spoiled because the actor had been overcome by a
sudden flood of real feeling, whereas he was to render by his art the
feeling of a fictitious character and so to communicate this to his
audience. Caleb’s cue was tears, but not Jefferson’s.
On another occasion I saw his self-possession tried in a different way.
We were dining with a gentleman who had overpartaken of his own
hospitality. Mr. Murat Halstead was of the company. There was also a
German of distinction, whose knowledge of English was limited. The Rip
Van Winkle craze was at its height. After sufficiently impressing the
German with the rare opportunity he was having in meeting a man so
famous as Mr. Jefferson, our host, encouraged by Mr. Halstead, and I am
afraid not discouraged by me, began to urge Mr. Jefferson to give us,
as he said, “a touch of his mettle,” and failing to draw the great
comedian out he undertook himself to give a few descriptive passages
from the drama which was carrying the town by storm. Poor Jefferson! He
sat like an awkward boy, helpless and blushing, the German wholly
unconscious of the fun or even comprehending just what was
happening—Halstead and I maliciously, mercilessly enjoying it.