At the Broadway Theatre, New York, March 22, 1891.
MY heart tells me that on the threshold of my address it will be
appropriate for me to say a few words about the great actor who has
just fallen into that sleep that we call death. Lawrence Barrett was my
friend, and I was his. He was an interpreter of Shakespeare, to whose
creations he gave flesh and blood. He began at the foundation of his
profession, and rose until he stood next to his friend--next to one who
is regarded as the greatest tragedian of our time--next to Edwin Booth.
The life of Lawrence Barrett was a success, because he honored himself
and added glory to the stage.
He did not seek for gain by pandering to the thoughtless, ignorant or
base. He gave the drama in its highest and most serious form. He shunned
the questionable, the vulgar and impure, and gave the intellectual,
the pathetic, the manly and the tragic. He did not stoop to conquer--he
soared. He was fitted for the stage. He had a thoughtful face, a vibrant
voice and the pose of chivalry, and besides he had patience, industry,
courage and the genius of success.
He was a graceful and striking Bassanio, a thoughtful Hamlet, an intense
Othello, a marvelous Harebell, and the best Cassius of his century.
In the drama of human life, all are actors, and no one knows his part.
In this great play the scenes are shifted by unknown forces, and the
commencement, plot and end are still unknown--are still unguessed. One
by one the players leave the stage, and others take their places. There
is no pause--the play goes on. No prompter's voice is heard, and no one
has the slightest clue to what the next scene is to be.
Will this great drama have an end? Will the curtain fall at last? Will
it rise again upon some other stage? Reason says perhaps, and Hope still
whispers yes. Sadly I bid my friend farewell, I admired the actor, and I
loved the man.