I.

“AND I don’t think he believes a word I have said,” was Mr. John T.

Raymond’s own commentary upon a series of romances of “the wild West”

which he had related to Mr. Henry Irving[1] with an intensity that was

worthy of Col. Sellers himself.

The comedian’s reminiscences were graphic narratives of theatrical and

frontier life, with six-shooters and bowie-knives in them, and narrow

escapes enough to have made the fortunes of what the Americans call a

ten-cent novel.

“Oh, yes, I believe it is the duty of the door-keeper at a Western

theatre to collect the weapons of the audience before admitting the

people to the house; that what we call the cloak-room in London, you

might call the armory out West; and that the bowie-knife of a Texan

critic never weighs less than fourteen pounds. But I am not going as

far as Texas, though one might do worse if one were merely crossing the

Atlantic in search of adventures.”

America was at this time a far-off country, about which travellers

told Irving strange stories. I recall many a pleasant evening in the

Beefsteak Club room, of the Lyceum Theatre, when famous citizens of the

United States, actors more particularly, have sat at his round table,

and smoked the Havannah of peace and pleasant memories: Booth, Barrett,

Boucicault, McCullough, Raymond, Florence, and others of their craft;

Generals Horace Porter, Fairchild, Merritt, Mr. Sam. Ward, Mr. Rufus

Hatch, Mr. James R. Osgood, Mr. Hurlbert, Mr. Crawford, Col. Buck,

Mr. Dan Dougherty, and many others. They all promised him a kindly

reception and a great success.

“I question, however,” said an English guest, taking the other side, as

Englishmen love to do, if only for the sake of argument, “if America

will quite care for the naturalness of your effects, the neutral

tones of some of your stage pictures, the peaceful character, if I

may so style it, of your representations. They like breadth and color

and show; they are accustomed to the marvellous and the gigantic in

nature; they expect on the stage some sort of interpretation of these

things,—great rivers, lofty mountains, and the startling colors of

their fall tints. Your gentle meads of Hampton, the poetic grace of

“Charles the First,” the simplicity of your loveliest sets, and the

quiet dignity of your Shylock, will, I fear, seem tame to them.”

“Human nature, I fancy,” Irving responded, “is the same all the world

over, and I have played to many Americans in this very theatre. You

will say, perhaps, that they will accept here in London what they

would not care for on the other side of the Atlantic. You would say

we are an old country, with fairly settled tastes in art, a calm

atmosphere, a cultivated knowledge; and that possibly what we, in our

narrower ways, regard as a subtilty of art, they may not see. That may

be so, though some of their humor is subtle enough, and the best of it

leaves a great deal to the imagination. I know many persons, American

and English, have talked to me in your strain; yet I never saw quieter

or more delicate acting than in Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle. As I said

before, human nature is ever the same: it loves and hates, it quarrels

and murders, it honors valor, sympathizes with the unfortunate, and

delights in seeing human passions delineated on the stage. Moreover,

are not the Americans, after all, our own flesh and blood? I never

think of them in the sense of foreigners, as one does of the French and

Germans, and the other European nations who do not speak our language;

and I have yet to learn that there is any difference between us so

marked that the jangle of “The Bells,” shall not stir their imagination

as much as the sorrows of Charles shall move their hearts, and the

story of Louis heighten their pulses. We shall see. I cannot exactly

say that my soul’s in arms and eager for the fray, but I have no

doubt about the result. That love of breadth, of largeness, of color,

you talk of, should go hand in hand with a catholic taste, devoid of

littleness and combined with a liberal criticism that is not always

looking for spots on the sun.”

“You are not nervous, then, as to your reception?”

“No, I am sure it will be kindly; and, for their criticism, I think it

will be just. There is the same honesty of purpose and intention in

American as in English criticism, and, above all, there is the great

play-going public, which is very much the same frank, generous, candid

audience all over the world.”

“But there is the American interviewer! You have not yet encountered

that interesting individual.”

“Oh, yes, I have.”

“Has he been here, then?”

“Yes; not in his war-paint, nor with his six-shooter and bowie-knife,

as he goes about in Raymond’s Texan country, yet an interviewer still.”

“And you found him not disagreeable?” asked the travelled guest.

“I found him well informed and quite a pleasant fellow.”

“Ah, but he was here under your own control, probably smoking a cigar

in your own room. Wait until he boards the steamer off New York. Then

you will see the sort of person he is, with his string of questions

more personal than the fire of an Old Bailey lawyer at a hostile

witness under cross-examination. The Inquisition of old is not in the

race with these gentlemen, except that the law, even in America, does

not allow them to put you to physical torture, though they make up for

that check upon their liberty by the mental pain they can inflict upon

you. Apart from the interviewers proper, I have known reporters to

disguise themselves as waiters, that they may pry into your secrets and

report upon your most trivial actions.”

“You have evidently suffered,” said Irving.

“No, not I; but I have known those who have. Nothing is sacred from

the prying eyes and unscrupulous pens of these men. ‘You smile, old

friend,’ to quote your ‘Louis the Eleventh,’ but I am not exaggerating

nor setting down aught in malice. You will see! The interviewers will

turn you inside out.”

“You don’t say so! Well, that will be a new sensation, at all events,”

answered Irving; and, when our friend had left, he remarked, “I wonder

if Americans, when they visit this country, go home and exaggerate our

peculiarities as much as some of our own countrymen, after a first trip

across the Atlantic, evidently exaggerate theirs.”

“There are many travellers who, in relating their experiences, think it

necessary to accentuate them with exaggerated color; and then we have

to make allowances for each man’s individuality.”

“How much certain of our critical friends make of that same

‘individuality,’ by the way, when they choose to call it ‘mannerism’!

The interviewers, I suppose, will have a good deal to say on that

subject.”

“English papers and American correspondents have given them plenty of

points for personal criticism.”

“That is true. They will be clever if they can find anything new to say

in that direction. Well, I don’t think it is courage, and I know it is

not vanity; yet I feel quite happy about this American tour.”

* * * * *

A week or two later and Irving spoke the sentiments of his heart upon

this subject, at the farewell banquet given to him by artistic,

literary, legal, social, and journalistic London, under the presidency

of Lord Chief Justice Coleridge; and it will be fitting, I trust, to

close these preliminary paragraphs with his characteristic and touching

good-by:—

“My Lord Chief Justice, my lords and gentlemen,—I cannot conceive

a greater honor entering into the life of any man than the honor

you have paid me by assembling here to-night. To look around this

room and scan the faces of my distinguished hosts would stir to its

depths a colder nature than mine. It is not in my power, my lords and

gentlemen, to thank you for the compliment you have to-night paid me.

“‘The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.’

“Never before have I so strongly felt the magic of those words; but

you will remember it is also said, in the same sentence, ‘Give thy

thoughts no tongue.’ (Laughter.) And gladly, had it been possible,

would I have obeyed that wise injunction to-night. (Renewed laughter.)

The actor is profoundly influenced by precedent, and I cannot

forget that many of my predecessors have been nerved by farewell

banquets for the honor which awaited them on the other side of the

Atlantic; but this occasion I regard as much more than a compliment

to myself,—I regard it as a tribute to the art which I am proud to

serve—(Cheers),—and I believe that feeling will be shared by the

profession to which you have assembled to do honor. (Cheers.) The

time has long gone by when there was any need to apologize for the

actor’s calling. (Hear! Hear!) The world can no more exist without the

drama than it can without its sister art,—music. The stage gives the

readiest response to the demand of human nature to be transported out

of itself into the realms of the ideal,—not that all our ideas on

the stage are realized; none but the artist knows how immeasurably he

may fall short of his aim or his conception; but to have an ideal in

art, and to strive through one’s life to embody it, may be a passion

to the actor, as it may be to the poet. (Cheers.) Your lordship has

spoken most eloquently of my career. Possessed of a generous mind

and a highly judicial faculty, your lordship has been to-night, I

fear, more generous than judicial. But, if I have in any way deserved

commendation, I am proud that it is as an actor that I have won it.

(Cheers.) As the director of a theatre my experience has been short,

but as an actor I have been before the London public for seventeen

years; and on one thing I am sure you will all agree,—that no actor

or manager has ever received from that public more generous and

ungrudging encouragement and support. (Cheers.) Concerning our visit

to America I need hardly say that I am looking forward to it with no

common pleasure. It has often been an ambition with English actors to

gain the good-will of the English-speaking race,—a good-will which is

right heartily reciprocated towards our American fellow-workers, when

they gratify us by sojourning here. (Cheers.) Your God-speed would

alone assure me a hearty welcome in any land; but I am not going

amongst strangers,—I am going amongst friends (Cheers),—and when

I, for the first time, touch American ground, I shall receive many

a grip of the hand from men whose friendship I am proud to possess.

(Cheers.) Concerning our expedition the American people will no doubt

exercise an independent judgment,—a prejudice of theirs and a habit

of long-standing,—(Laughter),—as your lordship has reminded us, by

the fact that to-day is the fourth of July,—an anniversary rapidly

becoming an English institution. Your lordship is doubtless aware, as

to-night has so happily proved, that the stage has reckoned amongst

its stanchest supporters many great and distinguished lawyers. There

are many lawyers, I am told, in America,—(Laughter),—and as I am

sure that they all deserve to be judges, I am in hopes that they will

materially help me to gain a favorable verdict from the American

people. (Cheers and laughter.) I have given but poor expression

to my sense of the honor you have conferred upon me, and upon the

comrades associated with me in this our enterprise,—an enterprise

which, I hope, will favorably show the method and discipline of

a company of English actors; on their behalf I thank you, and I

also thank you on behalf of the lady who has so adorned the Lyceum

stage,—(Cheers),—and to whose rare gifts your lordship has paid

so just and gracious a tribute. (Cheers.) The climax of the favor

extended to me by my countrymen has been reached to-night. You have

set upon me a burden of responsibility,—a burden which I gladly and

proudly bear. The memory of to-night will be to me a sacred thing,—a

memory which will, throughout my life, be ever treasured; a memory

which will stimulate me to further endeavor, and encourage me to

loftier aim. (Loud and continued cheers.)