NO man was ever more written of or talked about in America than Henry
Irving; probably no man was ever more misrepresented as to his art
and his life. A monster, according to his enemies; an angel, if you
took the verdict of his friends; he was a mystery to untravelled
American journalists, and an enigma to the great play-going public of
the American cities. They were told that people either loved or hated
him at first sight. American tourists even carried home contradictory
reports of him, though the majority were enthusiastic in praise of
him as an actor and as a man. The American newspaper correspondent
is naturally a trifle more sensational in the style of his work than
his English colleague, because his editor favors graphic writing,
entertaining chronicles, picturesque descriptions. Then the sub-editor
or compiler of news from the foreign exchanges looks out for “English
personals,” gossip about the Queen, notes on the Prince of Wales,
out-of-the-way criticisms of actors and public persons of all classes;
and so every _outre_ thing that has been published about Irving in
England has found its way into the ubiquitous press of America. Added
to this publicity, private correspondence has also dealt largely
with him, his work, his manners, his habits; for every American who
travels writes letters home to his family and often to his local paper,
and many English people who have visited America keep up a pleasant
epistolary communication with their good friends in the New World.