“IT is not like my original idea of it, so far,” said Irving, the next
morning,—“this city of New York. The hotel, the Fifth avenue, the
people,—everything is a little different to one’s anticipations; and
yet it seems to me that I have seen it all before. It is London and
Paris combined. I have been ‘round to call on Miss Terry. She is at
what she calls ‘The Hotel—ahem!’—the Hotel Dam, in Union square. Dam
is the proprietor. It is a handsome house. A fine square. The buildings
are very tall. The cars, running along the streets, their many bells,
the curious wire-drawn look of the wheels of private carriages,—all a
little odd. Fifth avenue is splendid! And what a glorious sky!”
He rattled on, amused and interested, as he stood in the back room of
his suite of three on the ground floor at the Brevoort.
“Several interviewers in there,” he said, pointing to the folding-doors
that shut us out from the other apartment. “One reporter wanted to
attend regularly, and chronicle all I did,—where I went to, and how;
what I ate, and when; he wished to have a record of everybody who
called, what they said, and what I said to them.”
“An enterprising chronicler; probably a ‘liner,’ as we should call him
on the other side,—a liner unattached.”
“He was very civil. I thanked him, and made him understand that I am
modest, and do not like so much attention as he suggests. But these
other gentlemen, let us see them together.”
It was very interesting to hear Irving talk to his visitors, one
after the other, about his art and his work. I had never seen him
in such good conversational form before. So far from resisting his
interrogators, he enjoyed their questions, and, at the same time, often
puzzled them with his answers. Some of his visitors came with minds
free and unprejudiced to receive his impressions; with pens ready to
record them. Others had evidently read up for the interview; they had
turned over the pages of Hazlitt, Lamb, and Shakespeare with a purpose.
Others had clearly studied the ingenious pamphlet of Mr. Archer; these
had odd questions to ask, and were amazed at the quickness of Irving’s
repartee. As a rule they reported the new-comer correctly. The mistakes
they made were trivial, though some of them might have seemed important
in prejudiced eyes. I propose, presently, to give an example of this
journalistic work.
After dinner Mr. Irving went to a quiet little reception at the house
of a friend, and at night he visited the Lambs Club. The members are
principally actors, and Sunday night is their only holiday. Once a
month they dine together. On this night they held their first meeting
of the season. The rooms were crowded. Irving was welcomed with three
cheers. Mr. William Florence, Mr. Raymond, Mr. Henry Edwards, Mr.
Howson, and other well-known actors introduced him to their brother
members, and a committee was at once formed to arrange a date when the
club could honor itself and its guest with a special dinner.
“It is very delightful to be so cordially received,” said Irving, “by
my brother actors. I shall be proud to accept your hospitality on any
evening that is convenient to you. It must be on a Sunday, of course. I
am told New York is strict in its observance of Sunday. Well, I am glad
of it,—it is the actor’s only day of rest.”