“TURN the gas down a little.”
“Yes, sir,” said the attentive Irish-American waiter at the Brevoort
House.
“And don’t let us be disturbed.”
“Very well, sir.”
“The fire-light glows on the walls as if the so-called volcanic sunset
had taken possession of the place,” said Irving, stretching his legs
upon the hearth; “what a rest it is to sit and talk to a friend and
look into the fire!”
“It is, indeed. Let us have a chat in that spirit, and call the chapter
‘A quiet evening.’”
“You mean a talk for the book?”
“Yes; one gets so few opportunities of this kind that it is worth while
to avail ourselves of the present one. I think you had better tell me
what you have done in New York, and I will chronicle it from your own
lips.”
“Do you mean generally, or in detail? There are some things that fix
themselves in one’s memory not to be forgotten. Of course, the first
night at the Star Theatre—one is not likely to forget that!”
“No, I shall always remember you standing in the door-way of the
burgomaster’s inn. It had seemed as if hours were passing between the
rise of the curtain and your appearance!”
“Ah! I dare say; we were all more or less anxious.”
“But let us get away from the theatre. What do you look back upon
so far, to remember with special pleasure, in the way of social
entertainment and American hospitalities?”
“It is difficult to select, is it not? It is bewildering to try to
select the incidents. The Lotos dinner,—that was glorious, eh! How
well Whitelaw Reid spoke! and Mr. Depew, Dr. Macdonald, General Porter,
Mr. Oakey Hall,—everybody, in fact. A great gift to be able to express
your thoughts well, standing up in the presence of others! Then the
Lambs Club. I felt their reception as a very pleasant thing, because
there were so many actors present. I think I got well out of the
speech-making there by adopting Florence’s written oration. That amused
me greatly, and I think Florence enjoyed it as much as the others.
Well, those are two of the New York events. I am endeavoring to think
of them in their order, categorically. The breakfast which Mr. Joseph
Harper gave me at the University Club,—what a rare lot of men! Mr.
George William Curtis[15] struck me as one who might be very eloquent
as a speaker.”
“He is.”
“So I should have thought, and he talks of the stage with the
unsophistication of one who knows nothing about it mechanically, but
is full of the romantic and poetic spirit of it. Let me see, it was at
Franklin square where we saw that modern Dutch interior.”
“The private room at Harper Brothers?”
“Yes, and where we again met Mr. Curtis, Mr. Alden, the editor of the
magazine, and Mr. Conant of “The Weekly,” I remember. Don’t you think
that when America once takes up the work of a complete representation
of legitimate and established plays she will go ahead at it as fast as
she has done in the production of book-engravings?”
“I do.”
“And they tell me—actors tell me—that they have never had Shakespeare
as completely and as worthily represented as at the Star this week. Mr.
Gilbert says it will work a revolution in dramatic art in this country.”
“The papers are beginning to say so all round.”
“I confess I am as surprised as I am delighted. I thought more had
been done in the way of harmonious representation, grouping, color,
painting, lighting, than is evidently the case. By the way, I heard a
good deal about this on the night of the Century Club reception.[16]
They were very like Garrick men, many of them. An excellent idea
having an exhibition of pictures at a club! I suppose it would
hardly do in London to allow members such a margin in regard to the
friends they introduce as in New York. I wish it could be done, and,
especially, that granting of the entire privileges of the club to the
stranger whom you invite to dinner. In case of transient membership,
the compliment we pay to a stranger at the Garrick does include all the
privileges of the club. The Manhattan is a cosey club. We got our first
canvas-back in New York there. It was a little too early in the season;
but in the way of a terrapin and canvas-back dinner the feast Buck gave
us at Sieghortner’s was a triumph.[17] It scored by its simplicity.
Let me see, I have the _menu_ here. Now to look at it in comparison
with what is called a swell dinner, some people would think its dishes
wanting in variety and number. Somebody, I remember, said at the time,
‘This is a man’s dinner! Let us dissect it!’”
He had fetched the _menu_ from his table, had returned to his seat by
the fire, and was holding the _carte_ before his face, partly to read
it, and partly to ward off the glow of the hot coals.
“Now, _first_, oysters on the half shell, and I noticed they were on
the half shell. That is the proper way to serve an oyster, and they
should be in their own liquor.[18] They were lying on a bed of crushed
ice,—did you notice? The dainty half of a lemon was placed in the
centre of them. Shall you include this conversation in the book?”
This last question he asked suddenly.
“Oh, yes! I think it will be very interesting.”
“Then they will say I am a gourmand.”[19]
“Who?”
“Some of our friends in London.”
He emphasized the word “friends.”
“They do now; you are reported as giving suppers and banquets in London
on a grander scale than ever Lucullus dreamed of?”
“Am I? Well, I like to have my friends around me; but I think they
appreciate a mutton-chop, a glass of fine wine, and a good cigar, as
much as we do, and, after all, Dr. Johnson says, “The man who can’t
take care of his stomach can’t take care of anything else.” If to
be a gourmand, or, rather, let us say _gourmet_,[20] is to enjoy a
well-cooked and elegantly served little dinner or supper, then I plead
guilty to the soft impeachment; so let us go on eating the Sieghortner
banquet over again, just as we shall, I hope, in future years sit
down and re-fight our American victories by an English fireside. To
return to the bill of fare. _Second_, soup. A vegetable soup, that
reminded me a little of the cock-a-lukie which is so well constructed
at the Garrick in London, only that the vegetable basis of it is in an
esculent we have not,—the gumbo, or okra, which is so delicious here.
Sauterne with the oysters, and a remarkably fine sherry with the soup.
_Third_, terrapin. I am told this came from Baltimore ready for the
cook.”
“They are celebrated at Baltimore for the three great American
dishes,—oysters, terrapin, and canvas-back ducks. Terrapin is prepared
there and shipped to all parts of the United States, and even to
Europe. I am told that a Baltimore firm sends in the season supplies
of terrapin and canvas-backs to England for the table of the Prince of
Wales.”
“Indeed,” he answered, “His Royal Highness knows what is good! I wish
he could have tasted the Baltimore terrapin at Sieghortner’s. Buck is
a friend of the Duke of Beaufort, and the duke, they say, is up to all
the luxurious tricks of American cooking.
“Now we are at the terrapin. It was handed round very hot, and, as your
plate was removed, a fresh supply, better still, it seemed to me, was
placed before you. It is polite to ask for terrapin twice; but, that no
one might be embarrassed, it was served twice. Champagne and Burgundy
with the terrapin. I prefer champagne. ‘Next to going to heaven,’ said
a friend near me, ‘is to go down to——, Baltimore, and eat terrapin.’
_Fourth_, canvas-back duck. An entire breast of the bird on each plate.
A chip-potato and a little celery; you should eat nothing else with
a canvas-back duck, though some persons, I observe, take currant or
cranberry jelly with it. As in the case of the terrapin, there were two
courses of duck,—the first, roast; the second, grilled and devilled.
An excellent notion this. A _soufflé_ followed; then cheese; then
coffee. That was the dinner; and it was one of the greatest successes I
remember, in the way of dining; though I do not forget how perfectly we
had terrapin and canvas-back cooked in our own humble little kitchen
at the Lyceum Theatre.”
“In responding to the toast of your health, you were very much moved.”
“I was. Chief Justice Davis supplemented the host’s words so
eloquently, and with so much heart and earnestness, that he touched me
deeply. Then his references to England,—to Lord Coleridge representing
the high estate of the Bench, and to myself as being considered worthy
in every way to represent my art, as he in his way is to represent his
high calling,—and his tender tributes to the old country, and to the
deep, sincere friendship that lies at the root of the relations between
England and America,—this was all so sympathetic. And when I knew that
many of the men around the board who cheered him so warmly had come as
far as a thousand miles to meet me, I could not have attempted to say
more than to try and thank them. There are occasions when silence is
the best, when ‘Gentlemen, I thank you; my heart is too full to say
more,’ is about the most eloquent speech you can make. Mr. John B.
Lyon came all the way from Chicago in response to Buck’s invitation;
Mr. John B. Carson came from Quincy,—a day’s journey further than
Chicago; he had been fifty-two hours on the train; Mr. Watterson,—what
a bright, witty fellow he is!—came almost as far, from Louisville in
the South.”