IRVING did not expect to be called upon for a set speech at the Lambs
Club. The President, Mr. Florence, did, and was prepared. He made no
secret of his nervousness, nor of his arrangements against failure. The
manuscript of his address was lying before him during the dinner. He
consulted it occasionally, to the amusement of his neighbors. When the
time came he rose, his speech in his hand, his heart in his mouth. The
most eminent of actors have felt similar sensations under the influence
of an exaggerated sense of the responsibility of making a public
speech. This banquet of the Lambs was not reported in the newspapers.
As in other instances where I have ventured to annex speeches and
incidents for these pages, I have done so with the full consent of all
the parties concerned.
“Gentlemen,” said President Florence, “we have met to-night to do
honor to a brother actor,—for in that character do we welcome the
distinguished guest of the evening,—an artist who has done more to
elevate and dignify our calling than any actor that ever trod the
stage.”
A ringing cheer greeted these few sentences. The applause evidently
disturbed the speaker’s memory. He consulted his MS. and could make
nothing of it. Throwing it upon the table, he continued his address.
The few unstudied sentences that followed came from the heart, and were
sufficiently effective. They commended Irving as an example to all of
them,—an example of work, of unostentation, of success worthily won
and worn, and expressed the gratification it afforded the Lambs—a club
largely composed of actors—to welcome him at their board.
“I’ll never make another speech as long as I live!” exclaimed the
president, as he resumed his seat.
“Give me the manuscript,” said Irving. “Do you mind my using it?”
“Not at all, my dear friend; do what you like with it.”
Irving, rising to reply, stood up with the president’s unspoken speech
in his hand. Referring to the difficulties actors often experience in
regard to public speaking, he said, “At Edinburgh, recently, looking
over the old ‘Courant,’ I came across an incident _apropos_ of the
present occasion. It was concerning a dinner given to John Kemble in
that city. ‘The chair was taken at six o’clock by Francis Jeffrey,
Esq., who was most ably assisted by the croupiers, John Wilson and
Walter Scott,’—the creator in fiction of poor, old, wretched King
Louis XI.—Walter Scott, the mighty master of romance, who also
proposed this night ‘The Memory of Burns.’ (Applause.) In reply to
the toast of his health, John Kemble said, ‘I am not successful in
extemporaneous delivery; actors are so much more in the habit of giving
utterance to the thoughts of others than in embodying their own, that
we are much in the same position with those animals who, subsisting
by the aid of others are completely lost when abandoned to their own
resources.’ Gentlemen, brother actors, I feel that I am in a similar
condition to-night. (Cries of ‘No! no!’ and laughter.) But my friend,
the president, has given me leave to avail myself of the eloquent
speech which he had written, but has not read to you.” (Laughter.)
Irving looked down at the president for his final consent.
“Certainly, go ahead,” was the response.
“The president,” said Irving, reading the MS. amidst shouts of
laughter and applause, “was anxious to tell you that ‘the efforts of
the guest of the evening have always been to make his dramatic work
in every way worthy the respect and admiration of those who honor our
art; and at the same time he has been none the less indefatigable in
promoting the social and intellectual standing of the profession; this
has been to him a labor of love.’”
Irving read these lines with mock-oratorical show; but when the
laughter of his hearers changed to loud applause, he laid aside the
written speech of his friend, and in a few simple words expressed
himself proud of the honor the club had done him, and grateful for the
cordiality of its welcome.
“There is one point, however, in that speech which I would like you to
hear,” said the president, rising again, “and it is this: ‘We are not
here to pass an opinion on Mr. Irving’s qualities as an actor,—the
critics have done that already; and, if you had at first any doubts as
to the high position he should occupy in our profession, the American
critics and your own judgment have removed them. Possibly it was just
as well that David Garrick did not live in the White Star epoch, for,
had he ever crossed the Atlantic ocean, his bones might not now be
reposing so peacefully under the ancient towers of Westminster Abbey.’”
During the evening Mr. Henry Edwards,[21] of Wallack’s, recited with
stirring effect the following:—