TAKING a quiet stroll along Broad street, and occasionally up and down
the thoroughfares right and left, on the first Sunday afternoon of our
arrival in Philadelphia, we paused once or twice to note the people
coming out of church and chapel.
“You know that part of Manchester called Hulme,” said Irving. “Is not
this quarter like that? Could you not fancy we were in almost any
suburban part of Manchester? And the people, do you see anything in
their appearance to denote that they are any other than English?”
“No; they might be a Birmingham, or a Manchester, or a Liverpool crowd.”
“Better dressed, perhaps, so far as the women go. This absence of
strong contrasts between American and English is often noticeable.
Nothing in that way struck me more forcibly than the Lotos-Club dinner
at New York. They might have been a gathering of London clubmen, only
that they all made such singularly humorous speeches. The English
after-dinner oratory is more solemn. And the audience here last
night,—I could not see their faces, of course; but I felt their
influence, and their response to various points was very English. I
am told that it is thoroughly American to hurry away the moment the
curtain falls on the last act.”
“It certainly is the general practice of American audiences. An English
friend of ours, and a popular comedian here, was only telling me
yesterday how the habit afflicts him and his company. ‘At first,’ he
said, ‘it was terrible. We thought we had utterly failed, and we shall
never get used to it.’ He asked me how it affected you. I would not
hurt his feelings, of course, by telling him that your audiences, so
far, had waited every night to applaud, and to call you and Miss Terry,
and frequently other members of your company. I said you seemed to drop
into the habits of the country easily.”
“It is very generous, is it not? And I know they are making an
exception with us, because my attention has been called to it so
often. I drove down Chestnut street yesterday. Have you noticed what
a picturesque effect, both in form and color, the signboards give to
Chestnut street? And there is something very clean and homelike about
the private houses,—red brick mostly, with white marble steps and
green blinds. The atmosphere of the place is calmer than New York. I
have been reading a new daily paper here, the ‘Evening Call,’—very
odd, clever kind of paper.”
“Yes,” I said; “it is a type of quite a new departure in daily
journalism. The ‘Morning Journal,’ in New York, and the ‘Evening
News,’ in Chicago, are examples in point. Akin to the first idea
of the ‘Figaro,’ in London, they are a little in the style of the
‘Cuckoo,’ which croaked in the London streets for a short time. They
may be considered as outside the competition of the regular high-class
daily journals. They occupy ground of their own. Their leading idea is
to amuse, rather than to instruct. They employ humorous versifiers,
story-tellers, jesters. They are the cap and bells in print, the
jester, or court-fool, in newspapers; and sometimes are as personal as
that very strange jester in the American play of ‘Francesca da Rimini.’
How this new form of daily journalism represents American civilization,
or what side of it, is a point which Mr. Arnold or Spencer may be left
to discuss. I am glad you have noticed it, because I have collected
a few Philadelphian examples of its style,—bright, easy, clever,
frivolous, perhaps, and sometimes a trifle broad, but full of go.”
We sat down at the hotel to look over my notes, and here are a few
items from them:—
_Theatre-goer._—“I notice that a favorite device with Irving in a
moment of deep feeling is for him to clutch and perhaps tear open the
collar or loose scarf that is around his neck.”
_Scarf Manufacturer._—“Well, I declare! That is the best news that I
have heard for a long time. Three cheers for Irving!”
_Theatre-goer._—“Why, man, are you demented?”
_Scarf Manufacturer._—“Not at all. Can’t you see? The five hundred
thousand amateur actors in this country will all be imitating Irving,
and the result will be the biggest kind of a boom in scarfs.”
In the same column it is announced that “James Malley wants to go on
the stage,” and the editor adds, “We hope he will wait until eggs are
cheaper.” “You cannot convert 15,000 tons into 20,000 tons,” is quoted
as a remark of the late Lord Beaconsfield to accentuate the general
grievance about short weight in coals. “Dizzy’s remark clearly shows
that he knew nothing about the coal business.” Plumbers in America are
subjects of much newspaper sarcasm. “Three weeks ago,” says the “Lock
Haven Express” “the writer sent for a plumber, who never appeared,
but yesterday he sent in his bill.” The “Call” prints this to add,
“He must have been a poor sort of plumber to wait three weeks before
sending in a bill.” Chicago looks down upon some of the Eastern cities,
and there is a rivalry between the journals of Chicago and the cities
that are scorned, which is often amusing. “The only cure for love is
marriage,” says the “Call”; “the only cure for marriage, divorce.
Beware of imitations; none genuine without the word ‘Chicago’ blown on
the bottle.”
An imaginary description of Irving’s visit to the Rev. Ward Beecher,
with an account of the family dinner and conversation, was started by
one of these new daily papers, and it was repeated even by several of
the more serious journals in other cities as a genuine thing. It is
difficult sometimes to know when the news of some of these papers is
true. Ingenious readers will probably ask in what respect they thus
differ from other papers. But our satirical friends must always get in
their little joke. It strikes me as a weakness, in the programme of
some of the new sheets, that you should for a moment be left in doubt
as to when they are in earnest and when in fun; when they are recording
real events, or when they are chaffing history. Here is an extract from
the report of Irving’s visit to Beecher:—
The party rested in the parlor until the dinner was ready. The
conversation was of an every-day nature, and did not enter deeply
either into theatricals or religion.
The party filed into the dining-room, Mr. Beecher behind, turning
his cuffs end for end as he walked. In this room was a palatable
show,—a big, fat goose, entrenched in gravy, and flanked by all kinds
of vegetables, slept the final sleep in the centre of the table.
Everything necessary accompanied the star of the feast.
“Dark meat, Miss Terry?” asked the reverend gentleman as he grasped
the carver.
“If you please, with plenty of stuffing,” returned the little lady.
All were helped from the generous goose, and Mr. Beecher sat down to
enjoy his reward. He is very fond of onion stuffing, and had taken
care that it was not all gone before his turn came.
“This goose,” began Mr. Beecher, the bird’s biographer, “has a
history. She is the seventh goose of a seventh”—
Just what the reverend gentleman was going to attribute to the goose
will not be known, as just then he tasted the stuffing. There was
no onion in it. A stern look came over his face, and he was on the
point of saying something when he caught the warning glance from his
wife’s eyes and kept quiet. Nothing was heard for ten minutes besides
the tuneful play of knives, forks, and dishes. The dinner was topped
off with mince and pumpkin pies, in whose favor the guests could not
say too much. After dinner a quiet, enjoyable talk was indulged in.
Mr. Beecher neglected his Sunday school to entertain the artists. He
highly complimented Irving by telling him that he was a born preacher.
“If I were not pastor of Plymouth Church, I would be Henry Irving,”
said Mr. Beecher.
“You are a born actor,” said Mr. Irving. “As for myself, there is no
one I feel more inclined to envy than the pastor of Plymouth Church.”
Miss Terry was not slighted much in Mr. Beecher’s meed of praise. The
topics of discussion momentarily changed from America to England and
back again, both of the leading gentlemen having well-stored minds
that relieved them from “talking shop.”
At four o’clock the visitors departed, carrying and leaving delightful
impressions.
“Newspapers are not allowed to be noisely hawked in the streets here,
I find,” said Irving; “and ticket speculators on the sidewalks are
also tabooed. A little newsboy offered me a paper yesterday quite
confidentially. By the way, you saw the military band belonging to
“The Evening Call.” It is composed of the _employés_ of the newspaper.
It looked like a band of French guides. It serenaded Miss Terry at
her hotel yesterday, and afterwards serenaded me at mine. I was just
getting up. It quite affected me to hear “God save the Queen” played
as finely almost as if the and of Her Majesty’s Guards were under my
window.[23]