Perhaps I may here quote a portion of an American interviewer’s account of a talk with Henry Irving, sent to Joe by J. L. Toole during one of his old friend’s long tours in the United States.
“The Wittiest Man in England.”
“Whom do you consider the wittiest man in England to-day?”
“Well, in my opinion, the greatest of our wits is a man of whom very little is known out here. He is Comyns Carr, who wrote King Arthur for me.”
“He is a theatrical manager in London, is he not?”
“Yes, at the present he is, but he is a distinguished man in literature as well. A polished essayist and the most sparkling man I have ever met. As an extemporaneous speaker he is delightful.”
“Is he an Irishman?”
“Perhaps he is, originally. Now you speak of it. Do you know if Carr is an Irish name? Comyns is at any rate and then most of our celebrated wits have been Irishmen—our Sheridans and our Goldsmiths?”
With this pleasing tribute to my husband I may fitly close these theatrical reminiscences, though I like to recall that Joe and Henry Irving had appreciations of one another on a graver side to which some pages in Eminent Victorians testify, and many are the pleasant holiday hours we spent as his guests both abroad and at home. He used to visit the old-world village of Winchelsea by Rye, where we had a cottage close to the ancient gateway of the town—afterwards sold to Ellen Terry.