“‘Like Napoleon, I retreated to Fontainebleau,—I fell back upon the wines. One of the guests won my heart by loudly eulogizing the cheese and the crackers. They were not home-made. They had not been cooked in the theatre!
“‘Here comes Stoker,’ continued Mr. Irving, relapsing into his curious solemnity of manner; ‘let us ask him about it.
“‘I say, Stoker, do you remember the home dinner you gave us at the Lyceum last Christmas?’
“Mr. Stoker stopped on his way across the stage, and stood like a statue of amazement, of indignation, of outraged virtue. ‘The dinner I gave you?’ he at last exclaimed. Then his loyalty to his chief triumphed, and he added, ‘Well, you may call it my dinner, if you like; but I have the original copy of the bill of fare in your own handwriting.’
“‘Ah!’ resumed Mr. Irving, quite placidly, as his acting manager dashed away, ‘I thought Stoker would remember that dinner!’
“‘This Christmas you will dine upon roast canvas-backs, instead of roast beef, and stewed terrapin, instead of smoked soup,’ I observed.
“‘Yes,’ replied the English actor; ‘I am told that Baltimore is the best place for those delicacies. But they will not seem strange to me; I have eaten canvas-backs at Christmas before.’
“‘In England?’
“‘Certainly. My first American manager—Papa Bateman you used to call him—had many good friends in this country, who kept him liberally supplied with almost all your American luxuries. Under his tuition I learned to like the oysters, the terrapin, and canvas-backs, upon which my generous hosts are feasting me now, long before I ever thought of coming to America.
“‘But perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at which I have ever been present,’ continued Mr. Irving, after reflecting for a few moments, ‘was the one at which we dined upon under-clothing.’