Miss Ellen Terry thinks her American Sisters “Very nice,” but she has not yet seen Daisy Miller.
Then he goes on to narrate his own adventures, and the results, and without much exaggeration, almost as follows:—
“Mr. Henry Irving, the notable English actor, is in Chicago now, and so is the ‘Daily News’ man, who accompanied him part of the way. The manner in which these two—the great representative of the British stage and its latest and finest fruition, and the modest representative of the ‘Daily News’—met was quite peculiar; and it may be amusing to a discerning public to, for once, learn that the interviewer’s path is not always strewn with roses when he sets out upon his way past the thorny hedges that beset his road. Who doesn’t pity him in his various plights, and concede that naught but the reputation of Chicago for having the pluckiest and most irrepressible reporters did not make him wilt long before accomplishing his task, must bear a stone in his bosom, instead of the usual muscular fibre called a human heart.
“It is well known to the newspaper fraternity that Mr. Irving holds the interviewer in dread, and that nearly all the so-called interviews with him published in the American papers have been spurious. Duly appreciating this fact, the ‘Daily News’ man had not only been munificently fitted out with the requisite lucre by the business department, but had furthermore been furnished with a letter of introduction,—one of the combination sort,—addressed to both Mr. Copleston, Manager Abbey’s representative, and to Mr. Palser,[36] couched in terms to make the flintiest heart melt. Thus attired, then, the emissary boarded at Fort Wayne the train which had carried safely thus far Cæsar and his luck from Jersey City. Entry to the cars was effected with difficulty, the rules proscribing any but the theatrical company for whom the train was chartered from riding in it. Perseverance and gall in equal doses prevailed, however, as they usually do, and the drowsy Senegambian, who was doing the Cerberus act, at the entrance of the car, yielded to an amount of eloquence perhaps never before brought to bear upon his pachydermatous anatomy. As soon as the train had started, a still-hunt was begun for the two prospective victims, Miss Terry and Mr. Irving. Alas! they had both obeyed nature’s call, and were at that moment sweetly slumbering, oblivious even of the Chicago interviewer. Everybody else was likewise sleeping, even unto the dusky porters. Passing up and down the train from end to end, nothing but the cheerful and melodious British snore greeted the attentive ear. Here, to the right, it was the wheezing note of a snore combined with a cold; there, it was the thundering roll of a snoro basso profundo; across the aisle the gentler breathing of some youthful British blonde, struck the expectant senses, and again a confused jumble of snores, of all sexes and ages, would fall ‘with a dull thud’ upon the tympanum of the investigator. It forced itself upon the latter’s conviction that it would be a difficult matter to attain the object for which he had been deputed. It was then after three o’clock. The train was due in Chicago at eight, and it looked very unlikely that Mr. Irving would overcome his aversion to interviewing and grant audience to a stranger at such a time. This was a hiatus which had not been thought of, and the ‘Daily News’ man sat down in an abandoned chair (on which were peacefully reclining some articles of feminine attire), and reflected. Reflecting, he caught himself in a nap, and woke out of it with a slight shudder. He gave himself a poke in the rib and muttered, in grave-like accents: ‘Nil desperandum.’
“The next move in the direction of the desired interview was a vigorous rap administered to the saddle-colored individual who in that car discharged the duties of collecting ‘50 cents all ‘round.’ When the kicked one had gathered up his portly limbs he was sent on a search for Mr. Palser first, and, that proving unavailing, on a hunt for Mr. Copleston. The latter, after considerable energy had been expended by the colored brother, awoke and gave vent to his indignation at having been thus rudely snatched from Morpheus’s arms. He did so in rather vigorous style and language, which, under the circumstances, was hardly to be wondered at. He declined to come forth from under his blankets, and not even the cutting repartee of the reporter could rouse him. He said he had been but an hour and a half asleep, he and some friends in another car having played poker till very late, and he, the speaker, having lost quite heavily. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t get up and wake Mr. Irving, and an interview, he concluded, on the train was an impossibility.
“‘Here is a fix,’ was the mental commentary. Poking his hand in here and there into berths, and being startled now by the apparition of a female face, then by a powerful snort of defiance from some male actor, the investigator finally groped his way back into the rear car, one of the palace pattern, placed at Mr. Irving’s disposal by Mr. Blanchard of the Erie road. And there he found, at last, Mr. Irving, who, being duly apprised of the mission of his unwelcome visitor, and having a bit of pasteboard with the latter’s address thrust into his unwilling palm, murmured plaintively, but politely, that he would see him before reaching Chicago. Later on, Mr. Abbey’s services were enlisted in the same cause, and his promise to the same effect obtained. Wearily the time dragged on, till but another twenty-five miles lay between the train and its destination. Just at this opportune moment the great actor’s friend, Mr. Joseph Hatton, stepped up and invited the hungry, wild, and desperate minion of the press to partake of a cup of coffee. Gladly this was accepted, and, being made aware of what was wanted, he, with the sympathizing spirit of a brother journalist, said he would try and have Mr. Irving appear. Mr. Hatton, by the way, is the famous London correspondent of the ‘New York Times,’ and is accompanying Mr. Irving for the purpose of gathering material for a book, in which jointly the impressions of American travel of himself and the eminent actor will be deposited. While he went off to wake Mr. Irving, another trip was taken to Mr. Abbey’s room, in doing which, both coming and returning, the reporter’s modesty underwent the severe ordeal of passing in review a large array of British beauties, all in different stages of evolution—as to dress—and all talking sauce in choice Cockney English at him for his ‘shocking impropriety.’ When the somewhat cowed Daily Newsian returned to his cup of coffee he found not only Mr. Copleston, the surly bear of a few hours ago, transformed into a most amiable gentleman, but also among the other gentlemen, Mr. Irving himself.
“‘After the tedious business of introduction had been gone through with all around; after it had been remarked that the trip had been a trying one to them all, as not being used to these long journeys in their tight little island, where a twelve hours’ ride was considered the utmost,—after saying this, all felt broke up, and, expressing anxiety as to the Siberian climate of Chicago, Mr. Irving took out his cigar-case, invited his vis-à-vis to light one of his choice weeds, and then prepared himself for the torture to be inflicted.
“‘What is your opinion of dramatic art, especially when comparing the English with the American, and both with the French tragedians?’ was the first query.
“‘English dramatic art is improving, I think, and the prospects for it are brightening,’ he said, slowly and reflectively. ‘I’ve seen fine acting in some of your American theatres—very fine acting; very fine.’
“‘What do you think of the custom of mutilating and cutting up and abbreviating the pieces of classical authors when presented on the stage? In “The Merchant of Venice,” for instance, the last act is omitted so as to give Shylock the exit. Do you approve of such methods, Mr. Irving?’