Talking of America—Warned against the Interviewer—“Travellers’ Tales”—Good-by to London—International Gossip—A Mythical Palace on the Thames—Reports from “A Little English Friend”—The Grange—A Grafton-Street Interior—Souvenirs and Portraits—An Actor on His Audiences—Hamlet at the Lyceum—Critics and Public Opinion—The Final Verdict—First Nights—Anonymous Letters—Notable Gifts—The Character of Louis XI.—“A Poor Mother who had Lost Her Son”—Scene Calls—Stories of a “Dresser”—Behind the Scenes—“Waking Up”—The Original Beefsteak Club Boom—Host and Guests.
I.
“And I don’t think he believes a word I have said,” was Mr. John T. Raymond’s own commentary upon a series of romances of “the wild West” which he had related to Mr. Henry Irving[1] with an intensity that was worthy of Col. Sellers himself.
The comedian’s reminiscences were graphic narratives of theatrical and frontier life, with six-shooters and bowie-knives in them, and narrow escapes enough to have made the fortunes of what the Americans call a ten-cent novel.
“Oh, yes, I believe it is the duty of the door-keeper at a Western theatre to collect the weapons of the audience before admitting the people to the house; that what we call the cloak-room in London, you might call the armory out West; and that the bowie-knife of a Texan critic never weighs less than fourteen pounds. But I am not going as far as Texas, though one might do worse if one were merely crossing the Atlantic in search of adventures.”
America was at this time a far-off country, about which travellers told Irving strange stories. I recall many a pleasant evening in the Beefsteak Club room, of the Lyceum Theatre, when famous citizens of the United States, actors more particularly, have sat at his round table, and smoked the Havannah of peace and pleasant memories: Booth, Barrett, Boucicault, McCullough, Raymond, Florence, and others of their craft; Generals Horace Porter, Fairchild, Merritt, Mr. Sam. Ward, Mr. Rufus Hatch, Mr. James R. Osgood, Mr. Hurlbert, Mr. Crawford, Col. Buck, Mr. Dan Dougherty, and many others. They all promised him a kindly reception and a great success.
“I question, however,” said an English guest, taking the other side, as Englishmen love to do, if only for the sake of argument, “if America will quite care for the naturalness of your effects, the neutral tones of some of your stage pictures, the peaceful character, if I may so style it, of your representations. They like breadth and color and show; they are accustomed to the marvellous and the gigantic in nature; they expect on the stage some sort of interpretation of these things,—great rivers, lofty mountains, and the startling colors of their fall tints. Your gentle meads of Hampton, the poetic grace of “Charles the First,” the simplicity of your loveliest sets, and the quiet dignity of your Shylock, will, I fear, seem tame to them.”
“Human nature, I fancy,” Irving responded, “is the same all the world over, and I have played to many Americans in this very theatre. You will say, perhaps, that they will accept here in London what they would not care for on the other side of the Atlantic. You would say we are an old country, with fairly settled tastes in art, a calm atmosphere, a cultivated knowledge; and that possibly what we, in our narrower ways, regard as a subtilty of art, they may not see. That may be so, though some of their humor is subtle enough, and the best of it leaves a great deal to the imagination. I know many persons, American and English, have talked to me in your strain; yet I never saw quieter or more delicate acting than in Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle. As I said before, human nature is ever the same: it loves and hates, it quarrels and murders, it honors valor, sympathizes with the unfortunate, and delights in seeing human passions delineated on the stage. Moreover, are not the Americans, after all, our own flesh and blood? I never think of them in the sense of foreigners, as one does of the French and Germans, and the other European nations who do not speak our language; and I have yet to learn that there is any difference between us so marked that the jangle of “The Bells,” shall not stir their imagination as much as the sorrows of Charles shall move their hearts, and the story of Louis heighten their pulses. We shall see. I cannot exactly say that my soul’s in arms and eager for the fray, but I have no doubt about the result. That love of breadth, of largeness, of color, you talk of, should go hand in hand with a catholic taste, devoid of littleness and combined with a liberal criticism that is not always looking for spots on the sun.”