Mr. Osmond Tearle said: “I had seen Mr. Irving in everything except ‘Louis XI.’ before to-day’s matinée, and I have always admired him greatly as an actor. Now I have seen him as Louis XI. I admire him still more. It is the greatest thing I have ever seen him do. His business, as he warmed himself at the fire, was remarkable. When he came on in the last act, he looked like one of the fine old royal figures that stand outside Yorkminster in England; and when he took his crown off he looked like the picture of Father Time. His facial expression is astonishing, and in the wonderful death-scene his eyes seem to have gone altogether. The whole performance was fine; there was not a bad part in it.”
“I have only one word to say on this subject,” said Mr. John Gilbert, “and that is, that it is wonderful; perhaps I, however, may supplement that by saying that it is ‘extraordinary.’ I have seen Mr. Irving play ‘Louis XI.’ before to-day, and, in fact, I have attended nearly all his performances at the Star Theatre; but this afternoon he exceeded anything that he has done here before. He was clearly moved, in no slight degree, by the almost incessant applause of his professional brethren. I don’t know that I remember having seen a greater performance by any actor, not even excepting Macready’s Werner. I am not astonished at Mr. Irving’s great popularity in England. I am sure he deserves it.”
“I had never seen Mr. Irving before this afternoon,” said Mr. James Lewis, “and I was certainly not disappointed, although I had formed the highest expectations of him as an actor. There was a young actor, about nineteen years old, that sat by me, and he got on his seat and yelled ‘Bravo!’ Now, I didn’t do that; but I was just as much pleased and excited as the youngster. I think it was the greatest performance I ever saw. You have, perhaps, heard the popular gag, ‘That man tires me.’ Well, that man, Mr. Irving, tired me; but it was because he so wrought upon my feelings that when the play was over I felt so exhausted I could hardly leave my seat. The stage setting and management were good, but I have seen as good in this city before.”
Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, of Daly’s theatre, thought that it was the finest performance within her experience. “In the confession scene,” she said, “I thought him especially remarkable. I had seen him in ‘The Lyons Mail’ in London, and, now that I have seen his ‘Louis XI.,’ I want to see him in all his characters. The great applause that was given him by the vast gathering of his profession was, I assure you, not complimentary applause, but it was given in pure admiration of his great achievements.”
“Mr. Irving’s Louis,” said Mr. Dan Frohman, “is a vivid and powerful transcript from history. Once or twice, at the end of an act, he lapsed into his natural voice; but this may be excused from the great draught that such a character must make upon his strength. As a picture of the subtle, crafty, and avaricious old monarch, his representation was absolutely perfect. I think Mr. living’s ‘Louis XI.,’ in a word, is a sort of dramatic liberal education. Every actor can learn something from him. I wish our actors could keep the integrity of their characters as perfectly as Mr. Irving does.”
“Mr. Irving is the greatest actor I have ever seen,” said Mr. Tony Pastor. “I have been to see him several times, and this is my opinion. It aint buncombe. It comes from the heart. I’ve seen all the greatest actors, and have been a great deal to the theatres since I have been in this business; but I have never seen any one as good as Mr. Irving. This is a compliment I am paying to a man I am not personally acquainted with, and perhaps we shall never meet. I don’t praise him so because I had an invitation this afternoon; I would have admired and applauded his performance just as much if I had paid a twenty-dollar bill for it.”
“Mr. Irving’s Louis,” Mr. Colville said, “is superior beyond criticism. It is the most perfect performance I have ever witnessed. I was acting manager of the old Broadway Theatre when Charles Kean played there, and, of course, saw him in the part.”
III.
“If one had arranged events in America to one’s own liking one could not have had them go along more pleasantly,” said Irving, one Sunday afternoon, when he was giving me an account of his visit to Mr. Henry Ward Beecher and Mrs. Beecher, at Brooklyn; “indeed, one would have had to lay in a stock of vanity to even dream of such a reception as we have had. It needs a little hostility here and there in the press at home, and on this side, to give a wholesome flavor to the sweets. It is a great reward, all this, for one’s labor. I was struck the other day with some passages of Emerson, in his essay on Fate, where he says, ‘Concentration is the secret of strength in politics, in war, in trade; in short, in all management of human affairs.’ One of the high anecdotes of the world is the reply of Newton to the inquiry, how he had ‘been able to achieve his discoveries’: ‘By always intending my mind.’ Diligence passe sens, Henry VIII. was wont to say, or, Great is drill. John Kemble said that the worst provincial company of actors would go through a play better than the best amateur company. No genius can recite a ballad at first reading so well as mediocrity can at the fifteenth or twentieth reading. A humorous friend of mine thinks the reason Nature is so perfect in her art, and gets up such inconceivably fine sunsets, is, that ‘she has learned at last by dint of doing the same thing so very often.’ A wonderful writer, Emerson! He gives the right cue to all stage-managers,—rehearsal! rehearsal! Mr. Beecher has evidently been a hard-worker all his life, a persistent man; and nothing is done without it. First lay down your lines; settle what you mean to do, what you find you can do, and do it; the greater the opposition the more courageous and persevering you must be; and if you are right, and strength and life hold out, you must win. But I want to tell you about the visit to Brooklyn. Miss Terry and I were invited to visit Mr. Henry Ward Beecher. We went on Sunday to his church. He preached a good, stirring sermon, full of strong common-sense. It was what might, in some respects, be called an old-fashioned sermon, though it was also exceedingly liberal. The spirit of its teaching was the doctrine of brotherly love. The preacher told his congregation that a man was not simply a follower of Christ because he went to church on Sundays. A man could, he said, be a follower of the Saviour without going to church at all. He could also be a follower of Christ, if he wished, and belong to any church he liked,—Baptist, Wesleyan, Lutheran. A Pagan could be a follower of Christ if he lived up to His doctrine of charity. To do good is the chief end and aim of a good life. It was an extemporaneous sermon so far as the absence of manuscript or notes went, and was delivered with masterful point and vigor, and with some touches of pure comedy; Mr. Beecher is a great comedian. After the service Mr. Beecher came to us, and offered his arm to Miss Terry. She took one arm, his wife the other. I followed with his son, and several other relations. A few members of the congregation joined the little procession. Following Mr. Beecher with the ladies, we walked down the aisle and into the street, to his house. There was something very simple and dignified about the whole business, something that to me smacked of the primitive churches, without their austerity. Mrs. Beecher is seventy-one years of age,—a perfect gentlewoman, Quaker-like in her dress and manners, gentle of speech, but with a certain suggestion of firmness of purpose. Beecher struck me as a strong, robust, genial, human man, a broad, big fellow. We had dinner,—the early dinner that was in vogue when I was a boy. It was, I should say, a regular solid New England meal,—rich soup, plenty of fish, a joint of beef; and some generous port was on the table. The host was most pleasant and simple; the hostess, most unsophisticated and kindly. She took greatly to Miss Terry, who also took greatly to her.”