Irving did not expect to be called upon for a set speech at the Lambs Club. The President, Mr. Florence, did, and was prepared. He made no secret of his nervousness, nor of his arrangements against failure. The manuscript of his address was lying before him during the dinner. He consulted it occasionally, to the amusement of his neighbors. When the time came he rose, his speech in his hand, his heart in his mouth. The most eminent of actors have felt similar sensations under the influence of an exaggerated sense of the responsibility of making a public speech. This banquet of the Lambs was not reported in the newspapers. As in other instances where I have ventured to annex speeches and incidents for these pages, I have done so with the full consent of all the parties concerned.
“Gentlemen,” said President Florence, “we have met to-night to do honor to a brother actor,—for in that character do we welcome the distinguished guest of the evening,—an artist who has done more to elevate and dignify our calling than any actor that ever trod the stage.”
A ringing cheer greeted these few sentences. The applause evidently disturbed the speaker’s memory. He consulted his MS. and could make nothing of it. Throwing it upon the table, he continued his address. The few unstudied sentences that followed came from the heart, and were sufficiently effective. They commended Irving as an example to all of them,—an example of work, of unostentation, of success worthily won and worn, and expressed the gratification it afforded the Lambs—a club largely composed of actors—to welcome him at their board.
“I’ll never make another speech as long as I live!” exclaimed the president, as he resumed his seat.
“Give me the manuscript,” said Irving. “Do you mind my using it?”
“Not at all, my dear friend; do what you like with it.”
Irving, rising to reply, stood up with the president’s unspoken speech in his hand. Referring to the difficulties actors often experience in regard to public speaking, he said, “At Edinburgh, recently, looking over the old ‘Courant,’ I came across an incident apropos of the present occasion. It was concerning a dinner given to John Kemble in that city. ‘The chair was taken at six o’clock by Francis Jeffrey, Esq., who was most ably assisted by the croupiers, John Wilson and Walter Scott,’—the creator in fiction of poor, old, wretched King Louis XI.—Walter Scott, the mighty master of romance, who also proposed this night ‘The Memory of Burns.’ (Applause.) In reply to the toast of his health, John Kemble said, ‘I am not successful in extemporaneous delivery; actors are so much more in the habit of giving utterance to the thoughts of others than in embodying their own, that we are much in the same position with those animals who, subsisting by the aid of others are completely lost when abandoned to their own resources.’ Gentlemen, brother actors, I feel that I am in a similar condition to-night. (Cries of ‘No! no!’ and laughter.) But my friend, the president, has given me leave to avail myself of the eloquent speech which he had written, but has not read to you.” (Laughter.)
Irving looked down at the president for his final consent.
“Certainly, go ahead,” was the response.