[43] We may at least admire this writer’s perseverance and intrepidity, who from that time has never relaxed his efforts to win the approbation or secure the attention of the public. One could have wished him better success with his later venture and most ambitious attempt, the management of the Avenue Theatre, where he introduced his own piece illustrative of “modern English Life,” with which his critics—for whom, like the sapper, nothing is sacred—made merry. He is not likely to be daunted by this, and I have little doubt he will “arrive” at last.
[44] The quaint name of this club, “the Kerneuzers,” was suggested by a simple attendant, who actually so described the members; it was his pronunciation of the word “connoisseurs.”
[45] Once, when visiting Stratford-on-Avon with Toole, he saw a rustic sitting on a fence, whom they submitted to an interrogatory. “That’s Shakespeare’s house, isn’t it?” it was asked innocently. “Ees.” “Ever been there?” “Noä.” “How long has he been dead?” “Dunno.” “What did he do?” “Dunno.” “Did he not write?” “Oh yes, he did summat.” “What was it?” “Well, I think he writ Boible.” A pleasantry that both the players once contrived in Scotland, at the expense of an old waiter at a hotel, is of a higher order of merit than such hoaxes usually offer. At this country inn they had noted that the spoons, forks, etc., seemed to be of silver, and with some artfully designed emphasis they questioned the waiter about the property. As soon as he had gone out, they concealed all the plate, and, having rung the bell, jumped out of the window, which was close to the ground, and hid themselves in the shrubbery. The old man re-entered: they heard his cries of rage and astonishment at the robbery, and at the disappearance of the supposed thieves. He then rushed from the room to summon the household. The rest of the story is worth giving in Irving’s words, as reported by Mr. Hatton.
“We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind, relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. In a few minutes we heard evidently the entire household coming pell-mell to the dining-room. Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon us, suddenly paused en masse, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel, weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’
“‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door.”
[46] Quite a number of relics of great actors have, as we have already shown, found their way to Irving’s custody; and there is always something pleasant for him to think of when he recalls the presentation. Thus on his visit to Oxford he had spoken of the last days of Edmund Kean, who had died in sore straits. A few days later he received a purse of faded green silk found in the pocket of the great actor just after his death, and found empty. It had been given by Charles Kean to John Forster, and by him to Robert Browning. Edmund and Charles Kean, Forster, Browning, and Irving form a remarkable pedigree. “How can I more worthily place it,” wrote Browning, “than in your hands, if they will do me the honour to take it, with all respect and regard?”
[47] One of these many “snappers-up of trifles” described the nightgown worn by Lady Macbeth in her sleep-walking scene, which was all of wool knitted into a pretty design. Mrs. Comyns Carr designed Miss Terry’s dresses, which certainly did not lack bold originality. There was the curious peacock blue and malachite green dress which contrasted with the locks of copper-coloured hair, from which the half American artist, Mr. Serjeant, formed a striking but not very pleasing portrait.
[48] It was likely that the majority of these persons were incapacitated by age from forming a judgment on this matter; but it was curious that I should have conversed with two persons at least who were capable of making the comparison. One was Mr. Fladgate of the Garrick Club, a most interesting man, well stored with anecdotes of Kemble, Kean, and others, who once, in the library of the club, gave me a vivid delineation of the good John’s methods in ‘The Stranger.’ The other was Mr. Charles Villiers, who is, at the moment I write, in about his ninetieth year. A most characteristic incident was a letter from the veteran Mrs. Keeley, with much generous criticism of Miss Terry’s performance, thus showing none of the old narrow spirit which can only “praise bygone days.” She frankly added that until visiting the Lyceum she had never witnessed a performance of the play from one end to the other, though she had seen many a great performer in it, and had herself performed in it. This recalls Mrs. Pritchard, one of the great Lady Macbeths, who, as Dr. Johnson said, had never seen the fifth act, as it did not fall within her part.
[49] Charles Reade’s strange, odd appreciation of this gifted, mercurial woman is worth preserving:
“Ellen Terry is an enigma. Her eyes are pale, her nose rather long, her mouth nothing particular, complexion a delicate brick-dust, her hair rather like tow. Yet, somehow, she is beautiful. Her expression kills any pretty face you see beside her. Her figure is lean and bony, her hand masculine in size and form. Yet she is a pattern of fawn-like grace. Whether in movement or repose, grace pervades the hussy. In character impulsive, intelligent, weak, hysterical—in short, all that is abominable and charming in woman. Ellen Terry is a very charming actress. I see through and through her. Yet she pleases me all the same. Little Duck!”