The Vividness of First Impressions—New York Hotels—On the Elevated Road with “Charlie”—Trotting Horses—Audiences on both Sides of the Atlantic—“A Man knows best what he can do”—“Americanisms,” so called—A Satirical Sketch, entitled “Bitten by a Dog “—Louis and the Duke of Stratford-on-Avon—Macready and the Forrest Riots.

I.

“A journalist from Chicago is anxious to have your opinion of New York, and some suggestions about your feelings in regard to your first appearance in America,” I said; “and if you will talk to him I have undertaken to collaborate with him in writing the interview, so that I may revise and adopt it for our book of impressions.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, he has come over a thousand miles for the purpose, and his chief is an old friend of mine, the proprietor of ‘The Daily News.’”

“I am quite willing,” he said, “if you think my impressions are of sufficient importance to record, after only a week of New York.”

“First impressions of a new country are always the most vivid. I believe in first impressions, at all events, in your case. It is another matter when one comes to treat them as a basis for philosophical argument. Your friend, Mr. Matthew Arnold, was not backward in discussing the American people, their cities, their institutions, their manners and customs, before he had crossed the Atlantic at all.”

“Well, let us talk to Chicago then, if you wish it.”

“So far, are you satisfied with your reception in this country?”

“More than satisfied; I am delighted, I might say amazed. It is not only the press and the public who have shown me so much attention, but I have received many courtesies privately,—some from American friends whom I have met in London, some from gentlemen whom I have never seen.”

“What is your general impression of New York, its theatres, hotels, streets, and its social life?”

“I think Wallack’s, or the Star, as it is called, one of the most admirable theatres I have ever seen, so far as the auditorium is concerned, and, in some respects, as to the stage. The appointments behind the foot-lights are rather primitive; but, as a whole, it is a fine house.”

“Is it as good as your own in London?”

“Better, in many respects. As for the hotels, they are on a far larger scale, and seem more complete in their arrangements than ours. The Brevoort is, I am told, more like an English house than any other in the city. The genial proprietor evidently desires to make his guests think so. Portraits of Queen Victoria, the late Prince Consort, and pictorial reminiscences of the old country, meet you at every turn. As for social life in New York, what I have seen of it is very much like social life in London—a little different in its forms and ceremonies, or, I might say, in the absence of ceremony—with this exception, that there does not appear to be what you would call an idle class here,—a class of gentlemen who have little else to do but to be amused and have what you call ‘a good time.’ Everybody seems to be engaged in business of some kind or another.”

“Is this your first visit to America?”

“Yes; though I seem to have known it for a long time. American friends in London have for years been telling me interesting things about your country. I had heard of the elevated road, Brooklyn bridge, and the splendid harbor of New York. But they are all quite different to what I had imagined them. The elevated railway is a marvellous piece of work. I rode down-town upon the Sixth-avenue line yesterday. They compelled me to carry my dog Charlie; and I notice, by the way, a remarkable absence of dogs in the streets. You see them everywhere, you know, in London. Charlie, an old friend of mine, attracted great attention on the cars.”

“More than you did?”

“Oh, yes, much more. He’s a well-bred little fellow, and one gentleman, who took a great interest in him, tried to open negotiations to buy him from me. Poor Charlie!—he is getting old and blind, though he looks sprightly enough. He has travelled with me in Europe and Africa, and now in America; some day we hope to see Asia together.”

“Does he go with you to the theatre?”

“Always; and he knows the pieces I play. I suppose he knows them by the color of the clothes I wear. During some plays he sniffs about all night—during the long ones he settles quietly down. When Hamlet is played he is particularly sedate. He hates the ‘Lyons Mail,’ because there is shooting in it. When the murder scene comes he hides away in the furthermost corner he can find.”

“You are fond of animals?”

“Yes, very; and the most characteristic thing I believe I have yet seen in America is your trotting-horse. I have been twice upon the track beyond the park; it is a wonderful sight.”

“Have you no trotting-horses in England?”

“Nothing like yours, and no light vehicles such as yours. I could only think of the old chariot-races as I watched the teams of magnificent trotters that rushed by me like the wind. I hear you have a fine race-course at Chicago. Our friend Hatton told me long ago about seeing the famous Maud S. make her great time there.”

“Oh, yes. I remember how astonished he was. Maud S. and our fire-engine service captured his fancy. He described the racing in ‘To-day in America.’ You are coming to Chicago?”

“Yes. I am informed that I shall strike quite a different civilization in your city to that of New York; that public life with you is even more ardent than it is in the Empire city, and that the spirit of your commerce is more energetic. I can hardly understand that; but I long to see your wonderful streets and your city boundaries that daily push their way into the prairie. John McCullough, I remember, once gave me a startling description of Chicago.”

“I see that Mr. Sala, in the ‘Illustrated London News,’ warns you to expect our press to attack you. Is Mr. Sala a friend of yours?”

“Yes; and a dear friend and a very remarkable man. But we are wandering a little from the subject you came to talk about.”

“Not much. May I ask if you have any nervousness as to your first appearance?”

“Yes, the natural nervousness that is part of an actor’s first appearances everywhere. I cannot think that the taste for the drama is any different in New York and Chicago from Dublin, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool, Birmingham, or London, in my own country.”

“Very much is expected of you. It would be hardly possible for you to realize the exaggerated ideas of some people. If you were a god you could not satisfy their expectations.”

“Nor, if I were a demon, could I achieve the attitudes and poses of my caricaturists. Between the two there is hope.”

“You feel that it is a great ordeal any way?”

“Yes.”

“Some of your methods are new, more particularly as to Shakespearian productions?”

“I believe so. In my early days I had little opportunity to see other actors play Shakespeare, except on the stage where I acted with them, and then I was so occupied with my own work that I had little time to observe theirs. I had, consequently, to think for myself. It does not follow, of course, that I have always done the right thing, but my principle has been to go straight to the author. I have not taken up the methods of other actors, nor modelled my work on this or that tradition. A man knows best what he can do; and it seems to me just as absurd for one actor to imitate another, to recite this speech, or impersonate that action, as he has seen some other actor recite or impersonate, as it would be for a writer to print a historical incident just as some other had done, or for a modern novelist to write his stories on the lines of Fielding, Richardson, or Thackeray, without giving play to his own talents, or reins to his own imagination and conception of character.”

“I will not weary you by going over the old ground concerning your alleged mannerisms; but I see that a New York paper has already taken you to task for jesting about the Pilgrim fathers. Did you notice that?”

“Oh, yes; you mean as to the Pilgrim mothers. I had no intention to jest about Plymouth rock. I only repeated a story told me by an American friend, the point of which was that the austerity of the Pilgrim fathers must have made them trying persons for the Pilgrim mothers. A very harmless bit of fun. One of my interviewers makes me speak of ‘Americanisms’ too. The word should have been ‘mannerisms.’ In regard to the so-called Americanisms of American actors, all I have heard in that way have fallen from the lips of Raymond and Florence, just as you would hear cockneyisms from our humorous comedians, Toole and Brough. The accent of your great actors does not strike me as different to our own; though a reporter on board the ‘Britannic,’ last Sunday, told me he had understood I had a very strange accent, and was surprised to find that I spoke English as well as he did.”

II.

The night before Irving’s first appearance at the Star Theatre was spent at a quiet little supper, given to a few private friends, at the Manhattan Club. The conversation turned chiefly upon English actors.

“I was once at a dinner of a theatrical fund, over which a famous old actor presided,” said Irving. “His proposal of the first toast of the evening was a pathetic incident. His mind was wandering back to his early days. After alluding to the loyalty of all classes of Englishmen, and of actors in particular, he raised his glass and said, ‘Gentlemen, I beg to give you the health of His Majesty King George the Third!’”

Somebody suggested that the ocean trip had done Irving a great deal of good.

“It was the most perfect rest I ever remember to have had,” he said; “nothing to do, nothing to think of, no letters to answer—none to receive, for that matter; nothing to do but to rest. I took plenty of exercise, also, on deck. I must have walked many miles a day.”

Later in the evening, over a last cigar, he said to me, “But I did a little writing on board the ‘Britannic.’ I think it will amuse you. Watson asked me to send him something for the Christmas number of his newspaper,—an anecdote, or sketch of some kind. Shortly before I left Liverpool there appeared in the journals a paragraph to the effect that I had been bitten by a dog at some aristocratic house. It occurred to me on the ‘Britannic’ that this would make a good little story. You were telling me last night about my estate and palace on the Thames; and yet, I don’t suppose any man leads a quieter life than I do. I call my story ‘Bitten by a Dog.’”

He read as follows, and, like all good humorists, was tickled with his own fun, laughing now and then with real enjoyment at the suggestiveness of his satirical references to newspaper gossips, who, not knowing him personally, or being in any way acquainted with his habits, undertake to describe his inner life:—

“We regret to hear that Mr. Henry Irving, while on a visit near——, was severely bitten by a favorite dog, belonging to his host. He bled profusely, but we sincerely hope that he will not seriously suffer from this occurrence.—Newspaper Paragraph.

“The circumstance thus recorded was somewhat novel to me, and having received several telegrams and letters of condolence upon my sad misfortune, I thought I would attempt, during my leisure upon the good ship ‘Britannic,’ to tell this little story of ‘The Bite of a Dog,’ with a veracity equalling that of the inventor of the above-quoted paragraph.

“Seated in one of the suite of rooms which I invariably occupy in the hotels of the United Kingdom during my provincial tours,—which have become alike the wonder and amazement of the entire dramatic profession,—I was gazing into one of the many mirrors before which it is my regular habit to study grace of pose and poetry of expression. I was surrounded by the secretaries without whom I never travel; some telegraphing to the four corners of the globe the astounding success and enormous profit which accompany all my undertakings; others translating some of those essays on dramatic art which have done so much to regenerate the British drama; others copying in manifold certain not uncomplimentary criticisms of my own composition upon the most subtle and sublime of my impersonations; for, with Garrick, I agree that the actor should ever embrace the opportunity of becoming the critic of his own performances.

“In the midst of this multitudinous work a messenger was announced from the Duke of Stratford-upon-Avon. With a thrill of pleasure I sprang to my feet, and, greeting the messenger with a fascinating smile, begged him to be seated. Then throwing myself with a careless ease upon the velvet-pile sofa which adorned my room (a present from one of my admirers, and which I always carry with me, as I do my many mirrors), I crossed my graceful right over my still more graceful left leg, broke the duke’s seal, and perused his letter.

“It was an invitation to sojourn from Saturday to Monday at the duke’s feudal home, some fifteen miles from the town I was then appearing in. Throughout my life it has been my practice to solicit the favor and patronage of the great; for it is my firm belief that, to elevate one’s art, one should mix as much as possible with the nobility and gentry.

“‘To grovel to the great is no disgrace,
For nothing humble can be out of place.’

“This social opportunity was not to be lost; hesitation there was none; the invitation was accepted.

“On the night of my visit to His Grace, the theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling with an audience attracted by that cold curiosity which characterizes the public with regard to my performances. The play was ‘Louis XI.,’ and the difficult feat which I had to accomplish was to catch a train after the performance, in order to present myself at the mansion of my noble host in time to participate in the ducal supper.

“Throughout the play I labored with all heart and earnestness to cut short the performance by every means in my power. I was determined to sleep under the roof of the Stratford-upon-Avons that night, come what come would.

“The curtain fell only five minutes before the time of the train starting; so, throwing on my overcoat of sable furs (a handsome adjunct to my American expedition), and, still attired as King Louis,—for I had no time to change my costume,—I rushed into the brougham, ready at the stage-door, and, followed by my valet, drove frantically to the station.

“I was thrust immediately through the open door of the nearest compartment—the door was locked—the whistle shrieked—away sped the train—and, panting and breathless, I was left to my meditations.

“‘Ah, horror! most dreadful thought; too dreadful to relate! I have left the theatre without my teeth,—my beautiful teeth!’

“In order to heighten the realism of the impersonation when I first acted Louis, I had several teeth extracted by one of our most eminent dentists, who has offered, as an advertisement, to take out any others in the like liberal manner.[6] In my insane hurry to catch the train I had left my teeth in a glass on my dressing-room table.

“But regrets are useless; the train has stopped, and I enter the duke’s chariot, in waiting at the station, and through the broad woodlands soon reach the duke’s home.

“I alight from the ancestral coach and enter the ancestral hall, in which a cheerful fire is blazing upon the ancestral hearth.

“Suddenly I find myself in the presence of my host, surrounded by many scions of the nobility of ‘England, Home, and Beauty.’ The oddness of my position (dressed as I was, and minus my teeth), and the natural inferiority which I always feel when in the presence of the real aristocrat, robbed me for the moment of my self-possession, and I unconsciously permitted two of the gentlemen in powder to divest me of my overcoat, and there I stood revealed as that wicked monarch Louis XI.

“Now, this character I have long had an idea of abandoning, for in art the eye must be pleased; and though it is commendable to follow nature and truth, yet, if this can only be accomplished at the cost of one’s personal appearance, nature and truth should certainly give way. But to resume.

“Surprise at my aspect was in every face. There was a painful pause, and then a burst of laughter.

“‘What is it?’ whispered one.

“‘Who is it?’ whispered another.

“‘Irving,’ said a third.

“‘Who’s Irving?’ asked a fourth.

“‘What! don’t you know?—the actor—Irving, the actor—I’ve seen him at the Gaiety!’

“I was profoundly relieved by the duke coming to my rescue and graciously suggesting that I might, before supper, wish to see my room. I thanked His Grace with the dignity with which nature has endowed me, and strode like Marshal Stalk across the marble vestibule, when a fierce sanguinary Blenheim spaniel flew from the lap of a dowager duchess, and, with a terrific howl, buried its fangs in the calf of my beautiful left leg.

“Consternation and pallor were in every countenance; the dowager ran to seize her pet; but, to the dismay of all, the dog’s hold would not relax. They pulled and pulled again, and ‘Fido’ howled at every pull. His teeth, unlike mine, would not be extracted.

“There was a pause of painful silence. Mingled fear and compassion sat on every brow. The dowager was on the point of swooning in the arms of the duke, when the dignity and distinction which sometimes support me in emergencies came to my aid. Turning to the gentle assembly, with a seraphic smile upon my noble features, I said, as well as my articulation would permit me:—

“‘Be not alarmed, fair ladies; be not alarmed! The dog has not torn my leg, he has only torn my paddings!’”

III.

“Good-night,” I said, “and good luck! When next we say good-night New York will have pronounced its verdict.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” he answered. “It will be all right. But it seems strange, after all our talks of America, that to-morrow night I am to act here in New York. How everything comes to an end! Next year at this time, all being well, we shall be looking back upon the whole tour, recalling incidents of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Baltimore, Washington; and I dare say it will appear very much like a dream. It was not far from this hotel where Macready found refuge from the mob, in a friend’s house. During this week several persons who were present have mentioned the riots to me, and they all blame Forrest. I told them Forrest had some reason to believe that Macready had set Forster against him, which, no doubt, helped to embitter Forrest’s mind. They say, however, that Forrest’s hatred of English actors amounted to something like a mania. He must have been a remarkable and great actor in many parts.”[7]

Irving little thought that in the reminiscences of a past, which had yet to come, would be an incident that should inseparably link his own name with the Forrest-Macready riots.