Snow and Sleigh Bells—“Brooks of Sheffield”—In the Boston Suburbs—Smokeless Coal—At the Somerset Club—Miss Ellen Terry and the Papyrus—A Ladies’ Night—Club Literature—Curious Minutes—“Greeting to Ellen Terry”—St. Botolph—Oliver Wendell Holmes and Charles the First—“Good-by and a Merry Christmas.”

I.

“A transformation scene, indeed!” said Irving. “Yesterday, autumn winds, bright streets, a rattle of traffic—to-day, snow and sleigh-bells—yesterday, wheels—to-day, runners, as they call the enormous skating-irons upon which they appear to have placed every vehicle in the city. I have just returned from rehearsal, and find everybody sleighing. The omnibuses are sleighs—the grocer’s cart is a sleigh—the express-wagons are sleighs; it is a city of sleighs! The snow began to fall in earnest yesterday. Last night it must have been a foot deep. It would have ruined the business at a London theatre. Here it made no difference. We had a splendid house.”

“As I walked to my hotel at midnight,” I replied, “snow-ploughs were in the streets clearing the roads and scouring the car-tracks. Boston tackles the snow in earnest. The trees on the Common were a marvel of beauty. They looked like an orchard of the Hesperides, all in blossom, and the electric lamps added to the fairy-like beauty of the scene.”

“A lovely city. Shall we take a sleigh-ride?”

“‘Why, certainly,’ as they say in ‘The Colonel,’ but rarely in America.”

Irving rings for his colored attendant. He has discovered that his surname is Brooks, and takes a curious pleasure in addressing him as Brooks, sometimes as “Brooks, of Sheffield!”

“Order me a sleigh, Brooks!”

“Yes, sah,” says Brooks, grinning.

“Two horses, Brooks!”

“Yes, sah,” says the attendant, preparing to go, not hurriedly, for who ever saw a colored gentleman (they are all colored gentlemen) in a hurry?

“And take my rugs down!”

“Yes, sah,” he says, marching slowly into the next room for the rugs.

“And, Brooks—”

“Yes, sah.”

“Would you like to go to the theatre one night?”

“Berry much, sah—yes, sah.”

“What play would you like to see?”

“Hamlet, sah!”

“Hamlet! Very good. Is there a Mrs. Brooks?”

“‘Deed there is, sah,” answers the darkey, grinning from ear to ear.

“And some little Brookses—of Sheffield?”

“Yes, sah; not ob Sheffield, ob Boston.”

“That’s all right. Mr. Stoker shall give all of you seats. See if he is in the hotel.”

“Yes, sah.”

As he stalks to the door Stoker comes bounding in (Stoker is always on the run), to the discomfiture of Brooks and his load of rugs.

Brooks picks himself up with dignity. Stoker assures his chief that there is not a seat in the house for anybody.

“Then buy some for Brooks,” says Irving.

“Where?” asks Stoker, in amazement.

“Anywhere,” says Irving, adding, with a significant glance at me,—“from the speculators.”

“Oh, very well, if you wish it,” says Stoker.

“And, Brooks”—

“Yes, sah.”

“Anybody else in the hotel like to go?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sah!” says Brooks—“de cook, sah.”

“And what play would the cook like to see?”

“Hamlet, sah.”

“You’ve been paid to say this!” says Irving, quoting from Louis. “Who bade you do it?”

But this was only whispered in a humorous “aside” for me, who know how much he likes Hamlet, and how much he likes other people to like Hamlet.

At the door of the Brunswick we find a sleigh, pair of horses, smart-looking driver, a heap of rugs and furs, under which we ensconce ourselves. The weather is bitterly cold, the sky blue; the windows of the houses in the fine streets of the Back Bay district flash icily; the air is sharp, and the sleigh-bells ring out aggressively as the horses go away.

The snow is too deep for rapid sleighing; there has been no time for it to solidify. It is white and pure as it has fallen, and when we get out into the suburbs it is dazzling to the eyes, almost painful. Crossing the Charles river the scene is singularly picturesque: a cumbersome old barge in the foreground; on the opposite shore a long stretch of red-brick buildings, vanishing at the point where the heights of Brookline climb away, in white and green and grey undulations, to the bright blue sky. As we enter Cambridge there are fir-trees growing out of the snow, their sombre greens all the darker for the white weight that bows their branches down to the drifts that wrap their trunks high up; for here and there the snow has drifted until there are banks of it five and six feet deep.

“Very pretty, these villas; nearly all wood,—do you notice?—very comfortable, I am sure; lined with brick, I am told, some of them. Nearly all have balconies or verandas; and there are trees and gardens everywhere,—must be lovely in summer; good enough now, for that matter. One thing makes them look a trifle lonely,—no smoke coming from the chimneys. They burn anthracite coal,—good for this atmosphere,—excellent and clean; but how a bit of blue smoke curling up among the trees finishes and gives poetry to a landscape,—suggests home and cosey firesides, eh?”

“Yes. New York owes some of its clear atmosphere to its smokeless coal.”

“What a pity we don’t have it in London! Only fancy a smokeless London,—what a lovely city!”

“It may come about one day, either by the adoption of smokeless coal or the interposition of the electrician. Last summer I spent some time in the Swansea Valley, England, not far from Craig-y-nos, the British home of Patti. One day I suddenly noticed that there was no smoke over the villages; none at some local ironworks, except occasional bursts of white steam from the engine-houses; nothing to blemish the lovely sky that just slightly touched the mountain-tops with a grey mist. I was near Ynyscedwyn, the famous smokeless-coal district of South Wales. London need not burn another ounce of bituminous coal; there is enough anthracite in Wales to supply all England for a thousand years.”

“What a blessing it would be if London were to use nothing else!”

Through Cambridge, so intimately associated with Longfellow, past its famous colleges, we skirted Brookline, and returned to our head-quarters in Clarendon street, meeting on the way many stylish sleighs and gay driving-parties.

On another day Irving took luncheon with a little party of undergraduates in Common hall, was received by the President of the college, inspected the gymnasium, saw the theatre, and had long talks with several of the professors.

Perhaps from a literary and artistic stand-point the most interesting social event among the many entertainments given to Irving was a dinner given by Mr. Charles Fairchild and Mr. James R. Osgood, at the Somerset Club. The company included Messrs. T. B. Aldrich, A. V. S. Anthony, Francis Bartlett, William Bliss, George Baty Blake, S. L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”), T. L. Higginson, W. D. Howells, Laurence Hutton, W. M. Laffan, Francis A. Walker, George E. Waring, and William Warren. After dinner the conversation was quite as brilliant as the company—Mark Twain told some of his best stories in his best manner. Mr. Howells and Mr. Aldrich in no wise fell short of their reputations as conversationalists. There were no drinking of toasts, no formal speeches, which enhanced the general joy of the whole company.

Driving homewards along the Common, Irving said, “By gas-light, and in the snow, is not this a little like the Green park, with, yonder, the clock-tower of the Houses of Parliament?”

“Do you wish it were?”

“I wouldn’t mind it for an hour or two, eh? Although one really sometimes hardly feels that one is out of London.”

II.

“Ladies’ Night.—The Papyrus Club request the pleasure of the company of Miss Ellen Terry at the Revere House, December 15th, at six o’clock. Boston, 1883. Please reply to J. T. Wheelwright, 39 Court street.”[29]

Thus ran the invitation, which was adorned with a miniature view of the Pyramids in a decorative setting of the reed that is familiar to travellers in the Nile valley.

Miss Terry concluded to accept, and I had the honor of being her escort. The handsome rooms of the Revere House that were devoted to the service of the club on this occasion were crowded with ladies and gentlemen when we arrived. Among the guests in whom Miss Terry was especially interested were Mrs. Burnett, the author of “Joan” and other remarkable novels; Miss Noble, the author of “A Reverend Idol”; Miss Fay, Mrs. John Lillie, Mrs. Washburne, and other ladies known to the world of letters. She was surrounded for a long time by changing groups of ladies and gentlemen, who were presented in a pleasant, informal way by Mr. Babbitt, the president of the club, and other of its officers.

The dinner was a dainty repast (one of the special dishes was a “baked English turbot with brown sauce.”) The details of it were printed upon a photographic card which represented the loving-cup, punch-bowl, Papyrus’ manuscripts, gavel, pen and ink, and treasure-box of the institution.

During dinner Miss Terry was called upon to sign scores of the menu cards with her autograph. Upon many of them she scribbled poetic couplets, Shakespearian and otherwise, and on others quaint, appropriate lines of her own. She captivated the women, all of them. It is easier for a clever woman to excite the admiration of her sex in America than in England. A woman who adorns and lifts the feminine intellect into notice in America excites the admiration rather than the jealousy of her sisters. American women seem to make a higher claims upon the respect and attention of men than belongs to the ambitious English women, and when one of them rises to distinction they all go up with her. They share in her fame; they do not try to dispossess her of the lofty place upon which she stands. There is a sort of trades-unionism among the women of America in this respect. They hold together in a ring against the so-called lords of creation; and the men are content to accept what appears to be a happy form of petticoat government. So the women of Boston took Ellen Terry to their arms and made much of her.

After dinner the President expressed, in quaint terms, the club’s welcome of its guests, and the Secretary read the following official and authorized

A BUNCH OF ROSES.

Sweet rose! In thee the summer bides;
Thy deep, red breast a secret hides,
Which none may know but only she
Whose eyes are stars lit up for me.

Red rose! Unto her sweetly speak,
And glow against her burning cheek;
Ah! breathe this in her shell-like ear,—
“Thou makest it summer all the year.”

Great Scott! List to my heart’s dull thud!
Thou hast a dollar cost a bud.
She is now my rival’s bride;
Again I’ll wear that ulster tried.

A BRITON’S WAIL IN NEW YORK CITY.

(A Cabriolet.)

I hired me a hack,
I cried out “Alack!”
I must dine upon bread;
I gave up my purse.
Never ride in a hack
Unless you are dead;
Then ride in a hearse,
Lying flat on your back.
I hired me a hack!
I would I were dead!

“PELLUCID HER EYE.”

(A Pantalet.)

But, oh! I was dry,
And the starved dancers crushed,
Till my shirt-front was mushed.
The champagne was dry—
I cannot say why;
But the night-bird was hushed,
Yet the throstle-wits thrushed—
I cannot say why;
(The champagne was dry).

Ah, pellucid her eye!
And her oval cheek flushed
Like a strawberry crushed.
How pellucid her eye!
I cannot say why—
(The champagne was dry).
I sighed, “Let us fly!”
She smiled not nor gushed,
But from me she rushed.
Maphap I seemed “fly”
The wine was quite dry.
But pellucid her eye,
I cannot say why.

This report having been voted correct, and ordered to be inscribed on the minutes, Mr. Howard M. Ticknor then recited, with excellent elocutionary point, the following “Greeting to Ellen Terry”:—

“Honor,” said Cassius, “is my story’s theme.”
Honor shall best my verse to-night beseem.

For some, how safe, how permanent, how sure!
Written in characters that will endure,
Until this world begins to melt away
And crumble to its ultimate decay.
The picture fades; but color still is there,
Even in ruin is the statue fair;
The province won, the city burnt or built,
The inwrought consequence of good or guilt,
Shape after epochs to time’s latest span,
And link enduringly a man to man.

But he who is himself artist and art,
Whose greatest works are of himself a part;
Who, sculptor, moulds his hand, his form, his face;
Who, painter, on the air his lines must trace;
Musician, make an instrument his voice,
And tell, not write, the melody of his choice;
Whose eloquence of gesture, pose and eye
Flashes aglow, in instant dark to die;—
Where are for him the honor and the fame?
A face on canvas, and perhaps a name
Extolled awhile, and then an empty word
At sound of which no real thrill is stirred.
What, then, shall recompense his loss? What make
Atonement for the ignorant future’s sake?
What but the tribute of his honor now,
The native wreath to deck his living brow?

Then, as he passes beyond the mortal ken,
His glory shall go with him even then,
Not as a hope, a doubt, and a desire,
But as a spark of his own living fire,
Of his eternal self a priceless part,
Eternal witness to his mind and heart.
And so, to-night, when she who comes from far
To show in one what many women are,
Sits at our board, and makes our evening shine,
Breaks bread with us, and pledges in our wine,
Let us be quick to honor in our guest
So many a phase of life by her expressed.
Portia’s most gracious, yet submissive word—
“You are my king, my governor, my lord;”
Her courage, dignity, and force,
Warning the Jew that justice shall have course;
The trenchant wit of Beatrice, and her pride,
Her loyalty as friend, her faith as bride;
Letitia’s stratagems; the tragic fate
Of sweet Ophelia, crushed by madness’ weight.

How many chords of happiness or woe,
Her lips that quiver and her cheeks that glow;
Her speech now clear, now clouded, and her eyes
Filling by turns with anguish, mirth, surprise—
Can wake to throb, again to rest can still—
Potent her power as Prospero’s magic will!

Present alone is hers—alone is ours,
Now, while she plants, must we, too, cull the flowers?
For future wreaths she has no time to wait;
Unready now, they are for aye too late.
Now is the moment our regard to show,
Let every face with light of welcome glow;
Let smiles shine forth, glad words be spoken;
Formality for once be broken.
Let hand strike hand, let kerchiefs wave,
Keep not her laurels for her grave;
Twine our proud chaplet for her fair, smooth brow,
And bid her take our share of tribute now;
Then shall it be a recollection dear,
That we to-night greet Ellen Terry here!

III.

Irving, who could not be present at the Papyrus Club (it was one of Miss Terry’s “off nights,” when either “The Bells” or “Louis XI.” was performed), was received at the St. Botolph’s Club soon after the Papyrus festivities closed. In the absence of the President, ex-Mayor Green, the Vice-President, and Mr. Secretary Sullivan did the honors of the evening. An interesting meeting on this occasion was the introduction of Irving to Oliver Wendell Holmes, who later, at the matinÉe performance of “Charles the First,”[31] was quite overcome with the pathos of the play. Apart from the number and enthusiasm of his audiences, Mr. Irving’s personal reception by the leading men of Boston—littÉrateurs, professors, and scholars—might well have given point to the few eloquent words which he addressed to the house on the closing performance of “The Bells” and “The Belle’s Stratagem.” He said:—

Ladies and Gentlemen,—I have the privilege of thanking you, for myself, and in behalf of my comrades, and especially in behalf of my gifted sister, Miss Ellen Terry, for the way in which you have received our tragedy, comedy, and melodrama. In coming to this country I have often said that I felt I was coming among friends; and I have had abundant and most touching proof that I was right. This I have never felt more truly than in your historic city of New England, which seems a veritable bit of old England. In this theatre we have been on classic ground, and if we have, while upon these boards, accomplished anything tending, in your opinion, to the advancement of a great art, in which we are all deeply interested, we are more than repaid and more than content. It affords me great pleasure to tell you that, if all be well, we shall return to Boston in March, when I hope to present, for the first time on our tour, “Much Ado About Nothing.” And now, ladies and gentlemen, in the names of one and all, I gratefully thank you, and respectfully wish you “Good-by, and a Merry Christmas.”