THE ACTOR 
 
 #•

 
 JHE ACTOR 
 
 AND OTHER SPEECHES 
 
 CHIEFLY ON THEATRICAL SUBJECTS 
 AND OCCASIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER 
 
 NEW-YORK 
 
 THE DUNLAP SOCIETY 
 
 1891 
 
 9-^ 
 
 r
 
 SANTA BARBARA COLLEGE L. 
 
 TO 
 
 ELLEN TERRY, 
 
 REMEMBERING GREAT KINDNESS IN DARK 
 DAYS, AND WITH GRATITUDE FOR MUCH HAP- 
 PINESS, BESTOWED EQUALLY BY HER GENTLE 
 FRIENDSHIP AND HER ILLUSTRIOUS GENIUS, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK, 
 
 WHICH, BEARING HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO THE 
 GREATEST ACTRESS OF THE AGE, WILL DE- 
 RIVE WORTH AND DIGNITY FROM ASSOCIATION 
 WITH HER LOVED AND HONORED NAME. 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 In praising A more t we can?iot err : 
 
 No tongue overvalues heaven, or flatters her I'
 
 JDrcfacc. 
 
 IT has been my for time, fnore by chatice than by de- 
 sign, to deliver many speeches and poems on dramatic and 
 other occasions. Many of those speeches were extempo- 
 raneous, and as they were not reported they perished 
 as soon as they were spoken. One of thetn, an oration 
 on " The Press and the Stage," was delivered before 
 The Goethe Society, at the Brunswick Hotel, New- York, 
 January 28, 1889, and it has been piiblished in a sep- 
 arate volume. In compliance with the request of com- 
 rades in The Dunlap Society a few of the others are 
 brought together here. The longest and most important 
 of thcfn relates to " The Actor, and His Duty to His 
 Time." This was read before a large assemblage of 
 actors, at Palmer's Theater, and as it contains unwel- 
 come truths it was received partly with approval and 
 partly with disfavor. An ex-governor of Massachusetts, 
 commenting upoji it, has kindly explained that the 
 admitted evils under which American civilization unde-
 
 niably suffers, and which have injuriously affected the 
 American stage, are due to inordinate rapidity in the 
 advancement of art and science among the Americati 
 people. My readers will, no doubt, be as much cheered 
 as I was by that sagacious and patriotic explanation. 
 The companion speeches, having been carefully thought 
 out, were partly improvised and partly spoken from mem- 
 ory. The poems that I have delivered on dramatic 
 occasions ivill be found in the edition of my writings, — 
 including " Wanderers" " Shakspere's England^' and 
 '• Gray Days and Gold" — published by David Douglas, 
 of Edinburgh, and Macmillan, of New -York. 
 
 IV. W. 
 Fort Hill, 
 Neiu Brighton, Staten Island, 
 June ig, i8gi.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Actor. The Actor and His Duty to 
 
 His Time i 
 
 The Critic 26 
 
 The Comedian. A Tribute to Lester Wal- 
 
 LACK 35 
 
 Sir Perceval. A Tribute to Lester Wallack 42 
 The Comrade. American and English Fel- 
 lowship in Art 44 
 
 The Tragedian. A Tribute to Edwin Booth 52 
 
 The Poet 57 
 
 The Journalist. A Tribute to Whitelaw 
 
 Reid . ., 62 
 
 The Friend. Eulogy upon Henry Edwards 75
 
 Cije Victor 
 
 AND OTHER SPEECHES. 
 
 THE ACTOR AND HIS DUTY TO HIS TIME. 
 
 an address delivered before the 
 actors' fund society, at palmer's theater, N. Y. 
 
 JUNE 4, 1889. 
 
 IT is an honorable privilege as well as a great plea- 
 sure to share in the proceedings of this delightful 
 occasion. Dull indeed would be the spirit that could 
 not be impressed by the intrinsic loveliness and the 
 artistic meaning of this imposing scene ; by the pres- 
 ence of this remarkable assemblage, remarkable equally 
 for genius, intellect, beauty, sensibility, noble achieve- 
 ment, exalted character, and auspicious promise; and by 
 conscious and thrilling perception of that noble and 
 beautiful art, the art of acting, of which this assemblage 
 is the visible sign. (Once again is exemplified here the 
 puissant and perpetual charm of the stage, its ever- 
 changing but never-dying sway over the fickle multi- 
 tude, whereby an actor's prosperity is obtained and 
 assured, and its placid dominion, held as with a scepter 
 of roses, over the educated mind, the refined taste, the 
 I
 
 2 €f)c Victor, 
 
 comprehending spirit, the adequate and responsive 
 heart, whereby an actor's fame is clearly defined and 
 permanently established. Back of this occasion stand 
 the prosperity and renown of the American drama. 
 There are observers who always take a despondent 
 view of the condition of our theater. In each succeed- 
 ing period of dramatic history contemporary writers 
 are found who declare that the stage is in a decline 
 and is much inferior to what it was in earlier and 
 better days. No doubt its condition has always fluc- 
 tuated, and no doubt in this respect the future will re- 
 semble the past. But there never was any warrant 
 for the proclamation of a hopeless theatrical decline. 
 Such lamentations have always proceeded from ideal- 
 ists. Their error consists in the wrong custom of judg- 
 ing exclusively by the standard of the scholar and the 
 man of taste an institution that can only exist when it 
 is made to please and satisfy many classes of people. 
 We do not take the opinion of the multitude upon such 
 a subject, for example, as the poetry of Shelley or the 
 painting of Murillo; but to a certain judicious and 
 well-considered extent we must take it upon the ques- 
 tion of the acted drama. It is the presence of this 
 element which has inspired a long line of Jeremiahs in 
 their irrational moans over the alleged fatal degradation 
 of the drama. If there was an audience for the flippant 
 levity of Foote and the bovine drollery of Tate Wilkin- 
 son, there was also an audience for the aerial intellect, 
 the glittering comedy, the tragic fire, and the exquisite 
 pathos of Garrick. The horse-dramas that were shown 
 at Drury Lane in the palmy days did not finally invali-
 
 €j)c sector* 
 
 date the sovereignty of Mrs. Siddons or the glory of her 
 companion monarchs, the princes of the proud house 
 of Kemble. Edmund Kean held his scepter notwith- 
 standing " Catalini's pantaloons." The same journals 
 of the passing hour that record a long and remuner- 
 ative currency for The Parlor Match, or The Kitchen 
 Poker, or The Old Hen-Coop, or The Hole in Uncle 
 John's Sunday Breeches must also record that Edwin 
 Booth is sometimes paid ten thousand dollars for one 
 week of his Shaksperian acting; that Joseph Jefferson 
 finds throughout America a practical response for dra- 
 matic art as perfect in form as even the best of exigent 
 Paris, and refined with a poetic spirituality to which the 
 stage of Paris is a stranger; that Mary Anderson acts 
 for a whole season to crowded houses at the London 
 Lyceum Theater in a Shaksperian comedy ; that Henry 
 Irving and Ellen Terry have had three long seasons of 
 splendid prosperity upon the American stage, giving only 
 plays of the highest order, and giving them only in the 
 best manner ; that under the management of Albert M. 
 Palmer a single good play, in three seasons out of five, 
 runs through the whole of a theatrical year in New 
 York; that Ada Rehan, playing Shakspere's Shrew, 
 has been as eagerly accepted as ever Peg Woffington 
 was in Wildair or Louisa Nisbett in Rosalind ; and 
 that Augustin Daly not long ago obtained a brilliant 
 career of nearly fourscore nights for that most delicate 
 and evanescent of dramatic compositions, "A Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream." It is true that in the present 
 period, which is one of turbulent democratic upheaval, 
 the social cauldron is boiling with such furious impetu-
 
 4 €ijc %ctot. 
 
 osity that the dregs often come to the surface and for a 
 while remain there. It is true that a potential factor 
 in contemporary civilization is mediocrity, and that 
 under the influence of that malign and stupefying force 
 venerable and noble ideas are for a while discarded or 
 modified. But when allowance has been made for 
 every qualification it remains a truth that the stage was 
 never so great or so powerful in this republic as it is 
 to-day, and never before so capable of wielding a superb 
 influence upon the advancement of society. 
 
 The word that ought to be spoken here and now is, 
 nevertheless, a word of warning. In the period of 
 nearly thirty years during which I have been a con- 
 tinuous writer about the stage it has seldom been my 
 fortune to write anything that was intended specially 
 for actors. My writings have been intended for the 
 public, and they have been prompted and guided by 
 an ardent desire to broaden and deepen a thoughtful 
 public interest in the stage. There are many and 
 various benefits to be derived by the community from 
 an appreciative and sympathetic intimacy with the art 
 of acting, and with dramatic literature ; and it seems 
 to me that the duty of a theatrical essayist is to indi- 
 cate what and where those benefits are, and to urge 
 and entice the people to obtain tliem. Many other 
 views are taken of the vocation of criticism, but this 
 will be found a practical and useful one. Every effort 
 is propitious for the general welfare which tends to 
 dignify the popular estimate of the theater; for Tit 
 should never be forgotten that an institution, like an 
 individual, may be prominent and influential without
 
 €l)c 311ctor» 5 
 
 being either rightly understood or properly respected., 
 In John Gay's comedy of " Three Hours after Mar- 
 riage " it is said that " a parrot and a player can both 
 utter human sounds, but we allow neither of them to 
 be a judge of wit." The old view of the stage — 
 much as the stage was followed and enjoyed — is 
 often a blandly tolerant and half-contemptuous view. 
 To adjust that mistaken estimate — which is still ex- 
 tant — to assist in the education of public opinion 
 respecting the intellectual aspects of the acted drama 
 is a worthy mission for a theatrical writer. He mis- 
 takes his function when he assumes the attitude of an 
 instructor to the players. He should no more under- 
 take to teach an actor the art of acting than he should 
 undertake to teach a doctor the science of medicine 
 or to teach a lawyer the science of law. In address- 
 ing my observations to you, the representatives and 
 guardians of the acted drama, I am speaking not 
 as an instructor but as an observer stationed in the 
 outer circle of theatrical affairs. Great and potent as 
 the stage now is in America, it is not as beneficent as 
 it ought to be, and therefore a word of warning may 
 properly be spoken with reference to the duty of the 
 actor to his time. 
 
 The period of national development through which 
 we are passing is strongly marked by two character- 
 istics — cynical levity and a studious but insincere 
 and unscrupulous consideration of popular caprice. 
 Almost everybody makes light of almost everything. 
 The young people, upon whom modesty would sit 
 with so much grace and sweetness, are too often
 
 6 €l)c 5Cftor. 
 
 " smart " and pert. Their elders, whom charity and 
 gentleness should adorn with cheerful composure, are 
 too often fretful and harsh with distrust and sarcasm. 
 No historic career, no personal character, no principle 
 of action, no occurrence of life is so serious that it 
 cannot be made the subject of a jest. Slang is printed 
 in almost every newspaper and spoken in almost every 
 drawing-room. The mind of the nation is tinged with 
 a jocose and vulgar humor, and the voice of the nation 
 is raucous with a rude hilarity. You may hear, indeed, 
 if you will pause to listen, the hum of industry, the 
 fine poetic murmur of reverence and aspiration, and 
 faint and far away the gentle note of worship, the 
 mellow music of the bells of God; but the prevalent 
 and almost the overwhelming sound is the sound of 
 the guffaw. Beneath this boisterous joviality there is 
 a spirit — not universal, but widely diffused — of crafty 
 and sordid selfishness. The tone of our politics is 
 mercenary and mean. Accepted, practised, and ap- 
 proved methods of our business partake of an indirec- 
 tion which certainly is incompatible with a fine sense 
 of honor. Agnosticism has so shaken the fabric not 
 merely of creeds (which can well be spared, and which 
 are destined to perish) but of spiritual faith and love, 
 that to thousands of persons religion, ceasing to be 
 a refuge and an anchor, has become merely a fashion 
 of vacant ceremonial. In many directions luxury is 
 rampant, and in all directions it is passionately desired. 
 The mood of the populace (notwithstanding the awful 
 admonitory fact that the American republic had not 
 existed one hundred years before it was convulsed by
 
 the most hideous civil war of which history makes any 
 record) is a mood of vainglorious complacency ; and 
 in this the people are stimulated to the utmost by the 
 American press. We hear continually of the rights of 
 man but almost never of his duties. Foreign elements, 
 seditious, boisterous, dangerous, actively pernicious in 
 many ways, and made potential through abuse of the 
 suffrage, largely affect or entirely control the disposition 
 of our practical affairs. Public office, the chief object 
 of political intrigue, and not infrequently made a 
 commodity for barter and sale, is often perverted in 
 its functions and disgraced in its incumbents. An 
 insane greed for sudden wealth startles the observer 
 by its prevalence and its rapacity. Youth is trained 
 to acquire the rewards of industry and enterprise, not 
 by prudent, patient, and continuous toil, but by craft 
 or the strong hand. Manners — the final and perfect 
 flower of noble character and a fine civilization — are 
 so completely overwhelmed by violent and boisterous 
 vulgarity and insensate hardness that they can scarcely 
 be said to exist; while refinement, which is the essen- 
 tial comfort and charm, and which ought to be prized 
 and guarded as the crown and consummate glory of 
 social life, is oppressed and insulted at every turn. 
 Haste and strife, fiurry and racket convulse the towns 
 and madden the population. Men and women are 
 hustled and packed into the public conveyances as if 
 they were cattle in a pen. The sanctity of the indi- 
 vidual is not merely disregarded, it is unknown: 
 Reckless newspapers print whatever they please, and 
 the honest man, bemired by their abuse, who proceeds
 
 8 €jjc 511ftor» 
 
 against any of them for libel is ridiculed as an over- 
 sensitive fool. The book-stalls teem with fiction that 
 is either erotic delirium or sentimental rubbish. Thir- 
 ty-five years ago a woman was thought to be courage- 
 ous who dared to read the novel of " Jane Eyre." To- 
 day the loathsome feculence and hideous moral leprosy 
 of the novels of Emile Zola may be seen in public 
 places, borne in the hands even of young girls. The 
 spectacles that are still admired as architecture elude 
 specification and are indeed too terrible for words. 
 The sounds to which we listen unmoved would deafen 
 or would destroy any other people outside of China or 
 Madagascar. The morning, noonday, and evening 
 steam-whistle rising from a thousand able-bodied 
 boilers ; the intermittent tooting of a hundred aerial 
 locomotives ; the clank and rattle of incessant railway 
 trains in the air and tramway cars in the shattered and 
 jagged streets; the pounding of heavy trucks over 
 broken pavements ; the clangor of dissonant church 
 bells ; the strident blast of the ubiquitous and incessant 
 hand-organ; and the rasping yell of the hcensed ven- 
 der — they are all here: so that often, after listening 
 for a day and a night to the infernal din of this capital, 
 I think that New York has become what the great 
 orator Rufus Choate declared Boston Common would 
 become if ever the occupation of it should be granted 
 to the acquisitive desire of the Providence Railway 
 Company, " At present," he said, " it is a peaceful 
 pleasure-ground, wherein your citizens can walk 
 abroad and recreate themselves. Grant it to this cor- 
 poration, and what follows ? ^tna — Vesuvius — 
 Stromboli — Cotopaxi — Hell."
 
 €j)c 3llctot» 9 
 
 The sentiment of patriotism is a noble and lovely- 
 sentiment, but it cannot be nurtured by self-deception. 
 Undoubtedly the shield has two sides. There are 
 great and auspicious elements in our civilization, and 
 since the web and woof of our time are woven of va- 
 rious colors the fabric shows bright as well as dark. 
 The beautiful observation of Charles Reade is as true 
 of our people as it is of any other : " Not a day passes 
 over the earth but men and women of no note do great 
 deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows." 
 If it were not so the battle would be lost already, and 
 further struggle would be useless. But these things 
 that I have named exist, and they indicate a tendency 
 in the drift of our time — by no means historically new, 
 but as dangerous as ever — against which every intel- 
 lectual force of the age, either directly or indirectly, 
 ought to be arrayed. 
 
 (There are two institutions which, beyond all others, 
 indicate the condition of the pubHc mind, and which, 
 equally beyond all others, afifect its tone and influence 
 its movement. Those two institutions are the news- 
 paper and the stage. The supreme and universal 
 rulers of human conduct are woman, vanity, money, 
 political ambition, and religious fanaticism; but among 
 specific social forces the newspaper and the stage tran- 
 scend all others in their reflex bearing and their direct 
 power upon the community; and for that reason a 
 greater responsibility rests upon them than upon any of 
 their associate forces, with reference to the intellectual, 
 moral, and spiritual advancement of the human race. 
 Each stands in the same environment and each is con- 
 fronted by the same problem. When your existence
 
 lo Z^c ^ctor. 
 
 depends upon a perfectly harmonious adjustment of 
 yourself to the needs and the pleasures of the people, 
 to how great an extent will you defer to the drift of the 
 popular mood ? For you who are actors and man- 
 agers, and therefore the representatives and guardians 
 of the acted drama, the question is a vital one. Your 
 temptation is to fool " the many-headed beast " to the 
 top of his bent ; and thereupon your danger is, in the 
 fierce strife of competitive endeavor and under the im- 
 perative need of instant success, that you will end by 
 surrendering your authority altogether into the hands of 
 the mob. To some extent, within the last thirty years, 
 that surrender has already been made. It is about the 
 period of one generation now since Dion Boucicault 
 made the first specimen of the "Sensation Drama " and 
 invented and proclaimed that epithet to designate a 
 new school of art. Next came the lascivious charm 
 and wanton allurement of the Opera Bouflfe, embodied 
 in Tostee and conducted by Bateman. Rapidly after 
 that the semi-nude burlesque was enthroned, with 
 Lydia Thompson for its empress and Samuel Colville 
 for its prophet ; while William Wheatley, with the glit- 
 tering spectacle of the " Black Crook," revived and im- 
 planted upon the American stage the same voluptuous 
 and mischievous pageantry that Sir William Davenant, 
 two hundred and fifty years ago, conveyed into London 
 from the theater of France. Then for a while the drift 
 was in favor of tainted French dramas on the ever- 
 lasting theme of incontinence in the state of marriage. 
 Sentimental farces fcUowed, and after them the deluge. 
 Of late the current runs to horse-play and the " real
 
 €1^ %tUit. 
 
 II 
 
 tubs " of Mr. Crummies, and the enraptured multitude 
 is thrilled to behold an actual woman swimming in an 
 actual tank of water, or an actual fire-engine dragged 
 across the stage almost as swiftly as it can be dragged 
 in the street, and with almost as much racket. These 
 are some of the results of an uncompromising submis- 
 sion to the popular lead, which almost always is ignoble, 
 irrational, casual, and wrong. In this submission many 
 of the newspapers of America have set a pernicious and 
 deplorable example ; but this fact, while it makes the 
 duty of the actor to his time more arduous, should also 
 make it more evident and more imperative. That duty 
 is to check and withstand as much as possible the 
 gross, leveling, degrading influences of excessive de- 
 mocracy, — which tend to blight everything with the 
 baleful tyranny of the commonplace, — and to instil, 
 to protect, and to maintain purity, sweetness, and re- 
 finement in our feelings, our manners, our language, 
 and our national character. The common precept, the 
 precept of the shopkeeper in dramatic art, is spoken 
 every day: " Give them what they want." The higher 
 and better precept, the precept of the moralist, would 
 enjoin you to " give them what they ought to have." 
 Which is the better counsel ? and to which of these 
 voices will you listen ? Tlhe welfare of the people in 
 every age is committed as a sacred trust to the best in- 
 tellect of the time, ) A part of that responsibility rests 
 on you, and it can only be evatied by the sacrifice of 
 the institution that is your life. If the shopkeeping 
 spirit is permitted absolutely to prevail, if you yield 
 more and more and more to the caprice of the thought-
 
 12 €f)c 3ilctor. 
 
 less multitude, while you will not destroy the stage 
 (because the art of acting is immortal), you will help to 
 bring upon it another blight of decrepitude, another 
 season of dullness and decay, such as followed the orgies 
 of the Restoration in England toward the end of the 
 seventeenth century, or such as attended the general col- 
 lapse of dramatic art in America about sixty years ago. 
 Vulgus vult decipi : decipiatur ! That was the haughty, 
 unsympathetic, contemptuous doctrine of ancient cyn- 
 ical philosophy (" the common people like to be fooled : 
 fooled let them be"), and under its malign influence, the 
 few taking heed only of themselves and leaving the 
 many to folly and riot, the great Roman Empire slowly 
 crumbled into pieces like a moth-eaten garment. 
 Surely for you, the leaders of thought in your domain, 
 there is a nobler principle than that old Latin sneer. 
 In the lofty elegiac lines that Matthew Arnold wrote 
 ui)on the tomb of his illustrious father in Rugby 
 Chapel none is more touching or more significant 
 than the proud and tender exclamation, " Thou, my 
 father, wouldst not be saved alone." While the late 
 Lord Beaconsfield — a great man — was Prime Min- 
 ister of England, every essential measure of national 
 policy, it is said, was originated and prompted by him ; 
 yet in every case its inception and pursuance appeared 
 to have been suggested to him by her Majesty Queen 
 Victoria. It is within your province undoubtedly, in 
 dealing with the sovereign people, to give them what 
 they want; but it is within the power of your intellect, 
 your knowledge of human nature and of the world, 
 your wisdom and dexterity and tact, to make them
 
 €^c Victor. 13 
 
 want what they ought to have, and to make them think, 
 when you provide it, that they have asked you to do 
 so. This is the duty of the actor to his time — and his 
 duty is Ukevvise his interest.^) 
 
 The stage has generally needed popular support, but 
 it has never prospered under popular dominion. In 
 Greece, for example, nearly twenty-three hundred years 
 ago, when the theater established by ^schylus and 
 nurtured by Pericles had reached and passed its high- 
 est phase, there came that memorable period of popular 
 license and misrule when the multitude had supreme 
 power over the state and when the idol of the multi- 
 tude was the ribald Aristophanes. You are familiar 
 with the hideous and pathetic story of the persecution 
 and murder of Socrates. The " Clouds " and the " Birds " 
 have survived to our day, and it is easy to perceive at 
 once their caustic wit and their pernicious influence. 
 Sophocles and Euripides were derided. Everything 
 venerable and noble was covered with ridicule. The 
 reputation of individuals was assailed without truth or 
 mercy and defamed without humanity or limit. The 
 peace of families was ruthlessly destroyed. The very 
 magistrates who sanctioned the appearance of the com- 
 edians were publicly lampooned and insulted. The 
 gods themselves were flouted. The mob had what it 
 wanted, and the theater became a mere conduit for 
 comic libel and vulgar mirth, while dramatic art was 
 submerged in ribald licentiousness and scurrilous in- 
 decency. To such a depth indeed was the Grecian 
 stage degraded by this supremacy of the popular taste, 
 misled by a brilliantly wicked humorist, that even the
 
 14 €1)C %ttot. 
 
 transcendent genius of Menander, rising in the next 
 age, could scarcely redeem it from settled ignominy 
 and disgrace. In Italy, where the dramatic revival 
 began in the thirteenth and culminated in the fifteenth 
 century, there came a season of democratic experi- 
 ment and disorder about the middle of the seven- 
 teenth, when the theater was left unprotected to the 
 popular caprice ; and from that time onward for fifty 
 years nothing was seen upon it but coarse Spanish 
 farces — the paltry one-act buffooneries with which 
 the Spanish stage began but which in that period it 
 had outgrown. Kindred illustrations might readily 
 be drawn from the history of the theater in France 
 and England. Look into the lives of Fleury and 
 Macklin and Fennell and Edmund Kean; look into 
 Jackson's account of the Scottish stage and Hitch- 
 cock's account of the stage in Ireland, and your right- 
 eous indignation is more than once aroused at the 
 spectacle of popular tyranny overriding and degrading 
 the stage. On the other hand, (the best periods in the 
 history of the drama have been those periods when it 
 has been closely affiliated with the highest, because the 
 ablest and most refined, classes of intellectual society 
 — for these could guide and stimulate and govern its 
 powers and its beauties, and, by the force of fashion 
 and example, could lead the multitude in their train^ 
 The Shaksperian audience was an audience that would 
 listen to poetry, and was capable of understanding and 
 appreciating great and beautiful things. In that fer- 
 tile and sumptuous period of English dramatic liter- 
 ature extending from 1580 to 1640 it accepted and
 
 Cjjc ^ctor. 15 
 
 enjoyed not only the incomparable grandeur, beauty, 
 and truth of Shakspere, but the stormy splendor of 
 Marlowe, the funeral pomp and somber pageantry of 
 Webster, the lovely simplicity of Heywood, the passion 
 and pathos of Ford, the indolent, affluent grace and 
 music of Dekker, the strong thought and trenchant and 
 vibrant verse of Massinger, the noble repose and copi- 
 ous emotion of Middleton, and, above all, the wonder- 
 ful feeling, depth, eloquence, variety, and loveliness 
 of Beaumont and Fletcher. No such body of litera- 
 ture had been created before, and nothing like it has 
 been created since. Creative art, indeed, is in no 
 sense a result of environment : its impulse proceeds 
 out of the great central heart of Nature. But in those 
 " spacious days of great Elizabeth " the plays were not 
 only written — they were acted and received. They 
 had a public. The stage flourished because the finest 
 intelligence and feeling in the English nation fostered 
 and guarded it, and the multitude was lifted to the 
 level of Spenser and Sidney and Raleigh — 
 
 "Of those great spirits who went down like suns 
 And left upon the mountain -tops of death 
 A light that made them lovely." 
 
 Upon that high level the people do not habitually 
 stand, and it would be folly to assume that they do. 
 'But there are noble elements and grand possibilities 
 in human nature; to that high level the people can 
 be lifted, and it is the duty of every intellectual man, 
 and therefore of the actor, to lead them upward.' 
 Much is accomplished when the stage is made and
 
 1 6 €(jc ^Crtoc, 
 
 kept important — as Edwin Booth and Henry Irving 
 and Augustin Daly and Albert M. Palmer and Law- 
 rence Barrett have made and kept it — in the esteem of 
 the best contemporary minds. Every student of its his- 
 tory knows that it has always been a thing of moods, 
 now exalted and now depressed, but of late years, when 
 viewed apart from all parasitic entertainments, steadily 
 in the ascendant. The time was when the wise and 
 gentle Charles Lamb expressed a mild astonishment 
 that a person capable of remembering and repeating 
 the words of Shakspere should for that reason be sup- 
 posed to possess a mind congenial with that of the poet. 
 Such an idea surprises nobody now. ^Modern thought 
 has recognized that the actor is a mental and spiritual 
 force ; that he is intimately connected with the cause 
 of public education; that he is not a parrot and not 
 simply an interpreter; that he brings something of 
 his own; that although the poet provides the soul 
 it is the actor who must provide the body ; and that 
 without having the body as well as the soul you can- 
 not have dramatic representations or the benefit of 
 the dramatic art^ This righteous illumination of 
 modern thought, however, with reference to the pro- 
 fession of acting is not yet absolutely complete. The 
 fact that the stage now stands upon the same level 
 with the other learned professions has not yet become 
 permanently imbedded in the spontaneous convic- 
 tions of society. Little denotements frequently occur 
 that the ultra-respectable and conventional mind of 
 our time is still disturbed and twisted upon this sub- 
 ject. Bigotry dies hard. In 1832 the Harrisburg
 
 €!jc Victor. 17 
 
 clergyman who read the burial service over the re- 
 mains of Joseph Jefferson, the great comedian of that 
 period (an actor as noble and famous as his illustrious 
 and beloved descendant in our generation), altered 
 the text of that service so as to say " this man " 
 instead of " our deceased brother " in the sentence 
 which commits the body to the ground. In 1870 
 the Rev. Mr. Sabine, of New York, refused to open 
 his church for the funeral of that venerated actor 
 George Holland ; bestowing as he did so, by a single 
 fortunate phrase, a permanent honor upon " the little 
 church around the corner," and making it possible 
 for me to originate the movement known as the 
 Holland Benefit. In 1883 a minister of the gospel in 
 New Jersey pubHcly stigmatized a French actress, 
 then in America, as being " as vile a hag as the sewers 
 of Paris ever spewed into the state-room of an Atlantic 
 steamship" — hags always coming out of sewers and 
 the sewage system of the French capital being directly 
 connected with ocean travel. Clarendon, the old his- 
 torian, said that " clergymen understand the least, and 
 take the worst measure of human affairs, of all man- 
 kind who can read and write " ; .and perhaps you will 
 think there is occasionally some ground for his extreme 
 opinion. In this year 1889 the amiable and admir- 
 able Quaker poet John G. Whittier, in a published 
 letter, wonders whether Mrs. Langtry entertains as 
 strong an objection to an author as he does to an 
 actress. The incisive and trenchant writer of " Obiter 
 Dicta" — one of the few contemporary books of real 
 literature, rich in vital thought and therefore destined 
 
 3
 
 i8 €l)c Victor. 
 
 to survive — dismisses the profession of the actor with 
 a civil sneer. Some of my valued friends among the 
 scholars of this period, reading those volumes of" Brief 
 Chronicles " in which I have endeavored to commemo- 
 rate many of the actors of the last thirty years, have 
 expressed to me their gentle wonder that so much 
 labor should have been expended on such insignifi- 
 cant persons. These are trifles; but all along the 
 current of human life trifles disclose the involuntary 
 views of mankind. These signs, and others like them, 
 indicate that the ancient spirit of commingled big- 
 otry and condescension toward the theatre, while it is 
 dying away, is not yet dead. Seven hundred years 
 ago, when the modem dramatic movement began in 
 Italy and in England with the Miracle Plays, the 
 clergy themselves were frequently the actors ; and 
 perhaps the church has not yet forgiven the regular 
 dramatic profession for having invaded that field and 
 confiscated its forces and its fruits. In every period 
 possibly — in recent times certainly — men of ability 
 and acquirements in other walks of life have been 
 made uncomfortable by the rapid rise, the opulent 
 prosperity, and the dazzling renown of actors. Dr. 
 Johnson, beside whom David Garrick, who had been 
 his schoolboy, remained a schoolboy to the last, pos- 
 sessed no such brilliancy of reputation in his period, 
 and has descended in no such picturesque splendor of 
 fame to ours, as that which David Garrick obtained and 
 transmitted. Lowell and Holmes and Bancroft, as men 
 of letters, have done a work of more radical and abiding 
 value for the public than that of Jefferson or Booth;
 
 €l)e %ttot. 19 
 
 but the prevalent sentiment toward Lowell and Holmes 
 and Bancroft is cold respect in comparison with the 
 fervor of enthusiasm that stirs in the American heart 
 for Jefferson and Booth. There is no reputation in 
 mighty London at this moment so brilliant as that of 
 Henry Irving; and this is not confined to the capital, 
 for when, as it happened last summer, we were walking 
 over the lonely hills of remote Westmoreland, the 
 passengers upon every carriage that chanced to pass 
 took off their hats to him and often cheered him by 
 name. It is natural that " your royal preparation " 
 should somewhat annoy the doctor of divinity and the 
 man of science and letters. Oliver Goldsmith, it is 
 said, was displeased because the people in somebody's 
 drawing-room, preferring female beauty to poetical 
 genius, looked at the lovely Horneck girls instead of 
 looking at him. This mild competitive resentment 
 of your ascendancy, however, is superficial, transient, 
 and ultimately ineffective. The essential vitality of 
 the remnant of respectable aversion to the actor still 
 extant consists in his faults and is fed by his errors. 
 He has allowed himself sometimes to trifle with his 
 vocation, and in the pursuit and practical adminis- 
 tration of the theater he does not always suffi- 
 ciently assert the dignity and weight of intellectual 
 character. 
 
 The popular drift of the day, as I have stated, sets 
 in the direction of jocose levity and cynical sarcasm. 
 This note, in its proper time, place, and proportion, is 
 amusing and perhaps salutary, but it may readily be- 
 come immoderate, and when it is permitted in any
 
 20 ^t %tt<K, 
 
 way to detract from the dignity of a great institution 
 — when the professors of the stage themselves em- 
 ploy it to undermine and enfeeble their authority — it 
 becomes a pernicious one. The Greek farce-writer 
 Philemon died of laughter at seeing a jackass eat 
 figs. Appetite is perennial, and the jackass continues 
 his ministrations — only the laughing Philemon does 
 not die. He gets his guffaw, and it agrees with him, 
 and under its clodpoll influence he grows grosser and 
 coarser and commoner day by day. In other words, 
 there is a porcine taste for indelicate buffoonery, and 
 in the practical, shop-keeping cultivation of this popu- 
 lar appetite a most inordinate prominence has been 
 given to vulgar varieties and to burlesque. No one 
 begrudges to the burlesquers all the remuneration to 
 which their trivial proceedings may be entitled ; but 
 at present the interest of the stage and of society 
 needs their repression. They are excessive. All tri- 
 fling with serious things has a direct tendency to lower 
 them in the esteem of the multitude, by nature trivial, 
 desultory, and capricious. The art of acting is the 
 living soul of the theater as an institution, and by 
 heaping upon that noble art an almost illimitable 
 burden of elaborate silliness these burlesquers have 
 done much to obscure the luster of the theater and in 
 part to sequester it from the sympathy and respect of 
 hundreds of the best minds of the age. A little frolic 
 does well; but rank foolishness, in the various garbs 
 of farcical mummery, slang, indelicate display of the 
 female person, and vacant antic and babble have been 
 carried far and tolerated long. The representatives
 
 Clje 5llctor, 21 
 
 of this rubbish, indeed, do not now scruple to assert 
 themselves as artists, and there is such a phalanx of 
 them that in some parts of America nothing but " leg- 
 business " is offered upon the stage, whence mind and 
 beauty and refinement, crystallized in dramatic art, 
 were long since banished. This is nothing less than 
 a calamity. ** It is not, nor it cannot come to, good." 
 Theatrical entertainment, indeed, must take many 
 forms, and burlesque can be treated as a fine art ; but 
 considering how it is treated, and remembering its 
 natural tendency, every friend of the theater must 
 deplore its dominion. , Greek art, which was perfect 
 art (save that it lacked Uie ideal expressed in the char- 
 acter and conduct of Jesus), was informed by one su- 
 preme, inexorable, triumphant principle, never to be 
 forgotten or neglected : nothing in excess. 
 
 Conduct is character, expressed under the pressure 
 of circumstances. The flippant manner goes with the 
 flimsy mind. Dignity is repose. It is the dignity of 
 the dramatic character that must be trusted to sustain 
 the power and augment the renown of the dramatic 
 profession. That dignity I have always asserted and 
 it is no spirit of detraction that leads me now to urge 
 that actors ought to be stern critics of themselves ; 
 that they ought to give little or no attention to what is 
 said about them in print ; and that they would enhance 
 the importance of their calling in the public esteem 
 by a severe reticence with reference to their personal 
 affairs. When one of the admirers of Wellington told 
 him that he was equally great as a statesman and a 
 soldier the Iron Duke replied : " I am glad that there
 
 2 2 €!jc sector, 
 
 is no one to hear you say this, for I would not have 
 any one think nie such a fool as to believe it." The 
 man who is thus a stern critic of himself is neither to 
 be misled nor wounded by the observations of others. 
 To a character like that, self-poised, simple, and sincere, 
 critical commentary naturally appears like what for the 
 most part it is — the buzzing of flies in the air. The 
 actor is necessarily sensitive ; but inordinate sensibility 
 is a misfortune, and to shield himself from stupidity 
 and malice, to maintain his repose, and to assert his 
 power, he must wear the armor of a cheerful phi- 
 losophy. There is a wise passage in the Spectator, 
 wherein Addison has paraphrased and applied the 
 excellent counsel of Epictetus : " When I hear of a 
 satirical speech or writing that is aimed at me, I ex- 
 amine my own heart whether I deserve it or not. If 
 I bring in a verdict against myself I endeavor to 
 rectify my conduct for the future in those particulars 
 which have drawn the censure upon me ; but if the 
 whole invective be grounded upon a falsehood I 
 trouble myself no further about it and look upon my 
 name at the head of it to signify no more than one of 
 those fictitious names made use of by an author to 
 introduce an imaginary character. This is a piece of 
 fortitude which every one owes to his own innocence." 
 Let me add that it is a piece of fortitude which, amid 
 flippancy and chatter, every one owes to his self- 
 respect. With the practical adoption of that philoso- 
 phy by actors, with the abatement of undue solicitude 
 as to the frivolous babble of the hour, much that be- 
 littles the stage and makes it still seem subservient,
 
 €|)c Victor. 23 
 
 paltry, and incidental in the judgment of some of the 
 best minds of the age, will disappear. The torrent of 
 gossip which is now a curse will run dry, and the actress 
 who is constantly losing her diamonds, and the hand- 
 some actor who is continually bewitching her Royal 
 Highness the Princess of Wales will be heard of no 
 more. 
 
 And so I end as I began, the advocate of the intel- 
 lectual principle, which alone can crown a perfect 
 civilization with the white lilies of dignity and refine- 
 ment. Our republic has been more than abundantly 
 favored with material prosperity; yet it cannot be 
 truthfully denied that as a people we are still deficient 
 in gentleness and grace. That way lies our need, and 
 in that direction it is time that we should make our- 
 selves capable of practical fidelity to the highest ideal. 
 As much of heaven is visible as we have eyes to see. 
 All the forces of spiritual culture are within us. In the 
 development of those forces the actor can accomplish 
 a great work; and surely there is something more in- 
 volved in his noble vocation than that one man should 
 display talent and another man should praise it. '^The 
 capacity to reveal universal human nature, helping 
 man to understand himself, is the justification of the 
 actor3 iHis faculties are not necessarily more impor- 
 tant or more brilliant than those of other intellectual 
 men; but the medium that Nature has provided for 
 their expression is to the majority of persons more 
 sympathetic, alluring, and delightful than any other 
 form of utterance in the world.; More than ever in the 
 movement of human affairs, accordingly, the attention
 
 24 €ftc Victor. 
 
 of the people is fixed upon the actor ; and more than 
 ever is it essential that he should know, and feel, and re- 
 member that he is the representative and guardian of 
 a beautiful art and not simply the keeper of a shop. , 
 
 It was once my privilege, toward the end of a lovely 
 day in June, to stand upon the ramparts of Windsor 
 Castle, and to gaze in mute wonder and rapture over 
 that delicious landscape — the hallowed realm of learn- 
 ing and taste — which environs the stateliest and most 
 majestic of the royal palaces of England. The glory 
 of sunset was fading in the west. The soft and mellow 
 light of the gloaming was just beginning to creep over 
 the emerald velvet of the meadows and the dense 
 foliage of the slumbering elms. Far below lay the 
 quaint city, so beautiful in its carved and timber- 
 crossed antiquity, so venerable with historic associ- 
 ation and with martial and poetic renown. At a little 
 distance the " antique spires " and lancet casements 
 of Eton glimmered in the last faint rays of sunset 
 gold. Many church towers, gray and solemn and 
 ancient, were dimly visible on the darkening plains. 
 The old Thames, black and shining, flowed in sweet 
 tranquillity through the peaceful scene. The evening 
 wind was laden with fragrance of syringa and jasmine. 
 Over and around the great central tower of the castle 
 a multitude of birds, warned homeward by impending 
 night, circled with incessant motion and strange, melo- 
 dious cries. And out from the somber, mysterious 
 sanctity of Saint George's Chapel, borne tremulous on 
 the perfumed twilight air, came the sobbing organ 
 music of the vesper hymn. In that solemn hour it was
 
 €f)c 3llftor. 25 
 
 again, and more deeply than ever, impressed upon my 
 mind that the divine privilege of art and the supreme 
 obligation of every intellect engaged in its ministry are 
 to diffuse and to secure for all the people this superb 
 exaltation of the soul — to set upon the familiar face of 
 our every-day lives the immortal seal of spiritual refine- 
 ment, the sacred radiance of gentleness and beauty.
 
 Cljc Critic. 
 
 SPEECH DELIVERED AT A MIDNIGHT SUPPER AT DALY'S 
 
 theater, new york, april 13, 1887, com- 
 memorating the one hundredth 
 performance of " the taming 
 of the shrew." 
 
 Mr. Daly, and Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 AS I gaze across this red and white and golden 
 morning sea of beauty and behold the radiant 
 faces of this brilliant company I feel that indeed it is 
 a great privilege to be here, and deeply do I wish that 
 any words of mine could adequately express my sense 
 of its value. The card of invitation that came to me 
 l)ore upon its enticing but delusive front the cheerfully 
 significant legend, " Nothing but sit and sit, and eat 
 and eat." There was no reference to "speak and 
 speak." There was no intimation of the present emer- 
 gency. You will not believe me when I state that I 
 have nothing to say — but perhaps you may become 
 convinced when I proceed to prove it. 
 
 Persons who like myself are beginning to fade into 
 the background of practical affairs receive from time to 
 time little intimations, imperceptible to others but vis- 
 ible to themselves, that they are passing out of remem- 
 brance. I should not have been much surprised had I 
 
 26
 
 €|)e Critic. 27 
 
 found myself almost forgotten here ; and when General 
 Sherman, who never disappoints expectation, looked 
 for me in the person of my esteemed friend Marshall 
 Wilder I was not in the least astonished. There is an 
 old yarn about a negro preacher who, holding forth to 
 his sable congregation, spoke somewhat as follows : 
 " 'And unto Enoch was born Irad : And Irad forgot 
 Mehujael, and Mehujael forgot Methusael, and Methu- 
 sael forgot Lamech, and Lamech took unto him two 
 wives and forgot Jabel,' Now, my beloved bruddren, 
 dis text am meant to show you fustly, dat dem ole patri- 
 archs dey was mighty forgitful." 
 
 But, in sober earnest, I find myself most kindly re- 
 membered, and it is with a grateful heart that I thank 
 you for the exceeding grace and good-will with which 
 my name has been mentioned and received. Such an 
 audience might well abash a much more practised 
 speaker. Here sits the illustrious Slierman — "Our 
 greatest, yet with least pretense " — destined ever to 
 be remembered among the honored military chieftains 
 of the earth ; here Mark Twain, most characteristic 
 humorist in our land of homely wits and quaint philos- 
 ophers; here Wilson Barrett, that well-deserving pillar 
 of the British stage, happily free now from " the trap- 
 pings and the suits of woe " in which he was lately be- 
 wildered; here "the frolic and the gentle" Howard 
 Furness, wisest of our American Shakspere scholars; 
 here Laurence Hutton, chief historian of our stage, 
 wearing his knowledge lightly, like a flower, and 
 already "a mine of memories": here Lester Wallack, 
 the glorious comedian, keeping bright and pure the
 
 2 8 €!)c Victor. 
 
 splendid comedy traditions of Wilks, and Lewis, and 
 EUiston, and Charles Kemble, and his renowned and 
 lamented father; here, on every side, the worthies 
 of the stage, the bench, the bar, and the press ; and 
 sown among them like stars that glint through the 
 murmuring foliage of a summer night the fair faces 
 and imperial figures of women whom we all admire 
 and love. A royal company ! " When comes tliere 
 such another ?" I am rebuked and humiliated when I 
 try to speak in such a presence. 
 
 Yet there is a word of tribute that I should like 
 to utter. The whole of Mr. Daly's career as a 
 theatrical manager, extending through a period of 
 eighteen years, is intimately known to me — for in my 
 professional vocation I have followed him every step 
 of the way. He was scarcely more than a boy when 
 first he unfurled his audacious banner in this dramatic 
 capital. He has had times of disaster and gloom, 
 but he has never flinched nor faltered; he has borne 
 that banner onward through many an hour of conflict 
 and trial, through many a scene of triumph, past 
 many an obstacle of disappointment, and into many 
 a field of victory ; and I, for one — not doubting that 
 I have given him abundance of trouble in the course 
 of that time — am proud and happy now to bear my 
 testimony to the fertility of resource, the unerring 
 sagacity, the instant promptitude, the amazing ex- 
 pedition, the incessant energy, the keen knowledge 
 of the spirit of these times, the taste and learning and 
 munificence with which he has exercised his function 
 as a manager; until now he stands enrolled, by the
 
 €I)C Critic, 29 
 
 undisputed virtue of his merit and achievement, among 
 the authentic leaders of the stage — honored and pros- 
 perous at home, and known and famed equally on the 
 slopes of the Pacific and in distant Germany, France, 
 and England. We who are assembled here to celebrate 
 the one hundredth performance of " The Taming of 
 the Shrew " have not failed, I am sure, to note the 
 significance of those earnest and generous felicitations 
 with which the younger manager has been greeted by 
 his veteran brother in art. So did Ulysses honor 
 Troilus. In the history of the New-York stage we 
 have arrived at a point where it is easy to forecast 
 the future ; and I think you will understand me when 
 I declare the belief that the scepter which falls from 
 the hand of Lester Wallack will pass, without one word 
 of dissent, one impulse of contest, or one thought of 
 disapproval, into the hand of Augustin Daly. 
 
 " The youngest son of Priam ; a true knight ; 
 Speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue." 
 
 Some of us at this table pass our lives in writing 
 the record of the acted drama. It is a strange exist- 
 ence. It is a life of many tribulations. It exacts alle- 
 giance to high and stern principles of intellectual and 
 moral duty, and at the same time it imposes conditions 
 of physical discomfort and nervous irritation such as 
 the oppressed hod-carrier and the starving seamstress 
 never knew arid never would endure. It is a sort of 
 maelstrom of literary destiny, from which no man that 
 once enters it can ever be delivered. I have had 
 nearly thirty years of continuous service in that line
 
 30 €^c sector. 
 
 of labor, enduring and discussing all that has been 
 offered upon the New-York stage within that time — 
 and I am still alive to mention it. The weather, the 
 crowds, the vile air, the haste, the anxiety, the mid- 
 night drudgery, the newspaper squabbles, the alien- 
 ated friendships, the cackle of defamatory detraction — 
 I have encountered and endured them all ; and, 
 worse than all, that incessant, perennial pest who 
 exists for the sole and single purpose of saying, " What 
 do you think of it ? " I know, indeed, what good 
 reason actors have to be dissatisfied with much that is 
 written about their vocation. The American iron- 
 monger who was taken into Stratford Church to see 
 the tomb of Shakspere, and whose friend reproached 
 him for tapping on the altar-rail with his jack-knife, 
 said he was bound to find out whether, in a country 
 having very little iron, the fences were made solid or 
 hollow ; and on being reproved for lack of reverence 
 he further stated that the grave of the man who wrote 
 " Damon and Pythias " and " The Lady of Lyons " 
 was a matter of no consequence to him. Much of the 
 dramatic criticism of the day appears to proceed from 
 just that sort of person — or perhaps from such dames 
 as the lady who, on hearing that story, declared 
 with vehemence that some people have no respect 
 even for those great works of Shakspere. But, on the 
 other hand, our period is rich beyond precedent in its 
 intellectual effort to recognize and honor and celebrate 
 the stage. An actor — naturally the most sensitive of 
 all artists, for the sufficient reason that himself and not 
 merely his work is on public exhibition — receives, for
 
 €fjc Critic. 31 
 
 that very reason among others, a greater degree of con- 
 sideration than is awarded to even the greatest states- 
 man of the century. We who discuss actors and acting 
 walk on anything but roses and couch on anything but 
 down. We must take our fate as it comes. To know 
 the literature of the drama ; to discriminate betwixt 
 literature and acting; to see the mental, moral, and 
 spiritual aspect of the stage, and likewise to see the 
 expedient, the popular, even the mercenary aspect of 
 it; to hold the scale true; to write for a great public of 
 miscellaneous readers, and at the same time to respect 
 the feelings and ambitions of artists; to praise with dis- 
 cretion and yet with force, so as to indicate somewhat 
 more than the fervor of an animated clam ; to censure 
 without asperity; to think quickly and speak quickly, 
 yet make no error; to check, oppose, and discomfit, on 
 all occasions, the leveling spirit of sordid " business " 
 interest, which is forever striving to degrade every high 
 ideal and mobble it in the ruck of mediocrity; to give 
 not alone your knowledge, and study, and technical 
 skill, but the best power of your mind and the deepest 
 feelings of your heart to the transfiguration and em- 
 bellishment of the labor of others — this in part it is 
 to work in the groove of the dramatic reviewer. I say 
 it is a painful toil, incessant, arduous, harassing, and 
 framed to try the utmost patience of human nature. 
 But it has its bright side ; for, as years speed on and 
 life grows bleak and lonesome and commonplace, it 
 is the stage that gives us our relief from paltry con- 
 ventionality and iron-bound routine ; it is the stage, 
 with its sunshine of humor and its boundless realm
 
 32 €ljc 5l!ctor, 
 
 of imagination, that wiles us away from our defeated 
 ambitions, our waning fortunes, the broken idols and 
 wasted hopes of our vanishing youth. What happy 
 dreams it has inspired and fostered ! What grand ideals 
 it has imparted and nourished ! With what gentle, 
 tender, impassioned friendships it has blessed and 
 beautified our lives ! 
 
 I know not what is done here to the adventurous 
 person who launches a serious poem into a merry fes- 
 tival. Years ago, when the patriotic spirit of the nation 
 was all ablaze, we happened to have the Italian opera 
 at our Academy of Music, and on one occasion it was 
 thought expedient to introduce "The Star-Spangled 
 Banner" into a performance of " La Traviata," much 
 to the dismay of the sunny children of Italy; and two 
 of the choristers were heard to discuss this portent. 
 "What is it," said one of them, " that I hear of ze ban- 
 naire and ze star ? " " It is ze Star-Spangle Bannaire! A 
 man named Key write him : and Dan Sickles he shoot 
 him for it — and serve him very well right." I will, 
 however, take the risk, and will repeat a few lines of 
 mine, called " The Signal Light," which perhaps are 
 not inappropriate to the hour and the scene: 
 
 The lonely sailor, when the night 
 
 O'er ocean's glimmering waste descends. 
 
 Sets at the peak his signal light 
 And fondly dreams of absent friends. 
 
 Starless the sky above him broods, 
 
 Pathless the waves beneath him swell; 
 
 Through peril's spectral solitudes 
 That beacon streams — and all is well.
 
 Z^t Critic, ss 
 
 So, on the wandering sea of years, 
 When now the evening closes round, 
 
 I light the signal torch that cheers. 
 And scan the wide horizon's bound. 
 
 The night is dark, the winds are loud, 
 The black waves follow, fast and far. 
 
 Yet once may flash, through mist and cloud, 
 The radiance of some answering star. 
 
 Haply across the shuddering deep. 
 One moment seen, a snowy sail 
 
 May glance with one tumultuous leap 
 And pass with one exultant hail. 
 
 And I shall dearly, sweetly know. 
 
 Though night be dark and storm be drear. 
 
 That somewhere still the roses blow. 
 And hearts are true and friends are near ! 
 
 Each separate on the eternal main 
 We make for one celestial shore ; 
 
 Sometimes we part to meet again. 
 Sometimes we part to meet no more. 
 
 Ah, friends, make glad the gracious day 
 When sunshine bathes the tranquil tide 
 
 And, careless as a child at play, 
 
 Our ship^ drift onward side by side. 
 
 Too oft, with cold and barren will, 
 
 And stony pride of iron sway. 
 We bid the voice of love be still. 
 
 And dash the cup of joy away. 
 
 No comfort haunts the yellow leaf! 
 
 Wait not till, broken, old, and sere, 
 The sad heart pines, in hopeless grief, 
 
 For one sweet voice it cannot hear.
 
 34 ^t sector* 
 
 Thought has its throne, and Power its glow. 
 And Wealth its time of transient ease — 
 
 But best of all the hours we know 
 Are rose-crowned hours that fleet like these. 
 
 Let laughter leap from every lip ! 
 
 To music turn the perfumed air ! 
 Ye golden pennons, glance and dip! 
 
 Ye crimson banners, flash and flare ! 
 
 For them no more the tempest glooms, 
 Whose freed and royal spirits know 
 
 To frolic where the lilac blooms, 
 And revel where the roses blow. 
 
 But lights of heaven around them kiss. 
 While over silver seas they glide — 
 
 One heart, one hope, one fate, one bliss — 
 To peace and silence, side by side.
 
 €|)e €omctiiait 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO LESTER WALLACK. 
 
 delivered at a birthday feast, in honor of lester 
 
 wallack, at the lambs club, new-york, 
 
 january i, 1888. 
 
 Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen: 
 
 IN this distinguished presence, it were, I think, better 
 for me to remain silent than for me to speak ; yet, 
 since you will compel me to emerge from the obscurity 
 of silence, I must at least make the endeavor to re- 
 spond, if not with adequate words certainly with sin- 
 cere feeling, to your generous welcome. I thank you 
 for the privilege of being present at this festival. I thank 
 you for the surprising kindness with which your chair- 
 man's affectionate mention of my name has been re- 
 ceived. I was not aware of the existence of so strong 
 a sentiment of favor toward myself among the actors 
 of New- York, who are so largely represented here, 
 and I must be permitted to say that this tribute is in a 
 high degree gratifying to my feelings. 
 
 One reason that induced me to accept your thought- 
 ful invitation and come to this place was my desire to 
 do all possible honor to Lester Wallack, your distin- 
 guished leader and for many years a dear and cherished 
 35
 
 36 CJ)c 3l!ftor. 
 
 friend of mine. Not that the presence of so humble 
 an individual as I am could confer distinction upon that 
 renowned leader of the comedy stage of America. I 
 never thought that. But it seemed to me that by my 
 presence I might at least express my sympathy and 
 respect, and I had reason to believe that this would 
 not be unwelcome to him. There comes a time in 
 every man's life when the clouds begin to gather and 
 the shadows to deepen around him; when in the secret 
 chambers of his soul the voice of experience whispers 
 its solemn admonition that there is no one whom the 
 world cannot spare. In that somber twilight of decline 
 he naturally turns toward his friends. He is wishful 
 to feel that they remember him and love him ; that he 
 still has a place in their hearts, and that he is still 
 recognized and honored in the community to which 
 the labor of his lifetime has been devoted. The least 
 that we can do for a friend, when that hour comes, is to 
 rally around him and take him by the hand. 
 
 Another reason that I had for coming hither was 
 my desire to see and hear the representative actors of 
 New- York in the present day. At a time which by 
 many of you must already begin to be regarded as 
 the distant past it was my fortunate privilege to live in 
 association — intimate in some cases, pleasant in all — 
 with many actors who were leaders of the stage, or 
 were conspicuous ornaments upon it; with James W. 
 Wallack, jr., and Edwin L. Davenport, Mark Smith 
 and Humphrey Bland, George Holland and John Sef- 
 ton, John Brougham and John E. Owens, George 
 Jamieson and George Jordan, Daniel E. Setchell and
 
 €f)c Comcbian* 37 
 
 Tom Placide, Dolly Davenport and A. W. Young, 
 Barney Williams and Owen Marlowe, John McCul- 
 lough and Edwin Adams, Edward A. Sothern and 
 William R. Floyd, Reynolds, Norton, Hind, Hanley, 
 Raymond, and many more. They were the com- 
 panions of my every-day life. They partook of my 
 social pleasures, as I did of theirs. I knew their feel- 
 ings, their ambitions, their aspirations. One by one 
 those friends have been withdrawn, " to where, be- 
 yond these voices, there is peace." To me also time 
 and experience have taught the solemn lesson of vicis- 
 situde, evanescence, and resignation. The flowers are 
 still fragrant and the leaves still rustle; but the frag- 
 rance is of flowers that have been gathered, and the 
 leaves that rustle no longer hang upon the branches 
 but lie withering upon the ground. In this company 
 to-night I feel like one who has survived from a re- 
 mote and half-forgotten period, to see the pageant and 
 to hear the music of a new order of things. 
 
 And all that I have seen and heard here has im- 
 pressed and delighted me. Especially am I impressed 
 and delighted by your affectionate appreciation of your 
 distinguished leader. He deserves it all. The charac- 
 ter and achievements of Lester Wallack are in a high 
 degree valuable and significant to the members of your 
 profession. He is one of the few remaining actors of 
 the old school who to some extent preserve for our 
 time all that is best in the traditions of the English- 
 speaking stage. He has been an actor during forty-four 
 years — forty of those years in New-York. His career 
 illumines a far-reaching backward vista in theatrical
 
 38 €J)c sector. 
 
 history. Looking upon him to-night, remembering the 
 parts that he has played and reviewing the work that 
 he has accomphshed, I see in that golden perspective 
 the long anil stately line of his dramatic ancestry — the 
 royal figure of Robert Wilks, the magnificent William 
 Lewis, the superb Elliston, the courtly Charles Kemble, 
 the brilliant Charles Mathews, and that illustrious 
 VVallack whose name was his opulent inheritance and 
 whose great reputation he has so worthily maintained. 
 Treading in their footsteps Lester VVallack wears their 
 laurels and transmits their example. It is no common 
 ability and no common devotion which have thus kept 
 alive the sacred flame that was lighted in the great 
 days of Wilks and Cibber, Kynaston and Mountfort, 
 upon the altar of English Comedy. 
 
 In one of the old theatrical books there is a record 
 of a remark made by George Frederick Cooke to John 
 Phillip Kemble, in the days while yet they were on 
 good terms with each other: "John," he said, "if you 
 and I were pounded together in a mortar we should 
 not make a limb of a Garrick ! " This was the tes- 
 timony of one of the greatest actors that ever lived 
 — an actor who had seen Garrick and Spranger Barry; 
 an actor who surpassed Henderson ; an actor whose 
 genius inspired even so great a man as Edmund Kean 
 — and this testimony was given in recognition of the 
 unrivaled greatness of a comedian. For this, beyond 
 a doubt, was the distinctive royalty of David Garrick, 
 who, in the fullness of his fame, at the summit of his 
 greatness, when at length he retired from the stage, 
 took leave of the public not in a character of tragedy
 
 €fjc Comcbian. 39 
 
 but in a character of comedy; playing not King 
 Lear, in which he had been simply famous, but Don 
 Felix, in which he was unrivaled and supreme. These 
 facts point to a conclusion of practical and far-reach- 
 ing significance. Nobody dreams of depreciating the 
 tragic art or its great professors — the art that im- 
 plicates Hamlet, Macbeth, and Richard ; the art that 
 has given to the American stage its Cooper, its Mary 
 Duff, its Edwin Forrest, and its Edwin Booth. But 
 — '■'■Interdum tamen et vocem Comcedia tollit.^'' The 
 noble actor whom you honor to-night will be remem- 
 bered by posterity as a great comedian. In the line 
 indicated by such characters as Sir Oswin Mortlatid, 
 Harry Jasper, De Ligny, Rover, Evelyn, Valentine, 
 Prosper Coiiramont, Don Felix, and Harry Dor n ton, 
 he never, in our day, has had an equal. To those 
 who know the literature of comedy this simple state- 
 ment (which cannot successfully be controverted, and 
 which I am sure no New- York play-goer of ripe ex- 
 perience would think of denying) is a volume in itself. 
 It is my wish on this occasion carefully to avoid 
 saying any word that might be considered sad or 
 harsh ; but I cannot omit to declare my conviction 
 that the retirement of this superb comedian from the 
 active pursuit of the stage is a cause for public sorrow. 
 Wallack's Theater without Lester Wallack at the head 
 of it is no longer an institution — it is the shadow of a 
 name. But it is always the part of wisdom to look the 
 facts of life squarely in the face. When a man comes 
 near the verge of three-score years and ten he is en- 
 titled to wish to retire from the responsibilities, the
 
 40 Zt\c 31! f tor. 
 
 strife, the tumult, the stress and strain of active conflict 
 in the field of public life. Lester Wallack did not 
 relinquish the control of Wallack's Theater because he 
 was a failure, but because as a manager his work was 
 done. For nearly a quarter of a century succeeding 
 his lamented father's death — in 1864 — he conducted 
 that house, and his noble career was now rounded and 
 fulfilled. We are living in a period of change. Every 
 man of conservative ideas and feelings has felt its 
 pressure. The ideas and feelings of Lester Wallack, 
 as to the province of the art of acting and the relation 
 of the stage to society, were probably no longer in 
 practical harmony with the spirit of these times. In 
 my own humble sphere, in the press, I have seen the 
 introduction and gradual prevalence of ideas and cus- 
 toms which fill me with solicitude and dismay. They 
 are, perhaps, right ; but if so, all the convictions and 
 practice of my past life have been wrong. I have no 
 doubt that they will prevail. There is now a vast multi- 
 tude of persons to be amused, and for that multitude 
 the chromo-lithograph has taken the place (although 
 good things are still here and there accomplished upon 
 the stage) of the more valuable forms of dramatic 
 art. " The old order changes," and, one by one, we 
 who cling to ancient views and customs must vanish 
 with the faith to which we cling. I have but a single 
 thought to add, and I will speak it in the words of 
 Tennyson, in his sublime poem of "Ulysses" — words 
 which express, with such profound conviction and such 
 noble eloquence, the strength and sufficiency of a res- 
 olute will to sustain us against the ills of this mortal
 
 Clje Comcbian* 41 
 
 state and make us steadfast amid the shattered and 
 crumbHng pageantry of human life and worldly fortune. 
 I should like to think that these words fall from Lester 
 Wallack's lips — here spoken to you by him : 
 
 " Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
 
 The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
 
 To sail beyond the sunset and the baths 
 
 Of all the western stars, until I die. 
 
 It may be that the gulfs will wash us down ; 
 
 It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
 
 And see the great Achilles, whom we loved. 
 
 Though much is taken, much abides ; and though 
 
 We are not now that strength which in old days 
 
 Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are — 
 
 One equal temper of heroic mind 
 
 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, 
 
 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
 
 READ AT A BANQUET TO LESTER WALLACK,* AT THE 
 LOTOS CLUB, NEW-YORK, DECEMBER 17, 1887. 
 
 WITH a glimmer of plumes and a sparkle of lances. 
 With blare of the trumpet and neigh of the steed, 
 At morning they rode where the bright river glances 
 
 And the sweet summer wind ripples over the mead. 
 
 The green sod beneath them was ermined with daisies, 
 
 Smiling up to green boughs tossing wild in their glee, 
 
 While a thousand glad hearts sang their honors and 
 
 praises, 
 
 Where the Knights of the Mountain rode down to 
 
 the sea. 
 
 IL 
 
 One rode 'neath the banner whose face was the fairest, 
 
 Made royal with deeds that his manhood had done. 
 And the halo of blessing fell richest and rarest 
 
 On his armor that splintered the shafts of the sun. 
 So moves o'er the waters the cygnet sedately; 
 
 So waits the strong eagle to mount on the wing ; 
 Serene and puissant and simple and stately, 
 
 So shines among Princes the form of the King ! 
 
 * John Johnstone Wallack, known lo the stage as Lester Wal- 
 lack, was born on December 31, 1819, and died on September 
 6, 1888. 
 
 42
 
 ^it J)crccbaL 43 
 
 III. 
 
 With a gay bugle-note, when the daylight's last glimmer 
 
 Smites, crimson and gold, on the snow of his crest. 
 At evening he rides, through the shades growing dim- 
 mer. 
 
 While the banners of sunset stream red in the west. 
 His comrades of morning are scattered and parted — 
 
 The clouds hanging low and the winds making 
 moan — 
 But, smiling and dauntless and brave and true-hearted, 
 
 All proudly he rides down the valley, alone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sweet gales of the woodland, embrace and caress him ! 
 
 White wings of renown, be his comfort and light! 
 Pale dews of the star-beam, encompass and bless him 
 
 With the peace and the balm and the glory of night! 
 And, oh, while he wends to the verge of that ocean 
 
 Where the years, like a garland, shall fall from his 
 brow. 
 May his glad heart exult in the tender devotion — 
 
 The love that encircles and hallows him now !
 
 €1)0 Cmnratie. 
 
 AMERICAN AND ENGLISH FELLOWSHIP 
 IN ART. 
 
 SPEECH DELIVERED AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE 
 GREEN-ROOM CLUB, OF LONDON, AT THE CRITE- 
 RION HALL, PICCADILLY, JUNE 3, 1 888. 
 
 Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen : 
 
 IN gazing upon this remarkable assemblage of repre- 
 sentative Englishmen, many of whom are distin- 
 guished — and worthily distinguished — in the great 
 art of acting and in the still greater art of literature, I 
 am deeply penetrated with a saddening sense of my 
 unworthiness to speak in this presence. Left to myself 
 my instinct would have instructed me to remember, 
 with the old poet, that " They also serve who only 
 stand and wait"; and so remembering to remain 
 silent. Since, however, I am not left to myself, since 
 you have done me the great honor to ask me to respond 
 to the pleasant sentiment with which my name has 
 been graciously and gracefully associated, I must 
 at least endeavor to express — what I deeply feel — a 
 grateful sense of your generous favor and kindly con- 
 sideration. In what way shall that endeavor be made? 
 Phrases of conventional courtesy would be inadequate 
 44 
 
 \
 
 €f)e Comratic* 45 
 
 equally to your worth and to my profound sense of 
 it. Once, when your illustrious sailor Nelson was 
 in action, fighting the glorious battle of the Baltic, 
 and had occasion to send a despatch to the King of 
 Denmark, — the situation being momentous and the 
 crisis supreme, — he refused to seal that missive with a 
 wafer, but delayed until he could seal it in the old, 
 stately way, with wax ; for, said he, this is no time to 
 omit ceremony. Your compliment, as I entirely under- 
 stand, is not offered especially to me, but in part to 
 that eminent journal across the ocean (the Tribune, 
 of New- York), in which for many years I have con- 
 tinuously and zealously labored to advocate that sym- 
 pathetic alliance between the stage and society which 
 promotes the welfare of both ; and in part to your 
 numerous American friends and comrades, absent as 
 well as present, whom I know you are glad to honor, 
 and for whom you are kindly wishful that a few words 
 should be spoken by one of their countrymen. This, 
 accordingly, is no time to omit a thoughtful and earnest 
 consideration of your wishes. One cannot be a Nel- 
 son — but one can follow a good example. 
 
 It was long ago recorded of your famous orator. 
 Fox, that he once said, when speaking of Pitt and 
 himself as orators, " I can always find a word, but Pitt 
 could always find the word." One would be very glad 
 to find the word, and to speak it at a moment like this. 
 Perhaps I shall not be far wrong if I say that a signifi- 
 cant fact of this occasion is its union of American with 
 English votaries of dramatic art. No fact could be 
 more auspicious for the stage. Great interests of every
 
 46 Cfjc 5Cctor. 
 
 kind are implicated in the friendship of the two coun- 
 tries, and nothing surely can be more important than 
 a clear, and right, and sympathetic understanding and 
 alliance between the art communities of the motherland 
 and her now entirely mature, wholly independent, and 
 perhaps somewhat defiant and turbulent child. We, 
 in America, understand you — because affection is 
 clear-sighted, and our love for you makes us wise, at 
 least in this. Do you, in England, wholly understand 
 us? 
 
 Only a few days have passed since the clods of the 
 valley were cast upon the ashes of one of the clearest 
 and loftiest thinkers, one of the most sublime and 
 tender poets, one of the noblest and gentlest spirits 
 that ever lived — even in this rich realm, so fertile of 
 genius and renown. In all your hearts the laureled 
 name of Matthew Arnold will at once be whispered. 
 I knew him a little ; I loved him much ; and here, 
 almost beside his sacred dust, I would speak no word 
 of him except in reverence. Yet it may be said — 
 and, indeed, it ought to be said — that his comprehen- 
 sive condemnation of America — that ungentle verdict 
 which fell from his pen almost as his pen dropped 
 from his grasp forever — was in a degree mistaken. 
 He told us that our country is uninteresting and that 
 we have produced no literature, and thus, by impli- 
 cation, no art of any kind that is worth consideration. 
 It is a singular judgment ; but it may be regarded as a 
 typical manifestation of that part of the current of 
 English critical thought which runs adversely to Amer- 
 ica : and for that reason it is mentioned now.
 
 €(jc (Tomratic. 47 
 
 Certain things that Arnold said of us are true. 
 America does not possess that delicious charm which 
 is the outward and visible glory of England — vener- 
 able, storied, and romantic antiquity, hallowed by pas- 
 toral beauty ; and if it be meant that the American 
 people have developed more in a material than a spirit- 
 ual direction that thouglit is sound and just. The 
 sweet serenity of noble rapture which interfuses the 
 poetry of Matthew Arnold, and which wherever 
 found is the authentic sign of man's spiritual victory 
 over the senses and the world, is not common in 
 America; but then, I believe, it is not common any- 
 where. Our most dangerous and deplorable character- 
 istic — which he did not mention — is flippant cyni- 
 cism. I could wish that there were in America more 
 reverence for the ideal, more sincerity of simple, in- 
 genuous human feeling, even at the sacrifice of much 
 enterprise and much humor. But the home life of 
 America, if once you come to know it, is as sweet and 
 pure and true as the home life of England. The fire- 
 side and the altar, which are the corner-stones of your 
 English civiHzation, are as sacred there as here. The 
 love of art, in every one of its forms, is as general and 
 as keen with that people as with this. Your special 
 advantage is that you allow your best national intelli- 
 gence, your best of brain and heart, to enforce and 
 to protect, silently, sternly, and without appeal, the 
 unwritten law of nobility, refinement, and grace in 
 the daily conduct of social life; not leaving those 
 things to a judgment of the mob nor parading the 
 sanctities of the heart and the hearthstone in news-
 
 48 €l)c sector. 
 
 papers. We shall reach that in time. Meanwhile, 
 when you talk of literature and art, if Emerson be not 
 a great poet one would like to know who is. If Eng- 
 lish prose can show a better piece of romantic tragedy 
 than Hawthorne's " Scarlet Letter" I should be grate- 
 ful to make an early acquaintance with it. If man in 
 his relations with elemental nature — man on the wild 
 sea and in the boundless forest — has ever been more 
 truthfully, nobly, and romantically portrayed than in 
 those robust and breezy woodland and ocean stories 
 of Cooper it would be instructive to see the picture. 
 If modern Europe has resounded with a more brilliant 
 and stirring bugle-call of lyrical poetry than that of 
 Whittier it would be inspiriting to catch the echo of 
 it. If Bryant, Dana, Longfellow, Halleck, Poe, Lowell, 
 Holmes, Curtis, Bayard Taylor, Stoddard, Aldrich, and 
 Stedman mean nothing in literature the inquiring mind 
 would like to know wherein literature consists. If 
 actors such as Edwin Forrest, Edwin Booth, Joseph 
 Jefferson, Lawrence Barrett, Richard Mansfield, Char- 
 lotte Cushman, Mary Anderson, Clara Morris, and 
 Ada Rehan were not "born in the purple" it might 
 well be asked who were and what the purple means. 
 Argumentative discussion soon grows tedious. All 
 that I intended was to suggest the fallacy of this ad- 
 verse English criticism of America. The error consists 
 in an inveterate and unreasonable demand for new 
 forms. That which is said of literature is also said, or 
 is implied, of the stage. Let us see fresh types. Many 
 persons in England have accepted, and have extolled 
 even to the verge of extravagance, one of our authors
 
 €Ijc Comrabc. 49 
 
 — Walt Whitman — for no better reason than because 
 he has discarded all versification and all prose as well, 
 and furnished in their place an unmelodious catalogue 
 of miscellaneous images, generally commonplace and 
 sometimes coarse. That auctioneer list of natural facts 
 and objects, that formless proclamation of carnal ap- 
 petites and universal democracy, was accepted as 
 grandly original only because it was uncouth. It 
 would appear to be thought that since three thousand 
 miles of ocean roll between the two continents every 
 artist of the western world is under obligation to obey 
 the edict of Sir Anthony Absolute and " get an at- 
 mosphere and a sun of his own." Distinct he should 
 be, whether writer or actor, and he generally is so, in 
 all that constitutes mdividuality. But surely it ought 
 to be remembered that neither the English language 
 nor the English heart changes because we cross the 
 sea. America is simply bearing onward the standard 
 of art that was first uplifted in England. Almost the 
 whole history of our stage, from John Moody to Henry 
 Irving, is the history of English expeditions westward, 
 leaving English traditions in the new world. So too 
 is it with our literature. Neither ocean, prairie, nor 
 wilderness will ever furnish a poet with a grander in- 
 strument or a more copious and noble form of expres- 
 sion than the blank verse of Shakspere and Milton. 
 Insist on superlative excellence in the use of that, if 
 you will; but do not censure us because we do not 
 excel! it. Not Polar snows nor blazing Andes will 
 ever provide a greater subject than the human heart, 
 human passions, human life. Poetry is the language 
 
 7
 
 50 €l)c ^ftor. 
 
 of feeling ; acting is the moving picture of nature; and 
 American poetry, American acting, American art, in 
 any and every form, can do no more than to utter, 
 portray, and interpret what it feels. Already, to those 
 who know it well, American art possesses a distinct and 
 valuable character; yet, when all is said, it remains, 
 and always must be, and always will be, and always 
 ought to be, the continuation and kindred sequence of 
 the superb art of England. 
 
 And that is why the American votary of art comes 
 as often as he can, in thjese latter days, into England : 
 because, deep in his soul, a subtle, loving impulse 
 steadily urges him backward, backward, to the fountain 
 of his blood. As on a summer day, in the hot and 
 dusty city, the pale toiler pauses listless at his task 
 and seems to see again the long green fields in which 
 he played as a happy boy, the shimmering branches 
 of elm and willow, the sheep upon the hillside, the 
 drifting summer clouds, the droning bee-hives, the ap- 
 ple-blossoms showering over the peaceful grass, the 
 blue-eyed, brown-cheeked girl who looked into his 
 eyes with perfect trust and gave him his first kiss of 
 love, — so the American pilgrim, reverent of the past 
 and of this great realm from which he sprang, dreamily 
 turns from the din of incessant toil and strife around 
 him, the busy building of the great republic of all the 
 nations of the world, and gladly and sadly lets his 
 thoughts drift back to the dear old mother-land that 
 to him is the home of perpetual romance and beauty. 
 Round it are gloomy seas and over it float forever the 
 changing mystery and pageant of smiling and frown-
 
 Zf^e €omrat!C» 51 
 
 ing clouds ; but its heart is all sunshine and love — 
 the love in which we are basking to-night; guests of 
 the Green-Room Club, but not of the Green-Room 
 Club alone ; guests of Shakspere and Br.rbage, Better- 
 ton and Garrick, Kemble and Kean, Mrs. Siddons and 
 Macready, and that whole long line of illustrious actors 
 that ends with the great name of Henry Irving. I can 
 only thank you for the privilege that we enjoy, and for 
 the generous patience with which you have listened to 
 my words. Joy is more joyous to us, in this land of 
 poetry and flowers, than it is anywhere else; and grief 
 comes more softly to the stricken heart that must endure 
 and wait.
 
 Cf)c Cragcbinn. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 speech delivered at a midnight supper, in honor 
 of edwin booth, given by augustin daly 
 and a. m. palmer, at delmonico's, new- 
 york, march 30, 1889. 
 
 Mr. President and Gentlemen : 
 
 IT was my fortune many years ago to be present in 
 the old Boston Theater on a night when that famous 
 American actor Edwin Forrest, at the close of an ex- 
 ceedingly prosperous engagement, represented Hamlet 
 and delivered a farewell address. I can see him now, 
 as I saw him then, — not the most intellectual nor the 
 most brilliant figure in our theatrical history, but cer- 
 tainly the most colossal, the most imposing, the most 
 definite, impressive, inspired animal individuality that 
 ever has been seen upon the American stage; and I can 
 hear his voice as I then heard it, when, as he gazed 
 upon a vast assemblage of the public and upon the 
 stage that was literally covered with flowers, he said 
 — in those magnificent, vibrating, organ tones of his, 
 which never in our day have been equaled — "Here, 
 indeed, is a miracle of culture — a wilderness of roses, 
 and not a single thorn ! " To-night it is my fortune to 
 be present at this memorable feast of tribute to genius 
 
 62
 
 €!)c ^ragctiian. 53 
 
 and virtue, and to behold his great and famous succes- 
 sor in the leadership of tragic art in America sur- 
 rounded by friends who greet him with affection no 
 less than homage, and who honor themselves rather 
 than him by every denotement of respect and appreci- 
 ation they possibly can give to Edwin Booth ; and I 
 can imagine that he also, looking upon your eager, 
 happy, affectionate faces, and listening to your genial 
 eloquence — in this scene of light and perfume and 
 joy, of high thought and sweetly serious feeling, and 
 gentle mirth — may utter the same exclamation of 
 grateful pride — '* Here, indeed, is a miracle of culture 
 — a wilderness of roses, and not a single thorn ! " 
 
 For if a man eminent in public life and illustrious in 
 the realm of art may not indulge a sentiment of honest 
 pride and grateful exultation at such a moment as this, 
 I know not when he may indulge it. Honors are 
 sometimes given where they are not due; but, in those 
 cases, although they are accepted they are not en- 
 joyed. In the present instance they flow as naturally 
 and as rightly to the object of our esteem as rivers 
 flow to the sea. Edwin Booth adopted the profession 
 of the stage when he was in his sixteenth year and he 
 has been an actor close on forty years. Looking back 
 upon that long career of ambitious and noble labor and 
 achievement I think he must be conscious — I know 
 that we who have observed and studied it are con- 
 scious — that he has been animated in every minute 
 of it by the passionate desire, not to magnify and 
 glorify himself, but through the ministration of a great 
 and beautiful art to stimulate the advancement of
 
 54 ^^t %ttOt, 
 
 others, to increase the stock of harmless pleasure, to 
 make the world happier and nobler, and to leave the 
 stage a better institution than it was when he found 
 it. Speaking with reference to actors in general, it 
 might perhaps justly be said that it is the infirmity of 
 each one of them to consider himself as the center of 
 a solar system around which everything else in the 
 creation revolves. Not so with the guest of this occa- 
 sion, the hero of this festal hour — the favorite of our 
 fancy and the comrade of our love! For he "has 
 borne his faculties so meek, has been so clear in his 
 great office," that whether on the golden summits of 
 prosperity or in the valley of the shadow of loss and 
 sorrow his gentle humility of disposition, his simple 
 fidelity to duty, his solid sincerity of self-sacrificing 
 character and his absolutely guileless and blameless 
 conduct of life have been equally conspicuous with his 
 supreme dramatic genius, his artistic zeal, and his glit- 
 tering renown. Edwin Booth's fame is assured, and I 
 think it stands now at its height ; and no artistic fame 
 of our generation can be accounted brighter; but the 
 crowning glory of it is the plain fact that an occasion 
 like this — representative to him of the universal sen- 
 timent and acclamation of his time — is simply the 
 spontaneous acknowledgment that grateful sincerity 
 awards to genuine worth. My words about him, on 
 another festival occasion in this place, may fitly be 
 repeated now : 
 
 Though skies might gloom and tempests rave, 
 Though friends and hopes might fall. 
 
 His constant spirit, simply brave, 
 Would meet and suffer all —
 
 €Jc €ragebian» 55 
 
 Would calmly smile at fortune's frown, 
 
 Supreme o'er gain or loss : 
 And he the worthiest wears the crown 
 
 That gently bore the cross ! 
 
 It was not to tell Edwin Booth that he is a great 
 actor, and it was not to tell him that he is dear to the 
 hearts of his friends, that this assemblage has been 
 convened. The burning of incense is a delightful and 
 often a righteous occupation, and of all the duties that 
 your Shakspere has taught there is no one that he 
 urges with more strenuous ardor than that of whole- 
 hearted admiration for everything that is noble and 
 lovely in human nature and conduct. Him, at least, 
 you never find niggard and reticent in his praise. 
 But, as I apprehend it, the motive of this occasion 
 was the desire to express, for our own sake, our sense 
 of obligation to Edwin Booth for the lesson of his life. 
 As the years drift away, as the shadows begin to slope 
 to the eastward, as the first faint mists mingle with 
 the light of the sinking sun, nothing impresses me so 
 much as the imperative need that we should preserve 
 the illusions of a youthful spirit and look upon this 
 world, not in the cold and barren light of fact, but 
 through the golden haze of the imagination and the 
 genial feelings. To some men and women it is granted 
 that they can diffuse this radiant glamour of ideal 
 charm. Like a delicate perfume that suddenly comes 
 upon you from a withered rose, or a bit of ribbon, or a 
 tress of hair, long hallowed and long preserved ; like 
 a faint, far-off strain of music that floats on a summer 
 breeze across the moonlit sea; they touch the spirit 
 with a sense of the beauty and glory, the mystery and
 
 56 Zf\c ?[fror. 
 
 the pathos of our existence, and we are lifted up and 
 hallowed and strengthened, and all that is bitter in our 
 experience and sordid in our surroundings is soothed 
 and sweetened and glorified. They teach us hope and 
 beHcf, instead of doubt and despondency ; and thus, 
 in a world of trouble and sorrow, giving to us the 
 human patience and the spiritual nobility which, more 
 than anything else, we need, they 
 
 " Shed a somethin}; of celestial liKht 
 Round the familiar face of every day." 
 
 It is because Edwin Booth has been in this way a 
 blessing to his generation that we are met to thank 
 him ; and, furthermore, it is because in a period that 
 greatly recjuires nobility of practical example he is a 
 vital and influential and conclusive proof that an actor 
 may know and may fulfil his duty to his time. What, 
 that duty is you will not expect any speaker here to 
 describe. I will but ask you to recall what the Ameri- 
 can stage was when he came upon it thirty years ago, 
 and to consider what it is now, and to whose influence 
 mainly its advancement is due. And I will but add 
 that when you stand beneath the stupendous majesty 
 of St. Paul's Cathedral and look upon the marble 
 which commemorates its great architect you may read 
 one sentence that is the perfect flower of simplicity 
 and eloquence — " If you would behold his monument, 
 look around you ! "
 
 speech delivered at the annual dinner of the 
 
 goethe society, at the hotel brunswick, 
 
 new- york, december 9, 1 889. 
 
 Mr. President, and Ladies and Gentlemen: 
 
 THE time through which we are passing is a Pagan 
 time — fruitful of material results, almost sterile 
 in spiritual advancement. It may perhaps end in a 
 glorious fruition : let us hope that it will, and let us 
 labor that it may ; but in the mean while its fret and 
 fever, its wild and whirling tumult of chaotic force, and 
 its strident vulgarity make it hard to bear. In this 
 period and in this capital, accordingly, the prosperous 
 existence of such an association as the Goethe Society 
 is an auspicious and cheering sign. It means that the 
 service of the intellect and the soul is not forgotten 
 and has not been abandoned. The Goethe Society 
 was not organized for that great educational purpose 
 of the American College, that favorite theme of the 
 fostering American Press — the knocking and kicking 
 of a ball. Your association bears the name of one 
 of the greatest intellectual men that ever lived — 
 the grandest type in literature of the man who is 
 self-made because, by the process of education, he 
 has removed all excess and repaired all deficiency in 
 8 57
 
 58 ri)c ^Cctor, 
 
 himself, till the structure of his being has become 
 symmetrical and ])erfect. Goethe was a man who did 
 not believe that there is necessarily wisdom in the 
 multitude ; he had no faith in government by the 
 many ; he did not think that human progress consists 
 in crowning the apex of the social pyramid with the 
 basis of the mob. He was the apostle of the intellect 
 and the soul, and your society, following in his path- 
 way, is consecrated to the service of the ideal, of which 
 his illustrious name is the ample and splendid symbol. 
 It is with deep and grateful satisfaction, accordingly, 
 and at the same time with humble solicitude, in the 
 presence of such a distinguished company, that I en- 
 deavor to respond to the sentiment in my honor, so 
 gracefully announced by your President and so gra- 
 ciously received by you. 
 
 In the second scene of Goethe's supreme and im- 
 perial tragedy there is a moment when Faust and 
 his disciple, standing upon the mountain-side, look 
 down upon the wide and blooming valley — its peace- 
 ful cottages nestled in the bright green of glistening 
 foliage and the whole sweet twilight scene slumbering 
 in the rose and gold of sunset. In that delicious 
 moment, so full at once of beauty and of sadness, the 
 worn and weary thinker utters his deep aspiration that 
 he might be permitted forever and forever to follow 
 the sun in its setting — "the Day before me and the 
 Night behind" — and thus always to behold the world, 
 as now, bathed in a supernal light of loveliness and 
 clothed in a celestial garment of peace. The mood is 
 a representative mood. We have all felt it. We are
 
 €f)C gOCt. 59 
 
 all conscious of something in ourselves which is higher 
 and nobler than what we reveal. We are all conscious 
 that there is something in the possibilities of human 
 existence better and grander than the life we lead. 
 Every day we live the pressure of material civilization 
 becomes harder and harder. Every day we live the 
 burden of care grows heavier ; the tide of sensuality 
 rises higher; the mood of reckless levity becomes more 
 heedless and more bitter; and the glow and the ardor 
 of the spirit droop and wane. 
 
 " For each day brings its petty dust. 
 
 Our soon choked souls to fill, 
 And we forget because we must. 
 
 And not because we will." 
 
 The wings that lift the mind, says Goethe, cannot 
 lift the body. Yet if the mind be lifted, if the instinct 
 of spiritual life be vindicated and cheered, the man is 
 strengthened for his struggle — which is a struggle for 
 the attainment of a self-centered, pure, and noble in- 
 dividuality, self-reliant, tranquil, gentle, patient in the 
 present and fearless of the future. That refuge it is 
 the poet's mission — in so far as he may be thought 
 to have a mission — constantly to declare. I do not 
 mean the writer of verses ; I mean the expositor of 
 human nature and experience, the interpreter of human 
 destiny. That mission he will fulfil in many ways. 
 Sometimes it is Democritus, who laughs. Sometimes 
 it is iEschylus, who weeps. Sometimes it is Keats, 
 singing in the haunted chambers of imagination, " with 
 magic casements opening on the foam of perilous
 
 6o €f\t 5[ttor. 
 
 seas." Sometimes it is Byron, with his grand organ- 
 note of passionate agony. Sometimes it is Words- 
 worth, uttering the solemn voice of the mountain and 
 the cloud. Sometimes it is Goethe, voicing the har- 
 monies of the universe and raising the choral hymn of 
 art. Once, and only once, it was the lark that sings 
 at the gate of heaven — the immortal, the unmatchable 
 strain of Shakspere. These and such as these are our 
 comfort in the thorny pathways of the world, as we 
 walk through the valley of the shadow, sometimes in 
 the storm and sometimes in the sunshine, coming no 
 man knows whence and going no man knows whither. 
 They keep alive in us the freshness of our youth ; and 
 many a jaded toiler, as he listens to their music, sees 
 again the apple-blossoms falling around him in the 
 twilight of some long-forgotten spring, when the girl 
 of his heart was first clasped to his bosom and the 
 first kiss of love was laid upon his lips. 
 
 " Still o'er the scene my memory wakes, 
 And fondly broods with miser care. 
 
 Time but the impression deeper makes, 
 As streams their channels deeper wear." 
 
 Mr. Winter then read the following original poem : 
 
 SYMBOLS. 
 I. 
 Not to give light alone those urns 
 Of golden fire adorn the skies ! 
 Not for her vision only burns 
 
 The glory of a woman's eyes ! 
 But in those flames and that fine glance 
 The authentic flags of heaven advance.
 
 ^fje ^ort. 6 1 
 
 II. 
 
 In them we know our life divine, 
 
 For which the unnumbered planets roll. 
 
 Action and suffering are but sign ; 
 
 Within the substance dwells the soul ; 
 
 And till we rend this earthly thrall 
 
 We do not truly live at all.
 
 A TRIBUTE TO WHITELAW REID. 
 
 I. 
 
 speech delivered at a farewell dinner in com- 
 pliment to the hon. whitelaw reid, u. s. 
 minister to france, at the lotos club, 
 new-york, april 27, 1889. 
 
 Mr. President and Gentlemen : 
 
 I AM deeply sensible of the privilege that you have 
 accorded to me of participating in this festival of 
 honor to Whitelaw Reid, and I should be glad if it 
 were possible for me to respond in the language of 
 eloquence to your cordial and generous greeting. But 
 eloquence is not at my command; and, furthermore, 
 since I have lived for twenty years on terms of affec- 
 tionate friendship with your distinguished guest — 
 being as it were a member of his household, and per- 
 haps the oldest member of his staff when he was the 
 editor of the Tribune — I feel that my place, on this 
 occasion and in this assemblage, is rather with those 
 who listen than with those who speak. 
 
 While, however, I cannot be eloquent and certainly 
 cannot be coldly judicial, I can at least be simply true; 
 and, whatever may be the adverse opinion of critical
 
 €f)e Sitrtiniali^t, 6;^ 
 
 cynicism, there is no estimate of any man's worth so 
 sound, so just, so righteous, so subtly appreciative, and 
 so irrefragable in its authority as that of the affection 
 which his goodness and his charm have inspired and 
 retained. This hour of tribute belongs, perhaps, ex- 
 clusively to those observers and speakers who view its 
 object from the impartial distance; and certainly it 
 gladdens my heart to hear their words of praise. Yet, 
 after all, the voice of the fireside, blending gently with 
 more formal panegyric, may touch the strain of your 
 homage with a not unwelcome music. There are many 
 who know, of Whitelaw Reid, that he is a man of bril- 
 liant abilities, long conspicuous in a career of splendid 
 public achievement. They have seen, in the undeni- 
 ably great success of the J\^ew-Y(^rk Tribune for the last 
 twenty years, the power of his character, the wisdom of 
 his judgment, the depth of his humanity, the wide grasp 
 of his intelligence, the royal liberality of his enterprise 
 and the invincible stability of his patient courage. But 
 there are not many who can be so keenly aware as I am 
 (because they have not stood so near to him) of the 
 nobility of his mind, the sweetness of his temperament, 
 the gentleness and generosity of his conduct, the mag- 
 nanimity of his thought, and the purity and simplicity 
 of his life. That is my knowledge of the man whom 
 you have assembled to honor; and these words of 
 mine are not the less thoughtful and authentic because 
 spoken by a devoted personal friend. 
 
 There is, I am aware, a certain fantastic, Brutus-like 
 ideal of human conduct, which apparendy assumes 
 that the crown and glory of social existence is a gelid,
 
 64 Cfic 3llctor. 
 
 bloodless insensibility to all the gentler feelings of 
 human nature; and this ideal enjoins that you are 
 never to stand by anybody who happens to be your 
 friend, and that you are never to serve anybody unless 
 it be a stranger or an enemy. To my mind the humor 
 of old Menenius is far more rational ; and in all Shak- 
 spere I do not recall a more hearty and satisfying as- 
 piration than the glad cry of that bluff old soldier to 
 the victorious Marcius, returning triumphant from his 
 wars : 
 
 "A curse begin at the very root of his heart 
 That is not glad to see thee ! " 
 
 Enemies, no doubt, are good things. I am always 
 pleased when I hear that certain men in this commun- 
 ity have been maligning my name. The man without 
 an enemy is the creature described by Sir Oliver Sur- 
 face in the comedy, who "has bowed as low to knaves 
 and fools as to the honest dignity of genius and vir- 
 tue." But enemies are persons to be ignored : whereas 
 friends, I think, should always be remembered and 
 prospered. It was with great satisfaction, accordingly, 
 that I heard of the appointment of Whitelaw Reid to 
 be the American Minister to France. Public office 
 may derive dignity from its association with the perfect 
 character of a gentleman, but the perfect character 
 of a gentleman can derive no dignity from association 
 with public office. My pride and pleasure in this 
 appointment were not prompted by the thought that 
 Whitelaw Reid had been honored, but rather by a 
 sentiment of exultation that the government of my
 
 €f)e gfoumalijeft 65 
 
 country should be wise enough and fortunate enough 
 to appreciate his value and to obtain his service. The 
 rank indeed, in this instance, is the stamp of national 
 approbation — but it is given where it was entirely 
 deserved. 
 
 This world, said Wendell Phillips, is divided into two 
 classes — men who do things and men who stand by 
 and grumble because the things are not done in some 
 other way. Your new Minister to France belongs to 
 the former class, and the whole of his intellectual life 
 has been one continual battle for noble principles, high 
 ideals, and the public good. It is not for me, at this 
 time, to pause upon specific details of his career ; but 
 there is one passage of it that I will mention. When 
 the great heart and brain of Horace Greeley, broken 
 and despoiled by the ingratitude of the American peo- 
 ple, went down in death, there came a dark hour — 
 an hour in which the old Tribune, a gallant barque 
 half shattered by the tempest, rolled darkly on a dan- 
 gerous sea. In that supreme crisis of her peril it was 
 the skill of Whitelaw Reid that righted her; it was his 
 firm hand that lopped away her broken spars and use- 
 less cordage ; it was his dauntless and steadfast cour- 
 age that steered her — nobly freighted with the cause 
 and the hopes of the American people — out upon that 
 broad, golden ocean of human progress where she has 
 ever since been speeding, with all her canvas set and 
 all her standards streaming in the blast. The man thus 
 capable of wrestmg prosperity out of ruin may well be 
 chosen to represent the American Republic in the merid- 
 ian splendor of the great historic capital of France; 
 9
 
 66 €{)C Victor. 
 
 and this nation may well be proud to be represented 
 there by one of the most distinctively American as well 
 as one of the noblest of her sons. 
 
 The chronic conventional view of human life stead- 
 fastly insists that every man must be circumscribed 
 by his vocation. If you happen to be the editor of a 
 newspaper you must not enter into the service of 
 your country, because if you enter into the service 
 of your country the independence of your newspaper 
 will be paralyzed. That is, all the relations of human 
 society are based upon deceit; you are never sincere ex- 
 cept when you complain and denounce ; and there can 
 be no such thing as candor except between strangers 
 or foes. No doctrine could be more petty or more 
 pernicious. That man should be ashamed to have a 
 friend who could not at all times receive the truth from 
 his lips, or could not at every proper time pour the truth 
 into his mind. Besides, in the development of an intel- 
 lectual life there can be no limitation. In one of the 
 books of my boyhood there was a story that much fas- 
 cinated my imagination, about a youth who attempted, 
 by cutting rests for his hands and feet in the limestone, 
 to climb a little way up the precipitous arch of the great 
 Natural Bridge in Virginia, but who ascended so far 
 that no backward step was possible, and whose only 
 and imperative course was to cut his perilous way on- 
 ward and upward, till he stood at last safe upon the 
 dizzy summit. So it is with the advancement of an am- 
 bitious and noble career. You cannot go backward. 
 As the mind broadens so likewise does the scope of 
 duty. If power and privilege are augmented, so like-
 
 €jjc Siountaliieft. 67 
 
 wise is responsibility. And though the horizon were 
 to widen ever so much, 
 
 " Man still would see, . . . 
 Beyond his vision's utmost range, 
 Far regions of eiernal change." 
 
 The ultimate consequences of the step that our old 
 friend is now to take are not to be conjectured ; but 
 we, who know him so well, know that he will go for- 
 ward from one conquest to another — ^ because he was 
 bom for victory and not defeat. Nothing in the world 
 is so precious as opportunity ; nothing in life so im- 
 portant as the right improvement of it. His life, 
 guided and swayed by this truth, will be free from 
 error in the future, even as it has been in the past. 
 Equally in joy and in sorrow, therefore, we bid him 
 farewell. We can all join in this good-by. We can 
 all pray that Heaven may bless his footsteps, wherever 
 they turn. And, finally, we can all echo the solemn 
 and tender words of the old Hebrew poet : 
 
 God stand between me and thee while we are absent one from 
 another !
 
 68 €l)C %ttOt. 
 
 II. 
 
 speech delivered at a dinner at delmonico's, 
 n. y., may 3, 1889, given by the editorial 
 staff of the n, y. tribune, in compli- 
 ment to the hon. whitelaw reid, 
 u. s. minister to france. 
 
 Mr. President, and Comrades and Friends : 
 ''T^HOUGH it be true, in the exquisite words of 
 X Shakspere, that " silence is the perfectest herald 
 of joy," certainly it is equally a truth that silence is the 
 consummate eloquence of sorrow. Both these feelings, 
 blended here and now, do but imperfectly prompt to 
 speech. This occasion, impressive in many ways, is 
 chiefly impressive by its absolute, perfect, and touching 
 simplicity, and I know that I cannot speak of such a 
 moment as this in a manner adequate to its gentle and 
 lovely spirit or to the deep emotion with which it is 
 regarded by you. This is a festival of separation, and 
 in this uncertain world every separation, however tran- 
 sient and temporary, becomes pathetic to a thoughtful 
 mind, because it prefigures that inevitable and final 
 separation when we are parted to meet no more. That 
 is why " greeting ever smiles and farewell goes out 
 sighing." The honored leader under whose guidance 
 we have so long and so happily labored in our pro- 
 fession, some of us for many years, will lead us no 
 longer. The dear and cherished friend with whom 
 we have lived in so much harmony and contentment 
 — some of us on terms of affectionate intimacy, all of
 
 €{je SPoumalijBft 69 
 
 us in esteem and kindness — will cease from this night 
 to be our companion. We have asked him to come 
 here, accordingly, and we have assembled around 
 him now, in order that we may try to tell him how 
 deeply, for our own sake, we regret his departure; 
 how constantly and with what earnest good-will our 
 thoughts will follow him across the sea; and with 
 what a tender remembrance his name will be cher- 
 ished in our hearts. The word for such a moment 
 is obvious, and there are speakers, no doubt, who 
 could easily utter it. We can all say " good-by." 
 We can all exclaim, in Shakspere's music, " May all 
 the number of the stars give light to thy fair way." 
 We can all murmur the solemn and tender aspiration 
 of the old Hebrew Bible, " God stand between me 
 and thee while we are absent one from another." 
 There is a deep and serious and abiding significance 
 in those simple words. They reach far and they cover 
 much. And yet I think that we — his professional 
 associates, his old friends and comrades, the soldiers 
 who have served under his banner and fought by his 
 side — are conscious that something would still remain 
 unspoken which ought to be spoken, if we were only 
 and simply thus to say farewell. The moment is one 
 for words of sorrow and for words of joy, but also it is 
 one for words of honor. There is a chaplet of laurel 
 for Whitelaw Reid that should be woven for him now 
 in your presence; yet as I stand here to-night, in term 
 of continuous service the oldest member of the 7>7- 
 bune editorial staff so lately his — certainly one of his 
 oldest friends — abounding and rejoicing in gentle
 
 70 Cljc 3llctor. 
 
 memories of an affectionate friendship of twenty years 
 — I may say, with the old poet : 
 
 " It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around his honored brow, — 
 But I 've in vain essayed it. 
 
 And feel I cannot now." 
 
 In that enthralling scene of sable splendor which 
 closes the sublime experience of Hamlet — when the 
 last smile has just faded from his beautiful face and 
 his weary heart at length rests from its long trouble — 
 while yet the lovely farewell words of Horatio are 
 trembling in the air — "Good night, sweet Prince! 
 and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! " — suddenly, 
 to the sound of drums and trumpets, glittering in 
 golden armor and canopied with victorious banners, 
 stands forth the resplendent figure of Fortinbras, 
 triumphant and potent and superb. By that pathetic 
 and eloquent pageant the great poet marks for us, 
 with his imperial touch and his immortal color, the 
 contrast between the man of dreams and the man of 
 deeds. Myself a dreamer all my life, and standing 
 now in the shadow and among the fallen leaves, I 
 view with ever increasing gratitude and delight the 
 victory and prosperity of the man of action. Philos- 
 ophy should do no injustice to that superb type of 
 manhood and of practical force. No doubt it is a 
 world of strife and tumult in which he lives ; but it 
 would be a world of drift and chaos without him. 
 You can muse in security and peace over your Mon- 
 taigne and your Emerson, because you have had your
 
 €|)c SouniaIij0ft» ji 
 
 Washington and your Grant. The career of Whitelaw 
 Reid — a career of intellectual and of practical labor, 
 as a man of action, extending over a period of more 
 than thirty years — has been one incessant warfare 
 for human rights ; and at no moment of it has he 
 neglected to advocate any and every idea tending 
 toward the advancement of the human race. As the 
 animating and guiding and controlling spirit — the 
 brain and the heart — of a great public journal, he 
 has displayed in marvelous affluence the capacity of 
 comprehending every condition of contemporary ex- 
 perience, and of entering into every noble aspiration 
 of the actual life of his time. To do this, and to con- 
 fer upon all these aspects of general vitality and of 
 individual character the utterance of picture and of 
 voice — so that, whether their result be failure and 
 ruin or victory and renown, every phase of humanity 
 shall be shown exactly as it is in its struggle — is to be 
 a great journalist ; and such a journalist is Whitelaw 
 Reid. Nobody can wonder that such a man should 
 be chosen to represent the American Republic in one 
 of the highest and most important diplomatic stations 
 in Europe ; and nobody can doubt that he will repre- 
 sent the Republic there with the same calm wisdom, 
 the same affluent and splendid ability, the same intrepid 
 spirit, and the same unerring taste and grace and re- 
 finement that have marked the whole of his career. 
 
 Our sorrow is that we lose his guidance and com- 
 panionship. Our joy ought to be that the seal of national 
 approval and admiration is set upon our leader and 
 comrade — that the verdict of our love and our judg-
 
 72 €f)e sector* 
 
 ment (although we did not need such a tribute and 
 should esteem and cherish him just as much without it) 
 has been ratified by the sentiment of the nation. And 
 our joy should likewise be that a man with faculties so 
 ripe and so superbly trained, and with a nature so re- 
 ceptive to every broadening and ennobling influence 
 of high thought, pure art, and a beautiful civilization, 
 should find the field of his mental activity growing 
 wider and wider, under the happiest auspices of ever 
 fresh experience. No fact of life is more absolute and 
 decisive than that of the gradual but sure isolation of 
 the man of high intellect from the primrose paths of 
 peace and repose. Sometimes, from his mountain height, 
 he may look down with longing eyes into the smiling 
 valley of contentment and rest ; but contentment and 
 rest are not for him. His place is the place of danger 
 and vigil. He is the true " watcher on the threshold," 
 the sentinel on the ramparts of the new age, and into his 
 hands are committed the destinies of his race. There 
 is no other pathway for our friend than that pathway 
 of circumstantial diversity and intellectual growth ; and 
 it ought to make us proud and happy to behold him 
 thus advanced and illustrious, playing a great part, and 
 worthy and able to play it, and to play it greatly, upon 
 a most brilliant theater of modern civilization. 
 
 Once, at a time now seemingly far distant, it was my 
 privilege and my happiness, in the mellow moonbeams 
 of a beautiful summer night, to stand upon the summit 
 of the Shakspere Cliff, at Dover, and to gaze for a long 
 while, in voiceless reverie, upon that gaunt, mysterious 
 coast and that romantic, shining sea. Overhead the
 
 €|)c Sfioumali^t* 73 
 
 great constellations hung in the dark blue heaven and 
 among them the full-orbed moon kept her imperial 
 state. Far to the left frowned the somber castle, lonely 
 on its sequestered crag. Beneath nestled the ancient, 
 historic city, sleeping in the moonlight. The winds 
 were hushed. The waves were still. A few ships, 
 floating in the Channel, like spirits seen in dreams, 
 drifted now and then out of the shadow, glimmered a 
 moment across the silver track of the moon, and lapsed 
 into darkness. And far away to the southward I saw 
 for the first time the flash of the watch-fires on the 
 shore of France. It would be long— it would be im- 
 possible — to tell the thoughts that made that hour for- 
 ever glorious and memorable in my life ; but mingled 
 with them all was the inspiring consciousness of look- 
 ing, at last, upon the land of roses and of song, the land 
 of love and wine, the land that was my country's friend 
 when most a friend was needed. France has always 
 been dear to the hearts of Americans. She will be 
 dearer than ever to us now because her bosom will en- 
 shrine the loved and honored friend to whom this night 
 we say farewell. 
 
 Because in danger's darkest hour. 
 
 When heart and hope sank low, 
 She nerved our frail and faltering power 
 
 To brave its mightiest foe; 
 Because our fathers smiled to see 
 
 Her golden lilies dance 
 O'er the proud field that made us free, 
 
 We plight our faith to France !
 
 74 €l)c 5l!ftor. 
 
 Ah, grand and sweet the holy bond 
 
 That who gives all is blest ! 
 And Love can give no pledge beyond 
 
 The life she loves the best ! 
 That pledge these hallowed rites declare 
 
 Of choice and not of chance, — 
 And he shall cross the sea to bear 
 
 Our loyal hearts to France ! 
 
 Strong, tender, gentle, patient, wise, 
 
 Brave soul and constant mind. 
 True wit, that kindles as it flies 
 
 And leaves no grief behind, — 
 Be thine to wear the snowy plume 
 
 And poise the burnished lance — 
 Our rose of chivalry, to bloom 
 
 Among the knights of France ! 
 
 Be thine the glorious task to speed 
 
 The conquering age of gold — 
 Till ravaged peace no more can bleed, 
 
 And History's muse behold 
 Borne in the vanward, fast and far. 
 
 Of the free world's advance. 
 Blent with Columbia's bannered star, 
 
 The triple stripes of France !
 
 €|)e 5Fnatb. 
 
 EULOGY UPON HENRY EDWARDS* 
 
 AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE FUNERAL OF HENRY 
 
 EDWARDS, COMEDIAN, AT 185 EAST Ii6tH 
 
 STREET, NEW-YORK, JUNE II, 1 89 1. 
 
 I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me : Write, Blessed 
 are the dead which die in the Lord, from henceforth. Yea, saith 
 the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors ; and their works 
 do follow them. 
 
 They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither 
 shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. 
 
 There shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, 
 neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are 
 passed away. 
 
 Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell 
 with them. 
 
 For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed 
 them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of water, and 
 God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. 
 
 ''I^HE Bible belongs not to the Church, but to the 
 
 JL world. In those touching words which are taken 
 
 from it — words which are inspired, precisely as the 
 
 words of Shakspere are often inspired, with the glow 
 
 * Henry Edwards, comedian, was born at Ross, in Wales, 
 September 3, 1824, and died at No. 185 East Ii6th Street, New- 
 York, on the night of June 8, 1891. He was an actor almost all 
 
 75
 
 76 €lje 3Cctor» 
 
 and the grandeur of imaginative insight — the old 
 Hebrew poet has expressed the conviction of per- 
 sonal immortality and of an existence of happiness 
 beyond the grave which is at once the consummate 
 product and the sustaining impulse of the human 
 mind. 
 
 If the voice that here is hushed forever could but 
 speak in these obsequies, if the eyes that here are 
 closed in death could but look upon this scene, the 
 faith that we all ought to cherish would be made a 
 living word; the hope that ought to sustain us would 
 be flashed into every heart. In the religion of creed 
 and dogma — in what is called " revealed religion " — 
 meaning thereby the religion which depends upon 
 printed documents and which might be seriously im- 
 periled, if not overthrown, by typographical mistakes 
 — the friend for whom we mourn did not put his trust. 
 He was, nevertheless, a deeply religious man. He 
 knew that the intuitions of the human soul, the analo- 
 gies of nature, and the testimonies of literature (which 
 is the highest expression of humanity) pomt to one 
 and the same conclusion, personal immortality and 
 
 his life. In New-York he was associated with Wallack's Theater, 
 from November 7, 1879, to 1887. His last appearance on the 
 stage was made, with Mr. Daly's company, at the Academy of 
 Music, Brooklyn, April 30, 1891, as Adam in "As You Like It." 
 He particularly excelled in the line of old men. He was the author 
 of a book of sketches and addresses entitled, " A Mingled Yarn." 
 It was by his wish and the request of his widow that the funeral 
 services over his remains were conducted by me. His body was 
 taken to the crematory at Fresh Pond, Long Island, immediately 
 after the funeral and there incinerated.
 
 €J)c f ricnb, 77 
 
 continuous, unending development. He knew that 
 to be the logic of the universe. He believed that, and 
 he lived in accordance with his belief. Purity, charity, 
 kindness, and noble aspiration were the laws of his 
 life. 
 
 In a conversation about actors and their religious 
 views that I once had with the Rev. Dr. Bellows, he 
 spoke especially of Joseph Jefferson, in whose char- 
 acter and art he was deeply interested, and he asked 
 me this question : " Is he a Christian ? " " He is not," 
 I replied, *' a member of any Christian church, but he 
 has passed his life in helping other people and in doing 
 good." And the Rev. Dr. Bellows answered : " That 
 is the best kind of Christian and good enough for me." 
 
 I wish that I could say anything that would give 
 even a little comfort to the heart-broken woman who 
 here mourns for her lover, her husband, her friend, her 
 companion of many years, whom in this world she 
 will see no more. We would all comfort her if we 
 could. But all that we can tell her is that we also 
 loved him and that our tears are mingled with hers. 
 We know, and we would beg her to remember, not 
 only that he was tender and loving, but that always, 
 in every hour of their wedded life and love, she was a 
 comfort and blessing to him. No duty was left un- 
 done by her, no word of love unspoken, no kindness 
 unbestowed. She must weep for him because she 
 loved him, and because he is parted from her. But 
 she is spared the most desolate of all sorrow — the 
 remorseful, hopeless, bitter grief that brings its wither- 
 ing roses and its useless tears to a gravestone.
 
 78 Zi^e 5Cctor. 
 
 I wish that I could express the feehngs of these 
 mourning friends, their grief for the loss of this good 
 man, their deep sense of his nobility, his splendid 
 talents, his worthy achievements in art and literature 
 and science, his potent excellence as an example, his 
 charm as a comrade, his simple dignity and his fidelity 
 and sweetness. But no words are adequate in such 
 moments as this to the craving of love and honor for 
 eulogy of the dead. Let me simply say that the 
 reasons we have for pride in the remembrance of 
 Henry Edwards are reasons for our consolation in the 
 loss of him. He was not cut off in the morning of his 
 days, with all the happiness and renown of a good and 
 great life unrealized and unachieved. He had lived 
 almost to the usual limit of human existence. Born 
 near the birthplace of David Garrick, he early evinced 
 a deep sympathy with the dramatic art, of which Gar- 
 rick still remains the most illustrious representative. 
 While yet a youth he drifted to Australia and there 
 formally adopted the profession of the stage. From 
 Australia he drifted to California, constantly prospering 
 as actor, orator, and scientist, prospering ever more and 
 more in his conquest of the esteem and affection of 
 gentle people. From California he came to this Atlan- 
 tic seaboard, and here he took and steadily held, in the 
 highest of our theaters, his professional rank with the 
 foremost and the best. Not a creative actor, but 
 rather the product of scholarship and tradition, he 
 represented not the original genius of the stage, but its 
 versatile proficiency and fine conservatism. He did not 
 astonish and dazzle ; he satisfied. His attributes were
 
 €l)c fticnb. 79 
 
 intellectual character, taste, humor, and tenderness, and 
 the blended charm of these was enhanced by a dignified 
 personality and by that fine distinction of manner which 
 is the flower of innate simplicity and courtesy. His 
 career of more than sixty years marks the ample 
 development of his character and the beneficent, beau- 
 tiful, and admirable fulfilment of his destiny. All that 
 it was in him to accomplish had been accomplished. 
 His work in this world was done, and his long life — 
 blessed with love, rewarded with success, and crowned 
 with honor — was without one blemish. What richer 
 legacy than that could talent and virtue leave to be- 
 reaved affection and faithful memory ! 
 
 Equally in life and in art success is dependent on 
 sincerity and sympathy. Henry Edwards was genuine 
 and human. I do not suppose that any one to whom 
 he was known ever thought of him without a sudden 
 feeling of kindness and pleasure. The mention of his 
 name always brought a smile. Twenty-two days ago 
 I clasped his hand for the last time. He was at once 
 to go away and we were to meet no more. I remember 
 — and I rejoice to remember — that he produced upon 
 my mind then the self-same impression that he had 
 produced at every meeting between us during the many 
 years of our friendship — the impression of absolute 
 goodness, benevolence, simplicity, and truth. He was 
 a man whom it was natural to love, for every impulse 
 of his heart was an impulse of kindly interest in the 
 welfare and happiness of others. And now that the 
 smile is frozen on his face, now that the cheery voice 
 can speak no more, now that the kind hand will never
 
 8o €f)C %ttOt. 
 
 be stretched forth again in greeting, our way grows 
 lonely and cold. 
 
 " His memory long will live alone, 
 In all our hearts, as mournful light 
 
 That broods above the fallen sun 
 
 And dwells in heaven half the night." 
 
 In the awful presence of death all vanity is rebuked, 
 all pride becomes humility, all the greatness of the world 
 is a mist that drifts away. Let us endeavor, while 
 there is yet time, to learn the lesson of our bereave- 
 ments, to look at death as a great and solemn fact. 
 It draws nearer and nearer to each one of us every hour 
 we live. " Man goeth to his long home, and the 
 mourners go about the streets." 
 
 There is no more but this. " Earth to earth. Ashes 
 to ashes. Dust to dust." 
 
 " Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace ! 
 
 Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 
 While the stars burn, the moons increase, 
 
 And the great ages onward roll."
 
 PUBLICATIONS OF THE DUNLAP SOCIETY 
 
 1886— 1887. 
 
 I. The Contrast. A comedy by Royall Tyler, 
 with an introduction by Thomas J. McKee. 
 II. The Father, or American Shandyism. A 
 comedy by William Dunlap, with an introduc- 
 tion by Thomas J. McKee. 
 
 III. Opening Addresses. Edited by Laurence 
 
 Hutton. 
 
 1888. 
 
 IV. Andr6. a tragedy in five acts, by William 
 
 Dunlap, with an introduction by Brander 
 Matthews. 
 V. Thomas Abthorpe Cooper. A memoir of 
 his professional Hfe, by Joseph Norton Ireland. 
 VI. Biennial reports of the treasurer and secretary 
 of the Dunlap Society.
 
 1889. 
 
 VII. Brief Chronicles, by William Winter, Part I. 
 
 VIII. Brief Chronicles, by William Winter. Part II. 
 
 IX. Charlotte Cushman, A lecture by Lawrence 
 
 Barrett, with an appendix containing a letter 
 
 from Joseph N. Ireland. 
 
 1890. 
 
 X. Brief Chronicles, by William Winter, Partlll. 
 
 XL John Gilbert. A sketch of his life, together 
 
 with extracts from his letters and souvenirs of 
 
 his career, by William Winter. 
 
 XII. Occasional Addresses, Edited by Laurence 
 
 Hutton and William Carey. 
 
 1891. 
 
 XIIL The Actor and Other Speeches : Chiefly on 
 Theatrical Subjects and Occasions, by William 
 Winter.
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
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 liiiliii 
 
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