LITMIR.BIZ

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which do not stir the “Britannic,” and only gently move the “Blackbird,” fairly toss the “Yosemite’s” boat; but the occupants appear to be quite at home in her. She disappears around the “Britannic’s” bows to make the port side for boarding, and as she does so Mr. Irving suddenly appears between the gangway and the ship’s boats, on a level with the deck of the “Blackbird” about midships. “There he is!” shout a score of voices. He looks pale in the cold, raw light; but he smiles pleasantly, and takes off a felt bowler hat as the “Blackbird” gives him a cheer of welcome.

      “Won’t you come here? The quarantine authorities object to our visiting the ship until the doctor has left her.”

      A plank is thrust from our paddle-box, Irving climbs the “Britannic’s” bulwark, and grasps a hand held out to steady him as he clambers aboard the “Blackbird” right in the midst of the interviewers. Shaking hands with his manager, Mr. Abbey, and others, he is introduced to some of the pressmen, who scan his face and figure with undisguised interest. By this time Messrs. Barrett and Florence appear on the “Britannic.” They have got safely out of their boat and have a breezy and contented expression in their eyes. Irving now recrosses the temporary gangway, and is fairly embraced by his two American friends. The band strikes up, “Hail to the Chief!” Then the gentlemen of the press are invited to join Mr. Irving on board the “Yosemite.” They are arrested by what one of them promptly designates “a vision of pre-Raphaelitish beauty.” It is Miss Ellen Terry.[3] Every hat goes off as she comes gayly through the throng. “Portia, on a trip from the Venetian seas!” exclaims an enthusiastic young journalist, endeavoring to cap the æsthetic compliment of his neighbor. Escorted by Mr. Barrett, and introduced by Mr. Irving, she is deeply moved, as well she may be, by the novel scene. “Britannic” passengers crowd about her to say good-by; the band is playing “Rule, Britannia”; many a gay river boat and steamer is navigating the dancing waters; the sun is shining, flags fluttering, and a score of hands are held out to help Portia down the gangway on board the “Yosemite,” which is as trim and bright and sturdy in its way as a British gun-boat. While the heroine of the trip is taking her seat on deck, and kissing her hand to the “Britannic,” the “Yosemite” drives ahead of the ocean steamer. Mr. Irving goes down into the spacious cabin, which is crowded with the gentlemen against whose sharp and inquisitive interrogations he has been so persistently warned.

V.

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      “Well, gentlemen, you want to talk to me,” he says, lighting a cigar, and offering his case to his nearest neighbors.

      The reporters look at him and smile. They have had a brief consultation as to which of them shall open the business, but without coming to any definite arrangement. Irving, scanning the kindly faces, is no doubt smiling inwardly at the picture which his London friend had drawn of the interviewers. He is the least embarrassed of the company. Nobody seems inclined to talk; yet every movement of Irving invites interrogatory attack.

      “A little champagne, gentlemen,” suggests Mr. Florence, pushing his way before the ship’s steward and waiters.

      “And chicken,” says Irving, smiling; “that is how we do it in London, they say.”

      This point is lost, however, upon the reporters, a few of whom sip their champagne, but not with anything like fervor. They have been waiting many hours to interview Irving, and they want to do it. I fancy they are afraid of each other.

      “Now, gentlemen,” says Irving, “time flies, and I have a dread of you. I have looked forward to this meeting, not without pleasure, but with much apprehension. Don’t ask me how I like America at present. I shall, I am sure; and I think the bay superb. There, I place myself at your mercy. Don’t spare me.”

      Everybody laughs. Barrett and Florence look on curiously. Bram Stoker, Mr. Irving’s acting manager, cannot disguise his anxiety. Loveday, his stage-manager and old friend, is amused. He has heard many curious things about America from his brother George, who accompanied the famous English comedian, Mr. J. L. Toole (one of Irving’s oldest, and perhaps his most intimate, friend), on his American tour. Neither Loveday nor Stoker has ever crossed the Atlantic before. They have talked of it, and pictured themselves steaming up the North river into New York many a time; but they find their forecast utterly unlike the original.

      “What about his mannerisms?” says one reporter to another. “I notice nothing strange, nothing outre either in his speech or walk.”

      “He seems perfectly natural to me,” the other replies; and it is this first “revelation” that has evidently tongue-tied the “reportorial” company. They have read so much about the so-called eccentricities of the English visitor’s personality that they cannot overcome their surprise at finding themselves addressed by a gentleman whose grace of manner reminds them rather of the polished ease of Lord Coleridge than of the bizarre figure with which caricature, pictorially and otherwise, has familiarized them.

      “We are all very glad to see you, sir, and to welcome you to New York,” says one of the interviewers, presently.

      “Thank you with all my heart,” says Irving.

      “And we would like to ask you a few questions, and to have you talk about your plans in this country. You open in ‘The Bells,’—that was one of your first great successes?”

      “Yes.”

      “You will produce your plays here just in the same way as in London?” chimes in a second interviewer.

      “With the same effects, and, as far as possible, with the same cast?”

      “Yes.”

      “And what are your particular effects, for instance, in ‘The Bells’ and ‘Louis XI.,’ say, as regard mounting and lighting?”

      “Well, gentlemen,” answers Irving, laying aside his cigar and folding his arms, “I will explain. In the first place, in visiting America, I determined I would endeavor to do justice to myself, to the theatre, and to you. I was told I might come alone as a star, or I might come with a few members of my company, and that I would be sure to make money. That did not represent any part of my desire in visiting America. The pleasure of seeing the New World, the ambition to win its favor and its friendship, and to show it some of the work we do at the Lyceum—these are my reasons for being here. I have, therefore, brought my company and my scenery. Miss Ellen Terry, one of the most perfect and charming actresses that ever graced the English stage, consented to share our fortunes in this great enterprise; so I bring you almost literally the Lyceum Theatre.”

      “How many artists, sir?”

      “Oh, counting the entire company and staff, somewhere between sixty and seventy, I suppose. Fifty of them have already arrived here in the ‘City of Rome.’ ”

      “In what order do you produce your pieces here?”

      “ ‘The Bells,’ ‘Charles,’ ‘The Lyons Mail,’ ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ we do first.”

      “Have you any particular reason for the sequence of them?”

      “My idea is to produce my Lyceum successes in their order, as they were done in London; I thought it would be interesting to show the series one after the other in that way.”

      “When do you play ‘Hamlet?’ ”

      “On my return to New York in the spring.”

      “Any special reason for that?”

      “A managerial one. We propose to keep one or two novelties for our second visit. Probably we shall reserve ‘Much Ado’ as well as ‘Hamlet.’ Moreover, a month is too short a time for us to get through our repertoire.”

      “In which part do you think you most excel?”

      “Which

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