Of the characters played by Henry Irving in the plays of the first division—­before “Macbeth,” that is to say—­I think every one knows that I considered Hamlet to be his greatest triumph.  Sometimes I think that was so because it was the only part that was big enough for him.  It was more difficult, and he had more scope in it than in any other.  If there had been a finer part than Hamlet, that particular part would have been his finest.

When one praises an actor in this way, one is always open to accusations of prejudice, hyperbole, uncritical gush, unreasoned eulogy, and the rest.  Must a careful and deliberate opinion always deny a great man genius?  If so, no careful and deliberate opinions from me!

I have no doubt in the world of Irving’s genius—­no doubt that he is with David Garrick and Edmund Kean, rather than with other actors of great talents and great achievements—­actors who rightly won high opinions from the multitude of their day, but who have not left behind them an impression of that inexplicable thing which we call genius.

Since my great comrade died I have read many biographies of him, and nearly all of them denied what I assert.  “Now, who shall arbitrate?” I find no contradiction of my testimony in the fact that he was not appreciated for a long time, that some found him like olives, an acquired taste, that others mocked and derided him.

My father, who worshiped Macready, put Irving above him because of Irving’s originality.  The old school were not usually so generous.  Fanny Kemble thought it necessary to write as follows of one who had had his share of misfortune and failure before he came into his kingdom and made her jealous, I suppose, for the dead kings among her kindred: 

“I have seen some of the accounts and critics of Mr. Irving’s acting, and rather elaborate ones of his Hamlet, which, however, give me no very distinct idea of his performance, and a very hazy one indeed of the part itself as seen from the point of view of his critics.  Edward Fitzgerald wrote me word that he looked like my people, and sent me a photograph to prove it, which I thought much more like Young than my father or uncle. I have not seen a play of Shakespeare’s acted I do not know when.  I think I should find such an exhibition extremely curious as well as entertaining.”

Now, shall I put on record what Henry Irving thought of Fanny Kemble!  If there is a touch of malice in my doing so, surely the passage that I have quoted gives me leave.

Having lived with Hamlet nearly all his life, studied the part when he was a clerk, dreamed of a day when he might play it, the young Henry Irving saw that Mrs. Butler, the famous Fanny Kemble, was going to give a reading of the play.  His heart throbbed high with anticipation, for in those days TRADITION was everything—­the name of Kemble a beacon and a star.

The studious young clerk went to the reading.