I set out in 1882 from Liverpool on board the Britannic with the fixed conviction that I should never, never return.  For six weeks before we started, the word America had only to be breathed to me, and I burst into floods of tears!  I was leaving my children, my bullfinch, my parrot, my “aunt” Boo, whom I never expected to see alive again, just because she said I never would; and I was going to face the unknown dangers of the Atlantic and of a strange, barbarous land.  Our farewell performances in London had cheered me up a little—­though I wept copiously at every one—­by showing us that we should be missed.  Henry Irving’s position seemed to be confirmed and ratified by all that took place before his departure.  The dinners he had to eat, the speeches that he had to make and to listen to, were really terrific!

One speech at the Rabelais Club had, it was said, the longest peroration on record.  It was this kind of thing:  Where is our friend Irving going?  He is not going like Nares to face the perils of the far North.  He is not going like A——­ to face something else.  He is not going to China, etc.,—­and so on.  After about the hundredth “he is not going,” Lord Houghton, who was one of the guests, grew very impatient and interrupted the orator with:  “Of course he isn’t!  He’s going to New York by the Cunard Line.  It’ll take him about a week!”

Many people came to see us off at Liverpool, but I only remember seeing Mrs. Langtry and Oscar Wilde.  It was at this time that Oscar Wilde had begun to curl his hair in the manner of the Prince Regent.  “Curly hair to match the curly teeth,” said some one.  Oscar Wilde had ugly teeth, and he was not proud of his mouth.  He used to put his hand to his mouth when he talked so that it should not be noticed.  His brow and eyes were very beautiful.

Well, I was not “disappointed in the Atlantic,” as Oscar Wilde was the first to say, though many people have said it since without acknowledging its source.

My first voyage was a voyage of enchantment to me.  The ship was laden with pig-iron, and she rolled and rolled and rolled.  She could never roll too much for me!  I have always been a splendid sailor, and I feel jolly at sea.  The sudden leap from home into the wilderness of waves does not give me any sensation of melancholy.

What I thought I was going to see when I arrived in America I hardly remember.  I had a vague idea that all American women wore red flannel shirts and carried bowie knives and that I might be sandbagged in the street!  From somewhere or other I had derived an impression that New York was an ugly, noisy place.

Ugly!  When I first saw that marvelous harbor I nearly cried—­it was so beautiful.  Whenever I come now to the unequaled approach to New York I wonder what Americans must think of the approach from the sea to London!  How different are the mean, flat, marshy banks of the Thames and the wooden toy lighthouse at Dungeness to the vast, spreading Hudson with its busy multitude of steamboats, and ferryboats, its wharf upon wharf, and its tall statue of Liberty dominating all the racket and bustle of the sea traffic of the world!