This is by the way.

What I want to make clear is that in 1883 there was no living American drama as there is now, that such productions of romantic plays and Shakespeare as Henry Irving brought over from England were unknown, and that the extraordinary success of our first tours would be impossible now.  We were the first and we were pioneers, and we were new.  To be new is everything in America.

Such palaces as the Hudson Theater, New York, were not dreamed of when we were at the Star, which was, however, quite equal to any theater in London in front of the footlights.  The stage itself, the lighting appliances, and the dressing-rooms were inferior.

Henry made his first appearance in America in “The Bells.”  He was not at his best on the first night, but he could be pretty good even when he was not at his best.  I watched him from a box.  Nervousness made the company very slow.  The audience was a splendid one—­discriminating and appreciative.  We felt that the Americans wanted to like us.  We felt in a few days so extraordinarily at home.  The first sensation of entering a foreign city was quickly wiped out.

The difference in atmosphere disappears directly one understands it.  I kept on coming across duplicates of “my friends in England.”  “How this girl reminds me of Alice.”  “How like that one is to Gill!” We had transported the Lyceum three thousand miles—­that was all.

On the second night in New York it was my turn.  “Command yourself—­this is the time to show you can act!” I said to myself as I went on to the stage of the Star Theater, dressed as Henrietta Maria.  But I could not command myself.  I played badly and cried too much in the last act.  But the people liked me, and they liked the play, perhaps because it was historical; and of history the Americans are passionately fond.  The audience took many points which had been ignored in London.  I had always thought Henry as Charles I. most moving when he made that involuntary effort to kneel to his subject, Moray, but the Lyceum audiences never seemed to notice it.  In New York the audience burst out into the most sympathetic spontaneous applause that I have ever heard in a theater.

I know that there are some advanced stage reformers who prefer to think applause “vulgar,” and would suppress it in the theater if they could.  If they ever succeed they will suppress a great deal of good acting.  It is said that the American actor, Edwin Forrest, once walked down to the footlights and said to the audience very gravely and sincerely:  “If you don’t applaud, I can’t act,” and I do sympathize with him.  Applause is an instinctive, unconscious act expressing the sympathy between actors and audience.  Just as our art demands more instinct than intellect in its exercise, so we demand of those who watch us an appreciation of the simple unconscious kind which finds an outlet in clapping rather than the cold, intellectual approval which would self-consciously think applause derogatory.  I have yet to meet the actor who was sincere in saying that he disliked applause.