Amongst the many journalists who were Irving’s friends, none was closer than William Winter, the dramatic critic of the New York _Tribune_, whose work is known all over America. Winter is not only a critic, but a writer of books of especial charm and excellence, and a poet of high order. One of his little poems which he spoke at a dinner of welcome to Irving on his first arrival at New York in 1883 is so delightful that I venture to give it—especially as it had a prophetic instinct as to the love and welcome extended to the actor throughout the whole of the United States. He and Irving had been already friends for some time, and always saw a good deal of each other during Winter’s visits to London. The occasion was the dinner given by Colonel E. A. Buck, to attend which many of the friends present came from Cleveland, Buffalo, West Point, Louisville, Chicago—distances varying from fifty to a thousand miles. HENRY IRVING. A WORD OF WELCOME. _November 18, 1883._ I If we could win from Shakespeare’s river The music of its murmuring flow, With all the wild-bird notes that quiver Where Avon’s scarlet meadows glow, If we could twine with joy at meeting Their love who lately grieved to part, Ah, then, indeed, our word of greeting Might find an echo in his heart. II But though we cannot, in our singing, That music and that love combine, At least we’ll set our blue-bells ringing, And he shall hear our whispering pine; And these shall breathe a welcome royal, In accents tender, sweet, and kind, From lips as fond and hearts as loyal As any that he left behind! WILLIAM WINTER. XXX PERFORMANCE AT WEST POINT