1857-1859.
EDINBURGH AND THE SCOTTISH THEATRES.
At the Sunderland Theatre he remained only four months, and though the
manager pressed him to stay with him, the young actor felt that here
he had not the opportunities he desired. He accordingly accepted an
engagement at the Edinburgh Theatre, which began on February 9, 1857.
Among the faces that used to be familiar at any “first night” at the
Lyceum were those of Mr. Robert Wyndham and his wife. There is something
romantic in the thought that these guests of the London manager and
actor in the height of his success and prosperity should have been the
early patrons of the unfriended provincial player. Mr. Wyndham was one
of the successors of that sagacious Murray to whom the Edinburgh stage
owes so much that is respectable. Here our actor remained for two years
and a half, enjoying the benefits of that admirable, useful discipline,
by which alone a knowledge of acting is to be acquired—viz., a varied
practice in a vast round of characters. This experience, though acquired
in a hurried and perfunctory fashion, is of enormous value in the way
of training. The player is thus introduced to every shade and form of
character, and can practise himself in all the methods of expression.
Now that provincial theatres are abolished, and have given place to the
“travelling companies,” the actor has few opportunities of learning his
business, and one result is a “thinness” or meagreness of interpretation.
In this Edinburgh school our actor performed “a round,” as it is called,
of no fewer than three hundred and fifty characters! This seems amazing.
It is, in truth, an extraordinary list, ranging over every sort of minor
character.
He here also enjoyed opportunities of performing with famous “stars” who
came round the provinces, Miss Ellen Faucit, Mrs. Stirling, Vandenhoff,
Charles Dillon, Madame Celeste, “Ben” Webster, Robson, the facetious
Wright, the buoyant Charles Mathews, his life-long friend Toole, of
“incompressible humour,” and the American, Miss Cushman.[1] This, it is
clear, was a period of useful drudgery, but in it he found his account.
The company visited various Scotch towns, which the actor has described
pleasantly enough in what might seem an extract from one of the old
theatrical memoirs. He had always a vein of quiet humour, the more
agreeable because it is unpretending and without effort.
It would be difficult to give an idea of the prodigious labour which this
earnest, resolute young man underwent while struggling to “learn his
profession” in the most thorough way. The iron discipline of the theatre
favoured his efforts, and its calls on the exertions of the actor
seem, nowadays, truly extraordinary. In another laborious profession,
the office of “deviling” for a counsel in full practice, which entails
painful gratuitous drudgery, is welcomed as a privilege by any young man
who wishes to rise. A few of these Edinburgh bills are now before me,
and present nights of singularly hard work for so young a man. We may
wonder, too, at the audience which could have stomach for so lengthy
a programme. Thus, one night, January 7, 1858, when the pantomime was
running, the performances began with the pantomime of ‘Little Bo-Peep,’
in which we find our hero as Scruncher, “the Captain of the Wolves.”
After the pantomime came ‘The Middy Ashore,’ in which he was Tonnish,
“an exquisite,” concluding with ‘The Wandering Boys,’ in which we again
find him as Gregoire, “confidential servant to the Countess Croissey.”
We find him nearly always in three pieces of a night, and he seems, in
pieces of a light sort, to have been “cast” for the gentlemanly captain
of the “walking” sort; in more serious ones, for the melodramatic and
dignified characters. In ‘Nicholas Nickleby’ he was the hero; and also
Jack Wind, the boatswain, the chief mutineer, in ‘Robinson Crusoe.’
In the course of this season Toole and Miss Louisa Keeley came to the
theatre, when Irving opened the night as the Marquis de Cevennes in ‘Plot
and Passion,’ next appearing in the “laughable farce” (and it _is_ one,
albeit old-fashioned), ‘The Loan of a Lover,’ in which he was Amersfort,
and finally playing Leeford, “Brownlow’s nephew,” in ‘Oliver Twist.’
The young man, full of hope and resolution, went cheerfully through
these labours, though “my name,” as he himself tells us, “continued
to occupy a useful but obscure position in the playbill, and nothing
occurred to suggest to the manager the propriety of doubling my salary,
though he took care to assure me I was ‘made to rise.’” This salary was
the modest one of thirty shillings a week, then the usual one for what
was termed “juvenile lead.” The old classification, “walking lady,”
“singing chambermaid,” “heavy father,” etc., will have soon altogether
disappeared, simply because the round of characters that engendered it
has disappeared. Now the manager selects, at his goodwill and pleasure,
anybody, in or out of his company, who he thinks will best suit the
character.
As Mr. Wyndham informs me: “During the short period he was under our
management, both Mrs. Wyndham and myself took a most lively interest in
his promotion, for he was always perfect, and any character, however
small, he might have been called upon to represent, was in itself a
study; and I believe he would have sacrificed a week’s salary—a small
affair, by the way—to exactly look like the character he was about to
portray.”
Of these old Edinburgh days Irving always thought fondly. At the Scottish
capital he is now welcomed with an affectionate sympathy; and the various
intellectual societies of the city—Philosophical and others—are ever glad
to receive instruction and entertainment from his lips. In November,
1891, when he was visiting the Students’ Union Dramatic Society, he
told them that some thirty years before “he was member of a University
there—the old Theatre Royal. There he had studied for two years and a
half his beautiful art, and there he learnt the lesson that they would
all learn, that—
“‘Deep the oak must sink its roots in earth obscure,
That hopes to lift its branches to the sky.’”
In some of his later speeches “of occasion” he has scattered little
autobiographical touches that are not without interest. On one occasion
he recalled how he was once summoned over to Dublin to supply the place
of another actor at the Queen’s Theatre, then under the direction of
two “manager-twins,” the Brothers Webb. The Queen’s was but a small
house, conducted on old-fashioned principles, and had a rather turbulent
audience. When the actor made his appearance he was, to his astonishment,
greeted with yells, general anger, and disapprobation. This was to be his
reception throughout the whole engagement, which was luckily not a long
one. He, however, stuck gallantly to his post, and sustained his part
with courage. He described the manager as perpetually making “alarums and
excursions” in front of the curtain to expostulate with the audience.
These “Brothers Webb, who had found their twinship profitable in playing
the ‘Dromios,’ were worthy actors enough, and much respected in their
profession; they had that marked individuality of character now so rarely
found on the boards. Having discovered, at last, what his offence was,
viz., the taking the place of a dismissed actor—an unconscious exercise
of a form of ‘land-grabbing’—his placid good-humour gradually made its
way, and before the close of the engagement he had, according to the
correct theatrical phrase, ‘won golden opinions.’”
At the close of the season—in May, 1859—the Edinburgh company set out
on its travels, visiting various Scotch provincial towns. During
this peregrination, when at Dundee, the idea occurred to him and a
brother-player of venturing “a reading” in the neighbouring town of
Linlithgow. This adventure he has himself related in print. Our actor has
an agreeable vein of narrative, marked by a quiet, rather placid humour,
which is also found in his occasional speeches. The charm and secret of
this is the absence of affectation or pretence; a talisman ever certain
to win listeners and readers. Taking his friend, who was Mr. Saker, into
his confidence, he proceeded to arrange the scheme. But he shall tell the
story himself:
“I had been about two years upon the stage, and was fulfilling my
first engagement at Edinburgh. Like all young men, I was full of hope.
It happened to be vacation time—‘preaching week,’ as it is called in
Scotland—and it struck me that I might turn my leisure to account by
giving a reading. I imparted this project to another member of the
company, who entered into it with enthusiasm. He, too, was young and
ambitious. I promised him half the profits.
“Having arranged the financial details, we came to the secondary
question—Where was the reading to be given? It would scarcely do in
Edinburgh; the public there had too many other matters to think about.
Linlithgow was a likely place. My friend accordingly paid several visits
to Linlithgow, engaged the town-hall, ordered the posters, and came back
every time full of confidence. Meanwhile, I was absorbed in the ‘Lady
of Lyons,’ which, being the play that most charmed the fancy of a young
actor, I had decided to read; and day after day, perched on Arthur’s
Seat, I worked myself into a romantic fever. The day came, and we arrived
at Linlithgow in high spirits. I felt a thrill of pride at seeing my
name for the first time in big capitals on the posters, which announced
that at ‘eight o’clock precisely Mr. Henry Irving would read the “Lady
of Lyons.”’ At the hotel we eagerly questioned our waiter as to the
probability of there being a great rush. He pondered some time; but we
could get no other answer out of him than ‘Nane can tell.’ ‘Did he think
there would be fifty people there?’ ‘_Nane can tell._’
“Eight o’clock drew near, and we sallied out to survey the scene of
operations. The crowd had not yet begun to collect in front of the
town-hall, and the man who had undertaken to be there with the key was
not visible. As it was getting late, we went in search of the doorkeeper.
He was quietly reposing in the bosom of his family, and to our
remonstrance replied, ‘Ou, ay, the reading! I forgot all aboot it.’ This
was not inspiriting.
“The door was opened, the gas was lighted, and my manager made the
most elaborate preparations for taking the money. While he was thus
energetically applying himself to business, I was strolling like a casual
spectator on the other side of the street, taking some last feverish
glances at the play, and anxiously watching for the first symptoms of
‘the rush.’
“The time wore on. The town clock struck eight, and still there was no
sign of ‘the rush.’ Half-past eight, and not a soul to be seen—not even a
small boy! I could not read the ‘Lady of Lyons’ to an audience consisting
of the manager, with a face as long as two tragedies, so there was
nothing for it but to beat a retreat. No one came out even to witness our
discomfiture. Linlithgow could not have taken the trouble to study the
posters, which now seemed such horrid mockeries in our eyes.
“We managed to scrape together enough money to pay the expenses, which
operation was a sore trial to my speculative manager, and a pretty severe
tax upon the emoluments of the ‘juvenile lead.’ We returned to Edinburgh
the same night, and on the journey, by way of showing that I was not at
all cast down, I favoured my manager with selections from the play, which
he good-humouredly tolerated.
“This incident was vividly revived last year, as I passed through
Linlithgow on my way from Edinburgh to Glasgow, in which cities I gave,
in conjunction with my friend Toole, two readings on behalf of the
sufferers by the bank failure, which produced a large sum of money. My
companion in the Linlithgow expedition was Mr. Edward Saker—now one of
the most popular managers in the provinces.”
In March, 1859, we find our actor at the old Surrey Theatre, playing
under Mr. Shepherd and Mr. Creswick, for a “grand week,” so it was
announced, “of Shakespeare, and first-class pieces; supported by Miss
Elsworthy and Mr. Creswick, whose immense success during the past week
has been _rapturously endorsed_ by crowded and enthusiastic audiences.”
“Rapturously endorsed” is good. In ‘Macbeth’ we find Irving fitted with
the modest part of Siward, and this only for the first three nights in
the week. There was an after-piece, in which he had no part, and ‘Money’
was given on the other nights.
But he had now determined to quit Edinburgh, lured by the prospect of
“a London engagement,” an _ignis fatuus_ for many an actor, who is too
soon to find out that a London engagement does not mean exactly a London
success. In 1859 he made his farewell appearance in ‘Claude Melnotte,’
and was received in very cordial fashion. As he told the people of
Glasgow many years later, he ever thought gratefully of the Scotch, as
they were the first who gave him encouragement.
Once when engaged at some country theatre in Scotland the company were
playing in ‘Cramond Brig,’ a good sound old melodrama—of excellent
humour, too. Years later, when the prosperous manager and actor was
directing the Lyceum, some of the audience were surprised to find him
disinterring this ancient drama, and placing it at the opening of the
night’s performance. But I fancy it was the associations of this little
adventure that had given it a corner in his memory, and secured for it a
sort of vitality. Thus he tells the story:
“When the play was being rehearsed, our jolly manager
said, ‘Now, boys, I shall stand a real supper to-night; no
paste-board and parsley, but a real sheep’s head, and a little
drop of real Scotch.’ A tumult of applause.
“The manager was as good as his word, for at night there was
a real head well equipped with turnips and carrots, and the
‘drop of real Scotch.’ The ‘neighbour’s bairn,’ an important
character in the scene, came in and took her seat beside the
miller’s chair. She was a pretty, sad-eyed, intelligent child
of some nine years old. In the course of the meal, when Jock
Howison was freely passing the whisky, she leaned over to
him and said, ‘Please, will you give me a little?’ He looked
surprised. She was so earnest in her request, that I whispered
to her, ‘To-morrow, perhaps, if you want it very much, you
shall have a thimbleful.’
“To-morrow night came, and, as the piece was going on, to my
amusement, she produced from the pocket of her little plaid
frock a bright piece of brass, and held it out to me. I said,
‘What’s this?’ ‘A thimble, sir.’ ‘But what am I to do with it?’
‘You said that you would give me a thimbleful of whisky if I
wanted it, and I do want it.’
“This was said so naturally, that the audience laughed and
applauded. I looked over to the miller, and found him with
the butt-end of his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes
wide open, gazing at us in astonishment. However, we were both
experienced enough to pass off this unrehearsed effect as a
part of the piece. I filled the thimble, and the child took
it back carefully to her little ‘creepy’ stool beside the
miller. I watched her, and presently saw her turn her back to
the audience and pour it into a little halfpenny tin snuff-box.
She covered the box with a bit of paper, and screwed on the
lid, thus making the box pretty watertight, and put it into her
pocket.
“When the curtain fell, our manager came forward and patted the
child’s head. ‘Why, my little girl,’ said he, ‘you are quite a
genius. Your gag is the best thing in the piece. We must have
it in every night. But, my child, you mustn’t drink the whisky.
No, no! that would never do.’
“‘Oh, sir, indeed I won’t; I give you my word I won’t!’ she
said quite earnestly, and ran to her dressing-room.
“‘Cramond Brig’ had an unprecedented run of six nights, and the
little lady always got her thimbleful of whisky, and her round
of applause. And each time I noticed that she corked up the
former safely in the snuff-box. I was curious as to what she
could possibly want with the spirit, and who she was, and where
she came from. I asked her, but she seemed so unwilling to
tell, and turned so red, that I did not press her; but I found
out that it was the old story—no mother, and a drunken father.
“I took a fancy to the little thing, and wished to fathom
her secret, for a secret I felt sure there was. After the
performance, I saw my little body come out. Poor little child!
there was no mother or brother to see her to her home. She
hurried up the street, and turning into the poorest quarter of
the town, entered the common stair of a tumbledown old house. I
followed, feeling my way as best I could. She went up and up,
till in the very top flat she entered a little room. A handful
of fire glimmering in the grate revealed a sickly boy, some two
years her junior, who crawled towards her from where he was
lying before the fire.
“‘Cissy, I’m glad you’re home,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d never
come.’
“She put her arms round him, laid the poor little head on her
thin shoulder, and took him over to the fire again, trying to
comfort him as she went.
“The girl leaned over and put her arms round him, and kissed
him; she then put her hand into her pocket and took out the
snuff-box.
“‘Oh, Willie, I wish we had more, so that it might cure the
pain.’
“Having lighted a dip candle, she rubbed the child’s rheumatic
shoulder with the few drops of spirit, and then covered up the
little thin body, and, sitting before the fire, took the boy’s
head on her knee, and began to sing him to sleep.
“I took another look into the room through the half-open door;
my foot creaked; the frightened eyes met mine. I put my finger
on my lips and crept away.
“But as I began to descend the stair I met a drunken man
ascending—slipping and stumbling as he came. He slipped and
stumbled by me, and entered the room. I followed to the landing
unnoticed, and stood in the dark shadow of the half-open door.
“A hoarse, brutal voice growled: ‘What are you doing there?—get
up!’
“‘I can’t, father; Willie’s head is on my knees.’
“‘Get up!’
“The girl bowed her head lower and lower.
“I could not bear it. I entered the room. The brute was on
the bed already in his besotted sleep. The child stole up to
me, and in a half-frightened whisper said, ‘Oh, sir, oughtn’t
people to keep secrets, if they know them? I think they ought,
if they are other people’s.’ This with the dignity of a queen.
“I could not gainsay her, so I said as gravely as I could to
the little woman, ‘The secret shall be kept, but you must ask
me if you want anything.’ She bent over, suddenly kissed my
hand, and I went down the stair.
“The next night she was shy in coming for the whisky, and I
took care that she had good measure.
“The last night of our long run of six nights she looked more
happy than I had ever seen her. When she came for the whisky
she held out the thimble, and whispered to me with her poor,
pale lips trembling, ‘You need only pretend to-night.’
“‘Why?’ I whispered.
“‘Because—he doesn’t want it now. He’s dead.’”
The London engagement was offered him by the late Mr. A. Harris, then
managing the Princess’s Theatre. It was for three years. But when he
arrived he found that the only opening given him was a part of a few
lines in a play called ‘Ivy Hall.’ As this meagre employment promised
neither improvement nor fame, he went to the manager and begged his
release. This he obtained, and courageously quitted London, determined
not to return until he could claim a respectable and conspicuous
position. Thus we find him, with perhaps a heavy heart, once more
returning to the provinces, just as Mrs. Siddons had to return to the
same form of drudgery after her failure at Drury Lane. Before leaving
London, that wholesome taste for appealing to the appreciation of the
judicious and intellectual portion of the community, which has always
been “a note” of his character, prompted him to give two readings at the
old palace of Crosby Hall. In this he was encouraged by City friends and
old companions, who had faith in his powers. It was something to make
this exhibition under the roof-tree of that interesting old pile, not
yet “restored”; and the _locale_, we may imagine, was in harmony with
his own refined tastes. He read the ‘Lady of Lyons’ on December 19,
1859, and the somewhat artificial ‘Virginius’ on February 1, 1860. These
performances were received with favour, and were pronounced by the public
critics to show scholarly feeling and correct taste. “His conception was
good, his delivery clear and effective, and there was a gentlemanly ease
and grace in his manners which is exceedingly pleasing to an audience.”
One observer with some prescience detected “the indefinite something
which incontestably and instantaneously shows that the fire of genius
is present.” Another pronounced “that he was likely to make a name for
himself.” At the last scenes between the hero and Pauline, the listeners
were much affected, and “in some parts of the room sobs were heard.”
Another judge opined that “if he attempted a wider sphere of action,” he
would have a most successful career. This “wider sphere of action” he has
since “attempted,” but at that moment his eyes were strained, wearily
enough, looking for it. It lay before him in the weary round of work in
the provinces, to which, as we have seen, he had now to return.
I have before me a curious little criticism of this performance taken
from an old and long defunct journal that bore the name of _The Players_,
which will now be read with a curious interest:
“We all know the ‘Dramatic Reading.’ We have all—at least, all who
have served their apprenticeship to theatrical amusements—suffered
the terrible infliction of the Dramatic Reader; but then with equal
certainty we have all answered to the next gentleman’s call of a ‘Night
with Shakespeare, with Readings, etc.,’ and have again undergone the
insufferable bore of hearing our dear old poet murdered by the aspiring
genius. Thinking somewhat as we have above written the other evening,
we wended our editorial way towards Crosby Hall, where our informant
‘circular’ assured us Mr. Henry Irving was about to read Bulwer’s ‘Lady
of Lyons.’ We asked ourselves, Who is Mr. Henry Irving? and memory,
rushing to some hidden cave in our mental structure, answered—Henry
Irving, oh! yes, to be sure; how stupid! We at once recollected that Mr.
Irving was a gentleman of considerable talent, and a great favourite in
the provinces. We have often seen his name honourably figuring in the
columns of our provincial contemporaries. Now, we were most agreeably
disappointed on this present occasion; for instead of finding the
usual conventional respectable-looking ‘mediocrity,’ we were gratified
by hearing the poetical ‘Lady of Lyons’ poetically read by a most
accomplished elocutionist, who gave us not only words, but that finer
indefinite something which proves incontestably and instantaneously that
the fire of genius is present in the artist. It would be out of place
now to speak of the merits of the piece selected by this gentleman,
but the merits appeared as striking and the demerits as little so as
on any occasion of the kind in our recollection. Claude’s picture of
his imaginary home was given with such poetic feeling as to elicit a
loud burst of approval from his hearers, as also many other passages
occurring in the play. The characters were well marked, especially
Beauseant and Madame Deschappelles, whilst the little part of Glavis
was very pleasingly given. Mr. Irving was frequently interrupted by the
applause of his numerous and delighted audience, and at the conclusion
was unanimously called to receive their marks of approval.” It was at
this interesting performance that Mr. Toole, as he tells us, first met
his friend.
A very monotonous feature in too many of the dramatic memoirs is found
in the record of dates, engagements, and performances, which in many
instances are the essence of the whole. They are uninteresting to anyone
save perhaps to the hero himself. So in this record we shall summarize
such details as much as possible. Our actor went straight to Glasgow,
to Glover’s Theatre, whence he passed to the Theatre Royal, Manchester,
where he remained for some four years, till June, 1865. Here he met fresh
histrionic friends, who “came round” the circuit in succession—such as
Edwin Booth, Sothern, Charles Mathews, G.V. Brooke, Miss Heath, and
that versatile actor and dramatist and manager, Dion Boucicault. Here
he gradually gained a position of respect—respect for his unfailing
assiduity and scrupulous conscientiousness, qualities which the public
is never slow to note. In many points he offers a suggestion of Dickens,
as in his purpose of doing whatever he attempted in the very best way he
could. There are other points, too, in which the actor strongly recalls
the novelist; the sympathetic interest in all about him, the absence
of affectation combined with great talents, the aptitude for practical
business, the knowledge of character, the precious art of making friends,
and the being unspoiled by good fortune. Years later he recalled with
grateful pleasure the encouragement he had received here. And his
language is touching and betokens a sympathetic heart:
“I lived here for five years, and wherever I look—to the right or to the
left, to the north or the south—I always find some remembrance, some
memento of those five years. But there is one association connected with
my life here that probably is unknown to but a few in this room. That is
an association with a friend, which had much to do, I believe, with the
future course of our two lives. When I tell you that for months and years
we fought together and worked together to the best of our power, and with
the means we had then, to give effect to the art we were practising;
when I tell you we dreamt of what might be done, but was not then done,
and patted each other on the back and said, ‘Well, old fellow, perhaps
the day will come when you may have a little more than sixpence in your
pocket;’ when I tell you that that man was well known to you, and that
his name was Calvert, you will understand the nature of my associations
with Manchester. I have no doubt that you will be able to trace in my
own career, and the success I have had, the benefit of the communion I
had with him. When I was in Manchester I had very many friends. I needed
good advice at that time, for I found it a very difficult thing as an
actor to pursue my profession and to do justice to certain things that
I always had a deep, and perhaps rather an extravagant, idea of, on the
sum of £75 a year. I have been making a calculation within the last few
minutes of the amount of money that I did earn in those days, and I found
that it was about £75 a year. Perhaps one would be acting out of the
fifty-two weeks of the year some thirty-five. The other part of the year
one would probably be receiving nothing. Then an actor would be tempted
perhaps to take a benefit, by which he generally lost £20 or £30. I have
a very fond recollection, I have an affection for your city, for very
many reasons. The training I received here was a severe training; I must
say at first it was very severe. I found it a difficult thing to make my
way at all with the audience; and I believe the audience to a certain
extent was right; I think there was no reason that I _should_ make my way
with them. I don’t think I had learnt enough; I think I was too raw, too
unacceptable. But I am very proud to say that it was not long before,
with the firmness of the Manchester friendship which I have always found,
they got to like me; and I think before I parted with them they had an
affection for me. At all events, I remember when in this city as little
less—or little more—than a walking gentleman, I essayed the part of
Hamlet the Dane, I was looked upon as a sort of madman who ought to be
taken to some asylum and shut up; but I found in acting it before the
audience that their opinion was a very different one, and before the play
was half gone through I was received with a fervour and a kindness which
gave me hope and expectation that in the far and distant future I might
perhaps be able to benefit by their kindness. Perhaps they thought that
by encouraging me they might help me on in the future. I believe they
thought that, I believe that was in the thoughts of many of the audience,
for they received me with an enthusiasm and kindness which my merits did
not deserve.”
The man that could trace these faithful records of provincial stage life,
and speak in this natural heartfelt fashion of memories which many would
not perhaps wish to revive, must have a courageous and sympathetic nature.
Many years later, in his prosperity, he came to Bolton to lay the first
stone of a new theatre, on which occasion other old memories recurred to
him. “I once played here,” he said, “for a week, I am afraid to say how
many years ago, and a very good time we had with a little sharing company
from Manchester, headed by an actor, Charles Calvert. The piece we acted
was called ‘Playing with Fire’; and though we did not play with too much
money, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. I always look back to that week
with very great pleasure. The theatre then had not certainly every modern
appliance, but what the theatre lacked the audience made up for, and a
more spontaneous, good-natured public I never played to.”
On another occasion he again indulged in a retrospect; indeed, his eyes
seem always to have fondly turned back to Manchester and these early
days of struggle: “I came all the way from Greenock with a few shillings
in my pocket, and found myself in the splendid theatre now presided
over by our friend Captain Bainbridge. The autumn dramatic season of
1860 commenced with a little farce, and a little two-act piece from
the French, called ‘The Spy,’ the whole concluding with ‘God Save the
Queen,’ in which, and in the little two-act piece from the French, I
took prominent parts; so you see, gentlemen, that as a vocalist I even
then had some proficiency, although I had not achieved the distinction
subsequently attained by my efforts in Mephistopheles. Well, you will
admit that the little piece from the French and the one-act farce—‘God
Save the Queen’ was left out after the first night, through no fault of
mine, I assure you—you will admit that these two pieces did not make up
a very sensational bill of fare. I cannot conscientiously say that they
crammed the theatre for a fortnight, but what did that matter?—we were at
the Theatre Royal, Manchester, the manager was a man of substance, and
we were all very happy and comfortable. Besides ‘Faust and Marguerite,’
there was a burlesque of Byron’s, ‘The Maid and the Magpie,’ in which I
also played, the part being that of an exceedingly heavy father; and you
will forgive me, I am sure, for saying that the very heavy father was
considered by some to be anything but a dull performance. But though the
houses were poor, we were a merry family. Our wants were few: we were not
extravagant. We had a good deal of exercise, and what we did not earn we
worked hard to borrow as frequently as possible from one another. Ah!
they were very happy days. But do not think that this was our practice
always of an afternoon; there was plenty of fine work done in the
theatre. The public of Manchester was in those days a critical public,
and could not long be satisfied with such meagre fare as I have pictured.
During the five years of my sojourn in Manchester there was a succession
of brilliant plays performed by first-rate actors, and I must say that I
owe much to the valuable experience which I gained in your Theatre Royal
under the management of John Knowles.”
In his Manchester recollections, as we see, there are hints of very
serious struggles and privations. Such are, as says Boswell, “bark and
steel for the mind.” A man is the better for them, though the process is
painful; they assuredly teach resource and patience. Years after, the
actor, now grown celebrated and prosperous, used to relate, and relate
dramatically, this very touching little story of his struggles:
“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at which I have ever been
present was the one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you remember
Joe Robins—a nice genial fellow who played small parts in the provinces?
Ah, no; that was before your time. Joe Robins was once in the gentleman’s
furnishing business in London city. I think he had a wholesale trade, and
was doing well. However, he belonged to one of the semi-Bohemian clubs,
associated a great deal with actors and journalists, and when an amateur
performance was organized for some charitable object, he was cast for
the clown in a burlesque called ‘Guy Fawkes.’ He determined to go upon
the stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately, Joe was
able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which he
invested so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the wolf from
getting inside his door in case he did not eclipse Garrick, Kean, and
Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of his wares, and
started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, handkerchiefs,
stockings, and underclothing to equip him for several years.
“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular stage.
He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would entrust him with
parts big enough for him to fail in. But he drifted down to general
utility, and then out of London, and when I met him he was engaged in a
very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester theatre.
“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas
pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly
some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their
stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the
depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light
summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel
undergarments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily on
his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the actors
who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a dinner upon
underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which Joe had cherished
so long went to the pawnbroker’s or the slop-shop to provide the money
for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for nobody else is ever so
hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be served at Joe’s lodgings,
and before it was placed on the table, Joe beckoned his friend with the
gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and pointing to a chair, silently
withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of underwear, which had been Joe’s
pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet colour; it was thick, warm, and
heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if it had been manufactured especially
to his measure. He put it on, and as the flaming flannels encased his
limbs, he felt his heart glowing within him with gratitude to dear Joe
Robins.
“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he
had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury
of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with
the comfort of his under-vest; he appreciated the drawers more than
the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little
inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe
Robins with all his heart. ‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s
feelings very sympathetically.’ ‘I have good reason to do so, replied
Irving, with his sunshiny smile, ‘_for I was that poor actor_!’”
This really simple, most affecting, incident he himself related when on
his first visit to America.
Most actors have a partiality for what may be called fantastic freaks
or “practical jokes,” to be accounted for perhaps by a sort of reaction
from their own rather monotonous calling. The late Mr. Sothern delighted
in such pastimes, and Mr. Toole is not exactly indifferent to them. The
excitement caused by that ingenious pair of mountebanks, the Davenport
Brothers, will still be recalled: their appearance at Manchester early
in 1865 prompted our actor to a lively method of exposure, which he
carried out with much originality. With the aid of another actor, Mr.
Philip Day, and a prestidigitator, Mr. Frederic Maccabe, he arranged his
scheme, and invited a large number of friends and notables of the city
to a performance in the Athenæum. Assuming the dress characteristics
of a patron of the Brothers, one Dr. Ferguson, Irving came forward
and delivered a grotesque address, and then, in the usual familiar
style, proceeded to “tie up” his coadjutors in the cabinet, with the
accompaniments of ringing bells, beating tambourines, etc. The whole
was, as a matter of course, successful. It was not, however, strictly
within the programme of an actor who was “toiling at his oar,” though the
vivacity of youth was likely enough to have prompted it.
On the eve of his departure from Manchester he determined on an ambitious
attempt, and, as already stated, played ‘Hamlet’ for his own benefit. The
company good-naturedly favoured his project, though they fancied it was
beyond his strength. It was, as he has told us, an extraordinary success,
and the performance was called for on several nights—a high compliment,
as it was considered, in the city, where the custom was to require a “new
bill” every night. He himself did not put much faith in the prophecies
of future eminence that were uttered on this occasion; he felt that,
after all, there was no likelihood of his emerging from the depressing
monotonous round of provincial histrionics. But rescue was nearer at hand
than he fancied. The stage is stored with surprises, and there, at least,
it is the unexpected that always, or usually, happens.
Leaving Manchester, he passed to Edinburgh, Bury, Oxford, and even to
Douglas, Isle of Man, where the assembly-room used to do duty as a
“fit-up” theatre. For six months, from January to July, 1866, he was at
Liverpool with Mr. Alexander Henderson.
Thus had he seen many men and many theatres and many audiences, and must
have learned many a rude lesson, besides learning his profession. At this
moment, as he described it long after, he found himself one day standing
on the steps of the theatre looking hopelessly down the street, and in a
sort of despair, without an engagement, and no very likely prospect of
engagement, not knowing, indeed, which way to turn, unless some “stroke
of luck” came. But the “actor’s luck,” as he said, “is really _work_;”
and the lucky actor is, above all, a worker. At this hopeless moment
arrived unexpectedly a proposal from Dion Boucicault that he should join
him at Manchester and take a leading character in his new piece. He
accepted; but with some shrewdness stipulated that should he succeed to
the author’s satisfaction, he was to obtain an engagement in London. This
was acceded to, and with a light heart he set off.
Mr. Boucicault, indeed, long after in America boasted that it was his
good fortune to “discover Irving” in 1866, when he was playing in “the
country.” The performance took place on July 30, 1866. “He was cast
for a part in ‘Hunted Down,’ and played it so admirably that I invited
my friend Mr. Charles Reade to go and see him. He confirmed my opinion
so strongly, that when ‘Hunted Down’ was played in London a few months
afterwards, I gave it conditionally on Mr. Irving’s engagement. That
was his _début_ in London as a leading actor.” He added some judicious
criticism, distinguishing Irving as “an eccentric serious actor” from
Jefferson, who was “an eccentric comic actor.” “His mannerisms are
so very marked that an audience requires a long familiarity with his
style before it can appreciate many merits that are undeniable. It is
unquestionable that he is the greatest actor as a tragedian that London
has seen during the last fifty years.”[2]
In this piece, ‘Mary Leigh and her Three Lives’ (which later became
‘Hunted Down’), the heroine was performed by Miss Kate Terry, at that
time the only member of a gifted family who had made a reputation.
Irving’s character was Rawdon Scudamore, a polished villain, to which he
imparted such force and _finesse_, that it impressed all who witnessed
it with the belief that here was an actor of striking power. It at once
gave him “a position,” and an impression of his gifts was of a sudden
left upon the profession, upon those even who had not seen him. No fewer
than three offers of engagement were made to him. The author of the
piece, as we have seen, was particularly struck with his powers; his
London engagement was now secure, and he was to receive a tempting offer,
through Mr. Tom Taylor, from the management of the St James’s Theatre,
about to open with the new season.