He was early sent to a school then directed by Dr. Pinches, in George Yard, Lombard Street, close by the George and Vulture, which still happily stands, and where Mr. Pickwick always put up when he was in town. At this academy, on some exhibition day, he proposed to recite a rather gruesome piece called “The Uncle,” to which his preceptor strongly objected, when he substituted the more orthodox “Defence of Hamilton Rowan,” by Curran.
More than thirty years later, when the boy had become famous, and was giving a benefit at his own theatre to a veteran player—Mr. Creswick—the latter, coming before the curtain, related to the audience this little anecdote. “I was once,” he said, “invited to hear some schoolboys recite speeches previous to their breaking up for the holidays. The schoolmaster was an old friend of mine, whom I very much respected. The room was filled from wall to wall with the parents and friends of the pupils. I was not much entertained with the first part: I must confess that I was a little bored; but suddenly there came out a lad who at once struck me as being rather uncommon, and he riveted my attention. The performance, I think, was a scene from ‘Ion,’ in which he played Adrastus. I well saw that he left his schoolfellows a long way behind. That schoolboy was Master Henry Irving. Seeing that he had dramatic aptitude, I gave him a word of encouragement, perhaps the first he had ever received, and certainly the first he had received from one in the dramatic profession, to which he is now a distinguished honour.” The late Solicitor-General, Sir Edward Clarke, who was sent to the school after Irving left it, long after made humorous complaint at a Theatrical Fund dinner that, on exhibiting his own powers at the same school, he used to be regularly told, “Very good—very fair; but you should have heard Irving do it.”
On leaving the school, it was determined that the future actor should adopt a commercial career, and he was placed in the offices of Messrs. Thacker, “Indian merchants in Newgate Street.” He was then about fourteen, and remained in the house four years.
But his eyes were even now straying from his desk to the stage. He was constantly reading plays and poetry, and seeking opportunity for practice in the art in which he felt he was destined so to excel.
At this time, about 1853, the late Mr. Phelps’ intelligent efforts, and the admirable style in which he presented classical dramas, excited abundant interest and even enthusiasm among young men. Many now look back with pleasure to their pilgrimages to the far-off Sadler’s Wells Theatre, where such an intellectual entertainment was provided and sustained with admirable taste for many seasons. What was called “The Elocution Class” was one of the results. It was directed by Mr. Henry Thomas with much intelligence; his system was to encourage his pupils to recite pieces of their own selection, on which the criticisms of the listeners were freely given and invited. “On one evening,” says one of Irving’s old class-fellows, “a youth presented himself as a new member. He was rather tall for his age, dressed in a black suit, with what is called a round jacket, and a deep white linen collar turned over it. His face was very handsome, with a mass of black hair, and eyes bright and flashing with intelligence. He was called on for his first recitation, and fairly electrified the audience with an unusual display of elocutionary and dramatic intensity.” The new member was Henry Irving. By-and-by the elocution class was moved to the Sussex Hall, in Leadenhall Street, when something more ambitious was attempted in the shape of regular dramatic performances. The pieces were chiefly farces, such as ‘Boots at the Swan,’ or ‘Little Toddlekins,’ though more serious plays were performed. It was remarked that the young performer was invariably perfect in his “words.” In spite of his youth he gave great effect to such characters as Wilford in ‘The Iron Chest,’ and others of a melodramatic cast. A still more ambitious effort was Tobin’s ‘Honeymoon,’ given at the little Soho Theatre with full accompaniments of scenery, dresses, and decoration; and here the young aspirant won great applause.
It was to be expected that this success and these associations should more and more encourage him in his desire of adopting a profession to which he felt irresistibly drawn. He was, of course, a visitor to the theatres, and still recalls the extraordinary impression left upon him by Mr. Phelps’ performances. In everyone’s experience is found one of these “epoch-making” incidents, which have an influence we are often scarcely conscious of; and every thinking person knows the value of such “turning-points” in music or literature. The young man’s taste was no caprice, or stage-struck fancy; he tried his powers deliberately; and before going to see a play would exercise himself in regular study of its parts, attempting to lay out the action, business, etc., according to his ideas. Many years later in America, he said that when he was a youth he never went to a theatre except to see a Shakespearian play—except, in fact, for instruction.
At Sadler’s Wells there was a painstaking actor called Hoskins, who was attracted by the young fellow’s enthusiasm and conscientious spirit, and who agreed to give him a few lessons in his art. These were fixed for eight o’clock in the morning, so as not to interfere with commercial business. Hoskins introduced him to Phelps, who listened to his efforts with some of that gnarled impassibility which was characteristic of him; then, in his blunt, good-natured way, gave him this advice: “Young man, have nothing to do with the stage; it is a bad profession!”
Such, indeed, is the kindest counsel that could be given to nine-tenths of the postulants of our time. Their wish is to “go on the stage”—a different thing from the wish to become an actor. The manager had nothing before him to show that there were here present the necessary gifts of perseverance, study, and intelligence. Struck, however, by his earnestness, he proposed to give him an engagement of a very trifling kind, which the young man, after deliberation, declined, on the ground that it would not afford him opportunities of thoroughly learning his profession. The good-natured Hoskins, who was himself leaving the theatre to go to Australia, gave him a letter to a manager, with these words: “You will go on the stage; when you want an engagement present that letter, and you will obtain one.” He, indeed, tried to induce him to join him on his tours, but the offer was declined.
His mother, however, could not reconcile herself to his taking so serious a step as “going on the stage.” “I used frequently,” writes his companion at the elocution class, “to visit at her house to rehearse the scenes in which John and I were to act together. I remember her as being rather tall, somewhat stately, and very gentle. On one occasion she begged me very earnestly to dissuade him from thinking of the stage as a profession; and having read much of the vicissitudes of actors’ lives, their hardships, and the precariousness of their work, I did my best to impress this view upon him.” But it is ever idle thus striving to hinder a child’s purpose when it has been deliberately adopted.
Having come to this resolution, he applied earnestly to the task of preparing himself for his profession. He learned a vast number of characters; studied, and practised; even took lessons in fencing, attending twice a week at a school-of-arms in Chancery Lane. This accomplishment, often thought trifling, was once an important branch of an actor’s education; it supplies an elegance of movement and bearing.