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.’