“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.