“‘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: