Sir Henry Irving, by Percy Fitzgerald, M.A

Henry Irving was born at Keinton, near Glastonbury, in Somersetshire, on February 6, 1838. His real name was John Henry Brodribb. “The last place God made” has been the description given of this little town—Keinton-Mandeville—which lies near Glastonbury. The house in which the future actor was born is still pointed out—a small two-storied dwelling, of a poorish sort.

Henry Irving’s mother was Sarah Behenna, a woman of strong, marked character, who early took the child into Cornwall to her sister Penberthy. Thus was he among the miners and mining captains in a district “stern and wild,” where lessons of dogged toil and perseverance were to be learned. The earliest books he read were his Bible, some old English ballads, and “Don Quixote,” a character which he had long had a fancy for performing. In an intimate causerie with his and my friend Joseph Hatton, he was induced to stray back to these early days of childhood, when he called up some striking scenes of those old mining associations. This aunt Penberthy was a resolute, striking woman, firm and even grim of purpose, and the scenes in which she figured have a strong flavour, as Mr. Hatton suggests, of Currer Bell’s stories.

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.

“The die being now cast,” according to the accepted expression, John Brodribb, who had now become Henry Irving, bade adieu to his desk, and bethinking him of the Hoskins letter, applied to Mr. Davis, a country manager, who had just completed the building of a new theatre at Sunderland. With a slender stock of money he set off for that town. By an odd coincidence the name of the new house was the Lyceum. The play appointed was ‘Richelieu,’ and the opening night was fixed for September 29, 1856. The young actor was cast for the part of the Duke of Orleans, and had to speak the opening words of the piece.

Mr. Alfred Davis, a well-known provincial actor, and son of the northern manager, used often to recall the circumstances attending Irving’s “first appearance on any stage.” “The new theatre,” he says, “was opened in September, 1856, and on the 29th of that month we started. For months previously a small army of scenic artists had been at work. Carpenters, property-makers, and, of course, costumiers, had been working night and day, and everything was, as far as could be foreseen, ready and perfect. Among the names of a carefully-selected corps dramatique were those of our old friend Sam Johnson (now of the Lyceum Theatre, London); George Orvell (real name, Frederick Kempster); Miss Ely Loveday (sister of H. J. Loveday, the present genial and much-respected stage-manager of the Lyceum), afterwards married to Mr. Kempster; and a youthful novice, just eighteen, called Henry Irving. Making his first appearance, he spoke the first word in the first piece (played for the first time in the town, I believe), on the first or opening night of the new theatre. The words of the speech itself, ‘Here’s to our enterprise!’ had in them almost a prophetic tone of aspiration and success. So busy was I in front and behind the scenes, that I was barely able to reach my place on the stage in time for the rising of the curtain. I kept my back to the audience till my cue to speak was given, all the while buttoning up, tying, and finishing my dressing generally, so that scant attention would be given to others. But even under these circumstances I was compelled to notice, and with perfect appreciation, the great and most minute care which had been bestowed by our aspirant on the completion of his costume. In those days managers provided the mere dress. Accessories, or ‘properties’ as they were called, were found by every actor. Henry Irving was, from his splendid white hat and feathers to the tips of his shoes, a perfect picture; and, no doubt, had borrowed his authority from some historical picture of the Louis XIII. period.”

“The impersonation,” as the neophyte related it long afterwards, “was not a success. I was nervous, and suffered from stage fright. My second appearance as Cleomenes in ‘A Winter’s Tale’ was even more disheartening, as in Act V. I entirely forgot my lines, and abruptly quitted the scene, putting out all the other actors. My manager, however, put down my failure to right causes, and instead of dispensing with my services, gave me some strong and practical advice.”

All which is dramatic enough, and gives us a glimpse of the good old provincial stage life. That touch of encouragement instead of dismissal is significant of the fair, honest system which then obtained in this useful training school.

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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—

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:

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.

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The directress of the new venture at the St. James’s Theatre was Miss Herbert, a graceful, sympathetic person of much beauty, with exquisite golden hair and almost devotional features, which supplied many of the Pre-Raphaelite brethren with angelic faces for their canvases. On the stage her efforts were directed by great intelligence and spirit, and she was now about to essay all the difficulties and perplexities of management. Like so many others, she had before her a very high ideal of her office: the good, vivacious old comedies, with refined, correct acting, were to entice the wayward public, with pieces by Reade, Tom Taylor, and Boucicault. This pleasing actress was destined to have a chequered course of struggle and adventure, a mingled yarn of success and disappointment, and has long since retired from the stage.

At the St. James’s Theatre the company was formed of the manageress herself; of Walter Lacy, an actor of fine polish and grace; of Addison, one of the old school; with that excellent mirth-making pair, the Frank Mathews. The stage-manager was Irving. Here, then, he found himself, to his inexpressible satisfaction, in a respected and respectable position, one very different from that of the actor-of-all-work in the provinces. Not the least comforting reflection was that he had won his way to this station by remarkable talent and conscientious labour. The theatre opened on October 6, 1866. ‘Hunted Down’ was the piece originally fixed upon, but it could not be got ready in time, so a change was made to the lively old comedy of the ‘Belle’s Stratagem,’ the name which it had been originally proposed to give to Oliver Goldsmith’s ‘She Stoops to Conquer.’

The actor tells us of this interesting occasion: “I was cast for Doricourt, a part which I had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me; I felt that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, upon my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience, that I was compelled to reappear upon the scene, a somewhat unusual thing except upon the operatic stage.”[3] This compliment is nearly always paid to our actor when he performs this part.

In the criticisms of the piece the efforts of the interesting manageress-actress of course received the chief attention. Dramatic criticism, however, at this time was of a somewhat slender kind, and the elaborate study of an individual performer’s merits was not then in fashion. The play itself was then “the thing,” and accordingly we find the new actor’s exertions dealt with in a curt but encouraging style: “Mr. H. Irving was the fine gentleman in Doricourt: but he was more, for his mad scenes were truthfully conceived and most subtly executed.” Thus the Athenæum. And Mr. Oxenford, with his usual reserve, after pronouncing that the comedy was “a compound of English dulness and Italian pantomime,” added that Doricourt “was heavy company till he feigns madness, and the mock insanity represented by Mr. H. Irving is the cause of considerable mirth.” This slight and meagre tribute contrasts oddly with the elaborate fulness of stage criticism in our day.

The piece has always continued in the actor’s répertoire, after being compressed into a few scenes. The rich, old-fashioned dress and powder suits the performer and sets off his intelligent features, which wear a smiling expression, as though consciously enjoying the comedy flavour of the piece.

A little later, on November 5, ‘Hunted Down’ was brought forward, in which the actor, as Rawdon Scudamore, made a deep impression. It was declared that the part “completely served the purpose of displaying the talent of Mr. Henry Irving, whose ability in depicting the most vindictive feelings, merely by dint of facial expression, is very remarkable.” Facial expression is, unhappily, but little used on our English stage, and yet it is one of the most potent agencies—more so than speech or gesture.[4] It was admitted, too, that he displayed another precious gift—reserve—conveying even more than he expressed: a store of secret villainy as yet unrevealed. Many were the compliments paid him on this creation; and friends of Charles Dickens know how much struck he was with the new actor’s impersonation. The novelist was always eager to recognise new talent of this kind. Some years later, “Charles Dickens the younger,” as he was then called, related at a banquet how his celebrated father had once gone to see the ‘Lancashire Lass,’ and on his return home had said: “But there was a young fellow in the play who sits at the table and is bullied by Sam Emery; his name is Henry Irving, and if that young man does not one day come out as a great actor, I know nothing of art.” A worthy descendant of the Kembles, Mrs. Sartoris, also heartily appreciated his powers.[5] During the season a round of pieces were brought forward, such as ‘The Road to Ruin,’ ‘The School for Scandal’ (in which he played young Dornton and Joseph Surface), ‘Robert Macaire,’ and a new Robertson drama, ‘A Rapid Thaw,’ in which he took the part of a conventional Irishman, O’Hoolagan! It must have been a quaint surprise to see our actor in a Hibernian character. After the season closed, the company went “on tour” to Liverpool, Dublin, and other towns.[6]

Miss Herbert’s venture, like so many other ventures planned on an intellectual basis, did not flourish exceedingly; and in the course of the years that followed we find our actor appearing rather fitfully at various London theatres, which at this time, before the great revival of the stage, were in rather an unsettled state. He went with Sothern to play in Paris, appearing at the Théâtre des Italiens, and in December, 1867, found an engagement at the Queen’s Theatre in Long Acre, a sort of “converted” concert-room, where nothing seemed to thrive; and here for the first time he played with Miss Ellen Terry, in ‘Catherine and Petruchio’ (a piece it might be well worth while to revive at the Lyceum); and in that very effective drama, ‘Dearer than Life,’ with Brough and Toole; in ‘The School for Scandal’; also making a striking effect in ‘Bill Sikes.’ I fancy this character, though somewhat discounted by Dubosc, would, if revived, add to his reputation. We find him also performing the lugubrious Falkland in ‘The Rivals.’ He also played Redburn in the highly popular ‘Lancashire Lass,’ which “ran” for many months. At the Queen’s Theatre he remained for over a year, not making any marked advance in his profession, owing to the lack of favourable opportunities. He had a part in Watts Phillips’ drama of ‘Not Guilty.’ Then, in 1869, he came to the Haymarket, and had an engagement at Drury Lane in Boucicault’s ‘Formosa,’ a piece that gave rise to much excited discussion on the ground of the “moralities.” His part was, however, colourless, being little more than a cardboard figure: anything fuller or rounder would have been lost on so huge a stage. It was performed, or “ran,” for over a hundred nights. With his sensitive, impressionable nature the performance of so barren a character must have been positive pain: his dramatic soul lay blank and fallow during the whole of that unhappy time. Not very much ground had been gained beyond the reputation of a sound and useful performer. Relying on my own personal impressions—for I followed him from the beginning of his course—I should say that the first distinct effort that left prominent and distinct impression was his performance at the Gaiety Theatre, in December, 1869, of the cold, pompous Mr. Chenevix, in Byron’s ‘Uncle Dick’s Darling.’ It was felt at once, as I then felt, that here was a rich original creation, a figure that lingered in the memory, and which you followed, as it moved, with interest and pleasure. There was a surprising finish and reserve. It was agreed that we had now an actor of genre, who had the power of creating a character. The impression made was really remarkable, and this specimen of good, pure comedy was set off by the pathetic acting of “friend Toole,” who played ‘Uncle Dick.’ This was a turning-point in his career, and no doubt led to an important advance. But these days of uncertainty were now to close. I can recall my own experience of the curious pleasure and satisfaction left by the performance of this unfamiliar actor, who suggested so much more than the rather meagre character itself conveyed. I found myself drawn to see it several times, and still the feeling was always that of some secret undeveloped power in the clever, yet unpretending, performer.

Irving can tell a story in the pleasantest “high comedy” manner, and without laying emphasis on points. In May last, being entertained by the “Savages,” he made a most agreeable speech, and related this adventure of his early Bohemian days, in illustration of the truth that “it is always well to have a personal acquaintance with a presiding magistrate.” “I had driven one night from the Albion to some rooms I occupied in old Quebec Street, and after bidding the cabman farewell, I was preparing to seek repose, when there came a knock at the door. Upon opening it I found the cabman, who said that I had given him a bad half-crown. Restraining myself, I told him ‘to be—to begone.’ I shut the door, but in a few moments there came another knock, and with the cabman appeared a policeman, who said, with the grave formality of his office, ‘You are charged with passing a bad half-crown, and must come with me to the police-station.’ I explained that I was a respectable, if unknown, citizen, pursuing a noble, though precarious, calling, and that I could be found in the morning at the address I had given. The policeman was not at all impressed by that, so I jumped into the cab and went to the station, where the charge was entered upon the night-sheet, and I was briefly requested to make myself at home. ‘Do you intend me to spend the night here?’ I said to the inspector. ‘Certainly,’ he said; ‘that is the idea.’ So I asked him to oblige me with a pencil and a piece of paper, which he reluctantly gave me. I addressed a few words to Sir Thomas Henry, who was then presiding magistrate at Bow Street, and with whom I had an intimacy, in an unofficial capacity. The inspector looked at me. ‘Do you know Sir Thomas Henry?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have that honour.’ The officer suddenly turned round to the policeman and said, ‘What do you mean by bringing such a charge against this gentleman?’ Then he turned fiercely on the cabman, and nearly kicked him out of the office. I returned home triumphantly in the cab. I cannot give a young ‘Savage’ first starting on his career a sounder piece of advice than this—‘Always know your own mind, and also a magistrate.’” We practised littérateurs might well envy the pleasant facility and point with which this is told.

About this time an attractive actor, who had been much followed on account of his good looks, one Harry Montague, had joined in management with two diverting drolls—as they were then—James and Thorne, who were the pillars of burlesque at the Strand Theatre. All three felt a sort of inspiration that they were capable of something higher and more “legitimate”—an impression which the event has more than justified. The two last, by assiduous study and better opportunities, became admirable comedians. A sort of club that had not prospered was lying unused in the Strand, and a little alteration converted it into a theatre. The three managers were anxiously looking for a piece of modern manners which would exhibit to advantage their several gifts. A young fellow, who had left his desk for playwriting, had brought them a sort of comedy which was in a very crude state, but which, it seemed likely, could be made what they wanted; and by the aid of their experience and suggestions, it was fashioned into shape. Indeed, it proved that never was a piece more admirably suited to the company that played it. The characters fitted them all, as it is called, “like gloves.” They were bright, interesting, natural, and humorous; the story was pleasing and interesting, and the dialogue agreeable and smart. Such was ‘The Two Roses,’ which still holds the stage, though it now seems a little old-fashioned. Irving was one of the performers, and was perhaps the best suited of the group. The perfect success of the piece proved how advantageous is the old system of having a piece “written in the theatre,” when the intelligence of the performers and that of the managers are brought in aid of each other. The little house opened on April 16, 1870, with a piece of Mr. Halliday’s; and it was not until a few weeks later that the piece was brought forward—on June 4. The success was instantaneous.

The unctuous Honey, in his own line an excellent original actor, raised in the good old school of the “low comedian,” which has now disappeared, was the good-natured Bagman—a part taken later by James, who was also excellent. Thorne was efficient, and sufficiently reserved, in the rather unmeaning blind Caleb Decie; while Montague was the gallant and interesting hero, Jack Wyatt. The two girls were represented in pleasing fashion by Miss Amy Fawcitt and Miss Newton. The piece, as I have said, owed much to the actors, though these again owed much to the piece. It is difficult to adjust the balance of obligation in such cases; but good actors can make nothing of a bad play, whereas a good play may make good actors. Irving, as Digby Grant, was the chief attraction, and his extraordinarily finished and varied playing of that insincere and selfish being excited general admiration.

It has not been noticed, in these days of appropriation, that the piece was practically an ingenious variation, or adaptation, of Dickens’ ‘Little Dorrit.’ For here we find old Dorrit, his two daughters, and one of their admirers; also the constant loans, the sudden good fortune, and the equally sudden reverse. It was easy to see that the piece had been formed by the evolution of this one character, the legitimate method, it has always seemed to me, of making a play; whereas the average dramatist adopts a reverse practice of finding a story, and then finding characters for it. Character itself is a story. The character of Digby Grant was the first that gave him firm hold of public favour. It belongs to pure comedy—a fidgety, selfish being, self-deluded by the practice of social hypocrisies, querulous, scheming, wheedling. It is curious that a very good actor, who later filled the part, took the villainy au sérieux, giving the complaint, “You annoy me very much!” repeated so often, as a genuine reproach, and with anger. Irving’s was the true view—a simulated vexation, “You annoy me very much!” The audience sees that he is not “annoyed very much.”

After our actor’s visit to America, his performance was noticed to be more elaborate and laboured, but it had lost some of its spontaneousness—a result which, it has been noted, is too often the result of playing to American audiences, who are pleased with broad effects. This piece continued to be played for about a year—then thought to be a prodigious run, though it is now found common enough—during which time Irving’s reputation steadily increased.[7]

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But now was to be made a serious experiment, on which much was to depend. Hitherto Irving had not travelled out of the regions of conventional drama, or of what might be called romantic melodrama; but he was now to lay hands on the ark, and attempt the most difficult and arduous of Shakespearian characters, Hamlet. Every actor has a dream of performing the character, and fills up his disengaged moments with speculations as to the interpretation. The vitality of this wonderful play is such that it nearly always is a novelty for the audience, because the character is fitfully changeful, and offers innumerable modes of interpretation.

The momentous trial was made on October 31, 1874. It had long and studiously been prepared for: and the actor, in his solitary walks during the days of his provincial servitude, had worked out his formal conception of the character. There was much curiosity and expectation; and it was noted that so early as three o’clock in the afternoon a dense crowd had assembled in the long tunnel that leads from the Strand to the pit door. I was present in the audience, and can testify to the excitement. Nothing I have ever seen on the stage, except perhaps the burst that greeted Sarah Bernhardt’s speech in ‘Phèdre’ on the first night of the French Comedy in London, has approached the tumult of the moment when the actor, after the play scene, flung himself into the King’s chair.

Our actor judiciously took account of all criticisms, and with later performances subdued or toned down what was extravagant. The whole gained in thoughtfulness and in general meditative tone, and it is admitted that the meaning of the intricate soliloquies could not be more distinctly or more intelligibly conveyed to an audience. He played a good deal with his face, as it is called: with smilings of intelligence, as if interested or amused. But, as a whole, his conception of the character may be said to remain the same as it was on that night.

The play was mounted with the favourite economy of the manager, and contrasted with the unsparing lavishness of decoration which characterized its later revival. But the actors were good. The sound, “full-bodied” old Chippendale was Polonius; Swinburne, also of the old school, was the King; and the worthy Mead, long ago a star himself, and one of Mr. Phelps’ corps, “discharged” the Ghost with admirable impression and elocution.[12] He has now passed away, after long service, to “that bourne,” etc. Miss Bateman was interesting, and Mrs. Pauncefort, who was till lately at the Lyceum, was an excellent Queen. Actor and manager expected much success for ‘Hamlet,’ and counted on a run of eighty nights, but it was performed for two hundred! To the present hour it has always continued—though sparingly revived—the most interesting of the actor’s performances, looked for with an intellectual curiosity.

In March the hundredth night of ‘Hamlet’ was celebrated by a banquet, given in the saloon of the Lyceum Theatre, at which all the critics and literary persons connected with the stage were present. This method of festivity has since become familiar enough, owing to the never-flagging hospitality of the later manager of the Lyceum, and offers a striking contrast to the older days, when it was intimated that “chicken and champagne” was a ready method of propitiating the critics. Mr. Pigott, who had recently been appointed the Licenser of Plays, a man of many friends, from his amiability—now, alas! gone from us—proposed the health of the lessee, which was followed by the health of the actor and of the author of the establishment, the latter, as it was rather sarcastically said, “giving the hundred and odd literary men present the oft-repeated illustration of how far apart are authorship and oratory.” The good old Chippendale told how he had played Polonius to the Hamlet of Kemble, Kean, Young, and other famous tragedians; but protested that “the most natural and, to his mind, the most truthful representation he had seen was that of his friend here.” Something must be allowed for post-prandial exuberance, and no one could more shrewdly appreciate their value than the actor himself. We may be certain that in his “heart of heart” he did not agree that he had excelled Kemble, Kean, Young, and the others. It was interesting, however, to meet such histrionic links with the past, which are now broken. Mr. Howe is perhaps the only person now surviving who could supply reminiscences of the kind.

A second Shakespearian piece was now determined on, and on February 14, 1875, ‘Othello’ was brought out. This, it was admitted, was not a very effective performance. It was somewhat hysterical, and in his agitation the actor exhibited movements almost panther-like, with many strange and novel notes. The ascetic face, too, was not in harmony with the dusky lineaments of ‘the Moor.’ Here, again, his notion of the character was immature.

In the full tide of all this prosperity, theatre-goers were startled to learn that the shrewd and capable manager, the energetic “old Colonel,” as he was styled by his friends, was dead. This event occurred, with great suddenness, on Monday, March 22, 1875. On the Sunday he had been at a banquet at a Pall Mall restaurant in company with his leading actor and other friends, but on the next day, complaining of a headache, he lay down. His daughter went as usual to the theatre, to which word was soon brought that he had passed away peacefully. It was thought advisable to let the performance be completed, and the strange coincidence was noted that while his child was bewailing the loss of her theatrical sire, the old Polonius, she was unconscious of the blow which had deprived her of her real parent.

There was much speculation as to what arrangement would follow, and some surprise when it was announced that the widow was ready to step intrepidly into his place, and carry on matters exactly as before. The mainstay of the house was ready to support her, and though bound by his engagement, he would, had he been so inclined, have found it easy to dissolve it, or make it impracticable. He resolved to lend his best efforts to support the undertaking, in which his views would, of course, prevail. It was hardly a prudent arrangement, as the result proved, for the three years that followed were scarcely advantageous to his progress. The management was to be of a thrifty kind, without boldness, and lacking the shrewd, safe instincts of the late manager; while the actor had the burden, without the freedom, of responsibility. It struck some that the excellent Mrs. Bateman was “insisting” somewhat too much upon the family element. The good-hearted, busy, and managing lady was in truth unsuited to bear the burden of a great London theatre, and what woman could be? her views were hardly “large” enough, and too old-fashioned. The public was not slow to find all this out, and the fortunes of the theatre began almost at once to change. Our actor, ambitious, and encouraged by plaudits, was eager to essay new parts; and the manageress, entirely dependent on his talent, was naturally anxious to gratify him. Here it was that the deliberation of the “old Colonel” became valuable. He would debate a question, examine it from all points, feel the public pulse, and this rational conduct influenced his coadjutor. Irving was, in truth, in a false position.

‘Macbeth’ was speedily got ready, and produced on September 18, 1875. Miss Bateman, of Leah fame, was the Lady Macbeth, but the performance scarcely added to her reputation. The actor, as may be conceived, was scarcely then suited, by temperament or physique, to the part, and by a natural instinct made it conform to his own particular qualifications. His conception was that of a dreamy, shrinking being, overwhelmed with terrors and remorse, speaking in whispers, and enfeebled by his own dismal ruminations. There was general clamour and fierce controversy over this reading, for by this time the sympathetic powers of the player had begun to exercise their attraction. He had a large and passionately enthusiastic following; but there were Guelphs and Ghibellines, Irvingites and anti-Irvingites—the latter a scornful and even derisive faction. I could fancy some of the old school, honest “Jack” Ryder, for instance, as they patrolled the Strand at mid-day, expatiating on the folly of the public: “Call him an actor!” Some of them had played with Macready, “and they should think they knew pretty well what acting was!” This resentful tone has been evoked again and again with every new actor.[13]

Objection was taken to the uncertainty in the touches; the figure did not “stand out” so much as it ought. Much of this, however, was owing to the lack of effect in the Lady Macbeth, who, assuming hoarse and “charnel-house” tones, seemed to suggest something of Meg Merrilies. On the later revival, however, his interpretation became bold, firm, and consistent. The play had, however, a good deal of attraction, and was played for some eighty nights.

The King in Tennyson’s play-poem, ‘Queen Mary,’ I have always thought one of the best, most picturesque, of Irving’s impersonations, from the realization it offered of the characters, impressions, feelings, of what he represented: it was complete in every point of view. As regards its length, it might be considered trifling; but it became important because of the largeness of the place it fitted. Profound was the impression made by the actor’s Philip—not by what he had to say, which was little, or by what he had to do, which was less, or by the dress or “make-up,” which was remarkable. He seemed to speak by the expression of his figure and glances; and apart from the meaning of his spoken words, there was another meaning beyond—viz., the character, the almost diseased solitude, the heartless indifference, and other odious historical characteristics of the Prince, with which it was plain the actor had filled himself. Mr. Whistler’s grim, antique portrait conveys this perfectly.

His extraordinary success was now to rouse the jealousy, and even malignity, which followed his course in his earlier days, and was not unaccompanied with coarse ridicule and caricature, directed against the actor’s legs even. “Do you know,” said a personage of Whistlerian principles—“do you know, it seems to me there is a great deal of pathos in Irving’s legs, particularly in the left leg!”

A letter had appeared, in January, 1876, in Fun, the Punch of the middle and lower class, addressed to “The Fashionable Tragedian.” It affected alarm at the report that, “so soon as the present failure can with dignity be withdrawn,” he intended to startle the public and Shakespearian scholars with ‘Othello.’ In the name of that humanity “to which, in spite of your transcendent abilities, you cannot help belonging,” he was entreated to forbear, if only for the sake of order and morality. “With the hireling fashion of the press at your command, you have induced the vulgar and unthinking to consider you a model of histrionic ability.” In the course of the investigation the article was traced to a writer who has since become popular as a dramatist, and who, as might be expected, has furnished a fair proportion of murders and other villainies to the stage. What was behind the attack it would be difficult to say; but there are people to whom sudden unexpected success is a subject of irritation. Just as hypocrisy is the homage paid to vice, so it may be that the attacks of this kind are some of the penalties that have to be paid for success.

When the theatre closed in 1876, the indefatigable manageress organized a tour of the company in the provinces, with the view of introducing the new tragedian to country audiences. There was, as may be conceived, a prodigious curiosity to see him, and the tour was very successful. She brought to the task her usual energy and spirit of organization; though with so certain an attraction, the tour, like a good piece, might be said to “play itself,” on the principle of ma femme et cinq poupées. I can recall the image of the busy lady on one of these nights at Liverpool or Birmingham, seated in her office, surrounded by papers, the play going on close by, the music of a house crowded to overflowing being borne to her ears. There was here the old Nickleby flavour, and a primitive, homely spirit that contrasts oddly with the present brilliant system of “touring,” which must be “up to date,” as it is called, and supported by as much lavishness and magnificence as is expected in the Metropolis. After the piece came the pleasant little supper at the comfortable lodgings.

On this occasion he was to receive the first of those intellectual compliments which have since been paid him by most of the leading Universities. At Dublin he excited much enthusiasm among the professors and students of Trinity College. He was invited to receive an address from both Fellows and students, which was presented by Lord Ashbourne, lately Lord Chancellor of Ireland, then a Queen’s Counsel. This was conceived in the most flattering and complimentary terms.

About this time there arrived in England the Italian actor Salvini, of great reputation in his own country. He presented himself at Drury Lane, then a great, dilapidated “Dom-Daniel” stored with ancient scenery, wardrobes, and nearly always associated with disaster. In its chilling area, and under these depressing conditions, he exhibited a very original and dramatic conception of the Moor, chiefly marked by Southern fire and passion. The earlier performances were sad to witness, owing to the meagre attendance, but soon enthusiasm was kindled. It was likely that mean natures, who had long resented the favour enjoyed by the English actor, should here see an opportunity of setting up a rival, and of diminishing, if possible, his well-earned popularity. Comparisons of a rather offensive kind were now freely made, and the next manœuvre was to industriously spread reports that the English actor was stung by an unworthy jealousy, that the very presence of the Italian was torture to him, and that he would not even go to see his performance. These reports were conveyed to the Italian, who was naturally hurt, and stood coldly aloof. The matter being thus inflamed, Irving, himself deeply resenting the unjust imputation made on him, felt it would be undignified to seek to justify himself for offences that he had not committed. Everyone knows that during a long course of years no foreign actor has visited the Lyceum without experiencing, not merely the lavish hospitality of its manager, but a series of thoughtful kindnesses and services. But in the present case there were unfortunately disturbing influences at work.

Indeed, as the actor day by day rose in public estimation, the flood of caricatures, skits, etc., never relaxed. He could afford to smile contemptuously at these efforts, and after a time they ceased to appear. The tide was too strong to be resisted, and the lampooners even were constrained to join in the general eulogy.[14] At one of them he must himself have been amused—a pamphlet which dealt with his mannerisms and little peculiarities in a very unsparing way. It was illustrated with some malicious but clever sketches, dealing chiefly with the favourite topic of the “legs.” My friend Mr. William Archer, who has since become a critic of high position, about this time also wrote a pamphlet in which he examined the actor’s claims with some severity. Yet so judicial was the spirit of this inquiry, that I fancy the subject of it could not have been offended by it, owing to some compliments which seemed to be, as it were, extorted by the actor’s merit.

The new Lyceum season opened with yet one more play of Shakespeare’s—‘Richard III.’ As might have been expected, he put aside the old, well-established Cibberian version, a most effective piece of its kind, and restored the pure, undiluted text of the Bard, to the gratification, it need not be said, of all true critics and cultivated persons. It was refreshing to assist at this intellectual feast, and to follow the original arrangement, which had all the air of novelty.[15]

A happily-selected piece was to follow, the old melodrama of ‘The Courier of Lyons,’ which was brought out on May 19, 1877, under a new title, ‘The Lyons Mail.’ The success of ‘The Bells’ had shown that for a certain class of romantic melodramas the actor had exceptional gifts; and it may be added that he has a penchant for portraying characters of common life under exciting and trying circumstances. This play is an admirable specimen of French workmanship. The characters are marked, distinct, amusing; every passage seems to add strength to the interest, and with every scene the interest seems to grow. The original title—‘The Courier of Lyons’—seems a more rational one than ‘The Lyons Mail.’

With pieces of this kind, where one actor plays two characters, a nice question of dramatic propriety arises, viz., to how far the point of likeness should be carried. In real life no two persons could be so alike as a single person, thus playing the two characters, would be to himself. The solution I believe to be this, that likenesses of this kind, which are recognised even under disguise, are rather mental and intellectual, and depend on peculiar expression—a glance from the eye, smiles, etc. Irving, it must be said, contrived just so much likeness in the two characters as suited the situations and the audience also. Superficially there was a resemblance, but he suggested the distinct individualities in the proper way. The worthy Lesurques was destined to be one of his best characters, from the way in which he conveyed the idea of the tranquil, innocent merchant, so affectionate to his family, and so blameless in life. Many will recall the pleasant, smiling fashion in which he would listen to the charges made against him.

A yet bolder experiment was now to be made, and another piece in which Charles Kean made a reputation, ‘Louis XI.,’ was brought out on March 9, 1878. It may be said without hesitation that this is one of the most powerful, finished, and elaborate of all Irving’s efforts, and the one to which we would bring, say, a foreign actor who desired to see a specimen of the actor’s talents.

This marvellous performance has ripened and improved year by year, gaining in suggestion, fulness of detail, and perfect ease. In no other part is he so completely the character. There is a pleasant good-humour—a chuckling cunning—an air of indifference, as though it were not worth while to be angry or excited about things. His figure is a picture, and his face, wonderfully transformed, yet seems to owe scarcely anything to the ‘making-up.’ Nowhere does he speak so much with his expressive features. You see the cunning thought rising to the surface before the words. There is the hypocritical air of candour or frankness suddenly assumed, to conceal some villainous device. There is the genuine enjoyment of hypocrisy, and the curious shambling walk. How admirably graduated, too, the progress of decay and mortal sickness, with the resistance to their encroachments. The portrait of his Richard—not the old-established, roaring, stamping Richard of the stage, but the weightier and more composed and refined—dwells long on the memory, especially such touches as his wary watchings, looking from one to the other while they talk, as if cunningly striving to probe their thoughts; that curious scraping of his cheek with the finger, the strange senile tones, the sudden sharp ferocity betokening the ingrained wickedness, and the special leer, as though the old fox were in high good humour.

Irving naturally recalls with pleasure any spontaneous and unaffected tributes which his acting has called forth. A most flattering one is associated with ‘Louis XI.’—a critical work which one of his admirers had specially printed, and which enforced the actor’s view of Louis’s character. “You will wonder,” the author said, “why we wrote and compiled this book. A critic had said that, as nothing was really known of the character, manners, etc., of Louis XI., an actor might take what liberties he pleased with the subject. We prepared this little volume to put on record a refutation of the statement, a protest against it, and a tribute to your impersonation of the character.” Another admirer had printed his various thoughts on Charles I. This was set off with beautifully-executed etchings, tailpieces, etc., and the whole richly bound and enshrined in a casket. The names of these enthusiasts are not given.[16]

A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel” entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves.

I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid, unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines—

‘Vanderdecken,’ as it was called, was produced on July 8, 1878, but was found of too sombre a cast to attract. It was all, as Johnson once said, “inspissated gloom,” but there was abundant praise for the picturesque figure of the actor. Nothing could be more effective than his first appearance, when he was revealed standing in a shadowy way beside the sailors, who had been unconscious of his presence. This was his own subtle suggestion. A fatal blemish was the unveiling of the picture, on the due impressiveness of which much depended, and which proved to be a sort of grotesque daub, greeted with much tittering—a fatal piece of economy on the part of the worthy manageress. An unusually sultry spell of summer that set in caused “the booking to go all to pieces”—the box-keeper’s consolatory expression. Our actor, however, has not lost faith in the subject to this hour, and a year or two later he encouraged me to make another attempt; while Miss Terry has been always eager to attempt the heroine, in which she is confident of producing a deep impression.

At this time our actor’s position was a singular one. It had occurred to many that there was something strange and abnormal in the spectacle of the most conspicuous performer of his time, the one who “drew” most money of all his contemporaries, being under the direction of a simple, excellent lady, somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas, and in association with a mediocre company and economical appointments. There was here power clearly going to waste. It soon became evident that his talents were heavily fettered, and that he had now attained a position which, to say the least, was inconsistent with such surroundings. His own delicacy of feeling, and a sense of old obligation, which, however, was really slender enough, had long restrained him; but now, on the advice of friends, and for the sake of his own interests, he felt that matters could go on no longer, and that the time had arrived for making some serious change. The balancing of obligations is always a delicate matter, but it may be said that in such cases quite as much is returned as is received. The successful manager may “bring forward” the little-known actor, but the little-known actor in return brings fortune to the manager.

The situation was, in fact, a false one. Where was he to find an opening for those sumptuous plans and artistic developments for which the public was now ripe, and which he felt that he, and he alone, could supply? The breach, however, was only the occasion of the separation which must inevitably have come later. As it was, he had suggested a change in stage companionship: the attraction of the “leading lady,” with whom he had been so long associated, was not, he thought, sufficient to assist or inspire his own. As this arrangement was declined, he felt compelled to dissolve the old partnership.

It presently became known that the popular player was free, and ready to carry out the ambitious and even magnificent designs over which he had so long pondered. The moment was propitious. Except the little Prince of Wales’s, there was no theatre in London that was conducted in liberal or handsome style, and no manager whose taste or system was of a large or even dignified sort. Everything was old-fashioned, meagre, and mercantile. Everything seemed in a state of languor and decay. No one thought of lavish and judicious outlay, the best economy in the end. There was really but one on whom all eyes now instinctively rested as the only person who by temperament and abilities was fitted to restore the drama, and present it worthily, in accordance with the growing luxurious instinct of the time.

It was a rude shock for the manageress when this resolution was communicated to her. The loss of her actor also involved the loss of her theatre. She might have expostulated, with Shylock:

It followed therefore, almost as a matter of course, that the theatre, without any exertion on his part, would, as it were, drop into his hands. He at once prepared to carry out his venture on the bold and sumptuous lines which have since made his reputation. The poor lady naturally fancied that she had a grievance; but her complaint ought in truth to have been directed against the hard fate which had placed her in a position that was above her strength.[17] With much gallantry and energy she set herself to do battle with fortune in a new and lower sphere. She secured the old theatre at Islington, which she partially rebuilt and beautified, and on the opening night was encouraged by a gathering of her old friends, who cheered her when she appeared, supported by her two faithful daughters. Even this struggle she could not carry on long. She took with her some of her old company, Bentley, the Brothers Lyons, and others, and she furnished melodramas, brought out in a somewhat rude but effective style, suited to the lieges of the district. Later Mr. Charles Warner, greatly daring, gave a whole course of Shakespearian characters, taking us through the great characters seriatim. It was indeed a very astonishing programme. But the truth was, she had fallen behind the times; the old-fashioned country methods would no longer “go down.” In a few years she gave up the weary struggle, and, quite worn-out, passed away to join the “old Colonel.”

---

The Lyceum was designed by a true architect at a time when a great theatre was considered to be a building or monument, like a public gallery or museum. In these days little is thought of but the salle or interior, designed to hold vast audiences in galleries or shelves, and laid out much like a dissenting chapel. The Lyceum is really a fine structure, with entrances in four different streets, an imposing portico, abundance of saloons, halls, chambers, and other dependances, which are necessary in all good theatres. There is a special grace in its lobby and saloon, and in the flowing lines of the interior, though they have suffered somewhat from unavoidable alterations.[18] The stage is a truly noble one, and offers the attraction of supplying a dignity and theatrical illusion to the figures or scenes that are exhibited upon it; thus contrasting with the rather mean and prosaic air which the stages of most modern houses offer. This dignified effect is secured at a heavy cost to the manager, for every extra foot multiplies the area of scenery to a costly degree, and requires many figures to fill the void. Beazely, a pleasant humorist and writer of some effective dramas, was the architect of this fine temple, as also of the well-designed Dublin Theatre, since destroyed by fire.[19]

It may be imagined that the financial portion of the transaction could have offered little difficulty. A man of such reputation inspires confidence; and there are always plenty ready to come forward and support him in his venture, his abilities being the security. A story was long industriously circulated that he was indebted to the generosity of a noble lady well known for her wealth and liberality, who had actually “presented him with the lease of the theatre.” The truth, however, was that Irving entirely relied on his own resources. According to a statement which he found it necessary to have circulated, he borrowed a sum of money on business terms, which he was enabled to pay off gradually, partly out of profits, and partly out of a substantial legacy. His first repayments were made out of the gains of his provincial tour.

The new manager’s first effort was to gather round him an efficient and attractive company. It became presently known that Miss Ellen Terry was to be his partner and supporter on the stage, and it was instantly, and almost electrically, felt that triumph had been already secured. People could see in advance, in their mind’s eye, the gifted pair performing together in a series of romantic plays; they could hear the voices blending, and feel the glow of dramatic enjoyment. This important step was heartily and even uproariously acclaimed. No manager ever started on his course cheered by such tokens of goodwill and encouragement, though much of this was owing to a natural and selfish anticipation of coming enjoyment.

The new actress, a member of a gifted family, was endowed with one of those magnetically sympathetic natures, the rarest and most precious quality a performer can have. It may be said to be “twice blessed,” blessing both him that gives and him that takes—actor and audience. She had a winning face, strangely expressive, even to her tip-tilted nose, “the Terry nose,” and piquant, irregular chin; with a nervous, sinuous figure, and a voice charged with melodious, heart-searching accents. She indeed merely transferred to the stage that curious air of fitful enjouement which distinguished her among her friends, which often thus supplied to her performances much that was unfamiliar to the rest of the audience. She had, in short, a most marked personality.

I possess a rare and possibly unique bill of one of Miss Ellen Terry’s earliest child-performances, which it may be interesting to insert here:

and so on.

In ‘Home for the Holidays,’ the burden seems to have been cast on Ellen Terry, who performed ‘Hector Melrose, a slight specimen of the rising generation.’

In her rather fitful course, Ellen Terry[20] had gone on the stage, left it, and had gone on it again. Her performance at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre, the little home of comedy, in the piece of ‘Masks and Faces,’ had left a deep impression, and I well recall the sort of passionate intensity she put into the part. It must be said that there was some uncertainty as to how she was likely to acquit herself in the very important round of characters now destined for her; but her friends and admirers were confident that her natural dramatic instincts and quick ability, together with the inspiration furnished by so powerful a coadjutor, would supply all deficiencies. And these previsions were to be amply justified. But it was the sympathetic, passionate, and touching performance of Olivia in Mr. Wills’s version of ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’ that had lately drawn all eyes to her. It was felt that here was an actress possessing “distinction” and original power. A series of these performances at the Court Theatre, under Mr. Hare’s management, had added to her reputation.

For the opening of his theatre, the new manager did not much care to engage actors of mark, relying on a few sound but unpretentious performers, such as the late Mead, Swinburne, and others.[21] On his visits to Dublin, the new manager had met a clever, ardent young man, who had taken share in the flattering honours offered by Trinity College. This was the now well-known Bram Stoker, whose geniality, good-nature, and tact were to be of much service to the enterprise. A short time before he was in one of the public offices in Dublin; he was now offered the post of director of the theatre, or “business-manager,” as it is technically called. Mr. H. Loveday had been stage-manager under the Bateman dynasty, and was continued in his office. This gentleman is really hors ligne in this walk, being quick of resource, firm, even despotic where need requires it, and eke genial and forbearing too. The wonderful and ambitious development at the Lyceum has drawn on all his resources, equipping him with an experience which few stage-managers have opportunities of acquiring. When, as during the performance of ‘Henry VIII.,’ a crowd of over five hundred persons passes through the stage-door of the Lyceum, a stage-manager must needs have gifts of control of a high order to maintain discipline and direct his forces. And who does not know the sagacious and ever-obliging Hurst, who has controlled the box-office for many a year!

This proper selection of officials is all-important in an enterprise of this kind. Where they are well chosen, they help to bind the public to the house. It is well known that our manager is well skilled in reading the book of human character, and has rarely made a mistake in choosing his followers. On their side, they have always shown much devotion to the interests of their chief.

Not the least important of these assistants is an accomplished artist, Mr. Hawes Craven, the painter of the scenery, the deviser of the many elaborate settings and tableaux which have for so long helped to enrich the Lyceum plays. The modern methods of scenery now require an almost architectural knowledge and skill, from the “built-up” structures which are found necessary, the gigantic portals and porticoes of cathedrals, houses, squares, and statues. Monumental constructions of all kinds are contrived, the details, carvings, etc., being modelled or wrought in papier-mâché material. It may be doubted whether this system really helps stage illusion as it affects to do, or whether more sincere dramatic effects would not be gained by simpler and less laboured methods. To Mr. Craven, too, we owe the development of what is the “medium” principle—the introduction of atmosphere, of phantasmagoric lights of different tones, which are more satisfactory than the same tones when produced by ordinary colours. The variety of the effects thus produced has been extraordinary. As might be expected, the artistic instincts of the manager have here come in aid of the painter, who with much readiness and versatility has been ready to seize on the idea and give it practical shape by his craft.[22]

Mr. Craven, years ago, practised his art on the boards of the old Dublin Theatre Royal, under Mr. Harris, where his scenery attracted attention for its brilliancy and originality. His scenes had the breadth and effect of rich water-colour drawings, somewhat of the Prout school. Scenic effect is now seriously interfered with by the abundant effulgence of light in which the stage is bathed, and in which the delicate middle tints are quite submerged. The contrast, too, with moulded work is damaging, and causes the painted details to have a “poorish,” flat air. Another point to which much prominence had been given from the first at the Lyceum is the music. A fine and full orchestra—on an operatic scale almost—with excellent conductors, who were often composers of reputation, was provided. This rich and melodious entertainment sets off the play and adds to its dignity, and may be contrasted with the meagre music ordinarily provided in theatres.

Once, travelling in the North, the manager met at a hotel a young musician who, like himself, “was on tour,” with some concert party it might be, and fell into conversation with him on their respective professions. This young man chatted freely, and imparted his ideas on music in general, and on theatre music in particular. The manager was pleased with the freshness and practical character of these views, and both went their way. Long after, when thinking of a successor to Stöpel—the old-established Lyceum conductor—he recalled this agreeable companion, who was Mr. Hamilton Clarke, and engaged him, at the handsome salary of some six hundred a year, to direct the music. He was, moreover, a composer of great distinction. His fine, picturesque overtures and incidental music to ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ and other Lyceum pieces, still linger in the memory. It is to be lamented that this connection was severed. The manager has later applied for aid to such composers as Sir Arthur Sullivan, Sir A. Mackenzie, Sir Julius Benedict, Stanford, Jacobi, and Mr. German.

When he was thus busy with preparations for inaugurating his new ambitious venture, he had engagements to fulfil in the country, and could only rush up to town occasionally to push on the preparations. He tells us how, having secured a new Horatio, a “modern young actor,” as he called him, whom he had never seen perform, he came up to town especially to hear him go through his part. After reading it over for him in the way he desired it to be done, Irving said, “Now you try it; I will be the Ghost.” “So he began, and what a surprise it was! As Horatio he apostrophized me in the most cool, familiar, drawing-room, conventional style possible to imagine. I was aghast, ‘No, no,’ I cried. ‘Stop, consider the situation, its thrills of horror, the supernatural!’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘but how am I to do it?’ ‘Can’t you understand it?’ I said; ‘try again.’ He did still the same again and again. There was nothing to be done but engage another performer.”

Anticipating a little, I may say here that the Lyceum company, though not affecting to contain any brilliant “stars,” has from the beginning exhibited a true homogeneousness in those sound conscientious actors who have always “discharged” their characters in an effective way, suited to the requirements of the piece. With a certain logical consistency, the manager has ever considered the requirements of his audience and the theatre. The attraction, it was understood, was to be the two leading performers, who were to stand, as it were, before a well-studied, well-composed background. The subsidiary characters, it was felt, should set off the leading characters. The introduction of Mrs. Stirling, an actress of the first rank, in such a part as the Nurse, however welcome as a performance, almost disturbed the dramatic harmony, and made an inferior part too prominent. This may seem hypercritical, but there can be no doubt as to its truth, and it shows what tact is necessary to secure an even performance. Those members of the corps who have been with him almost from the beginning, the manager has thoroughly leavened with his own methods and his own spirit, thus securing a general harmony. Such useful auxiliaries include Johnson (a low comedian of the older school), Tyers, Archer (another low comedian), Haviland (a most useful performer, who improves with every year), and Andrews. Another serviceable player was Wenman, who seemed in physique and method to be exactly suited to Burchell in ‘Olivia.’ During the past seasons, however, this worthy man has been removed from the company by death. On a stranger these players might produce little effect; but the habitués of the theatre have grown familiar with their ways and faces and figures, and would miss them much were they absent from a new play.

In addition to this permanent body, the manager is accustomed occasionally to call to his aid performers of mark, such as Terriss and Forbes Robertson, the former an admirable actor in special characters that are suited to his robustness, though his powers would gain by some refining. Forbes Robertson is a picturesque performer of many resources, who can supply colour and passion at need. He has a fair share of what is called “distinction”; indeed, we wonder that his position has not ere this become more fixed and certain. But this rests on a deeper question, and is connected with the conditions of the stage at this moment, when the only course open to the player is to become a “manager-actor,” and have his own theatre, otherwise he must wander from house to house. Arthur Stirling and Macklin—excellent, well-trained actors both—have been found at the Lyceum, as also Mr. Bishop. Of the ladies there are Miss Genevieve Ward, the excellent Mrs. Pauncefort (of the school of Mrs. Chippendale), Miss Coleridge, occasionally the vivacious Miss Kate Phillips, and Miss Emery, who takes Miss Terry’s place in case of indisposition or fatigue.

The new manager made some decorative alterations in the theatre which, considering the little time at his disposal, did credit to his taste and promptitude. The auditorium was treated in sage green and turquoise blue; the old, familiar “cameos” of Madame Vestris’s day, ivory tint, were still retained, while the hangings were of blue silk, trimmed with amber and gold, with white lace curtains. The ceiling was of pale blue and gold. The stalls were upholstered in blue, “a special blue” it was called; escaloped shells were used to shield the glare of the footlights. The dressing-rooms of the performers, the Royal box, and Lady Burdett-Coutts’ box were all handsomely decorated and re-arranged, the whole being directed by Mr. A. Darbyshire, a Manchester architect. This, however, was but the beginning of a long series of structural alterations, additions, and costly decorations, pursued over a term of a little over a dozen years.

On Monday, December 30, 1878, the theatre was opened with the revived ‘Hamlet.’ This was the first of those glittering nights—premières—which have since become a feature of a London season. From the brilliancy of the company—which usually includes all that is notable in the arts and professions—as well as from the rich dresses, jewels, and flowers, which suggest the old opera nights, the spectacle has become one of extraordinary interest, and invitations are eagerly sought. Here are seen the regular habitués, who from the first have been always invited: for the constancy of the manager to his old friends is well known.

The play was given with new scenery, dresses, music, etc. The aim was to cast over the whole a poetical and dreamy glamour, which was exhibited conspicuously in the treatment of the opening scenes when the Ghost appeared. There were the mysterious battlements seen at a distance, shadowy walls, and the cold blue of breaking day. There were fine halls, with arches and thick pillars of Norman pattern. Irving’s version of the part was in the main the same as before, but it was noted that he had moderated it, as it were; it became more thoughtful.

Of course, much interest and speculation was excited by the new actress, who exhibited all her charming grace and winsomeness, with a tender piteousness, when the occasion called. “Why,” she told an interviewer, “I am so high strung on a first night that if I realized there was an audience in front staring at me, I should fly off and be down at Winchester in two twos!” On this momentous night of trial she thought she had completely failed, and without waiting for the fifth act she flung herself into the arms of a friend, repeating, “I have failed, I have failed!” She drove up and down the Embankment half a dozen times before she found courage to go home.

This successful inauguration of his venture was to bear fruit in a long series of important pieces, each produced with all the advantages that unsparing labour, good taste, study, and expense could supply. Who could have dreamed, or did he dream on that night? that no fewer than nine of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, a liberal education for audiences, were destined to be his contribution to “the public stock of harmless pleasure”? Every one of taste is under a serious obligation to him, having consciously or unconsciously learnt much from this accomplished man.

On this occasion, adopting a custom since always adhered to, the manager had his arrangement of the play printed, with an introduction by a good Shakespearian student, who was destined to be a well-known figure in the entourage of the Lyceum. Albeit a little tête montée, “Frank Marshall,” with his excited, bustling ways, and eccentric exterior, seems now to be missed. He was always bon enfant. He had written one very pleasing comedy, ‘False Shame,’ and was also rated as a high authority on all Shakespearian matters. He published an elaborate Study of Hamlet, and later induced Irving to join him in an ambitious edition of Shakespeare, which has recently been completed. He was also a passionate bibliomaniac, though not a very judicious one, lacking the necessary restraint and judgment. He had somewhat of a troubled course, like so many a London littérateur.

At this time the average theatrical criticism, from lack of suitable stimulant to excite it, was not nearly so discriminating as it is now, when there is a body of well-trained, capable men, who sign their names and carry out their duty with much independence. It is extraordinary what a change has taken place. At the opening of Irving’s management there was certainly a tendency to wholesale and lavish panegyric. Not unnaturally, too, for all were grateful to one who was making such exertion to restore the stage to elegance. Some of the ordinary newspapers, however, overwhelmed him with their rather tedious, indiscriminate praises; it seemed as though too much could not be said. There is no praise where everything is praised; nor is such very acceptable to its object. A really candid discussion on the interpretation of a character, with reasonable objections duly made, and argued out with respect, and suggestions put forward—this becomes of real profit to the performer. Thus in one single short criticism on a character of Garrick’s—he was once playing a gentleman disguised as a valet—Johnson has furnished not only Garrick, but all players too, with an invaluable principle which is the foundation of all acting: “No, sir; he does not let the gentleman break out through the footman.”

A new play at the Lyceum is rarely concluded without a speech being insisted upon. Irving himself has favoured this practice, but reluctantly, yielding only to the irresistible pressure of ardent and clamorous admirers. The system now obtains at every theatre where there is an “actor-manager.” But there can be no question but that it is an abuse, and a perilous one. It encourages a familiarity, and often insolence, which shakes authority. The manager, when he makes his speech, seems to invite the galleries down on to his stage, and it is to be noticed that the denizens of these places are growing bolder, and fancy, not unreasonably, that they are entitled to have their speech, as the manager has his.[23]

The manager has been always guided by the principle of alternating his greater attempts with others on a more moderate and less pretentious scale. With this view he brought out, on April 17, 1879, the ever-attractive ‘Lady of Lyons’—which would seem naturally suited to him and his companion. He was himself in sympathy with the piece, and prepared it on the most romantic and picturesque lines. It has been usually presented in a stagey, declamatory fashion, as affording opportunity to the two leading performers for exhibiting a robustious or elocutionary passion. It was determined to tone the whole down, as it were, and present it as an interesting love-story, treated with restraint. Nothing could be more pleasing than the series of scenes thus unfolded, set off by the not unpicturesque costumes of the revolutionary era. It is difficult to conceive now of a Pauline otherwise attired. It would seem that a play always presents itself to our manager’s eye as a series of poetical scenes which take shape before him, with all their scenery, dresses, and situations. As he muses over them they fall into their place—the figures move; a happy suitable background suggests itself, with new and striking arrangements; and thus the whole order and tone of the piece furnishes him with inspiration.

Indeed, it must be confessed that there are few plays we should be less inclined to part with than this hackneyed and well-worn drama. The “casual sight” of that familiar title on the red-brick corner wall in some country or manufacturing town, it may be weeks old—the old paper flapping flag-like—always touches a welcome note, and the names of characters have a romantic sound. In the story there is the charm of simple effects and primitive emotion; it is worked out without violence or straining, and all through the ordinary sympathies are firmly struck, and in the most touching way. Tinselly or superficial as many have pronounced the piece, there is depth in it. So artfully is it compounded that it is possible to play the two characters in half-a-dozen different ways; and clever actors have exerted themselves to gloss over the one weak spot in Melnotte’s character—the unworthy deception, which involves loss of respect. Pauline, however, is a most charming character, from the mixture of emotions; if played, that is, in a tender, impulsive way, and not made a vehicle for elocutionary display. The gracious, engaging part of the heroine has been essayed by our most graceful actresses, after being created by the once irresistible Miss Helen Faucit. For over fifty years this drama has held its ground, and is always being performed. The young beginner, just stepping on the boards, turns fondly to the effective “gardener’s son,” and is all but certain that he could deliver the passage ending, “Dost like the picture?”—a burst often smiled at, but never failing to tell. Every one of the characters is good and actable, and, though we may have seen it fifty times, as most playgoers have, there is always a reserve of novelty and attraction left which is certain to interest.

On this occasion, the old, well-worn drama was so picturesquely set forth, that it seemed to offer a new pastoral charm. In Irving’s Claude there was a sincerity and earnestness which went far to neutralize these highly artificial, not to say “high-flown,” passages which have so often excited merriment. Miss Terry, as may be conceived, was perfectly suited in her character—the ever-charming Pauline; and displayed an abundance of spontaneousness, sympathy, and tenderness.

The public was at this time to learn with interest that the actor was to accompany Lady Burdett-Coutts on a voyage to the Mediterranean in her yacht The Walrus, and all was speculation as to the party and their movements. One of her guests was an agreeable young American named Bartlett, now better known as Mr. Burdett-Coutts, since become the husband of the lady. During this pleasant voyage The Walrus directed her course to Venice and various Italian cities—all new and welcome to our actor, who was at the same time taking stock of the manners, customs, dresses, etc., of the country, and acquiring, as it were, the general flavour and couleur locale. His scene-painter had also found his way there, and was filling his sketch-book with rich “bits of colour,” picturesque streets, and buildings. The manager was, in fact, pondering over a fresh Shakespearian venture—an Italian play, which was to be produced with the new season. He was, in fact, about to set on the stage ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ with every aid that money and taste could supply. The moment this selection was known, it was felt almost universally that it was exactly the piece that should have been chosen. Everyone anticipated by a sort of instinct what entertainment was in store for them: for here was the part and here was the actor. Notwithstanding the elaborate character of the preparations, the whole was “got up” in some four weeks, though this period did not comprise the long course of private study and meditation during which the scheme was gradually matured in his mind. When on his yachting expedition he had taken advantage of a hasty visit to Tangier to purchase Moorish costumes to be used in the Shakespearian spectacle he was preparing.

To fill up the interval he got ready Colman’s drama ‘The Iron Chest,’ produced on September 27, 1879. This powerful but lugubrious piece has always had an unaccountable attraction for tragedians. Sir Edward Mortimer belongs, indeed, to the family of Sir Giles Overreach. The character offered temptation to our actor from its long-sustained, mournful, and poetical soliloquies, in which the state of the remorseful soul was laid bare at protracted length; but, though modified and altered, the piece is hopelessly old-fashioned. It is impossible in our day to accept seriously a “band of robbers,” who moreover live in “the forest”; and the “proofs” of Sir Edward’s guilt, a knife and blood-stained cloth, carefully preserved in an old chest which is always in sight, have a burlesque air.

Irving very successfully presented the image of the tall, wan, haggard man, a prey to secret remorse and sorrow. Wilford, the secretary, is by anticipation, as it were, in possession of the terrible secret of the murder, and is himself a character of much force and masterful control. He is really the complement of the leading personage. But Norman Forbes—one of the Forbes Robertson family, ingenuus puer, and likewise bonæ indolis—made of this part merely an engaging youth, who certainly ought to have given no anxiety in the world to a conscience-stricken murderer. The terrors of Sir Edward would have had more force and effect had he been in presence of a more robust and resolute personage—one who was not to be drawn off the scent, or shaken off his prey. This piece well served its purpose as “a stop-gap” until the new one was ready.

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With his usual tact the manager had determined on a change of entertainment which should offer a marked contrast to the classical success just obtained, and was now meditating a revival of the once popular romantic drama, ‘The Corsican Brothers,’ with all its spectral effects—certainly one of the best of many admirably-constructed and effective French pieces. To such a group belong the absorbing ‘Two Orphans,’ ‘Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life,’ ‘Victorine,’ and others. ‘The Lady of Lyons’ is the only one of our répertoire that can be put beside these ingenious efforts. Some thirty years ago, when it was produced at the Princess’s, the horny-voiced Charles Kean performing the Brothers, it took hold of the public with a sort of fascination—the strange music of Stöpel, and the mysterious, gliding progress of the murdered brother across the stage, enthralling everyone. There was a story at the time that the acts, sent over from Paris in separate parcels for translation, had become transposed, the second act being placed first, and this order was retained in the representation with some benefit to the play. This may be a legend; but the fact is that either act could come first without making any serious difference.

Magnificent and attractive as was the mounting of this piece at the time, it was really excelled in sumptuousness on its later revival in 1891. The experience of ten years had made the manager feel a certainty in the results of his own efforts; his touch had become sure; the beautiful and striking effects were developed naturally, without that undue emphasis which often disturbs the onward course of a piece. All his agents had grown skilled in the resources of the scene; and he himself, enjoying this security, and confident as would be a rider on the back of a well-trained horse, could give his undoubted fancy and imagination full range. Hence that fine, unobtrusive harmony which now reigns in all his pictures. Even now the wonderful opera house, the forest glades, the salon in Paris, all rise before us. Nor was there less art shown in the subdued tone of mystery which it was contrived to throw over the scenes. The scenes themselves, even those of reckless gaiety, seemed to strike this “awesome” note. Much as the familiar “ghost tune” was welcomed, more mysterious, as it always seemed to me, was the “creepy variation” on the original theme, devised by Mr. H. Clarke, and which stole in mournfully at some impending crisis all through the piece. There was some criticism on the D’Orsay costumes of the piece; the short-waisted waist-coats, the broad-brimmed opera hats, and the rich cravats—Joinvilles, as they used to be called. These lent a piquancy, and yet were not too remote from the present time. Terriss, it must be said, was lacking in elegance and “distinction.” There always lingers in the memory the image of the smooth grace and courtesies of Alfred Wigan, who really made a dramatic character of the part—sympathetic and exciting interest. It is in these things that we miss the style, the bearing which is itself acting, without utterance of a word, and which now seems to be a lost art. One result of this treatment, as Mr. Clement Scott truly pointed out, was the shifting of sympathies. “Château-Renaud was, no doubt, a villain, but he was one of the first class, and with magnetic power in him. He had won for himself a high place. He was cold as steel, and reserved. For him to deal with Louis was child’s play. And yet all this was reversed: it was Louis that dominated the situation; no one felt the least apprehension for his fate.” This is a judicious criticism.

Familiarity has now somewhat dulled the effect of the gliding entrance of the ghostly Louis, which at first seemed almost supernatural. The art was in making the figure rise as it advanced, and an ingenious contrivance was devised by one of the stage foremen. It was a curious feeling to find oneself in the cavernous regions below the stage, and see the manager rush down and hurriedly place himself on the trap to be worked slowly upwards.[24]

The use of intense light has favoured the introduction of new effects in the shape of transparent scenery; that is, of a scene that looks like any ordinary one, but is painted on a thick gauzy material. Thus, in the first act, the back of the scene in the Corsican Palace is of this material, through which the tableau of the Paris duel is shown, a fierce light being cast upon it. In the original representation the whole wall descended and revealed the scene. The upper half ascending, the other offers something of a magic-lantern or phantasmagorian air. The same material is used in the dream in ‘The Bells,’ when the spectral trial is seen going on, made mysterious and misty by the interposition of this gauze.

In the duel scene one of the swords is broken by an accident; the other combatant breaks his across his knee, that the duel may proceed “on equal terms.” It is not, of course, to be supposed that a sword is broken every night. They are made with a slight rivet and a little solder, the fitting being done every morning, so that the pieces are easily parted. But few note how artfully the performers change their weapons; for in the early stages of the duel the flourishings and passes would have soon caused the fragments to separate. It is done during the intervals of rest, when the combatants lean on the seconds and gather strength for the second “round,” and one gets his new weapon from behind a tree, the other from behind a prostrate log.

But it is in the next act that the series of elaborate set scenes succeeding each other entails the most serious difficulties, only to be overcome in one way—viz., by the employment of an enormous number of persons. Few modern scenes were more striking than that of the Opera House lit à giorno, with its grand chandelier and smaller clusters running round. The blaze of light was prodigious; for this some five thousand feet of gas-tubing had to be laid down, the floor covered with snake-like coils of indiarubber pipes, and the whole to be contrived so as to be controlled from a single centre-pipe. There were rows of boxes with crimson curtains, the spectators filling them—some faces being painted in, others being represented by living persons. Yet nothing could be more simple than the elements of this Opera House. From the audience portion one would fancy that it was an elaborately built and costly structure. It was nothing but two light screens pierced with openings, but most artfully arranged and coloured. At its close, down came the rich tableau curtains, while behind them descended the cloth with the representation of the lobby scene in the Opera House. It used to be customary for the manager’s friends to put on a mask and domino and mingle with the gay throng of roysterers in the Opera House scene, or to take a place in one of the practicable boxes and survey the whole—and a curious scene it was. A cosy supper in the Beef-steak room, and a pleasant causerie through the small hours, concluded a delightful and rather original form of a night’s entertainment. This was followed by the double rooms of the supper party, a very striking scene: two richly-furnished rooms, Aubusson carpets, a pianoforte, nearly twenty chairs, sofas, tables, clocks, and a supper-table covered with delicacies, champagne bottles, flowers, etc. This is succeeded almost instantly by a scene occupying the same space—that of the forest, requiring the minutest treatment, innumerable properties, real trees, etc. This is how it is contrived. The instant the tableau curtains are dropped, the auxiliaries rush on the scene; away to right and left fly the portions of the Parisian drawing-room: tables, chairs, piano, sofa, vanish in an instant. Men appear carrying tall saplings fixed in stands; one lays down the strip of frozen pond, another the prostrate trunk of a tree—everyone from practice knowing the exact place of the particular article he is appointed to carry. Others arrive with bags of sand, which are emptied and strewn on the floor; the circular tree is in position, the limelights ready. The transformation was effected, in what space of time will the reader imagine? In thirty-eight seconds, by the stage-manager’s watch. By that time the tableau had been drawn aside, and Château-Renaud and his friend Maugiron were descending into the gloomy glade after their carriage had broken down.[25]

As we call up the memories of the Lyceum performances, with what a series of picturesque visions is our memory furnished—poetical Shakespearian pageants; romantic melodramatic stories, set forth with elegance and vraisemblance; plays of pathetic or domestic interest; exhilarating comedies; with highly dramatic poems, written by the late Poet Laureate, Wills, and others. Indeed, who could have conceived on the opening night of the Lyceum management, when ‘Hamlet’ was to be brought out, that this was to be the first of a regular series—viz., nine gorgeous and ambitious presentations of Shakespearian pieces, each involving almost stupendous efforts, intellectual and physical, that we were to see in succession ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ ‘Othello,’ ‘Twelfth Night,’ ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Henry VIII.,’ and ‘King Lear’? What a gift to the public in the shape of the attendant associations, in the glimpses of Italian and other scenery, the rich costumes, the archæology!

The late Laureate, not contented with the popularity which his poems have won, always “hankered” after the entrancing publicity and excitement of the theatre. He made many an attempt in this direction, and his list of performed dramas is a fairly long one; few, however, have enjoyed any signal success, save perhaps the last, recently produced in the United States. To one indeed—witness the unlucky ‘Promise of May’—the regular “first-nighter,” as he is called, was indebted for an amusing and enjoyable evening’s entertainment. It must be conceded, however, that there is a dramatic tone or flavour about his pieces which is attractive, in spite of all deficiencies, and anyone who could not see a touching grace and elegance in such a piece as ‘The Falcon,’ weak as it is in treatment, must have little taste or feeling. So with ‘Queen Mary,’ which had a certain grim power, and, above all, local colour. His own striking success in the character of King Philip was an agreeable recollection for Irving; and he now lent himself with much enthusiasm to a project for bringing forward a new drama by the poet. The preparations for this elegant play were of the most lavish and unstinted kind. Nothing, literally, was spared in the outlay of either study, thought, money, or art. The manager usually follows an eclectic system, choosing his aides and assistants as they appear suited to each play. Thus an architect of literary tastes, Mr. Knowles, was called in to design a regular Temple-interior, which was the principal scene, and which was to be treated, secundum artem, in professional style. And so it rose with all its pillars and pediments “behind the scenes.”

The name of the new piece was ‘The Cup,’ a fine “barbarian” story, strangely interesting and even fascinating. It was, of course, diffuse and expanded to inordinate length. And there were many pleasant stories afloat of the poet contending “for the dear life” for his “ewe lambs,” and every line of his poetry; the manager, in his pleasant, placid way—but firm withal—quietly insisting on the most abundant compression.

The night of performance was that of January 3, 1881, when the beautiful play-poem was at last set before the audience in all its attraction. It still lingers in the memory with an inexpressible charm, breathing poetry and romance. We shall ever look back fondly to ‘The Cup,’ with its exquisite setting, and lament heartily that others did not so cordially or enthusiastically appreciate it. There was something so fascinating about the play, something so refining, and also so “fantastical,” that though lacking the strong thews and muscles of a regular drama, it satisfied eye and ear. As it floated before us, in airy, evanescent fashion, it seemed to recall the lines that wind up the most charming of Shakespeare’s plays, when the revels now had ended, and all had “melted into air, into thin air.” The noble Temple, with its rich mouldings, was destined too soon, alas! to pass away into the same dark grave of so many noble creations. On the two chief characters, both full of tragic power, the eye rested with an almost entrancing interest. Never did Irving act better—that is, never did he convey by his look and tones the evidence of the barbaric conception within him. There was a fine, pagan, reckless savagery, yet controlled by dignity. Miss Terry’s Camma returns to the memory like the fragment of a dream. The delightful creation was brought before us more by her sympathetic bearing and motion than by speech; what music was there in those tones, pitched in low, melodious key, interpreting the music of Tennyson! Her face and outline of figure, refined and poetical as they were, became more refined still in association with the lovely scenery and its surroundings. She seemed to belong to the mythological past. There was a strange calm towards the close, and all through no undue theatrical emphasis or faulty tone of recitation to disturb that dreamy sense.

It was not a little disheartening to think that this “entire, perfect chrysolite” was received with a rather cold admiration, or at least not with the enthusiasm it richly merited. The apathetic crowd scarcely appreciated the too delicate fare set before it, we scarcely know why. I suppose that it had not sufficient robustness, as it is called. After some weeks the manager found it needful to supplement the attraction of the play by the revived ‘Corsican Brothers.’ It may be conceived what a strain[26] was here on the resources, not merely of the actors, but even of all who were concerned with the scenery and properties. Two important pieces had to be treated and manipulated within an incredibly short space of time.

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By March 8, 1882, the great revival of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was ready. For this performance the manager drew upon all the resources of his taste, purse, study, and experience. The fascinating play, indeed, offered opportunities for adornment only too tempting. Those glittering, bewitching pictures still linger in the memory of the playgoer, though more than ten years have elapsed since the opening night “Among the restorations will be found that of Romeo’s unrequited love for Rosaline, omitted, among other things, in Garrick’s version.”

Those who came away from the Lyceum on that opening night must have had a sense almost of bewilderment, so rich and dazzling were the scenes of light and colour that had for hours passed before their eyes. According to the true illusive principle in use on this stage, the lights are lowered as every scene is about to change, by which a sense of mystery is produced, and the prosaic mechanism of the movement is shrouded. Hence, a sort of richness of effect and surprise as the gloom passes away and a gorgeous scene steeped in effulgence and colour is revealed. It would take long to detail the beautiful views, streets, palaces, chambers, dresses, groupings, that were set before the audience, all devised with an extraordinary originality and fertility of resource; though this was the third of these Italian revivals. When it is considered that there were twenty-two scenes, and that most of these were “sets,” it is amazing with what rapidity and smoothness the changes were contrived. Not the least pleasurable part of the whole was the romantic music, written in a flowing, tender strain by Sir Julius Benedict, full of a juvenile freedom and spirit, thoroughly Italian in character, and having something of the grace and character of Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde.’ In the exquisite garden, with its depth of silvered trees glistening in the moonlight, viewed from a terrace, the arrangement of the balcony was the only successful solution seen as yet. It has always been forgotten that Juliet has to act—is, as it were, “on the stage”—and should not be perched in a little wobbling cage. Here it was made a sort of solid loggia, as much a part of the stage as that upon which her lover was standing. I fancy this was the scenic triumph of the night.

When it is considered that Romeo and Juliet are characters almost impossible to perform so as to reach the Shakespearian ideal, it becomes easier to “liberate one’s mind” on the subject of the performance of the two leading characters. The chief objection was that they scarcely presented the ideal of superabundant youth—boyish and girlish—required by the play. I have always thought this a point to be but little insisted upon; it is much the same as with strictness of costume, which is overpowered, as it were, by the acting. It is the acting of youth, not the appearance of youth, that is required; and a case is conceivable where all the flush of youth with its physical accompaniments may be present in perfection, and yet from failure of the acting the idea of maturity and age may be conveyed.[30] In the dramatic ballroom scene, when he was moving about arrayed as a pilgrim, the unbecoming dress and rather too swarthy features seemed to convey the presentment of a person in the prime of life. The critics spoke freely in this sense.

In the latter, more tragic portion of the play, the very intensity of the emotion seemed to add maturity and depth to the character of Romeo. Nothing could better supply the notion of impending destiny, of gathering gloom, than the view of the dismal heart-chilling street, the scene of the visit to the apothecary. Our actor’s picturesque sense was shown in his almost perfect conception of this situation. The forlorn look of the houses, the general desolation, the stormy grandeur in keeping with the surroundings, the properly subdued grotesqueness of the seller of simples (it was the grotesqueness of misery that was conveyed), filled the heart with a sadness that was almost real. In Miss Terry’s case there was a division of opinions, some thinking her performance all but perfect, others noting the absence of “girlishness.” All agreed as to its engaging character and its winning charm. Terriss was the Mercutio, which he gave with his favourite blunt impetuosity. But one of the most perfectly played characters was Mrs. Stirling’s Nurse. This accomplished woman represented all the best traditions—high training, admirable elocution, with the art of giving due weight and breadth to every utterance. And yet—here was a curious phenomenon—the very excellence of the delineation disturbed the balance of the play. The Nurse became almost as important as the leading performers, but not from any fault of the actress. She but followed the due course. This is a blemish which is found in many exhibitions of Shakespearian plays, where the inferior actor works up his Dogberry, or his Gravedigger, or his Jacques to the very fullest extent of which they are capable. But there should be subordination; these are merely humours exhibited en passant. With an actress of Mrs. Stirling’s powers and rank, the manager no doubt felt too much delicacy to interfere; nor would perhaps the audience have placidly accepted any effacing of her part. But as it was, the figure of this humble retainer became unduly prominent.[31]

‘Romeo and Juliet’ was witnessed one night by the impetuous Sarah Bernhardt, who afterwards came behind the scenes to congratulate the performers. “How can you act in this way every night?” she exclaimed to Ellen Terry. The latter, in her simple, natural way, explained: “It is the audience—they inspire me!”

Such was this refined, elegant, and truly brilliant spectacle, which, as usual, furnished “talk for the town,” and stirred its interest. The hundredth night of performance was celebrated by a banquet on the stage, on Sunday night, June 25, 1882. Here assembled critics, dramatists, artists, e tutti quanti; there were many admirers, friends, and sympathizers present, some of whom have since passed away—Sir W. Hardman, Dr. Cox, Laman Blanchard, Palgrave Simpson, and many more. There is a sadness in thinking of these disappearances.

Among the guests at the banquet was Mr. Abbey, the American manager, well known for his many daring and very successful coups in management. In the course of the night there were some rumours circulated as to the motives of his presence in town; but an allusion in Irving’s speech, when he said pointedly that he hoped next year to have good experience of the cordiality of American audiences, set the matter at rest. This scheme had long been in his thoughts; and, indeed, already many invitations and proposals had been made to him to visit the United States. There was something dazzling and fascinating in this prospect of going forth to conquer a new great kingdom and new audiences. There was the chance, too, of riches “beyond the dreams of avarice.” No wonder, then, that the scheme began to take shape, and was presently to be decided upon.

After one hundred and thirty nights’ performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ the season was brought to a close, the manager taking “a benefit” on his last night. Some ungracious folk object to this old-established form of compliment, but he defended it in a very modest and judicious way.

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In his speech at the close of the season, the manager announced the new piece selected for the next season. With that judicious view to contrast or relief which directed all his efforts, he had settled on a true comedy—the effective ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ To this piece many had long since pointed as being exactly adapted to the special gifts of the two performers. Here was the fourth Shakespearian play of an Italian complexion and atmosphere, which entailed accordingly a fresh exhibition of Italian streets, manners, and costumes. A happy impression was produced by the very note of preparation, the air was filled with the breath of the coming piece; all felt, in anticipation, the agreeable humours and fancies of Benedick and his Beatrice. This feeling of comedy, it may be said, is ever a delightful one; it spreads abroad a placid, quiet enjoyment and good-humour with which nothing else can compare.

On Wednesday, October 11, 1882, the delightful piece was brought out. From the excellent acting of the two principal performers, and the beautiful “setting” of the whole, it was destined to become one of the most popular and acceptable of the Lyceum répertoire. By a curious delusion, owing no doubt to the recollection of the lavish splendours of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ some critics pronounced that it had been brought out with but a moderate display of scenic resources. The truth was that the play had been “mounted” with as much state as it would properly bear. Some scenes were equipped in an unusually lavish and superb style. The general effect, however, was harmonious; indeed, the happy tact of the manager was never displayed to such advantage as in seizing on what might be termed the proper key of the piece. When we recall, with a pleasant enjoyment, these various Lyceum spectacles, we find that there is no confusion of one with the other, that each has a special, distinct note, and thus is started a train of impressions, delightful for their variety, which enrich the chambers of the memory.

There was one scene which, for its splendour and originality, was to be talked of for many a day, viz., the beautiful interior of a church at Messina—the “Church Scene,” as it was called. The art displayed here, the combination of “built-up” scenery with “cloths,” the rich harmonious tintings, the ecclesiastical details, the metal-work, altars, etc., made an exquisite picture.[32] The well-known passage of the interrupted bridal was “laid out” with extraordinary picturesqueness, much emphasis being given to the religious rites. It was felt, however, that the genuflections before the altar were introducing rather too awful a suggestion, though the intention was, no doubt, reverent. It must be admitted by all whose memories wander back to that performance, that the vision of this “Church Scene” rises before them with an almost pathetic significance, owing in some part to the touching, sympathetic acting of Miss Millward. By this emphasizing of the state and publicity of the scene, the crowds and rich dresses and ecclesiastical robes, the “distressful” character of such a trial for a young bride was brought out in a very striking way.

All eyes, as it may be conceived, were drawn to the figures of Benedick and Beatrice, as portrayed by Irving and Ellen Terry. Their scenes were followed with a delighted interest, and their gay encounters of wit and flirtation gave unalloyed pleasure. Irving threw a Malvolian gravity over the character, alternated by a certain jocoseness.

These two characters, Benedick and Beatrice, are so much the heritage of all lovers of true comedy, that everyone seems to have fixed a standard for himself, which he will critically apply to every representation. This partiality does not make us particularly exigeant, but we have each our own fancies. There is nothing more interesting, entertaining, or fruitful in speculation than the discussion of how favourite characters in comedy should be represented. It is as though they were figures in real life. For myself, I confess I should have preferred that the actor had taken the character into still higher realms of airy comedy, and had less emphasized the somewhat farcical passages. Benedick was a man of capacity, a soldier, a gentleman, and though he was likely to be so imposed upon, he would not have given his friends the satisfaction of seeing him in this dejected condition, almost inviting laughter and rude “rallying.”[33]

During all this time, preparations for the great American visit were being carefully matured. There is supposed to be a sort of hostility between artistic gifts and business-like habits; but Irving has always shown great capacity where organization and arrangement are in question—he has the clearest vision, and the firmest, most decided purpose. In this he has often suggested a surprising likeness to the departed novelist Dickens, who was also remarkable for his business power and decision of character, and whose motto it was to do every trifle in the best way that it could be done. Anything worth doing at all, he would say, was worth doing well.

Nothing was left undone to ensure success. Everything was “thought out” beforehand with the greatest care and deliberation. The American manager, Abbey, who had undertaken the direction of the venture, and had a vast store of experience and skill at command, planned, of course, the arrangements of the visit; but the purely theatrical details were thrown upon the English actor, who had to equip completely some dozen plays with scenery, dresses, and properties. A following of from seventy to a hundred persons—including actors, actresses, secretaries, scenic and music artists, dressers, supernumeraries—was to be taken out.[34] Further, with a view to making the company thoroughly familiar with the répertoire, for months beforehand a sort of continuous rehearsal went on before the regular Lyceum audiences; that is, all the stock-pieces were revived one after the other, and performed with much care.

The honours and flattering tributes that were now lavished on the departing actor would have turned the head of one less sensible or less unspoiled. The town seemed really to have “run horn-mad” after him, and could talk of nothing but of him and his expedition. As was to be expected, the compliment of a public dinner was the smallest of these tributes. Presents and invitations were lavished upon him. In a caricature he was shown as being profusely anointed, by critics and others, from a tub filled with a composition labelled “butter.” In another the Prince of Wales is obsequiously presenting an invitation, which the actor excuses himself from accepting owing to “my many engagements.” The most famous portrait-painter of the day begged to be allowed to paint his picture, which he wished to offer as a present to the Garrick Club.[35] Rumours were busily circulated—and contradicted—that a knighthood had been offered and declined.

The public dinner at St. James’s Hall was fixed for July 4—a compliment to the American people. The list of stewards was truly extraordinary, comprising almost everyone of mark in the arts and the great professions. The Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, who was himself setting out for a tour in the States, was to take the chair. Mr. Gladstone and some Cabinet Ministers were on the committee. There were three thousand applicants for the five hundred possible seats, all that Mr. Pinches, the secretary—a relation of the actor’s old master—could contrive to supply. Two Bishops excused their attendance in flattering terms; and Mr. Gladstone would gladly have attended, but was compelled by his duties to be absent.[36] At this banquet, besides the Chief Justice and the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, there were five other judges present, together with all that was distinguished in the professions and arts.

The Chairman, in a thoughtful and studied speech, delivered perhaps one of the best apologias for the actor that is ever likely to be offered. The skill and moderation of the accomplished advocate was shown to perfection: he did not adulate, but gave the actor a graduated and judicious measure of praise for all he had done in the improvement in the general tone, morals, and methods of the stage. Irving acknowledged these compliments in grateful and heartfelt terms, addressed not so much to the diners present as to the kingdom in general.

After these metropolitan honours, he passed to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Liverpool. At each city he was greeted with complimentary banquets. At Edinburgh he opened a new theatre, named in compliment to his own, the Lyceum. He was invited to Hawarden by Mr. Gladstone, and also to Knowsley, on a visit to Lord Derby.

On October 10, 1883, the chief members of the company—over forty in number—sailed for New York, under the conduct of Mr. Bram Stoker. Tons of scenery, dresses, properties, etc., had been already shipped. The following day Irving and Miss Terry embarked on board the White Star liner, The Britannic. Up to the last moment telegrams and letters containing good wishes literally by hundreds were being brought in. Even while the vessel was detained at Queenstown, the Mayor and Corporation of Cork seized the opportunity of saluting him with a parting address. The incidents have been all described by my friend Mr. Joseph Hatton, who attended the party as “historiographer”; and I may refer the reader to his interesting volumes.

The visit was to prove one long triumph, and the six months’ progress a strange, wonderful phantasmagoria of receptions, entertainments, hospitalities of all kinds. Novel and original, too, were the humours and fashions that greeted them everywhere, and the eyes of the two players must have often turned back with pleasure to that odd pantomime.

‘The Bells’ was selected for the opening performance which was on October 29, 1883. Though his reception was overpowering and tumultuous, there was some hesitation as to the success of the play itself, and the critics seemed to be a little doubtful as to whether it fairly represented the full measure of his gifts. ‘Charles I.’, however, followed, and the two great artists made the profoundest impression. But when ‘Louis XI.’ and ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ were presented, all doubts vanished. Miss Terry won all hearts; her sympathetic style and winsome ways made conquest of every audience. Nothing struck the Americans with such astonishment as the exquisite arrangement and “stage management” of the Shakespearian comedy, the reserved yet effectively harmonious treatment of all the details being a complete revelation. The actor’s consummate taste was recognised; in fact, the result of the visit was a complete revolution in all the American stage methods. The extraordinary record of lavish hospitalities, tributes of all kinds, with the adventures, is set forth fully in the story of the tour. But it is only by consulting the American journals that we can gather a notion of the odd “humours,” often grotesque, by which the American public displays its enthusiastic approbation.[37] The “interviewers,” as may be imagined, were rampant, and extracted from the genial and courteous actor opinions on everything connected with his profession. One immortal criticism deserves to be recorded here. “He has rung,” said a newspaper, “the knell of gibbering Gosh!”[38]

The party remained in the country until the May of the year following. The receipts exceeded every forecast, a quarter of a million dollars having been taken in the first four weeks. But the expenses were enormous. The substantial profit was found in Irving’s securing a new, vast, and prominent audience in the West; in his winning the suffrages of Americans abroad as well as of those at home, who became his most fervent adherents.

The following is an amusing scene. Irving had been invited to the Journalists’ Club, and after the close of the performance of ‘Louis XI.,’ the actor had come round to the club, where he partook of a supper tendered to him by a few members in a private room. He had been in the building three-quarters of an hour before he made known his presence by coming upstairs, escorted by several gentlemen. The guest of the evening then held an informal reception.

“After he had said something pleasant to almost everyone, he volunteered to do his share towards entertaining those present. It had been slightly hinted to him that something of the kind was looked for, and he entered into the spirit of the occasion. Then the great tragedian turned from the serious to the comic. He recited, in a way that provoked roars of laughter, the funny little poem, ‘Tommy’s First Love.’

“When this was over there was a unanimous shout, which lasted several minutes. It was a loud cry for more. Mr. Irving expressed his willingness to give another recitation, and called for a chair. After sitting down he observed that, as all were standing, those in the rear could see but indifferently. ‘Suppose we change the stage management,’ he suggested. ‘Can’t we all sit down?’ This was received with some merriment, as there were few chairs in the room. Someone, however, saw Mr. Irving’s idea that those in the front ranks should sit upon the floor, and in a moment the four foremost lines were kneeling upon the carpet.

“Mr. Irving then recited ‘Eugene Aram’s Dream.’ The splendid elocutionary talents of the actor kept the audience spellbound. Every emotion, every pang of the schoolmaster was vividly depicted by the expressive face of the tragedian. The scene was a remarkable one. Mr. Irving threw himself so earnestly into the character that at one time he tore the white necktie from his throat without realizing what he was doing, and, as his features were wrought up to show the usher’s agony, similar lines seemed to show themselves by sympathy in the faces of those present. At the close of the recitation the motionless figures, some standing, some sitting with crossed legs upon the floor, became moving, enthusiastic men. Those on their feet threw their arms into the air and cheered as if for dear life, while those on the floor bounded up simultaneously and expressed their enthusiasm. It was some time before the excitement subsided.

“I recited that once to a friend of mine,” said Mr. Irving, after quiet had been restored, “and what do you think he said? Why, he seriously exclaimed: ‘There is one point in that story that I’d like to know about. What became of the boy?’” This anecdote produced a chorus of laughter. After shaking hands all round, Mr. Irving went downstairs and out, accompanied by the club’s officers. Before he left the room, “Three cheers for Mr. Irving” were called for and given by throats already hoarse with applauding him.

A second American expedition followed in the September of the same year, during which a visit was paid to Canada.

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On July 8, 1884, a few weeks after the return to London, ‘Twelfth Night’ was brought out at the Lyceum, and, for luxury of scenery, dresses, and mounting, fully equalled all its predecessors. Irving was, of course, the Malvolio, which he rendered not exactly after Charles Lamb’s interpretation, but, indeed, as anyone of Shakespearian intelligence would have done, never lapsing into farce, but treating the whole earnestly. It was a beautiful and graceful show, full of alternate sympathy and humour. Personally we look back to it as one of the most welcome and interesting of his revivals; all the incidents connected with Viola, so charmingly interpreted by Ellen Terry, have an irresistible and touching interest. The scenery was costly and exquisite, and reflected the tone of the piece. The audience, however, listened with a somewhat languid interest—some said because of the oppressive heat of a July night, which fretted and put them out of humour; but I believe because they were unfamiliar with the piece, and had not been “educated up to it.” When the manager came out at the close, with all the good-humour and freedom of a privileged favourite, he was confounded to find his expressions of self-congratulation and satisfaction greeted with uncouth denial and rude interruptions. He was not accustomed to such coarse reception, and with much spirit he administered this well-deserved chastisement: “I can’t understand how a company of earnest comedians and admirable actors, having these three cardinal virtues of actors—being sober, clean, and perfect—and having exercised their abilities on one of the most difficult plays, can have given any cause for dissatisfaction.” But there are curious idiosyncrasies in audiences, one of which is, as I have noted, that they must be in some way familiar with the piece and its incidents; and there must be broad, comprehensive types of character. Now Malvolio, one of the most delicately exquisite of conceptions, it could be seen, was almost unintelligible to “the general”: they took him for some “crank,” or half-cracked being, appearing in his nightcap, etc. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew and their rollickings were actually thought “low” or vulgar, on the same principle that Tony Lumpkin’s alehouse friend could not abide anything low. So much for the ignorant, ill-mannered section of the audience.

It was argued, indeed, by critics that Irving’s Malvolio was somewhat too much in earnest, and therefore was liable to be accepted by the audience as a serious person, actually in love with his mistress, which with his eccentricities and oddities became an impertinence. Whereas, as Lamb says, by imparting a quaint humorousness, the audience sees the absurdity of the jest and is amused. Elia, indeed, always insists that the actor of such “fantastical” parts should hint to the audience, slyly, as it were, that he is only half in earnest.

A most delightful sense of pure natural comedy was induced by the likeness between the Terrys, brother and sister, who had a sort of Shakespearian elegance in their bearing. But this did not avail much with the uncultured crowd. It was objected also that the play was set forth somewhat pedantically and too much au grand sérieux, many of the actors, not being comedians—witness Mr. Terriss—imparting a literal tone to all they said and did. This was not without its effect on the audience, who by the very promise of seriousness were beguiled into expecting something serious. Irving himself was not wholly free from this method; and in the strange scene of the imprisonment, so difficult to “carry off,” he was deeply tragic, as if really suffering, and without any underlying grotesqueness. His exit, too, with solemn menaces, had the air of retributive punishment in store.

Now followed a second expedition to the States, as well as to Canada, the details of which I pass over. On the reopening of his theatre on his return a rather disagreeable episode occurred, connected with an alteration he had made in the arrangement of his house. It was announced that places in the pit might be reserved and secured in advance, which gave rise to indignant protest and to cries of “Give us back our Pit.” The question was warmly discussed in the newspapers.

The advantage of the debate was that it clearly established a true theatrical principle—viz., that the pit and galleries are intended for the crowd, and should be free and open to the “man in the street”: that the best seats here must be the prize of the strongest and most patient. The principle of numbering and booking, it was shown, would actually abolish the pit. The judicious manager understood and recognised the public discontent, and made announcement that on May 18 he would restore the old custom.

In accordance with his engagement, the manager now proceeded to get ready Wills’s pleasing and sympathetic drama, ‘Olivia.’ This was no doubt selected with a view to furnishing a fresh opportunity for the display of Miss Terry’s attractions; but it will be seen that she was not to be altogether the cynosure of the whole, and that two other accomplished performers were to share the honours of the piece. It was produced on May 27, 1885, and excited much interest. The creation of Dr. Primrose is one of the most interesting and most original of Irving’s characters. It is elaborated and finished to the very highest point, and yet there is no lack of simplicity or unaffected grace. The character suited him in every way, and seemed to hold completely in check all his little “mannerisms,” as they are called. There was a sort of Meissonnier delicacy in his touches, and scarcely any other of his characters is so filled in and rounded with unspoken acting—that is, by the play of facial expression, gesture, walk, etc. It is, indeed, a delightful performance, and always holds the audience, which attentively follows the Vicar’s successive emotions. These the actor allows unconsciously, as it were, to escape him, as he pursues his little domestic course unconscious of spectators. One reason for this complete success was, of course, that Irving, like so many others, had read, known, and felt this engaging character from his childhood, altogether outside dramatic conditions, though of course it is not every play that enjoys this advantage.

As we look back to the Lyceum, the eye rests with infinite pleasure on the engaging figure of the Vicar, with his powdered wig and rusted suit, and that amiable smile of simplicity which betokened what agreeable fancies were occupying his mind. There he was, the centre of a happy family, content with the happiness of his wife and children. No picture could have been prettier. With an exquisite feeling of propriety, the quaint, antique associations were developed, and no more pleasing scene could have been conceived, or one that lingers more in the memory, than the scene at night, when the family are singing at the spinet, Moses accompanying with his flute,[39] the Vicar in his chair, the cuckoo-clock in the corner. It was a fine instinct that directed these things.

It should be added that the piece had been somewhat altered from its first shape, and no doubt gained from the manager’s suggestions. One of the most astonishing things connected with it is the admirably firm and coherent construction, it being laid out in the most effective way. Its various characters are introduced with singular skill. The last act seemed, indeed, somewhat superfluous and too much drawn out; but the whole design was really admirable. Yet its adapter was admittedly deficient in the arts of construction, and most of his other pieces display singular and even ludicrous incoherencies. It might be that he had received assistance in this individual case, or had been so inspired by the subject as to triumph over his own defects.

Such tales as these—world-wide stories that belong to all countries and to all time—Shakespearian, in short—seem on repetition to have the air of novelty; at least, they always interest. The situations are dramatic, and the characters even more dramatic than the situations. Miss Terry’s Olivia is not only one of her best characters, but is a most touchingly graceful and varied performance. The gifted pair are indeed at their best here. In the excellently-contrived scene at the Dragon, Miss Terry’s transition of horror, astonishment, rage, shame, succeeding each other, were displayed with extraordinary force and variety. Some insisted that the part suffered from her restlessness, but, as it was happily said, “She is for ever flickering about the stage in a series of poses, or rather disturbance of pose, each in itself so charming that one can hardly account for the distrust she herself shows of it by instantly changing it for another.” The other characters were no less excellent in their way. Terriss, as the Squire, was admirably suited, his very defect—an excessively pronounced brusqueness—adding to the effect. I recollect it was said at the time in the theatre that there was only the one performer for Thornhill, and that one Terriss. He—and he only—must be secured. He never performed so well as in this character.

A year later there occurred what must have been one of the most gratifying incidents in the actor’s career, and one of the most pleasant to recall. The Oxford commencements, held on June 26, 1886, were more than usually brilliant. At that time, the late learned and popular Dr. Jowett was Vice-Chancellor, a man, as is well known, of the largest sympathies. Though a divine, he took a deep interest in Irving and his profession. On its being proposed to confer honorary degrees on certain distinguished guests, including Mr. John Bright, the Vice-Chancellor, it is said, suggested the name of the well-known actor. There was something, as I say, dramatic or characteristic in this proposal, coming as it did from so expressive a personality. The University, however, was not prepared to go so far as this, though the proposal was only negatived, it is said, by a narrow majority of two votes. The vigorous purpose of the Vice-Chancellor was not to be thus baffled, and by a brilliant coup he contrived that the very omission of the actor’s name—like the absence of one portrait from a series—should suggest that the chief performer had been “left” out, and thus supplied a fresh element in the brilliancy of his reception. He invited him to deliver a lecture on his art in the very precincts of the University, and under the patronage of its most distinguished professors and “Heads,” and it may be conceived that the figure of the popular player became the cynosure of attraction in the brilliant academic show.

When it became known that the actor was to give his address, everyone of note and culture and importance in the place rushed to secure seats. Some fourteen hundred persons were present, with most of “the Heads of Houses,” and distinguished professors. Dr. Jowett welcomed him in some warm and well-chosen phrases, telling him how much honoured they felt by his coming to them. A good English actor, he said happily enough, lived in the best company—that of Goethe and Shakespeare; and coming from such, he might seem to convey that he was good enough company for them.

But during the year 1892 the University of Dublin was the first to recognise officially the actor’s position, and at the celebration of its tercentenary conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, in company with many distinguished men. Indeed, Irving’s sympathetic temperament has always been specially acceptable to this University, and the youths of Trinity College from the beginning were eager to exhibit their appreciation and admiration of his talent. They would attend him home from the theatre in uproarious procession, and sing songs in his praise in the galleries. So early as June, 1877, he had given a reading in the University in its great Examination Hall. The Provost, the Dean, and other “dons” all attended. He gave ‘Richard III.,’ a chapter of ‘David Copperfield,’ and ‘Eugene Aram.’ An illuminated address was presented to him, and to make the day truly festive and collegiate, the actor dined in the hall, the guest of the college, and went his way covered with honours.

Later came the turn of Edinburgh, where he was much considered, and in 1881 delivered a lecture before the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute. He gave, also, an interesting lecture on acting at the Royal Institution in London. With pleasure, too, must he look back to his welcome at Harvard University, in the United States. The novelty of the scene, the warm welcome accorded to him in a strange land, must have made a most welcome form of honour. He delivered a lecture on the “Art of Acting”—his favourite topic—in the great Sande’s Theatre, into which over two thousand persons were crowded—the usual audience was sixteen hundred. An enormous crowd blocked the doors, so that the actor on his arrival could not gain admittance, and had to be taken in by a subterranean passage. The president was in a conspicuous place, and all the professors and dons attended. Another American University, that of Cambridge, also invited him to lecture (rather to give instruction) before them, and the newspapers of the country declared that the honours with which he was welcomed were really “unprecedented.” Again he discoursed on the “Art of Acting.” An even more flattering and unusual compliment was the invitation to the Military Academy at West-point, where, with his company, he performed ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in Elizabethan dresses, but without scenery—to the huge enjoyment of professors and students. Here is a round of University distinctions that has never fallen to the lot of any other actor. We may see in it an instinctive recognition of a cultured and artistic feeling that has influenced the community and done excellent educational service.

Irving had long wished to display his sardonic power in Goethe’s great character of Mephistopheles. He had already given proof of his quality in this line in Louis XI. and Richard III.; but there was a piquancy and range in Mephistopheles which naturally offered him an attraction, from the mixture of the comic or grotesque with deep tragic force. It also offered room for a superb and almost unlimited display of scenic magnificence. It was no secret, too, that in this particular display he was resolved to surpass all his previous efforts.

To Wills was entrusted the work of preparing the adaptation, this writer having, as I said, a command of flowing and melodious versification, which, moreover, was fitted to the actor’s delivery. The adapter had completed his task many years before, and the piece had long lain in the manager’s desk. During this period he let his conception of the piece slowly ripen; he discussed it with scholars; thought over it; while the adapter, a German student himself, revised his work at intervals according to the views of his chief. All this was judicious enough. It was, however, destined to be the last work that he was to prepare for his old friend and faithful Lyceum patron. It must be said that the latest adapter was not altogether well fitted for the task, as he was too much given to descriptions and “recitations,” while Mephistopheles might have been made far more of.

The preparations made were of the most thorough kind. For months the manager’s rooms were hung round with a profusion of sketches by artists of all kinds, relics of Nuremberg and the Goethe country, with old engravings of Albert Dürer, and great folios of costumes. To permeate himself with something of the tone and feeling of the piece, he travelled in Germany, accompanied by his scene-painter, Mr. Craven. Both stayed at Nuremberg, where the artist imbued himself with the whole poetry of the old city. Everyone of artistic feeling will recall one truly romantic scene—a simple cloth set very forward on the scene, perhaps to its disadvantage—a view of the old city, with its dull red high roofs and quaintly-peaked spires.

During the preparations, the theatre, now some eighty years old, had been redecorated afresh, but at the complete sacrifice of the old Vestris adornments, the elegant medallions or cameos, and the double-gilt pillars, which were thought to interfere with the view. The outline of the dress-circle was brought forward with some gain of space, and its graceful undulations were abolished. For such changes no one can be brought to account—the irresistible pressure of the time and the laws of convenience bring them about. An entirely new system of decoration was introduced, suggested by that of Raffaelle’s Loggie at the Vatican, which seemed scarcely sober enough for an auditorium. More structural changes were also made in the interests of the galleries, of which the manager has always shown himself careful.

On December 19, 1886, the piece was produced. There was the now invariable excitement of a Lyceum première, and there were stories of frantic efforts, grovellings, implorings, etc., to obtain a seat. A peer had actually been seen in the gallery—and was more than content with his place. The Royal Family were in their box, and the Prince, then in mourning, watched the play from behind the scenes. Mephistopheles was destined for many a night to give the keenest enjoyment to vast audiences. It was, indeed, a most original conception. With successive performances he enriched it with innumerable telling and grotesque touches; for, as I have said, the adapter had “laid out” the character on rather conventional lines. In spite of all these defects, he suggested the notion of “uncanniness” and a supernatural diablerie. His antic scaring of the women at the church-door will be recalled by many. Miss Terry’s Marguerite was full of pathos and poetry, occasionally suggesting, as in the “Jewel” scene, the operatic heroine. But at the first performance it became plain that a serious mistake had been made in the choice of Conway for the hero, Faust. He seemed scarcely to feel or understand the part; there was a lack of passion and sympathy. It was, indeed, an overwhelming burden for a player whose gifts lay in the direction of light comedy.

But on one Saturday night the audience was somewhat astonished to see before them a new Faust, one who, moreover, came on with a book in his hand, which he continued to read aloud even after Mephisto had paid him his visit through the steam clouds. It proved that Conway was suffering from gout, and Alexander, resigning his own character to Tyars, took the rôle of Faust, which on the following night he assumed permanently, and “discharged” in the regular way. Considering the shortness of the notice, he performed this awkward duty en vrai artiste—as, indeed, might be expected.[40] However, the cast was further strengthened by the excellent Mrs. Stirling, whose part was scarcely worthy of her. Placing a strong performer in a part that is inferior in strength, instead of improving or fortifying, only further brings out the poverty of the character.

In this piece numerous scientific devices were introduced to add to the effect, such as the clouds of steam which veiled the apparition of Mephistopheles, a device of French origin. This is scarcely illusive, as it is attended by an unmistakable “hissing” sound, as of a locomotive; it seems what it is—namely, steam. The blue electric light flashed with weird effect as the swords of Valentine and Faust crossed. But here again there was an electric wire and “contact,” and a current “switched on.” It may be paradoxical to say so, but these “advances” in scenic art are really retrograde steps.

Of the regular scenes or structures put on the stage, it would be difficult to say too much. The grandly-built porch of the Church of St. Lorentz Platz at Nuremberg, and the buildings grouped round it, were extraordinary works of construction, the porch being “moulded” in all its details, and of the real or natural size. Another scene that lingers in the memory with a sort of twilight melancholy is the garden scene, which again illustrates the admirable instinct of the manager. Red-brick walls of calm, quiet tones, old trees, and, above all, the sombre towers of the city, were seen in the distance. The dresses of the characters were chosen to harmonize, and the deep sunset cast a melancholy glow or tinge over all. The most striking effects were contrived by changes of the lights and “mediums.”

The Brocken scene, for its vastness and ambitious attempt to suggest space and atmosphere, has never been surpassed. Most people were struck by the bewildering crowd of unearthly spirits, witches, and demons, etc.; but the real marvel was the simulation of the chill mountain atmosphere, the air of dizziness, of mists that hover over vast crevasses and depths, and make one shiver to look at. The designing, direction, and controlling of the elements in this wonderful scene seemed a bewildering and gigantic task.

The vision of Angels in the last act seemed a little conventional. There were many objections, too, taken mostly by Germans, to the treatment of the great story, such as the fixing of the scene at Nuremberg instead of at Leipsic, the placing the drinking bout in the open air, and at the tavern door, instead of in Auerbach’s cellar. These changes could not, of course, be justified, save on the ground of theatrical expediency.

For seven months, though ‘Faust’ continued to attract vast houses, it had really, as the manager said, “only started on its wild career.” On the occasion of Miss Terry’s benefit, he made an interesting, half-jocular speech announcing his plans.

The ninety-ninth night of ‘Faust’ was celebrated in a remarkable and somewhat appropriate fashion. The venerable Abbé Liszt was at this time in London, followed with an eager curiosity, affecting even the “cabbies” with interest, who were heard talking of the “Habby List.” No one who had seen him at this time will forget the striking personality of this interesting and brilliant man. He was induced to visit the theatre, and to witness the performance. After the first act, the orchestra broke into his own “Hungarian March,” and, being presently recognised by the audience, the great virtuoso received a perfect ovation. He followed the piece throughout with singular interest, and applauded with enthusiasm. After the play was over, he was welcomed at a supper in the old Beef-steak dining-room, where there were invited to meet him a few distinguished persons. His favourite dishes—“lentil pudding, lamb cutlets, mushrooms in batter”—were prepared for him by Gunter’s chef. He was delighted with this delicate hospitality. This is one of the many pleasant and dignified memories associated with the Lyceum.

It was when ‘Faust’ was being played that the catastrophe of the burning of the French Opéra Comique occurred. This excited general sympathy, and the kindly manager of the Lyceum promised that when the proper time came he would furnish assistance. In due course a performance of ‘Faust’ was announced for the benefit of the sufferers, and a crowded audience assembled. Everyone concerned—and they were to be counted by hundreds—gave their services gratis—the manager behaved in his own liberal style—and, as the result, a sum of £419 was despatched to Paris. This liberality was much appreciated by the French press. The Figaro devoted an article to a review of the various characters played by the English actor, and in flattering terms pointed out that, notwithstanding all his detractors, Mr. Henry Irving was “the most perfect gentleman.”

During the performance of ‘Faust,’ Miss Terry found the fatigue excessive, and, not being very strong at the time, had to resign her part. During these intervals, the character was supported by a clever young actress, bearing an historic name, Miss Winifred Emery, who brought much intelligence and refinement to her task. It was generally agreed that, considering her resources, she had supplied the place of the absent actress very well indeed. The feu sacré was, of course, not to be expected, and cannot be supplied to order.

This appreciation of our manager-actor by the French will naturally suggest the inquiry, What is his reputation generally in that eminently theatrical country, whence we draw our chief supply of dramas and dramatic ideas, and whose school of acting is perhaps the first in Europe? So frequent have been the visits of French companies to London, that nearly all the leading performers have had opportunities of seeing the English actor perform. Their ignorance of the language has, of course, stood in the way of a satisfactory judgment—they cannot follow the play as an average Englishman will follow a French piece; but all have been struck by his fine faculty of imparting colour and romance to a character, and have broken into raptures over the intelligence that directs the scene, and the lavish magnificence of the spectacle.

The memorable visit of the French Comedy to London in 1879, and the fine series of performances in which every player of note displayed his talent, curiously coincided with the new departure on the English stage. Few will forget the deep impressions left by that season or the opportunities afforded for a liberal education in dramatic taste. With the company came the fine fleur of French critics, Sarcey, Claretie (since become director of the company he had so often criticized), and others of less note. These judges were glad to seize an opportunity, which under other circumstances they would never have thought of seeking, of visiting the Lyceum and witnessing the performances of the most distinguished of English actors. I recall Sarcey at this time, a coarsely-built man, with not very refined features, lounging night after night into his stall, with an air of something like arrogance. He did not relish his enforced banishment from the Boulevards, and indemnified himself by making rather free criticisms on the French players. He was induced to go and see some of the English performances, but with an amusing hauteur pleaded his ignorance of the language as an excuse for not passing any serious judgment.

“Having weighed the matter well, I have determined to say very little regarding English actors. I have as yet seen but a few, and those only through the medium of a language imperfectly understood. I should be placing myself in a ridiculous position if I had the impertinence to touch upon matters which I am thus incompetent to deal with. I may remark, however, that Mr. Henry Irving appeared to me a remarkable actor, notwithstanding a wilful tendency to exaggeration. Possibly, in this latter respect, he followed rather the taste of his audience, whom his instinct judges, than his own deliberate choice.”

To these brilliant and gifted strangers, however, the new manager did the honours of his craft and extended to them a kindly hospitality. Indeed, since that day, no distinguished artist has visited these shores without being welcomed with rare hospitality.[41]

The most accomplished of French comedians is Coquelin ainé, an extraordinary performer, from the versatility and even classical character of his talents. This gifted man, who never appears without imparting intellectual enjoyment of the highest kind, seems to have always been attracted to the English actor, though exhibiting his feelings in an oddly mixed fashion, compounded of admiration and hostility. Analysis of the workings of character is the most entertaining of pastimes, and is, of course, the foundation of theatrical enjoyment; and the public has much relished the controversies between two such eminent personages. In 1886 Coquelin, during a supper at Mrs. Mackay’s, was invited in a very flattering way by the Prince of Wales to play in London under Mr. Mayer. At this time, in obedience to the very natural “force and pressure” of gain which was beginning to dissolve the great company of the French Comedy, he had begun to “star it,” as it is called, in the various capitals of Europe, and having found himself appreciated in London at private houses, as well as on the stage, he seems to have nourished a feeling that he was contending for the suffrages of the public with the English actor! Not that he was conscious of any actual “jealousy,” but something of this impression was left on those who were watching the incident. In matters of art, however, such contentions are healthy, and pardonable enough.

An early token of this curious feeling was offered in an article published in Harper’s Magazine in May, 1887, where the French actor discussed with some acuteness the different systems of acting in England and in France, particularly in the matter of what is called “natural” or materialistic acting. He dwelt on the question how far the gifts of the comedian will enable him to exhibit tragic characters, contending that the practice of minute observation would materially aid him.

What was in Coquelin’s thoughts all this time would appear to have been a sort of eagerness to measure himself with the English actor in ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which he looked upon as his own, and which had made a reputation for Irving. With some lack of taste or tact, Coquelin later challenged an English audience to decide between the two readings of Mathias. He performed it, I think, on two different occasions. It was an interesting and instructive experiment, for it proved that two artists of eminence might legitimately take directly opposite views of the same character. But does not character in real life offer the same varieties of interpretation? Coquelin presented a sort of comfortable bourgeois, a tradesman-like personage, who was not likely to reach the heroic or melodramatic place. He was not over-sensitive, nor was his remorse very poignant; and the keynote to his agitation was the desire to be thought respectable, to keep his position, and not be found out. It was agreed that the two conceptions were altogether opposed. “Irving’s hero was a grave, dignified, and melancholy being; Coquelin’s was a stout Alsatian, well-to-do, respected by his neighbours, but still on an equality with the humble folk around him. Irving’s was a conscience-stricken personage; Coquelin’s had no conscience at all. Irving’s was all remorse; Coquelin was not in the least disturbed. He takes delight in his ill-got treasures. The only side on which he is assailable is that of his fears, and the arrival of the second Jew, so like the first, terrifies him; and too much wine on the night of the wedding brings on the disturbed dream.” The question might be thus summarized: Irving’s reading was that of a tragedian; Coquelin’s that of a comedian. For myself, I confess a liking for both.

A friendly and even enthusiastic appreciation of the actor was furnished by Jules Claretie, then a critic of eminence. “His reputation,” he said, “would be even greater than it is if he had the leisure to extend his studies and correct his faults; but, as Mr. Walter Pollock remarks, a man who has to play six or seven times a week can hardly be expected to find much time for study. England, unlike France, does not possess a national theatre.

“‘Richelieu’ was the first play in which I saw Mr. Irving in London. Here he is superb. The performance amounts to a resurrection. The great Cardinal, lean, worn, eaten up with ambition, less for himself than for France, is admirably rendered. His gait is jerky, like that of a man shaken by fever; his eye has the depth of a visionary’s; a hoarse cough preys upon that feeble frame. When Richelieu appears in the midst of the courtiers, when he flings his scorn in the face of the mediocrity that is to succeed him, when he supplicates and adjures the vacillating Louis XIII., Mr. Irving endows that fine figure with a striking majesty.

“What a profound artist this tragedian is! The performance over, I was taken to see him in his dressing-room. I found him surrounded by portraits of Richelieu. He had before him the three studies of Philippe de Champaigne, one representing Richelieu in full face, and the others in profile. There was also a photograph of the same painter’s full-length portrait of the Cardinal. Before playing Louis XI. again, Mr. Irving studied Commines, Victor Hugo, Walter Scott, and all who have written of the bourgeois and avaricious king, who wore out the elbows of his pourpoint de ratine on the tables of his gossips, the skin-dressers and shoemakers. The actor is an adept in the art of face-painting, and attaches great importance to the slightest details of his costume.

“I asked him what other historical personage he would like to represent, what face he, who excelled in what I call stage-resurrection, would wish to revive. He reflected a moment, his countenance assuming a thoughtful expression. ‘Français ou Anglais?’ he at length asked. ‘Français ou Anglais: peu importe,’ I replied. ‘Eh bien!’ he said, after another short pause, ‘je serais heureux de créer un Camille Desmoulins.’

“Mr. Irving’s literary and subtle mind leans to psychological plays—plays which, if I may so express myself, are more tragic than dramatic. He is the true Shakespearian actor. How great was the pleasure which the performance of ‘Hamlet’ afforded me! For a literary man it is a source of real enjoyment. Mr. Irving, as manager of the Lyceum, spends more than £3,000 a month to do things on an adequate scale. His theatre is the first in London. He would like to make it a sort of Comédie Française, as he would like to found a sort of Conservatoire to afford young English artists the instruction they stand so much in need of.

“In Louis XI. Mr. Irving has been adjudged superior to Ligier. Dressed with historical accuracy, he is admirable in the comedy element of the piece and the chief scenes with the Monk and Nemours. The limelight projected like a ray of the moon on his contracted face as he pleads for his life excited nothing less than terror. The hands, lean and crooked as those of a Harpagon—the fine hands whose character is changed with each of his rôles—aid his words. And how striking in its realism is the last scene, representing the struggle between the dying king and his fate!”

Another admirable French player, Got, once the glory of the French Comédie, and unquestionably the most powerful and varied performer of his day, used to come a good deal to London between the years 1870 and 1880.

It was a singular tribute to Irving that so great a player, in his day greater even than Coquelin, should have been drawn from his retirement to take up one of his characters. Got, the “Dean of the French stage,” as Irving is “Dean” of the English theatre, by-and-by felt himself irresistibly impelled to give his version of ‘The Bells.’ He induced a Paris manager to draw forth the long-forgotten piece from its obscurity, and presented Mathias very much on the bourgeois lines of Coquelin.

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He was now preparing for his third American tour, the object of which was to introduce to the audiences of the United States his splendid spectacular piece, ‘Faust.’ This had excited much interest and expectation, and its attractions were even magnified by distance. It was the “last word” in scenic display. The Americans have now become a section, as it were, of the Lyceum audiences, and it would seem to be inevitable that at fixed intervals, and when a series of striking plays have been given in England, the manager should feel a sort of irresistible pressure to present the same attractions on the other side of the Atlantic. This expedition took place in October, 1887, and was crowned with all success. Henceforth the periodical visit to America will become a necessity; and a new visit was already planned in concert with Mr. Abbey, which was fixed for 1893.

On the return of the company, after their United States triumphs, ‘Faust’ was revived for a short period. At the close of the first performance the manager announced his plans, which were awaited with some curiosity. “The devil,” he said, “had been to and fro on the face of the earth.” After a month of ‘Faust,’ he proposed to give Mr. Calmour’s ‘Amber Heart,’ to bring forward Miss Terry, while he himself was to conclude the evening with a revival of ‘Robert Macaire.’

On July 1, 1887, the manager of the Lyceum performed one of those many kindly, graceful acts with which his name is connected—an act done at the right moment, and for the suitable person. He gave his theatre to benefit a veteran dramatist, Dr. Westland Marston, who in his day had been associated with the classical glories of the stage, and had written the interesting ‘Wife’s Secret’ for Charles Kean. As he now told the audience from the stage, fifty years had elapsed since he had written his first piece for Macready. The committee formed was a most influential one, and comprised the names of such eminent littérateurs as Browning, Alfred Austin, E. W. Gosse, William Black, Wilkie Collins, Gilbert, Swinburne, Tennyson, and many more. The performance was an afternoon one, and the play selected was Byron’s ‘Werner,’ written “up to date,” as it is called, by Frank Marshall. New scenery and dresses had been provided, though the actor did not propose giving another representation. He, however, intended to perform it on his approaching American tour. It must be said that the play gave little satisfaction, and was about as lugubrious as ‘The Stranger,’ some of the acts, moreover, being played in almost Cimmerian gloom. What inclined the manager to this choice it would be difficult to say. He has rather a penchant for these morosely gloomy men, who stalk about the stage and deliver long and remorseful reviews and retrospects of their lives. The audience, however, sympathizes, and listens with respectful attention.

‘Werner’ was to illustrate once more the conscientious and laborious care of the manager in the production of his pieces. He engaged Mr. Seymour Lucas to furnish designs for the dresses, who drew his inspirations from an old volume of etchings of one “Stefano della Bella” in 1630. So patiently difficile is our manager in satisfying himself, that it is said the dresses in ‘Faust’ were made and re-made three times before they were found satisfactory. In this case all the arms of antique pattern, the dresses, quaint head-dresses, and the like, even down to the peculiar buttons of the period, were made especially in Paris under Auguste’s superintendence.

‘Robert Macaire,’ that strange, almost weird-like drama, was familiar enough to Irving, who had occasionally played it in the early part of his course, and also at the St. James’s Theatre in 1867. For all performers of genius who have taste for the mere diablerie of acting, and the eccentric mixture of tragic and comic, this character offers an attraction, if not a fascination. We can feel its power ourselves as we call up the grotesque figure; nay, even those who have never seen the piece can have an understanding of the character, as a coherent piece of grotesque. There is something of genius in the contrasted and yet intimate union between the eccentric pair. In June, 1883, there had been a performance at the Lyceum for the Royal College of Music, when Irving had played the character, assisted by “friend Toole,” Bancroft, Terriss, and Miss Terry—certainly a strong cast. Toole, on this occasion, was almost too irrepressible, and rather distorted the proportion of the two characters, encroaching on the delicate details in the part of his friend, and overflowing with the pantomimic humours, or “gags,” which are the traditions of Jacques Strop. When the piece was formally brought out, the part was allotted to Mr. Weedon Grossmith, who was in the other extreme, and too subordinate.

The play was produced in July, 1888, and was found not so attractive as was anticipated. It seemed as though it were not wholly intelligible to the audience. There were some reasons for this, the chief being the gruesome assassination at “the roadside inn,” which is old-fashioned, being literally “played out.” More curious was it to find that the quaint type of Macaire seemed to convey nothing very distinct. All accepted it as an incoherent extravagance: which opens an interesting speculation—viz., How many such parts are there which have been the characters of the original actors, and not the author’s—the former’s creation, in short? Lemaître’s extraordinary success was, as is well known, the result of a happy inspiration conceived during the progress of the piece. From being a serious or tragic character, he turned it into a grotesque one. There may have been here something founded on the sort of gaminerie that seems to go with crime; or it may have been recklessness, which, together with a ludicrous attempt at a squalid dandyism, showed a mind not only depraved, but dulled and embêté. This sort of inspiration, where an actor sees his own conception in the part and makes it his own, is illustrated by ‘The Bells,’ which—in the hands of another actor—might have been played according to conventional laws.

An English actor who would have succeeded in the part was the elder Robson. In Irving’s case, the audience were not in key, or in tune; the thing seemed passé, though our actor had all the traditions of the part, even to the curiously “creaking snuff-box.”[42]

Among Wills’s friends, admirers, and associates—of which his affectionate disposition always brought him a following—was Calmour, the author of some pieces full of graceful poetry of the antique model. Like Mr. Pinero, he “knew the boards,” having “served” in the ranks, an essential advantage for all who would write plays; had written several slight pieces of a poetical cast, notably ‘Cupid’s Messenger,’ in which the graceful and piquant Mary Rorke had obtained much success in a “trunk and hose” character. But a play of a more ambitious kind, ‘The Amber Heart,’ had taken Miss Terry’s fancy; she, as we have said, had “created” the heroine at a matinée. It proved to be a sort of dreamy Tennysonian poem, and was received with considerable favour.

‘The Amber Heart,’ now placed in the bill with ‘Robert Macaire,’ was revived with the accustomed Lyceum state and liberality. To Alexander was allotted the hero’s part, and he declaimed the harmonious lines with good effect. I fancy the piece was found of rather too delicate a structure for such large and imposing surroundings.[43]

Whenever there is some graceful act, a memorial to a poet or player to be inaugurated, it is pretty certain that our actor-manager will be called on to take the leading and most distinguished share in the ceremonial. At the public meeting, or public dinner, he can deport himself with much effect.

There are plenty of persons of culture who have been deputed to perform such duties; but we feel there is often something artificial in their methods and speeches. In the case of the actor, we feel there is a something genuine; he supplies a life to the dry bones, and we depart knowing that he has added grace to our recollections of the scene. Nor does be add an exaggeration to what he says; there is a happy judicious reserve. This was felt especially on the occasion of one pleasant festival day in the September of 1891, when a memorial was unveiled to Marlowe, the dramatist, in the good old town of Canterbury. It was an enjoyable expedition, with something simple and rustic in the whole, while to anyone of poetical tastes there was something unusually harmonious in the combination offered of the antique town, the memory of “Dr. Faustus,” the old Cathedral, and the beaming presence of the cultured artist, of whom no one thought as manager of a theatre. A crowd of critics and authors came from town by an early train, invited by the hospitable Mayor. At any season the old town is inviting enough, but now it was pleasant to march through its narrow streets, under the shadow of its framed houses, to the small corner close to the Christ Church gate of the Cathedral, where the speeching and ceremonials were discharged. The excellent natives seemed perhaps a little puzzled by the new-found glories of their townsman; they were, however, glad to see the well-known actor. Equally pleasant, too, was it to make our way to the old Fountain Inn, where the “worthy” Mayor entertained his guests, and where there were more speeches. The image of the sleepy old town, and the grand Cathedral, and of the pretty little fountain—which, however, had but little suggestion of the colossal Marlowe—and the general holiday tone still lingers in the memory. Irving’s speech was very happy, and for its length is singularly suggestive.

It was in October, 1887, that a memorial was set up at Stratford, a clock-tower and fountain, in memory of Shakespeare. It was the gift of the wealthy Mr. Childs, of New York, who has been hitherto eager to associate his name, in painted windows and other ways, with distinguished Englishmen of bygone times. It may be suspected that Childs’s name will not be so inseparably linked with celebrated personages as he fondly imagined. There is a sort of incongruity in this association of a casual stranger with an English poet.

Many a delightful night have his friends owed to the thoughtful kindness and hospitality of their interesting host. Such is, indeed, one of the privileges of being his friend. The stage brings with it abundance of pleasant associations; but there are a number of specially agreeable memories bound up with the Lyceum. Few will forget the visit of the Duke of Meiningen’s company of players to this country, which forms a landmark of extraordinary importance in the history of our modern stage. With it came Barnay, that accomplished and romantic actor; and a wonderful instinct of disciplining crowds, and making them express the passions of the moment, as in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar.’ The skilful German stage-managers did not import their crowds, but were able to inspire ordinary bands of supernumeraries with the dramatic feelings and expression that they wanted.

I recall one pleasant Sunday evening at the close of a summer’s day, when Irving invited his friends to meet the German performers at the Lyceum. The stage had been picturesquely enclosed and fashioned into a banqueting-room, the tables spread; the orchestra performed in the shadowy pit. It was an enjoyable night. There was a strange mingling of languages—German, French, English. There were speeches in these tongues, and at one moment Palgrave Simpson was addressing the company in impetuous fashion, passing from English to French, from French to German, with extraordinary fluency. Later in the evening there was an adjournment to the Beef-steak rooms, where the accomplished Barnay found himself at the piano, to be succeeded by the versatile Beatty-Kingston, himself half German. There were abundant “Hochs” and pledging. Not until the furthest of the small hours did we separate, indebted to our kindly, unaffected host for yet one more delightful evening.

The manager once furnished a pleasantly piquant afternoon’s amusement for his friends on the stage of his handsome theatre. Among those who have done service to the stage is Mr. Walter Pollock, lately editor of the Saturday Review, who, among his other accomplishments, is a swordsman of no mean skill. He has friends with the same tastes, with whom he practises this elegant art, such as Mr. Egerton Castle, Captain Hutton, and others. It is not generally known that there is a club known as the Kerneuzers, whose members are amateurs enragés for armour and swordsmanship, many of whom have fine collections of helmets, hauberks, and blades of right Damascene and Toledo.[44]

Mr. Egerton Castle and others of his friends have written costly and elaborate works on fencing, arms, and the practice of armes blanches, and at their meetings hold exciting combats with dirk and foil. It was suggested that Mr. Castle should give a lecture on this subject, with practical illustrations; and the manager, himself a fencer, invited a number of friends and amateurs to witness the performance, which took place on February 25, 1891. This lecture was entitled “The Story of Swordsmanship,” especially in connection with the rise and decline of duelling. And accordingly there was witnessed a series of combats, mediæval, Italian, and others, back-sword, small-sword, sword and cloak, and the rest. Later the performance was repeated at the instance of the Prince of Wales.

Irving has often contributed his share to “benefits” for his distressed brethren, as they are often called. In the days when he was a simple actor he took his part like the rest; when he became manager he would handsomely lend his theatre, and actually “get up” the whole as though it were one of his own pieces. This is the liberal, grand style of conferring a favour. Miss Ellen Terry “takes her benefit” each year.

In June, 1876, a performance was arranged at the Haymarket for a benefit, when the ever-blooming ‘School for Scandal’ was performed by Phelps, Miss Neilson, “Ben” Webster, Irving, Bancroft, and others. Irving was the Joseph Surface, a performance which excited much anticipation and curiosity. Some time after he performed the same character at Drury Lane. It might naturally have been thought that the part would have exactly suited him, but whether from novelty or restlessness, there was a rather artificial tone about the performance. But what actor can be expected to play every character, and to find every character suited to him? Joseph we hold to be one of the most difficult in the whole répertoire to interpret. At the Belford benefit—and Belford and his services to the stage, such as they were, are long since forgotten—the all but enormous sum of £1,000 was received! For schools, charities, convents even, and philanthropic work of all kinds, some contribution from Henry Irving in the shape of a recitation or scene may be looked for.

Irving s vein of pleasantry is ever welcome as it is unpretentious. I have heard him at the General Theatrical Fund dinner give the toast of “The Army, Navy, and Reserve Forces,” when he said, “There is an Artists’ Corps—I am curious to know why there should not be an Actors’ Corps. We are accustomed to handle weapons.” On this occasion “friend Toole” had to leave on duty; “whose fine Roman visage,” said his friend, “has beamed on us during dinner—he has been obliged to go away, fortified, I hope, for his arduous labours, but he will return—I know him well—and he will too, I am sure, with a most excellent donation.” He can tell a story or relish a humorous situation with equal effect. In company with Toole, he has often contrived a droll situation or comic adventure.[45]

At one period, when he was oppressed with hard work, it was suggested to him that sleeping in the country would be a great restorative after his labours. He much fancied an old house and grounds at Hammersmith, known as “The Grange”; and having purchased it, he laid out a good deal of money in improving and restoring it It had nice old gardens, with summer-house, a good staircase, and some old panelled rooms.

To a man with such social tastes, the journey down and the night spent there must have been banishment, or perhaps was found too troublesome. Literary men, artists, and the like do not much relish these tranquil pleasures, though practical men of business do. I am certain most will agree that they leave Fleet Street and the Strand with reluctance and return to it with pleasure. After a few years he was anxious to be rid of what was only a useless toy, and it was offered for sale for, I think, £4,000.[46]

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The approach of the opening night of ‘Macbeth’ caused more excitement than perhaps any of the Lyceum productions. There was a sort of fever of expectancy; it was known that everything in the way of novelty—striking and sumptuous dress and scenery, elaborate thought and study, and money had been expended in almost reckless fashion. There were legends afloat as to Miss Terry’s marvellous “beetle-green” dress, and the copper-coloured tresses which were to hang down on her shoulders.[47] The scenery was to be vast, solid, and monumental. It was no surprise when it was learned that before the day of performance some £2,000 had been paid for seats at the box-office.

While allowing due praise to the accomplishments and sagacity of our dramatic critics, I confess to looking with some distrust and alarm at a sort of “new criticism” which, like the so-called “new humour,” has developed in these latter days. This amounts to the assumption of an aggressive personality—there is a constant manifestation, not of the play or performers criticised, but of the writer’s own thoughts and opinions. It seems to be the fashion for a critic to devote his article to Mr. ——, an opposing critic, as though the public attached any importance to the opinions these gentlemen held of each other. The vanity thus unconsciously displayed is often ludicrous enough. The instances, however, are fortunately rare.

Produced on December 29, the play caused considerable excitement among Shakespearian students and “constant readers”; and Miss Terry’s reading—or rather the appearance of Miss Terry in the part—produced much vehement controversy. We had “The Real Macbeth” in the Daily Telegraph, with the usual “old playgoers” who had seen Mrs. Charles Kean. I fancy there were but three or four persons who were able to compare the performance of Miss Terry with that of Mrs. Siddons—about sixty years before.[48]

Banquo’s ghost has always been a difficulty in every presentation of the play; all the modern apparitions and phantasmagorian effects neutralize or destroy themselves. The powerful light behind exhibits the figure through the gauzes, but to procure this effect the lights in front must be lowered or darkened. This gives notice in clumsy fashion of what is coming, and prepares us for the ghost.

“New and original” readings rarely seem acceptable, and, indeed, are scarcely ever welcomed by the public, who have their old favourite lines to which they are well accustomed. We never hear one of these novelties without an effect being left as of something “purely fantastical,” as Elia has it, and invariably they seem unacceptable and forced, producing surprise rather than pleasure. Irving rarely introduces these changes. A curious one in ‘Macbeth’ was the alteration of a line—

into

That is a sort of careless dismissal of his wife’s death, as something that must have occurred, according to the common lot.

The irresolution and generally dejected tone of the Scottish King, as presented by the actor, was much criticised, and severely too. There was something “craven,” it was said, in this constant faltering and shrinking. This, however, was the actor’s conscientious “reading” of the part: he was not bound by the Kemble or Macready traditions, but irresistibly impelled to adopt the highly-coloured “romantic” view of our day. He made it interesting and picturesque, and, in parts, forcible. Miss Terry’s Lady Macbeth filled everyone with wonder and admiration; as in the case of her Queen Katherine, it seemed a miracle of energy and dramatic inspiration triumphing over physical difficulties and habitual associations. The task was herculean, and even those who objected could not restrain their admiration.[49]

The pictures set forth in this wonderful representation linger in the memory. The gloomy Scottish scenes, the castles and their halls, the fine spreading landscapes, the treatment of the witches, and Banquo’s ghost, were all but perfect in tone, and had a judicious reserve. There was nothing overlaid or overdone. How admirably and exactly, for instance, did the scene correspond to the beautiful lines:

There painting and poetry went together! The banqueting-hall, the arrangement of the tables, at right angles with the audience, had a strange, barbaric effect, the guests being disposed in the most natural fashion.

After the run of ‘Macbeth’ had ceased, the manager proceeded to carry out a plan which had long been in his thoughts, and which many had suggested to him. This was to give “readings,” in conjunction with Miss Terry, of some of his plays. This would offer some respite from the enormous outlay entailed by producing these great pieces at his theatre. One could fancy that nothing could be more attractive than such “readings,” the interest in the personality of the two great performers being so generally diffused. He re-arranged “Macbeth” for this purpose, and set off on a tour in the provinces. But though everywhere well received, I think the plan did not command the full success that was expected. There was a defect somehow in the plan: two characters seemed to rob the performance of that unity which is the charm of a reading. Further, it was illustrated by the fine music, with orchestra, etc., and this again disturbed the natural simplicity of a reading. The actor’s own vividly-coloured imagination and tastes could not, in fact, be content with the bald and triste mechanisms of the ordinary reader: he tried to impart what ornamentation he could. The experiment was not, however, carried out very long.[50]

Some thirty years before, in the old Adelphi days, when “Ben” Webster was ruling, a drama was produced, the work of a hard-working, drudging dramatist, Watts Phillips. It was a pure melodrama, and people had not yet lost their faith in the old devices. There was an honest belief that villainy would be punished ere the end came. By the laws of such pieces, the most painful situations were always contrasted with scenes of broadest farce, which were supposed to relieve the excited feelings. I well recall these humours. On the revival, however, all this was softened away or abolished, and, I fancy, with some injury to the constitution of the old piece.

The production of ‘The Dead Heart’ furnished one more instance of the tact and abilities which have secured the manager of the Lyceum his high position. Here was a piece of an old-fashioned kind, which, had it been “revived” at an ordinary theatre, would have been found not only flat and stale, but unprofitable for all concerned. Our manager, seeing that it had dramatic life and situations, brought the whole into harmony with the times, and, by the skilful remaniement of Mr. Walter Pollock, imparted to it a romantic grace. It is admitted that he himself has rarely been fitted with a part so suited to his genius and capacities, or in which he has roused the sympathies of his audience more thoroughly. It is only the romantic actor that understands what might be called the key of a play.

In this picturesque part of Robert Landry were exhibited no fewer than four contrasted phases of character: the gay, hopeful young artist; the terribly metamorphosed prisoner of nearly twenty years; the recently delivered man, newly restored to the enjoyment of life; and, lastly, the grim revolutionary chief, full of his stem purpose of vengeance. This offered an opening for the display of versatile gifts, which were certainly brought out in the most striking contrast. But it was in the later scenes of the play, when he appears as the revolutionary chief, that our “manager-actor” exhibited all his resources. Nothing was more artistic than the sense of restraint and reserve here shown, which is founded on human nature. A person who has thus suffered, and with so stem a purpose in view, will be disdainful of speech, and oppressed, as it were, with his terrible design. Quiet, condensed purpose, without any “fiendish” emphasis, was never better suggested. Even when the drop-scene is raised, and he is revealed standing by his table, there is the same morose unrelenting air, with an impression that here was one who had just passed through the fire, and had been executing an act of vengeance which had left its mark.

In a drama like ‘The Dead Heart,’ music forms a fitting accompaniment furnishing colour and appropriate illustration. It is almost uninterrupted from beginning to end. M. Jacobi of the Alhambra furnished some effective, richly-coloured strains to ‘The Dead Heart,’ alternately gay and lugubrious. More, however, might have been made of the stirring ‘Marseillaise,’ which could have been treated in various disguises and patterns as a sort of Leitmotiv, much as Litolf has done in his symphonic work on the same subject.

A Scotch play—an adaptation of ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’—was now prepared by Mr. Herman Merivale, a dramatist of much poetical feeling, but whose course was marked by piteous and disastrous incidents. Buoyed up by the encouragement and admiration of his friends, and of kindly critics who found merit in all he did, he struggled on in spite of miserable health and a too highly-strung nervous temperament. His work showed refinement and elegance, but it was more for the reader than the playgoer. A gleam of prosperity, however, came when Mr. Toole began to figure in the writers grotesque pieces, ‘The Don,’ and others—to which, indeed, the author’s wife had contributed some share.

The new piece, which was called ‘Ravenswood,’ had lain long in the manager’s cabinet, where at this moment repose a number of other MSS., “commanded” and already purchased, from the pens of Wills, Frank Marshall, and others. The latter had fashioned Robert Emmett into a picturesque figure, the figure and bearing of the manager having no doubt much that suggested the Irish patriot; but the troubled period of Land Leagues and agrarian violence set in at the time of its acceptance with an awkward à propos.[51]

There is a character, indeed, in which, as the tradition runs, he formerly made almost as deep an impression as in ‘The Bells.’ This was Bill Sikes, and we can conceive what a savagery he would have imparted to it. It would seem to be exactly suited to his powers and to his special style; though of course here there would be a suggestion of Dubosc. With Miss Terry as Nancy here would be opened a realm of squalid melodrama, and “Raquin-like” horrors.

There are other effective pieces which seem to invite the performance of this accomplished pair. Such, for instance, is the pathetic, heartrending ‘Venice Preserved.’ Though there might be a temptation here for the scenic artist—since Venice, and its costumes, etc, would stifle the simple pathos of the drama. ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ has been often suggested and often thought of, but it has been effectively done at this theatre by another company. ‘The Jealous Wife’—Mr. and Mrs. Oakley—would also suit well. There is ‘The Winter’s Tale,’ and finally ‘Three Weeks after Marriage’—one of the most diverting pieces of farcical comedy that can be conceived.

‘Ravenswood’ was produced on September 20, 1890. While its scenes were being unfolded before us one could not but feel the general weakness of the literary structure, which was unequal to the rich and costly setting; neither did it correspond to the broad and limpid texture of the original story. It was unfortunately cast, as I venture to think. Mackintosh, who performed Caleb, was somewhat artificial; while Ashton père and his lady, rendered by Bishop and Miss Le Thière, could hardly be taken au sérieux. Irving infused a deep and gloomy pathos into his part, and Miss Terry was, as ever, interesting, touching, and charming. But the characters, as was the story, were little more than thinly outlined. The scenes, however, unfolded themselves with fine spectacular effect; nothing could be more impressive than the scene of the first act—a mountain gorge where Ravenswood has come for the entombment of his father, and is interrupted by the arrival of his enemy, Ashton. Beside it the Merivale version appeared bald enough. The weird-like last scene, the “Kelpie Sands,” with the cloak lying on the place of disappearance, the retainer gazing in despair, was one of Irving’s finely poetical conceptions, but it was more spectacular than dramatic. The truth is, where there is so fine a theatre, and where all arts are supplied to set off a piece in sumptuous style, these elements require substantial stuff to support them, otherwise the effect becomes trivial in exact proportion to the adornment.

Irving has been often challenged for not drawing on the talent of native dramatists, and for not bringing forward “new and original” pieces. The truth is, at this moment we may look round and seek in vain for a writer capable of supplying a piece large and forcible enough in plot and character to suit the Lyceum. We have Pinero and Henry Arthur Jones, but they are writers of comedies and problem-dramas. Wills, in spite of his faults, had genuine faith in the old methods. He was of the school of Westland Marston. In this dearth of talent, it might be well for Irving to give a commission to a French dramatist to work on whatever subject he fancied, and have the piece adapted.

It was at the Christmas season of 1891 that the manager was enabled to carry out a plan that had for years been before him—a revival of ‘Henry VIII.’ We can quite conceive how, as the fashion always was with him, the play ripened as it were with meditation; how, as he walked or followed the consoling fumes of his cigar in his chamber at Grafton Street, each scene fell into shape or suggested some new and effective arrangement, which again might be discarded as difficulties arose, or as something happier occurred to him. The result of these meditations was unquestionably a “large” and splendid setting of the play, which, to my mind, whatever be the value of the opinion, is certainly one of the finest, most finished, most poetical, and sufficient of the many works that he has set before us.[52] There was a greater Shakespearian propriety, and the adornments, however lavish, might all be fairly justified. Most to be admired was the supreme elegance of touch found in every direction—acting, scenery, dresses, music, all reflected the one cultivated mind. The truth is, long practice and the due measuring of his own exertion have now supplied an ease and boldness in his effects. To appreciate this excellence we have only to turn to similar attempts made by others, whether managers, or manager-actors, or manager-authors—and we find only the conventional exertion of the scene-painter and stage-manager. They have not the same inspiration.

This play, produced on January 5, 1892, was received with great enthusiasm. It became “a common form” of criticism to repeat that it was of doubtful authorship; that it was nothing but a number of scenes strung together; that there was no story; that Buckingham vanished almost at the beginning of the play; and that towards the end, Wolsey vanished also. These, as I venture to say, are but ignorant objections; characters will always supply a dramatic story, or a dramatic interest that amounts to a story, and in the fate of Wolsey and of Katherine, gradually developed and worked out, we had surely a story sufficiently interesting.

I have little doubt that Irving kept steadily in view the object the great author had before him, viz., to present a page of history enriched by all the suitable accompaniments of dress and manners and customs. In this he was perfectly and triumphantly successful. We were taken into the great chambers, and tribunals; shown the ecclesiastical pomp and state, so difficult to conceive now; the processions passing through the streets, and presented in an exceedingly natural and unconventional fashion.[53] The drama was set forth fully, with every adjunct of dress, furniture, scenes, and numbers of auxiliaries.

The scenery, offering wonderful perspectives of Tudor halls and interiors, the arrangements of the courts and various meetings, were original and very striking. Yet here I should be inclined to suggest anew the objections often made to the modern system of large groupings compressed into the small area of a stage, which, as it seems, is opposed to the canons of scenic art.[54] These, too, seemed to acquire new force from the arrangement of the “Trial scene,” as it was called, which displayed a great hall with the daïs, seats for the Cardinal, the King, etc. The result of thus supplying a great area by the system of compression (I am speaking merely of the principle), is that the leading figures become dwindled in scale and overpowered by the surrounding crowd. The contrast with the older system is brought out by Harlow’s well-known picture, where only the leading figures are grouped, and where by consequence they stand out in greater relief. The spectator stands, as it were, close beside them; but by the modern arrangement he appears to be afar off, at the bottom of the hall, obtaining but a distant view of them.[55]

When we consider what are the traditions of the two great characters, how vivid they are, from the deep impressions left by the great brother and sister on their contemporaries—an impression which has really extended to our time—too much praise could hardly be given to the performance of Irving and his gifted companion. Irving’s Wolsey was exactly what those familiar with his other impersonations could anticipate—poetical, elegant, and in many portions powerful. He was the churchman to perfection, carrying his robes admirably; in the face there was a suggestion of the late departed Cardinal Manning. All through the piece there was that picturesque acting which fills the eye, not the ear, at the moment when speech is at rest. It is thus that are confuted those theorists, including Elia, who hold that Shakespeare is to be read, not acted.

It is perhaps the power of suggestion and of stirring our imagination that brings about this air of fulness and richness. Irving, when he was not speaking, acted the pomp and state and consummately depicted the smoothness of the Cardinal. When he was lost to view you felt the application of the oft-quoted line touching the absence of “the well-grac’d” actor from the scene, and it was wonderful to think, as we glanced round the brilliant salle—glittering with its vast crowd of well-dressed, even jewelled, women (“Quite an opera pit!” as Ellison would say)—to the fine stage before us, with its showy figures, pictures, and pageants, that all this was his work and of his creation!

There were many diverse criticisms on Irving’s conception of this famous character; some held that it was scarcely “large,” rude, or overbearing enough. His view, however, as carried out, seemed natural and consistent. The actor wished to exhibit the character as completely overwhelmed by adverse fortune; witness Macbeth, Othello, and many other characters. In the last great soliloquy it was urged there was a want of variety. Still, allowing for all traditional defects, it stands beyond contradiction that it was a “romantic” performance, marked by “distinction,” and a fine grace; and we might vainly look around for any performer of our time who could impart so poetical a cast to the character. And we may add a praise which I am specially qualified to give, viz., that he was the perfect ecclesiastic: as he sat witnessing the revels, now disturbed, now careless—there was the Churchman revealed; he was not, as was the case with so many others, a performer robed in clerical garb.

Of Miss Terry’s Queen Katharine, it can be said that it was an astonishing performance, and took even her admirers by surprise. She made the same almost gigantic effort as she did in ‘Macbeth’ to interpret a vast character, one that might have seemed beyond her strength, physical as well as mental. By sheer force of will and genius she contrived to triumph. It was not, of course, the great Queen Katharine of Mrs. Siddons, nor did she awe and command all about her; but such earnestness and reality and dramatic power did she impart to the character that she seemed to supply the absence of greater gifts. Her performance in the Court and other scenes of the persecuted, hunted woman, now irritated, now resigned, was truly pathetic and realistic. There may have been absent the overpowering, queen-like dignity, the state and heroism, but it was impossible to resist her—it was her “way,” and by this way she gained all hearts. It must be confessed that nothing ever supplied such an idea of the talents and “cleverness” of this truly brilliant woman as her victory over the tremendous difficulties of these parts. The performance won her the sympathies of all in an extraordinary degree.

So admirably had our manager been penetrated with the spirit of the scenes, that he was enabled to present them in a natural and convincing way, and seemed to revive the whole historic time and meaning of the situation. This was particularly shown in the scene when Buckingham is led to execution; his address to the crowd was delivered with so natural a fashion, with such judicious and pathetic effect, that it not only gained admiration for the performance, but brought the scene itself within range of every day life. For, instead of the old conventional declamatory speech to a stage crowd, we had some “words” which the sufferer, on entering the boat, stopped for a moment to address to sympathizers who met him on the way.

The music, the work of a young composer, Mr. Edward German, was truly romantic and expressive; stately and richly-coloured. How wonderful, by the way, is the progress made of late years in theatrical music! We have now a group of composers who expend their talents and elegancies in the adornment of the stage. The flowing melodies and stately marches of the Lyceum music still linger in the ear.

It was in January, 1892, when he was performing in ‘Henry VIII.,’ that a very alarming piece of news, much magnified by report, reached him. His son Laurence was playing at Belfast in the Benson Company, and had by some accident shot himself with a revolver; this casualty was exaggerated to an extraordinary degree,—three local doctors issued bulletins; “the lung had been pierced”—until the anxious father at last sent over an experienced surgeon, Mr. Lawson Tait, who was able to report that the wound was trivial, and the weapon a sort of “toy-pistol.” Much sympathy was excited by this casualty. The manager has two sons, Henry and Laurence, the latter named after Mr. Toole, who are now both following their father’s profession.

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When the theatre opened for the season, ‘Faust’ was revived to fill the time, and it drew excellent and satisfactory “houses” until the new piece was got ready. This, it was said, was rehearsed on board the steamer on the way home. Our actor had long before him the idea of playing the “spotless King,” and had the late Laureate been alive he might have been tempted to shape his great poem into a play. As it was, the versatile Comyns Carr was intrusted with the task, and, somewhat to the surprise of the public, he who had been art-critic, manager of Grosvenor and New Galleries, dramatist and designer of dresses, etc., for the Lyceum, now came forward as a poet; and a very respectable poet he proved to be, with harmonious mellifluous lines, effective from a stage point of view. It must be said, however, that the play is altogether a literary one, and rather lacks dramatic movement. It is really a series of dramatic recitations set off by beautiful shows, processions, and scenic views. The situations, too, scarcely brought about or led up to, are effective enough when we reach them. The piece was no doubt “written in the theatre” under inspiration of the manager, and supplied exactly what he wanted. The scenery was designed by Sir E. Burne Jones, who supplied some exquisite combinations or arrangements of colour, which were certainly new to stage-land. The music was Sir Arthur Sullivan’s, and there was later to be the unusual and unprecedented incident of no fewer than three knights—a musician, a painter, and an actor—combining their talents in a single play. Beautiful was the opening scene with the blue waters and the swimming maidens imported from ‘Rheingold,’ with the finding of the “Excalibur” contrived most skilfully. There were grand halls and castles, and woodland groves, all exhibiting much originality of touch, that unvarying effective grace and tact which made the most of the materials. The characters were rather faintly outlined. King Arthur and his queen are comparatively colourless; so is Elaine. Mr. Forbes Robertson, who played Lancelot with picturesque power, was early withdrawn, being bound by some other engagement. His successor, a pleasing light comedian, lacks the weight necessary for the character. Miss Terry was, as usual, touching and pathetic. So refined, so perfect was the general treatment, that it attracted and drew larger and yet larger houses.

As the season went on, the manager, following his favourite policy, prepared a series of revivals on a gigantic scale. These were virtually convenient rehearsals for the coming American tour. But the constant changes of scenes, dresses, etc., involve an enormous strain. The round of pieces included, within the space of a few weeks, no fewer than eleven plays: ‘Faust,’ ‘King Arthur,’ ‘Louis XI.,’ ‘Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Becket,’ ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ ‘The Lyons Mail,’ ‘Charles I.,’ ‘Nance Oldfield,’ ‘Corsican Brothers,’ ‘Macbeth.’ A new short piece, ‘Journeys End in Lovers Meeting,’ by George Moore and John Oliver Hobbes, which was to introduce Miss Terry, was also announced. The burden of “staging” all these great works, in a short time, must have been enormous. But it was only in this fashion that the revivals could be done justice to.

It is a wonderful proof of our actor’s ability that, after so many years of experiment in characters of all kinds, he should in almost his latest attempt have made one of his most signal successes. I doubt if anything he has hitherto tried has more profoundly impressed his audience than the little cabinet sketch of Corporal Brewster in Dr. Conan Doyle’s ‘Story of Waterloo.’ This he had first presented to a provincial audience, some eight months ago, at Bristol, with such extraordinary effect that the general audience of the kingdom felt instinctively that a great triumph had been achieved. Everyone at a distance at once knew and was interested in the old corporal. A second trial was made in London, for a charity; and at last, on May 4 of the present year, it was formally brought forward in the regular programme. There was what is called “a triple bill,” consisting of Mr. Pinero’s early drama, ‘Bygones,’ this ‘Story of Waterloo,’ and some scenes from ‘Don Quixote,’ Wills’s posthumous work.[60]

This sketch of the old soldier is a fine piece of acting, highly finished, yet natural and unobtrusive, full of pathos and even tragedy. The actor excelled himself in numerous forcible touches, now humorous, now pathetic. He gave the effect of its being a large history in little; we had the whole life of the character laid out before us. It was original, too, and the oddities were all kept in with a fine reserve. The figure will always be present to the memory, a satisfactory proof of excellence. There was one mistake, however, in giving the female character to Miss Hughes, a bright and lively soubrette, who could not, therefore, supply the necessary sympathetic interest, though she did her best. Taking it all in all, Corporal Brewster is, in its way, one of the most masterly things the actor has done, and it can be praised—ay, extolled—without the smallest reservation.

It was followed by the scenes from ‘Don Quixote,’ and here, again, we must admire that admirable power of conceiving a character in which Irving excels, and in which all true actors should excel. It was admitted that the piece was a “poorish” thing, but here was supplied the living image of the hapless and ever interesting “Don,” who lived, moved, and had his being before us, in the most perfect way. There was a general dreaminess over him; his soul was so filled with high chivalrous visions that he was indifferent to the coarsely prosaic incidents going on about him. He filled the stage; the rest were mere puppets. The character, in spite of the shortcomings of the piece, might be made one of his best. “One of these days”—always an indefinite period—we may look to see him in a vigorous, well-written drama on this subject.

And here it may be said that this long connection of Wills and his school with the Lyceum has tended somewhat to the sacrifice of brisk dramatic action, which is always enfeebled by an excess of poetical recitations. There are still many fine subjects and fine dramas which would kindle all the actor’s powers afresh and stir his audiences. What a fine piece, for instance, could be made of Victor Hugo’s ‘Notre Dame’! We already see our actor as the mysterious and romantic monk—one more addition to his ecclesiastical gallery. What opportunities for scenery and music! One of the most picturesque of stories is that of Theodore of Corsica, he who dreamed of being a king and actually became one, and who died in the King’s Bench Prison in the most piteous state of misery. We should like to see him, too, as Rodin, in Sue’s ‘Wandering Jew,’ and, better still, in ‘Venice Preserved,’ or in ‘Mlle. de Belleisle.’

After his twenty years’ fruitful work at the Lyceum—twenty years and more of picturesque labour during which a new interest was created in the stage—an official recognition was to be given of our actor’s high position. The year 1895 will henceforth be notable as the year of the first tardy honour ever bestowed on an English actor by the Crown. We have had titled players in abundance on the stage, but they have not owed their honours to the stage. It has been said that Sir Richard Steele and Sir Augustus Harris are the only two titled managers. When, in May, the usual list of what are called “birthday honours” came out, the public was delighted to find their favourite included, in company with a poet, a novelist, and a successful traveller. Few Government acts have given such general satisfaction. There was a general chorus of appreciation. Already a lecturer before the Universities and a doctor of letters, the leading player of his time was now officially recognised.

To no class of the community was the honour more acceptable than to his own profession. A meeting of actor-managers and others was held to take some step “in recognition,” it was said, of the distinction. Mr. Bancroft presided, and a provisional committee was formed, consisting of Mr. Toole, Mr. Pinero, Mr. Beerbohm Tree, Sir A. Harris, Mr. Hare, Mr. Wyndham, Mr. G. Alexander, Mr. Terry, Mr. Forbes Robertson, Mr. Terriss, Mr. Howe, Mr. Brough, Mr. G. Conquest, and some others. Mr. Bashford acted as secretary. Another meeting with the same end in view was called of “proprietors, authors, managers.” All this was very gratifying. Not less striking was the feeling with which the news was received abroad, and his confrères of the French comedy—the “House of Molière” as it proudly and so justly boasts itself—lost not a moment in calling a meeting and sending him a formal “act” of congratulation. This important document ran:

Looking back over this long period of nigh thirty years, we are astonished to find this laborious and conscientious performer never absent from his stage. Night after night, year after year, he is still found at his post, defiant of fatigue or ill-health. Only on one occasion, I think, owing to some affection of his throat, had a substitute to take his place. The pressure and constant struggle of our time, it may be, takes no account of weakness or failure; no one dares relax, and as Mrs. Siddons declared the player’s nerves must be made of cart-ropes, so must he have a constitution of iron or steel.

Notwithstanding this constant strain upon his time and labour, there is no figure more conspicuous in the whole round of social duties and entertainments. Wherever there is a gathering for the purpose of helping his profession, he is to be found presiding or assisting. He takes his share in the important movements of the day, and his utterances, always judicious, useful, and valuable, are quoted abundantly.

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Irving has always shown himself eager to plead for his profession, to urge its claim as a wholesome and instructive moral influence that will implant in the community elevating instincts of even a religious kind. All our great actors have been forward in this way, notably Garrick, Kemble, and Macready. The former’s reply to the bishop as to the success and failure of their different styles of preaching is well known. In these days, when we have that singular “Church and State Guild,” with the pleadings of the Reverend Stewart Headlam, and of other clergymen, in favour of the ballet, it is curious to find how this indulgent and tolerant view is repaid by the introduction on the stage of grotesque curates, vicars, and deans, the line being drawn at bishops, who now figure in many a comic opera in absurd and even degrading situations. Our actor is very earnest, and fondly believes that the day is approaching when the stage, and its ways and works, will be recognised by the Church, and by good people generally, as healthy, useful agents in the work of reforming men and women. He is fond of repeating the Bishop’s remark to him, when he asked why, with such a taste for the theatre, he did not frequent it—“My dear Irving, I am afraid of the Rock and the Record.”

In his numerous addresses at institutes, and before the Universities, he has urged the same plea. And yet, with this skilful and loyal advocacy, we have an instinct that the stage can have but small effect on the masses, and does little beyond making them acquainted with certain refining ideas and situations. As for its fostering moral or religious impressions, by exhibiting “virtue triumphant and vice defeated,” that seems to be rather fanciful. It is probable that the playwrights, managers, actors, and audiences use the theatres for profit and for amusement, not for self improvement in religion or morals. Even the great classical works, such as those of Shakespeare, are set forward with so much magnificence, show, and spectacle, that the teachings are overpowered in the spectacle and general entertainment. But even granting the contention that it may become a pure leaven in the profession, or sweetening salt to purify the rest, who can maintain that the stage as a whole, with its burlesques, “grotesques,” frivolities, fooleries, and license of speech and manners, can be considered an edifying school for morality and religion? What a deep impression, on the other hand, leaves such a piece as ‘The School for Scandal’! what a genuine disgust for deceit and insincerity! How it shows the danger of “playing with fire”! What a pleasant sympathy is aroused with the natural, manly virtues! Here is a certain sort of teaching if you will, and here, too, is there an elemental morality. But in these days we unhappily not only lack the talent to supply such comedies, but the public taste is debauched and gorged with grosser dishes.

In his paper, addressed to the Church of England Temperance Society, and read on March 3, 1876, Irving very valiantly pressed for the formal recognition of his profession by the Church. “Make the theatre respected by openly recognising its services. Let members of religious congregations know that there is no harm, but rather good, in entering into ordinary amusements, so far as they are decorous. Use the pulpit, the press, and the platform to denounce not the stage, but certain evils that find allowance on it. Change your attitude towards the stage, and, believe me, the stage will co-operate with you,” etc.

It must be said, however, as regards this friendly invitation, that this idea of the churches cordially recommending the stage and of the clergy being seen in the stalls, and of bishops who would go to the theatre but for fear of the Rock and the Record, seems but a pleasant delusion. Some few stray clerical visitants there are, no doubt; but in all ages and climes the Church has found itself opposed to the stage, on the ground that in the majority of theatres is found what is destroying and corrupting. As I have said, the pieces in which anything instructive, or even elevating, is set forth are but few.

Irving has collected his various addresses in a charming little volume, “The Drama,” 1893. Here, in an exceedingly persuasive and graceful style, he has expounded the principles of his art. On every point he has something to say, and all is marked by judiciousness and a temperate reserve. He does not adopt Diderot’s well-known theory. How true, for instance, is this: “Nor do I think that servility to archæology on the stage is an unmixed good. Correctness of costume is admirable and necessary up to a certain point, but when it ceases to be ‘as wholesome as sweet’ it should, I think, be sacrificed. The nicest discretion is needed in the use of the materials which are nowadays at the disposal of the manager. Music, painting, architecture, costume, have all to be employed, with a strict regard to the production of an artistic whole in which no element shall be obtrusive.” When ‘Much Ado about Nothing’ was produced, there was a scene representing a cedar walk, and a critic discovered that there were no cedars in England until fifty years later, on which he comments—“Absolute realism on the stage is not always desirable, any more than the photographic reproduction of Nature can claim to rank with the highest art.”

A little bit of pleasant comedy is found in a recent speech of his at the dinner of the Cabdrivers’ Benevolent Association in June last. He had always a friendly feeling for this hard-worked body of men, as he told his audience autobiographically: “I have spent a great part of my life in cabs. There was a time, indeed, when a hansom, by a slight stretch of the picturesque, might have been described as my address. That was in the days of youth and high spirits. But there comes a moment in the experience of all of us when the taste for adventure is satiated, when we are no longer eager to sit under the charioteer of the sun, and snatch a fearful joy from sharp corners and a sudden congestion of the traffic. So when the decisive moment came for me I dropped the hansom and took up with the growler. I remember that my first appearance in that staid and unambitious vehicle excited a certain amount of feeling amongst my old friends the hansom cabmen. There were letters of remonstrance. One correspondent, as genial a humorist as Gentleman Joe, hinted that to be seen in a growler was equivalent to being dead, and I think he offered to paint my epitaph on the back. I must say that I am very comfortable in a growler, except when the bottom drops out almost as suddenly as if it were a gold mine. That accident once happened to a friend of mine whose professional business compelled him to make a quick change of dress in the cab, and as it was a light summer evening the passers-by were astonished to see a pair of white legs running under the vehicle, and not apparently connected with the horse.”

Again a pleasant sketch: “Taking them as a body, the cabmen are as industrious and deserving a class as you can find in the community. There still lingers amongst them, perhaps, some of the old spirit which prompted the cabmen to expostulate rather forcibly with Mr. Pickwick. And considering the vast area in which these public servants have to work, and the elasticity of the four-mile radius in the minds of some citizens, the friction is surprisingly small. Not a few of us have known cabmen whom we held in special regard. There was one affable driver that I invited to the Lyceum, giving him the money for admission. The next time I saw him I said, ‘Well, and how did you like the play?’ He hesitated for a moment, choosing, as I thought, the most grateful words to express his pleasure and admiration, and then he said, ‘Well, sir, I didn’t go.’ ‘You didn’t go! Why not?’ ‘Well, sir, you see, there’s the missus, and she preferred the Waxworks.’

“A friend of mine, a great ornament of the medical profession, used to tell a story of the cabman who drove him regularly on his rounds for some years, and always spoke of him with affectionate familiarity by his Christian name. The time came for the rising surgeon to set up a brougham, and with much reluctance he broke this news to his good friend the cabby, who responded with cheerful alacrity, ‘Oh, you’re going to get rid of me, are you? Not a bit of it—I’ll drive that brougham.’ And drive it he did, till he became too old and infirm for the duty. ‘Ah, well, I must give it up,’ he said one day; ‘I ain’t fit for it any longer.’ ‘Dear me,’ said the doctor, in great concern, ‘I am very sorry, very sorry indeed. And what are you going to do?’ ‘What am I going to do? What are you going to do for me? Don’t you fear—I’ll never leave you!’ And he spent the rest of his days on a pension. That story has always seemed to me to put the spirit of charity and goodwill in a thoroughly practical light. You can scarcely get through life in this town without a sense of your dependence on cabby’s skill and endurance, and with as grateful an obligation to him as that of the voyager to the pilot amidst the reefs in a storm. In this labyrinth of London, it is rare for cabby not to know his way. I have never ceased to wonder at the cabman’s dexterity of eye and hand—unrivalled, I venture to say, in any other capital in Europe. And when you consider how small is the proportion of accidents in this vast business of locomotion, you may cheerfully grant that cabby has some claim upon your respect and generosity.”

I think the whole “key” of this is admirably appropriate, and the touch of the lightest.[61]

At dinners and meetings he often glides into lively recollections of his early days, related in an unaffected style, as when, not long since, he told his lieges at Bristol: “My recollections of Bristol carry me back to the days when my father told me stirring tales of the great Bristol Riots, which had brought him the honours of a special constable. I think I wanted to grow up to be a special constable too, and I had great hopes that Bristol would kindly become sufficiently riotous to favour that ambition. But I also had a turn for natural history, and it is indelibly stamped upon my memory that on one occasion, when I was about four years old, I made a little excursion by myself from St. James’s Barton to Redcliffe Street in order to study a stag’s head which projected as a sign from a certain house, where I was found by my anxious mother peacefully contemplating the head of the antlered beast and wondering why on earth he smelt so strongly of tallow. It was soon after this incident that I witnessed a great event in the history of Bristol, the launching of the steamship Great Britain. There was a vast throng of people to see this mighty vessel, but the one thing which monopolized my attention was the moustache of Prince Albert, who presided over the ceremony. I was fired by an unquenchable longing to possess a similar ornament, and I consulted a friend of mine, a chemist, who kept a particular brand of acid-drops which I patronized at that time, and who consented to make a moustache for me. It was a long business, and when I impatiently inquired how it was getting on, he used to explain that he was growing it somewhere at the back of his shop. Well, one day I demanded it with an imperious energy which was not to be resisted, so he put me on a chair and adorned my upper lip with burnt cork, with which I went home feeling much elated, though a little disturbed by the demonstrations of the juvenile public on the way. I have sometimes wondered whether it was that burnt cork—the earliest of the rites in honour of Thespis—which gave my career the bent that has brought me among you to-day. If my distinguished colleague, Miss Ellen Terry, were here, she could tell you many stories of the Bristol Theatre, in which I may almost say she was cradled.”

Such is an imperfect picture of a really remarkable man, who has left a deep impression on his contemporaries. It was lately written of him by one not always inclined to be partial to him: “We find the quality of nobility to be the keynote of his character. No one ever accused him of a mean or low act. His instincts are, to use a word that has been often applied to them, ‘princely.’ He has in him that curious combination of gentleness and dignity which used to be called ‘the grand style.’ Without being tortuous in his methods, he is instinctively diplomatic, and there are suggestions of delicacy, almost of asceticism, in his physique, which convey an impression of refinement and possible self-denial.” Such a character as this given of some stranger unknown would irresistibly attract and make us eager to know him. And the author of animated pictures of society in the various capitals adds these touches: “Whatever he does is done on a great, even a grand, scale, and done without ostentation, without violating any of the laws of good taste. His figure is interesting, and not wanting in distinction. His manner is polished and gentle; his voice, off the stage, always agreeable, and his style peculiarly winning.”

THE END

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

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