As Mr. Wyndham informs me: “During the short period he was under our management, both Mrs. Wyndham and myself took a most lively interest in his promotion, for he was always perfect, and any character, however small, he might have been called upon to represent, was in itself a study; and I believe he would have sacrificed a week’s salary—a small affair, by the way—to exactly look like the character he was about to portray.” Of these old Edinburgh days Irving always thought fondly. At the Scottish capital he is now welcomed with an affectionate sympathy; and the various intellectual societies of the city—Philosophical and others—are ever glad to receive instruction and entertainment from his lips. In November, 1891, when he was visiting the Students’ Union Dramatic Society, he told them that some thirty years before “he was member of a University there—the old Theatre Royal. There he had studied for two years and a half his beautiful art, and there he learnt the lesson that they would all learn, that— “‘Deep the oak must sink its roots in earth obscure, That hopes to lift its branches to the sky.’” In some of his later speeches “of occasion” he has scattered little autobiographical touches that are not without interest. On one occasion he recalled how he was once summoned over to Dublin to supply the place of another actor at the Queen’s Theatre, then under the direction of two “manager-twins,” the Brothers Webb. The Queen’s was but a small house, conducted on old-fashioned principles, and had a rather turbulent audience. When the actor made his appearance he was, to his astonishment, greeted with yells, general anger, and disapprobation. This was to be his reception throughout the whole engagement, which was luckily not a long one. He, however, stuck gallantly to his post, and sustained his part with courage. He described the manager as perpetually making “alarums and excursions” in front of the curtain to expostulate with the audience. These “Brothers Webb, who had found their twinship profitable in playing the ‘Dromios,’ were worthy actors enough, and much respected in their profession; they had that marked individuality of character now so rarely found on the boards. Having discovered, at last, what his offence was, viz., the taking the place of a dismissed actor—an unconscious exercise of a form of ‘land-grabbing’—his placid good-humour gradually made its way, and before the close of the engagement he had, according to the correct theatrical phrase, ‘won golden opinions.’”