“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.