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. CHAPTER II. 1857-1859. EDINBURGH AND THE SCOTTISH THEATRES.