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Oral Pathology
for the Dental
Hygienist
With General Pathology
Introductions

SEVENTH EDITION

Olga A.C. Ibsen, RDH, MS

Adjunct Professor
Department of Oral and Maxillofacial Pathology, Radiology and Medicine
New York University
College of Dentistry
New York, New York;
Adjunct Professor
University of Bridgeport

2
Bridgeport, Connecticut

Joan Andersen Phelan, MS, DDS

Professor and Chair
Department of Oral and Maxillofacial Pathology, Radiology and Medicine
New York University
College of Dentistry
New York, New York;
Diplomate, American Board of Oral and Maxillofacial Pathology

3
Table of Contents
Cover image

Title Page

Copyright

Personal Dedication

Professional Dedication

Contributors

Preface
Importance to the Profession

About This Edition

New to This Edition

About Evolve

From the Authors

Acknowledgments

4
1 Introduction to Preliminary Diagnosis of Oral Lesions
The Diagnostic Process

Variants of Normal

Other Benign Conditions With Unique Clinical Features

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 1 Synopsis

2 Inflammation and Repair

Injury

Innate Defenses

Inflammation

Reactive Tissue Responses to Injury

Tissue Repair

Traumatic Injuries to Teeth

Injuries to Oral Soft Tissue

Reactive Connective Tissue Hyperplasia

Inflammatory Periapical Lesions

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 2 Synopsis

3 Immunity and Immunologic Oral Lesions

Immune Response

Antigens in the Immune Response

5
 Cellular Involvement in the Immune Response

Cytokines in the Immune Response

Major Divisions of the Immune Response

Types of Immunity

Immunopathology

Oral Immunologic Lesions and Diseases

Autoimmune Diseases With Oral Manifestations

Immunodeficiency

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 3 Synopsis

4 Infectious Diseases
Bacterial Infections

Fungal Infections

Viral Infections

Human Immunodeficiency Virus and Acquired Immunodeficiency

Syndrome

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 4 Synopsis

5 Developmental Disorders
Embryonic Development of the Face, Oral Cavity, and Teeth

Developmental Soft Tissue Abnormalities

6
 Developmental Cysts

Developmental Abnormalities of Teeth

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 5 Synopsis

6 Genetics
Chromosomes

Normal Cell Division

Lyon Hypothesis

Molecular Composition of Chromosomes

Genes and Chromosomes

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 6 Synopsis

7 Neoplasia
Description of Neoplasia

Causes of Neoplasia

Classification of Tumors

Names of Tumors

Treatment of Tumors

Epithelial Tumors

Tumors of Squamous Epithelium

Salivary Gland Tumors

7
 Odontogenic Tumors

Tumors of Soft Tissue

Tumors of Melanin-Producing Cells

Tumors of Bone and Cartilage

Tumors of Blood-Forming Tissues

Metastatic Tumors

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 7 Synopsis

8 Nonneoplastic Diseases of Bone

Benign Fibro-Osseous Lesions

Paget Disease of Bone

Central Giant Cell Granuloma (Central Giant Cell Lesion)

Aneurysmal Bone Cyst

Osteomalacia

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 8 Synopsis

9 Oral Manifestations of Systemic Diseases

Endocrine Disorders

Blood Disorders

Bleeding Disorders

Oral Manifestations of Therapy for Oral Cancer

8
 Effects of Drugs on the Oral Cavity

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 9 Synopsis

10 Orofacial Pain and Temporomandibular Disorders

Orofacial Pain

Temporomandibular Disorders

Review Questions

Selected References

Chapter 10 Synopsis

Answers
Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Glossary

9
Index

10
Copyright

3251 Riverport Lane

St. Louis, Missouri 63043

ORAL PATHOLOGY FOR THE DENTIAL HYGIENIST: WITH

GENERAL PATHOLOGY INTRODUCTIONS, SEVENTH
EDITION ISBN: 978-0-323-40062-6

Copyright © 2018 by Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Details
on how to seek permission, further information about the
Publisher's permissions policies and our arrangements with
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Copyright Licensing Agency, can be found at our website:
www.elsevier.com/permissions.

This book and the individual contributions contained in it are

protected under copyright by the Publisher (other than as may be
noted herein).

Notices
Knowledge and best practice in this field are constantly changing.
As new research and experience broaden our understanding,
changes in research methods, professional practices, or medical

11
treatment may become necessary.
Practitioners and researchers must always rely on their own
experience and knowledge in evaluating and using any
information, methods, compounds, or experiments described
herein. In using such information or methods they should be
mindful of their own safety and the safety of others, including
parties for whom they have a professional responsibility.
With respect to any drug or pharmaceutical products identified,
readers are advised to check the most current information provided
(i) on procedures featured or (ii) by the manufacturer of each
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formula, the method and duration of administration, and
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their own experience and knowledge of their patients, to make
diagnoses, to determine dosages and the best treatment for each
individual patient, and to take all appropriate safety precautions.
To the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the
authors, contributors, or editors, assume any liability for any injury
and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of products
liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of
any methods, products, instructions, or ideas contained in the
material herein.

Previous editions copyrighted 2014, 2009, 2004, 2000, 1996, 1992

International Standard Book Number: 978-0-323-40062-6

Senior Content Strategist: Kristin Wilhelm

Content Development Manager: Ellen Wurm-Cutter
Senior Content Development Specialist: Rebecca Leenhouts
Publishing Services Manager: Jeff Patterson
Senior Project Manager: Jodi M. Willard
Design Direction: Bridget Hoette

12
Printed in China

Last digit is the print number: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

13
Personal Dedication

To

Our husbands

Lawrence and Jerry

For their years of support and encouragement of all our

professional endeavors, especially each and every edition of Oral
Pathology for the Dental Hygienist: With General
Pathology Introductions. They have assisted us in
innumerable ways, and we are most grateful to them. We
appreciate their dedication to us and, ultimately, to the
profession.

With our love,

Olga and Joan

14
Professional
Dedication

We dedicate this edition of Oral Pathology for the Dental

Hygienist: With General Pathology Introductions to the
faculty who have chosen this text over the past 25 years and to
past, present, and future students who have used or will use this
text. Our goal in developing this text has been to enhance patient
care by providing dental hygienists with a comprehensive
knowledge of oral pathology. We encourage you to join us in
using this knowledge to provide optimal care to the patients we
serve.
Olga A.C. Ibsen RDH, MS

Joan Andersen Phelan MS, DDS

15
Other documents randomly have
different content
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.
 CHAPTER XIII.
1887.
‘FAUST’—‘WERNER’—‘MACAIRE’—THE ACTOR’S
SOCIAL GIFTS.

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]
 CHAPTER XIV.
1888.
‘MACBETH’—‘THE DEAD
HEART’—‘RAVENSWOOD.’

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—

“She should have died hereafter,”

into

“She would have died hereafter.”

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:

“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself.”

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.
 CHAPTER XV.
1892.
‘KING LEAR’—‘BECKET.’

After presenting so many of Shakespeare’s great dramas, it was to

be expected that the manager could not well pass by what has been
justly styled the Titanic play of ‘King Lear.’ This had, indeed, always
been in his thoughts; but he naturally shrank from the tremendous
burden it entailed. It was prepared in his usual sumptuous style.
There were sixteen changes of scene and twenty-two characters,
and the music was furnished by Hamilton Clarke. The scenery was
divided between Craven and Harker, the latter a very effective artist
of the same school. There were some beautiful romantic effects: the
halls, the heath, and notably the Dover scenes, were exquisite. I
doubt if their presentation has been excelled by any preceding
attempts. The barbaric tone and atmosphere of the piece was
conveyed to perfection, without being insisted on or emphasized. It
is only when we compare the ambitious attempts of other managers
who would indulge in effects equally lavish and sumptuous, that we
recognise the ability, ease, reserve, and force of the Lyceum
manager.[56] They, too, will have their “archæology” and their built-
up temples, designed by painters of repute, and crowds; but there is
present only the sense of stage effect and the flavour of the
supernumerary. The secret is the perfect subordination of such
details to the general effect. They should be, like the figures on a
tapestry, indistinct, but effective as a background. Charles Lamb’s
well-worn dictum, that ‘Lear’ should never be acted, was trotted
forth in every criticism. There is some truth in this exaggerated
judgment, because it can never be adequately presented, and the
performance must always fall short of the original grandeur. With his
remarks on the pettiness of the stage-storm, one would be inclined
to agree, even on this occasion, when every art was exhausted to
convey the notion of the turmoil of the elements. The truth is, an
audience sitting in the stalls and boxes will never be seduced into
accepting the rollings and crashings of cannon-balls aloft, and the
flashing of lycopodium, as suggesting the awful warring of the
elements.
‘Lear’ was brought forward on Thursday, November 10, 1892, and
its presentation was a truly romantic one. The figure had little of the
usual repulsive aspects of age—the clumsy white beard, etc.—but
was picturesque. The entry into his barbaric court, the strange
retainers with their head-dresses of cows’ horns, was striking and
original. The whole conception was human. The “curse” was
delivered naturally. In presenting, however, the senile ravings of the
old monarch, the actor unavoidably assumed an indistinctness of
utterance, and many sentences were lost. This imperfection was
dwelt on in the criticisms with superfluous iteration, and though the
actor speedily amended and became almost emphatically distinct,
this notion seemed to have settled in the public mind, with some
prejudice to the success of the piece. Though he was thus quick to
remedy this blemish, distinctness was secured by deliberation, and
at some loss of effect. The actor’s extraordinary exertions—for he
was at the same time busy with the preparation of a new piece—
exhausted him, and obliged him for some nights to entrust the part
to another. But the real obstacle to full success could be found in the
general lugubrious tone of the character; the uninterrupted
sequence of horrors and distresses led to a feeling of monotony
difficult for the actor to vanquish. The public never takes very
cordially to pieces in which there is this sustained misery, though it
can relish the alternations of poignant tragedy attended by quick
dramatic changes. Cordelia, though a small part, was made
prominent by much touching pathos and grace, and the dying
recognition by the old King brought tears to many eyes.[57]
An interesting feature in Irving’s career has been his long
friendship with Tennyson, poet and dramatist, which lasted for some
fifteen or sixteen years. The actor showed his appreciation of the
poet’s gifts by the rather hazardous experiment of presenting two of
his poetical dramas to the public. We have seen what sumptuous
treatment was accorded to ‘The Cup’; and in ‘Queen Mary’ the actor
contributed his most powerful dramatic efforts in the realization of
the grim Philip.
The poet, however, made little allowance for the exigencies of the
stage. During the preparation of ‘The Cup,’ he contended eagerly for
the retention of long speeches and scenes, which would have
shipwrecked the piece. Yet, undramatic as most of his dramas are, a
taste for them was springing up, and not long before his death he
had the gratification of knowing that his ‘Foresters’ had met with
surprising success in America. No less than six pieces of his have
been produced, and though the idea prevails that he has been “a
failure” as a dramatist, it will be found that on the whole he has
been successful. It may be that by-and-by he will be in higher
favour. But he will have owed much to Irving, not merely for
presenting his plays with every advantage, but for putting them into
fitting shape, with firm, unerring touch removing all that is
superfluous.
So far back as the year 1879 the poet had placed in Irving’s hands
a drama on the subject of Becket and the Fair Rosamund. It was
really a poem of moderate length, though in form a drama, and the
actor naturally shrank from the difficulties of dealing with such a
piece. The “pruning knife” would here have been of little avail; the
axe or “chopper” would have to be used unsparingly. The piece was
accordingly laid aside for that long period; the lamented death of the
poet probably removed the chief obstacle to its production. It is said,
indeed, that almost one-half was cut away before it could be put in
shape for performance. On Monday, February 6, 1893, the actor’s
birthday, this posthumous piece was brought out with every
advantage, and before an assemblage even more brilliant than
usual. It revived the memories of the too recent ‘Henry VIII.,’ in
which there is much the same struggle between Prince and Bishop.
The actor has thus no less than three eminent Catholic ecclesiastics
in his répertoire—Richelieu, Wolsey, and Becket; but, as he
pleasantly said, he could contrast with these an English clergyman,
the worthy Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. Yet he admirably and
dramatically distinguished their several characters.
There is always a curiosity to have the curtain lifted, so that we
may have a glimpse of a play in the throes and troubles of rehearsal.
Mr. Burgin, in one of the magazines, gave a very dramatic sketch of
how things were conducted during the preparation of ‘Becket’:
“After Mr. Irving has grouped the men on the benches, he steps
back and looks at the table. ‘We ought to have on it some kind of
mace or crozier,’ he says—‘a large crozier. Now for the “make up.” All
the barons and everyone who has a moustache must wear a small
beard. All the gentlemen who have no beards remain unshaven. All
the priests and bishops are unshaven. The mob can have slight
beards, but this is unimportant. Now, take off your hats, gentlemen,
please. Some of you must be old, some young. Hair very short;’ and
he passes from group to group selecting the different people. ‘Now,
I think that is all understood pretty well. Where are the sketches for
dresses?’
“The sketches are brought, and he goes carefully through them.
Miss Terry and Mr. Terriss also look over the big white sheets of
paper. The fox-terrier strolls up to the group, gives a glance at them,
and walks back again to Miss Terry’s chair with a slightly cynical
look. Then Mr. Irving returns to the groups by the benches.
‘Remember, gentlemen, you must be arguing here, laying down the
law in this way,’ suiting the action to the word. ‘Just arrange who is
to argue. Don’t do it promiscuously, but three or four of you
together. Try to put a little action into it. I want you to show your
arms, and not to keep them glued to your sides like trussed fowls.
No; that isn’t half enough action. Don’t be frightened. Better make
too much noise rather than too little, but don’t stop too suddenly.
Start arguing when I ring the first bell. As I ring the second bell, you
see me enter, and stop.’ The dog stands one bell, but the second
annoys him, and he disappears from the stage altogether, until the
people on the benches have finished their discussion.
“Mr. Irving next tries the three-cornered stools which are placed
around the table, but prefers square ones. The dog returns, walks
over to the orchestra, looks vainly for a rat, and retreats under the
table in the centre of the stage as if things were getting really too
much for him. But his resting-place is ill-chosen, for presently half-a-
dozen angry lords jump on the table, and he is driven forth once
more. After a stormy scene with the lords, Mr. Irving walks up the
steps again. ‘When I say “I depart,” you must let me get up the
steps. All this time your pent-up anger is waiting to burst out
suddenly. Don’t go to sleep over it.’ He looks at the table in the
centre of the stage, and turns to a carpenter. ‘This table will never
do. It has to be jumped on by so many people that it must be very
strong. They follow me.’ (To Miss Terry) ‘They’d better catch hold of
me, up the steps here.’
“Miss Terry: ‘They must do something. They can’t stand holding
you like that.’
“Mr. Irving: ‘No.’ The door opens suddenly at top of steps, and
discovers the crowd, who shout, ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the
name of the Lord.’
“The doors open and the crowd shout, but the effect is not good.
“Miss Terry: ‘It would be better if it were done at the foot of the
steps. The people needn’t show their faces as they do it, and the
effect will be so much better.’”
‘Becket’ contained thirty characters, and was set off by fine
scenery and excellent music, written specially by Professor Stanford,
this not being the first time his notes had been associated with the
poet. Never have Irving’s efforts been greeted with such
overpowering, tumultuous applause. At the end of every act there
were as many as five “recalls.” In such pieces, as well as in some of
Shakespeare’s, there is always a matter of interesting debate in
fixing the era, dresses, architecture, etc.—a matter perhaps of less
importance than is supposed. Irving’s conception of ‘Becket’ was
truly picturesque and romantic; he imported a pathetic tone, with a
sort of gloomy foreboding of the impending martyrdom, conveyed by
innumerable touches. The actor has the art of moulding his features
and expression to the complexion of the character he is performing
nightly. Thus, in ‘Becket,’ it can be seen that he had already
assumed the meditative, wary look of the aspiring ecclesiastic.
It is evidence of the interest excited by ‘Becket,’ that a little
discussion arose between a Benedictine Father and another
ecclesiastic on the hymn, “Telluris ingens Conditor,” which was
played in the cathedral scene and through the piece. The
Benedictine contended that it must have been some older form of
the hymn before the pseudo-classicalization “of the Breviary Hymns
in the sixteenth century.” “I do not suppose,” he added, “that Mr.
Irving’s well-known attention to detail extends to such minutiæ as
these. The famous cathedral scene, in his presentment of ‘Much Ado
about Nothing,’ was received with a chorus of praise as a marvel of
liturgical accuracy. But I am told that to Catholic eyes at least some
of its details appeared incorrect.” Thus, to the monastery even, does
the fame of our manager’s efforts reach!
One of the most remarkable things connected with ‘Becket’ was
the unanimous applause and approbation of the entire press.[58]
Even one or two evening papers, which had spoken with a little
hesitation, returned to the subject a few nights later to correct their
judgment and to admit that they had been hasty. All confessed that
they had been captivated by the picturesqueness of the central
figure.
Apart from his professional gifts, Irving is assuredly one of those
figures which fill the public eye, and of which there are but few. This
is owing to a sort of sympathetic attraction, and to an absence of
affectation. He plays many parts in the social scheme, and always
does so with judiciousness, contributing to the effect of the
situation. His utterances on most subjects are thoughtful and well
considered, and contribute to the enlightenment of the case. At his
examination by the London County Council, when many absurd
questions were put to him, he answered with much sagacity. His
views on the employment of children in theatres are truly sensible.
More remarkable, however, are his opinions on the science of acting,
the art of management, and of dealing with audiences and other
kindred topics, which show much thought and knowledge. He has, in
truth, written a great deal, and his various “discourses,” recently
collected in a pretty little volume, do credit to his literary style and
power of expression.[59]
Here we must pause. We have seen what our actor has done,
what a change he has worked in the condition of the stage: what an
elegant education he has furnished during all these years. And
though he has been associated with the revival of the stage, and a
complete reform in all that concerns its adornment, it will be his
greatest glory that he has presented Shakespeare on a grand scale,
under the sumptuous and judicious conditions and methods that
have made the poet acceptable to English audiences of our day.
There have been many laments over the fleeting, evanescent
character of an actor’s efforts. If his success be triumphant, it is like
a dream for those who have not seen. Description gives but the
faintest idea of his gifts. The writer, as it were, continues to write
after his death, and is read, as he was in his lifetime. But the player
gone, the play is over. The actor, it is true, if he be a personality, has
another audience outside his theatre. As I have shown in these
pages, he can attract by force of character the interest and
sympathies of the general community. Whatever he does, or
wherever he appears, eyes are turned to him as they would be to
one on a stage. There is a sort of indulgent partiality in the case of
Irving. He is a dramatic figure, much as was Charles Dickens. Eyes
are idly bent on him that enters next. And this high position is not
likely to be disturbed; and though all popularity is precarious
enough, he has the art and tact to adapt his position to the shifty,
capricious changes of taste, and in the hackneyed phrase is more
“up to date” than any person of his time. The fine lines in ‘Troilus
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