I wrote this article to mark the 200th anniversary of The Great Fire of Edinburgh and to tell the story of the Theatre Royal's contribution to help victims of the fire in the aftermath.

On the evening of November 15th, 1824, at half past six, Mr Garbutt at the Box Office opened the doors of the Theatre Royal in Shakespeare Square, on the north side of Edinburgh’s North Bridge. An orderly line of carriages began setting down fashionable passengers at the main door, the ladies pulling fur-lined velvet pelisses around their shoulders against the cold and regarding each other’s outfits, the gentlemen ushering them inside to take their seats in private boxes at five shillings a ticket. Meanwhile, another door opened at the side of the Theatre, admitting a lively rabble of workers and servants, all clutching a hard-earned shilling for a seat in the upper gallery, in dire need of a good laugh and lively company after the drudgery of their days.

It was a normal Monday evening in Edinburgh.  

The curtain rose on George Colman’s The Heir at Law, a comedy about inheritance, power, and love in which young Daniel Dowlas discovers he is the long-lost heir to a vast fortune. The moment the Theatre’s most popular comedian, Charles Mackay, stepped onto the stage as Dowlas, the audience gave a huge cheer, knowing they were in for a treat.  

The review from a hardened critic the next morning said:

          ‘With great sincerity we declare that we never witnessed a theatrical performance with more lively and exalted delight than that of last evening.’

On that same Monday evening, on the south side of Edinburgh’s North Bridge, a flame from a neglected candle (perhaps) in a tenement at the head of Old Assembly Close, off the High Street, licked a piece of paper which had been left perilously close to it. By the time a satisfied audience was pouring out of the Theatre Royal at around ten o’ clock and making their way home, that fickle flame had moved on to explore a pile of papers and books beside it on the desk. When it leapt greedily at the fluttering curtains too, smoke began to seep through gaps around the window frames, escaping into the High Street and alerting the good folk walking below to imminent disaster.                                                                                

Shouts of ‘fire!’ filled the frosty night air at once, causing windows to fly open in seven story tenements and people to run outside, yelling and screaming, while clothes and even furniture were flung into the street. Most theatregoers were safely home by this time, preparing to retire, still chuckling at William Murray’s hilarious interpretation of Matty Marvellous in the afterpiece: The Miller’s Maid. All except those poor unfortunates who arrived home to find their tenements in the grip of a raging inferno.

A newly formed municipal fire service, the first in the world, under the command of Master of Fire Engines, twenty-four year-old James Braidwood, arrived on the scene commendably fast, Unfortunately they were unable to locate a supply of water for some time and could not begin to fight the blaze in earnest until after eleven o’ clock, by which time it had spread to adjoining tenements and was impossible to control. The firefighters and all the expert tradesmen and mariners Braidswood recruited, fought valiantly all night and into the following day without respite or much success.

On Tuesday morning news of the fire reached Mrs Harriot Siddons, the Theatre’s royal patent holder, and her brother, William Murray, theatre manager, and they decided to close their doors until further notice. Around midday, just as the firefighters were making progress at last, the wind suddenly got up and threw sparks at the ancient wooden spire of the Tron Kirk which was quickly engulfed in such intense flames that the lead frame melted into spectacular molten rivers. By four o’ clock the spire had completely collapsed and as night fell another building in Parliament Square was engulfed in flames and began to cave in. 

Terrible fires raged on throughout Wednesday, until heavy rain that night came to the aid of the firefighters the conflagration was finally brought under control. Thirteen people lost their lives, including two firefighters and two boys who had been carrying water to them. Over four hundred people lost their homes, too, many suffering burns and other injuries. Men, women, and children wandered aimlessly in the High Street throughout that terrible week, carrying their few sooty possessions, with no money for food, nor any idea of how to find shelter. Those who could help did so generously, but it was by no means enough. Nothing on such a vast scale of destruction had been seen in Edinburgh for centuries.

On Thursday morning work began in earnest to clear the debris and help began to trickle through to the victims. The Lord Provost and Magistrates set up a relief fund, which was supported by wealthy donors and ordinary people alike, some of whom contributed clothing and furniture too.

On the other side of the North Bridge, when news arrived that the fire was out Siddons and Murray decided to put on three days of their best comedy performances, beginning that very night, and donating all the revenue to a Benefit for the victims of the fire. It would give ordinary folk a chance to help the victims, while at the same time providing an outlet for all the pent-up emotion of the last few days. Laughter was, as everyone knew, the best medicine. 

They sent for their actors, opened the Box Office and chose two comedies: The Wild Oats, and The Poachers, both of which featured the people’s favourite, Charles Mackay, who always drew crowds. Flyers were put up outside the theatre and distributed by hand, it being too late to publish an advertisement. The next morning Friday’s Edinburgh Dramatic Review said:

‘In consequence of the most disastrous fires which have afflicted the city, the Manager, from a sense of decorum which all must admire, closed the Theatre upon the evenings of Tuesday and Wednesday; and with a great generosity which doubtless will be duly appreciated and have its due reward, he has devoted the proceeds of last night and the following two nights, to the Benefit of the unfortunate sufferers.

‘Under existing circumstances, it was impossible to notify the opening of the Theatre last night so extensively as could have been wished; owing to which the attendance was thin. 

‘But we cannot doubt that persons of all classes will be anxious to exercise the virtue of charity on this and the following evening.’

A popular comedy called The Dramatist topped the bill on Friday night, once again showcasing William Murray’s talent as a comedian alongside Mackay:

‘There was a striking beauty at every step of Murray’s performance; so much suppressed contempt of the vulgarity around him, and so much playful gallantry and humour.’

The house was filled with good, honest working folk, but most of the boxes for the wealthy remained empty, which came as something of a surprise to the comedians when they stepped onto the stage. 

On Saturday most of the clearing up had been done in the High Street, but the precarious remains of two tall tenement walls still had to be brought down. One was pulled down with ropes by a party of sailors from a frigate in Leith, while the other was demolished with explosives. These dramatic events drew large crowds who sent up hurrahs as the walls tumbled down, with shouts of joy erupting when it was announced no-one had been injured in the process.

That night, the Theatre Royal presented She Stoops To Conquer to a packed house with Mackay – fondly known as The Real Mackay – Harriot Siddons and William Murray all playing comedy roles. The auditorium resounded to thunderous applause, gales of laughter and the stamping of feet, and the coffers overflowed for the poor unfortunate victims of the great fire. On Monday it would be back to business as usual, with a new production of St Ronan’s Well, by the author of Waverley.