The country is seized with a panic. Everybody has the influenza. Every one does not die of it, but every one is having it. The malady is not called influenza over here, as it is in Europe. It is called "Grippe." No American escapes it. Some have _la grippe_, others have _the grippe_, a few, even, have _the la grippe_. Others, again, the lucky ones, think they have it. Those who have not had it, or do not think they have it yet, are expecting it. The nation is in a complete state of demoralization. Theaters are empty, business almost suspended, doctors on their backs or run off their legs. At twelve a telegram is handed to me. It is from my friend, Wilson Barrett, who is playing in Philadelphia. "Hearty greetings, dear friend. Five grains of quinine and two tablets of antipyrine a day, or you get _grippe_." Then came many letters by every post. "Impossible to go and welcome you in person. I have _la grippe_. Take every precaution." Such is the tenor of them all. The outlook is not bright. What to do? For a moment I have half a mind to call a cab and get on board the first boat bound for Europe. I go to my room, the windows of which overlook Union Square. The sky is somber, the street is black and deserted, the air is suffocatingly warm, and a very heavy rain is beating against the windows. Shade of Columbus, how I wish I were home again! * * * * * Cheer up, boy, the hand-grasps of your dear New York friends will be sweet after the frantic grasping of stair-rails and other ship furniture for so many days. I will have lunch and go and pay calls. * * * * * Excuse me if I leave you for a few minutes. The interviewers are waiting for me downstairs in Major Pond's office. The interviewers! a gay note at last. The hall porter hands me their cards. They are all there: representatives of the _Tribune_, the _Times_, the _Sun_, the _Herald_, the _World_, the _Star_. What nonsense Europeans have written on the subject of interviewing in America, to be sure! To hear them speak, you would believe that it is the greatest nuisance in the world. A Frenchman writes in the _Figaro_: "I will go to America if my life can be insured against that terrific nuisance, interviewing." An Englishman writes to an English paper, on returning from America: "When the reporters called on me, I invariably refused to see them." Trash! Cant! Hypocrisy! With the exception of a king, or the prime minister of one of the great powers, a man is only too glad to be interviewed. Don't talk to me about the nuisance, tell the truth, it is always such a treat to hear it. I consider that interviewing is a compliment, a great compliment paid to the interviewed. In asking a man to give you his views, so as to enlighten the public on such and such a subject, you acknowledge that he is an important man, which is flattering to him; or you take him for one, which is more flattering still.