One of the most interesting stage families of my time was the group of Hollands. E. S., whom we called “Ned,” was perhaps the best known throughout the country and was a finished actor of the so-called old school. It was the father of these boys who made that immortal remark which named a house of worship and made it famous. Holland, with others, approached the pastor of a large Fifth Avenue church to get him to read the burial service for a dead actor. The minister refused, saying that actors could not be buried from his church. Seeing their despair, he repented a trifle and suggested that they try the little church just around the corner. The elder Holland raised his hat and said: “God bless the Little Church Around the Corner.” Joe Holland is the only member of the family alive to-day, and he retired from the stage a few years ago. He became very deaf and finally paralyzed, but he has in no way let it ruin his life. With grit and persistence to a degree that should be an example to everyone, here is this man, no longer young, learning to read and, although totally deaf, to speak a beautiful French, sailing a boat better than most professionals and becoming the commodore of the yacht club of the seaport town where he lives in the summer, leading a full life where most people would have given up the ghost long ago. Joe used to ask one or another of us to go out for a drive with him in the evening. I often wondered what pleasure it could give him and once wrote on his paper (which he always carried), “Why do you do this?” A most pathetic look came into his face. “I know you are all just being good to me and you can’t keep it up long, but somehow, if I can get you to drive in the moonlight where you wouldn’t want to talk, anyway, we are just as much companions in those moments as if I were not deaf.” Such delicacy of feeling could not help but come out in his actions, and something Joe did once impressed me very much. Frank Worthing, the actor, was going to England, and, although it was not mentioned, he was going to die. Joe bought half a dozen calendars and sent a sheet to everyone of Frank’s friends, asking that they write a note, a poem, or music, and, if they were artists, make a sketch. These he collected, had beautifully bound and put in the stateroom of the steamer so that “every day when Frank wakes up, he will receive a good morning from a friend.” There is something very fine about a man who thinks that way.