I was present at a small party of men which he once gave after the play at the Lyceum. King Edward, then Prince of Wales, and many of the foremost men of the day had accepted his invitation. Toole was there, full of fun, and Irving recited the scene with the waiter in “David Copperfield.” He just stood leaning against the chimney-piece and told the story. But how he told it! That was an inimitable performance. The party did not break up until long after cock-crow. I drove away with Russell Lowell, the American Minister, in a belated, or rather be-earlied, hansom cab; it was summer time and broad daylight, and we two elderly gentlemen felt very dissipated and rather ashamed of being seen, but we both agreed that it would have been difficult to have a more agreeable gathering or a more genial host. The verdict of Lowell, wit, poet, diplomatist, man of letters and man of charm, was conclusive. Of great actors England has always been prolific. I have left out many of those who were stars in the fifties and sixties. I have, for instance, said nothing of my friend Sir Squire Bancroft, whose memory must live if only for the noble use to which, for many years, he has devoted his great talents. In great actresses, for some mysterious reason, we have not been so rich. When men talk of women who have been distinguished in tragedy, they still go back to the fame of Mrs. Siddons. Miss O’Neill is now forgotten. As Lady Becher I used constantly to meet her at the house of old Lady Essex (the famous Miss Stevens), who used to gather round her, together with all that was smartest in society, the fine flower of the world of art—almost all the great musicians whom I have mentioned above, Leighton, Landseer, Marochetti, Chorley, Planché and a host of celebrities. Lady Becher as an old lady, cold, stiff and alarming, certainly did not give one the idea of an actress who could so picture sorrow and agony as to create emotion. But of English tragic actresses whom I myself have seen I can recall but two—Adelaide Neilson and Ellen Terry. I wish we could claim the beautiful Mary Anderson, who _vera incessu patuit Dea_—but she, alas! is an American, though for the joy of Gloucestershire and Worcestershire she has made her home at Broadway. Adelaide Neilson worked her way to fame from beginnings of the poorest and the most squalid; she was an exemplification of the Japanese proverb “The lotus flower springs from the mud.” Here again was a meteor, for she died in Paris when only thirty-two years old; but she had lived long enough to win admiration by her beauty and great talent. Her lovable qualities appealed to her friends, and her kindness of heart endeared her to her brother and sister players. She was a born actress, and was endowed with that greatest of all gifts for a tragedian—the gift so conspicuous in Sarah Bernhardt—a speaking voice soft and tender, full of musical pathos and emotion, a voice which would of itself have aroused sympathy had she been