We passed many happy evenings, together with dear old Johnny Toole, at the Beefsteak Club. I look back with pleasure upon those improvised little suppers Irving used to bestow upon the visiting Americans and his fellow players upon the stage of the Lyceum after the evening performance. I have never seen such unostentatious, yet lavish, display as he exercised in those delightful hospitalities. They extended far into the night and many times the sun was up as he, Toole and I made the rounds of the Covent Garden Market where the butchers and fruit venders were as friendly disposed towards him as were the guests of the previous evening. I never knew when Irving slept. The last time we met was in his dressing-room at the Broadway Theatre, New York. I had just produced "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at a great outlay--a new experience for me at the time--investing a fortune on the production before receiving the verdict of the capricious public. It was an old story with Irving. As I shook hands with him he said, "Ah! Goodwin, my boy, I see you are indulging in a little Monte Carlo around the corner." I answered, "Yes, Sir Henry, I have a big bet down on the single 0." "Well," said he, "this business is a fascinating gamble no matter where the little ivory ball may land." The little ivory ball proved in the end very disappointing to this splendid player who did so much to dignify our art. For when the ball fell into the single "0" Sir Henry's bet was on the black, No. 23. Had he lived he would have found it impossible to indulge again in the dissipation of costly productions. [Illustration: SIR HENRY IRVING _An extraordinary man_] _Chapter VI_ "BARRY" AND JEFFERSON "The world delights in sunny people." I recall many. Maurice Barrymore, actor, playwright, raconteur, gentleman, all-around athlete and man of the world, was the most effulgent man whom I have ever met. A brain that scintillated sparks of wit that Charles Lamb or Byron might envy, a tongue capable of lashing into obscurity any one who dared enter into verbal conflict with him (yet always merciful to his adversary), with the wit of Douglas Jerrold without the cynicism, the courage of a lion, the gentleness of a saint--there you have but a faint conception of the qualities of this child of Bohemia. I knew him for twenty-five years and in all the many hours that we spent together I never saw him out of temper, never heard him utter one unkind expression nor speak a cruel word. Even under the most trying conditions he seldom permitted himself to use his rapier. And his muscle and brawn were always subordinates, servants, never masters.