Inn, where the “worthy” Mayor entertained his guests, and where there were more speeches. The image of the sleepy old town, and the grand Cathedral, and of the pretty little fountain—which, however, had but little suggestion of the colossal Marlowe—and the general holiday tone still lingers in the memory. Irving’s speech was very happy, and for its length is singularly suggestive. It was in October, 1887, that a memorial was set up at Stratford, a clock-tower and fountain, in memory of Shakespeare. It was the gift of the wealthy Mr. Childs, of New York, who has been hitherto eager to associate his name, in painted windows and other ways, with distinguished Englishmen of bygone times. It may be suspected that Childs’s name will not be so inseparably linked with celebrated personages as he fondly imagined. There is a sort of incongruity in this association of a casual stranger with an English poet. * * * * * Many a delightful night have his friends owed to the thoughtful kindness and hospitality of their interesting host. Such is, indeed, one of the privileges of being his friend. The stage brings with it abundance of pleasant associations; but there are a number of specially agreeable memories bound up with the Lyceum. Few will forget the visit of the Duke of Meiningen’s company of players to this country, which forms a landmark of extraordinary importance in the history of our modern stage. With it came Barnay, that accomplished and romantic actor; and a wonderful instinct of disciplining crowds, and making them express the passions of the moment, as in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar.’ The skilful German stage-managers did not import their crowds, but were able to inspire ordinary bands of supernumeraries with the dramatic feelings and expression that they wanted. I recall one pleasant Sunday evening at the close of a summer’s day, when Irving invited his friends to meet the German performers at the Lyceum. The stage had been picturesquely enclosed and fashioned into a banqueting-room, the tables spread; the orchestra performed in the shadowy pit. It was an enjoyable night. There was a strange mingling of languages—German, French, English. There were speeches in these tongues, and at one moment Palgrave Simpson was addressing the company in impetuous fashion, passing from English to French, from French to German, with extraordinary fluency. Later in the evening there was an adjournment to the Beef-steak rooms, where the accomplished Barnay found himself at the piano, to be succeeded by the versatile Beatty-Kingston, himself half German. There were abundant “Hochs” and pledging. Not until the furthest of the small hours did we separate, indebted to our kindly, unaffected host for yet one more delightful evening.