In the days just before the break-up, which came about because Mead was old, and--I hope there is no harm in saying of him what can be said of many men who have done finely in the world--too fond of "the wine when it is red," Henry use to suffer great anxiety in the scene, because he never knew what Mead was going to do or say next. When Jerome Lesurques is forced to suspect his son of crime, he has a line: "Am I mad, or dreaming? Would I were." Mead one night gave a less poetic reading: "Am I mad or _drunk_? Would I were!" It will be remembered by those who saw the play that Lesurques, an innocent man, will not commit the Roman suicide of honor at his father's bidding, and refuses to take up his pistol from the table. "What! you refuse to die by your own hands, do you?" says the elder Lesurques. "Then die like a dog by mine!" (producing a pistol from his pocket). One night, after having delivered the line with his usual force and impressiveness, Mead, after prolonged fumbling in his coat-tail pockets, added another: "D---, b----! God bless my soul! Where's the pistol? I haven't got the pistol!" The last scene in the eventful history of "Meadisms" in "'The Lyons Mail" was when Mead came on to the stage in his own top-hat, went over to the sofa, and lay down, apparently for a nap! Not a word could Henry get from him, and Henry had to play the scene by himself. He did it in this way: "You say, father, that I," etc. "I answer you that it is false!" Mead had a remarkable _foot_. Norman Forbes called it an _architectural_ foot. Bunions and gout combined to give it a gargoyled effect! One night, I forget whether it was in this play or another, Henry, pawing the ground with his foot before an "exit"--one of the mannerisms which his imitators delighted to burlesque--came down on poor old Mead's foot, bunion gargoyles and all! Hardly had Mead stopped cursing under his breath than on came Tyars, and brought down _his_ weight heavily on the same foot. Directly Tyars came off the stage he looked for Mead in the wings and offered an apology. "I beg your pardon--I'm really awfully sorry, Mead." "Sorry! sorry!" the old man snorted. "It's a d----d conspiracy!" It was the dignity and gravity of Mead which made everything he said so funny. I am afraid that those who never knew him will wonder where the joke comes in. I forget what year he left us for good, but in a letter of Henry's dated September, 1888, written during a provincial tour of "Faust," when I was ill and my sister Marion played Margaret instead of me, I find this allusion to him: "Wenman does the Kitchen Witch now (I altered it this morning) and Mead the old one--the climber. Poor old chap, he'll not climb much longer!"