When I am not acting, the best part of my time is taken up by the most humdrum occupations. Dealing with my correspondence, even with the help of a secretary, is no insignificant work. The letters, chiefly consisting of requests for my autograph, or appeals to my charity, have to be answered. I have often been advised to ignore them--surely a course that would be both bad policy and bad taste on the part of a servant of the public. It would be unkind, too, to those ignorant of my busy life and the calls upon my time. Still, I sometimes wish that the cost of a postage stamp were a sovereign at least! * * * * * In 1887, the year of Queen Victoria's Jubilee, I find that I wrote in my diary:--"I am not yet forty, but am pretty well worn out." It is twenty years since then, and I am still not worn out. Wonderful! THE DEATH OF HENRY IRVING It is commonly known, I think, that Henry Irving's health first began to fail in 1896. He went home to Grafton Street after the first night of the revival of "Richard III." and slipped on the stairs, injuring his knee. With characteristic fortitude, he struggled to his feet unassisted and walked to his room. This made the consequences of the accident far more serious, and he was not able to act for weeks. It was a bad year at the Lyceum. In 1898 when we were on tour he caught a chill. Inflammation of the lungs, bronchitis, pneumonia followed. His heart was affected. He was never really well again. When I think of his work during the next seven years, I could weep! Never was there a more admirable, extraordinary worker; never was any one more splendid-couraged and patient. The seriousness of his illness in 1898 was never really known. He nearly died. "I am still fearfully anxious about H.," I wrote to my daughter at the time. "It will be a long time at the best before he gains strength.... But now I do hope for the best. I'm fairly well so far. All he wants is for me to keep my health, not my _head_. He knows I'm doing that! Last night I did three acts of 'Sans-Gne' and 'Nance Oldfield' thrown in! That is a bit too much--awful work--and I can't risk it again." "A telegram just come: 'Steadily improving....' You should have seen Norman[1] as Shylock! It was not a bare 'get-through.' It was--the first night--an admirable performance, as well as a plucky one.... H. is more seriously ill than anyone dreams.... His look! Like the last act of Louis XI." [Footnote 1: Mr. Norman Forbes-Robertson.] In 1902, on the last provincial tour that we ever went together, he was ill again, but he did not give in. One night when his cough was rending him, and he could hardly stand up from weakness, he acted so brilliantly and strongly that it was easy to believe in the triumph of mind over matter--in Christian Science, in fact!