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 "The Cup," "Othello"—in which he alternated the parts of the Moor and Iago with Edwin Booth—and his last, "Henry the Eighth," which as a spectacle has never been equalled; and now we are promised "King Lear " and Lord Tennyson's "Becket."

Three times has Mr. Irving, accompanied by Miss Ellen Terry and the Lyceum company, crossed to America. As in this country so in America—his genius was instantaneously recognised. Mr. William Winter, the eminent dramatic critic, said: "He speaks to the soul and the imagination." But little has been said here of Miss Ellen Terry's share in the Lyceum triumphs. Mr. Irving impressed upon me the work she had done—but, I have a little note on my table as I write now. It bears the signature of Ellen Terry. For further information see a future number of this Magazine.

We spoke of many things that afternoon—on matters merry and subjects solid. Irving is never happier than when telling a story against himself.

"Many years ago," he said, "I was playing in Dublin. I was suddenly called upon to undertake a heavy part—the actor who was cast for it having been taken ill. In those days your gallery boy was a much greater conversationalist than he is now—I mean, if a couple of gallery friends were separated, they thought nothing of holding a conversation across the house whilst the play was in progress. Well, I made my first entrance.

Is that him?—eh?' shouted one youth to another.

No,' came the reply, them is the young man's clothes; they'll shove him out later on!

The drift of this little story will be understood.

"Have I ever had any accidents? Only one serious one. It was in the first run of 'Hamlet.' The sword slipped out of Laertes' hand and cut me near the eye. A dear friend of mine, Dr. George Critchett, was in front; he came round and stopped the bleeding by twelve hours' application of ice. Fencing? You saw my foils downstairs on the table? I never practise now, for if once learnt the art is never forgotten. I took my first lessons from a man named Shury, in Chancery Lane, afterwards from Roland, in Edinburgh, and also from McTurk at Angelo's. Have I ever forgotten my part? Yes, I have. It is a curious thing that the more perfect you are in a part, the more likely you are to 'stick.' It is often the case after you have been playing the same character for a hundred or more nights. The worst part of it is that when you want the prompter he is never there.

Give me the word,' says the actor.

What word do you want?' replies the prompter."

The day was going quickly. Mr. Irving suddenly jumped up.

"Half-past six! we must be off. Excuse me whilst I just write a line. Look at that," passing me a letter; "it came this morning. I get many more like it."

It was a letter from a footman inviting Mr.