It was an admirable all-round cast—­almost a “star” cast:  Oscar Asche as Ford, poor Henry Kemble (since dead) as Dr. Caius, Courtice Pounds as Sir Hugh Evans, and Mrs. Tree as sweet Anne Page all rowed in the boat with precisely the right swing.  There were no “passengers” in the cast.  The audience at first used to seem rather amazed!  This thwacking rough-and-tumble, Rabelaisian horse-play—­Shakespeare!  Impossible!  But as the evening went on we used to capture even the most civilized, and force them to return to a simple Elizabethan frame of mind.

In my later career I think I have had no success like this!  Letters rained on me—­yes, even love-letters, as if, to quote Mrs. Page, I were still in “the holiday-time of my beauty.”  As I would always rather make an audience laugh than see them weep, it may be guessed how much I enjoyed the hearty laughter at His Majesty’s during the run of the madcap absurdity of “The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

All the time I was at His Majesty’s I continued to play in matinees of “Charles I.” and “The Merchant of Venice” at the Lyceum with Henry Irving.  We went on negotiating, too, about the possibility of my appearing in “Dante,” which Sardou had written specially for Irving, and on which he was relying for his next tour in America.

On the 19th of July, 1902, I acted at the Lyceum for the very last time, although I did not know it then.  These last Lyceum days were very sad.  The reception given by Henry to the Indian Princes, who were in England for the Coronation, was the last flash of the splendid hospitality which had for so many years been one of the glories of the theater.

During my provincial tour with Henry Irving in the autumn of this year I thought long and anxiously over the proposition that I should play in “Dante.”  I heard the play read, and saw no possible part for me in it.  I refused a large sum of money to go to America with Henry Irving because I could not consent to play a part even worse than the one that I had played in “Robespierre.”  As things turned out, although “Dante” did fairly well at Drury Lane, the Americans would have none of it and Henry had to fall back upon his repertoire.

Having made the decision against “Dante,” I began to wonder what I should do.  My partnership with Henry Irving was definitely broken, most inevitably and naturally “dissolved.”  There were many roads open to me.  I chose one which was, from a financial point of view, madness.

Instead of going to America, and earning L12,000, I decided to take a theater with my son, and produce plays in conjunction with him.

I had several plays in view—­an English translation of a French play about the patient Griselda, and a comedy by Miss Clo Graves among them.  Finally, I settled upon Ibsen’s “Vikings.”