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BEGINNINGS

I know that to the majority of people who merely regard the theatre as a place for occasional recreation, it is a subject for amazement that others can exist who, not belonging to the theatrical profession, take an absorbing and lasting interest in the stage, and in those actors and actresses who have made its past history glorious, as well as in the artists who adorn and make it a delight in the present. I wonder how many of us truly realise the weight of Charles Dickens's words: "If any man were to tell me that he denied his acknowledgments to the stage, I would simply put to him one question—whether he remembered his first play?"

Not only freely, but with gratitude, I acknowledge my indebtedness to the theatre, and it is certain that from that magic night when for the first time I saw the glitter of the footlights and watched the rise of the curtain, I entered upon a new and most fascinating life. Of course I was called "stage struck," and those who controlled me shook their heads, thought it a great pity, and did their best to thwart my inclinations. Concerning the stage and its attractions the parents of the "fifties" were less liberal-minded than those of to-day, and they had an unhappy knack of talking over the tendencies of their children with uncles and aunts who, without meaning to do the least kindly thing for them, seemed to regard their nephews and nieces as so many ready-made reprobates open to their interfering condemnation. Oh! those terrible uncles and aunts! In his pages the grand old novelist, Richardson, reflecting the manners of his time, made (apparently well meaning) ogres of them; the good and ever interesting Jane Austen only contrived to soften them down; and I hope my "fifties" saw the fag-end of them, for to-day they prove themselves to be reasonable and generous beings.

But, as I say, I was set down as "stage struck," and I had to grow accustomed to the shoulder-shrug greeting of relatives, and the admonition that my first duty was to consider my father and mother. Never was anything so unfair. I was not in the ordinary sense of the word "stage struck." I was not fool enough to think that I could shine either as tragedian or comedian. I knew that a more prosaic life had been planned out for me, and I was prepared to enter into it; but, for a lurking fear that I should "take to the stage" (neither I nor my parents, nor my uncles and aunts, knew how this was to be done), I found myself compelled to read my beloved play-books and chronicles of great actors in private. When it was accidentally discovered that I had attempted to write a play there was real family trouble, and I am afraid that some of those who pretended to take interest in me wrote me down as "no good."

No! It never could be understood that I really wanted to make a study of an art that appealed to me more strongly than its sisters, music and painting. Yet the three are so closely allied that in devotedly following my first love I learnt to appreciate her kith and kin. I pen these lines because I am certain that many others must have felt as I did, and do; and, while doing justice to other claims upon their life energies, have taken their keenest delight in the story of the stage.

Yes; I am sure that to many of us the theatre has formed a little world of its own—a little world that we can enjoy and grasp—while the great world outside it is so apt to torture us with its perplexities, and half kill us with its seeming cruelties.

And I think that the little world in which I and my brother enthusiasts delight is all the more appreciated when we understand that it, too, is beset with its anxieties and grievous disappointments, and is far from the dazzling, soul-soothing elysium we pictured in the halcyon days of our boyhood. Our hearts go out all the more freely to the actors and actresses who warm them when we realise that they, too, have their trials as well as their triumphs. Our admiration is redoubled when it is leavened with sympathy. It is all the more important, then, that our entertainers should know that this feeling exists among those for whom they devote the work of their lives.

The artistic temperament is always more or less self-tormenting, and it is to be feared that my "little world," which shines so brightly over our great one, where sorrow has daily to be met and borne, is in itself a sorely troubled one.

In that strange French play which has our great English tragedian, Edmund Kean, for its central figure, Alexandre Dumas, who knew everything that could be known about the theatre, caused his actor-hero to respond bitterly to the woman who loved him, and who opined that all his troubles must vanish when he reflects that he is recognised as the King of the Stage. "King! Yes, three times a week! King with a tinselled sceptre, paste diamonds, and a pinchbeck crown. I rule a kingdom of thirty-five feet, and subjects who are jealous of my power." Then, when she asks, "Why do you not give it up?" he replies with indignation, "Give up the stage? Ah! you don't realise that he who has once donned the robe of Nessus cannot take it off without lacerating his flesh. I give up the stage?—renounce its excitement?—its glitter?—its triumphs? I give up my throne to another? Never! while I've health and strength to walk the boards, and brains to interpret the poetry I love. Remember, an actor cannot leave his work behind him. He lives only in his own lifetime—his memory fades with the generation to which he belongs, he must finish as he has begun, die as he has lived—die, if fortune favours him, with the delicious sound of applause in his ears. But those who have not set foot upon a dangerous path do well to avoid it."

The actor's complaint that his fame, however great, cannot be recollected many years beyond the time in which he lived is a very old one, and it must have been with this mournful view in his mind that David Garrick wrote:—

"The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye;

While England lives his fame can never die.

But he who struts his hour upon the stage

Can scarce extend his fame for half an age;

Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save,

The art and artist share one common grave."

The volumes of theatrical history and biography that have been written and become popular since Garrick's day, prove that this is not wholly true, that we are not ungrateful to those who have instructed and amused us on the stage, and that we shall not willingly let their honoured memories die. The fact that the depressing feeling that they and their work will "soon be forgotten" still exists among members of the theatrical profession is, I venture to believe, some excuse for records such as this being issued during the lifetime of the artist, while memory is green, and appreciation can be written at first hand. Even if such works give little or no pleasure to their living subjects, it may be borne in mind that they will probably be of service to those future stage historians who will permanently inscribe their names on the tablets of fame.

The passionate declaration of Dumas's Kean that, despite his troubles and torments, he would never while life was in him leave the stage, is an old tale. Actors, as a rule, love to die in harness, and it was in the full knowledge of this that T. W. Robertson caused his stage David Garrick to reply to Alderman Ingot, when he offered to double or treble his income if he would abandon his profession, "Leave the stage? Impossible!" Poor Sothern, who created the part, was staying with me when his physician wrote saying that if he wished to prolong his life he must give up all work. After a moment's depression the actor with a sudden impulse snatched a portrait of himself as Garrick from my wall, tore it from its frame, and in a large, firm hand, wrote beneath it: "Leave the stage? Impossible!"

I have no doubt that Charles Wyndham, who, after Sothern's death, took up the part, and made it one of the greatest successes of the modern stage, feels the full import of the words every time he speaks them.

And if the actors suffer so do the dramatists, or at all events the would-be dramatists. In an admirable little book called "Play Writing," the author gives sound advice to the ever-growing, ever-complaining army of the unacted.

"Dramatic authorship," he says, "is to the profession of literature as reversing is to waltzing—an agony within a misery. A man who means to be a dramatist must be prepared for a life of never-ending strife and fret—a brain and heart-exhausting struggle from the hour when, full of hope, he starts off with his first farce in his pocket to the days when, involuntarily taking the advice of one of the early masters of his own craft—to wit, old rare Ben Jonson—he leaves 'the loathed stage and the more loathsome age.'"

And again, this anonymous but evidently experienced writer (I quote from him freely) declares that any dramatist could tales unfold of disappointments and delays, of hopes deferred, of chances dashed from the grasp at the very moment they seemed clutched, of weary waitings rewarded by failure, of enterprise and effort leading only to defeat, of hard work winning only loss. It has been suggested, too, in this connection, that any one sufficiently interested in such matters should make a list of the plays that in "preliminary paragraphs" are spoken of as "about to be produced," and which are never heard of again,—and that it should then be remembered that each of these unborn plays represents a very heavy heart being carried about for many a long day under somebody or other's waistcoat,—and means that somebody or other feels very sick and hopeless as he moves about his little world, trying to appear careless and to laugh it off,—that somebody or other grows very tired and weary of the struggle, and almost wishes now and then that it was over.

But to the young playgoer who sits in front these troubles are unknown, and to him the theatre may well appear as the realisation of Fairyland, and a veritable Palace of Fancy.

I believe there is another reason why men, if they would own it, have come to be grateful to the stage. Has it not to many been the scene in which they have first learned what it is to love? They may never have spoken to the divinities who inspired their boyish ardour, but they have been better and purer for it, and cherish the sweet recollection of it to their old age.

Cannot we all enter into the feelings of young virgin-hearted Arthur Pendennis when he first saw the lovely Miss Fotheringay on the boards? Cannot we all understand how he followed the woman about and about, and when she was off the stage the house became a blank? and how, when the play was over, the curtain fell upon him like a pall? Poor Pendennis! He hardly knew what he felt that night. "It was something overwhelming, maddening, delicious; a fever of wild joy and undefined longing."

And then how he woke the next morning, when, at an early hour, the rooks began to caw from the little wood beyond his bedroom windows; and at that very instant, and as his eyes started open, the beloved image was in his mind. "My dear boy," he heard her say, "you were in a sound sleep, and I would not disturb you: but I have been close by your pillow all this while; and I don't intend that you shall leave me. I am Love! I bring with me fever and passion; wild longing, maddening desire; restless craving and seeking. Many a long day ere this I heard you calling out for me; and behold now I am come."

Yes, I am convinced that most of us have felt, rejoiced, and suffered as Arthur Pendennis did, and that we first caught the fever from the footlights. The attack may have been acute, and, in its apparent hopelessness, painful. But recovery brought with it the sweet knowledge that we had been permitted to understand the meaning of Heaven's greatest gift to mankind—Love.

I know that there are many who only go to the theatre to carp and cavil, and impotently point out that if the management of the playhouse and the acting of all the parts had been placed in their hands a much better performance would have been provided; but I believe that even these would love to recall the dreamy illusions of their youth. Perhaps, in the hours of their solitude (and silence!), they do so. Why, in their soured maturity, these unhappy, self-imposed, and absolutely unconvincing critics go to the theatre to be (on their own declaration) bored and disgusted is to me a mystery. It is all the more a mystery when I know that they can thoroughly enjoy a variety hall.

Of course, everything depends on the spirit in which we go to the theatre.

Do you remember the difference of opinion expressed between Steerforth and David Copperfield on the night when they renewed the acquaintance of their boyhood at the Golden Cross Hotel? David had been to Covent Garden Theatre, and had there seen "Julius Cæsar." "To have," he says, "all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern task-masters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company; the smooth, stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery were so dazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I came out into the rainy street I felt as if I had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach jostling, patten-clicking, muddy, miserable world."

And when he told the superior Steerforth of his innocent enjoyment, he had to listen to the laughing reply:—

"My dear young Davy—you are a very daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher than you are! I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there never was a more miserable business."

In my own mind I am convinced that if we will we can always, to our great advantage and delight, keep up the enthusiasm of David Copperfield;—that to some of us the theatre, even when we know all about the fret and turmoil of the actor's life together with the tricks of the stage, may from boyhood to old age remain a Palace of Fancy.

And have we not in the heroine of these pages—Ellen Terry—the very embodiment of Fancy,—the true Princess of our Palace, one of the Queens of our little stage world? Other great artists have delighted us with the perfection of their impersonations, but there is in the method or inspiration of Ellen Terry something so ethereal that in many of her characters she stands alone.

If the drama is indeed the Cinderella of the arts, then Ellen Terry must have been touched by the magic wand of a Fairy Godmother so that she might dazzle the Prince's ballroom with her beauty, radiance, and ever fragrant sweetness, and win the admiration of his guests.

But those who thoughtlessly and even contemptuously call the drama "Cinderella" probably do not know the origin of the familiar fairy-tale—how the little kitchen maid is Ushas, the Dawn Maiden of the Aryans, and the Aurora of the Greeks; and how the Prince is the Sun, ever seeking to make the Dawn his bride; and how the envious stepmother and sisters are the Clouds and the Night, which vainly strive to keep the Sun and the Dawn apart. It is pleasant to think of Cinderella as the Dawn Maiden. Poor little lady! She has suffered considerably in her transplantation to English soil.

To me the magic word "Fancy" has ever been associated with the pure art of Ellen Terry, and whenever I see her on the stage the lines of John Keats comes rippling through my mind:—

"Oh! sweet Fancy! let her loose;

Everything is spoilt by use;

Where's the cheek that doth not fade,

Too much gazed at? Where's the maid

Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where the eye, however blue,

Doth not weary? Where's the face

One would meet in every place?

Where's the voice, however soft,

One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet pleasure melteth

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Let, then, winged Fancy find

Thee a mistress to her mind;

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter

Ere the god of Torment taught her

How to frown and how to chide;

With a waist and with a side

White as Hebe's, when her zone

Slipt its golden clasp, and down

Fell her kirtle to her feet,

While she held the goblet sweet,

And Jove grew languid. Break the mesh

Of the Fancy's silken leash;

Quickly break her prison string,

And such joys as these she'll bring—

Let the winged Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home."

But it must be recorded that Fancy, as let loose and impersonated by Ellen Terry, is taken from the theatre in thousands of hearts, and that it enters into many a home circle where the memory of it gives unbounded and enduring pleasure. Into the simple homes of those who elbow each other in the gallery, as well as into the luxurious mansions of the wealthy folk who sit at their ease in the stalls. In many a workman's dwelling I have come across a carefully framed photograph of Ellen Terry, and a treasured play-bill kept in commemoration of a never-to-be-forgotten evening enjoyed in her realms of Fancy.

But she did not drop from cloudland to delight us. Her great achievements have been won—as all great achievements are won—by early training, deep and constant study, hard work, and possibly, above all, by family tradition.

In theatrical lore the name of Terry is, indeed, an old and honoured one. In Lockhart's beautiful biography of Sir Walter Scott, and again in the happily published Diary of the Magician of the North, we read much of the energetic Daniel Terry who was for many years connected with the Edinburgh stage, and who subsequently joined Yates in a memorable management of the Adelphi Theatre. Daniel Terry, with the appreciative eye of the true actor, set his heart upon making stage versions of the Waverley Novels, and though at first Scott (in common with all great novelists) objected to this process, it was subsequently allowed, and adapter and author became friends. It was in the spring of 1816 that Terry produced a dramatic piece entitled "Guy Mannering," which met with great success, and is still from time to time seen. "What share," says Lockhart, "the novelist had in this first specimen of what he used to call the art of 'Terryfying,' I cannot exactly say; but his correspondence shows that the pretty song of the Lullaby was not his only contribution to it; and I infer that he had taken the trouble to modify the plot, and rearrange, for stage purposes, a considerable part of the original dialogue."

Of the intimacy that commenced and grew between the poet and the playwright, Lockhart records:—

"It was at a rehearsal of 'The Family Legend of Joanna Baillie' that Scott was first introduced to another theatrical performer, who ere long acquired a large share of his regard and confidence—Mr. Daniel Terry. He had received a good education, and been regularly trained as an architect; but abandoned that profession at an early period of life, and was now beginning to attract attention as a valuable actor in Henry Siddons's company. Already he and the Ballantynes were constant companions, and through his familiarity with them Scott had abundant opportunities of appreciating his many excellent and agreeable qualities. He had the manners and feelings of a gentleman. Like John Kemble, he was deeply skilled in the old literature of the drama, and he rivalled Scott's own enthusiasm for the antiquities of vertu. Their epistolary correspondence in after days was frequent, and none so well illustrates many of the poet's minor tastes and habits. As their letters lie before me they appear as if they had all been penned by the same hand. Terry's idolatry of his new friend induced him to imitate his writing so zealously that Scott used to say, if he were called upon to swear to any document, the utmost he could venture to attest would be, that it was either in his own hand or Terry's. The actor, perhaps unconsciously, mimicked him in other matters with hardly inferior pertinacity. His small lively features had acquired, before I knew him, a truly ludicrous cast of Scott's graver expression; he had taught his tiny eyebrow the very trick of the poet's meditative frown; and, to crown all, he so habitually affected his tone and accent that, though a native of Bath, a stranger could hardly have doubted he must be a Scotchman. These things afforded all their acquaintance much diversion; but perhaps no Stoic could have helped being secretly gratified by seeing a clever and sensible man convert himself into a living type and symbol of admiration."

In the pages of his fascinating Diary (or "Journal") Scott records—

"October 20, 1826 (London).—At breakfast, Crofton Croker, author of the 'Irish Fairy Tales.' Something like Tom Moore. There were also Terry, Allan Cunningham, Newton, and others."

"October 21, 1826.—We returned to a hasty dinner in Pall Mall, and then hurried away to see honest Dan Terry's house, called the Adelphi Theatre, where we saw 'The Pilot,' from the American novel of that name. It is extremely popular, the dramatist having seized on the whole story, and turned the odious and ridiculous parts, assigned by the original author to the British, against the Yankees themselves. There is a quiet effrontery in this that is of a rare and peculiar character. The Americans were so much displeased, that they attempted a row—which rendered the piece doubly attractive to the seamen at Wapping, who came up and crowded the house night after night to support the honour of the British flag.... I was, however, glad to see honest Dan's theatre as full seemingly as it could hold. The heat was dreadful, and Anne was so very unwell that she was obliged to be carried into Terry's house—a curious dwelling, no larger than a squirrel's cage, which he has contrived to squeeze out of the vacant spaces of the theatre, and which is accessible by a most complicated combination of staircases and small passages. Here we had rare good porter and oysters after the play, and found Anne much better. She had attempted too much; indeed, I myself was much fatigued."

Later comes a sadder note:—

"February 3, 1827.—Terry has been pressed by Gibson for my debt to him. That I may get managed."

And again—

"April 15, 1828.—Got the lamentable news that Terry is totally bankrupt. This is a most unexpected blow, though his carelessness about money matters was very great. God help the poor fellow! He has been ill-advised to go abroad, but now returns to stand the storm—old debts, it seems, with principal and interest accumulated, and all the items which load a falling man. And wife, such a good and kind creature, and children. Alack! alack! I sought out his solicitor. There are £7000 or more to pay, and the only fund his share in the Adelphi Theatre, worth £5000 and upwards, and then so fine a chance of independence lost. That comes of not being explicit with his affairs. The theatre was a most flourishing concern. I looked at the books, and since have seen Yates. The ruin is inevitable, but I think they will not keep him in prison, but let him earn his bread by his very considerable talents. I shall lose the whole or part of £5000, which I lent him, but that is the last of my concern."

And then follow these interesting and touching entries:—

"May 8, 1828.—I have been of material assistance to poor Terry in his affairs."

"June 18, 1829.—Poor Terry is totally prostrated by a paralytic affection. Continuance of existence not to be wished for."

"July 9, 1829.—Many recollections die with poor Terry."

Of his semi-partnership with his actor-friend, Sir Walter Scott, in a humorous mood, wrote:—"I have been made a dramatist whether I would or no. I believe my muse would be Terryfied into treading the stage even if I should write a sermon."

Benjamin Terry, the father of the clever family who form the subject of these pages, became in his time very popular in Edinburgh, and it was there that he attracted the attention of Charles Kean, and obtained his offer for the actor's Mecca—London. But his experience had no doubt been earned in some of the old "circuits" that were the theatrical schools of his early days, and turned out many a true artist. The actors and actresses who thus served their apprenticeship to the stage assuredly had rough times of it, but they had for the most part joined the profession for the love of it—they adored Shakespeare and the authors of the "legitimate drama,"—and, in spite of tedious journeys from town to town, poor business, and bad theatrical accommodation at the end of them, looked forward to and enjoyed the evening's performance. Enthusiasm and hard work led to their reward, and many a poor strolling-player became a shining light on the London stage.

When Ben Terry went on circuit, travelling actors were in better plight than they were in the days of poor Roger Kemble and his devoted wife, who travelled from town to town, and village to village, after the manner and under the difficulties and disadvantages of the time,—at some places being received with gracious favour, and at others treated like lepers and threatened with the stocks and whipping at the cart's tail, according as the great people were liberal minded or puritanical. But this struggling, persecuted Roger Kemble lived to see his daughter, Mrs. Siddons, and his son, John Philip, the stage idols of their day; and if sometimes his perturbed spirit could revisit Hereford (one of the cities of his early sorrows) he would realise the happy fact that the portraits of his never-to-be-forgotten family hold the places of honour on the Deanery walls.

Since to the often ridiculed circuits of a bygone day we can trace such actors as the Kembles, the Robertsons, and the Terrys, surely we should hold them in honoured memory?

Dickens turned them to comic account when he conceived the impossible but immortal Crummles family; but he put the true ring into the warm-hearted old manager's heart and voice when on bidding farewell to Nicholas, he said, "We were a very happy little company. You and I never had a word. I shall be very glad to-morrow morning to think that I saw you again, but now I almost wish you hadn't come."

It is pleasant to think that in their own way the circuit players all formed happy little companies. To enjoy the work of our choice is, in spite of any drawbacks, one of the greatest sources of happiness.

My esteemed friend, John Coleman, whose memory carries him back to the days of long ago, has told me that he met Mr. and Mrs. Ben Terry on the Worcester Circuit. He remembers the former as a handsome, fine-looking brown-haired man, and the wife as a tall, graceful creature, with an abundance of fair hair, and with big blue eyes set in a charming face. Years and years passed before he met his old-time friend again; but at the memorable banquet given to Henry Irving on the eve of his departure for his first tour in America, a grey-haired, dignified old gentleman, who sat next to him, told him that he was the "Ben Terry" of the dead and gone Worcester Circuit, and introduced him to his grandson, Gordon Craig.

On that evening the old actor had good reason to be proud, for he could boast of being the father of one of the most gifted and cultured of histrionic families. "Think of it," writes Mr. Clement Scott, "Kate, with her lovely figure and comely features; Ellen, with her quite indescribable charm; Marion, with a something in her deeper, more tender, and more feminine than either of them; Florence, who became lovelier as a woman than as a girl; and the brothers Fred and Charles, both splendid specimens of the athletic Englishman."

It was while the parent Terrys were fulfilling an engagement at Coventry—the interesting City of the Three Tall Spires—that their daughter Ellen was born. This was in the February of 1848, and quite a little feud has taken place between some of the good people of Coventry as to the precise house in which the important event took place. That it was on the 27th day of the second month of the year, and that the street was Market Street, one and all seem agreed, but several inhabitants of that thoroughfare have laid claim to be the occupiers, if not the owners of the shrine. No. 5 and No. 26 are the chief claimants of the honour (and in all seriousness it is no small honour), but as an "old nurse," who should know something about such things, has declared for No. 5, it stands first favourite; and a fact in its favour is that in the days of 1848 it was a popular lodging-house for actors. One can sympathise with No. 26, but the general vote must be given to No. 5. After all, it does not much matter, for who knows what changes have taken place in the old street during the last fifty years? Perhaps (but for pious pilgrims this is a dreadful thought!) even the door numbers may have been changed! With a few exceptions the birthplaces of celebrities are apt to be disappointing. My enthusiasm for famous artists once took me to Brecon so that I might visit the "Shoulder of Mutton" Inn, in which Sarah Kemble was born, but, though it was properly inscribed, it was not the interesting old tavern of my imagination, and manifest modern "improvements" made me content with a brief gaze at its exterior. It was at the beautiful Trinity Church at Coventry, on the 26th November 1773, that Sarah Kemble was married to Henry Siddons, the handsome young actor from Birmingham; and this brings me back to "leafy Warwickshire" (Warwickshire-men never forget that it is Shakespeare's county), and the Coventry of Ellen Terry's birthday in 1848.

Now let me show how easily, by those who care about such things, theatrical history may be traced.

Ellen Terry, as will soon be seen, was destined to make her earliest (though childish) successes with Charles Kean. Charles Kean had acted with his renowned father, Edmund Kean. Edmund Kean had in his childhood figured as one of the imps who danced around the cauldron in John Philip Kemble's revival of "Macbeth." Roger Kemble, the father of John Philip and Sarah Siddons, was the son of a Kemble who had been engaged by and was associated with Betterton. After "the King had got his own again" Betterton was acknowledged to be the legitimate successor to Burbage. Burbage was the first of our great tragic actors, and was the original performer of the greater number of Shakespeare's heroes—of Coriolanus, Brutus, Romeo, Hamlet, Othello, Lear, Shylock, Macbeth, Prince Hal, Henry V., and Richard III. In "Hamlet" Shakespeare enacted the touching character of the Ghost to the Prince created by Burbage; and so, in a rough and somewhat "House that Jack Built" fashion, the connection of such famous histrionic families as the Terrys can be traced back to the Elizabethan days, to Shakespeare, and the actors of his period.

We may now follow the Ben Terrys and their pretty children to the London Princess's Theatre, where the experienced actor not only played many parts but became assistant stage-manager to Charles Kean. Considering the magnitude of the productions aimed at, this must have been a post of no small importance and responsibility. When the famous series of Shakespearean revivals demanded the appearance of clever children, what was more natural than a conference between Kean and his trusted lieutenant, and the recommendation by the fond father of the engagement of his gifted little daughters, Kate and Ellen? Their services were secured, and at a very early period of their lives they began to make stage history. Their achievements in the once famous Oxford Street playhouse will be recorded in the next chapter. In the meantime it is pleasant to touch upon some of Ellen Terry's impressions of her earliest childhood.

In a charming series of papers entitled "Stray Memories," contributed by her to the New Review about ten years ago, she thus delightfully as well as dutifully recalls memories of her father and mother. "It must be remembered," she says, "that my sister and I had the advantage of exceedingly clever and conscientious parents who spared no pains to bring out and perfect any talents that we possessed. My father was a very charming elocutionist, and my mother read Shakespeare beautifully, and then both were very fond of us and saw our faults with eyes of love, though they were unsparing in their corrections. And, indeed, they had need of all their patience, for, for my own part, I know I was a most troublesome, wayward pupil. However, 'the labour we delight in physics pain,' and I hope, too, that my more staid sister 'made it up to them.'"

Can anything be prettier than this daintily recorded, and no doubt uncalled for admission?