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ELLEN TERRY WHEN EIGHT YEARS OF AGE.

The autograph shows her signature of to-day. [To face page 24.

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With one more glimpse of her home-life in childhood I will bring this chapter of "Beginnings" to a close. Some time ago it occurred to those who are responsible for that always sprightly journal, The Referee, to ask some stage celebrities to contribute to their Yule-tide number their impressions of Christmas in their early days—of Christmas, the great and never-to-be-forgotten holiday of little folk.

And this is what Ellen Terry conjured up:—

"Really," she said, "I have no Christmas experience worth recounting. Ever since I can remember, Christmas Day has been for me at first a day on which I received a good many keepsakes, and afterwards a day on which I gave a good many little gifts.

"But well I remember one particular Christmas Day. I don't know that the remembrance is worth the telling, but I'll tell it all the same, because I was about seven years old, and went to 'a party.'

"I was much admired, and I in turn admired greatly a dark, thin boy of about ten, who had recited 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' (so jolly on a Christmas Day!). This thin boy was always going down to eat something, and after the recitation he asked me to come down and have an ice.

"You will, of course, understand that this was a real party—a staying-up-late, low-necked dress, and fan sort of party. When we had eaten the ices he suggested some lobster salad—which I thought would be very nice. He went to fetch the salad and left me dreaming of him and of his beautiful dark hair.

"Suddenly my dream was interrupted.

"A fat boy with stubbly light hair and freckles on his nose stood grinning at me and asking me to have some lemonade. I didn't want any lemonade, and told him so. Thereupon he produced a whole bough of mistletoe from somewhere or another, and without more ado seized me by my head and kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me,—grinning all the while.

"I was in a rage, and flew at him like a little cat. He fled out of the room, up the stairs, I after him. I caught him on the landing, clawed him by the hair, and banged him, and dared him to kiss me again.

"He cried, the coward, though he was eight or nine years old. Adding insult to injury, he said, 'He didn't want to,' and I was 'horrid.'

"I thought he was horrid, for my pretty white frock was torn, and the thin dark boy, the boy I had fallen in love with, said I should not have spoken with such a cur, and that it 'served me right.'

"My heart was broken for the first time, and that is why I remember, and always shall, that miserable Christmas Day."

No doubt the impressionable and impulsive little lady has since delighted in as many joyous Christmas Days as, in year succeeding year, she has given happiness to the thousands and thousands who have revelled in, and been made the better for, the display of her genius. It is to be feared that the greatest of our stage artists never realise the amount of good that they do in the world. If they did they would not only have their reward in applauding audiences, but their re-reward in the knowledge that they have brought light, understanding, and lasting pleasure into countless homes. Through simple and cheerful paths the good Ben Terrys conducted their youthful daughters into the profession that Mrs. Kendal has humorously summed up as follows:—

So many, she declares, have wrong impressions of the stage. Some think they can jump into fame, and that there is no hard work; others think it is all hard work, and there is no reward. But, of course, there are many drawbacks, and people who only sit in the front of the theatre cannot possibly comprehend what it is until they have been behind the scenes and worked at it from childhood, as she has done. Every day, people write to her and ask the qualifications of an actress. Well, she should have the face of a goddess, the strength of a lion, the figure of a Venus, the voice of a dove, the temper of an angel, the grace of a swan, the agility of an antelope, and the skin of a rhinoceros; great imagination, concentration, an exquisite enunciation, a generous spirit, a loyal disposition, plenty of courage, a keen sense of humour, a high ideal of morality, a sensitive mind, and an original treatment of everything. She must be capable of being a kind sister, a good daughter, and an excellent wife; a judicious mother, an encouraging friend, and an enterprising grandmother! These, according to an undeniable authority, are the only qualities that are required for the stage!

Mrs. Kendal's dictum reminds me of what her brother, T. W. Robertson—one of the best and most popular dramatists of his age—who had gone through a perfect torture of disappointment before the production of "Society" by the Bancrofts made his name famous and his path easy, caused one of his characters in a later play from his pen to say—

"Yes, I want to write a comedy."

And when the answer came—"Well, write one; I should think it is easy enough—you've only got to be amusing, spirited, bright, and life-like. That's all!"

"Oh, that's all, is it?" ruefully responded the would-be comedy writer.