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FIRST APPEARANCES

The first appearances on the stage of Kate and Ellen Terry were in every respect triumphant, and in theatrical history will always be held worthy of record. A time-worn adage tells us not to judge by first appearances, but those experts who discerned the extraordinary promise of these children in the opportunities afforded them under the memorable Charles Kean régime, at the Princess's Theatre, proved themselves to be true dramatic critics.

As to the very first public appearance of the heroine of these pages there has been much discussion. When any one deserts an avocation to "take to the stage," as the phrase goes, a first performance is a milestone on the road of life and is never forgotten. With children who, coming from a theatrical family, are, as it were, born to the stage, it is almost a matter of indifference, and is apt to become nebulous. Mrs. Kendal, for example, once frankly stated that she remembered little or nothing of her initial professional efforts until she was reminded of them by some of the mature actors who had appeared in the same pieces on those destined to be interesting occasions.

There was a general feeling that Ellen Terry's first appearance was as Mamillius, the little son of King Leontes of Sicilia, in Kean's elaborate revival of "The Winter's Tale," until in the June of 1880 the eminent dramatic critic and stage historian, Mr. Dutton Cook, contributed an article to the unhappily defunct Theatre Magazine, in which he said:—

"Some four-and-twenty years ago, when the Princess's Theatre was under the direction of the late Charles Kean, there were included in his company two little girls, who lent valuable support to the management, and whose young efforts the playgoers of the time watched with kindly and sympathetic interest. Shakespearean revivals, prodigiously embellished, were much in vogue; and Shakespeare, it may be noted by the way, has testified his regard for children by providing quite a repertory of parts well suited to the means of juvenile performers. Lady Macduff's son has appeared too seldom on the scene, perhaps, to be counted; but Fleance, Mamillius, Prince Arthur, Falstaff's boy, Moth (Don Armado's page), King Edward V., and his brother, the Duke of York, Puck, and the other fairies of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' and even Ariel—these are characters specially designed for infantile players; and these, or the majority of these, were sustained at the Princess's Theatre, now by Miss Kate, and now by Miss Ellen Terry, who were wont to appear, moreover, in such other plays, serious or comic, poetic or pantomimic, as needed the presence and assistance of the pretty, sprightly, clever children. Out of Shakespeare, opportunities for Miss Kate Terry were found in the melodramas of 'The Courier of Lyons' (Sir Henry Irving's 'The Lyons Mail' of to-day), 'Faust and Marguerite,' and the comedy of 'Every One has his Fault.' The sisters figured together as the Princes murdered in the Tower, by Mr. Charles Kean as Richard III. What miniature Hamlets they looked in their bugled black velvet trunks, silken hose, and ostrich feathers! They were in mourning, of course, for their departed father, King Edward IV. My recollection of Miss Ellen Terry dates from her impersonation of the little Duke of York. She was a child of six, or thereabout, slim and dainty of form, with profuse flaxen curls, and delicately-featured face, curiously bright and arch of expression; and she won, as I remember, her first applause when, in clear resonant tones, she delivered the lines:—

'Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me;

Because that I am little, like an ape,

He thinks that you should bear me on his shoulders.'

Richard's representative meanwhile scowling wickedly and tugging at his gloves desperately, pursuant to paternal example and stage tradition. A year or two later and the baby actress was representing now Mamillius, and now Puck."

Now, when he arrived at this point, Mr. Dutton Cook raised a hornet's nest about his ears. In the mind of playgoers it had been long decided that this all-important first appearance had been in the character of Mamillius. Where, then, did Mr. Dutton Cook's picturesquely described Duke of York come in? Mr. George Tawse, who modestly described himself as a "play-bill-worm," took great interest in the matter, and having carefully consulted the happily preserved documents in the British Museum, wrote many letters on the subject to Mr. Clement Scott, who was then the erudite editor of The Theatre. These communications attracting some notice (Mr. Tawse, be it noted, being all in favour of Mamillius), Mr. Scott appealed to headquarters, and Ellen Terry characteristically wrote to him:—"The very first time I ever appeared on any stage was on the first night of 'The Winter's Tale,' at the Princess's Theatre, with dear Charles Kean. As for the young Princes, them unfortunate little men, I never played—not neither of them—there! What a cry about a little wool! P.S.—I was born in Coventry, 1848, and was, I think, about seven when I played in 'The Winter's Tale.'"

Following up his careful researches, Mr. Tawse ultimately came to the conclusion that on April 28, 1856, Ellen Terry appeared at the Princess's as Mamillius in "The Winter's Tale"; on October 15, 1856, as Puck in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"; on December 26, 1857, as the Fairy "Golden Star" in "The White Cat" pantomime; on April 5, 1858, as Karl in "Faust and Marguerite"; on October 18, as Prince Arthur in "King John"; on November 17, as Fleance in "Macbeth"; and on December 28, of the same busy year, as "The Genius of the Jewels," in the pantomime of "The King of the Castle."

As the lady has so strongly declared for Mamillius, and as Mr. Tawse thus champions her, I suppose the verdict must be accepted; and yet it seems very unlikely that such an accurate writer as Mr. Dutton Cook could have been mistaken concerning that impersonation of the little Duke of York. Can Ellen Terry have forgotten it? Knowing that she does not set sufficient value on her work, or the impression it makes on others, I think it very probable. Indeed, in all due deference to her and Mr. Tawse (for even play-bills will sometimes unwittingly lie), I like to give credit to Mr. Dutton Cook's miniature sister Hamlets in their bugled black velvet trunks, their silken hose, and ostrich feathers!

As poor little Mamillius, cursed with a jealous yet respected father, and wondering what the troubles could be that existed between him and his unhappy, deeply-wronged mother, she must have been very sweet, and one can fancy what Charles Kean felt when he cried to his "boy"—

"Come, Sir Page,

Look on me with your welkin eye."

We have only to realise that in using the word "welkin" Shakespeare meant "heavenly," to get the expression of the anxious but inspired little Terry girl.

And if this was indeed her first appearance, her dismissal by Leontes with the words, "Go play, Mamillius," was almost prophetic.

But if Mr. Dutton Cook chanced to err on the much discussed first appearance question, he was certainly correct in his critical estimate of the two remarkable child actresses.

"The public applauded these Terry sisters," he wrote, "not simply because of their cleverness and prettiness, their graces of aspect, the careful training they evidenced, and the pains they took to discharge the histrionic duties entrusted to them, but because of the leaven of genius discernible in all their performances—they were born actresses.

"Children educated to appear becomingly upon the scene have always been obtainable, and upon easy terms; but here were little players who could not merely repeat accurately the words they had learnt by rote, but could impart sentiment to their speeches, could identify themselves with the characters they played, could personate and portray, could weep themselves that they might surely make others weep, could sway the emotions of crowded audiences. They possessed in full that power of abandonment to scenic excitement which is rare even among the most consummate of mature performers. They were carried away by the force of their own acting; there were tears not only in their voices but in their eyes; their mobile faces were quick to reflect the significance of the drama's events; they could listen, their looks the while annotating, as it were, the discourse they heard; singular animation and alertness distinguished all their movements, attitudes, and gestures. There was special pathos in the involuntary trembling of their baby fingers, and the unconscious wringing of their tiny hands; their voices were particularly endowed with musically thrilling qualities. I have never seen audiences so agitated and distressed, even to the point of anguish, as were the patrons of the Princess's Theatre on those bygone nights when little Prince Arthur, personated by either of the Terry sisters, clung to Hubert's knees as the heated iron cooled in his hands, pleading passionately for sight, touchingly eloquent of voice and action; a childish simplicity attendant ever upon all the frenzy, the terror, the vehemence, and the despair of the speeches and the situation.

"Assuredly Nature had been very kind to the young actresses, and without certain natural graces, gifts, and qualifications, there can scarcely be satisfactory acting. All Romeo's passion may pervade you, but unless you can look like Romeo—or something like him—if your voice be weak or cracked, your mouth awry or your legs askew—it is vain to feel like him; you will not convince your audience of your sincerity, or induce them to sympathise in the least with your actions or sufferings; still less will you stir them to transports. Of course Genius makes laws unto itself, and there have been actors who have triumphed over very serious obstacles; but, as Mr. G. H. Lewes has observed, 'a harsh, inflexible voice, a rigid or heavy face, would prevent even a Shakespeare from being impressive and affecting on the stage.' The player is greatly dependent upon his personality. At the same time, mental qualities must accompany physical advantages. The constitutionally cold and torpid cannot hope to represent successfully excitement or passion. The actor must be en rapport with the character he sustains, must sympathise with the emotions he depicts. A peculiar dramatic sensitiveness and susceptibility from the first characterised the sisters Terry; their nervous organisation, their mental impressibility and vivaciousness, not less than their personal charms and attractions, may be said to have ordained and determined their success upon the stage."

Coming from this high source such trustworthy and carefully analysed appreciation is invaluable; but the criticism that I love best to preserve in connection with the early appearances of the little Terrys at the Princess's Theatre is that of John William Cole, the biographer of Charles Kean. Writing for a book (published in 1859), long before the girls had established their names, he said:—

"Before quitting the subject of 'King John' (1852) at the Princess's Theatre, it would be unjust not to name in a special sentence of approval the impressive acting of Miss Kate Terry, then a child of ten years of age, as Prince Arthur, and of Mr. Ryder as Hubert."

In the revival of "King John" in 1858, Ellen Terry was the Prince Arthur, that sound actor, John Ryder (he had been one of the mainstays of Macready), again playing Hubert.

Concerning the production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in 1856, Mr. Cole says: "Another remarkable evidence of the excellent training of the Princess's Theatre presented itself in the precocious talent of Miss Ellen Terry, a child of eight years of age, who played the merry goblin Puck, a part that requires an old head on young shoulders, with restless elfish animation, and an evident enjoyment of her own mischievous pranks."

It is because Mr. Cole wrote and published, as it were, "upon the spot," that I consider his criticism not only discerning, but beyond all price. We all know how easy it is to prophesy after the event!

Ellen Terry's recollections of her appearance as the infant Mamillius in "The Winter's Tale" are very vivid, as, indeed, they may be. In more ways than one it was a notable first night for the little maid. Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and the Princess Royal were present, and the next morning she woke to find herself with her foot on the first step of the steep stairs that lead to fame. No less an authority than the Times declared that she had played her part with a vivacious precocity that proved her a worthy relation of her sister. No doubt there were that day rejoicings in the Terry family, and the sensitive child must have been rewarded for her own passing tribulations. "My young heart swelled with pride—I can recall the sensation now," she has declared, "when I was told what I had to do,"—and then comes the sad confession that she wept bitter and prolonged tears when the audience laughed when she fell over the rather ridiculous toy-cart with which Mamillius was ordered to "go play." She calls it her "first dramatic failure," and felt at the moment that her "career as an actress was ruined for ever."

I wonder if that untoward episode of the toy-cart had anything to do with the extreme nervousness that, according to her own confession, the actress always suffers from on "first nights"? Probably not; for I believe all true stage artists are continually nervous—nervous for themselves, nervous for their audiences. She says to this day that she is so "high strung" on a first night that if she realised that there was an audience in front staring at her, she would fly away from the theatre and be far off "in two-twos."

Yes, I fear that all of them, or, at all events, the best of them, undergo the enduring agonies of nervousness. Once Sothern and Toole were dining with me in Birmingham. In the evening the one had to play Lord Dundreary at the Theatre Royal, and the other Caleb Plummer at the Prince of Wales Theatre. They had acted these parts for many, many hundreds of times, and I had imagined that their approaching work would be mere pastime to them. But Sothern, speaking to his brother comedian, said, "I don't know how you feel, John, but I'm as nervous to-night as I was on my first appearance on the stage."

To my amazement, Toole, who always seemed so at home with his audiences as to become one amongst them, confessed that he had the same feeling; and they agreed in saying that when an aspiring young actor conceitedly set forth as one of his qualifications for the profession the fact that "he did not know what nervousness meant," he was certain to do no good. "If you are not always anxious about your work," said Sothern, "always painfully desirous to be doing your best, you will soon lose whatever hold you may have on the public." And so said every one's friend—the genial John Toole.

Surely this applies to other pursuits besides the art of acting?

Ellen Terry has happier recollections of Puck than of Mamillius, and no wonder, for the part, although trying, is a delightful one. During the two hundred and fifty nights of the performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at the Princess's (a marvellous run for those days) she "revelled in the impish unreason of 'the sprite,'" and since then she has ever felt the charm of parts "where imagination can have free play, and there is no occasion to observe too closely the cold, hard rules of conventionality, and the fetters of dry-as-dust realism."

Of her performances in the pantomimes, with which, at Christmas time, Charles Kean found it necessary to supplement his elaborate productions, we can only imagine (and that is easily done) that she was a very fascinating little fairy; and it seems equally certain that when she was called upon to appear in two lengthy entertainments on the same night, she must often have been a very tired little fairy.

Concerning her representation of Prince Arthur in "King John," a pathetic little story is extant. At the point where she left the stage in the full and terrible knowledge that her eyes were to be burnt out, she at first (presumably at rehearsal) made her exit with such composure that she received a strong reprimand from Mrs. Kean, who told her that she must give expression to the anguish of the situation. This little scolding caused the easily affected child to shed such earnest tears that her monitress cried out, "Oh, if you can only do that on the stage, what a Prince Arthur you will be!" The hint was taken to heart and adopted, and the success of the impersonation was assured.

The new Prince Arthur was honoured with a special call, and the critics were loud and unanimous in their praises, freely acknowledging the dramatic force of the performance, together with its delightful simplicity, tenderness, and truth to nature.

No doubt her position in the theatre compelled Mrs. Kean to be from time to time an apparently harsh task-mistress, but little Ellen learnt to love her, and has always remembered with generously expressed gratitude the benefit she derived from her suggestions and lessons. But in spite of the hard work and childish troubles that she must have undergone, she speaks brightly of every one she met in that very early engagement at the Princess's. In his old age and infirmities she sympathetically recalls Harley, the eminent comedian for whom Charles Dickens was induced to write some of those ephemeral farces that in earlier days had fitfully flourished at the St. James's Theatre; she remembers affectionately her earnest but exacting dancing-master, Mr. Oscar Byrn, and the tiring hours that she spent under his determined rule; she conjures up with pride her first and only meeting with Macready, and how, when she apologised for accidentally jostling him while running to her dressing-room, he smiled, laughed, and then said, "Never mind, you are a very polite little girl, and you act very earnestly and speak very nicely;" and she is warm in the praises of Charles Kean, and lastingly appreciative of the strong impression made upon her by his vivid personality. But I fancy that the sunny nature of Ellen Terry has found good in everything, and, throughout her stage career, has shed brightness and warmth on the somewhat dingy world behind the scenes.

My friend, Geneviève Ward, who has taken part with her in several of her memorable Lyceum triumphs, tells me that it is delightful to bear witness to her sweet disposition—a cultivated charm that prompts her to be generous, thoughtful, kind, and considerate to every one, and to make her genuinely anxious that the humblest actresses in the company, as well as the principals, should appear to the best advantage. Thus lovingly thinking of others, Ellen Terry makes herself loved, and by her radiant presence lightens many a weary heart.

In her own gossamer-like and gem-bespangled "Stray Memories," she has written: "Why is it, I wonder, that pain is so deeply felt at the time, and that its memory fades so quickly, while joy flits by almost unperceived, and yet leaves such deep traces behind? At least, this is my experience. It may not be so with most people. They may, perhaps, suffer deeply and remember lightly; enjoy strongly and forget quickly. If so, I pity them with all my heart. When I sit down to write it is not the sad recollections that come crowding before me; it is the bright joyous moments which shape themselves most distinctly in my mind. 'Oh, what a light, frivolous nature you must have, then!' I hear some grave and reverend signior remark, if any such person ever deigns to read this flimsy chatter. Well, I am ready to plead guilty to the charge. I was made like that, and so Nature is to blame, and not I."

Ours would be a gayer and happier world if Nature had cast more of us in the same mould.

Another Princess's experience was her appearance as a diminutive "Tiger" page-boy in a farce by Edmund Yates, entitled "If the Cap Fits," and she confesses to the infinite pride she took in her pair of miniature and rather tight-fitting top-boots. Here again, though in a different way to her Shakespearean representations, genuine success was secured. In his interesting volumes of "Reminiscences" Edmund Yates records the production, saying, that "'If the Cap Fits' was admirably acted by, amongst others, Mr. Frank Mathews, Mr. Walter Lacy, and Miss Ellen Terry ... who played a juvenile groom, a 'tiger,' with great spirit and vivacity." And, much later on, he says: "In the present days of genuine heroine-worship, with recollections full upon us of Beatrice, Viola, Olivia, and Camma, it seems odd to read, in connection with this slight comedietta, that Miss Ellen Terry is worthy of praise for the spirit and point with which she played the part of a youthful groom."

Evidently she believed in the same doctrine as, in his early days, Colley Cibber did. Weary of being told that the parts he wanted to attempt were "not in his way," he protested: "I think anything, naturally written, ought to be in everybody's way that pretends to be an actor."

Ellen Terry could not agree with those critics who declared that Charles Kean went too far in the mounting of his plays. The theatre-goers of those days had not been taught to expect beautiful and correct scenery, and exact accuracy in costume; and some of them actually resented it, leaning to the view held by Kean's contemporary and friend, Dr. Westland Marston, who considered that in some of the spectacular revivals at the Princess's, unnecessary pageantry was not only introduced but absolutely obtruded. For example, he said that in the beautiful production of Richard II. a display of too minute correctness in armorial bearings, weapons and household vessels made the stage an auxiliary to the museum, and forced it to combine lessons on archæology with the display of character and passion.

Such were the thanks that Charles Kean received for his indefatigable and scholarly research, and lavish expenditure! How he would have loved to hear his little Mamillius and winsome Puck declare in the days of her fame, and when hers had become a voice in the land greater than his own, that with rare perception he had opened his eyes to the absurd anachronisms in costume and accessories which prevailed at that period, and that he established a system which has been perfected by Sir Henry Irving and his contemporaries. To have been a pioneer in good work eventually means fame, but pioneers are apt to be distrusted by those who have not the courage to accompany them on their explorations.

She also draws an apt comparison between the remuneration and work of the actors of the Charles Kean days and now.

"Very young actors," she says (I again venture to quote from her "Stray Memories"), "sometimes complain of low salaries and long hours. I wish they could see Mr. Kean's salary-list—they would soon cease to grumble. Why, a young man to-day gets as much for carrying on a coal-box as an experienced actor then received for playing an important part. Then, how different the hours are! If a company now has to rehearse for four hours in the day it is thought a great hardship. But when I was a child rehearsals often used to last until four or five in the morning. What weary work it was to be sure! My poor little legs used to ache, and sometimes I could hardly keep my eyes open when I was on the stage. Often I used to creep into the green-room, which every one acquainted with the old Princess's will remember well; and there, curled up in the deep recess of the window, forget myself, my troubles, and my art—if you can talk of art in connection with a child of eight—in a delicious sleep."

It is a pathetic little portrait, but the hard work, the early training and the weary hours resulted in well won, nay almost unique success, and an artistic career that has rejoiced the hearts of her fellow creatures, and will for ever live in the history of the stage.

Charles Kean's memorable management of the Princess's Theatre came to an end in 1859, and with it terminated the engagement of the Terry family.

In thinking of Charles Kean I always conjure up three pictures.

The first one represents the dingy lodging in the now demolished Cecil Street, Strand, where his father, Edmund Kean, is staying with his devoted wife and three-year-old boy. The struggling strolling player has got his chance at last. He is to appear to-night as Shylock at Drury Lane. It is the night of January 14, 1814, and in theatrical lore is for ever memorable. "I must dine to-day," the nervous actor said—and for the first time in many days he indulged in the luxury of meat. "My God!" he exclaimed to his wife, "if I succeed I shall go mad!" As the church clocks were striking six he sallied forth from his meagre apartment with the parting words: "I wish I was going to be shot." In his hand he carried a small bundle—containing shoes, stockings, wig, and other trifles of costume, and so he trudged through the cold and foggy streets, and the thick slush of thawing snow that penetrated his worn boots and chilled him to the bone. And then the exultant return home after the curtain had fallen upon the wild enthusiasm of an electrified audience! Nearly mad with delight, and with half-frenzied incoherency he poured forth the story of his triumph. "Mary!" he cried to his wife, "you shall ride in your carriage yet! Charles," lifting the boy from his bed, "shall go to Eton!"

Then followed his career of unexampled success and prosperity continually marred and at last ruined by the dissipated habits to which this giant among tragic actors allowed himself to become the unhappy victim—habits that wrecked his home and well-nigh ruined his reputation. Between 1814 and 1827 his earnings had amounted to £200,000, and yet when he died in 1833 everything he left behind him, all his presents and mementos, had to be sent to the hammer to pay his debts.

The 25th March 1833 (here is my second picture) saw the end of his stage career. For the first and only time Edmund the father and Charles the son (who had been sent to Eton, but who had taken to the stage as most of the sons of true actors will) stood upon the London boards together, the one playing Othello, the other Iago.

The event caused great excitement among playgoers, and the house was crammed to suffocation. But Edmund Kean went through his part "dying as he went," until he came to the "Farewell,"—and the strangely appropriate words—"Othello's occupation's gone."

Then he gasped for breath, and, falling upon his son's shoulder, moaned, "I am dying, speak to them for me." Within a few months the restless spirit of Edmund Kean was at peace in the quiet churchyard at Richmond.

The third picture has been limned by Dr. Westland Marston, and shows a sad little episode in the declining years of Charles Kean, a man who, devoid of the genius of his erring father, had ever attempted to promote the highest interests of his calling, and to do good in the world.

"In the autumn of 1866," says my vivid word painter, "I chanced to be at Scarborough. The evening before leaving, when passing by one of the hotels—I think the Prince of Wales's—there appeared, framed in one of the windows, a worn, pallid face, with a look of deep melancholy abstraction. 'Charles Kean!' I exclaimed to myself, and prepared to retrace my way and call. But, having heard already that he had been seriously unwell while playing a round of provincial engagements, I thought it better not to disturb him or to bring home to him a grave impression as to his health, even by a card of enquiry. In little more than a year after this his death took place. It occurred in January 1868, when he had reached his fifty-seventh year.... His friends who are still amongst us will cherish the recollection of a high-principled gentleman, warm in his attachments, generous in extending to others the appreciation he coveted for himself, and gifted with a charm of simple candour that made even his weaknesses endearing."

TOWER COTTAGE, WINCHELSEA.

Ellen Terry's country home. [To face page 48.

[See larger version]

It is to be feared that in the theatrical career on which he started with so much energy and confidence Charles Kean met with lack of appreciation and much disappointment.

I wonder what would have been the effect if the consoling words of George William Curtis (one of the most beautiful of American writers) had been wafted to him across the Atlantic?

"Success," says Curtis, "is a delusion. It is an attainment—but who attains? It is the horizon, always bounding our path and therefore never gained. The Pope, triple-crowned, and borne with flabella through St. Peter's, is not successful—for he might be canonised into a saint. Pygmalion, before his perfect statue, is not successful,—for it might live. Raphael, finishing the Sistine Madonna, is not successful,—for her beauty has revealed to him a finer and an unattainable beauty."

To the true artist such truths as these strike home, and I fear they often throw their cloud over the apparently ever sunny-minded Ellen Terry. It is a fact that she often feels she has failed where enthusiastic audiences, and even the most captious critics, testify to the fact that she has triumphed. But she knows that any seeming victory in human life is not final achievement, but a spur (often a cruel one) to endless endeavour. The artistic temperament must be more or less self-tormenting, and those who desire mere personal comfort should never attempt to cultivate it. Devoid of it they can smugly criticise, and with intense self-satisfaction condemn, the life work of those who well nigh exhaust their energies in order to provide them with entertainment.

At the conclusion of the Princess's engagement Mr. Ben Terry seems to have been inspired by a happy thought. Probably he knew that in 1859 there were thousands of goody-goody people who did not like to be seen in a real theatre, but who would flock to see theatricals under the guise of "A Drawing-Room Entertainment." Possibly he was aware that the congregations of goody-goodies, who still had an idea that Mawworm was right when he declared that the playhouse was the devil's hot-bed, took an eager interest in reading anything that appeared concerning the stage. The youthful fame of Kate and Ellen Terry was well established. Their stars were in the ascendant, everybody (including the useful army of goody-goodies) wanted to see them;—why not let them appear in a "Drawing-Room Entertainment"?

Perhaps I am wrong in hinting at such things as these in connection with the business arrangements of Mr. Ben Terry. Anyway, a "Drawing-Room Entertainment" was devised for the attractive sisters, and it became exceedingly popular.

It was first brought out at the Royal Colosseum, Regent's Park, in those days a favourite place for amusements of this description. It proved so attractive that it ran for thirty consecutive nights, during which more than thirty thousand people paid for admission, and expressed their delight in the entertainment. Thus encouraged, it was taken on tour to the leading as well as the smaller provincial towns.

Those who, like myself, remember the Colosseum as it used to be, and were in their juvenile days taken there as to one of the "Sights of London," will remember the weird, imitation stalactite caverns. Ellen Terry has confessed that it was amid the artificial gloom of these shams that she first studied Juliet. At least they served one good purpose! By the courtesy of Mr. Percy Fitzgerald I am able to give the following copy of the Terry programme.

LECTURE HALL, CROYDON

For One Night Only

Tuesday Evening, March 13th, 1860 MISS KATE TERRY AND MISS ELLEN TERRY

The original representatives of Ariel, Cordelia, Arthur, Puck, etc. (which characters were acted by them upwards of one hundred consecutive nights, and also before Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen), at the Royal Princess's Theatre, when under the management of Mr. Charles Kean, will present their new and successful

ILLUSTRATIVE AND MUSICAL

DRAWING-ROOM ENTERTAINMENT

In Two Parts, entitled

"DISTANT RELATIONS" AND "HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS"

In which they will sustain several

CHARACTERS IN FULL COSTUME

The second item on the modest little play-bill appears to have been the strong attraction. In this Kate Terry played the part of a charming young lady who is discovered eagerly expecting her younger brother's arrival home for his first holidays. She pictures to herself the innocent, tender-hearted, shy little fellow who only a few months ago was sent away "unwillingly to school," and she longs to kiss him, and once more pour out upon him her sweet sisterly sympathy. But to her astonishment, when Harry—(impersonated by Ellen Terry)—appears, she finds that in a very short period he has degenerated, and acquired the habits of a precocious, over-dressed, cigar-smoking, horsey little cad. After some amusing scenes, in which the shocked sister endeavours to appeal to the better senses of the irrepressible little monkey, she goes out, and returning disguised as a determined old gentlewoman, endeavours to replace gentle persuasion by superior force. In a way she succeeds, and then a cleverly brought about little episode shows her that beneath the shoddy veneer of her brother's silly would-be-manly habits his true heart beats and yearns towards her; and so they kiss and are friends again, and at curtain-fall the audience know that both for sister and brother the holidays will be happy ones.

Kate Terry was admirable both as the dismayed girl and the elderly lady, and Ellen Terry caused abundant amusement as the impish schoolboy. "Distant Relations" was also a clever little sketch, and the entertainment was at once merry and interesting.

Ellen Terry speaks with fond recollection of that little touring party of five, the odd number being made up by Mr. Sydney Naylor, who, in the capacity of pianist (he subsequently made for himself a well-known name), accompanied the father and mother and their two young daughters. For more than two years they gaily travelled from town to town, supremely happy in each other's society, always drawing large and appreciative audiences, and having every reason to be satisfied with the financial results of their experiment. No doubt it was a "good time," and probably all concerned in it were sorry when it came to an end; but even two years make a great difference in young ladies of tender age—all entertainments run their course—and more serious work had to be approached.

London was naturally their goal, and Ellen Terry soon found an engagement at the Royalty Theatre. The little Soho playhouse—the scene of varying fortunes and many strange theatrical experiments—had just passed into the hands of a Madame Albina de Rhona, an attractive Parisian actress and danseuse. Having made her name in Paris and St. Petersburg, this ambitious lady had resolved to captivate London, and, as her appearances at the St. James's and Drury Lane Theatres had met with encouragement, she boldly resolved to try her luck as an English manageress. One of her first attractions at the Royalty (by the way, it was originally called the Royal Soho Theatre, and Madame de Rhona is credited with having given it its new and brighter name) was an adaptation of Eugene Sue's romance, "Atar-Gull."

On the stage it was the grimmest and wildest of productions, and of all the strange pranks played on the boards of the Royalty, this must surely have been the strangest. It set forth a ghastly story of a negro who (the scene was laid in Jamaica), in order to avenge the death of his father, made it his life's business to murder every member of his master's family. The piece was replete with horrors and wholly unsuited to the little bandbox of a house, which, in later years, when the Broughs, Burnand, and other humorous writers were at their brightest, and when burlesque was true burlesque—witty, coherent, and cohesive, we associated with all that is exhilarating and mirth-provoking. Those who, with me, can conjure up the days of the "Patty" Oliver régime will know what I mean.

But all I have to do with the gruesome "Atar-Gull" is to make brief note of the part in it that Ellen Terry was called upon to play. It was that of a fair young girl named Clementine who (not unnaturally) has an aversion to the snakes that infest her environment. In order to cure her of this reprehensible prejudice, it occurs to some idiot (possibly an interfering aunt) to order a dead snake to be put in her room. This is an opportunity for the revengeful negro, and he contrives to give her a live and deadly reptile for her companion. With the living venomous creature coiled about her neck and body, and ever tightening its scaly, slimy hug, the terrified girl appears screaming on the stage. Into this horrible situation, and the opportunity it afforded her, the still childish Ellen Terry put her whole heart, and outscreamed all actresses, whether young or old. It was not one prolonged scream and then collapse. As her terror and agony seemed to increase, shriek succeeded shriek—a shriek for deliverance—a shriek of bodily anguish—and a shriek of hopeless despair. No doubt the effect was startling, and unquestionably it thrilled her audiences. It was all wonderfully done, and the fear of the wretched girl was depicted with almost painful fidelity. But the ridiculous, misplaced, and sensational play made the situation an absurd one.

If it were repeated to-day we should think of the nonsense rhyme—