T. Edgar Pemberton

AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE, 1878-1883

Those who are truly interested in the stage must be more or less familiar with a Lyceum first-night under the reign of Henry Irving. He has made the long series of them prominent among the events of the day, and rich and poor alike are eager to be present. We know how the frequenters of the cheaper parts of the house will, in order to obtain good seats, assemble and wait patiently in the Strand from sunrise to sundown; we know how difficult it is to obtain seats at the besieged box-office; we know how from the front row of the pit to the back seats of the gallery the house is densely packed with an audience assembled to hear and see all that is noblest in English dramatic art. It is more than impressive to watch the faces of the patient and expectant pit; and to listen to the sounds in the eager and impulsive gallery; while as to the stalls and boxes, in them you see the cream of those who are distinguished in the paths of art, science, and literature. It is magnificent to be able to command such an audience; on the other hand it must be formidable to face it.

It was to such an assemblage as this that Ellen Terry had to make her bow when on the evening of December 30, 1878, she first appeared at the Lyceum, playing Ophelia to the Hamlet of Henry Irving. No doubt it was a trying and anxious moment for her, but the true ring in the long and loud welcome which greeted her on the threshold of the home in which she was destined to do so much noble work must have gone to her heart, and assured her that all would be well.

It was indeed a momentous evening in the history of our stage. Of it Dutton Cook said:—

"Mr. Irving's managerial career has commenced most auspiciously. The opening representation was, indeed, from first to last, triumphant. A distinguished audience filled to overflowing the re-decorated Lyceum Theatre, and the new impresario was received with unbounded enthusiasm. These gratifying evidences of goodwill were scarcely required, however, to convince Mr. Irving that his enterprise carried with it very genial sympathy. His proved devotion to his art, his determination to uphold the national drama to its utmost, have secured for him the suffrages of all classes of society. And it is recognised that he has become a manager, not to enhance his position as an actor—for already he stands in the front rank of his profession—but the better to promote the interests of the whole stage, and to serve more fully, to gratify more absolutely, the public and his patrons. Let it be added, as a minor matter, that he has followed the good examples set by Mr. Hollingshead and Mr. Bancroft, and has been careful of the comfort of his audience, neither permitting them to be pinched for room, nor subjecting them to those petty imposts which, like so many turnpike dues, have so persistently impeded the visitor on his passage from the street to his seat within the theatre.

"The tragedy of 'Hamlet' was well chosen for the first performance under the new management—as Hamlet Mr. Irving has obtained his greatest success. It has been said that no actor has ever been known to fail as Hamlet; it may be added that no actor has ever as Hamlet completely satisfied critical opinion. To many the play is a metaphysical study wholly unsuited for theatrical exhibition; 'an enigmatic work,' as Schlegel says, 'resembling those irrational equations in which a fraction of unknown magnitude always remains that will in no way admit of solution.' To many Hamlet is a mysterious and complex character, beyond the power of histrionic art adequately to interpret. Mr. Irving can, at any rate, point to the fact that, four years ago, for two hundred nights in succession, he played Hamlet to delighted crowds at the Lyceum. Weighed against popular success so consummate and prodigious, objections of any kind are as but feathers in the scale; and even those least disposed to accept this latest stage portraiture of Hamlet can afford to admit that the picture is in itself consistent and harmonious, the work of an ingenious and intellectual artist."

Yes, there were some who (in a hopeless minority) were still indisposed to accept the new Prince of Denmark, but by the sensible and appreciative his impersonation by Henry Irving will ever be honoured as one of the most complete, harmonious, profound, and artistic seen on the stage. Never was more thought given to the study and representation of very small phases of Hamlet's character. The result was a powerful, refined, graceful, intelligent interpretation in every detail, and as such it was applauded by the public.

Of Ellen Terry's acting on that memorable evening my authority says:—

"An Ophelia so tender, so graceful, so picturesque, and so pathetic, has not been seen in the theatre since Macready's Hamlet, many years ago, found his Ophelia in the person of Miss Priscilla Horton. In characters of this class, the heroines of genuine poetry, Miss Terry is now without a rival, is indeed unapproached by any other actress upon our stage. Her personal graces and endowments, her elocutionary skill, her musical speech, and, above all, her singular power of depicting intensity of feeling, are most happily combined, as the audience was quick to discover and applaud in this very exquisite presentment of Ophelia."

Photograph by Window & Grove

Photograph by [Window & Grove.

ELLEN TERRY IN TRAGEDY AND COMEDY, CIRCA 1878.

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[See larger version]

In summing up the performance, Joseph Knight said:—

"Of Mr. Irving's Hamlet we have already spoken. It is not greatly changed. The outline is distinctly the same as before, though much pains have been bestowed on the filling up. We do not accept as new readings the delivery while sitting of speeches formerly spoken standing, or other like alterations in arrangement. Nor do we feel that changes of method as regards matters of detail call for special comment. The one vital alteration of conception appears to consist in presenting Hamlet as under the influence of an overmastering love for Ophelia. A knowledge of his own weakness seems to inspire him when, subsequently addressing Horatio, he says—

"Give me that man

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him

In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of hearts."

The chief grace in the new representation consisted in the delivery of the speeches to Ophelia in the third act. In this the mocking tone did not for a moment hide the profound emotion under which Hamlet laboured, and the hands which repulsed her petitioning hands trembled with passionate longing. That this view of Hamlet is correct will scarcely be disputed. That he loved Ophelia he declared over her grave; that he felt it his duty, under the influence of a task such as that enjoined him, to erase from the table of his memory all 'trivial fond records,' he also states. The indications of the pain it costs a nature such as this, quick in resolution and shrinking and incapable in action, to inflict on the woman he loves the grief it is yet necessary she should sustain, are well conceived. That they were effective in action was ascribable to a great extent to the admirable acting of Miss Terry. Picturesque, tender, and womanly throughout, Miss Terry on one or two occasions gave an inspired rendering of Ophelia. The support she afforded Mr. Irving was of the utmost importance, and the scene before the play has probably never been so well rendered."

I think it well to quote these undoubted authorities, lest readers might think that in my palpable admiration for these artists my personal judgment would be biassed.

ELLEN TERRY AS "OPHELIA."

From a portrait by Charles Campbell in the possession of Sir Henry Irving, and kindly lent by him for reproduction in these pages. Charles Campbell was a fellow-worker with Sir Edward Burne Jones. His premature death cut short a most promising career.

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I cannot end my little record of the auspicious evening of December 30, 1878, without noting that then Bram Stoker assumed his position as chief in the front of the house. How much he has done to make the Lyceum Theatre popular its frequenters fully recognise. Always genial and courteous, he plays the important part of host right well, cheerily attending to the comforts of one and all. Probably he would prefer to devote the whole of his time to writing his tenderly conceived and well loved romances (do we not owe to him "Under the Sunset," "The Snake's Pass," "The Shoulder of Shasta," and many other graceful fancies?); but happily for us, though we want more of his charming books, he remains true to his post, and has made himself as well liked in the provinces as he is in London.

Speaking of Ellen Terry's triumph as Ophelia, Percy Fitzgerald tells us that "on this momentous night of trial she thought she had completely failed, and, without waiting for the fifth act, she flung herself into the arms of a friend, repeating, 'I have failed, I have failed!' She drove up and down the Thames Embankment half-a-dozen times before she found courage to go home."

The newspapers of the next morning must have given her assurance that for her was no such word as fail!

The next production at the Lyceum was "The Lady of Lyons." Of Ellen Terry's appreciative rendering of the character of Pauline I have already spoken. It need only be said now that it exercised its former charm. Henry Irving had evidently given great thought to the study of Claude Melnotte, and at times he was deeply impressive; but the part cannot take rank amongst his greatest successes.

Then came a revival of the stage version by W. G. Wills of Thomas Hood's "The Dream of Eugene Aram," which had, of course, been suggested by the impression made through Henry Irving's graphic recitation of that thrilling poem. In this Ellen Terry succeeded Isabel Bateman as Ruth Meadows, but "Eugene Aram" is a one-part play, and affords few chances for an actress.

Again she followed Isabel Bateman in the revival of W. G. Wills' beautiful play, "Charles I.," which was given on June 27, 1879. As the pathetically-drawn Queen Henrietta Maria, Ellen Terry once more had her opportunity, and she grasped it. The hapless Queen ranks as one of her most sympathetic and womanly impersonations, and she played it with even more than her wonted sweetness when the play was reproduced at the Lyceum as recently as June 23, 1901.

As Charles Stuart, Henry Irving unquestionably finds at once one of his most dignified and pathetic creations.

For nearly thirty years the play has held the stage, and in view of that very rare fact it is interesting to recall its original production. This was in the September of 1872, under Colonel Bateman's Lyceum management, when Henry Irving had made his notable success in "The Bells," and was the talk of the town. Both by manager and actor much anxiety was felt as to the next play to be produced, and they were both delighted when W. G. Wills suggested the story of the unhappy Charles I. as a subject.

In common with most successful plays it had its tribulations before it faced the footlights. Though possessed of true feeling and inspiration, the author was carried away by his ardour into a neglect of the canons of the stage, writing masses of poetry of inordinate length, which he brought to his friends at the theatre, until at last they began to despair. Many changes had to be made before the poem could be brought into satisfactory shape. Originally, the piece opened with the second act, but the practical Colonel Bateman exclaimed: "Oh, bother politics! Give us some domestic business." This led to the introduction of the tranquil, pastoral scene at Hampton Court. The closing scene, as desired by the author, represented the capture of the King on the field of battle. "Won't do," said the Colonel bluntly; "must wind up with another domestic act." Sorely perplexed by this requirement, which they felt was necessary, both author and actor tried many expedients without success, until one evening the manager suddenly called out, "Look at the last act of 'Black-Eyed Susan!'" And so it came about that the affecting farewell between the doomed Charles and his weeping Queen was due to Douglas Jerrold's time-honoured nautical play.

That "Charles I." was an immediate stage success is a matter of ancient history, and in an odd way it had bold advertisement. One of those vehement and amusing discussions which occasionally arise out of a play, and furnish prodigious excitement for the public, was aroused by the conception taken of Cromwell, which was, in truth, opposed to tradition; for the Protector was exhibited as willing to condone the King's offences, and to desert his party, for the considerations of a marriage designed to gratify his own social ambition. This ludicrous view, based on some loose gossip, was, reasonably enough, thought to degrade Cromwell's character, and the point was debated with much fierceness. It was also argued that the dramatist had made Charles not only a hero and a martyr, but also a modern gentleman with superior manners and a melancholy smile. But the public forgave the slanders for the sake of the prettiness and the pathos of the domestic scenes.

The play was not only revived in 1879 but in 1883, and again in 1893. In 1901 it exercised all its old charm. The best advice to those who go to see it is not to expect historical accuracy, but, without criticism of the dramatist's portraits of the King and Cromwell, to heartily enjoy a delightful and soul-stirring drama. It is only the other day that Ellen Terry said, "There is nothing more beautifully pathetic in the world than Sir Henry Irving's Charles." And she is right.

At the end of this busy season, in the last days of hot July, Ellen Terry, on the occasion of her manager's benefit, played Lady Anne to his Gloucester in the first act of "Richard III.," and then, as we have seen in a former chapter, she started on her provincial tour.

She did not return to London until the late autumn. On November 1, 1879, we first saw that beautiful revival of "The Merchant of Venice," which, thanks to Ellen Terry's Portia and Henry Irving's Shylock, became one of the greatest of the long series of Lyceum triumphs, and remains to this day one of the most attractive items in the Irving repertory.

His impersonation of the "Jew that Shakespeare drew" is as instinct with purpose to-day as it was in 1879. I know that there are some critics who declare that he imparts so much dignity to the character that he dwarfs the other portraits in the play. That is true of the actor, but surely these critics are wrong? Most students of Shakespeare realise that Shylock never became actively malignant until the Christians, who on the Rialto had insulted him, who had called him misbeliever and cut-throat dog, and spat upon his Jewish gaberdine, had robbed him of his daughter and his ducats. Then the sufferance that he declared to be the badge of all his tribe broke down. Then, being a man as well as a Jew, he became, not unrighteously, savage, showed his teeth, and, living in a cruel age (when human torture was a thing of every day), viciously resolved to have his "pound of flesh." It is hardly likely that he thought it would come in his way when, in "a merry sport," he signed the bond with Antonio. That is the filled-in picture that Henry Irving gives us of this wonderfully outlined character. We may be horrified at the vindictive moods of his Shylock, but we understand him, and realise the cruel wrongs that have worked him up to a frenzied hatred of his bantering tormentors. He makes us see the patient endurance and personal dignity of the man, and, if at the end of the grandly wrought story we cannot quite sympathise with him, we are called upon to acknowledge the infinite patience of his punishment. To thousands and thousands of playgoers, and to those who dearly love their Shakespeare, Henry Irving has illumined the superbly limned design of Shylock.

Of Ellen Terry's Portia, in the days of the Bancrofts at the old Prince of Wales' Theatre, I have already spoken. In 1879 it was found to be as good as ever—nay, better than ever—for not only had time ripened her talent, but brought her into contact with a virile Shylock. She has indeed made the character her own, and this fact has been long acknowledged not only in England but in America. It remains to-day exactly what it has ever been, a perfectly executed realisation of one of Shakespeare's most beautiful feminine creations. And, indeed, whether it be in her handsome Italian gowns, or disguised as the "young and learned doctor" from Padua, she makes a lovely and most fascinating picture. Her illustration of the wonderful text leaves nothing to be desired. It carries with it the inspiration of genius, and yet it is all so sweetly natural. "As the gentle rain from heaven," it "drops upon the place beneath," and in the hearts of her hearers sets new, bright, and fragrant thoughts upspringing; while throughout it all runs the refined essence of dainty humour. Whenever I see such perfectly soul-satisfying Shakespearean portraits as these, I think of the matchless stained-glass windows in our grand churches and old cathedrals. Beautiful in themselves, as they are now, their designs must have at one time been crude and cold in the hands of their originators. But filled in with softly, yet richly-coloured and exquisitely blended glass (not with the hot reds, violent blues, and gaudy ambers that hopelessly disfigure so many modern efforts in this direction), they seem to soothe while they illuminate, and ineffaceably fulfil their earnest, bright, and inspiring intention.

On December 10, 1879, a benefit performance was given at the Lyceum, on behalf of William Belford, an actor who had done splendid service under Samuel Phelps at Sadler's Wells, and who in later years had been prime favourite as principal comedian at the Strand Theatre. He was not only a fine actor, but a prince among good fellows, and pre-eminent in the London Bohemia of those days, the happy home of the literary men, artists, and actors, of which Geoffrey Prowse wrote:—

In 1879 poor Belford's health broke down. Like many of his kind in the good-natured, easy-going, and absolutely unselfish circles to which he belonged, he had made little or no provision for such a disaster, and right cheerfully his friends came to his aid, just as in stage-land friends invariably do. Henry Irving played his famous character of Digby Grant in "The Two Roses," and this was supplemented by a performance of the "Trial" scene from "Pickwick," in which many prominent actors appeared. Ellen Terry, who had met William Belford in the Charles Kean days at the Princess's, very appropriately, as well as very beautifully, delivered an address from the deft pen of Clement Scott, which ran as follows:—

Triumphantly the "Merchant of Venice" pursued its course until, in May 1880, its last act was omitted, and it was succeeded by "Iolanthe," a version by W. G. Wills of Henrik Hertz's Danish play, "King RenÉ's Daughter." The chief character in this had been a favourite one with that consummate artiste, Helen Faucit (Lady Theodore Martin). The piece was exquisitely staged, and finely played by Ellen Terry and Henry Irving; it was very tender, and very touching, but it has not taken a permanent place in the Lyceum repertory. On January 3, 1881, Lord Tennyson's two-act drama, "The Cup," the "great little play," as Ellen Terry called it, was produced, and another great victory was gained. Clement Scott considers her acting in this to have been one of the finest of her many inspirations, and says:—

"Ellen Terry as Camma, aptly realised the poet's lines—

Who that ever heard it can forget the pathos of Ellen Terry as she parted from Sinnatus, and delivered these lovely lines—

I for one" (and here Clement Scott speaks for many of us) "shall never forget the end of the play, with the libations poured in honour of Artemis, and amidst music and flowers and processions, faultless in colour, and of classic pomp, making the dull mind live in another age, we hear intoned with strophe and antistrophe of chanting chorus, the double appeal by Camma and Synorix, containing as it does the most impassioned poetry of the play.

"I said at the time, 'If there ever was a play that from its intrinsic merits demanded a second, if not a third visit, it is "The Cup." At present the landscape of Mr. W. Telbin, and the decorative splendour of Mr. Hawes Craven's Temple of Artemis, absorb all attention. We seem to see before us the concentrated essence of such fascinating art as that of Sir Frederick Leighton and Mr. Alma Tadema in a breathing and tangible form. Not only do the grapes grow before us, and the myrtles blossom, the snow-mountains change from silver-white at daytime to roseate hues at dawn, not only are the Pagan ceremonies acted before us with a reality and fidelity that almost baffles description, but in the midst of all this scenic allurement glide the classical draperies of Miss Ellen Terry, who is the exact representative of the period she enacts, while following her we find the eager glances of the fate-haunted Mr. Irving. The pictures that dwell on the memory are countless, and not to be effaced in spell or witchery by any of the most vaunted productions of the stage, even in an era devoted to archÆology. We see, as we travel back through the enchanting vista, the first meeting of Synorix and Camma—he with his long red hair and haunting eyes, his weird pale face and swathes of leopard skins; she with her grace of movement, unmatched in our time, clad in a drapery sea-weed tinted, with complexion as clear as in one of Sir Frederick Leighton's classical pictures, and with every pose studied but still natural.

"We remember Camma as she reclined on the low couch with her harp, moaning about her husband's late-coming, and can recall the hungry eyes of Synorix, as he drank in the magic of her presence. All was good here, the tenderness of the woman, the wicked eagerness of her lover, the quick impulsive energy of the husband. Difficult as it was to study the acting, when so much had to be seen, still it was felt that Mr. Irving, Mr. Terriss, and Miss Ellen Terry had well opened the tragedy long before the first curtain fell.

"There were time and opportunity, at any rate, to comprehend the subtlety of Mr. Irving's expression in that long soliloquy—how well it was broken up, and how face accorded with action when Sinnatus lay dead, and the frightened Camma had fled to the sanctuary of the Temple. With the first act but little fault could be found. The fastidious among the audience who complained of dulness and want of action, possibly forgot that whilst their eyes were feasting on the scenery, their ears were closed to the poetry, and on another visit will confess how much meaning and study were at the first blush lost to them. With the aid of the text, the beauties hidden for the moment will reappear. As for the second act, with its groupings, its grace, its centre figures and surroundings, its hymns to Artemis, its chants and processions, we are inclined to doubt if the stage has ever given to educated tastes so rare a treat. In the old days, such pictures might have been caviare to the general public, but the public at the Lyceum is one of culture and a very high order of intelligence. Such poems are necessarily for the fastidious and the elegant in mind and scholarship; but granted the right of the stage to demand such poetic studies, it would be impossible for modern scenic art to give them more splendour and completeness. Æsthetic tastes have had their necessary ridicule and banter, for everything that is affected is hateful to the ordinary English nature; but here, in this Temple of Artemis, when Miss Ellen Terry, veiled as the Galatian priestess, stands by the incense-bearing tripod, and Mr. Henry Irving, robed in the scarlet of Rome's tributary King, comes to demand his anxiously expected bride, there is an aiming at the beautiful and thorough, most creditable in itself and distinctly worthy of respect."

No doubt the production of "The Cup" was a bright feather in the managerial cap of Henry Irving, and Ellen Terry took her full share in its colours.

Let me hark back a little to recall an evening in the previous Lyceum season when I was fortunate enough to hear Ellen Terry's thrilling rendering of the one character in Monk Lewis's dramatic poem, "The Captive." This strange writer, with his skulls and his crossbones, his coffins and shrouds, his ghosts and his goblins, is rarely read now; but for the sake of the actress's performance in it this weird piece of work was well worth revival. In the memoirs of Lewis we come across a letter written to his mother in 1803, just before the first performance of "The Captive." "The 'monodrama' (as he called it) 'comes out,' he says, on Tuesday. I have not yet been at a single rehearsal. It cannot possibly succeed." In one way it did succeed. At Covent Garden Mrs. Litchfield (a famous actress in her day) recited the fearsome lines allotted to the wretched maniac prisoner. The character is that of a mad-woman, and Mrs. Litchfield's embodiment of the author's horrible imaginings, combined with the scenic effects and other startling appearances which, with his usual skill, he introduced into the piece, threw a portion of the audience—whose nerves were unable to withstand the dreadful truth of the language—into hysterics, and the whole theatre into confusion and horror. Never, it is said, did Covent Garden present such an appearance of agitation and dismay. Ladies bathed in tears, others fainting, and some shrieking with terror—while such of the audience who were able to avoid demonstrations like these sat aghast with pale horror painted on their countenances.

In another letter to his mother, Lewis says: "The papers will have already informed you that the monodrama has failed. It proved much too terrible for representation, and two people went into hysterics during the performance, and two more after the curtain dropped. It was given out again with a mixture of applause and disapprobation, but I immediately withdrew the piece. In fact, the subject (which was merely a picture of madness) was so uniformly distressing to the feelings that at last I felt my own a little painfully, and as to Mrs. Litchfield she almost fainted away. I did not expect that it would succeed, and of course am not disappointed at its failure. The only chance was whether pity would make the audience weep, but instead of that terror threw them into fits, and of course there was an end of my monodrama."

At the Lyceum Ellen Terry brought about no such scene as that created by Mrs. Litchfield at Covent Garden. It is true that she harrowed as well as held her audience, and that the memory of her acting must haunt all who witnessed this bold venture; but her art was delicate as well as intense, and she was able to draw those tears so desired by the author. It is a pity that he could not see his "monodrama" at the Lyceum in 1880.

On April 16, 1881, "The Cup" was preceded by Mrs. Cowley's comedy, "The Belle's Stratagem," with Ellen Terry as Letitia Hardy. She played the part with invincible vivacity and perfect grace, and in the picturesque costumes of a bygone period, looked like a portrait by an old master come to life. But what a thing to do! Camma and Letitia Hardy—tragedy and comedy—in one evening! It was a proof alike of her marvellous versatility and her great power of physical endurance. To the delight of his admirers, Henry Irving resumed his old part of Doricourt, and played it brilliantly. By the way, in connection with this impersonation, there is another instance of an actor thinking he has failed where he has really succeeded.

Of his first appearance at the St. James' Theatre in the character, he has said:—"I was cast for Doricourt, a part which I had never played before, and which I thought did not suit me. I felt that this was the opinion of the audience soon after the play began. The house appeared to be indifferent, and I believed that failure was conclusively stamped upon my work, when suddenly, upon my exit after the mad scene, I was startled by a burst of applause, and so great was the enthusiasm of the audience that I was compelled to reappear upon the scene, a somewhat unusual thing except upon the operatic stage." Despite his doubts the part has remained one of the best and one of the most popular of his comedy incarnations. Of the new Letitia Hardy, Clement Scott truly said:—"She is as Georgian in her comedy graces as before she was Pagan in her rites as the priestess Camma. Entering heart and soul into the spirit of the play, she attacks it with a wilfulness and an abandon that are indescribable. She trips and floats through the scenes. There is no effort in anything that she does; and when she assumes the character of the hoyden it is in the finest spirit of refined and disciplined fun. With every chance for exaggeration, the rein is never relaxed, and so captivating is the spirit of the artiste that she makes the audience hold its breath to the point of tension, and is rewarded with the quick response of unrestrained applause. Equally charming is the temptation scene at the minuet; and when Miss Terry, mask in hand, floats, glides, and coquets around the bewildered Doricourt, one's mind recalls the records of fascination in varied romance, and understands, possibly for the first time, what Circe might have done to Ulysses—how the fair-haired German nymphs of the Lorelei turned the heads of dreamy knights—how Undine weaved her spells—and how old Merlin collapsed under the influence of the wily Vivien. Unknowingly, Miss Ellen Terry is a poem."

In the autumn of 1880 the great American tragedian, Edwin Booth, came to England to fulfil an engagement at the Princess's Theatre, and his reception had not been one to make those who take loving interest in the dramatic art of this country proud. How well I remember poor Sothern (he was then in his dying days) waxing wroth over the neglect with which the man whom he declared to be the "finest and most graceful actor in the world" was treated. I think many others felt the same, and Henry Irving, at least, was determined that his great rival should not recross the Atlantic until he had had a fair hearing in London. With characteristic generosity and delightful courage, he invited Booth to appear with him at the Lyceum in Othello, so that the leaders of English and American dramatic art might be seen on the stage together, and in all courtesy cross swords, alternating the finely-balanced yet splendidly contrasted parts of the Moor and Iago. The invitation was cordially accepted, and in both countries the event is regarded as one of the most interesting in modern theatrical history.

The general consensus of opinion was that Booth triumphed as Othello, and that Irving eclipsed him as Iago. No doubt Othello is by far the most difficult part to play, and it was better suited to the classical style of Booth than to the methods of Irving, who, while he has reverence for tradition, delights in taking a path of his own making. In some characters this is a distinct advantage, and his Iago was supreme. It will be remembered that Ellen Terry was already familiar with the character of the gentle Desdemona, and she played it with infinite charm and inexpressible pathos. Hers must have been a difficult task, for both Booth and Irving took different readings of Othello and Iago, and she had to adapt herself to both. Hazlitt said:—"All circumstances considered, and platonics out of the question, if we were to cast the complexion of Desdemona physiognomically, we should say that she had a very fair skin and very light auburn hair, inclining to yellow." In Ellen Terry Hazlitt would have found his ideal, not only in appearance but in art.

For Henry Irving's benefit at the end of the season she played Helen to his Modus in those happily conceived comedy scenes from "The Hunchback" of Sheridan Knowles in which the two figure. She once more proved herself to be the most piquant of comediennes, and the Modus was delightfully sketched.

In the opening attraction of the next Lyceum season, which commenced in the January of 1882, Ellen Terry did not appear. This was a revival of "The Two Roses," for by this time playgoers were anxious to resume acquaintance with Henry Irving in his first great original character, that of Digby Grant. In Lyceum history the occasion is noteworthy, for it introduced to its boards—as the blind Caleb Deecie—George Alexander. Alexander had been touring in the country under the management of the younger Robertson, and those who took the trouble to watch him with discriminating eye had predicted for him a brilliant future. So admirable was he in a character part in a humorous piece called "The Guv'nor," that his name, extolled by discerning provincial critics, reached Irving's ears, and thus he won his first engagement in London. His admirable work at the Lyceum Theatre, before he went into management on his own account, and by his tact, taste, and personality once more made the St. James's (a playhouse which since the departure of John Hare and the Kendals had been allowed to droop) the resort of intellectual as well as fashionable London, is well remembered. It is a grand thing for a young and then comparatively unknown actor to reflect that, with infinite credit to himself, and to the great satisfaction of the public, he played such vitally important parts as Faust to the Margaret of Ellen Terry, and Macduff to the Macbeth of Henry Irving.

But the great production of this season was "Romeo and Juliet." Never, probably, was a Shakespearean play so superbly mounted. All the resources of art were lavished upon it, and cost was apparently outside consideration. The result was a series of stage pictures that were absolutely entrancing. If I were writing a history of the Lyceum under the management of Henry Irving I should gladly dwell on these things, and on the work that he, both as manager and actor, put into them, but I must remember that my text is Ellen Terry, and, save for the all-important part which she took in them, pass them briefly by. Other writers have vividly described these matchless representations in their entirety, and I must content myself with a fragment here and there. My canvas is a small one, and my picture must be that of my heroine. If my accounts of the Lyceum revivals are brief it is not from lack of appreciation of them, and happily the memory of them is green. So it is with the later impersonations of Ellen Terry, and they will require no lengthy record at my hands.

Her Juliet did not quite satisfy all the critics, but she played the part for one hundred and thirty nights to crowded and enthusiastic audiences, and surely there could be no better criterion of success? If, when compared with other Juliets, the extremely exacting part did not seem to suit her as well as others she had played, if it was held to be inferior to her Ophelia, and below her Portia, the impersonation won its way to the hearts of the people, and in the public mind it increased rather than lessened her reputation. Sarah Bernhardt, who was loud in her praises of the performance, said to her sister artiste—"How can you act in this way every night?" "It is the audience," said Ellen Terry. "They inspire me!" She might have added that she inspired her audiences.

After the first performance she once more thought, nay, even insisted, that she had failed. She wrote to a friend—"A thousand thanks for your letter. The fact remains that Juliet was a horrid failure. And I meant so well! I am very sad, but I thank you. It is not the critics. I knew it all on Wednesday night."

She knew far more, and had no reason to be sad, when, at the close of the season, after an extraordinary run, "Romeo and Juliet" was withdrawn.

On October 11, 1882, Shakespearean tragedy gave way to Shakespearean comedy, and "Much Ado about Nothing" was staged. We have seen how, at Leeds, Ellen Terry had tried herself as Beatrice. She had proved that the character suited her to perfection, and confidence in herself no doubt helped her to make one of the most striking of her many triumphs.

Clement Scott has such delightful ideas of Ellen Terry in connection with the character of Beatrice, that I must be permitted to quote him:—

"Two passages from 'Much Ado about Nothing,'" he says, "have always seemed to me to convey exactly the idea of Ellen Terry, both in youth and womanhood; they suggest that extraordinary 'charm' that the actress recently in America was unable to define, though I, for one, could have embodied it in two words, 'Ellen Terry.' The passages from Shakespeare to which I allude are these—

"Don Pedro. Will you have me, lady?

"Beatrice. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days; your grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your grace pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

"Don Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of the question, you were born in a merry hour.

"Beatrice. No sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that I was born! Cousins, God give you joy!

"Now, if William Shakespeare had had the model before him, he could not have drawn a more perfect picture of Ellen Terry than this. She was indeed 'born to speak all mirth and no matter.' If ever lovely woman was 'born in a merry hour' it was Ellen Terry, for she can scarcely be serious for an hour together, and is never happier than when she is playing some practical joke on her more serious companions.

"And who, whilst life lasts, can ever forget how the actress in the character of Beatrice, one of the most enchanting personations of my time, one of the most exquisite realisations of a Shakespearean heroine that any of us have ever seen, spoke those words, 'No sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that I was born.' Why, it was not Beatrice, but Ellen Terry, personated by Ellen Terry. It was a revelation. The other quotation from the same play, 'Much Ado about Nothing,' is Hero's description of her cousin Beatrice, which is simply Ellen Terry in action.

"Is not this an exact description of the Ellen Terry movement which others so ludicrously attempt to imitate? She does not run off the stage, or skip up the steps of an Italian garden. She simply floats seemingly on the air. A more exquisitely graceful movement has never been seen from any other actress. But Shakespeare has hit it. She like 'a lapwing runs close by the ground.' It is the skimming of a bird in the air. Ellen Terry did that lapwing run to perfection when she was sent to invite Benedick to dinner, and left him with the famous chaffing rejoinder—

"And up the marble steps ran the lapwing."

How true this is, all who have been fortunate enough to witness Ellen Terry's bewitching impersonation of Beatrice, will acknowledge. It was a faultless performance, and, as we all know, Henry Irving was equally happy as Benedick. I need not say more. "Much Ado about Nothing" was acted two hundred and twelve times, and might have continued to run, but the day came when the Lyceum company had to think seriously of their departure on their first American tour. With this in view the piece was withdrawn, and all the plays in the now rich repertory were carefully revived. On July 15, 1883, at a benefit performance, Ellen Terry played the small part of Clementine in "Robert Macaire," to the Macaire of Henry Irving, and the Jacques Strop of J. L. Toole. The part was, of course, beneath her notice, but she undertook it in a good cause, and her performance must be recorded in these pages. Irving has always regarded the character of Macaire with affection, and certainly he depicts the devil-may-care and by no means unamusing robber in effectively lurid tints. The piece, however, belongs to a bygone age, and is only interesting to those who, while seeing it, can conjure up the past.

In October 1883 the whole company sailed for New York, leaving a great gap in the English theatrical world. I wonder if they quite realised how much they would be missed? I have always found it difficult to make popular actors understand how fervently they are loved, and of what value their presence is to those who love them.