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.