"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!"