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.