Twenty-six fruitful years have elapsed since the foregoing criticism was written, and we can be wise after the event. Joseph Knight has proved himself to be a good prophet, but by the light of to-day we know that he might have added to his list of Shakespearean characters within Ellen Terry's range. To the regret of all, we have not yet seen her Rosalind and Miranda, but she has triumphed as Viola and Imogen, and (though she did not satisfy every one in the part) has proved that her physical and artistic resources were equal to the portrayal of the passion and sorrow of Juliet. She has shone as Beatrice, Cordelia, Desdemona, Lady Anne, and Ophelia; she has astonished us and excited our admiration as Queen Katherine and Lady Macbeth, and has even made a great personal success as the determined Volumnia. Add to these the Mamillius, Puck, Prince Arthur, Katherine, and other parts of earlier days, and we see what a Shakespearean record has been made. During her engagement at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, she also appeared as Clara Douglas in Lord Lytton's comedy, "Money"; as Mabel Vane in Charles Reade's and Tom Taylor's "Masks and Faces"; and as Blanche Haye in one of the many revivals of T. W. Robertson's "Ours." In each of these characters her peculiar grace and distinction, coupled with tenderness, were apparent, but none of them offered her a chance worthy of her now fully recognised power. In H. J. Byron's comedy, "Wrinkles; or, A Tale of Time," she was doomed to disappointment. Byron, as a writer for the stage, was then in the zenith of his fame. Everywhere his comedies and burlesques were in demand, and it was only natural that he should receive a commission for a play from his old friends the Bancrofts. Writing for the best comedy company in London, and with Ellen Terry, the idol of the hour, designed for his heroine, he no doubt intended to produce his masterpiece; but, somehow, "Wrinkles" failed. Indeed, on the first night, failure was in the air. Not only did the piece prove unattractive in itself, but (a most unusual thing for any play directed by the Bancrofts) it seemed hardly ready for production. Hereby hangs a characteristic story of poor Byron. At the end of the third act ("Wrinkles" possessed four), though no open hostility had been displayed, his dramatic instinct told him that his work was doomed. Inwardly suffering the torments of the defeated playwright, but outwardly putting on a brave show of _nonchalance_, he lounged about the front of the house. The long waits between the acts had already been a source of dissatisfaction, and now had come the weariest interval of all. Added to this, sounds were heard behind the act-drop as of a carpenter sawing wood, suggesting--ominously suggesting--that the scenery was defective. "What on earth are they doing, Byron?" asked a friend. The poor author was gloomy and dejected, but, even at his own expense, he could never resist a joke. "I don't know," he said, "but _I