"I so entirely believe in the verdict of the great public that I long to have the first night of a new play over and done with, for it is, to my mind, the second night which tells me of the future good or bad fortune of the play and of our efforts. On the first night there are one's friends, so many so prejudiced; and one's enemies--not so many, but equally prejudiced, and so it seems to me that the first night scarcely counts. Then comes the second night, and all the nights. I can't tell how much it affects me--moves me--the enthusiasm, the attention, the encouragement. I just adore the public, and the public loves me back again. I know it, feel it, and am grateful for it. It refreshes my heart." "ELLEN TERRY." This is very prettily put, and it is all very true, but such a universal favourite is hardly a judge with regard to the feelings of her less loved sisters who are subject to the baseness and vulgarity of a detestable faction of first-nighters. I may be told that provincial audiences can be very noisy, and even unruly, and it must be admitted that the gallery "gods," when packed together like dried figs in a wooden drum, are apt to be unpleasantly emphatic concerning their discomfort; but their objections are raised against each other, and rarely refer to the stage. Moreover, when anything really good or impressive is offered to them they will at once forget their grievances and become as quiet as mice. As an instance of this, I recall an evening at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, Birmingham, when Henry Irving was announced to appear as Shylock. It had been raining hard all day, and the streets were filthy with hopeless slush. As the evening drew in the torrents descended pitilessly, but in spite of them great crowds of the faithful had assembled before the doors of the pit and gallery hours earlier than they would be opened to them. Long before curtain-rise the house was uncomfortably crowded. Outside it was wet and muggy. Inside it was oppressively close, and the hot atmosphere was redolent with the odour of saturated clothing and sodden shoe leather. Ill-temper was in the air, and at the commencement of the play the actors were greatly troubled by the noisy quarrels that arose among playgoers ill bestowed. Then Henry Irving made his striking entrance, and, instantaneously, all was silent. As if by magic, he, aided by Ellen Terry as Portia, held his audience as in a vice, and continued to do so until the end of the performance. The only sounds heard in the theatre were those of boisterous applause and ejaculations of half suppressed gratification and emotion. It was a great tribute to the power exercised by the true acting of a masterpiece. [Illustration: ELLEN TERRY AS LORD TENNYSON'S "DORA." _Played in the Provinces in 1879. In London the part was created by Kate Terry._ [_To face page 174._ ]