Of her reading of Lady Teazle in the screen scene of "The School for Scandal," it was recorded that her tenderly, tremulous, and broken accents touchingly conveyed the womanly contrition which so pathetically points the moral of a dramatic incident in which human infirmity, passion, perfidy, generosity of sentiment, and youthful gaiety and frivolity are so wonderfully and skilfully blended. And of her Dora, it was "something more than a mere stage-picture--a living, breathing reality, a perfect embodiment of Tennyson's conception." In the September of 1880 a very interesting event took place, and as it foreshadowed one of my heroine's greatest subsequent triumphs I shall speak of it at length--or rather, I shall take the liberty of letting that eminent critic, Mr. Davenport Adams, speak for me. "On Friday, September 3rd, Miss Ellen Terry will play Beatrice _for the first time on any stage_ at the Grand Theatre, Leeds." That was his text for an article from his pen that appeared in that unhappily defunct periodical, _The Theatre_ magazine. "I forget," he continues, "when and where I first cast eyes on this delectable announcement. It may have been here, it may have been there. I only know that when I saw it I came to an immediate and irrevocable resolution. Miss Terry as Beatrice! Why, it was one of the dreams of my existence! I say 'one of the dreams,' because I had hoped, and still hope, to see Miss Terry not only as Beatrice, but as Viola, and Imogen, and Rosalind, and perchance as Juliet, if the gods but prove propitious. But Miss Terry as Beatrice! To me it was an 'opening paradise.' My dreams were coming true. Here was the first instalment, and who should say when the remainder might not be realised? Assuredly there might be some who would resist such an attraction as the above; but I was not among them. Friday, September 3rd, saw me duly speeding northwards as fast as the Midland Railway Company could be induced to carry me. I had never been in Leeds before, and I do not hesitate to say that, save under similar provocation, I have no anxiety to go there again. Yet what cannot the imagination do for one? For me, on this occasion, Leeds was 'apparelled in celestial light.' Boar Lane and Briggate became for the nonce the primrose path which led me to the halcyon doors of the Grand Theatre. And fine doors they are! Everything is a little new, perhaps; there is nothing of the venerable temple of the drama about this brand-new building, with its imposing frontage and evident commodiousness. Clearly, you say to yourself, this is a specimen of recent handiwork, and requires time in which to mellow; but once get through the delightfully cool passages, which lead from the vestibule to the stalls--once put your foot within the auditorium--and you are charmed with everything you see. It may be all very fresh, but it is all very magnificent and impressive. _O si sic omnes!_ If every theatre roof