[77] “It was a chicken! Now, as all the chickens had names--Sultan, Sultan, Duke, Lord Tom Noddy, Lady Teazle, and so forth--and as I was very proud of them as living birds, it was a great wrench to kill one at all, to start with. It was the murder of Sultan, not the killing of a chicken. However, at last it was done, and Sultan deprived of his feathers, floured, and trussed. I had no idea _how_ this was all done, but I tried to make him ‘sit up’ nicely like the chickens in the shops. “He came up to the table looking magnificent--almost turkey-like in his proportions. “‘Hasn’t this chicken rather an odd smell?’ said our visitor. “‘How can you!’ I answered. ‘It must be quite fresh--it’s Sultan!’ “However, when we began to carve, the smell grew more and more potent. “_I had cooked Sultan without taking out his in’ards!_ “There was no dinner that day except bread-sauce, beautifully made, well-cooked vegetables, and pastry like the foam of the sea. I had a wonderful hand for pastry.” [78] Of her first night as Portia the _London Daily News_ said: “This is indeed the Portia that Shakespeare drew. The bold innocence, the lively wit and quick intelligence, the grace and elegance of manner, and all the youth and freshness of this exquisite creation can rarely have been depicted in such harmonious combination. Nor is this delightful actress less successful in indicating the tenderness and depth of passion which lie under that frolicsome exterior. Miss Terry’s figure, at once graceful and commanding, and her singularly sweet and expressive countenance, doubtless aid her much; but this performance is essentially artistic, ... in the style of art which cannot be taught.” [79] Clement Scott. [80] Ellen Terry dismisses Ibsen’s women as “silly ladies,” “drawn in straight lines,” and easy to play; a characteristic, if radically unjustified view. [81] “She has always been an indefatigable and charming letter-writer, one of the greatest letter writers that ever lived,” says Mr. Shaw, the happy recipient of many of her letters. [82] On one of her last American tours Miss Terry attended in New York the first night of a young playwright’s new work, and at the end of the third act he was presented to her. She congratulated him warmly: “It is very good,” she said, “your play is very good indeed, and I shall send all my American friends to see it.” “In that case,” said the playwright, with a very low and courtly bow, “my little piece will sell ninety million tickets.”