In his own merry manner he would say: “People always mean blame when they talk of criticism. But I can _blame_ myself; all I want from others is praise--fulsome praise.” And so it was! He had the need of it which came of the Celtic blend of self-confidence and apprehensiveness. Often have I heard him say of another of like blood: “He couldn’t swim across the stream if he hadn’t our native conceit.” And then add gravely: “Believe me, praise is the only sort of criticism that ever helped a man on his road.” And in his own opportunities as critic and editor he always acted up to this belief. In these rosy days of our early struggles and joys, the “first nights” at which Joe was due in his capacity of dramatic critic were red-letter days to me. The occasion when Ellen Terry first played Portia under the Bancroft management of the famous little House in Tottenham Court Road was one of them; I can see her again in her china-blue and white brocade dress with one crimson rose at her bosom. Neither the fashion of the dress or of the coiffure were perhaps as correct to the period as the costumes which I designed for her later on for the better remembered run of _The Merchant of Venice_ at the Lyceum; but how lovely she looked and how emphatically Joe picked her out as the evening’s star beside Coghlan’s Jew! Our hearts beat with pride at the laurels often gathered by our friend, even in those early days before her long list of triumphs with Henry Irving; and Joe, as we made our way home, took some credit to himself for the vehement advice as to her resuming her temporarily suspended career, which he had given her a short while before. There were never any first-nights quite like the Ellen Terry ones to us; but there were many pleasant and exciting evenings--notably the nights of Irving’s remarkable performances at a time when he was playing under the Bateman management in _The Bells_, _The Two Roses_, and many other of his early successes; also the famous runs of Robertson comedies at the little _Prince of Wales_ theatre, where the charming Marie Bancroft was at the top of her long popularity and John Hare’s delicate impersonations vied with his manager’s carefully studied portraits of the dandy of the day. Mrs. Kendal was also then at the height of her brilliant career, and last but not least, the first performances of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas were nights when the privilege of seats was not easily won. I can recall the first performance of _Iolanthe_, and the laughter that shook the house when the wild applause at the close of the chorus: “_Oh! Captain Shaw, true type of love kept under_,” at last brought the Head of the Fire Brigade to the front of his box for an instant.