In the latter, more tragic portion of the play, the very intensity of the emotion seemed to add maturity and depth to the character of Romeo. Nothing could better supply the notion of impending destiny, of gathering gloom, than the view of the dismal heart-chilling street, the scene of the visit to the apothecary. Our actor’s picturesque sense was shown in his almost perfect conception of this situation. The forlorn look of the houses, the general desolation, the stormy grandeur in keeping with the surroundings, the properly subdued grotesqueness of the seller of simples (it was the grotesqueness of _misery_ that was conveyed), filled the heart with a sadness that was almost real. In Miss Terry’s case there was a division of opinions, some thinking her performance all but perfect, others noting the absence of “girlishness.” All agreed as to its engaging character and its winning charm. Terriss was the Mercutio, which he gave with his favourite blunt impetuosity. But one of the most perfectly played characters was Mrs. Stirling’s Nurse. This accomplished woman represented all the best traditions—high training, admirable elocution, with the art of giving due weight and breadth to every utterance. And yet—here was a curious phenomenon—the very excellence of the delineation disturbed the balance of the play. The Nurse became almost as important as the leading performers, but not from any fault of the actress. She but followed the due course. This is a blemish which is found in many exhibitions of Shakespearian plays, where the inferior actor works up his Dogberry, or his Gravedigger, or his Jacques to the very fullest extent of which they are capable. But there should be subordination; these are merely humours exhibited _en passant_. With an actress of Mrs. Stirling’s powers and rank, the manager no doubt felt too much delicacy to interfere; nor would perhaps the audience have placidly accepted any effacing of her part. But as it was, the figure of this humble retainer became unduly prominent.[31] ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was witnessed one night by the impetuous Sarah Bernhardt, who afterwards came behind the scenes to congratulate the performers. “How can you act in this way every night?” she exclaimed to Ellen Terry. The latter, in her simple, natural way, explained: “It is the audience—they inspire me!” Such was this refined, elegant, and truly brilliant spectacle, which, as usual, furnished “talk for the town,” and stirred its interest. The hundredth night of performance was celebrated by a banquet on the stage, on Sunday night, June 25, 1882. Here assembled critics, dramatists, artists, _e tutti quanti_; there were many admirers, friends, and sympathizers present, some of whom have since passed away—Sir W. Hardman, Dr. Cox, Laman Blanchard, Palgrave Simpson, and many more. There is a sadness in thinking of these disappearances.