“His eyes are full of sparkle, his smile is a ripple over his face, and his laugh is as cherry and natural as a bird’s song....  This Joey is Miss Ellen Terry’s son, and the apple of her eye.  On this Wednesday night, January 14, 1885, he spoke his first lines upon the stage.  His mother has high hopes of this child’s dramatic future.  He has the instinct and the soul of art in him.  Already the theater is his home.  His postures and his playfulness with the gardener, his natural and graceful movement, had been the subject of much drilling, of study and practice.  He acquitted himself beautifully and received the wise congratulations of his mother, of Mr. Irving, and of the company.”

That is the nicest newspaper notice I have ever read!

At Chicago I made my first speech.  The Haverley Theater, at which we first appeared in 1884, was altered and rechristened the “Columbia” in 1885.  I was called upon for a speech after the special performance in honor of the occasion, consisting of scenes from “Charles I.,” “Louis XI,” “The Merchant of Venice,” and “The Bells,” had come to an end.  I think it must be the shortest speech on record: 

     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been asked to christen your beautiful
     theater.  ‘Hail Columbia!’”

When we acted in Brooklyn we used to stay in New York and drive over that wonderful bridge every night.  There were no trolley cars on it then.  I shall never forget how it looked in winter, with the snow and ice on it—­a gigantic trellis of dazzling white, as incredible as a dream.  The old stone bridges were works of art.  This bridge, woven of iron and steel for a length of over 500 yards, and hung high in the air over the water so that great ships can pass beneath it, is the work of science.  It looks as if it had been built by some power, not by men at all.

It was during our week at Brooklyn in 1885 that Henry was ill, too ill to act for four nights.  Alexander played Benedick, and got through it wonderfully well.  Then old Mr. Mead did (did is the word) Shylock.  There was no intention behind his words or what he did.

I had such a funny batch of letters on my birthday that year.  “Dear, sweet Miss Terry, etc., etc.  Will you give me a piano?"!! etc., etc.  Another:  “Dear Ellen.  Come to Jesus.  Mary.”  Another, a lovely letter of thanks from a poor woman in the most ghastly distress, and lastly an offer of a two years’ engagement in America.  There was a simple coming in for one woman acting at Brooklyn on her birthday!

Brooklyn is as sure a laugh in New York as the mother-in-law in a London music hall.  “All cities begin by being lonesome,” a comedian explained, “and Brooklyn has never gotten over it.”

My only complaint against Brooklyn was that they would not take Fussie in at the hotel there.  Fussie, during these early American tours, was still my dog.  Later on he became Henry’s.  He had his affections alienated by a course of chops, tomatoes, strawberries, “ladies’ fingers” soaked in champagne, and a beautiful fur rug of his very own presented by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts!