“Pit your child into the mustard-pot, Mr. Terry,” said the stage manager.

“D—­n you and your mustard-pot, sir!” said my mortified father.  “I won’t frighten my child for you or anyone else!”

But all the same he was bitterly disappointed at my first dramatic failure, and when we reached home he put me in the corner to chasten me. “You’ll never make an actress!” he said, shaking a reproachful finger at me.

It is my mustard-pot, and why Kate should want it, I can’t think!  She hadn’t yellow hair, and she couldn’t possibly have behaved so badly.  I have often heard my parents say significantly that they had no trouble with Kate!  Before she was four, she was dancing a hornpipe in a sailor’s jumper, a rakish little hat, and a diminutive pair of white ducks!  Those ducks, marked “Kate Terry,” were kept by mother for years as a precious relic, and are, I hope, still in the family archives!

I stick to the mustard-pot, but I entirely disclaim the little Duke of York in Richard III., which some one with a good memory stoutly insists he saw me play before I made my first appearance as Mamilius.  Except for this abortive attempt at Glasgow, I was never on any stage even for a rehearsal until 1856, at the Princess’s Theater, when I appeared with Charles Kean in “A Winter’s Tale.”

The man with the memory may have seen Kate as one of the Princes in the Tower, but he never saw me with her.  Kate was called up to London in 1852 to play Prince Arthur in Charles Kean’s production of “King John,” and after that she acted in all his plays, until he gave up management in 1859.  She had played Arthur during a stock season at Edinburgh, and so well that some one sang her praises to Kean and advised him to engage her.  My mother took Kate to London, and I was left with my father in the provinces for two years.  I can’t recall much about those two years except sunsets and a great mass of shipping looming up against the sky.  The sunsets followed me about everywhere; the shipping was in Liverpool, where father was engaged for a considerable time.  He never ceased teaching me to be useful, alert, and quick.  Sometimes he hastened my perceptive powers with a slipper, and always he corrected me if I pronounced any word in a slipshod fashion.  He himself was a beautiful elocutionist, and if I now speak my language well it is in no small degree due to my early training.

It was to his elocution that father owed his engagement with Macready, of whom he always spoke in terms of the most affectionate admiration in after years, and probably it did him a good turn again with Charles Kean.  An actor who had supported Macready with credit was just the actor likely to be useful to a manager who was producing a series of plays by Shakespeare.  Kate had been a success at the Princess’s, too, in child parts, and this may have reminded Mr. Kean to send for Kate’s father!  At any rate he was sent for towards the end of the year 1853 and left Liverpool for London.  I know I cooked his breakfasts for him in Liverpool, but I haven’t the slightest recollection of the next two years in London.  As I am determined not to fill up the early blanks with stories of my own invention, I must go straight on to 1856, when rehearsals were called at the Princess’s Theater for Shakespeare’s “Winter’s Tale.”