Illustrated Interviews.
No. XVII.—MISS ELLEN TERRY.
Tower Cottage—"Prince" and his mistress.
From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry.
N the course of my chat with Mr. Irving, which appeared in the September number of this Magazine, I casually hinted at a little something which practically amounted to a promise. It was a note from Miss Ellen Terry. That note has been honoured, and it is a pleasurable effort to sit down and endeavour to recollect all that happened during nearly a couple of days spent with her at London and Winchelsea. Eminent people who are homely are positive blessings—and that is just what Ellen Terry is. The first word she said to me when I reached Winchelsea, as she sat holding the reins behind Tommy, the pony, whilst Punch, her dog, seemed to be barking an invitation to take my seat by its mistress's side, was "Welcome!" I shall always remember that greeting and what came of it.
But Winchelsea must wait for a few pages—there is the house in Barkston Gardens to be visited first, and then away to "Holiday Home." If you walked round the square of great red brick houses at Earl's Court which constitutes Barkston Gardens, in the summer time, you would have no diffiulty in finding Miss Terry's house. Its number is—flowers—flowers—flowers! They fill the window-sills and block the balcony of the drawing-room. A man may be known by the pictures he hangs on his walls—so may a woman by the flowers she puts in her vases and windows. Here at Barkston Gardens they are of the simplest and homeliest kind, the tiny blue-bell, marguerite, and the cottage nasturtium. Within this floral exterior I met Miss Terry. She wore a long black gown, which to me suggested Portia. She is tall, handsome, with a mouth that has a struggle on the stage to keep away the smiles which refuse to be overcome, and eyes that look at you and twinkle with heart-born merriment. Yet against all this there is a stately grace which indicates what falls to the lot of few women—a merry mood at all times, and gifted genius ever shining through it.
Dear old Mrs. Rumball—her friend of twenty years—sat there watching her every movement.
"My little home!" said Miss Terry, as I entered—"only full of twopenny-halfpenny
