he 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 five hundred yards, and hung high in
the air over the water so that great ships can pass beneath it, is the
work of science. It is like the work of some impersonal power.

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 got over it."

_My_ only complaint against Brooklyn was that they would not take Fussie
in at the hotel there. Fussie was still my dog during the early American
tours. 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.

[Illustration: MISS ELLEN TERRY

FROM A SNAP-SHOT TAKEN IN THE UNITED STATES]

_Fussie_

How did I come by Fussie? I went to Newmarket with Rosa Corder, whom
Whistler painted. She was one of those plain-beautiful women who are so
far more attractive than some of the pretty ones. She had wonderful
hair,--like a fair, pale veil,--a white, waxen face, and a very good
figure; and she wore very odd clothes. She had a studio in Southampton
Row, and another at Newmarket, where she went to paint horses. I went to
Cambridge once and drove back with her across the heath to her studio.

"How wonderfully different are the expressions on terriers' faces," I
said to her, looking at a painting of hers of a fox-terrier pup. "That's
the only sort of dog I should like to have."

"That one belonged to Fred Archer," Rosa Corder said. "I daresay he
could get you