lunch-parties when the contrast between Booth and Dion
Boucicault struck my youthful mind most forcibly. Booth, with
his deep-set, big black eyes, shaggy hair, and lank figure,
his wonderfully modulated voice, rolled out his theories of
acting, while the bald-headed, rotund Boucicault, his
twinkling eyes snapping like a fox-terrier's, interrupted the
sonorous speeches of the tragedian with crisp, witty
criticisms or "asides" that made the rest of the company laugh
and even brought a smile to the heavy, tragic features of
Booth himself. But there was nothing formal about our
relations with John Sleeper Clark and the Jefferson family.
They were real "home folks" and often occupied our spare room,
and when they were with us Richard and I were allowed to come
to all the meals, and, even if unsolicited, freely express our
views on the modern drama.

In later years to our Philadelphia home came Henry Irving and
his fellow player Ellen Terry and Augustin Daly and that
wonderful quartet, Ada Rehan, Mrs. Gilbert, James Lewis, and
our own John Drew. Sir Henry I always recall by the first
picture I had of him in our dining-room, sitting far away from
the table, his long legs stretched before him, peering
curiously at Richard and myself over black-rimmed glasses and
then, with equal interest, turning back to the ash of a long
cigar and talking drama with the famous jerky, nasal voice but
always with a marvellous poise and convincing authority. He
took a great liking to Richard in those days, sent him a
church-warden's pipe that he had used as Corporal Brewster,
and made much of him later when my brother was in London.
Miss Terry was a much less formal and forbidding guest,