THE MOST IMPRESSIVE 
SIGHT I EVER SAW. 
VII. — Miss Ellen Terry. 
VIII.— Sir Hiram Maxim. 
IX. — Chevalier Gimstrelli. 
In this striking series of articles a number of eminent men and women 
have consented to describe " the most impressive sight " they have ever 
seen Their stories, as will be realized by the following examples, will 
be of the most varied and, in many cases, thrilling kind. 
VII. 
My Jubilee Celebration at Drury Lane m 1906. 
By ELLEN TERRY. 
Illustrated ty A. DAVIDSON. 
N a very crowded life I don’t 
think that I have ever seen 
a sight which has made quite 
so deep an impression on me 
as the recognition by the 
public and by my profession 
of my stage jubilee in 1906. 
The matinee given in my honour by my 
brother and sister artistes was, indeed, a truly 
wonderful sight. And I appreciated it all 
the more deeply because all the time I knew 
perfectly well that this moving show of honour 
and “ friending was not really for me at all. 
Never for a single instant did I forget that the 
honour was not mine alone, but that I was 
only sharing it with the great man with whom 
I had worked for over a quarter of a century. 
Quite a short time before his death, in 1905, 
Henry Irving had told me that he understood 
that “ they ” — the members of the theatrical 
profession — were thinking of “ celebrating 
our jubilee.” He had also remarked that 
there would be a great performance at Drury 
Lane, but after his death, largely, I think, 
because I could not bear to let my thoughts 
rest on such a possibility as a jubilee celebra- 
tion without my dear friend, I thought no 
more of the matter. 
But at last the great day arrived, and 
every moment of it I enjoyed to the full. 
And yet to a certain extent I was acting a 
part, for, as I gazed on the brilliant spectacle 
at Drury Lane’s historical old theatre, my 
thoughts were dwelling all the time on Henry 
Irving’s last days. I remembered how his 
health had first begun to fail in 1896. How, 
after the first night of a revival of “ Richard 
III.” he had slipped on the stairs, painfully 
injuring his knee, and how, with that cheerful 
fortitude which never left him, he had 
struggled to his feet and walked to his room, 
declaring that “ it was nothing.” And yet 
that “ nothing ” kept him from acting for 
weeks. 
I recalled, too, a visit I paid him at Wolver- 
hampton at a time when the end of his life 
was near at hand indeed. As I gazed on that 
wonderful scene at Drury Lane I remembered 
that I had arrived late at Wolverhampton, 
that I could not get a room at any good 
hotel, and that the next morning I could not 
even find a good florist. At last I did find' 
a florist, but he dealt chiefly in white flowers 
— funeral flowers. And I had wanted some 
bright-coloured ones. 
Then the talk I had had with the doctor 
came back to me. He had told me quite 
frankly that Henry Irving’s heart was 
dangerously weak, and that he had told him 
so, and that he had understood quite 
well. The doctor said, too, that he had 
warned his patient that he must not work so 
hard in future. To that I had replied : 
“ He will, though — and he’s stronger than 
anyone.” 
After that conversation my thoughts 
carried me to the room in which Henry lay. 
I had found him, his old dressing-gown 
