in pursuit of her profession over the vast continent which stretches from the Atlantic to the Pacific.  Here she may be found often busy with her part when the faint rose begins to steal over the tree tops at early dawn; or sometimes when the world is asleep, and the only sounds are the wind, as it sighs mournfully through the neighboring wood, or the far-off murmur of the Atlantic waves as they dash sullenly upon the beach.  On a still summer’s night she will wander sometimes, a fair Rosalind, such as Shakespeare would have loved, in the neighboring grove, and wake its silent echoes as she recites the Great Master’s lines; or she will stand upon the flower-clad veranda, under the moonlight, her hair stirred softly by the summer wind, and it becomes to her the balcony from which Juliet murmurs the story of her love to a ghostly Romeo beneath.

A large English deerhound, who was dozing at her feet when we entered the room, starts up with his mistress, and after a lazy stretch seems to ask to join in the welcome.  Mary Anderson explains that he is an old favorite, dear from his resemblance to a hound which figures in some of the portraits of Mary Queen of Scots.  He has failed ignominiously in an attempted training for a dramatic career, and can do no more than howl a doleful and distracting accompaniment to his mistress’ voice in singing.  We glance round the room, and see that the walls are covered with portraits of eminent actors, living and dead, with here and there bookcases filled with favorite dramatic authors; in a corner a bust of Shakespeare; and on a velvet stand a stage dagger which once belonged to Sarah Siddons.  Over the mantelpiece is a huge elk’s head, which fell to the rifle of General Crook, and was presented to Mary Anderson by that renowned American hunter; and here, under a glass case, is a stuffed hawk, a deceased actor and former colleague.  Dressed in appropriate costume he used to take the part of the Hawk in Sheridan Knowles’ comedy of “Love,” in which Mary Anderson played the Countess.  The story of this bird’s training is as characteristic of her passion for stage realism as of that indomitable power of will to overcome obstacles, to which much of her success is due.  She determined to have a live hawk for the part instead of the conventional stuffed one of the stage, and with some difficulty procured a half-wild bird from a menagerie.  Arming herself with strong spectacles and heavy gauntlets, she spent many a weary day in the painful process of “taming the shrew.”  After a long struggle, in which she came off sometimes torn and bleeding, the bird was taught to fly from the falconer’s shoulder on to her outstretched finger and stay there while she recited the lines—­

“How nature fashioned him for his bold trade! 
Gave him his stars of eyes to range abroad. 
His wings of glorious spread to mow the air
And breast of might to use them!”

and then, by tickling his feet, he would fly off:  and flap his wings appropriately, while she went on—­