very actors who rehearsed with her were Job’s comforters.  She saw in their faces a dreary vista of empty houses, of hostile critics, of general disaster.  She almost broke down under the trial, and the sight of her first play-bill which told that the die was irrevocably cast for good or evil made her heart sink with fear.  On going down to the theater upon the opening night she found, with mingled pleasure and surprise, that on both sides of the Atlantic fellow artists were regarding her with kindly sympathizing hearts.  Her dressing-room was filled with beautiful floral offerings from many distinguished actors in England and America, while telegrams from Booth, McCullough, Lawrence Barrett, Irving, Ellen Terry, Christine Nilsson, and Lillie Langtry, bade her be of good courage, and wished her success.  The overture smote like a dirge on her ear, and when the callboy came to announce that the moment of her entrance was at hand, it reminded her of nothing so much as the feeling of mourners when the sable mute appears at the door, as a signal to form the procession to the tomb.  But in a moment the ordeal was safely passed, and passed forever so far as an English audience is concerned.  Seldom has any actress received so warm and enthusiastic a reception.  Mary Anderson confesses now that never till that moment did she experience anything so generous and so sympathetic, and offered to one who was then but “a stranger in a strange land.”  Mary Anderson’s Parthenia was a brilliant success.  Her glorious youth, her strange beauty, her admirable impersonation of a part of exceptional difficulty, won their way to all hearts.  A certain amount of nervousness and timidity was inevitable to a first performance.  The sudden revulsion of feeling, from deep despondency to complete triumphant success, made it difficult, at times, for the actress to master her feelings sufficiently to make her words audible through the house.  One candid youth in the gallery endeavored to encourage her with a kindly “Speak up, Mary.”  The words recalled her in an instant to herself, and for the rest of the evening she had regained her wonted self-possession.

From that time till Mary Anderson’s first Lyceum season closed, the world of London flocked to see her.  The house was packed nightly from floor to ceiling, and she is said to have played to more money than the distinguished lessee of the theater himself.  Among the visitors with whom Mary Anderson was a special favorite were the prince and princess.  They witnessed each of her performances more than once, and both did her the honor to make her personal acquaintance, and compliment her on her success.  So many absurd stories have been circulated as to Mary Anderson’s alleged unwillingness to meet the Prince of Wales, that the true story may as well be told once for all here.  On one of the early performances of “Ingomar,” the prince and princess occupied the royal box, and the prince caused it to be intimated to Mary Anderson