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"THE BRIGHT PARTICULAR STAR" OF THE STAGE.

LONDON: GEORGE VICKERS, ANGEL COURT, STRAND, W.C.

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THE STAGE LIFE OF MISS MARY ANDERSON.

ON the 28th of July, 1859, was born Miss Mary Anderson, the reigning star of the London Lyceum Theatre, and the most successful leading lady that America has ever sent over upon our boards in exchange for the innumerable luminaries that have shed lustre on the theatre of Brother Jonathan. This auspicious dramatic event took place in the Californian City, San Francisco.

General Anderson, her father, was killed in battle during the Civil War of the United and the Confederate States, when the little lady was not much over two years old. But long before that her parents had moved to Louisville, the principal city of the State of Kentucky, where the child was educated.

The martial sire had notable dramatic proclivities, and as Mrs. Anderson is possessed of a similar taste, the choice of the offspring's career seems to have been rather a matter of predilection. Ever since she was able to speak, she seems, too, inspired with that truly American proclivity for "rearing up and orating" which startles the intelligent foreigner in that astonishing country of precocity. These dramatic recitations began to attract notice in the family circle, and the future Queen of "Comedy and Tragedy," was often placed on the centre table to give them "The Boy stood on the burning deck," and similar popular specimens of what Artemus Ward called "spoken" in the wheel of Thespian fortune.

As the girl was in her teens, this flattered vanity had the logical sequence: the youth felt the love for the study of things theatric so engross her that she would shut herself up in a small quiet room for almost all of a day, in order to devote the whole time uninterruptedly to hard and earnest if unguided study.

That fine old English actor of the old and best school, Mr. George Vandenhoff (who, it may be remembered, threw up a London engagement and returned to America rather than bow the knee to Baal, in a time when burlesque was supreme), had his attention directed to the promising lily-bud. Miss Mary became his pupil in 1873, and in such capable and well-informed control lost much of the crudity of nature and independent study. Indeed, Miss Charlotte Cushman (the first actress to make Meg Merrilies the leading part in "Guy Mannering," which, until she came to England, was the show-piece of the tenor and low comedian) no sooner heard her recite than she predicted that the principal actress of America stood in incipiency before her. Only with that very different idea of what constitutes the thoroughly fit performer to that which hails the six months' pupil of the Juliet-trainer as worthy all the honours of a Faucit or Miss Heath, Miss Cushman prescribed five years' practical efforts and all the stated training.

Nevertheless, two years' of the closet were pronounced sufficient by other advisers, and so on the 27th of November, 1875, Miss Mary Anderson made her first appearance on any stage upon that of Macauley's Theatre, Louisville (named not, alas! after our noted historian, but after the local celebrity the manager). The character was Juliet, that lodestar of dramatic aspirants.

A little pause occurred after this receiving the (Kentish) fire before the novice plunged into the real battles of the campaign of her young ambition.

Then her regular engagements began, on the 20th day of the second month in the next year, whereupon she appeared at the same theatre.

The virginal beauty, the grace, the intelligence, the pure look out of the eyes, the chaste smile, and the evident desire of the debutante to do her "level best," which always wins an American audience, captured the Kentuckians, who admire a fair woman only a little less than they do a fine horse. Besides, the birth of the new divinity in California was ignored, and the Southerners claimed her as their own.

Never were panegyrics more extravagant. All that has been said in praise of Rachel, Garrick, Edmund Kean, Malibran, Grisi-all was outdone by the Wild Western dramatic critics.

This is smothering an idol with smoke, whilst incensing her.

Cooler heads, though welcoming any one who did not fall on the Scylla of melodrama and the Charybdis of burlesque, regretted, however, the training which was incommensurate with undoubtedly great natural talent. When contrasted with the European artistes, who visited the United States, the unprejudiced saw that the truant is inferior to the regular scholar. Whilst Miss Anderson often fell short or went aside of her an in a stroke of inborn vigour, the perfected actress, such as Madame Modjeska, for example, surely reached the point with the steadiness of dramatic education.

But the masses did not have opportunities of seeing such finished contrasts, especially those along the route of Miss Anderson's first tour through the Southern States. Out of town, all was enthusiasm, but the press in the great cities spoke the truths to which theatrical people are always peculiarly sensitive. In Chicago, the Queen City of the West, rival inveterate of St. Louis, the Queen City of the South West, the criticisms seemed merely embittered because the lady had been hailed so heartily by the latter. In San Francisco, too, the plea of Miss Anderson's birth thereabouts availed very little.

The fact is, the American ess is so independent that she (more particularly than her brother American) chafes at being encumbered with extraneous learning. At the same time, though, there is much in a profession which no instinct will provide. And the cavillers were quite right in many of their comments.

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THE STAGE LIFE OF MISS MARY ANDERSON.

3

In travelling the Western and Southern States, where the mode of lighting varies in every theatre, only the expert in making-up the face could have met the different requirements, and, at that time, the new Juliet hardly knew what the word meant, and was too proud or diffident to ask any old stager to give half a dozen lessons. The beauty unadorned, therefore, did not always look her best in the stage glare.

Her repertoire was in course of extension, and, hence, her wardrobe was exceedingly limited, especially when compared with some foreign importations whose Paris dresses almost formed one transatlantic steamship's cargo to dazzle the Yankees.

Baltimore, somehow or other, never lauded the young Siddons, although her manager, Mr. Ford (the honourable manager who has paid English authors for acting their pieces, though in no wise legally bound), was "native and to that manor born."

In Boston, however, the city which is gradually fading into unimportance, just as the New England States generally lose the best part of their population annually by exodus west, the "people of culture went raving, in their calm, stately raving, over the highly intelligent, statuesquely beauteous young Southerner." Any one would have thought they were trying to quench their remorse at having been most active in manufacturing ammunition to be employed in the War against the Southerners, as beauteous and intelligent, who became, thanks to Concord shells and Springfield rifle balls, very statuesque indeed. Whatever the reason, Miss Anderson says "I have never been in any place in which I have met with a more generous reception, or made more enthusiastic friends." Longfellow, the poet, was notably kind to her. He not only came time after time to see her play, but visited her and became her warm personal friend.

So her theatrical line was unwound off the reel; all the cities acclaimed her, and the country looked forward to the Anderson Week, with the classical plays to which she confined herself, and which we hardly ever see, and only then to hem and haw at, during some Gaiety matinée, as a consolation after "the Terrible Ten Thousand" melodramas with real live crocodiles and the so-called British Blonde Burlesquistes who are burlesques of poor forked mortality, true, but neither Blonde nor British, thank the gods!

Then came the reconnoitring before the conquest of London, that preliminary European tour of observation, which every American actress who respects herself must find time to execute. Miss Anderson came over and saw, but did not linger to conquer, that time.

It was a delightful voyage. The Paris theatres were open to the great young American tragedienne, whose beauty was of a rare type to their managers' eyes. Madame Sarah Bernhardt-Damala and Madame Ristori, both of whom had travelled in "the States," were ever so obliging and cordial.

Paris was the place to learn all about make-up and dresses, and when the American Tragedy-queen returned among the children of the Spread-Eagle, they ceased to pick flaws in any of her brand new Worthy costumes, you may be sure.

For awhile, then, the triumphant lady's life passed smoothly; and her range of characters widened into great extent. We have yet to see her, therfeore, in many an almost novelty to the play-goer of this generation, such as Bianca in "Fazio," Meg Merrilies in " Guy Mannering," Bertha in "Roland's Daughter," Evadne in "the Statue," etc., etc.

To the theatrical comet-finders who calculate the appearance in our meridian of foreign "children of fame," the advent of Miss Anderson in London was a foregone conclusion.

Indeed, when the enterprising impresario Mr. Henry E. Abbey arranged for Mr. Irving to cross the Big Drink with his company and its paraphernalia, it was surmised that the Lyceum would not be long vacant. The devotees of Shakespeare and the poetic drama were accordingly gratified by learning in July, 1882, that Mr. Abbey's lease ran from September, 1883, till the June following, and that the subject of our memoir would mainly occupy the stage.

The usual pilot balloons were seen overhead; no one can tell, so dark are the ways of the theatrical manager, what truth was in an alleged refusal of the author to let Miss Anderson appear in his "Pygmalion," when her Galatea had been the most impressively beautiful and suitable impersonation of all her ôles.

Whatever the cause, it was in an obsolete blank-verse play, Lovell's "Ingomar," that the new goddess of the Irving Temple was first seen.

The World said that the new-comer was "quite the most complete and charming actress that America has given to England." In fact, Miss Mowatt was merely a society lady; Miss Cushman best in masculine and eccentric parts; Miss Bateman had a small stature, and her voice had been broken by her severe course as an infant phenomenon; Miss Reignolds, Miss Davenport (an English woman, however, by birth), and others, came here too late in their days. The World, this time, spoke with Truth. Nevertheless, some objected to the "reserved force" of the passionless vestal, which was only the more apparent in the Galatea which Mr. Gilbert allowed to be unveiled and tread the stage with attitudes which would have inspired Lander, and ought to have fired Mr. Swinburne. But all this vague murmur was diverted to swell the universal chorus of rapturous admiration when, in "Comedy and Tragedy," a one-act "show" piece, which gave the artiste opportunity to run up and down the whole gamut of passion, Miss Anderson went straight to the heart of the British Lion.

And besides becoming "beloved of the gods," the Lyceum star attracts society is not the cup full?

THE LOVE SCENE.

"ROMEO AND JULIET." Act iii., sc. 5. The Sleeping Chamber of Lady Juliet Capulet, by morning.

Enter ROMEO and JULIET.

Ful. WILT thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear: Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

:

Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I
It is some meteor, that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet-thou need'st not be gone.
Rom. Let me ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,
"Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay, than will to go :-
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so--
How is't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day.

Jul. It is, it is, hie hence, begone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :

Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence, with hunts-up to the day.
>, now be gone : more light and light it grows.
Rom. More light and light?--more dark and dark

our woes.

Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.

(Romeo descends over the balcony.) Jul. Art thou gone so? my love my lord! my friend!

I must hear from thee every day i' the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:

O by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Jul. O, think'st thou, we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Jul. O God! I have an ill-divining soul: Methinks, I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu! (Exit Romeo.)

Jul. O fortune, fortune all men call thee fickle : If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him, That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, fortune : For then I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, But send him back.

DORKINS' NIGHT.

THE theatre was full, it was Dorkins' night,
That is, Dorkins was going to appear
At night in a favourite comedy part,
For he was comedian here.
Funny? why, he'd make you laugh

Till the tears ran down your cheeks like rain,
And as long as Dorkins was on the stage
You'd try to stop laughing in vain.

A family? yes, he'd a family,
And he loved them as dear as life,
And you'd scarcely find a happier lot
Than Dorkins' children and wife.

There came one night, and I was in front,
And Dorkins was going to play

A character new to himself and the stage
That he'd trod for so many a day.

By eight the theatre was perfectly crammed,
All waiting a pleasant surprise,
For they knew they would laugh
Till their sides would ache,

And they longed for the curtain to rise.
The play soon began :

Each neck was stretched forth,

And eagerly watched each eye

For Dorkins to make his "first entrance," And then to give him a cheerful “ Hi, hi!”

He soon appeared amid loud applause,

But something was wrong you could see, "Dorkins is playing quite badly to-night," The people said sitting round me.

A hiss? yes, it was. I saw Dorkins start
As though stung by a serpent's fang;
Then he'd cast a beseeching glance all around,
And his head on his breast would hang.
"He's drunk," and really I thought so myself,
For to me it was awful at times

To see how he'd struggle along with his part,
And continually "stick" in his lines.

The footlights at last he approached very slow, And "Ladies and Gentlemen," said, "If I cannot please you to-night,

The fault's not the heart, but the head. There's many a night I've made you all laugh When I could scarcely well stand,

And every effort was pain to me then,
Yes, if even I raised but my hand.

You hiss me to-night,

And think that I'm drunk

(From his heart came a sob and a moan);

I'll tell you the reason

I know you won't laugh

I've a little one dying at home."

HERMIONE'S DEFENCE...

"WINTER'S TALE" Act iii, SC. 2.

(A Court of Justice, to try the Queen Hermione. Officer reads indictment.)

Officer:

"HE ERMIONE, queen to the worthy Leontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, king of Bohemia; and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night."

Her. Since what I am to say, must be but that Which contradicts my accusation; and

The testimony on my part, no other

But what comes from myself: it shall scarce boot

me

To say, Not guilty; mine integrity
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,
Be so received. But thus,-If powers divine
Behold our human actions (as they do),

I doubt not then, but innocence shall make
False accusation blush, and tyranny

Tremble at patience.-You, my lord, best know
(Who least will seem to do so) my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As I am now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, though devised.
And play'd, to take spectators: For behold me,
A moiety of the king, a great king's daughter,
The mother to a hopeful prince,-here standing,
To prate and talk for life, and honour, 'fore
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,

And only that I stand for. I appeal

To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes
Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrent I

Have strain'd, to appear thus: if one jot beyond
The bound of honour, or in act or will
That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin
Cry, Fie upon my grave!

SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.
BY MARY D. BRINE.

THE woman was old, and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of a Winter's day;
The streets were white with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet with age were slow,
At the crowded crossing she waited long,
Jostled aside by the careless throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Giad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep;
Past the woman, so old and gray,
Hasten the children on their way.
None offered a helping hand to her,
So weak and timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horse's feet
Should trample her down in the slippery street.
At last came out of the merry troop
The gayest boy of all the group;
He paused beside her, and whispered low,
"I'll help you across, if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were young and strong;
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged, and poor and slow;
And some one, some time, may lend a hand
To help my mother-you understand?—
If ever she's poor, and old and gray,
And her own dear boy so far away."
"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head,
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was: "God be kind to that noble boy,
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."
Faint was the voice, and worn and weak,
But heaven lists when its chosen speak;
Angels caught the faltering word,
And "Somebody's Mother's" prayer was heard.

THE DESPAIR OF EVADNE.
SHEIL'S "EVADNE." Act. ii, sc. 1.

Evadne:

ΑΝ

N angel now would vainly plead my cause Within Vicentio's heart-therefore, my lord,

I have no intent to interrupt the rite

That makes that lady yours; but I am come
Thus breathless as you see me-would to heav'n
I could be tearless too!

Hear all the vengeance I intend. I'll tell you.
May you be happy with that happier maid'
That never could have loved you more than I do,
But may deserve you better! May your days,
Like a long stormless summer, glide away,
And peace and trust be with you!
And when at last you close your gentle lives,
Blameless as they were blessed, may you fall
Into the grave as softly as the leaves
Of two sweet roses on an autumn eve,
Beneath the soft sighs of the western wind;
For myself (sobbing), I will but pray
The maker of the lonely beds of peace
To open one of his deep hollow ones,
Where misery goes to sleep, and let me in;
If ever you chance to pass beside my grave,
I am sure you'll not refuse a little sigh,
And if with my friend (I still will call her so),
My friend, Olivia, chide you, pr'ythee tell her
Not to be jealous of me in my grave.

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