bled in one of the theatres of
Louisville, Kentucky, to see "the first appearance upon any stage" of "a
young lady of Louisville," who was announced to play Shakespeare's
Juliet. That young lady was in fact a girl, in her sixteenth year, who
had never received any practical stage training, whose education had
been comprised in five years of ordinary schooling, whose observation of
life had never extended beyond the narrow limits of a provincial city,
who was undeveloped, unheralded, unknown, and poor, and whose only
qualifications for the task she had set herself to accomplish were the
impulse of genius and the force of commanding character. She dashed at
the work with all the vigour of abounding and enthusiastic youth, and
with all the audacity of complete inexperience. A rougher performance of
Juliet probably was never seen, but through all the disproportion and
turbulence of that effort the authentic charm of a beautiful nature was
distinctly revealed. The sweetness, the sincerity, the force, the
exceptional superiority and singular charm of that nature could not be
mistaken. The uncommon stature and sumptuous physical beauty of the girl
were obvious. Above all, her magnificent voice--copious, melodious,
penetrating, loud and clear, yet soft and gentle--delighted every ear
and touched every heart. The impersonation of Juliet was not highly
esteemed by judicious hearers; but some persons who saw that performance
felt and said that a new actress had risen and that a great career had
begun. Those prophetic voices were right. That "young lady of
Louisville" was Mary Anderson.

It is seldom in stage history that the biographer comes upon such a
character as that of Mary Anderson, or is privileged to muse over the
story of such a career as she has had. In many cases the narrative of
the life of an actress is a narrative of talents perverted, of
opportunity misused, of failure, misfortune, and suffering. For one
story like that of Mrs. Siddons there are many like that of Mrs.
Robinson. For one name like that of Charlotte Cushman or that of Helen
Faucit there are many like that of Lucille Western or that of Matilda
Heron--daughters of sorrow and victims of trouble. The mind lingers,
accordingly, impressed and pleased with a sense of sweet personal worth
as well as of genius and beauty upon the record of a representative
American actress, as noble as she was brilliant, and as lovely in her
domestic life as she was beautiful,