almost total absence of any experience of the representation by others of
the parts which she sought to make her own. She had seen Charlotte
Cushman; indeed, in "Meg Merrilies," but of the true rendering of a part
so difficult and complex as Shakespeare's Juliet, she knew absolutely
nothing but what she had been taught by the promptings of her own artistic
instinct. She was herself the only Juliet, as she was the only Bianca, and
the only Evadne, she had ever seen upon any stage. In those days she had,
perhaps, never heard the remark of Mademoiselle Mars, who was the most
charming of Juliets at sixty. "Si j'avais ma jeunesse, je n'aurais pas mon
talent."

Coming back then to her Kentucky home from the ill-starred Californian
trip, Mary Anderson seems to have determined to essay again the lowest
steps of the ladder of fame. She took a summer engagement with a company,
which was little else than a band of strolling players. The _repertoire_
was of the usual ambitious character, and Mary was able to assume once
more her favorite _role_ of Juliet. The company was deficient in a Romeo,
and the part was consequently undertaken by a lady--a _role_ by the way in
which Cushman achieved one of her greatest triumphs. In spite, however, of
the young star, the little band played to sadly empty houses, and the
treasury was so depleted that, in the generosity of her heart, Mary
Anderson proposed to organize a benefit _matinee_, and play Juliet. She
went down to the theater at the appointed hour and dressed for her part.
After some delay a man strayed into the pit, then a couple of boys peeped
over the rails of the gallery, and, at last, a lady entered the
dress-circle. The disheartened manager was compelled at length to appear
before the curtain and announce that, in consequence of the want of public
support, the performance could not take place. That day Mary Anderson
walked home to her hotel through the quiet streets of the little Kentucky
town--which shall be nameless--with a sort of miserable feeling at her