bring forth; but thus much we may say with truth, that, whenever Mary
Anderson departs finally from our shores, the name of England will remain
graven on her heart.




CHAPTER VII.

IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND.


Almost every traveler from either side of the Atlantic, with the faintest
pretensions to distinction, bursts forth on his return to his native
shores in a volume of "Impressions." Archæologists and philosophers,
novelists and divines, apostles of sweetness and light, and star actors,
are accustomed thus to favor the public with volumes which the public
could very often be well content to spare. It is but natural that we
should wish to know what Mary Anderson thinks of the "fast-anchored isle"
and the folk who dwell therein. I wish, indeed, that these "Impressions"
could have been given in her own words. The work would have been much
better done, and far more interesting; but failing this, I must endeavor,
following a recent illustrious example, to give them at second hand.
During the earlier months of her stay among us, she lived somewhat the
life of a recluse. Shut up in a pretty villa under the shadow of the
Hampstead Hills, she saw little society but that of a few fellow artists,
who found their way to her on Sunday afternoons. Indeed, she almost shrank
from the idea of entering general society. The English world she wished to
know was a world of the past, peopled by the creations of genius; not the
modern world, which crowds London drawing-rooms. She saw the English