curbed, Irving seems to me to show mannerism, to be lacking in power, and strained; and it is not in him alone I find this fault, but in all foreign actors. There seems to be a limit of passion within which they remain true in their rendering of Nature, but beyond that limit they become transformed, and take on a conventionality in their intonation, exaggeration in their gesture, and mannerism in their bearing." This certainly could not be said with truth of Irving's Louis, Booth's Richard, Cushman's Meg, or Barrett's Cassius. The performance of "Charles I." was, I thought, admirable. Mr. Irving looked as though he had stepped from Van Dyck's canvas. There was something weird in seeing that well-known and beautiful figure out of its frame, moving about the stage. Miss Terry's Henrietta Maria was as charming as her Portia was dazzling, both in look and manner. "The Silver King" at the Princess, with Mr. Wilson Barrett's fine performance, was so poetically treated that it did not seem like a melodrama. Everywhere we noticed the great care bestowed upon the productions. I felt that I should never be able to mount my play (I feared the theatre would be closed after the first night) in the same finished style.

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On going to the Lyceum to arrange the scenery I was surprised to hear that the stage would have to be "set" for the royal box, that it was always done, and that there had better be no exception to the rule. This meant that the stage business would have to be altered so that those in the royal box would miss no point. “But,” said I, “I have come here to play to the English public, and not to the royal box. Besides, the royalties may never come to see me." This carried the day, and the scene was set as it had been in America. The rehearsals soon began, and, as a whole, I found the company a superior one. One and all were kind and helpful, and anxious to assist the general effect. Though my name was unknown, they showed me the greatest courtesy. It was surprising to find that London had never heard of many of our prominent American actors unless they had appeared in England.

Mr. Abbey left the choice of bill for the opening nights to me. Mr. Irving wished me to take the scenery he had used in his fine production of "Romeo and Juliet," and begin the season with that play. But I decided on Parthenia, as being the simplest character in my répertoire, and one in which I could not challenge comparison with

any English favorites, as "Ingomar" had not been done in London for years. When all was in full preparation several managers and critics assured us that it could not succeed, that its old-fashioned sentiment would be received with laughter. But Mr. Abbey trusted in my judgment, and their discouraging predictions did not alter my choice. At the dress rehearsals I hardly recognized the old piece with all its new and beautiful surroundings. After a month of alarms, doubts, and constant dreams of failure, the first night came. The thought that I was about to appear in the land of my greatest dramatic heroine, Sarah Siddons, near the very theatres that had rung with the voices of Garrick, silver-tongued Barry, and Edmund Kean, set my heart beating so that I could hardly stand. The house was full, as is always the case on a first night at the Lyceum. After the applause on my first entrance (I had never received such a long and hearty greeting), I felt that the public of London, so dreaded for months before, had welcomed a stranger in the most friendly spirit. The excitement of the first scenes had evidently weakened me, for in the second act, while weaving garlands for the golden cups, a kindly voice from the pit

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called out: "Mary, please speak up a bit!" This was said with such good feeling that it put an end to my nervousness, and from that moment the play ran smoothly to the end. Every point was received with enthusiasm, and even those who had been so prejudiced against the oldfashioned sentiment voted it a great and instant

success.

Among the many who came behind the scenes to offer their congratulations was Mr. P. T. Barnum, who exclaimed, in his own hearty way, "Hurrah for America! You've won London, or I know nothing of public taste!" Every one seemed unaffectedly pleased at the success of an American girl. The work of an evening and the generous appreciation of a kind public had changed the darkest apprehension into brightest hope for the future.

CHAPTER IX

THE Lyceum season, beginning in September, lasted nearly eight months-a few weeks for "Ingomar" and "The Lady of Lyons," and the remaining time for "Pygmalion and Galatea." The houses were always crowded to overflowing.

The comfort of a cosy room at the theatre, a permanent home to welcome one after the night's work, no railway journeys, and no hotel life were luxuries hitherto unknown in my stage career. It seemed too good to last.

Our first home in London was in Maida Vale -a bright, cheerful place, with high walls enclosing a pretty garden. To me this shady nook, with its brilliant flowers, was delightful. No sound of the outer world seemed to enter there, and, with the exception of a distant churchspire, one could see only the trees, shrubs, and garden walls. It was an easy walk from our house to the Paddington parish church-yard, and we often strolled there, before going to the Lyceum,