saved her pocket money for the purchase of an appropriate costume, and, resisting, as best she might, the attractions of the sweetmeat shop, managed to accumulate five dollars.  With her mother’s help a little costume was got up—­a purple satin tunic, green silk cape, and plumed hat—­and wearing the traditional hump, the youthful, representative of Richard appeared for the first time before an audience in the Tent Scene, preceded by the Cottage Scene from “The Lady of Lyons.”  The back drawing-room was arranged as a stage; her mother acting as prompter, though her help was little needed; and, judged by the enthusiastic applause of friends and neighbors, the performance was a great success.  The young actress received it all with even more apparent coolness than if she had trodden the boards for years, and made her exits with the calm dignity which she had observed to be Edwin Booth’s manner under similar circumstances.  Indeed, Booth became to her childish fancy the divinity who could open to her the door of the stage she longed so ardently to reach.  She confided to the little colored girl a plan to save their money, and fly to New York to Mr. Booth, and ask him to place her on the stage.  Dinah entered heartily into the affair, and at one time they had managed to hoard as much as five dollars for the carrying out of this romantic scheme.  Some years afterward when the wish of her heart had been long accomplished, Mary Anderson made Mr. Booth’s acquaintance, and recounting to him her childish fancy asked what he would have done if she had succeeded in presenting herself to him in New York.  “Why, my child, I should have taken you down to the depot, bought a couple of tickets for Louisville, and given you in charge of the conductor,” was the rather discouraging answer of the great tragedian.

Not long afterward Mary Anderson’s dramatic powers were submitted to the critical judgment of Miss Cushman.  That great actress, then in the zenith of her fame, was residing not far distant at Cincinnati.  Accompanied by her mother, Mary presented herself at Miss Cushman’s hotel.  They happened to meet in the vestibule.  The veteran actress took the young aspirant’s hand with her accustomed vigorous grasp, to which Mary, not to be outdone, nerved herself to respond in kind; and patting her at the same time affectionately on the cheek, invited her to read before her on an early morning.  When Miss Cushman had entered her waiting carriage, Mary Anderson, with her wonted veneration for what pertained to the stage, begged that she might be allowed to be the first to sit in the chair that had been occupied for a few moments by the great actress.  Miss Cushman’s verdict was highly favorable.  “You have,” she said, “three essential requisites for the stage; voice, personality, and gesture.  With a year’s longer study and some training, you may venture to make an appearance before the public.”  Miss Cushman recommended that she should take lessons from the younger Vandenhoff, who was at the time a successful dramatic teacher in New York.  A year from that date occurred the actress’ lamented death, almost on the very day of Mary Anderson’s debut.