Oh, dude! Mash Obito Mash! The original run of Naruto vs. Dragon Ball Z on this channel, aka the Mugen series that me and my friend RhymeStyle do, was very, very bad for Team Naruto. But now that we've come back to the series using the characters that we banned from the original, Team Naruto is doing much better as currently the series stands tied to two. The series. But did I say series? You said series. Leave that in there. Damn, now I'm embarrassed. But now that we've worked all the way down to our last of the original banned characters, Rhyme, you get to pick first. There's only one character to pick. Do you want to go ahead and say who it is? I don't really get to pick, I guess. But yeah, Vegeta. Does he have forums? Does he have forums? Vegeta. Whoops, that was my... Hold on. Vegeta.  I was afraid of that. And my last character is none other than... Sorry, long way to go. Obito, who does not look this good in the game, I think. From what I remember. And we do want to point out that after this, we can start going to the winners. We have to go into our winners to see who the last one standing will actually be. I'm really hoping that if I do pull this off, again, it comes down to the technique here that I can be up one number one and two. I would use this crack. Oh, there's Vegeta.  Is this where the warcraft? What is this? I have no idea. But I think we're going to get cooked. We're not known. I thought that was the Lich King. I'm not going to lie. But I think I'm wrong. I think it is. Damn. Wait, why did you? Why is that a rock? Did he just destroy a rock in front of me to show me? He is the guy. Oh, no. Mash Obito. Mash. Get on the draw. This is an insta kill. Wait, did you see that? Whatever just happened was a draw. And that's why I lived. Imagine that was an insta kill. I think it might. I don't know. I'm kind of scared now. I'm not going to lie. Wait, level one. Wait, why does Ultra Eagle have his own bar? This is this never ends good for Team Naruto. Yo, hold on, hold on. This is what I'm talking about. Oh, yeah? What if I fly, bro? Look at Obito. He's doing the fight. Wait, he's crushing a rock and Gala Gun. Oh, brother. Yo, maybe Vegeta might be my hero. Yo, why does he walk? Whoa, dude. OK, I'm going up against the boss character. You know what? You know what? I'm going up against the boss character, bro. What was I supposed to do? I'm not worried about Minato at all. Oh, 10 tails. Nice beam. Do they make it from men? Yeah, they do. It's actually a real beam. Bro, how are you only level two? Damn, Vegeta. Let me show you a real beam indeed. But what is that? Big bang. Big bang. Yo, I'm mad at Obito. Get up, is that what's that, dude? Oh, no, bro. Why does Obito build like a Bob's Burgers character? Charge up. This is what I'm talking about. Bro, I'm told, bro. Nah, it's funny because my confidence in the last two videos definitely went down once I saw what I have to go up against. Bro. But now I'm like, yo, I got this. What is that beam that's falling? I don't know. What is that? Is that a move or the map? Is that my attack? I don't know. It looks like Jack and Daxter energy. It looks like Okie. Hello? It's a Jack and Daxter energy. Bro, it looks like Eco. Bro, who are you attacking? Bro, I'm going out. I'm going out. He's not trying to beat the window to get out of the gate. He's trying to guilty your stride his way out of there. Oh, shock. He also has Cthulhu. Oh, good. Wake up. Shuriken. Tomoe. I'm over here. That was actually sick. For the first time in all their fight, Obito actually did something.  Why does he have level three? What is it? What can he do? Boom. I don't know, but I'm here. No. Is that a mouthpiece? I don't know. Oh, that is Obito doing that, I think. Not that it matters. I'm getting my head crushed. Damn. That's all big bang. Well, I'm glad I blinked my way into an ass, Pede.  It's over. Ref, give that guy a red card or something. Bro, get him out of the game. Jettim. Bro, what are we looking at for real? Vegeta, do that again. Look, he's letting you charge. Nah, Vegeta, stop him, bro. He's doing the Vegeta thing. He's like, yeah, you can go ahead and power up and do what you need. Almighty push into the tentails. I'm mad that that beam doesn't do as much damage as it should do. Yeah, I mean, I'm glad you're saying that as an ultra-ego Vegeta user. But I'm here for it. I'm here for it.  Bro, why is he sticking his hand out like that? Damn. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Yo, I got to ask you, how do you feel, Donald? You remember how when Minotaur was doing his thing to kids? Yes. You were like, I've got to be honest. I don't even know what to say. I got to be honest. I don't even know what to say. But honestly, look, the thing is, it doesn't matter if he wins here. I still got to go through the boss. Nah, what's crazy is Obito actually had the health lead, as I was saying that. But the energy in the room is just clearly not pointing towards a victory for him. Why is he tapping?  Oh, my honey. Bro. Bro. Oh, no. He might get around. Yeah, he might get around. Never mind. Nah, he's getting dropped, kicked into the wall and exploded, bro. So don't crush that rock. And honestly, you know what I'm afraid of? Like, we never... Oh, I just blinked you away. Wait, he might steal around. No, he's not. No, he's not. Uppercut. It's over. Game set. He's crushing a rock. He's crushing a rock. What's Vegeta going to do? Die. Why did you do that? I don't know. But I appreciate Vegeta being nice and giving Obito around. I'm not. I don't. I don't respect that. I do. I respect that. You know what I'm worried about, though? Remember when Vegeta grabbed him and they played that Hakai minigame? Yeah. I don't want him to do that again. I'm very afraid of what happens if I lose. I want him to do it again. I feel like it is an instakill. Damn. Why Obito going a little nuts, though? He needs to. Nah, he going a little stu... Oh, God. He started a video. It was too short. It was like, hold up. Obito looking out. Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait, Obito... Oh, wait a minute. Have we been sleeping on Obito? We kind of have both being blown away by Vegeta that we haven't paid attention to Obito. And there we go. Hello, mate. And then there he goes. Oh, Super Dash. There we go. That's a good move. There we go. Loop that. Loop that. Hold up. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out. Tom out.  He probably misses it some more. Obito actually still has the health lead. You blocked. Yo. Hey, No for he has no HP No way that was a close match, I can't by the way, I can't believe it's 2-2 right now I can't believe it's 2-2 bro. I literally was sitting here not five minutes ago thinking that I just lost the whole series I Literally thought I lost the whole series. I'm not gonna imagine imagine think of that Ain't no way to Vegeta selling like this. I mean, it's pretty off-brain for his character. Let's be real The movie just did was called to why I'm upset that we're just letting him hook high rocks in front of us. Are we don't loop that?  Oh my god. He's gonna lose round one. We did all that gas at him He's trying to gas it up right now I don't I don't wanna be Trying to gas it up. I'm sick. Oh because stalling. I'm so sick. Why are you getting hit by that? He got the jig hitbox. He got round one. No Shock no way. I'm sick.  How wait is team Naruto still in this What I forgot he got his own intro.  He started going crazy. I thought he was a boss character. What's he really got though? Okay, so Vegeta off to another good start. We've seen this before though. Is he gonna let us down again? That's the thing. Yeah, where you going? Oh, we don't why are we dancing that way? I just I just need Vegeta to get some momentum for a second He had in the beginning so you can make me be comfortable. He was all momentum at the beginning good Lord What happened? How do we get here? He was putting up a legendary performance. Oh, what a combo Again, it's pretty on-brand for Vegeta. He does that. He does.  Shame.  Vegeta needs to do something. Obito has really flipped the script here I don't know bro. This feels like we slipped into another timeline. I know Again Let's go, bro. I mean we were saying that but he started doing mouth beams and gala guns Where's he walking to not have Vegeta's like I'm leaving. All right. All right. Hold up. Hold up Oh, we told can we can we show him we show him what we're really capable of? Rebar is available for Vegeta on level two. I look if you can get Bro, do not do not do not go. Oh, he missed it. Oh my god. What time man? No, no clutch off clutch off obito We go away hit him one more time. Stay in the air.  Like you didn't just throw yeah I don't know what he laughing about obito get in there and show him. What's what get in there and show What's what I'm gonna feel good. That also happened last time. So let me not get It's true. Vegeta put up a really quick damn when he wants to play Vegeta can play Like what happened? Oh, so it definitely is an attack. Is it obito? It might be an obito attack I can never tell who's doing that It might be Vegeta's like energy. Oh, you know where it is it's weird fishing. Oh, that is what it is I totally forgot about that. I think I might be I wonder what it does in the actual game though. Hey, I know I was doing nothing Luke Damn, bro when obito gets a loop skill, and he is the craziest character We we still kind of dead even here that hit box that hit box is so crazy. No almighty push No, no, no gala guys. Yes, you know, he's level four though Four can he cry yes He's gonna get shot. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. Oh, he just used all his level for energy I Can't believe it either. Oh, we don't as a chance for one one we could put this whole video away in two matches I I don't know watching a game can make me depressed. Honestly.  I'll give it up. I'll give it up I'm only giving it up because I know obito is not gonna let it get to him though There you go. Let's get that second win. Nah, we don't need no second win, bro Oh, we tell let's put up a second win ourselves second second win. You say you're need a second win He did do it one time, but I think he missed but I don't I'm so afraid of this level four man My god, you're so close. You're what you're what one cool attack away from winning. He's not doing anything. He's not doing anything We're one win away folks team Naruto is one win away from being up in the series This is the best day of my life Bro, I need you to actually clutch it in this like what happened to the guy that we signed the beginning, bro I couldn't tell you bro. I would never I couldn't tell you run. This is actually lower Yes, brother. Oh, yes, I'm so sick I have a feeling that we are robbing Vegeta right now like he is capable of being the more But right now he just doesn't want to show wow. He's fast Wow, he is fast. I'm saying I really I really need Vegeta for this because I don't think these can do on his own. Wait. Why is he going nuts? Because I need him to meet him, bro He's not though. He's proven. He's not him. He is him hard work beats talent every day of the week And that's all he is is he's just talented keeps missing the hook. Hi Fox, bro, where are you going over to a dam? He's walking It's over wait a spirit cycle Doesn't matter it doesn't matter. It's over. It's over. It's over Wow This this might be the most shocking Dragon Ball Z versus Naruto video yet. At least it was on bread I was the most the most on brand Vegeta thing I've ever seen my entire life Wow, he comes into something cool and then just gives up that was shocking. I'm actually stunned by the way


This research shows that air travel can be a significant source of transmission of SARS-CoV-2, even when travel restrictions are in place. The use of wastewater-based epidemiology, WBE, has been shown to be effective in detecting SARS-CoV-2 in airport sewer systems, suggesting that it could be used as a valuable tool in monitoring the global spread of the virus. This article was authored by Cata Farkas, Rachel Williams, Natasha Alexander's, and others.


Chapter 6 of Autobiography of an Actress by Anna Cora Mollett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Most sad was our entrance into that metropolis where the heart of the great world is said to beat with its merriest pulsations. The strength of our invalid was completely exhausted and scarcely had we reached Paris when he became dangerously ill. To have delivered the letters of mere fashionable introduction with which we were abundantly supplied would at that moment have been a mockery. We should have been desolate indeed had not friends sprung up around us in the kind relatives of a French brother-in-law. He was the husband of that sister who first won Mr. Mollett's admiration and who has long since gone to the bitter land. The mother and sisters of Mr. G were women of high refinement and most lovable character. They at once devoted themselves to lightening our cares for the sick and cheering us by their agreeable society. Mr. Mollett, however, resisted all persuasions to place himself in the hands of their family physician. His prejudices were in favor of homeopathy. Hanuman was then residing in Paris and if the new science could yield balm for the invalids of fiction we might seek it at the fountainhead. Hanuman at that period had become too feeble to visit patients. He received them at his own residence. Mr. Mollett, being confined to his bed, the duty of calling upon the learned doctor and of minutely describing the case devolved upon me. It was scarcely nine o'clock when I entered Hanuman's magnificent mansion, but his salons were already crowded and one o'clock struck before I gained an audience. A valet in Gaudi livery, who had taken my card some four hours before, then approached and informed me that I would now be received into the consultation chamber. I followed him through a succession of apartments all richly furnished and embellished with numberless busts of Hanuman in various sizes. A door was thrown open and I entered the consultation room. At the head of a long table sat a lady dressed in the most richer shade dimmy toilette, with a gold pen in her hand and piles of books and papers strewn around her. She might have been forty years old, but I am no judge of ages. Her form was finely rounded and her face still fresh and handsome. Her brow was remarkably high and the hair thrown back from her temples fell in long, light curls upon her shoulders. Her complexion was brilliantly clear and her blue eyes had a deeply thoughtful expression. She rose to receive me and it was not until she resumed her seat that her shriveled little old man became visible. He was reclining in a sumptuous armchair with a black velvet skullcap on his head and, in his mouth, a richly enameled pipe that reached almost to his knees. His face reminded me of a ruddy apple that had been withered by the frost, but the small dark eyes deeply set in his head could scarcely have glittered with more brilliancy in his lusty youth. As I took the seat which Mrs. Hanuman designated, he noticed me with a look rather than a bow and, removing the pipe from his mouth, deliberately sent a volume of smoke across the table, probably in token of greeting. Mrs. Hanuman addressed me and wrote down my answers to her numerous questions, but, at the conclusion of the interview, declined prescribing until the invalid made the effort to appear in person. Hanuman sat puffing away as though his existence depended upon the amount of smoke with which he surrounded and apparently intent alone upon his pleasant occupation. But when I spoke of our long visit to Germany, he suddenly took a pipe from his mouth. Schwotensee Deutsch were the first words he addressed to me. I had only to utter, Jaohl, when a species of Promythian fire seemed to shoot through the veins of the smoking onomatone. He laid down his pipe and commenced an unanimated conversation in his own language. He spoke of Germany and her institutions with enthusiasm, asked me many questions concerning America, and expressed his admiration of the few Americans with whom he was acquainted. As soon as politeness permitted, I led back to the subject to the point from which we had originally started, Mr. Mowat's illness in Germany. At the first medical question, the pipe returned to its former position, the expanded countenance shriveled up again, the distended muscles relaxed, the erect form sank back into a withered heap, and was quickly enveloped in smoke. He was the wearied out old man again. Mrs. Hanuman answered my question with much suavity, and then gracefully rose. This was her signal of dismission. I promised her return with the patient as soon as possible. She touched a silver bell, the door was thrown open, and the liveryed valet escorted me to my carriage. I afterwards heard the history of Mrs. Hanuman. She had been cured by her husband of a disease which other physicians pronounced necessarily fatal.  Her husband taught her the science of medicine. She made rapid progress. And he soon pronounced his wife as skillful a physician as himself. When he became infirm, his practice was left almost entirely in her hands. A few days after the first visit I returned, accompanied by Mr. Mowat. Again we had to wait several hours in the anti-chambers, and when admitted the interview was unsatisfactory. After but a short trial of the medicines prescribed, his sufferings were so intense that homeopathy was abandoned. And Madam G's family physician called in. Four months passed on and brought no relief. But Sukar came at last from the hands of an imminent American surgeon, Dr. M of New York. One fortnight from the day when he first undertook the case, Mr. Mowat was able to exchange his darkened chamber for our lightly curtained drawing room.  What a moment of happiness when, looking over my shoulder at the volume I was reading aloud, he discovered that for the first time for many months his eyes could distinguish print.  A portion of every morning was spent in visiting antique palaces, galleries of paintings, and various curiosities. And in the evening we often attended two or three balls on the same night. We also frequented the theater, opera, concerts, as often as our social engagements would permit. Mr. Mowat seldom ventured to trust his eyes to the blaze of ballroom chandeliers, but insisted upon my aunt and myself accepting every agreeable invitation. He used to say that he derived more amusement from listening to our humorous descriptions than he could have derived from being present. The constant habit of repeating for his diversion everything we had seen and heard soon rendered us quite accomplished raconteurs. I insert the following description of a fancy ball given by the American millionaire, Colonel T, which has declared to be the most charming of the many we attended. The account was written by me at the time for the lady's companion. Of all the magnificent entertainments which Paris has this season witnessed, the ball costumé given at the residence of Colonel T on the second night of the carnaval for the splendor and concentrated variety of amusements bears away the palm. Long before the palace-like mansion of Colonel T could be reached, the interminable line of equipage with their coronets and coat of arms, the livery coachman in front and fancifully dressed choiseurs behind announced what guests would grace his entertainment. On approaching the hotel, some fifty gendarmes well-mounted guarded the brilliantly-allumed and spacious courtyard, while the canopy porch and whole front of the mansion were thronged by the attendant domestics of the visitors. A lighting you are received by some twenty footmen and ushered into an antechamber, the center of which is occupied by the at present fashionable ornament, a handsome billiard table. Passing through this apartment you are loudly announced at the door of the reception room, where stands the ever-graceful and affable hostess, whose very smile makes welcome, and whose courteous greeting sheds ease on all around. Twelve gorgeous salons were thrown open, where the uncouth door once had been costly drapery was suspended, tastefully gathered in foals or festoons, the carpets of velvet, the divans, ottomans, and couches were all that could be imagined of luxurious and beautiful. The walls were fluted with gold or rich silks and hung with the works of the first masters. The ceilings painted in a thousand devices. One apartment raised above the others overlooked the ballroom and was lined with a row of drapery arches from which the dancers were viewed to the greatest advantage. Their light forms reflected in the bright mirror's opposite, which covered one entire side of the dancing apartment. The thousand lights shed a flood of brilliancy which would almost have eclipsed sunshine, the sparkling of diamonds and many-colored gems through a luster around almost painfully dazzling. And the varied, the charming, the voluptuously beautiful costumes, win fashion, whose rigorous sway closed the hunchback and the silt in the same garb for succor throne, what taste, what art were expended to set forth every grace, and show beauty robed in all her charms, heightened by adornments which only displayed what they seemed intended to conceal. There were sultans and sultanas, queens and courteurs, knights, Templar and ladies in tournament robes, the goddess of night, wrapped in her glittering silver stars, and the crescent on her fair brow, one bed of diamonds, niads and nymphs of the woods. Anna Bolin and Madame Pompadour, even Joan of Arc herself, forsook the rude field to enjoy the soft pleasures of these princely halls. There were costumes of every climb, of every land where woman smiles or sighs. It would have employed the eyes of Argus to have scanned them all. Soon as the midnight hour arrived, the swell of music stole upon the ear from the exquisite band of fifty musicians, and a general rush was made to the ballroom. Until then, unopened, a large circle drawn in the center of the apartment was the magic boundary not to be passed, but the throng around it was inconceivably dense, until the sound of horses' feet was heard. When all with one accord drew back as four fairy steeds, mounted by Cinderella pastillions, drawing a queen-mab chariot of crimson velvet with golden wheel, flew twice around the ring. A pair of lovely shepherdesses, placing their flowered wreath crooks upon the ground, spraying lightly from the chariot, and, as the car and its outriders have disappeared, moving gracefully round in a fanciful potted dew, amidst the noisy plaudits of admiring spectators. The guests elevated themselves on sofas and couches, sometimes three or four crowding together, on the small and delicately shaped chairs, at the imminent risk of losing their balance, while a host of crushed unfortunates on tiptoe behind, clean to those raised by chance, as so often happened in the world above them, made extremely perilous the position of both parties, thus adding much to the excitement, and, according to the rule that pleasure is enriched by sharing with her sister Payne, to the enjoyment of the scene. The pretty shepherdesses, after finishing their graceful evolutions, were put to flight by the entrance of some fifteen or twenty turks, knights, and highlanders on horseback, who, after going through a ludicrous contra-dance, galloped noiselessly away amidst peals of merriment, which must have drowned the trampling of their horse's feet, poor, strange to say, none was heard. Then entered Madame Pompadour, Louis Couture's, and his court. With their powdered wigs and magnificent jeweled robes, they performed with much spirit the old-fashioned dances of their age, amongst which the stately, courtesy-ing minuet called forth the most unbounded applause. It were in vain to attempt a description of the series of dances in character which followed. Each and all were executed with mingle taste and skill, and, at their close, the giddy waltz and gay quadril were merrily joined in by the company in general, and brigands flew round encircling their fair captives. Christians, unmolested, stole the pride of the Turkish harems, and shepherdesses looked happy with lords.  A handsome supper-table, filled with a confectionery, was accessible the whole evening, and a little past midnight the rich curtains which concealed a spacious apartment were thrown back, disclosing the most sumptuous banqueting board, spread with every delicacy that could gratify the palette or satisfy the appetite, heavy with the service of gold, bright with the dazzling radiancy of costly candelabras and the mellow light of moonlit lamps, which lined the gilded walls, rich with such ornaments as the genius of Paris alone could execute. The table itself was so spacious and long that, reflected in the large mirror at its foot, the eye refused to reach its farther end. When graced on either side by fair women who seemed to have been gathered from every land, lovely relics of every age, relieved by the background of brave men, like the setting to jewels, what more splendid sight could be imagined. The morning had far advanced before the courteous host and hostess found their banquet halls deserted. It proved indeed no sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet, to chase the glowing hours with flying feet. But a gayer festival with more agremons and less alloy to the general enjoyment may seldom again be witnessed. The cost of this aval is currently estimated at eight thousand dollars. One lady present wore so many diamonds said to be valued at two hundred thousand dollars that she was escorted in her carriage by gendarmes for fear of robbery. Colonel T's fancy ball was given on the second day of the carnival. The celebration of the Parisian carnival does not, of course, approach that of the Italian, yet it is worthy of some mention. For three days Paris empties its populous into the streets, and every willing head wears folly's cap and bells. The carnival procession consists of a cavalcade followed by infantry in the uniform of their respective lands. Amongst these the Chinese are the most singular. Then comes the bouffoir, an immense ox fattened almost to the size of an elephant led by three butchers. Two of them are dressed as Romans, crowned with laurel, and bare glittering axes. The third is costumed as an Indian chief. All three of them look as though they had successfully tried upon themselves. The experiment to which their contented looking victim is indebted for its enormous proportions and present distinction. The horns of the ox are gilded and wreathed with flowers and its huge size, comparison with a golden cloth wrought with fenceful devices.  The car is filled with young girls, youths and lovely children in the garb of pagan deities. Old time with an infant in his arms drives the horses. As the car passes our door a rosy cupid was playfully aiming silver arrows at his youthful half nude mother Venus. Apollo was lying at the feet of one of the muses. Pan entertained another with his rustic pipe. Vulcan was busily preparing an iron net to entrap the lover of his wife, and Mars was laying his helmet and shield at the feet of Venus. A rich canopy suspended over the car shielded the mythological group from sun or rain. The procession ends with a heterogeneous mass of carriages, wagons and market carts, all filled with masqueraders dressed according to their eccentric fancies. The woofgraw pays a visit to the king and certain of the ministers, and then to the stall of the butcher to whom he owes his honors. The stall is hung with a tricornard ribbons and flowers. In front of it the procession halts and the health of the butcher is drunk in champagne and responded to with cheers. While this ceremony is taking place a bountiful supply of cakes is flung into the streets and noisy urchins scramble for their possession. From early morning until late night the boulevards and all the public streets are thronged with masqueraders who delight the crowd with ludicrous feats and sometimes enact comic characters with great esprit. The dominoes are generally supplied with bags of flour from which they pelt indiscriminately every passerby, but when a carriage graced by ladies stops the way, bonbons and bouquets are showered at the windows. The masquerade balls commence at 12 o'clock, and though attended by the aristocratic portion of the community as well as by the middle classes, they are too often the scenes of intrigue and boisterous mirth, though never of open indecorum. During our stay in Paris, General C. was the residing American minister. He and his agreeable family were alike popular with the French. The English and their own countrymen. Their entertainments were strikingly informal and un ostentatious and therefore all the more delightful. We could not but enjoy the touches of republicanism which were now and then intermingled with aristocratic usages. The attractions must have been great elsewhere that ever induced us to forgo our ambassador's reception or balls. Through constant mingling in Parisian society, we became acquainted with various distinguished persons whose characters and peculiarities I should delight in sketching, but I only feel at liberty to mention those who are in some way connected to my own history. My history at this period was simply that of everyday fashionable life and the interchange of civilities alone threw us in contact with those who had won fame and honors from a fastidious public. I saw Rochelle in her principal characters and I retained the most vivid recollections of her thrilling impersonations. There was something terrific, something overwhelming in them all. From the moment she came upon the stage, I was always under the influence of a spell. Her eyes had the power of a basilisk on me and flashed with an intense brightness which no basilisk could have rivaled. I never expect to see that acting equaled. To surpass it in impassioned force and grandeur seems to me impossible. Accident made me acquainted with the two young sisters of Rochelle. They were then at school and were receiving a liberal education at the expense of their elder sister. They spoke of her with enthusiastic affection and evidently looked forward to becoming her successors upon the stage, the legitimate inheritors of her genius. So many incidents have occurred since our seven months' visit to Paris that various events of deeper interest have very nearly obliterated my first impressions of the gay metropolis, of its thousand works of art and of science and of its beautiful environs, Versailles, St. Cloud, etc. and I do not therefore attempt to embody them in the form of a description. The following extract from a letter addressed to a younger sister during the early part of our sojourn in Paris may not be without interest to our youthful readers. What surprises me most in Paris is that, with its innumerable luxury, it lacks the air of comfort which characterizes England. It is difficult to get accustomed to the atmosphere of inconsistency which pervades everything. Wealth and poverty, mirth and misery seem to walk hand in hand. Paris reminds me of a fine woman magnificently attired with soiled gloves, rent stockings and worn out shoes. There is always a striking incongruity in the accessories of a Parisian magnificence. Napoleon, more than any other monarch, adorned and enriched this city. He planned and executed, finished what had been begun and altered what was badly done. He did not confine himself to the erection of public buildings to the making of roads and raising monuments, but he cultivated the arts and sciences and fostered the genius of his countrymen. The facilities for acquiring knowledge and receiving a thorough education can nowhere be greater than in this metropolis. Public lectures on all subjects are daily delivered free of cost and liberal instruction is bestowed on those who would devote themselves to the fine arts. The Maison Royal Saint Denis is devoted to the education of the sisters, daughters and nieces of the members of the Legion of Honor. Hundreds of young girls yearly receive a classical education at the expense of the government. Their discipline is said to be particularly gentle. They wear a uniform of black. Poverty is not here considered to be nearly a crime as it is with us and in England. Talents, education, manners, even personal attractions are placed before riches. Admission into good society may be commended by bees while with us the entrance is too often purchasable. The customs and fashions which we imitate as Parisian are not unfrequently mere caricatures of those that exist in Paris. For instance, it is the present mode not to introduce persons who meet at parties or in visiting, but the custom is intended to obviate the ceremoniousness of formal introductions. Everyone is expected to talk to his neighbor and if mutual pleasure is received from the intercourse, an acquaintance is formed. The same fashion in vogue with us renders society cold and stiff. We abolish introductions because the Parisians do so, but we only take this first step in our transatlantic imitations. Few persons feel at liberty to address strangers. Little contracted circles of friends herd and clenish groups together and mar the true object of society. As yet, we only follow the fashions. We do not conceive the spirit which dictated them. So in our mode of dressing, expensive materials worn here only at balls are imported by American merchants and pronounced to be very fashionable in Paris. They are universally bought by our bells who instead of wearing them at the proper seasons parade the streets in what is meant exclusively for evening costume. Are we not as yet merely a nation of experimenters? Houses are built in a few weeks to fall in a few more. Fortunes are made in a day to be lost in another. We are like children working their samplers who make hundreds of mistakes and destroy their work many times before they can perform it right. You have always heard and read that the French nation were noted for their suavity of manners, gaiety of heart, and extreme politeness. But since the turbulent Boulevards-Mont that have agitated France, and especially since the last revolution, this spirit, it is said, has changed. The men in particular are not so gay as they were, because their pursuit is not now so entirely that of pleasure. They ponder public contingencies more deeply. And France is not happy. All both men and women are politicians and maintain their ground with a firmness which leads to long discussions. Both parties become easily excited.  The king, Louis Philippe, is not beloved. So fearful is he of another attempt upon his life that he is scarcely ever seen in public. Paris is divided by the River Seine. On one side is the Palace of the Tuileries where the king resides. On the opposite side dwell the proud sions of the noble families of France. This society, called the Saint-Germain, is much more select and far more difficult of access than the court itself. In the circles of the Saint-Germain, the old style of address and ancient ceremonies in the splendid age of Louis couture are still adhered to and revered. It strikes a stranger in Paris that half the city is composed of magnificent shops. The private dwellings are above them. Every family hires a floor and this manner of living is considered perfectly respectable, even fashionable. I was amused with the fanciful titles given to these magazines, such as The Passage, with which the city abounds, are the most pleasant places where one can shop on foot. The houses are built over long arches beneath which runs a shelter promenade. Lined on both sides with boutiques. These promenades are called Passage. They are more or less splendid according to the quarter of the city in which they are situated. Of all the beautiful squares with which the city is adorned, the first and most magnificent is the Place de la Concorde or La Place Louis-Kings, as it is generally called. Many terrible catastrophes have rendered this spot famous amongst them, the execution of Louis XVI and hundreds of other unfortunates known to fame and history. From every side of this place there is a charming view. Standing in the center you can behold two majestic buildings with an arcade walk running in front of them, formed of Corinthian columns and in the distance appears the chaste and lovely Church of La Madeleine. To the east are the Champs-Élysées and between the noble avenues of the trees arrives the triumphal arch of Napoleon called L'Arc de Triomphe de la Toile. On the west is the Garden of the Tuileries and on the south may be seen the Chamber of the Deputies. Also a line of costly edifices running along the banks of the Seine and peering above them the Dome of the Ingalides. In the center of the square is the Obelisk of Luxor which stood before the Temple of Thieves and was introduced by the French government from Egypt. It is an immense pyramid-like column, slightly broken at the top and covered with hieroglyphs. It took 800 men three months to remove it from its former station. To accomplish this a road to the Nile had to be made and numbers of Arab dwellings which intercepted its path or were built against its base had to be level to the ground. On either side of this venerable monument are two ingenious fountains not quite completed. The square is filled with statues and in the evening brilliantly illuminated by a quantity of gilded lamps raised on fluted columns of glittering fretwork. The Palace Vendôme is another celebrated square and in the center of which shoots up a triumphant pillar erected by Napoleon in honor of his German campaign of 1805. It is built in imitation of Trajan's pillar at Rome and is said to have been formed of the cannon taken by Napoleon in battle. On the pedestal are represented in bar relief the victories of Napoleon and on top stands a statue of the Great Emperor. A winding staircase leads to a terrace above the column which being 130 feet high commends a fine view of the city. The ascent is totally dark and each visitor carries a lantern presented to him by one of Napoleon's veteran soldiers who guards the entrance. The Palace du Carousel is named after a grand tournament held there in the Golden Age of Louis XVI. It was here also that the infernal machine exploded in 1800. I was particularly charmed by the fountains which are scattered all over Paris and that supply the city with water. They play at certain hours of the day and the water is caught in buckets and barrels and sold by the poor to the rich. The Fontaine de Lide represents Jupiter in the shape of a swan approaching the pleased and astonished Lide. The water flows from the beak of a swan. The Fountain of Mars represents the goddess of health holding a draft of water to the lips of a dying soldier who revives as he drinks. The Fountain in the Place du Châtelet is a circular basin from the center of which springs a palm tree encircled by statues representing justice, drink, prudence and vigilance. On the shaft of the column are inscribed the names of Napoleon's conquest. The water issues from cornucopia which terminate in fish's head. Above are the heads representing the winds. In the midst is a globe supported by a gilded statue of victory. I have mentioned those of the fountains which particularly struck me. There are many of equal beauty. I must not pass over without mention what we took delight in passing under a few days ago. The Arc de Triomphe de la Toile, a vast central arch, 90 feet in height, graced by piers on either side supporting an entablature and attic. Upon a pedestal from each of these piers rise groups of allegorical figures. On the internal sides of the piers are inscribed the titles of victories won by France. The arch is pierced by a transversal arch engraven with the names of great warriors. This arch was commenced by Napoleon and finished by Louis Philippe. Within the monument a staircase in each pier leads to three stories of apartments as yet unappropriated to any use. After the nuptials of the emperor with Marie-Louise, the arch not being completed, an immense model in wood and canvas was erected, decorated and illuminated. The emperor entering Paris drove through in triumph with his bride. Paris is surrounded by barrières to prevent the introduction of contraband goods. Some of them are very splendid everfaces resembling in form the Arc de la Toile, also called Barrières de la Toile. But these will scarcely interest you. The garden of the Tuileries with its vast groves, its charming flower gardens, its fountains, its groups of statues lining every walk, you must often have heard described. I will but mention the classic groups before which we most frequently pause. One is composed of the chased Lucretia supported by her horror-stricken husband. Her young children are clinging to her road while she, with expiring breath, recounts her wrongs and draws the dagger from her bleeding breast. My other favorite is Atalanta flying before Hippomenes. He flings the golden gifts of Venus at her feet to retard her flight and wins the goal and the coin nymph for his own. With the Champs Elysees I was somewhat disappointed. To be sure there are vast avenues of noble trees which form pleasant and sheltered promenades. But the old women with their cake and apple stands and the old men with one arm supposed to be amputated, hidden in their coats and a large black patch over one eye and the numerous little terrestrial-looking cafes remind one that this Elysium is but of the earth. The Bois de Belon, the famous rendezvous for dualist, is a large forest, always gay, with splendid equipages and richly dressed promenades and is the most fashionable drive in Paris. In spite of the gay life which we led in the French metropolis, my habits of study were not wholly abandoned. An Italian teacher paid me visits every morning and the previous night's dissipations never prevented my taking a lesson before breakfast. Nor did I cease to find pleasure in writing. I commenced a little drama in six acts. The peculiarities of the plot made five, as I thought, an impossible number designated for private representation. We were to give a fit on our return to America and the play was to be enacted at Melrose by my sisters and myself. It was written in blank verse, or at least what I imagined to be blank verse. The scenery was painted by Parisian artists under my direction and some of the principal dresses, which were exceedingly rich, were made by Parisian costumers. The play was entitled Gulsara, or the Persian Slave. It was nearly completed when we left Paris. F of We took passage in the ship Ville de Lyon under the command of Captain Stoddart and sailed for America. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Our Biography of an Actress by Anna Coro-Molleth This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor Our sojourn in a foreign land had not rendered America less dear. Our own home never looked to me more beautiful than when, as I learned from the carriage window, I beheld it through the long avenue of trees after our 15 months' absence. I pass over the joyous greetings of kindred and friends and come to the fit, which was to celebrate our return. The play was rapidly completed, but I had had some formidable difficulties to overcome in its construction. We objected to admit gentlemen into our core dramatique. To say the least, their presence was an inconvenience, yet our youthful company wished to avoid assuming male attire. I must write them a play without heroes. To suit these caprices I invented a plot, the scene of which was laid within the walls of a harem. Sultan Suleiman, the hero, is absent in the wars, and though he in reality plays an important part in the drama and is kept constantly in the minds of the audience, he never appears. His newly purchased slave, Gulzara, is the heroine. The other characters are his daughter, Zulika Fatima, her companion, Katinka, an attendant, and Ayesha, the villain of the piece, who has received a great wrong at the hands of the sultan and during his absence seeks revenge. The only male character is that of the sultan's son, Amorath, a boy ten years old. This character was written for little Julia, and I expended all the ability I possessed in making the part one that would afford ample scope for the display of her brilliant talents. It was a part in which she could fairly compete with Gulzara, which I enacted, and, as the sequel proved, could bear away the palm. To facilitate rehearsal, our little Kordramatik were invited to take up their residence with me for a month previous to the representation of the play. Many amusing incidents broke in upon our preparations. During the rehearsal of certain scenes, we were invariably interrupted by sudden fits of laughter from the actors, and I could never get them through other scenes, one in particular, without allowing them to pause and weep. And these were not staged tears, but genuine outburst of girlish feeling. Screaming musically and fainting gracefully, we at first pronounced impossible accomplishments. Heights of histrionic excellence not to be reached. To avoid alarming the rest of the family, we practiced these portions of our art in an old barn at a distance from the house. Each one, in turn, would give a long, loud shriek. The clearest sound was to be imitated by the character who had to scream. Then the fainting must be practiced. We could fall upon beds of hay, but dared not trust ourselves to sink into each other's arms for fear of a fall indeed. Amidst shouts of laughter, we were one day making experience in the most effective manner of becoming insensible when an unexpected peel of merriment mingling with ours sounded above our heads. We looked up and beheld in the haylofts an assemblage of laborers who had been enjoying unperceived our dramatic exercises and could no longer restrain their mirth. With one accord, our whole party took flight and were seen in the barn no more. It was my desire that the fetch should be given upon our father's birthday. His flat bush was four miles from New York. We were obliged to wait for a mood-lit night that our guests might not have a country drive in the dark. Our Parisian scenery worked admirably. It was change for each act. The most critical observer could hardly have found fault with the miniature theatre. We had all the appurtenances of the stage, even to footlights, and regulations I insisted were tolerably systematic. I seemed to possess some intuitive knowledge of the mysteries of stage management. The night before that on which the play was to take place, we had a dress rehearsal and every one was, in stage parlance, dead-letter perfect in her part. The Fet Day came. With the assistance of my young dramatic company, the house was profusely decorated with garlands of flowers. Bowers were formed out of forest trees cut down for the purpose, and vases placed in every possible and impossible niche or corner were filled with the plunder of the greenhouse and garden. Numerous friends contributed largely to this floral exhibition. When we commenced our labours in the morning, several tables were literally heaped with mountains of flowers. At night the avenue of trees leading to the house was brightly illuminated and the moon we had politely waited for in return courteously lent us her light. The guests assembled at an early hour and were received by their host. The hostess was busied transforming herself into a Persian slave and adorning the other inhabitants of the Seroglio. At the hour designated in the program, which had been enclosed in every invitation, an overture was played by a full band of music stationed in the hall. We had to alter the usual locality of the orchestra. The curtain rose upon a chamber in the harem where set Zulika embroidering. And Fatima at her seat. It seemed to me five minutes, though it probably was not more than one, before our Zulika, my sister May, could gain courage to utter the first words of her part. When at last she spoke, it was in a low and trembling voice scarcely audible.  There was no laughing as at our rehearsals and when the actors persisted in crying, the audience kindly kept them company and I did not chide as on former occasions. Everyone played beyond my expectations but the gem of the evening was the exquisite performance of our little Julia as the Sultan's son Amaroff. Almost every sentence she uttered drew down genuine bursts of applause and with the skill of a thorough artist she made us laugh or weep at will while she retrained her own composure. I exerted myself to the utmost in scenes where we played together but my judgment told me that Amaroff threw Galzara into the shade. As I stood upon the stage, the audience were so near us that I could see my father's noble form, his majestic forehead and snow-white hair. I could see his eyes fixed intently upon his children in turn and more than once my heart beat high as I saw him smile and bow the flattered expression as some of our guests lean forward to whisper their comments in his ears. Whenever Julia spoke, his face lighted up with an expression of almost rapture and when I had impassioned lines to deliver he would gaze at me thoughtfully, drinking in each word as though he were weighing my power against hers. The play lasted about two hours and a half and then came to a happy termination. One toward accident marred the smoothness of the representation. The scenery was rapidly removed, the theater converted into a reception room, the ballroom thrown open and less than a half an hour from the time when the curtain fell, the occupants of Sultan Suleiman Siraglio were merrily threading the dance without a trace of their late sorrows visible upon their countenances. The play was afterwards published in the New World. Several very complementary criticisms appeared but as they were written by parties present at the performance, I must attribute them to the Couleur de Rose medium through which friendship is apt to look. There was one, however, written by the editor of the New World which I quote as the most gratifying to me at the time, inasmuch as the writer was unacquainted with me and, as I flatter myself, could have no bias inconsistent with critical impartiality. The drama of Golzara, or the Persian slave, was written by a young lady lovely and accomplished. There is a unity and simplicity in its design and execution which cannot fail to give sincere pleasure. It is pervaded by rare and delicate thought. Many passages are strikingly beautiful and the impartial critic will think with us that the drama would do credit to a much more experienced writer. The ball I have just described was the last ever given at Melrose. The glorious sunset that closed on the days of our happiness ushered in but storms with the tomorrow. From the time of our return to America, Mr. Mawa was forced to abandon his profession on account of the affection in his eyes. He could neither use them to read nor to write except for a few minutes at the time. He always had a fondness for speculations in land, stock, etc. which, in the absence of other employment, grew into a fatal passion. He made great ventures, sometimes reaping large profits, sometimes meeting with heavy losses. Of these speculations I at first knew little or nothing, but I could not help noticing the fitful changes that came over his mental horizon. At times he suffered from deep depression, not natural to his temperament, while at other times he was elated to a degree that equally astonished me. In one of those crises which convulsed the whole mercantile world I used the language which I heard him use to marry Howard, he was utterly ruined. Almost the whole of his fortune was swept away in a few days. At first he concealed from me the serious nature of his losses and it was long before I divined their extent. But our expenses must be retrenched. Our mode of living altered. Our country home to which I was so devotedly attached must be sold. This intelligence was communicated to me in the most gentle manner. As soon as I could recover from the first bewildering shock my earnest question to Mr. Mawet was, is there no possible means of saving this house? None that I can imagine was his dejected answer. How long may we remain here? A month perhaps. Certainly not longer. And where will we go? Heaven knows. I had never before heard the sound of despair in his tones. Miss Fortune sprinkles ashes on the head of the man but falls like dew upon the heart of the woman and brings forth germs of strength of which she herself had no conscious possession. That afternoon I walked alone for a long time in the lovely arbor that had been erected for my pleasure. It was a magnificent day in autumn. The grapes were hanging in luxuriant purple clusters above my head. The setting sun could scarcely penetrate their leafy canopy of darkest, richest green. They seemed to typify abundance, peace, prosperity. These must-I-leave-the-paradise found its echo in my innermost heart. I sat down in my favorite summer house and strange thoughts came into my head. At first they were vague and wild, but out of the chaos gradually grew distinctiveness and order. I thought of my eldest sister, Charlotte. Her gift was for miniature painting. When the rude storms of adversity had shipwrecked her husband, she had braved the opposition of her friends of the world and converted what had been a mere accomplishment into the means of support for herself and her children. In the Academy of Drawing at Paris she had been awarded a high prize amid hundreds of native competitors although her name was unknown. Tolling ever but ever with a cheerful spirit she had gone on her pilgrimage rejoicing, overcoming trials with patient endurance and reaping a priceless reward in the midst of many struggles. Were there no gracious gifts within my nature? Had I no talents I could use? Had a life made up of delightful associations and poetic enjoyments unfitted me for exertion? No. There was something strong within me that cried out it had not. What, then, could I do to preserve our home? I had talents for acting. I could go upon the stage. But that thought only entered my mind to be instantly rejected. The idea of becoming a professional actress was revolting. The elder Wenderhoff had just given a successful course of readings in New York. I have been present on several evenings. His hall was crowded and his audiences were highly gratifying. I could give public readings. I had often read before large assemblages of friends that required not a little courage. With a high object in view I could gain enough additional courage to read before strangers. True, I could not judge what actual powers I possessed, what amount of talent, the phrases to which I had listened could not all be mere flattery. I would not allow my thoughts to dwell for a moment on the possibility of failure. While I still sat in the little summer house, a bold resolution was suddenly formed. I reflected that not fortune-slave is man. Our state enjoins, while firm resolves await, wishes just and wise that strenuous action follow both. I would read in public. I had long enough been the child of indulgence, ease and pleasure. I would wake up and be doing life's heroic ends pursuing. It was almost dark when my dreamings ended and I returned to the house. There were deep shadows upon the faces of Mr. Mowat and my sister May, who was still the beloved companion of our home, as we three sat down to the tea-table. But I was more than usually merry, and now and then succeeded in calling a smile to the lips of one or the other. Several times Mr. Mowat looked at me in astonishment. It was for my sake far more than for his own that he lamented his reverses. He feared privations for me, not for himself. He valued his wealth because it had ministered to my comforts, surrounded me with luxuries and fostered my taste. His own enjoyments were of a simple nature. I answered his wondering glances with mysterious looks and waited impatiently until my younger sister retired. Then I told him of my musings in the arbor, of my hopes, of my convictions, of could I but gain his consent my fixed determination. His surprise was at first too great for him to offer any opposition. I made good use of this vantage ground gained and overwhelmed him with arguments until my confident spirit had so thoroughly infused itself upon his that he suggested but one objection, the delicacy of my health. I conbeded that by declaring and with truth that I felt an inner strength hitherto unknown. I was sure that strength would sustain me under all emergencies. Midnight found us still discussing my new project. But before I rose to retire I had gained his consent. My slumbers were as peaceful that night as the clothes of the calmest and happiest of the many happy days that had seen me sink to repose beneath that beloved roof. Once determined upon my course I lost no time in carrying my intentions into execution. The very next morning I had made selection from my favorite poets, many of them the same that I had heard Vandenhaaf read, and commenced strengthening my voice by reading aloud for a couple of hours each day in the open air. I allowed myself one fortnight to make all necessary preparations for my new and hazardous career. I shrank from appearing in New York in the midst of my own extensive circle of relatives and friends. I did not desire the support which they might have yielded through personal sympathy. My powers could only be justly tested among strangers. Boston had been pronounced the most intellectual city of the union, the American Athens. There is always more leniency towards the efforts of a novice where there is true taste. I would make my first appearance in Boston. A literary friend to whom Mr. Mawet confided our intentions, furnished us with valuable letters of introduction. Their influence, while it could not ensure my success, would commend for me a favourable hearing. Every day I practiced my voice reciting aloud for hours in a vine-covered arbor where I had cast aside the dark metal of despair and put on the life-giving robes of hope. I was greatly encouraged to find how rapidly every person was strengthened with what increasing enthusiasm I read and how a confidence in my own success sprang up at these auguries. It was a most trying duty to make my intended debut known to my family. My sister May was, of course, the first in whom I confided. She was of a gentle and timid nature and shrank in alarm from the proposed public step. She could not discuss it without tears and violet emotion. You cannot go through with it. I am sure you cannot were her weeping exclamations. We none known what we can do until we are tried was the truism with which I answered her objection. What will our friends say of you if you make a public appearance she urged? What will our friends do for us in case I do not? Will they preserve us this sweet home? Will they support us? Will they even sympathize with our adversity? But you will lose your position in society. If I fail, probably I shall, but I do not intend to fail. And what is that position in society worth when we are no longer able to feast and entertain? Those whom we feasted and entertained at our last ball will seek us out when we live in poverty and obscurity. If you would only look at all the obstacles no, I am looking above and beyond them and I see only duty in their place. Young as my sister was she saw the force of my arguments and sorrowed in silence. The sight of her anguished affected me so much that I had not the courage to seek my father and make the necessary communication to him. His opposition, should he oppose my wishes would inevitably paralyze my strength. I wrote to him and treated that he would not dishearten me, not throw a clog upon my efforts by his disapproval. It was not to be delivered until the day when we started for Boston. That day soon came. About an hour before the time it was necessary for us to leave I went into my sister's room and found her greatly agitated. Come, may let us bid goodbye to the dear old place and pray that we may soon return and be as happy as ever. She put her arms about me in the garden. For the last time we gathered flowers from our favorite plants, plants many of which we had our cells put in the earth and helped attend. From the garden we went to the greenhouse. Near the door was a heliotrope, some two feet high, which had grown from a sprig that had been taken by Mr. Malwent from my hair. It was covered with clay. Then we walked through the arbor to the summer house and sat there for a few sweet minutes then strolled to the orchards beyond into the lane that ran by the grounds. Then we went to the stables and caressed our ponies, especially Queen Mab, and bade farewell to our dogs and our many pets. Through every room of the house we passed and with lingering ado, my sister was weeping. But I could not shed a tear. I had been full of hope until this moment, but now a solemn sensation came over me and whispered this farewell was our last, for I should never enter that house again as its mistress. I never did. We were standing in the old fashioned room where our little play had been performed and talking over the pleasures of that eventful night when the carriage came to the door. Hurriedly we took our seats. Take care of the flowers was the parting injunction to our fateful French gardener who, with a sad face, stood waiting to bid us adieu. Qu'il est bondu, vous bénice was his fervent reply. And the carriage drove rapidly away. We left my sister with a letter she had to deliver at our sister's door, and without waiting to see any of the family drove to the boat which started for Boston. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Autobiography of an Actress by Anna Coral-Mollett This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. As I look back I can scarcely believe it possible than in Boston where now I am bound by so many close strong ties of friendship. I had then but one acquaintance, an acquaintance casually formed in the ballrooms of Paris. Mrs. B. called upon me as soon as my arrival in Boston was published. I had known her merely as a woman of fashion, chasing the butterfly pleasure even as I was doing in Parisian salons.  And she came to me in her true guise. It was the woman of soul that greeted me, full of tender sympathies and eager earnest, lamenting our misfortunes and ready to act as a devoted friend. She encouraged me in my undertaking, enlisting in my behalf the good wishes of her large circle of acquaintances, brought a number of them to introduce to me and exerted herself to the utmost to ensure a crowded audience to my first reading. She herself took one hundred tickets. I was strengthened and cheered by her untiring hearty enthusiasm gave me new faith in my own success. Beyond price at that moment was such a friend. And the impetus which she gave to my first efforts had their effect upon my whole career. Our letters of introduction brought us into communication with many delightful and some distinguished persons. Their interest in my novel undertaking was easily awakened himmed me around until I seemed to stand in a magic circle guarded as by a charm from all inharmonious existences.  We had only spent a few days in Boston when all the arrangements for my first appearance were satisfactorily completed. I read at the Masonic Temple for three successive nights. The evening of my debut was announced and courteous editorial notices bespeaking a fair hearing appeared in all the principal papers. The day before that on which I was to make my debut I entered the temple and with a thrombing heart ascended the rostrum which I was to occupy during the readings.  Yet it was with difficulty I could speak in so singular a situation. The words came gapingly forth and I seemed to have lost all variety of intonation. I grew forward. If my courage evaporated before an imaginary audience how could I hope for presence of mine to carry me through the duties I had imposed upon myself when I stood in the presence of an actual crown. I made effort after effort to recite but my voice was choked. I could scarcely utter a word. I sat down on the steps of the rostrum, overwhelmed with doubts and fears rushed like freshets over my heart and swept away all its bright fabrics. I could not weep. I was too miserable for tears and I could not listen to consolation. You're only a bit nervous said the old doorkeeper confidently. You'll get over that. I've seen great speakers look just as pale and frightened as you do now when they got up on this stand here. But they soon warmed up and there is nothing to be afraid of. Still I would not be consoled. I could only remember that if I failed, disgrace was added to our other ruin. The monster self-mistrust had entered my mind and was rapidly rooting up all its new and giant roths. We returned to the hotel. Cards, kind notes and bouquets were awaiting me. One note was from Judge Story, written in the most encouraging strain. Another, from the poet Longfellow, apologized for not calling on the plea of illness. I was dispiritedly putting them aside when a letter was handed to me. It was from my father. I had scarcely courage to break the seal. But if his disapprobation were added to my present dejection, my failure was certain. The first words reassured me. My father had pondered well upon the course I proposed to pursue, and he gave my efforts not merely his sanction, but his heartiest approval. He bade me never lose sight of the motive I had in view and with its help and talents, as he was pleased to call them, would enable me to achieve a triumph. He gave me his own blessing and assured me that as far I was actuated by a sense of duty, I should win the blessing of heaven also. An indomitable energy and perseverance had characterized all the actions of my father's life. I inherited these traits from him and with them a faculty for happiness that struck out the slender vein of gold in the drossiest earth of circumstance. As I read his letter, my whole nature was quickened by an influx as it were from his strong, never weary and ever buoyant spirit. All my hopes returned and from that moment, my courage never wavered. The sun shone brightly upon the morning of my debut. The heavens seemed to smile benignly on my undertaking. That nothing might disturb my repuse to receive visitors and pass the day quietly in my own chamber. Evening found me calm and strong of heart. I entered the carriage that bore me to the temple, not more agitated to outward appearance than if I have been hastening to fall. I have resisted all entreaties to wear any rich attire and was dressed in simple white muslin, a white rose in my bosom and another in my hair. I wore no ornaments. In the retiring room of the temple we found several gentlemen, the warmest among our new friends, awaiting us. A painful anxiety was depicted in their faces, well might they have wondered at the lonely calmness of mine. They told me that the temple was crowded with one of the most fashionable audiences ever assembled within its walls. They entreated me to retain my self-possession and poured into my ears words of sympathy and encouragement, which in the abstraction of the moment I scarcely heard. They remained with us until the clock struck half past seven, the hour at which I was bound to appear. Do not keep the audience waiting. Bostonians dislike nothing more, said Mr. F, as he shook my hand and accompanied by the other gentlemen left the room to take his seat in the temple. Two minutes more and I was within view of the audience, Mr. Mawat led me to the foot of the rostrum, but I ascended the steps alone. I remember curtsying slightly past done by the repeated rounds of applause, the blaze of light, the dense crowd of faces all turned towards me. I sat down by the table that held my books and mechanically opened the one from which I was to read. I rose with it in my hand. Again came the burst of applause, the hall swam, then grew dark before me. I could not see the book that I held open my veins were filled with ice. I seemed to myself transformed into a statue. Although I stood still, I could not for a few seconds have been more unconscious in the state of complete enation. The opening piece I had selected was the introduction to Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, and the first words I had to utter were, long the wind was cold. I could deliver the line feelingly, indeed for I was shivering violently, and weary and long seemed the way I had just entered. At length, in an uncertain voice, I commenced to read. Long before I had half finished the poem, my self-possession returned. A genial warmth displaced the icy chilled. My voice grew loud and clear, and I found it easy to divest myself of all consciousness of the audience. I began also to become accustomed to the applause which at first oppressed and frightened me. I went through the various selections in order, and without betraying any further emotion. When half the entertainment was over, there was an intermission of ten minutes, and I was at liberty to withdraw from the retiring room. There I was greeted by a host of friends all loud in their congratulations, and a note from my fateful ally, Mrs. B, told me of the delight of her party and assured me of my perfect success. With renewed spirit I reassented the rostrum and read the concluding poems with as much ease as I should have done to a select party of friends in my own drawing . At the hotel a fresh assemblage awaited me. I was overwhelmed with the new congratulations and prophecies of a brilliant career, a career that would accomplish all that I had so much at heart. My deep joy transported me to the great Hong Bauer. I stood there in thought, exclaiming, our home is secured. I am mistress here still. It was the last midnight before our visitors took their leave and allowed me to retire. When I was once more alone, when my full heart could again offer up its grateful thanks, I could weep again. What woman does not know the delicious relief of tears, the terrible privation when the eyes were made burning and unmoistened through suffering and trial. They were the first tears I was told of the complete wreck of our fortunes. The future now seems so bright before me that, in my ignorance of the world, I anticipated no difficulties, no drawbacks, no rebuffs. I saw but roses in the pathway of life's journey. I had yet to learn that sharp-edged flints are scattered on the road to lacerate the feet of those who walk not in the trodden road. The next night I read again to an equally large and enthusiastic audience and again on the third night to the same crowd, and was greeted with the same unmistakable tokens of approval. I was no longer in the slightest degree embarrassed. I felt as though I were reading to an audience of indulgent friends who were determined to be pleased with my most imperfect efforts. In fact they were. A spirit of chivalry towards a country woman evidently existed among the gentlemen. Mr. W's characteristic remark on the subject was there is not a man in the temple who wouldn't fight for you. The critics dealt with me tenderly, as with a spoiled child whom Boston had suddenly adopted and was determined to protect. The papers teemed with notices, but they were eulogems, not critiques. By common consent it seemed to be decided that I was to be exempt from criticism. I was warmly pressed to remain and give a second course of readings, but I was now anxious to return to New York. We took our departure from Boston with a promise of a speedy return. In passing through Providence I read one night to a crowded audience. During a recitation of the missing ship written for me by Epps Sargent and descriptive of the loss of the seamship president, a lady present was so deeply moved that she was carried from the hall in violent hysterics. This poem proved one of the most valuable in my repertoire, for it never failed to impress an audience. The light of the lighthouse by the same author, which I frequently read in public, was equally effective in the recitation. I made my selections as often as possible from American poets. From Providence we went to New York, and a course of readings for four nights was announced to take place at the Stuyvesant Institute. Curiosity drew me full audiences, but I did not feel as though sympathy sat by side with curiosity as she had done in Boston. I found it more difficult to read impressively than I had done before my indulgent New England audiences. The sphere seemed different. The recipients less impressable. I could not feel the same easy abandon, the other freedom from constraint. I had too many personal friends present, and I thought too much of what the misgrundies were saying. My father's delight and pride warmly and openly express compensated me for the sufferings inflicted by others, sufferings for which I was wholly unprepared. Some beloved relatives and some who had been my nearest dearest friends, friends from my early childhood, who were treated in my mind with all the sweetest, happiest hours of my life, now turned from me. They were shocked at my temerity in appearing before the public. They even affected not to believe in Mr. Mallet's total loss of means. They tacitly prescribed me from the circle of their acquaintance. When we passed in the street, outstretched hand and loving greeting to which I had ever been accustomed, I met the cold eye and averted face that shunned recognition. I may now revert without bitterness to this sad era in my life, for, time, circumstances, and to speak the whole truth, a succession of brilliant successes have now reunited the bright broken lengths. All those whom I truly prized in the course of years allowed their affection and kinder judgment to overcome worldly prejudices. They generously gave me back the place I once held in their hearts. Nor had I the right to complain because I was, for a season, misunderstood. They but followed their convictions as I mine. My love never varied, and if I had angered any among them, my own life was sore. If I fell from their presence, I clung to their memory more. Their tender I often felt wholly, their bitter I sometimes call sweet, and whenever their heart has refused me, I fell down straight at their feet. Under the heavy pressure of middle suffering, added to my unusual exertions, my health gave way. After fulfilling the course at the Stuyvesant Institute, I became seriously ill, and was forced to make several postponements. Of the time announced for my reading before the Rutgers Institute for Young Ladies, when I was scarcely convalescent, I read there for one night. The hall was filled with knowledge of lovely-looking young girls, and their evident enjoyment inspired me to read with more energy and feeling than I had done since my nights in Boston. The effort cost me a relapse of some weeks. Again I rallied and gave a course of four nights reading at the Society Library. I met with the same success as before, but my strength taxed. The continued coldness of some of my dearest friends preyed upon my mind and threw me into a state of murmured, nervous excitement. I was attacked with fever and hemorrhages of the lungs. For several months I was considered by my physician, Dr. C., in a state which rendered my recovery very improbable. I had not been treated by your press with the same courteous leniency as by that of Boston. Some of the leading papers were warm in their economs. Others contain most just criticisms pointing out faults of style of which I was myself gradually becoming conscious. Others condemned in toto the bold and novel step I had taken ignoring its motive. One article appeared in The Lady's Companion, written by a lady contributor of high literary standing, severely denouncing my course and suggesting that if public readings must be given, I should read before an audience entirely of my own sex. It was a rather comical idea that the gentleman were to be left at the door with the canes and umbrellas, and yet the who wrote this singularly one-sided article is a gifted and estimable person. But if one woman of literary standing wrote thus, another of true genius and well-deserved fame poured the balm of her poetic spirit into the wound, the lamented Mrs. Francis Sargent Osgood, after attending one of the readings addressed to me the following poem, the genuine expression of her truly womanly nature. To Anna Cora Mollett on hearing her read by Francis S. Osgood. Nair heed them, Cora dear. The carping few who say, thou leavest woman's holier sphere for light and vain display, tis false as thou art true. They need but look on thee, but watch thy young cheeks varying hue, a pure hope to see. I too, Cora, sooth to say, when first I heard thy name, in fancy saw a being bold who braved the wide world's blame. I took my seat among the crowd in faultless glee to list the gifted poet's song with little heed for thee. But suddenly a sound, a murmur of surprise, fresh delight ran deepening round. I coldly raised my eyes. A being young and fair in purest white arrayed. With timid grace trip down the stair, half eager, half afraid. As on the misty height, soft blushes young aurora, she dawned upon our dazzle sight, our graceful modest Cora. The loveliest hair of gold that ever woman braided, in glossy ringlets richly rolled, brow, neck, and bosom shaded, no jewel lit the dress, no ornament she wore, but robed as simply as a child she won our worship more. The glowing gold and gems of fashion's proud attire were nothing to her cheeks soft bloom and her eyes azure fire. Fourth from her pure blue eyes as from a starry portal a soul looked out and spoke to ours with beauty more than mortal. But even applause was hushed when from her lips of love that voice of wondrous music gushed now soft as murmuring dove. Now calm and proud disdain, now wild with joyous power, indignant now as pleasure, pain or anger rule the hour. High in the listener's soul in tune each passion swells, we weep, we smile, neath her control as neath a fairy spell. O, while such power is thine to elevate subdue, believe thy mission half divine nor heed the carping few. And Cora falter not, though critics cold may say thou leavest woman's holier lot for vain and life display. My success gave rise to a host of lady imitators, one of whom announced readings and recitations in the style of Mrs. Mallet. I was rather curious to get an idea of my own style and had my health permitted would have gone some distance to have seen it illustrated. At one time there were no less than six advertisements in the papers of ladies giving readings in different parts of the union. My first course of readings in New York was accidentally attended by one of the managers of the Park Theater who, through a friend, made me a highly lucrative proposal if I would appear upon the stage. Well remember the indignant reply I gave the gentlemen who communicated to me this offer. The recollection of that answer has often rendered me forbearing towards those who I have since heard violently denounce the stage and who were as ignorant as I was that period of everything that related to a theater. Amongst the testimonials of interests which were called by my readings, one of those which I most highly appreciated was a complimentary letter from Professor Howes perhaps one of the most finished elocutionist of the day. My personal acquaintance with that gentleman did not commence until a later period. End of Chapter 8