ch, though, perhaps, not
strictly fashionable attributes, are appropriate enough in a daughter of
the gods. When she loves, it is without any airs and graces. She has not
an atom of self-consciousness; she cannot premeditate; she loves because
she _must_, rather than because she will, because it is the condition of
her life. Some of the naive remarks she has to utter, might in clumsy lips
seem coarse. Miss Anderson delivered them with consummate grace and
innocence, but her fine smile, her bright sparkling eye, proved
sufficiently, that the innocence was not stupidity. The first long speech
at the conclusion of which she kneels to Pygmalion was beautifully
rendered, and elicited a burst of applause, which was repeated at
intervals throughout the evening. Her poses were always graceful,
sometimes strikingly beautiful.

"Miss Anderson has the true sense of rhythm and the clearest enunciation;
she has a deep and musical voice, which in moments of pathos thrills with
a sweet and tender inflection. She has seized, in this instance, upon the
touching rather than the harmonious side of Galatea, the pure and innocent
girl who is not fit to live upon this world. She is only not human because
she is superior to human folly; she cannot understand sin because it is so
sweet; she asks to be taught a fault; but the womanly love and devotion,
and unselfishness, are all there, writ in clear and uncompromising
characters. The first and last acts were decidedly the best; in the latter
especially Miss Anderson touched a true pathetic chord, and fairly
elicited the pity and sympathy of the audience. With a gentle wonder and
true dignity she meets the gradual dropping away of her illusion, the
crumbling of her unreasoning faith, the cruel stings when her spiritual
nature is misunderstood, and her actions misinterpreted. She is jarred by
the rough contact of commonplace facts, and ruffled and wounded by the
strange and cynical indifference to her sufferings of the man she loves.
At last when she can bear no more, yet uncomplaining to the last, like a
flower broken on its stem, shrinking and sensitive, she totters out with
one loud cry of woe, the expression of her agony. Miss Anderson is a poet,
she brings everything to the level of her own refined and artistic
sensibility, and the result is that while she presents us with a picture
of ideal womanhood, she must appeal of necessity rather to our
imaginations than to our senses, and may by some