Looking back to it now, I know perfectly well why I, a mere child of thirteen, was able to give such a realistic display of horror.  I had the emotional instinct to start with, no doubt, but if I did it well, it was because I was able to imagine what would be real in such a situation.  I had never observed such horror, but I had previously realized it, when, as Arthur, I had imagined the terror of having my eyes put out.

Imagination! imagination!  I put it first years ago, when I was asked what qualities I thought necessary for success upon the stage.  And I am still of the same opinion.  Imagination, industry, and intelligence—­“the three I’s”—­are all indispensable to the actress, but of these three the greatest is, without any doubt, imagination.

After this “screaming” success, which, however, did not keep “Attar Gull” in the bill at the Royalty for more than a few nights, I continued to play under Madame de Rhona’s management until February 1862.  During these few months new plays were being constantly put on, for Madame was somehow not very fortunate in gauging the taste of the public.  It was in the fourth production—­“The Governor’s Wife,” that, as Letty Briggs, I had my first experience of what is called “stage fright.”  I had been on the stage more than five years, and had played at least sixteen parts, so there was really no excuse for me.  I suspect now that I had not taken enough pains to get word-perfect.  I know I had five new parts to study between November 21 and December 26.

Stage fright is like nothing else in the world.  You are standing on the stage apparently quite well and in your right mind, when suddenly you feel as if your tongue had been dislocated and was lying powerless in your mouth.  Cold shivers begin to creep downwards from the nape of your neck and all up you at the same time, until they seem to meet in the small of your back.  About this time you feel as if a centipede, all of whose feet have been carefully iced, has begun to run about in the roots of your hair.  The next agreeable sensation is the breaking out of a cold sweat all over.  Then you are certain that some one has cut the muscles at the back of your knees.  Your mouth begins to open slowly, without giving utterance to a single sound, and your eyes seem inclined to jump out of your head over the footlights.  At this point it is as well to get off the stage as quickly as you can, for you are far beyond human help.

Whether everybody suffers in this way or not I cannot say, but it exactly describes the torture I went through in “The Governor’s Wife.”  I had just enough strength and sense to drag myself off the stage and seize a book, with which, after a few minutes, I reappeared and ignominiously read my part.  Whether Madame de Rhona boxed my ears or not, I can’t remember, but I think it is very likely she did, for she was very quick-tempered.  In later years I have not suffered from the fearsome malady, but even now, after fifty years of stage-life, I never play a new part without being overcome by a terrible nervousness and a torturing dread of forgetting my lines.  Every nerve in my body seems to be dancing an independent jig on its own account.