Seized with a sort of terror, like the Lady of Shallott, that “the curse had come upon me,” I comforted my mother with expressions of pity and affection, and, as soon as I left her, wrote a most urgent entreaty to my father that he would allow me to act for myself, and seek employment as a governess, so as to relieve him at once at least of the burden of my maintenance.  I brought this letter to my mother, and begged her permission to send it, to which she consented; but, as I afterward learned, she wrote by the same post to my father, requesting him not to give a positive answer to my letter until his return to town.  The next day she asked me whether I seriously thought I had any real talent for the stage.  My school-day triumphs in Racine’s “Andromaque” were far enough behind me, and I could only answer, with as much perplexity as good faith, that I had not the slightest idea whether I had or not.  She begged me to learn some part and say it to her, that she might form some opinion of my power, and I chose Shakespeare’s Portia, then, as now, my ideal of a perfect woman—­the wise, witty woman, loving with all her soul and submitting with all her heart to a man whom everybody but herself (who was the best judge) would have judged her inferior; the laughter-loving, light-hearted, true-hearted, deep-hearted woman, full of keen perception, of active efficiency, of wisdom prompted by love, of tenderest unselfishness, of generous magnanimity; noble, simple, humble, pure; true, dutiful, religious, and full of fun; delightful above all others, the woman of women.  Having learned it by heart, I recited Portia to my mother, whose only comment was, “There is hardly passion enough in this part to test any tragic power.  I wish you would study Juliet for me.”  Study to me then, as unfortunately long afterward, simply meant to learn by heart, which I did again, and repeated my lesson to my mother, who again heard me without any observation whatever.  Meantime my father returned to town and my letter remained unanswered, and I was wondering in my mind what reply I should receive to my urgent entreaty, when one morning my mother told me she wished me to recite Juliet to my father; and so in the evening I stood up before them both, and with indescribable trepidation repeated my first lesson in tragedy.

They neither of them said anything beyond “Very well,—­very nice, my dear,” with many kisses and caresses, from which I escaped to sit down on the stairs half-way between the drawing-room and my bedroom, and get rid of the repressed nervous fear I had struggled with while reciting, in floods of tears.  A few days after this my father told me he wished to take me to the theater with him to try whether my voice was of sufficient strength to fill the building; so thither I went.  That strange-looking place, the stage, with its racks of pasteboard and canvas—­streets, forests, banqueting-halls, and dungeons—­drawn apart on either side, was empty and silent; not a soul was stirring in the