My mother, who had left the stage for upward of twenty years, determined to return to it on the night of my first appearance, that I might have the comfort and support of her being with me in my trial.  We drove to the theater very early, indeed while the late autumn sunlight yet lingered in the sky; it shone into the carriage, upon me, and as I screened my eyes from it, my mother said, “Heaven smiles on you, my child.”  My poor mother went to her dressing-room to get herself ready, and did not return to me for fear of increasing my agitation by her own.  My dear aunt Dall and my maid and the theater dresser performed my toilet for me, and at length I was placed in a chair, with my satin train carefully laid over the back of it; and there I sat, ready for execution, with the palms of my hands pressed convulsively together, and the tears I in vain endeavored to repress welling up into my eyes and brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks—­upon which my aunt, with a smile full of pity, renewed the color as often as these heavy drops made unsightly streaks in it.  Once and again my father came to the door, and I heard his anxious “How is she?” to which my aunt answered, sending him away with words of comforting cheer.  At last, “Miss Kemble called for the stage, ma’am!” accompanied with a brisk tap at the door, started me upright on my feet, and I was led round to the side scene opposite to the one from which I saw my mother advance on the stage; and while the uproar of her reception filled me with terror, dear old Mrs. Davenport, my nurse, and dear Mr. Keely, her Peter, and half the dramatis personae of the play (but not my father, who had retreated, quite unable to endure the scene) stood round me as I lay, all but insensible, in my aunt’s arms.  “Courage, courage, dear child! poor thing, poor thing!” reiterated Mrs. Davenport.  “Never mind ’em, Miss Kemble!” urged Keely, in that irresistibly comical, nervous, lachrymose voice of his, which I have never since heard without a thrill of anything but comical association; “never mind ’em! don’t think of ’em, any more than if they were so many rows of cabbages!” “Nurse!” called my mother, and on waddled Mrs. Davenport, and, turning back, called in her turn, “Juliet!” My aunt gave me an impulse forward, and I ran straight across the stage, stunned with the tremendous shout that greeted me, my eyes covered with mist, and the green baize flooring of the stage feeling as if it rose up against my feet; but I got hold of my mother, and stood like a terrified creature at bay, confronting the huge theater full of gazing human beings.  I do not think a word I uttered during this scene could have been audible; in the next, the ball-room, I began to forget myself; in the following one, the balcony scene, I had done so, and, for aught I knew, I was Juliet; the passion I was uttering sending hot waves of blushes all over my neck and shoulders, while the poetry sounded like music to me as I spoke it, with no consciousness of