always bring back in a measure the feeling of that evening.—­The boxes at that time, full of well-dressed women of quality, projected over the pit; and the pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), resembling—­a homely fancy—­but I judged it to be sugar-candy—­yet, to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy!—­The orchestra lights at length arose, those “fair Auroras!” Once the bell sounded.  It was to ring out yet once again—­and, incapable of the anticipation, I reposed my shut eyes in a sort of resignation upon the maternal lap.  It rang the second time.  The curtain drew up—­I was not past six years old—­and the play was Artaxerxes!

I had dabbled a little in the Universal History—­the ancient part of it—­and here was the court of Persia.  It was being admitted to a sight of the past.  I took no proper interest in the action going on, for I understood not its import—­but I heard the word Darius, and I was in the midst of Daniel.  All feeling was absorbed in vision.  Gorgeous vests, gardens, palaces, princesses, passed before me.  I knew not players.  I was in Persepolis for the time; and the burning idol of their devotion almost converted me into a worshipper.  I was awe-struck, and believed those significations to be something more than elemental fires.  It was all enchantment and a dream.  No such pleasure has since visited me but in dreams.—­Harlequin’s Invasion followed; where, I remember, the transformation of the magistrates into reverend beldams seemed to me a piece of grave historic justice, and the tailor carrying his own head to be as sober a verity as the legend of St. Denys.

The next play to which I was taken was the Lady of the Manor, of which, with the exception of some scenery, very faint traces are left in my memory.  It was followed by a pantomime, called Lun’s Ghost—­a satiric touch, I apprehend, upon Rich, not long since dead—­but to my apprehension (too sincere for satire), Lun was as remote a piece of antiquity as Lud—­the father, of a line of Harlequins—­transmitting his dagger of lath (the wooden sceptre) through countless ages.  I saw the primeval Motley come from his silent tomb in a ghastly vest of white patch-work, like the apparition of a dead rainbow.  So Harlequins (thought I) look when they are dead.

My third play followed in quick succession.  It was the Way of the World.  I think I must have sat at it as grave as a judge; for, I remember, the hysteric affectations of good Lady Wishfort affected me like some solemn tragic passion.  Robinson Crusoe followed; in which Crusoe, man Friday, and the parrot, were as good and authentic as in the story.—­The clownery and pantaloonery of these pantomimes have clean passed out of my head.  I believe, I no more laughed at them, than at the same age I should have been disposed to laugh at the grotesque Gothic heads (seeming to me then replete with devout meaning) that gape, and grin, in stone around the inside of the old Round Church (my church) of the Templars.