We opened on November 2d in _Faust_. There was rather a flurry of indignation that a young American _prima donna_ should dare to plunge into Marguerite the very first thing. The fact that the young American had sung it before other artists had, with the exception of Patti and Titjiens, and that she was generally believed to know something about it, mattered not at all. English people are acknowledged idolaters and notoriously cold to newcomers. They cling to some imperishable memory of a poor soul whose voice has been dead for years: and it was undoubtedly an inversion of this same loyalty to their favourites that made them so dislike the idea of Marguerite being selected for the new young woman's _début_. But, really, though on a slightly different scale, it was not so unlike the early days of _Linda_, over again when the Italians accused me with so much animosity of taking the bread out of their mouths. It can easily be believed that, with Nilsson holding all records of Marguerite at Her Majesty's, and with Adelina waiting at Covent Garden with murderous sweetness to see what I was going to do with her favourite _rôle_, I was wretchedly nervous. When the first night came around no one had a good word for me; everybody was indifferent; and I honestly do not know what I should have done if it had not been for Santley--dear, big-hearted Santley. He was our Valentine, that one, great, incomparable Valentine for whom Gounod wrote the _Dio possente_. I was walking rather shakily across the stage for my first entrance, feeling utterly frightened and lonely, and looking, I dare say, nearly as miserable as I felt, when a warm, strong hand was laid gently on my shoulder. "Courage, little one, courage," said Santley, smiling at me and patting me as if I had been a very small, unhappy, frightened child. I smiled back at him and, suddenly, I felt strong and hopeful and brave again. Onto the stage I went with a curiously sure feeling that I was going to do well after all. I suppose I must have done well. There was a packed house and very soon I felt it with me. I was called out many times, once in the middle of the act after the church scene, an occurrence that was so far as I know unprecedented. Colonel Keppel, the Prince of Wales's aide (I did not dream then how well-known the name Keppel was destined to be in connection with that of his royal master), came behind during the _entr'acte_ to congratulate me on behalf of the Prince. In later performances his Highness did me the honour of coming himself. The London newspapers--of which, frankly, I had stood in great dread--had delightful things to say. This is the way in which one of them welcomed me: " ...She has only one fault: if she were but English, she would be simply perfect!" The editorial comments in _The Athenæum_ of Chorley, that gorgon of English criticism, included the following paragraph: