If that night were never to pass from the memory of Mrs. Siddons, neither would it ever pass from the memory of those who were present, nor ever be erased from the annals of the English stage, of which that beautiful and pathetic face and form was to be for many years the chief pride. The story of _Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage_, is simple in construction, the interest centring in one figure, that of the heroine. Biron, son of a proud and worldly-minded man, marries a girl beneath him in station, contrary to his father’s wish. A son is born, but Biron has hardly had time to rejoice over his birth before he is called away to the war, and, after some months, is reported as killed in battle. The wife appears with the child in the first scene, appealing in vain, for pity’s sake, to her father-in-law to give her something to support her and the infant. As the bailiff enters to arrest her for debt, Villeroy (whose attentions she had repelled, grieving as she was for her husband) comes forward, frees her from the importunities of her creditors, and induces her, for her child’s sake, to marry him. Hardly is she Villeroy’s wife before Biron returns. In despair, she kills herself. There were moments, sentences that became traditional after this first night, as when, in reply to the question put to her on the arrival of the creditors as to what she would do, she answered, “Do! Nothing!” the very tone of the words told all her story. Miss Gordon fainted away on hearing the cry “Biron! Biron!” while we know Madame de Staël’s account in _Corinne_ of the hysterical laugh when Isabella kills herself at the end. It was an extraordinary evening. The house was carried away in a storm of emotion; men were not ashamed to sob, and many women went into violent hysterics. It is difficult, indeed, for us now to understand such agitation; we fritter away our sentiment on the ordinary business of life:— The town in those days mostly lay Betwixt the tavern and the play. The penny press had not yet come within the radius of everyone, and men depended on the theatre for their fictitious excitement. A new play, a young actor or actress, were greater subjects of interest than even Mr. Pitt’s or Mr. Fox’s last speech, which they only heard of piecemeal. Mrs. Siddons had the good fortune still to play to audiences who were in the full enjoyment of their natural and critical powers of appreciation. She bent all her powers to calling forth their emotions. She touched them to the quick with her pathos and power. The audience surrendered at discretion to the summons of the young enchantress. Her own simple account of it all is very attractive; and afterwards, in the history of her life, when a little hardness, or a rather too abrupt assertion of superiority, is to be regretted, we turn to this spontaneous, almost girlish account of her first triumph—through which we can see the smiles beaming, the tears glistening—with pleasure and relief.