he left to be filled up by accent, by play of feature, by bearing, by action, by subtle shades of expression, inspired by the heart and striking home to the heart,-by all those little movements and inflections of tone which come intuitively to the sympathetic artist, and which play so large a part in producing the impression left upon us by a living interpretation of the master-poet! To one accustomed like myself to such resources as these for bringing out the results of my studies of Shakespeare's women, it seems hopeless to endeavour to convey the same impressions by mere words. The more a character has wound itself round the heart, the more is this felt. Can you wonder, then, that I approach my "woman of women" with fear and trembling?

Do you remember what that bright, charming, frank, old lady,-no, I will not call her "old," for there is nothing old about her; I know many far older in spirit who count not half or a quarter her years,-Mrs DS said to me lately when you were standing by? She had been scolding me in her playful way for not having given her more of my "letters" to read, and, after calling me idle, unkind, &c., asked me who was to be the subject of my next. I replied, I thought Imogen, but that I knew I should find it most difficult to express what I felt about her. "Ah, my dear!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in her usual characteristic manner when she feels strongly, "you will never write of Imogen as you acted her!" I told her that her words filled me with despair. "Never mind," was her rejoinder; "go on and try. My memory will fill up the gaps." I have one of the kind letters by me, which you wrote after seeing me act Imogen at Drury Lane in 1866. So your

memory too will have to come to my aid, by filling up the gaps. It is very pleasant to think that our friends' feeling may be shared by many of that unknown public who were always so ready to put themselves in sympathy with me; but that thought does not make the fulfilment of my promise to you the less formidable.

Imogen had been one of the great favourites of my girlhood. At school we used to read the scenes at the cave with Belarius, Arviragus, and Guiderius; and never can I forget our getting them up to act as a surprise for our governess on her birthday. We always prepared some surprise" on this occasion, or what she kindly took as one. The brothers were arrayed in all the fur trimmings, boas, cuffs, muffs, &c., we could muster,-one of the muffs doing duty as the cap for Belarius. Then the practisings for something suggestive of the Eolian harp that has to play a Miserere for Imogen's supposed death! Our only available means of simulating Belarius's "ingenious instrument" was a guitar; but the girl who played it had to be apart from the scene, and, as she never would take the right cue, she was always breaking in at the wrong place. I was the Imogen; and, curiously enough, it was as Imogen my dear governess first saw me on the stage. I wondered whether she remembered. the incidents of our school-girl performance as I did. She might very well forget, but not I; for what escapes our memory of things done or thought in childhood? Such little matters then appear eventful, and loom so very large to young eyes and imaginations!

I cannot quite remember who acted with me first in Cymbeline, but I can never forget Mr Macready's finding

fault with my page's dress, which I had ordered to be made with a tunic that descended to the ankles. On going to the theatre at the last rehearsal, he told me, with many apologies and much concern, that he had given directions to have my dress altered. He had taken the liberty of doing this, he said, without consulting me, because, although he could understand the reasons which had weighed with me in ordering the dress to be made as I had done, he was sure I would forgive him when he explained to me that such a dress would not tell the story, and that one-half the audience—all, in fact, who did not know the play—would not discover that it was a disguise, but would suppose Imogen to be still in woman's attire. Remonstrance was too late, and, with many tears, I had to yield, and to add my own terror to that of Imogen when first entering the cave. I managed, however, to devise a kind of compromise, by swathing myself in the "franklin housewife's riding-cloak," which I kept about me as I went into the cave; and this I caused to be wrapped round me afterwards when the brothers carry in Imogen-the poor "dead bird, which they have made so much on."

I remember well the Pisanio was my good friend Mr Elton, the best Pisanio of my time. No one whom I have since met has so truly thrown into the part the deep devotion, the respectful manly tenderness and delicacy of feeling, which it requires. He drew out all the nicer points of the character with the same fine and firm hand which we used to admire upon the French stage in M. Regnier, that most finished of artists, in characters of this kind. As I write, by some strange association of ideas-I suppose we must have been rehearsing Cymbeline at the time-a little circumstance