You wonder, I daresay, at my long delay in yielding to your urgent request that I should write of Imogen,-your chief favourite, as you tell me, among all Shakespeare's women. You would not wonder, could I make you feel how, by long brooding over her character, and by living through all her emotions and trials on the stage till she seemed to become "my very life of life,” I find it next to impossible to put her so far away from me that I can look at her as a being to be scanned, and measured, and written about. All words-such, at least, as are at my command-seem inadequate to express what I felt about her from my earliest years, not to speak of all that the experiences of my woman's heart and of human life have taught me since of the matchless truth and beauty with which Shakespeare has invested her. In drawing her he has made his masterpiece; and of all heroines of poetry or romance, who can be named beside her? It has been my happy lot to impersonate not a few ideal women-among them two of your own Greek favourites, Antigone and Iphigenia in Aulis: but Imogen has always occupied the largest place in my heart; and while she taxed largely my powers of impersonation, she has always repaid me for the effort tenfold by the delight I felt at being the means of placing a being in every way so noble before the eyes and hearts of my audiences, and of making them feel, perhaps, and think of her, and of him to whose genius we owe her, with something of my own reverence and love. Ah, how much finer a medium than all the pen can do for bringing home to the heart what was in Shakespeare's mind when he drew his men and women, is the "well-trod stage," with that living commentary which actor and actress capable in their art can give! How much has 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 movements and inflections of tone which come intuitively to the sympathetic artist, apparently trifling in themselves, but 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 helps 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 66 woman of women" with fear and trembling? Do you remember what that bright, charming, frank old lady, 1 What delight I had in acting these plays in Dublin, and to what intelligent and sympathetic audiences! The Antigone gave me the greater pleasure, both for itself, and because of Mendelssohn's music. The chorus was admirable, and all the scenic adjuncts correct and complete. Although the whole performance occupied little more than an hour, great audiences filled the theatre night after night. It is strange how much more deeply these Greek plays moved the Irish heart than either the Scotch or the English. (See Appendix, p. 397.) -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, forgetful, &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 friend's feeling may possibly 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 schoolgirl performance as I did. She might very well forget, but not I; for what escapes our memory of things done or thought in |