appeared to me attractive enough to engross my mind, yet that admiration and applause, and the excitement springing therefrom, may become necessary to me, I resolve not only to watch but to pray against such a result.  I have no desire to sell my soul for anything, least of all for sham fame, mere notoriety.  Besides, my mind has such far deeper enjoyment in other pursuits; the happiness of reading Shakespeare’s heavenly imaginations is so far beyond all the excitement of acting them (white satin, gas lights, applause, and all), that I cannot conceive a time when having him in my hand will not compensate for the absence of any amount of public popularity.  While I can sit obliviously curled up in an armchair, and read what he says till my eyes are full of delicious, quiet tears, and my heart of blessed, good, quiet thoughts and feelings, I shall not crave that which falls so far short of any real enjoyment, and hitherto certainly seems to me as remote as possible from any real happiness.

This enviable condition of body and mind was mine while studying Portia in “The Merchant of Venice,” which is to be given on the 25th for my benefit.  I shall be much frightened, I know, but I delight in the part; indeed, Portia is my favoritest of all Shakespeare’s women.  She is so generous, affectionate, wise, so arch and full of fun, and such a true lady, that I think if I could but convey her to my audience as her creator has conveyed her to me, I could not fail to please them much.  I think her speech to Bassanio, after his successful choice of the casket, the most lovely, tender, modest, dignified piece of true womanly feeling that was ever expressed by woman.

I certainly ought to act that character well, I do so delight in it; I know nothing of my dress.  But perhaps I shall have some opportunity of writing to you again before it is acted.  Now all I have to say must be packed close, for I ought to be going to bed, and I have no more paper.  I have taken two riding lessons and like it much, though it makes my bones ache a little.  I go out a great deal, and that I like very much whenever there is dancing, but not else.  My own home spoils me for society; perhaps I ought not to say it, but after the sort of conversation I am used to the usual jargon of society seems poor stuff; but you know when I am dancing I am “o’er all the ills of life victorious.”  John has taken his degree and will be back with us at Easter; Henry has left us for Paris; A——­ is quite well, and almost more of a woman than I am; my father desires his love to you, to which I add mine to your eldest niece and your invalid, and remain ever your affectionately attached

F. A. K.

BLACKHEATH. 
MY DEAREST H——­,