I was exceedingly glad to receive your letter.  You ask me for my own criticism on my Portia; you know that I think I am able to do myself tolerably impartial justice, which may be a great mistake; but whether it is or not, I request you will believe the following account in preference to any other report, newspaper or letter, public or private, whatever.

In the first place, on my benefit night (my first appearance in the part) I was so excessively nervous about it, and so shaken with the tremendous uproar the audience made with their applause, that I consider that performance entirely out of the pale of criticism, and quite unworthy of it.  I was frightened FLAT to a degree I could hardly have believed possible after my previous experience.

I am happy to think that I improve in the part, and sincerely hope that I shall continue to do so for some time.  The principal defect of my acting in it is that it wants point—­brilliancy.  I do not do the trial scene one bit better or worse than the most mediocre actress would, and although the comic scenes are called delightful by people whose last idea of comedy was borrowed from Miss C——­ or Miss F——­, my mother says (and I believe her) they are very vapid.  The best thing I do in the play (and I think it is the best thing I do at all, except Juliet’s balcony scene) is the scene of the caskets, with Bassanio, and this I think I do well.  But the scene is of so comparatively subdued, quiet, and uneffective a nature that I think the occupants of the stage boxes and the first three rows of the pit must be the only part of the audience who know anything about my acting of that portion of the play.  I like the part better than any I have yet played.  I delight in the poetry, and my heart goes with every sentiment Portia utters.  I have a real satisfaction in acting it, which is more than I can say for anything else I have yet had to do.  Juliet, with the exception of the balcony scene, I act; but I feel as if I were Portia—­and how I wish I were!  It is not a part that is generally much liked by actresses, or that excites much enthusiasm in the public; there are no violent situations with which to (what is called) “bring the house down.”  Even the climax of the piece, the trial scene, I should call, as far as Portia is concerned, rather grand and impressive than strikingly or startlingly effective; and with the exception of that, the whole character is so delicate, so nicely blended, so true, and so free from all exaggeration, that it seems to me hardly fit for a theater, much less one of our immense houses, which require acting almost as splashy and coarse in color and outline as the scene-painting of the stage is obliged to be.  Covent Garden is too large a frame for that exquisite, harmonious piece of portrait painting.  This is a long lecture, but I hope it will not be an uninteresting one to you; and now let me tell you something of