ossession, and got on very comfortably, considering that,
what with nervousness and the short time they had had to study them
in, none of the actors were perfect in their parts. My father acted
Evander, which added, no doubt, to the interest of the situation.
The play went off admirably, and I dare say it will be of some
service to me, but I fear it is too dull and poor in itself,
despite all that can be done for it, to be of much use to the
theater. One of my great difficulties in the play was to produce
some striking effect after stabbing Dionysius, which was a point in
which my aunt always achieved a great triumph. She used to fall on
her knees as if deprecating the wrath of heaven for what she had
done, and her mode of performing this was described to me. But,
independently of my anxiety to avoid any imitation that might
induce a comparison that could not but be fatally to my
disadvantage, I did not (to you I may venture to confess it) feel
the situation in the same manner. Euphrasia had just preserved her
father's life by a deed which, in her own estimation and that of
her whole nation, entitled her to an immortal dwelling in the
Elysian fields. The only feeling, therefore, that I can conceive as
checking for a moment her exultation would be the natural womanly
horror at the sight of blood and physical suffering, the expression
of which seems to me not only natural to her, as of the "feminine
gender," but not altogether superfluous to reconcile an English
audience to so unfeminine a proceeding as stabbing a man. To
conciliate all this I adopted the course of immediately dropping
the arm that held the dagger, and with the other veiling my eyes
with the drapery of my dress, which answered better my own idea of
the situation, and seemed to produce a great effect. My dearest
H----, this is a long detail, but I think it will interest you and
perhaps amuse your niece; if, however, it wearies your spirits,
tell me so, and another time I will not confine my communications
so much to my own little-corner of life.

Cecilia dined with us on Sunday, but was very far from well. I have
not seen my aunt Siddons since Sir Thomas Lawrence's death. I
almost dread doing so: she must have felt so much on hearing it; he
was for many years so mixed up with those dea