ything, 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 des