what creed soever, is moral freedom.  And it is in some sort in spite of myself that I say this, for my fancy delights in all the devout and poetical legendary conceptions which the stern hand of reason has stripped from our altars.

I found a letter at home from Emily Fitzhugh; she writes me word she has been revising my aunt Siddons’s letters; thence an endless discussion as to the nature of genius, what it is.  I suppose really nothing but the creative power, and so it remains a question if the greatest actor can properly be said to possess it.  Again, how far does the masterly filling out of an inferior conception by a superior execution of it, such as really great actors frequently present, fall short of creative power, properly so called?  Is it a thing positive, of individual inherent quality, or comparative, and composed of mere respective quantity?  Can its manifestation be partial, and restricted to one faculty, or must it be a pervading influence, permeating the whole mind?  Certainly Mrs. Siddons was what we call a great dramatic genius, and off the stage gave not the slightest indication of unusual intellectual capacity of any sort.  Kean, the only actor whose performances have ever realized to me my idea of the effect tragic acting ought to produce, acted part of his parts rather than ever a whole character, and a work of genius should at least show unity of conception.  My father, whose fulfilling of a particular range of characters is as nearly as possible perfect, wants depth and power, and power seems to me the core, the very marrow, so to speak, of genius; and if it is not genius that gave incomparable majesty and terror to my aunt’s Lady Macbeth, and to Kean’s Othello incomparable pathos and passion, and to my father’s Benedict incomparable spirit and grace, what is it?  Mere talent carried beyond a certain point?  If so, where does the one begin and the other end?  Or is genius a precious, inconvertible, intellectual metal, of which some people have a grain and a half, and some only half a grain?...  There is dreadful news from Spain, and I fear it is too true.  Torrijos has made another attempt.  Oh, how thankful we must be that John is returned to us!

                            GREAT RUSSELL STREET, Monday, December 23. 
     DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

I owe you many excuses for not having sooner acknowledged your letter, but you may have seen by the papers that we have been bringing out a new piece, and that is always, while it goes on, an engrossing of time and attention paramount to all other claims.  It is a play of Lord Francis Leveson’s, and I know you will be glad to hear that it has been successful and is likely to prove serviceable to the theater.  Another reason, too, for my silence is, that I have been working very hard at “The Star of Seville,” which, I am thankful to say, has at length reached its completion.  I have sent it to the theater upon approbation, in the usual routine of business;