It was after my marriage that various circumstances made me acquainted with several Americans of note. I had met Charlotte Cushman in society previously, but learned later to really appreciate her worth and her talents. I had but little personal experience of her as an actress, for “Viola” was the only part in which I saw her; and it certainly was one singularly unsuited to her, though, of course, she embodied that creation with feeling and skill. But I believe—relying on the opinion of excellent judges—that she was essentially a great melodramatic and tragic actress. I confess I should like to have seen her in Romeo, in which she appeared, with her sister as “Juliet.” I wonder, when she did this, if she entertained something of the opinion I once heard expressed by another clever woman, namely, “that a woman of genius would never be satisfied with a lover until another woman of genius changed her sex and fell in love with her.” There may be a grain of truth in these somewhat bitter words—but only a grain, for, though the lofty ideal of genius may never in life be precisely realized, it may on some sides be surpassed, if on others not reached. The metamorphosed woman would make but a sorry lover; for, as Tennyson finely says, that in “true marriage”—

until they grow—