Of Ellen Terry's Portia, in the days of the Bancrofts at the old Prince of Wales' Theatre, I have already spoken. In 1879 it was found to be as good as ever--nay, better than ever--for not only had time ripened her talent, but brought her into contact with a virile Shylock. She has indeed made the character her own, and this fact has been long acknowledged not only in England but in America. It remains to-day exactly what it has ever been, a perfectly executed realisation of one of Shakespeare's most beautiful feminine creations. And, indeed, whether it be in her handsome Italian gowns, or disguised as the "young and learned doctor" from Padua, she makes a lovely and most fascinating picture. Her illustration of the wonderful text leaves nothing to be desired. It carries with it the inspiration of genius, and yet it is all so sweetly natural. "As the gentle rain from heaven," it "drops upon the place beneath," and in the hearts of her hearers sets new, bright, and fragrant thoughts upspringing; while throughout it all runs the refined essence of dainty humour. Whenever I see such perfectly soul-satisfying Shakespearean portraits as these, I think of the matchless stained-glass windows in our grand churches and old cathedrals. Beautiful in themselves, as they are now, their designs must have at one time been crude and cold in the hands of their originators. But filled in with softly, yet richly-coloured and exquisitely blended glass (not with the hot reds, violent blues, and gaudy ambers that hopelessly disfigure so many modern efforts in this direction), they seem to soothe while they illuminate, and ineffaceably fulfil their earnest, bright, and inspiring intention. On December 10, 1879, a benefit performance was given at the Lyceum, on behalf of William Belford, an actor who had done splendid service under Samuel Phelps at Sadler's Wells, and who in later years had been prime favourite as principal comedian at the Strand Theatre. He was not only a fine actor, but a prince among good fellows, and pre-eminent in the London Bohemia of those days, the happy home of the literary men, artists, and actors, of which Geoffrey Prowse wrote:-- "The longitude's rather uncertain, The latitude's equally vague; But that person I pity who knows not the city, The beautiful city of Prague."